The courtyard shimmered beneath the midmorning light, its vast expanse alive with motion—flashes of magic, the gleam of steel, and the pulse of determination.
Protheus stood still at the center, unmoved, cloaked in silence. While the rest of the world around him thudded with energy and life, he was an unmoving eye at the heart of a storm.
His gaze moved slowly, not aimlessly, but with the careful precision of one who sees not only the present—but also every thread of the future woven into it.
The newly built courtyard stretched around him, unmarred and pristine, yet already echoing with the beginnings of mastery. The instructors, elven in form and flawless in grace, guided their students with relentless discipline. Each group moved differently, trained differently, shaped differently. It was by design.
Protheus watched.
He did not speak. He did not interrupt. He simply walked the perimeter, the hem of his cloak brushing against smooth stone, eyes scanning every strike, every incantation, every footwork misstep and magical fumble. There was nothing passive in his gaze. It evaluated. Measured. Judged.
His presence did not go unnoticed, though he neither acknowledged the instructors' respectful nods nor returned their silent greetings. He was not here for ceremony.
He watched the swords rise and fall, the arrows cut through wind, the flames burst and fade, the barriers shimmer and crack. He watched feet stumble and recover. Hands tremble, then steady. And in those details, he found answers.
Each instructor—Thalion, Faelar, Eryndor, Sylrieth, Althaea, Vaelrya, Lythiel, Sylvanna—executed their role with exacting perfection. He knew they would. He had built them for this.
Still, he scrutinized.
He moved through the space with the silence of a shadow, passing between shifting pockets of elemental energy and the whirling steel of practice duels. The students barely noticed him, save for the flickers of awe or tension that followed in his wake. They did not know him fully—not yet—but they felt his weight. As they should.
He paused occasionally, though never long.
Each pause was a silent conclusion: Adequate. Progressing. Correct. His mind processed a thousand things at once. Spell trajectories. Stamina drain. Synchronization of pairs. Efficiency of instruction. Emotional stability. Latent power. Potential.
At last, he came to a halt.
Not because he was finished—but because he had seen enough.
His eyes narrowed, not in disapproval, but in silent calculation. Then, without a word, Protheus turned away from the courtyard. His cloak flowed behind him like trailing mist as he made his way through the citadel's inner structures.
He passed beneath archways and towers until he reached the south of the citadel's first wall, past the stone bridge that stretched from the southern gate, lay a ruined land—once bright and full of life, now broken and forgotten.
South of the citadel's first wall, past the stone bridge that extended from the southern gate, stretched a ruined land—once filled with light, now broken and forgotten.
The buildings that once stood tall were now crumbling shells, their walls cracked and burned, their windows shattered. Time and silence had swallowed what remained.
The streets were uneven and covered in dust, with weeds and vines creeping through every gap, claiming the ruins one stone at a time.
Old signs hung from rusted frames, faded and torn. In the distance, a giant wheel still stood, lifeless and unmoving, its cabins swaying gently in the wind.
It was a haunting sight—silent, empty, still. The entire area felt like the remains of a world left behind.
This place had once thrived.
Now, it waited to be erased.
Protheus stepped onto the broken road, passing under the arch of the bridge. His cloak flowed behind him, untouched by the ash that drifted on the breeze.
He walked with quiet purpose, his eyes slowly scanning the ruins—not in sadness, but with calm resolve. He had not come to remember what had been. He had come to begin again.
He raised his hand.
The ruins shook.
Collapsed buildings crumbled into dust. Shattered glass and twisted metal dissolved into the ground. Abandoned vehicles, burned beams, and rubble vanished as if the land itself was exhaling. The streets flattened. The earth became smooth. In minutes, the ruined city was gone, replaced by wide, open ground.
Then, with a second motion, Protheus called stone from deep within the land.
A wall began to rise.
It grew tall and steady, its foundation firm, stretching in both directions. Unlike the outer wall before it, this new southern barrier reached farther—marking a new boundary for the citadel.
The land between the walls was cleared and smoothed, open and ready for cultivation. Fields would be planted.m. The ruined old structures had vanished, replaced by the promise of a fresh start.
Protheus turned his gaze back to the original southern gate. He lifted his hand once more, and the southern section of the first wall trembled—then lowered itself into the ground, disappearing completely.
He wasn't creating a second wall. He was expanding the first.
The walls reshaped.
When the work was complete, Protheus stood still, surveying the land. The ruins were gone. The citadel was whole.
But he was not done.
Without a word, Protheus turned toward the northern side of the citadel.
Without a word, Protheus extended his hand once more. A glowing magical circle formed beneath him, its runes spinning slowly in the air. Light surged outward in perfect silence. The moment the final line was drawn, the circle pulsed and he vanished.
In the next instant, he stood on the northern edge of the wall.
The air is cool, touched by mountain wind and the scent of the distant sea. Before him stretched another segment of the long-forgotten buildings, quiet, decayed, and still standing. Where the southern side had crumbled under years of erosion and abandonment, the northern structures remained eerily intact. Cracked buildings lined narrow streets, their glass long shattered, their walls darkened by time—but they still stood. Rooftops sagged beneath the weight of forgotten storms. Signs hung from rusted poles. It was a place paused, not broken.
And beyond it, far in the distance, the ocean shimmered. The northern edge of the citadel now mirrored the western one—facing the sea, open to horizon and salt wind.
Protheus surveyed the land in silence.
Then, he raised his hand once more.
Stone stirred from deep beneath the ground, responding to his silent command. With careful precision, he constructed a new northern wall—farther out, along the very edge of the remaining ruins. The wall rose high and clean, bypassing every structure within. Not a single broken building was touched. Not a single street disturbed. The old world was left as it was, encased rather than erased.
Only once the new wall stood complete—firm and seamless, extending from the eastern corner to the western side—did Protheus turn to the original northern wall.
A soft glow lit the air as he dismissed the old wall. Stone unbound itself, dissolving without a sound, leaving behind only smooth ground and uninterrupted space.
Now, the walls were one.
From above, the citadel no longer looked like a partial fortress, but a vast, enclosed stronghold that look like a rectangle. The east stretched towards the ruined city. The west overlooked the ocean. The south, now fertile and clear, had been reborn. And the north, framed by ruin and sea, remained untouched—yet held within Protheus's vision.
He did not alter the land within this northern expansion.
The ruins remained.
He had chosen to leave them as they were—buildings standing quietly, streets lying still. There was memory in their silence, a history not yet ready to be swept away.
To the east, the old city's core loomed, still buried in fog and time. To the west and now the north, the ocean pressed gently against stone cliffs, waves rising and falling like a breath too ancient to remember.
Protheus stood upon the wall, his cloak drawn back by the wind. He looked over what he had shaped—land, sea, stone, and silence.
One side for renewal.
One for memory.
One for what once was.
Two now faced the open sea.
He turned, and with steady steps began walking along the top of the wall, the fortress sealed, the world inside his domain—still and waiting.