Aaron stared at him, breath caught in his throat.
Dracon. Era's brother.
The name slammed into him just as hard as the guy's hand shoving him back. Dracon's eyes—cold, thunderous—didn't blink as he unsheathed a dark blade from the scabbard strapped across his back and pressed it firmly against Aaron's throat.
The metal was cold. Too real.
"I've been waiting to meet you," Dracon said, his voice sharp as the edge of his sword. "The boy who dragged my sister into this mess."
Aaron opened his mouth, but the blade pushed tighter against his skin. He couldn't breathe properly—his chest constricted under the pressure of Dracon's forearm and the panic clawing up his lungs.
Dracon pinned him harder to the wall, the edge of the sword digging in just enough to make the threat feel like a promise.
"You think just because she took a hit for you, you belong at her side?" he spat. "Like you're one of us?"
Aaron struggled for air. "I... didn't ask her—"
"No," Dracon growled. "You didn't. And that's the problem. You didn't ask. You didn't understand. And yet somehow, you're in the middle of all of this."
His fury was more than rage. It was personal. Bitter. Boiling.
"She nearly died," he hissed, lowering his face until their foreheads almost touched. "Because of you. Because you were too weak. Too slow. You couldn't protect her from someone standing right in front of you."
Aaron gritted his teeth. His fists trembled at his sides. He tried to summon the ring, to feel its weight, its glow—something—but it stayed cold, inert. Like it had turned its back on him.
Nothing happened.
"I didn't want her hurt," he rasped.
Dracon's glare darkened. "Of course you didn't."
He shoved Aaron harder, the sword still pressing against his throat, now biting into skin. "But she was. Because you're a storm, Aaron. And storms don't care what they destroy."
Aaron gasped, voice hoarse. "If you're here to kill me, then just do it."
Dracon tilted his head, lips curled with scorn. "No. Death would be too merciful. I wanted to see you. The boy Hydra's so eager to shield—like you're the chosen heir of the stars or something."
He leaned in close again, his whisper venomous. "My sister may forgive you. But I won't. And if I ever catch you circling her again like some vulture sniffing for leftovers... I'll take your head off without hesitation."
The blade stayed there another second, pulsing with threat.
Then, finally, Dracon stepped back. Slowly. The sword slid away with a whisper of steel, and the weight on Aaron's chest lifted. But the air still felt thin.
Dracon walked to the door without looking back. "Keep this in mind if you value your miserable existence."
And then he was gone—swallowed by the corridor, his footsteps soundless.
Aaron slid down the wall, chest heaving, the ring on his finger still silent. Useless. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, and for a long moment, he didn't move.
He couldn't.
After a moment, he finally stumbled into the hallway, each step slow, unsteady. The sharp bite of Dracon's words still echoed in his skull, but worse was the weight in his chest—the gnawing truth.
He'd hurt more people than he'd ever realized.
Not just Era.
Not just Hydra.
Everyone who had dared to get close.
His reckless choices had pulled them into his storm.
And now... how was he supposed to make that right?
He dragged in a shaky breath and looked up.
At the far end of the corridor stood a young girl in a light cloak, her voice soft as she spoke to a Weaver. The sound froze Aaron in place.
That voice.
It couldn't be.
He moved forward slowly, eyes locked on her, disbelief battling with hope. As he neared, she turned slightly, and the last thread of doubt snapped.
"Era?" he breathed.
Without thinking, he ran the rest of the way and threw his arms around her, pulling her into a fierce hug. At that moment, Dracon's warning meant nothing to him. Only Era mattered.
But she didn't hug him back.
Aaron froze, his joy cooling instantly. Her body stayed stiff. Her voice, when it came, was quiet but firm.
"Leave us, please."
The Weaver gave Aaron a single unreadable look before stepping away, disappearing down the corridor.
Aaron stepped back, his breath catching as his gaze fell—again—on the empty sleeve of her tunic.
He had been there. He'd seen the blood, the aftermath. But seeing it now, clean and quiet, was somehow worse. Final.
The loose fabric hung between them like a silent accusation.
His throat tightened.
"I didn't think you'd be up already," he said, barely managing to push te words out .
Era met his eyes, calm but unreadable. "I'm not that fragile," she replied. But Aaron could see it—the stiffness in her movements, the tension she was trying to hide.
She wasn't fully healed.
He opened his mouth to speak, to apologize—but before the words could form, a sudden heat surged through his ring, blinding, searing. It pulsed like a living thing, waves of red-hot agony crashing through his nerves. His knees buckled, a sharp cry tore from his throat. The pain was sharper than any he had felt before, like molten iron sinking into his bones.
Era's eyes widened. "Aaron?"
But just as quickly as it came, the pain vanished. His breath came in ragged gasps, his vision swimming. And then—
A translucent screen flickered to life before him.
The glow of the message was all too familiar.
> Reinitialization of the Catalyst…
Error Detected: Anomalous surge compromised wielder's stability.
Correction Protocol Engaged.
Punishment Protocol Activated.
Unauthorized overload has destabilized the Catalyst. To restore balance, a strict recalibration is required.
The words glowed an ominous red, almost daring him to act. His fingers twitched. He hesitated for only a second before reaching out.
Click.
The screen changed.
> Mandatory Training Protocol Initiated.
— Morning: 100 push-ups, 100 sit-ups, 100 squats, and a 10km run.
— Midday: Precision control exercises—channel Phoenix fire into a single point without deviation for five minutes.
— Evening: Combat training—execute 50 controlled flame strikes and maintain a defensive barrier for three minutes.
Failure to complete assigned tasks will result in searing pain until compliance is met.
Resistance is futile. Adaptation is necessary.
Aaron's stomach dropped. This wasn't a request. It was an order.
Before he could even process it, another line of text appeared.
> Directive:
Endure. Strengthen. Prove Worthiness.
Correction begins now.
And then—
A burning sensation ignited in his veins.