I barely noticed her at first.


    When the masked rescuers ushered us into the fortress courtyard, I was too drained to care who this strange woman was. But when the rescuers’ leader exchanged a look with her—sharp and knowing—I couldn’t help but take notice.


    She stood at the top of the stone steps, framed by flickering torchlight. Her silver hair cascaded down her back like liquid moonlight, glinting faintly with every movement. Her skin was pale—not the soft fairness of someone sheltered, but cold and unblemished, like carved marble. And her eyes, those golden-yellow eyes seemed to burn with a quiet fire, sharp and unyielding.


    She was beautiful—in the way a winter storm is beautiful: distant, fierce, and dangerous.


    “I see you’re still playing the hero,” she said, her voice smooth yet edged like a blade. Her gaze locked onto the masked figure at the head of our rescuers.


    “You’re welcome,” the masked leader replied dryly. His voice was calm, but there was a tension in his stance—like he was waiting for her to strike.


    Andora folded her arms. “You’re lucky you weren’t followed.”


    “I know how to cover a trail,” the man shot back. “I’ve done this before.”


    “Too many times,” she countered. “And one day you’ll pay the price.”


    “Maybe,” the masked leader said, his tone softer now. “But not today.”


    They stood there a moment longer, locked in some silent battle neither of them seemed willing to end. Finally, Andora exhaled through her nose and turned her gaze to us.


    “Well,” she said, her eyes scanning the group, “I see you’ve all managed to stay alive—barely.”


    “We’re grateful,” I said, though my voice felt small.


    “You should be,” she answered, before turning back to the masked figure. “You’ve done your part. Leave them to me now.”


    The masked leader didn’t move. “You know what’s coming,” he said quietly. “Don’t let your pride get in the way.”


    Andora’s expression flickered—something raw beneath her hardened stare—but she quickly masked it.


    “Go,” she said.


    The man hesitated a moment longer, then turned to leave. His gaze lingered on me before he spoke again.


    “Get some rest,” he said. “You''ll need it.”


    His words sounded more like a warning than advice.


    ——


    The fortress swallowed us whole. Cold stone walls stretched high above us, torches flickering faintly against their rough surface. The air was heavy—not with smoke or dust, but with purpose. People moved with quiet urgency, their faces hard and grim. Swords were sharpened, armor polished, orders barked with clipped efficiency.


    This wasn’t just a fortress—it was a war camp.


    We trudged behind Andora, our boots scuffing against the floor. No one spoke. We didn’t need to. The silence gnawed at us, a reminder of how powerless we had been.


    I kept thinking back to the Woods, to the Ondari, to the masked rescuers who had to save us because we couldn’t save ourselves.


    If this was how we fared against magicless enemies, I thought grimly, how would we survive what’s coming?


    The warmth of the chamber barely registered. There was food—warm bread, roasted meat, steaming soup—but no one ate much.


    Pierre stared at his drink like it held the answers we’d been chasing. Gabrielle sat stiffly, barely touching her food. Zeke winced as Amethyst’s palms glowed over the scrapes on his arms, her trembling hands betraying the steady rhythm of her magic.


    “I should’ve done more,” Gabrielle muttered suddenly. “I should’ve—”


    “You couldn’t,” Amethyst cut in softly. “None of us could.”


    “We weren’t chosen because we’re special,” Viktor muttered at last. “We were chosen because we agreed. Because we accepted the Gems’ invitation.”


    No one argued.


    I barely ate at all. My mind kept drifting—to the masked figure’s warning, to Andora’s hard stare, to the bitter truth that we had been spared, not victorious.


    After dinner, if you could call that dinner, we were shown to our chambers. Each of us had a chamber of our own to sleep in.


    A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    I asked a talking bunny where I could clean myself up, and he showed me the way to another chamber.


    The chamber was far warmer than the rest of the fortress. Steam clung to the air, swirling lazily in the torchlight. The stone walls were smoother here, polished and dark like wet obsidian. Carved channels in the floor carried steaming water to a large, sunken pool in the center—a manmade hot spring. The water shimmered faintly, its surface rippling from some unseen current. The air smelled faintly of minerals—earthy and sharp, yet oddly soothing.


    In the pool were Viktor and Pierre.


    Viktor leaned back against the pool''s edge, his arms stretched wide along the stone. His broad shoulders were still red from the cold outside. Pierre sat nearby, half-submerged, eyes closed and head tilted back, like he was soaking in more than just the heat.


    “Czak?” Viktor guessed.


    “Hmmm.” I confirmed. I didn’t have the energy to use my words.


    “The girls are in another chamber,” Viktor said, eyes still closed. “I think they’re glad to get away from us for a bit.”


    “Zeke and Andrew already left,” Pierre added lazily. “Didn’t stick around long.” He cracked one eye open, glancing at Viktor. “Guess we’re the only ones who know how to relax.”


    Viktor chuckled and stood, shaking the water from his arms. “Don’t stay too long,” he warned, stepping out of the pool. “We’ve had enough near-death experiences lately.”


    Pierre gave a lazy wave, clearly planning to ignore the advice. Viktor grabbed his towel and trudged out, leaving me alone with Pierre.


    The silence that followed was awkward—not the tired kind we’d all been living in since our failures, but sharp and uncomfortable. I shifted from foot to foot, feeling out of place.


    Pierre glanced at me briefly, then turned his gaze back to the water. He looked like he wanted to say something, but the words never came. His lips parted once, then closed again. His gaze flickered to me one more time before settling on the pool’s surface.


    I didn’t ask. If Pierre had something to say, he could say it. Knowing him, however brief, it was probably some smug jab I didn’t have the patience for. Not tonight.


    I grabbed a towel, muttered something about getting some sleep, and walked out.


    I couldn’t tell if Pierre had been trying to pick a fight or if he was actually holding back. Either way, I didn’t care. I was too tired—too frustrated—to bother figuring it out.


    Right now, all I wanted was to forget this day ever happened.


    ——


    The next morning, Andora called us to meet her.


    “I am Andora,” she said, her voice crisp yet calm. “But you already know that.” She continued. “You have many questions—and you’ll have your answers in time.”


    Her golden eyes swept across us, lingering briefly on Zeke. He met her stare without flinching, but I noticed the way his shoulders tensed.


    “I was born long before the Gems were,” she explained. “I have seen empires rise and fall. My sister held the mantle Czarina of Senses. She was a great warrior, yet a far greater fool.”


    Her voice faltered slightly, her gaze drifting downward—just for a second. Then her sharp focus returned.


    “I have spent centuries keeping the records of this world—its magic, its victories, and its failures.” She gestured toward a nearby corridor. “I also keep what remains of the Mystic Knights’ weapons. The relics you will one day inherit.”


    Weapons. I felt my stomach twist. I had barely kept my magic under control when I froze that river—what use was a sword in my hands?


    “You were not chosen,” Andora said, her tone firm. “Let’s make that clear.” She paused for a moment, her eyes scanned all ten of us slowly. “You were called, and you answered. Foolishly. You, who without magic, answered the call to save a world full of magic, of things beyond your understanding.”


    That cut deep. Something I never realized. I only answered the call because I was sick of the mundane life I lived on Earth. Besides, I thought, at first, that it was just a dream. Maybe it is a dream. Maybe it’s time for me to wake up soon.


    A thought hit myself.


    I slapped my cheeks, quite stronger than I planned.


    “You’re not dreaming,” Andora shot a stern look at me. “And it is too late for you to back out now.”


    I felt a surge of embarrassment run down my system as I saw Zeke and Amethyst giggled beside.


    “What is so funny?” Andora turned to Zeke and Amethyst sharply.


    Both of them fell silent, but I could hear the restrained laughter. I almost laughed myself.


    “Follow me.” Andora said dryly as she turned away, leading us to yet another chamber.


    ——


    The stone chamber was empty, save for a single table. On the table was a crystal sphere, about the size of a grapefruit. The sphere contains shifting particles inside, like tiny grains of metallic dust suspended in liquid.


    Andora circled the table like a hawk watching prey. “Before I train you, you must understand what you’re capable of. Magic is not a gift—it’s a weapon. A tool. A curse, in the wrong hands.”


    Her gaze hardened. Your magical affinity, that much is obvious. What we need to know is your discipline that shapes your power.”


    “Discipline?” I echoed.


    “Yes,” she answered. “Simply, a specific way your magic manifests. A discipline is not simply a set of spells or abilities,” she continued, opening her palms where glowing glyphs appeared and danced. “It is the foundation of how your magic interacts with the world. It defines what your power excels at and how it naturally flows. Knowing your discipline will help you understand your strengths—and your limits. Understanding these will help you master powers.”


    I felt the tension rise in the room. Amethyst shifted uncomfortably. Viktor’s jaw clenched. Gabrielle’s fingers drummed restlessly against her arm.


    “What if . . . ” Cassandra’s voice wavered. “What if we’re not . . . strong enough?”


    Andora’s expression didn’t soften. “Then you’ll die. And Mysteria with you.”


    The silence stretched too long after that.


    “Now,” Andora said, turning to face us. Her eyes locked onto Zeke.


    “Which of you,” she asked coldly, “is the King of Fire?”


    The air shifted—colder, heavier—like a storm gathering on the horizon.


    Zeke blinked. “Uh . . . me?”


    Andora’s lips pressed into a thin line. Her golden eyes flashed with something sharp—anger, maybe—or worse, expectation.


    “Well, then,” she muttered darkly, “this should be interesting.”


    I didn’t know what unsettled me more—the way she looked at Zeke like he was already a disappointment . . . or the way Zeke didn’t look surprised at all.