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The citadel was quiet under the pale light of the moon. Torches along the stone walls flickered, casting long shadows that moved like silent guards. At the heart of the citadel, far from the doors and halls, stood the throne room. It was large, quiet, and ancient, though it had been built recently by Protheus himself.
Two thrones sat on a raised platform of smooth, black stone. One throne was light and elegant, carved with designs of leaves and stars. It had the beauty of something made by elven hands. The other throne was heavier, decorated with the lion symbol of Eicleisha. It was strong and serious. One throne sat empty. The other had Protheus standing before it.
He didn't speak at first.
The instructors walked in, one by one, moving silently as they passed through the tall, arched doors. Even though they had no flesh or hearts, they moved with purpose, like echoes of warriors who had lived long ago. Their new forms glowed softly in the torchlight.
They stopped in front of Protheus, forming a half-circle.
Thalion was the first to kneel, followed by Faelar, Eryndor, Sylrieth, Althaea, Lythiel, Vaelrya, and Sylvanna. The healer instructors, Caelum, Serael, and Nythorel, knelt last. No one spoke.
Protheus looked at them for a long time, his golden eyes unreadable.
"You remember this room, don't you?" he asked quietly.
None of them answered out loud, but they all understood. They remembered. This room was not new. It was like one from the Aiyadoran Palace, a place they had known long ago. The two thrones had always been there, but the second throne — the one meant for Protheus — had never been there before.
Not until he married her.
She was the High Queen of Aiyador, ruler of the great elven kingdom. She was his wife.
Protheus hadn't spoken her name in a long time. Not since the day she disappeared.
"You were hers," Protheus said, his eyes moving over the instructors. "Her most trusted. Her best. And now… you serve me."
"We still serve her," Sylvanna said quietly, her voice like a soft breeze through trees. "Through you."
The others nodded.
"She trusted us to you," Thalion said. "Before she disappeared, we knew your bond with her was not just political."
Protheus's gaze moved from the second throne, her throne, still carved in elven style. It seemed to hold some part of her, as if she had never really left it.
"When Tel'Zeroth attacked," Protheus continued, "you fell defending her."
There was no answer, only silence.
"I arrived too late," he said, his voice softer now. "The city burned. The stars seemed to go out. But your souls… I found what was left of them. Fragments, still lingering in the ruins."
He raised his hand, and the air around him shimmered with magic.
"My theory was untested — no one had ever tried to do what I did. Putting a soul into a vessel not of flesh, but of magic. A golem body that could think and feel. Something that could remember."
Thalion looked at his hands — the same hands he had when he was alive. They looked the same, graceful and strong.
"You made it happen," Althaea said softly. "You gave us… life again."
"No," Protheus replied, shaking his head. "I gave back what was taken from you."
There was a long silence, and the torches flickered in the quiet room.
"I don't expect you to serve me," Protheus said, his voice firm again. "You followed her. You believed in her vision. But now, I will carry it forward. I will protect what she started, until she returns."
"Then we serve the dream," Vaelrya said gently. "Just as we always have."
"You wear her crown," Caelum said, bowing even lower. "And you carry her hope."
Protheus looked away, his eyes lingering on the throne. For a moment, his face seemed troubled, as if the weight of the past pressed on him. But he spoke again, his voice strong.
"She is still out there," he said quietly. "And until she returns, we will build what she dreamed of. A world strong enough to face the evil gods — and defeat them."
The instructors looked up at him, their faces full of resolve.
"Yes, Your Majesty," they said in unison.
Though the room was still, something had shifted. It was as if their bond had been renewed, like the past had been reclaimed and given new purpose.
At last, Protheus nodded.
"Then, let us begin," he said. "Together."
The throne room grew quieter as the instructors slowly rose from their kneeling positions. The tension that had settled in the air began to lift, though it still clung to the edges of their thoughts, like the remnants of a storm that had not yet passed. Protheus moved away from the thrones, his steps measured, his expression thoughtful but unyielding. He did not look at the instructors as he spoke next.
"I know that some of you have questions. About your past. About what happened before you became… this," he said, gesturing to the golem bodies that each of them inhabited. "The memories may be distant, but they are still there. And they will come back. They are a part of you, just as much as the magic you wield."
Faelar, the bow instructor, spoke first, his voice low but firm. "We remember… fragments. Glimpses. Faces. It is like staring into a fog, seeing only shadows that vanish the moment we try to reach for them. But we know we were not just soldiers to you. We were more."
Protheus paused, turning to face them fully. The light from the torches flickered as if responding to the shift in the room's energy.
"You were her most trusted," he said again, his voice heavy. "You were her generals, her council. But you were also her friends. You fought not just for her crown, but for her vision. For her people."
He took a slow step toward Thalion, the combat instructor, who stood tall and proud despite the passage of time. Thalion's face was impassive, but Protheus could see the faintest twitch of something in his eyes — something that remembered.
"And you, Thalion," Protheus said softly, "you were the first to offer your life in defense of her. When Tel'Zeroth came for us, you stood before the gates, shielding her from the oncoming storm. You gave everything to protect her."
Thalion did not flinch. He simply nodded, acknowledging the truth that still felt too raw to speak aloud.
"I would have done it again, High King Consort," Thalion said quietly, his voice steady despite the emotion behind his words. "If it meant protecting her, I would not have hesitated."
The room was silent for a moment, the weight of their shared history settling over them like an invisible cloak. Protheus nodded once, and then turned to face the others. His eyes moved from one instructor to the next, searching for any sign of hesitation, any sign that they were not ready to embrace what he had done.
"But it was not just you, was it?" Protheus continued, his gaze now on Eryndor, the heavy weapons instructor. "You, too, fought for her. For Aiyador. For the people of this land. You carried the banners of hope when all seemed lost."
Eryndor's eyes hardened, but there was a flicker of something else in his gaze — something that could almost be called grief. "We lost so much, High King Consort," he said, his voice low. "I would never wish for anyone to experience the horrors we did. The death of our kingdom, the fall of everything we knew… But in the end, we fought. We never stopped fighting. Not for her, not for you, and not for what she believed in."
Protheus's heart tightened at the words. He had been the one to try to rebuild. But the pain of those who had fallen — those who had sacrificed so much — was something he could never erase. It was something that lived within them, a constant reminder of the price they had all paid.
"You all carry that weight," Protheus said quietly, his voice more somber than before. "And I carry it with you. But now we have something to fight for once more. This citadel. The hope it represents. And the people who will come here to learn and grow stronger."
Lythiel, who had been standing silently, her gaze fixed on the floor, lifted her head. Her eyes met Protheus's with an intensity that was impossible to ignore.
"The students," she said softly. "They remind us of everything we lost. Of everything we still have to protect."
Protheus gave a single, approving nod. "Yes," he said, his voice softening. "They are the future. The hope we could not afford to lose. And we will teach them everything we know."
Sylrieth, the scout instructor, stepped forward next, her footsteps light but purposeful. "And what of the dangers, High King Consort?" she asked, her voice low. "What of the monsters, the ones that still roam the lands? The creatures born from the chaos of the war?"
Protheus's eyes darkened. The creatures that had crawled from the cracks left by the war were many, and their presence in the world had been a constant reminder of the damage done. But they were not the only threat that lingered.
"We will face them," Protheus said firmly, his voice resolute. "But not alone. Together, we will push back the shadows. We will show the world that Aiyador still stands — even if the High Queen is missing."
The instructors looked to each other, their gazes full of determination. Their pasts had shaped them, yes. But it was the future they now had the power to shape. It was the students who would carry on their work, who would rebuild the world from the ashes of the old.
But there was still so much to be done. The citadel was only the beginning. And though the road ahead was uncertain, they would face it together, as they had always done. Through every battle, every sacrifice, and every loss, they had endured. And now, they would fight once more.
Protheus turned back to the thrones, his gaze lingering on the empty seat beside him.
And though the past hung heavy on his heart, he knew the truth: The future awaited. And it was his to build.
After the heavy conversation, silence returned to the throne room. The instructors stood in stillness, each of them lost in their own thoughts. Some stared at the floor. Others closed their eyes, as if listening to something deep inside them — a quiet voice buried under layers of memory and time.
Protheus did not speak right away. He gave them space. What he had told them was not easy to accept, even if part of them already knew. Souls returned from death. Memories that belonged to lives long gone. It was more than just magic — it was a miracle built on pain, love, and desperate hope.
Finally, he turned and walked toward the tall windows at the side of the room. Outside, the moonlight touched the outer walls of the citadel and the far trees beyond, silver and calm. He folded his hands behind his back, his cloak brushing against the polished floor.
"You were all hers before you were mine," he said softly, without turning around. "And I never forgot that."
Faelar stepped forward. His tone had softened, but his words were clear. "We followed her because she believed in us. She gave us purpose. But you — you gave us a second chance. You brought us back when we should have been lost forever."
Eryndor let out a quiet breath. "To be honest, I didn't think I could feel anything again. Not in this body. But watching the students fight, train, and laugh… it stirred something. It made me remember what it was like to stand for something."
Lythiel nodded. "The young ones remind me of Aiyador in its golden days. Not in their power, but in their hope."
Protheus slowly turned back to them. He didn't smile, but his eyes had softened.
"She believed in the balance between strength and kindness. She ruled with wisdom, not fear. That's why Aiyador became a light in the world. That's why you all followed her."
He approached the thrones again, standing between them. His hand reached out, brushing the armrest of the throne on the left — the one that had belonged to the missing queen.
"When she vanished," he continued, "I thought I had lost everything. But I knew she wouldn't want her people to fall into despair. She would want the world to heal."
He looked at each of them in turn.
"That's why I searched for your souls. I didn't know if it would work. It was just a theory — a path I had never tried before. Not even the ancient mages dared to attempt soul-binding in this way."
Thalion's brow furrowed slightly. "You found us after the war?"
Protheus nodded. "What was left of you. Your bodies were gone, but your spirits… pieces of them still clung to the world. You had died with purpose. That gave me the thread I needed."
Althaea, the magic tutor, stepped forward. "But how? The theory of soul retrieval… it was never proven. How did you know what to do?"
"I didn't," Protheus admitted. "Not at first. I experimented with small constructs. Simple minds. Bits of old magic. I failed more times than I can count. But I kept going, because I believed — I needed to believe — that it could work."
He walked down from the platform and paced slowly across the floor, the echoes of his boots the only sound for a while.
"When I felt one of your souls respond, I knew I was close. I shaped the golem body to match your energy. Strong, graceful, built to hold not just memory, but will. It had to feel right. It had to be you, or it would fail."
"And it didn't," whispered Vaelrya, her voice quiet with wonder. "You did the impossible."
Protheus stopped and faced them again. "You are living proof of it. But you're not tools. You're not weapons. You are people — with your own choices, your own hearts."
Sylvanna stepped closer to the throne and placed a hand over her chest. "Even if we remember only pieces… this body still beats with loyalty to her."
Protheus looked toward the high ceiling, as if searching for a light that wasn't there.
"She's out there somewhere. I know it. I don't know how long it will take to find her, but I will never stop looking."
The instructors lowered their heads in quiet respect.
"Until that day," said Thalion firmly, "we will keep her dream alive. Through these students. Through our teachings."
Protheus turned back to them, the moonlight catching the edge of his cloak.
"This citadel will become more than just a place of learning. It will be the seed of a new age."
They stood there in silence once more, not as soldiers or instructors, but as remnants of an old world — now protectors of a new one.
Then Faelar, with a touch of his usual dry humor, broke the moment.
"Well then. I suppose we better start planning tomorrow's training, unless we want them falling asleep on their swords."
A few chuckles followed. Even Protheus's lips twitched with the ghost of a smile.
The moment had passed — not forgotten, but carried forward.
One chapter of their past was closed. But the next had already begun.
The instructors had returned to their quarters after the meeting, leaving Protheus alone in the throne room.
He stood before the twin thrones, his eyes drifting across their surfaces. His hand brushed against the edge of her throne — the one carved with sunbursts and flowering vines, the symbol of Aiyador. He sat not on his, nor hers. Instead, he lowered himself onto the first step before them, resting his arms on his knees.
The moonlight filtered through the high windows, casting a pale silver glow across the empty hall. Shadows danced faintly on the floor, stretching toward the thrones like old memories reaching out from the past.
His fingers tightened slightly. She was missing. Not dead — never dead. He would have known. He refused to believe otherwise.
They had fought beside each other once — ruler and consort. When the worlds turned to flame and the stars blinked out under the threat of the evil gods, they stood together. Her strength was light. His was will. And together, they had forged peace… at least for a time.
He closed his eyes. He remembered her voice, not in words, but in warmth. He remembered the way she held her court, how her gaze calmed even the proudest warriors. She had chosen him — not just as her consort, but as her equal. Together, they had rebuilt what was broken.
And then she vanished.
A heartbeat later, Protheus rose. His cape shifted behind him like a flowing curtain of shadow and starlight. He turned and walked down the great hallway without a sound. Not even his boots echoed. The walls bore tapestries of the old world — Aiyador in its full bloom, before the skies darkened.
He stepped out onto the balcony that overlooked the vast citadel grounds. The night was still, the stars sharp and cold above. Far below, lights glowed brightly in the lobby of the condominium where the children are located. Their laughter, faint and gentle, echoed like distant music.
This place was their chance. The children were not just warriors in training — they were hope being rebuilt. Each lesson they learned, each bond they formed, was another stone laid toward a future no longer ruled by fear.
He reached into his cloak and pulled out a small gem — faintly glowing, silver-blue in color. A soul crystal, cracked but pulsing. It was the last one he hadn't used.
Not hers. Hers was not here.
He sighed and closed his hand around it.
"I'll find you," he whispered.
Then he stepped back inside the tower. Tomorrow would bring more trials, more lessons, and more choices. But for tonight, he would watch the stars and listen to the silence — the quiet after pain, and the peace that still waited for her return.