The world dissolved into a swirling vortex of colors, a disorienting kaleidoscope that left Liam breathless and adrift. He wasn't on horseback anymore; he wasn't in the Eastern Wastes. He was… nowhere. Or, perhaps, somewhere else. The air hummed with a strange energy, a palpable vibration that resonated deep within his bones. He felt weightless, yet strangely grounded, as if suspended in a timeless void.
Then, a figure coalesced from the swirling chaos. A man, tall and powerfully built, with a longsword strapped to his back. His hair was long, a cascade of blond that seemed to shimmer with an inner light, and his eyes… his eyes were the same piercing blue as Arthur's, as Brian's, yet they held an intensity, a depth of knowledge, that was almost overwhelming. Nine stars, blazing with a brilliance Liam had never witnessed, were emblazoned across his chest, radiating an aura of immense power.
Liam felt it then, a surge of energy, not the chilling cold of his own ice magic, but something… different. Something vast, ancient, and profoundly present. It was magic, raw and untamed, yet somehow… ordered.
"Finally," the figure said, his voice a deep, resonant rumble that seemed to echo from the very fabric of this strange place. "We meet, Liam."
Liam's mind reeled. He was dreaming, he knew, but this… this felt real. More real, in some ways, than the harsh reality he'd left behind. "Who… who are you?" he stammered, his voice barely a whisper. "Where am I?"
A faint smile touched the figure's lips. "This place," he said, gesturing around at the swirling nothingness, "is what some might call the 'Magicule Zone.' A… confluence… of magical energies. A place between places." He paused, his blue eyes fixing on Liam with an unnerving intensity. "And I… am Kael Volgunder."
Liam's breath caught in his throat. Kael Volgunder? The legendary founder of his family? The first patriarch? The man whose tomb he had visited, the man whose grimoire he carried? But… "You're… you're dead," Liam blurted out, the words sounding foolish even to his own ears. "You died centuries ago."
Kael chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. "Indeed, I did, young Liam. But magic… magic is a curious thing. It transcends the boundaries of life and death, of time and space. I left behind a… residue… a condensed portion of my own magical power, bound to certain… items. Like the Core you now possess."
Liam's hand instinctively went to his tunic, to the place where the Umbral Core rested.
How could Kael…
Kael seemed to read his thoughts. "I see much, Liam," he said. "More than you can imagine. And I have been… waiting. Waiting for a successor. Someone compatible with the essence of ice magic. Someone to… awaken." He paused. "I did not anticipate it would take five hundred years."
Liam struggled to process the information, his mind reeling. He was talking to the ghost, the essence, of his legendary ancestor, in some bizarre magical realm. And Kael knew about the Umbral Core.
"I… I don't understand," Liam said, his voice shaking. "Why… why me?"
"You have a strong heart, Liam," Kael said, his voice softening slightly. "You strive to improve. You… persevere. But you lack… refinement. You lack… understanding. And we are running out of time."
"Time?" Liam asked, his confusion growing. "Time for what?"
Kael's expression turned grim. "The demonic forces you have encountered," he said, "they are stronger than you realize. Their ability to activate the Balus Gate… that teleportation network… it requires a significant expenditure of magicules. Yet, I sense no such concentration in the air, not on this scale. They must be using mediums. Vessels to channel and amplify their power." He paused. "Generally… mana cores."
Liam's eyes widened. Mana cores? He'd read about them, fleetingly, in the fragmented pages of the grimoire. "Mana cores…" he repeated, his voice a hushed whisper. "But… those are found within the hearts of… monsters."
"Indeed," Kael confirmed.
"But monsters… they disappeared centuries ago," Liam protested. "They're… extinct."
Kael's gaze was unwavering. "They vanished," he corrected, "because the Dragon of Void vanished. The source of the dimensional rifts that allowed them to enter our world… it closed."
Liam's mind struggled to grasp the concept. Dragon of Void? A dragon his father had never mentioned? "A… a Dragon of Void?" he asked, his voice filled with disbelief. "But… I thought there were only five…"
Kael's expression was grave. "Even five hundred years ago, knowledge of the Void Dragon was limited, suppressed. Its magic… it opened pathways, rifts, between dimensions. It allowed… things… to enter our world. Things that should not be here." He paused again, his gaze distant, as if he were looking back at a time of great turmoil. "But that is a story for another time. For now, Liam, you must focus. You must train. You must prepare. There are hardships ahead, greater than you can imagine."
"Will… will I see you again?" Liam asked, a strange sense of urgency filling him.
Kael smiled, a faint, almost melancholic smile. "You will," he said. "But not until you reach your… second circle. A threshold of power and understanding."
"Circles?" Liam asked, bewildered. "What… what are circles?"
"There is much to learn, young Liam," Kael said. "But our time here is… limited. I will explain more… when you are ready."
And with that, the figure of Kael Volgunder began to fade, dissolving back into the swirling chaos of the Magicule Zone. Liam felt a sudden, sharp pull, a sensation of falling, of being ripped away from this strange, ethereal realm.
Then, darkness.
He awoke with a gasp, his body drenched in cold sweat, his heart pounding. He was still on horseback, still being supported by Brad, his head resting against the older man's shoulder.
"Liam!" Brian's voice, filled with relief, cut through the fog in his mind. "You're awake! Are you alright?"
Liam blinked, trying to focus his vision, trying to separate the lingering images of the dream from the harsh reality of the Eastern Wastes. He managed a weak nod. "I… I think so," he mumbled, his voice hoarse.
Brian studied him closely, his eyes filled with concern. "You were out for hours," he said. "We were worried."
Liam didn't answer. He couldn't. He couldn't explain what he had just experienced, not yet. He needed time to process it, to understand it.
He looked up, his gaze sweeping across the horizon. And then, he saw it. In the distance, a faint glimmer of light, a cluster of structures silhouetted against the rising sun.
"Look," Brian said, his voice filled with a weary hope. "The outpost. We're close."
The outpost, a rough collection of fortified buildings clinging to a rocky outcrop, appeared on the horizon like a mirage. It was a far cry from the imposing strength of Volgunder Keep, but to the exhausted, battered remnants of Brian's group, it represented sanctuary. The reception was a mixture of relief and grim understanding. Faces, etched with worry and fatigue, offered small, tight smiles, but the eyes held the knowledge of shared hardship, of a battle far from won.
Liam, still weak and reeling from the aftereffects of his magical outburst, was immediately taken by Brad to a small, hastily constructed shack that served as a makeshift infirmary. The air inside was thick with the scent of herbs and antiseptic. Brad gently helped Liam onto a rough cot.
Meanwhile, Brian, Lia, Karl, and Elara, their faces grim, made their way to the command tent.
In the shack, Liam lay on the cot, his mind a whirlwind of fragmented images: the brutal efficiency of the ambush, the chilling power of the demonic energy, the terrifying rush of his own uncontrolled magic, and the unsettling vision of Kael Volgunder. He felt drained, empty, yet also strangely… aware.
Brad sat beside him, his expression unreadable. After a long moment, Brad spoke, his voice hoarse.
"Do you… do you remember what happened, Liam?"
Liam nodded slowly. "I... I think so. The fight... the cold... I lost control."
They were silent again. Then, Liam turned to Brad, his eyes filled with a mixture of gratitude and confusion.
"Why?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper. "Why do you trust me? Why do you… help me? Teach me?"
A faint smile touched Brad's lips. "Because," he said, his voice low, "you remind me of her. Of Sandra. Your mother."
He paused, his gaze softening with a distant memory. "She had a fire in her, Liam. A strength. Just like you."
Liam felt a warmth spread through him, a connection to a past he had never known.
Brad met Liam's gaze, his expression turning serious. "You have a good heart, Liam," he said, "never forget that. And you can trust me with everything."
Liam was silent, trying to process all, then drifted into troubled, dreamless sleep. Brad remained, watching over him.
Meanwhile, in the command tent, the atmosphere was thick with tension. Maps were spread across a rough-hewn table. Brian recounted the events: the skirmishes, the discovery of the gate, the destruction of the supply depot, Hektor's disobedience, and, finally, the desperate battle at the Serpent's Pass. He spoke of the demonic energy, of Liam's uncontrolled outburst of magic, of the sheer power they had faced.
Karl listened, his expression grim. Elara took notes. Lia leaned against a tent pole, watching Brian.
"If it hadn't been for Liam… for his magic… we would all be dead," Brian concluded.
Karl's eyes widened slightly. "So… Arthur was right," he murmured. "He saw something in the boy…" He shook his head. "But this gate… This changes everything."
Lia pushed herself off the tent pole. "We were fools to think we understood the enemy," she said, her voice tight. "We've been fighting blind."
Far away, in Volgunder Keep, a different war council was taking place. Arthur Volgunder stood before his most trusted advisors. The news, brought by the exhausted messenger, had shaken them all.
"…a teleportation gate… an army gathering…" Arthur repeated, the words heavy. He struggled to reconcile the reports with his understanding. "A force this size, moving this quickly… It defies reason." He looked at his advisors. "What could fuel such a rapid mobilization?"
The advisors murmured, faces grim. Some advocated for mobilization. Others urged caution.
"We need help," one swordmaster said. "We need to call upon the other families. Officially. This is a threat to all of Drakonia."
Arthur hesitated. To ask for help… it went against everything he believed in. But the situation was dire.
"The other families…" another advisor said. "They're… unreliable. They have their own agendas."
Arthur's jaw tightened. He knew the risks. But he was running out of options.
He made a decision. "Send a messenger," he said, his voice firm. "To the Royal Family. To King Alaric. Tell him everything. We need the authority of the crown to mobilize the other families. And," he added, "tell him we need anything he can spare. Mercenaries, supplies, weapons… anything."
The council chamber buzzed with activity as orders were given, messengers were dispatched, and preparations began. Arthur Volgunder, the stoic, unwavering leader, stood at the center of it all, his face a mask of grim determination. But beneath the surface, a cold fear gnawed at him. He had made the necessary decisions, taken the necessary steps. But would it be enough? The fate of Drakonia, perhaps, rested on the speed of a messenger, the wisdom of a king, and the courage of a handful of warriors, scattered and outnumbered, in the heart of the enemy's territory. He could only hope they made it and hope that they find a way to stop the threat.
The day following their arrival at the outpost was one of uneasy respite. The rough sanctuary offered a chance to lick wounds, both physical and emotional, but the underlying tension was palpable. The grim reality of their losses, the looming threat of the Rubak army, and the unsettling mystery of the gate hung heavy in the air.
Liam, after nearly a full day of unconsciousness, had finally awakened. He was weak, his body still aching from the battle and the aftereffects of his uncontrolled magical outburst, but his mind was clear. Brad had stayed by his side, a silent, watchful presence, ensuring he rested and regained his strength.
But Liam was not one to remain idle. The vision of Kael Volgunder, the cryptic words about "circles" of magic, and the ever-present danger fueled a restless energy within him. He knew he was still the weakest link, a liability in a situation that demanded strength and skill. He couldn't rely solely on desperate bursts of uncontrolled power. He needed to be better.
So, despite Brad's gentle protests and Lia's teasing offers to "go easy on him," Liam insisted on resuming his training. He started slowly, focusing on basic forms, on regaining his balance and coordination. The mithril short sword felt familiar in his hand, a comforting weight, but his movements were still sluggish, his stamina depleted.
Lia, true to her nature, offered a mix of encouragement and sharp critique. "You're moving like a wounded bear, little brother," she'd say, dodging one of his clumsy thrusts with effortless grace. "But at least you're moving. Keep pushing. You'll get there."
Brad, as always, was a more subtle instructor. He didn't offer praise or criticism, but he guided Liam's movements, correcting his stance, refining his footwork, emphasizing the importance of economy of motion, of using his agility to his advantage. He focused on drills that emphasized speed and precision, forcing Liam to react quickly, to anticipate his opponent's moves.
"Strength will come," Brad said, his voice low, as they practiced a series of parries and ripostes. "But speed and cunning… those are your weapons now. Learn to use them."
Liam pushed himself, driven by a fierce determination to improve, to prove himself worthy of the trust that Brian and Brad had placed in him. He knew he couldn't afford to be a burden. He had to be an asset.
Meanwhile, the outpost buzzed with activity. Karl, ever the pragmatist, had wasted no time in organizing the defenses, strengthening the fortifications, and establishing a strict watch schedule. Messengers had been sent out, carrying news of their discoveries and their losses, but the distances were vast, and the replies would be slow in coming.
The scouts Karl had dispatched began to return, their reports painting a grim picture. The Rubaks were on the move. The scattered patrols, the hunting parties, the small raiding bands… they were all converging, drawn towards a central point, their numbers growing with each passing day.
Then, late in the afternoon, the second relief party, the one Karl had sent out with supplies and extra horses, limped back into the outpost. They were exhausted, their faces etched with fatigue and a dawning horror. They had seen it. The Rubak army.
"Twelve hundred," the lead scout, a grizzled veteran named Joren, reported to Karl, his voice hoarse. "At least. All moving east. Towards the Spinebreaker pass. Towards us."
Twelve hundred. The number was even worse than they'd feared. And they were moving.
"How long?" Karl asked, his voice tight.
Joren shook his head. "Hard to say. They're not moving with the speed of a raiding party. They're moving like an army, with supply wagons, with… purpose. But at their current pace… fifteen days, at most. Maybe less."