They reached the villa just after sunset.
From their perch behind a high wall flanked by trimmed hedges, Cale and Regan watched the property carefully. The place was quiet but guarded, with elegant spires and pale marble bathed in orange light from ornate lanterns.
They didn't know who lived there—yet—but something about it made Cale uneasy. A hunch deep in his bones. Maybe it was the quietness. Maybe it was the symbol he'd seen earlier etched subtly above the side gate. The same foreign crest that was stitched into the cloth around Rosanna's knife.
"Big place," Regan muttered beside him, eyes scanning the rows of balconies and narrow alleys weaving behind the building. "But it's not a manor. This isn't noble-owned."
Cale nodded. "So we think this is their base? The merchant group?"
Regan shrugged. "Best lead we've got."
They circled halfway around the block, moving casually with the foot traffic. When the street grew quieter, Cale turned to Regan.
"Let's split up," he said. "You take the west wing. I'll circle the back and meet you by the lantern post near the iron gate in twenty."
Regan didn't argue. "Don't get caught."
"You either."
They parted ways, each disappearing into the evening shadows surrounding the villa.
There was a reason he wanted to split.
Cale slipped into a narrow alley behind the villa, careful to move out of view. He glanced around, spotted a stack of crates beside a shuttered backdoor, and climbed atop the pile, crouching down. It wasn't the most secure hideout, but it gave him enough concealment to do what he needed.
He sat cross-legged and took a deep breath.
Alright... he thought. Let's see what you're hiding.
He pressed two fingers lightly to his mark, letting the flow pulse gently. A soft burn rose beneath his skin as the power activated, threading through his veins until it reached his eyes.
The world slowed. Dimmed. Then opened.
His vision drifted into the villa.
Room by room, he floated through hazy silhouettes of guards. Too many guards for a mere merchant group. They weren't spaced like ordinary security either—some were patrolling in strict formations. Others were stationed as if expecting trouble.
This isn't just commerce, he thought.
He pushed further. Downward. Toward the lowest levels.
There—a sealed basement. He concentrated, narrowing his focus. He passed through stone and shadow and...
Chains. A small room. Two figures.
One was unmistakably Rosanna.
Even through the distortion of vision, her outline was tense, hunched, the posture of someone holding on.
And beside her...
Cale blinked. His breath caught.
Iven?
The wide-eyed boy from the facility. Quiet, frightened. Why was he here?
A soft presence stirred beside him.
"Did you find her?" Emis asked, voice low.
Cale's mouth was dry. He nodded slowly, eyes still locked in the vision.
"Yeah," he whispered. "I did."
_________
Cale met Regan where they agreed—at the lantern post near the iron gate.
Regan raised a brow as he approached. "Anything useful?"
Cale, still composed, nodded. "Yeah. I peeked into one of the windows. The place is crawling with guards. More than I expected."
Regan blinked. "You... peeked through a window?"
He didn't say what he was thinking—What kind of idiot peeks into a potential enemy stronghold like it's a bakery?—but the look on his face said enough.
Cale either missed the expression or ignored it. "And you?"
Regan sighed. "I found something. There's a narrow alley on the east side. Low wall. No patrols. Could be our way in."
Cale nodded in agreement, expression still unreadable.
Regan glanced up at the darkening sky. "Let's head back to the inn. We'll plan from there."
Without another word, they slipped back into the city's flow, blending into the fog and firelight of Theros.
_________
Emilia stood near the arched window of her villa chamber, her sharp eyes watching the alleyway below through a brass spyglass—an elegantly crafted relic from the coastal markets of Venswick. The design was old but reliable, a favored tool of traveling nobles before the advent of modern lenses.
Two boys. One with dark hair and a look of purpose. The other blonde, poised but cautious.
So, she thought with a wry smile, you came after all.
She lowered the spyglass and handed it to the silent guard beside her.
"Begin preparing the altar," she said calmly, smoothing the creases of her crimson robe. Her voice carried like velvet laced with iron. "He will come. There's no longer any need to chase him."
The guard hesitated, then bowed and exited quickly.
Emilia turned back toward the mirror, her reflection paler than usual. Her lipstick untouched. Her hair, usually an immaculate wave of scarlet, hung loosely down her shoulders.
But her eyes?
Still sharp. Still burning.
"This time," she whispered, "I won't fail."
_____________
Twelve elders sat encircling a long, crescent-shaped table in the upper chamber of the Elementalist Council. The windows lining the ancient stone chamber cast fractured rays of sunlight upon the polished marble floor. The emblem of the Five Core Elements glimmered inlaid upon the center of the table: fire, water, earth, air, and light.
The room was thick with tension.
At one end of the table sat Elder Vaneska, her robes shimmering with water-light silk. Her expression was calm, her tone cuttingly precise.
"We all know why we've been summoned," she said. "The Master Elementalist must be presented during the King's celebration. I believe the answer is obvious."
Murmurs passed across the chamber.
"You mean the girl," said Elder Halien, a tall man in dark crimson with sharp lines on his brow. "A child who just discovered her powers weeks ago."
Vaneska met his gaze with the elegance of a winter blade. "Not just discovered. She manifested an elemental burst. And has since maintained full synchronicity with her spirit."
"Coincidence," Halien replied. "Spirits do not make leaders. She has no training. She hasn't even grasped half of the core branches."
Elder Siros, seated between them, raised a weathered hand. "We're not here to bicker. We must propose candidates, discuss merits, and vote."
"Very well," Vaneska said. "My nomination remains Seren. Her affinity with the water element is unrivaled. Her emotional bond with the sea is proof of the soul's purity."
"Emotion is not qualification," Halien said coldly. "I nominate Alarion."
The name dropped like a stone in a lake.
Several elders straightened.
"He has the rare composite branch element of magma. Mastered the element of fire since the age of twelve. He has trained under Master Faul for nine years. He is disciplined, loyal, and carries the legacy of the Flame House."
A ripple moved through the room.
Vaneska's lips pressed thinly together. "Alarion may be prodigious, but he lacks a bond. No spirit has answered him."
"And that," Halien said, "is a strength, not a flaw. It means his control is his own."
The arguments spiraled, layered with intensity and veiled disdain. Some elders supported Vaneska with fervor, praising Seren's connection to her spirit as divine fate. Others rallied behind Halien, pointing out Alarion's tactical brilliance and rigorous training.
Two elders remained silent through it all: Elder Mirael, known for her wisdom, and Elder Corthin, whose past decisions had split councils before.
Finally, Elder Siros banged a small ceremonial mallet.
"We vote."
One by one, the elders voiced their support.
Six for Seren.
Six for Alarion.
Siros lowered his gaze. "Then the path is set. We will name two candidates. The King shall be presented both, and let the trials determine the true successor."
Murmurs of disbelief and grudging acceptance rose.
Vaneska nodded silently.
Halien did not look pleased. But neither did he object.
Outside, the bells of the capital began to toll in the hour before dusk.
And across Theros, fate began to wind its threads around two young lives.