Element and Will

---

By the third day, the ruins no longer felt like ruins.

The broken stones echoed with footfalls, not ghosts. The once-silent walls hummed again, not with enchantment, but with breath—strained and determined.

And above all, the air itself bent to motion, charged by the presence of mages who were no longer children fleeing war, but warriors preparing to end it.

Riven stood beneath the crumbling arch of the old vault tower, stripped to the waist, sweat glistening across his scarred back. Before him floated five elemental flames—each representing a different magic. Fire. Water. Earth. Wind. Lightning.

They spun around him in a slow, deliberate orbit, each flickering with unstable resistance.

His brow furrowed.

Focus wasn't enough. Control wasn't enough.

He had to bend them together.

A droplet of sweat traced the line of his jaw.

He reached out.

The moment his fingers touched the fire and wind orbs at once, they sparked—veering wildly—and the entire sequence collapsed, scattering energy with a loud crack that sent dust and sparks flying.

He staggered back, teeth clenched.

From across the courtyard, Kael, sitting shirtless and half-drenched near the old well, barked a laugh. "Careful. Thought we were trying to train, not burn the ridge down."

Riven didn't reply. He crouched again, eyes steady.

Behind him, Liora and Lyssa watched from the shade of a collapsed study hall. Lyssa had taken the time to wrap her hands in dark cloth, symbols inked down her fingers in crimson.

"He's trying to fuse again," Liora said softly. "Fire and wind are the hardest to combine naturally. They require conflicting emotional states."

Lyssa tilted her head. "So he has to feel two opposite things at once?"

"Exactly. Passion and freedom. Heat and stillness. Rage and clarity."

Lyssa's gaze sharpened. "And what if he's been living both for years without realizing it?"

---

Riven exhaled. Deep. Centered.

He raised his right hand. Fire.

Left hand. Wind.

He didn't control them. Not this time.

He remembered instead.

His mother's warmth. His father's blade.

The peace of childhood—before it burned.

The chaos of war—before it taught him calm.

And suddenly, the elements didn't fight.

They sang.

The flames twisted into a spiral of white-hot plasma, enveloped by a cyclone of clear air. It hovered in front of him—unstable, furious, and yet… balanced.

Kael's eyes widened. "Holy hells."

Lyssa stood slowly, a smile tugging at her lips. "He did it."

Riven opened his eyes. His arms trembled, but the fusion held.

Veyron's voice whispered in his mind, half-amused, half-impressed.

Well, look at you. I was starting to think you'd forgotten how to dance.

---

That night, the group ate around the fire.

The fatigue in their limbs was real—but it was earned.

Liora shared what she'd reconstructed from the spell archives—fragmented mana-tether techniques, old resistance training rituals, and the remains of a long-lost mental barrier exercise meant to protect against mind attacks.

Kael snorted. "All good stuff. Except the part where I need to hold my breath underwater for seven minutes."

Riven raised a brow. "You lasted four earlier."

"I blacked out on minute five. Woke up thinking I was a duck."

Lyssa chuckled.

Then Riven turned to her. "Your turn's tomorrow."

She stilled. "What do you mean?"

"You've been avoiding your Seal," he said quietly. "You hold back. Every time."

Her expression hardened. "It's not something I can just… unlock."

"No," Riven agreed. "You have to choose it."

Everyone was silent for a beat.

Then Lyssa stood. Her voice was low, but steady.

"Then I'll choose tomorrow."

She walked off toward the edge of the ruins.

Kael leaned in. "Think she'll actually try?"

"She doesn't lie to herself," Riven murmured. "That's why her power scares her."

---

The next morning, Lyssa stood in the northern coliseum alone.

Riven stood just outside the ring, arms folded.

Her Seal—the twisted shadowfire mark carved into her collarbone—was pulsing faintly, as if it knew its time had come.

"I don't know if I can," she admitted, watching the reflection of her hand in the cracked floor. "Every time I reach for it… it fights back."

Riven stepped into the ring. "Then stop trying to tame it."

She looked up at him, confused.

He met her eyes. "Shadowfire was born to consume. But it only answers those who know what they'd burn."

She swallowed hard. "And if I don't know?"

"Then find out."

He stepped back.

Lyssa exhaled. Then raised her hands.

The Seal flared.

Darkness spiraled around her fingertips—liquid shadow laced with glowing embers. It writhed like smoke trapped in a bottle, trying to escape. She clenched her fists—and it roared outward in a sudden wave of chaotic black flame.

It tore through the ruins—upward, wild, uncontrolled—

Then stopped.

A wall of fire hung in the air, suspended, breathing.

Lyssa stood trembling, arms raised. Her Seal glowed like molten iron.

She looked at Riven, eyes wide. "I didn't mean to—"

But he was already smiling.

"You didn't lose control," he said. "You chose to let go."

And that made all the difference.

---

By nightfall, even the ruins seemed to notice.

Old magic stirred in the earth. Sigils once thought dead began glowing faintly underfoot. The academy's long-dead heart seemed to beat again—just for a moment.

And deep in the sanctum, something watched.

Not the Order.

Not Veyron.

Something else.

Something older.

Waiting.

------

And deep in the sanctum, something watched.

Not the Order.

Not Veyron.

Something else.

Something older.

Waiting.

It stirred only when the flames of Lyssa's shadowfire flared skyward—like an ancient eye blinking open for the first time in centuries. Beneath the cracked stone and dead pillars, in the chamber even Riven hadn't dared to reach yet, a circle of broken runes glowed faintly red.

The dormant glyphs began to pulse. One by one.

Not brightly—just enough to be felt.

Just enough to whisper back.

Lyssa, still standing in the training ring, blinked. Her shoulders stiffened. She looked over her shoulder toward the far northern edge of the ruins, where a staircase crumbled into darkness.

"Did you feel that?" she asked, voice low.

Riven looked up from where he sat across the field, cleaning the dust from his sword.

"I felt something."

Liora emerged from the archives, a scroll clutched tightly in her hand. Her brow was creased with concern.

"That was old magic. Not ours. Not from your Seals."

Kael, already halfway through his second dinner portion, set his bowl down slowly. "Can old ruins get… offended?"

No one answered.

Because they'd all felt it.

A pressure. A breath from beneath the ground. Not hostile—yet.

But aware.

---

Later that night, when the others slept, Riven stood at the edge of the collapsed stairwell. The moon was pale above, half veiled behind clouds. His pendant—a black gem bound in ancient silver—hung heavy against his chest, reacting faintly to the pull below.

Veyron spoke again. And this time, his tone wasn't mocking.

You shouldn't go there.

"Why?"

Because what waits below doesn't care about your name. Or your cause. It remembers blood. And pain. And echoes. That kind of thing doesn't sleep—it festers.

Riven's hand tightened around the hilt of his sword.

"I need answers. And I'm not stopping just because you're afraid."

Afraid? Veyron let out a dry chuckle. No. I'm entertained. But you? You're the one who keeps forgetting how much pain memory costs.

Riven turned from the stairwell, not descending—yet.

But tomorrow, he would.

He had to.

Because something beneath this place knew the truth he wasn't ready to face.

Not about the Seals.

Not about the Order.

But about himself.

---