Piazza della Signoria—a cobblestone square, Palazzo Vecchio looming overhead, statues of David and Perseus standing guard.
A platform rose at its center. Three figures stood atop it: a judge, an executioner, and a criminal.
The accused was a young man. Disheveled blonde hair, unfocused blue eyes. He wore simple white clothes.
Barefoot on the wooden platform, rusted iron shackles clamped around his wrists. A coarse rope scratched against his neck, refusing to let go.
His gaze dropped to the crowd below.
A massive tide of people surged beneath the Palazzo Vecchio. Faces blurred together in a sea of noise. Screams rang out—sounding like cheers.
A chill crept up his spine.
With trembling eyes, he glanced at the two others beside him. One held a parchment. The other, a sack.
The young man tried to speak.
He couldn't.
His lips wouldn't part, no matter how hard he tried. Biting down, he dropped his head in silence.
He already knew what awaited him. He had seen it many times before.
The man with the parchment stepped forward, his voice cutting through the crowd.
"Lorenzo Rosso, you stand accused of treason against the city of Florence."
His steps were light as he approached the accused.
"Have you any evidence to suggest otherwise?"
Lorenzo raised his head, his gaze shifting between the cheering masses and the men beside him.
His eyes brimmed with tears. Blood welled on his lip where he had bitten too hard. He wanted to scream, to plead, to shout that they were wrong.
But nothing came.
Only silence.
With one last glance at the pale blue sky, tears traced down his cheeks.
His head fell. Slowly, he shook it.
Seeing that, the judge gave a subtle gesture.
"Lorenzo Rosso, you are hereby sentenced to death."
His voice cracked like thunder. The crowd's roar swelled.
A bell tolled—once. Twice.
The executioner pulled the sack over Lorenzo's head, and the world turned dark.
But in that final instant, he saw her.
A young woman, beautiful. Her dark hair danced in the cold wind. Her gaze pierced straight through the crowd.
She was smiling.
Not with love, not with grief.
With disgust.
His wife.
Now cheering for his death.
The floor vanished beneath him.
His neck snapped like a twig.
---
In the cottage—a bloodcurdling scream tore through the night.
Fenric bolted upright, heart pounding. Half-asleep, he scanned the room until his gaze landed on Lior.
Seated on the bed, hands clutched around his neck, eyes wide and empty. Cold sweat soaked his skin, jaw trembling.
He whispered the same words, over and over."I'm innocent."
Fenric rushed over and placed a hand on his shoulder.
Lior jolted, flinching away, his face ghostly in the moonlight.
For a few moments, he was lost.
Then, he blinked. Recognition dawned.
"Fenric? Is that you?" A shaky breath escaped his lips.
"Yes," Fenric replied. "Are you alright?"
Lior turned, gaze drifting to the wall as if it might still hold the nightmare.
He swallowed hard before answering.
"I think so. Just... a nightmare."
"Is that why you barely sleep?" Fenric asked, his voice heavy with concern.
Lior said nothing at first. He nodded.
Looking over, he caught the worry in Fenric's eyes and offered a faint smile.
"I'm fine now. Thank you. Go back to sleep."
Fenric hesitated, wanting to argue—but stopped himself. He returned to bed, pulling the covers up.
Lior remained seated, his gaze fixed on the window.
"Fenric," he said softly. "Do you have a dream?"
"I do." Fenric's voice was little more than a whisper.
"Would you share it with me?"
Fenric smiled faintly, his eyes drifting toward the ceiling."I want to go back to my mother... attend and graduate from the Academy. Then open a small restaurant."
"A restaurant..." Lior repeated under his breath, voice distant.
"That's a lovely dream."
After a moment, Fenric returned the question."And you, Lior? Do you have a dream?"
Lior turned to him, a quiet look in his eyes. A smile remained, but it no longer reached them.
Silently, he shook his head.
Fenric didn't see the tear that slid down his cheek.
"I don't," Lior said, returning his gaze to the falling snow outside the window."You've seen what happens when I try to."
"Every time... my dreams only end up hurting me more."
The words were spoken too softly to wake someone—but loud enough to keep them from sleeping.
Silence settled over the room.
Fenric lay still, pretending to sleep.
Lior stayed up, watching snowflakes drift past the glass.
He closed his eyes.
He remembered.
The beautiful woman. Her promises. The warmth of candlelight, and the words she'd once whispered:
"Forever, Lorenzo."
Another pair of tears fell onto the blankets.
---
Dawn broke over the horizon.
Another day. The same routine for Lior.
He returned from his morning run, feet raw and bleeding from the cold. Snow clung to his ankles. Each breath felt like shards of ice tearing into his lungs.
Back at the cottage, he looked around.
Fenric was gone.
"Out again?"
Lior had noticed his strange behavior ever since they came back from the forest.
Fenric had started slipping away on his own. He'd vanish for the whole day and return only after dark.
Lior had asked if something was wrong.
The boy always said no.
He was lying.
Lior knew it.
He wanted to press further, but restrained himself. Fenric wore his emotions like armor—his sadness, his fear, the quiet anger aimed at Lior.
And Lior understood.
He didn't blame him.
After all, Fenric ended up here because of Lior. Because of his family.
Maybe the boy just needed space.
"Sometimes... being alone can be a good thing."
Without further thought, Lior stepped inside the cottage.
Moments later, he returned—holding a small, thin book with paper covers.
He sat beneath the old tree, glancing down at the title:
"Ignition" — The First Spark of a Core.
It was a military manual—used by both sides in the war. A desperate attempt to awaken power in conscripted civilians.
Lior exhaled. "Here goes nothing."
He closed his eyes and began.
Calm. Precise.
He slowed his breath, visualized the spiral of energy inside—the Arcanum Spiral.
His body responded.
A flicker of heat in his chest. A flash of color behind his closed eyes.
The heat surged, growing unbearable. Wild. It pressed against his bones, seeking release.
He stayed calm, guiding it.
Each current ran from his limbs, pooling into his core. Each required careful navigation. Each demanded total focus.
And all the while, the pain intensified.
Time slipped.
An hour—an eternity—passed.
The heat became too much. Like being burned alive from within.
He broke.
Gasping for air, sweat dripping down his face, Lior slumped back against the bark.
He stared at his trembling hands.
"Fuck..."
He leaned his head back, eyes half-closed.
"I failed again."
---
On the outskirts of Virelith, three figures stood among snow and rubble.
Two wore deep blue robes. The third, a boy in a tattered military uniform far too large for him.
One of the robed men scoffed."The Ghost of Solmira is just some Dormant kid?"
"That's right," the boy in rags replied.
"Good," the man said, lips curling into a wicked grin. "Makes our job easier."
"And still... how did he kill so many? That brutally?" the other murmured, both curious and disturbed.
"It doesn't matter. He won't last against real mages," his partner said flatly.
"Besides—we have our little friend to bring him right to us." He nodded toward the boy.
"Isn't that right, Fenric?"
Fenric didn't respond.
He only nodded