Bakkur’s gemstone pulsed, casting an emerald sheen across the ravaged grand hall. Zandir’s panicked voice, amplified and crystal clear, spilled from the artifact. “—let the support squad die,” the recording finished, followed by Zandir’s frantic panting. The academy's proctor stood motionless, his stare pinning the false prodigy to the flagged stone. The Royal Guard, who had been poised to restrain the 'demon' Tiraz, now shifted, their attention snapping to Zandir. Zandir, still a mangled mess, let out a desperate, animalistic cry. “It’s a trick! He’s lying! He’s always been a lowly merchant, what would he know of truth?” He lunged, a pathetic, clumsy attempt to smash the gem, but a Royal Guard captain, a woman with a braided silver coiffure, moved with a blur of motion, blocking him. “Enough, Zandir,” the proctor said, his tone stripped of past deference. “The evidence is irrefutable. Your cowardly actions, your treasonous intent… it is all here.” He gestured to the glowing stone. Another Royal Guard stepped forward, unfurling a scroll with the golden crest of the Xanaj monarchy. “By decree of the Sun-Throne,” the guard intoned, his voice echoing in the stunned silence, “Zandir of House Xyros is hereby stripped of all Aura Class ranks, titles, and privileges. His personal aura-seal is revoked. He shall be detained and face judgment for high treason.” Zandir’s face contorted in a silent scream as the captain, with a practiced motion, grabbed his wrist. A dull, sickening crack echoed as his aura-seal, a polished sapphire band, was wrenched from his arm. The brilliant, flamboyant aura that had always surrounded Zandir’s form instantly vanished, leaving him looking smaller, paler, utterly devoid of presence. He was just a man. A terrified, broken man. He thrashed, whimpering, as two more guards seized him, pulling his limp body towards the ruined doors. “No! I am the Chosen One! You can’t! I’ll tell my father! My father will—!” His pleas dissolved into choked cries as they dragged him out, his humiliation complete, his life as he knew it utterly annihilated. The proctor surveyed the hall, his gaze lingering on the shattered rift, then settling on Tiraz, whose crimson aura had dwindled to an amber ember. Miyara, still gripping her spear, watched Tiraz with an intensity that burned. “Tiraz,” the older man said, his voice dropping into quiet gravity. “Your actions this night… they defy belief. You saved us all. You saved Xanaj.” He strode towards Tiraz, stopping a respectful distance away. “The Sun-Throne owes you a debt it can never repay. As Headmaster of Oraz, and with the authority of the Royal Council, I offer you Zandir’s former station. You shall be the new Chosen One. All the wealth, the resources, the command… it shall be yours. And with it, the responsibility to lead our defenses against the coming Winter Rift.” Tiraz’s warm smile never wavered. He bowed his head slightly. “Proctor, your generosity is overwhelming. However, I am but a humble support buffer. My place is not in the spotlight, nor do I crave the mantle of leadership.” He glanced at Bakkur, who stood frozen in disbelief. “My only desire is to ensure the safety of Xanaj, and to see good deeds rewarded.” He turned back to the academy elder. “The immense financial stipend and the royal writ that comes with such a position… I would humbly ask that it be transferred to my friend, Bakkur. His bravery, his swift thinking with the audio sphere, saved us from an even greater catastrophe. He has long dreamed of securing a royal writ for his trade, to prove his worth beyond mere coin. This would be a fitting reward.” Bakkur, hearing his name, let out a small, disbelieving gasp. His eyes welled up, his cheeks flushing crimson. “M-me? A royal writ? Tiraz, are you mad?” he stammered, tears now freely streaming down his face. “That’s… that’s everything I’ve ever worked for!” The proctor paused, taken aback by the refusal of command and the detour of wealth. But then, a slow, approving smile spread across his face. “Very well, Tiraz. As you wish. The royal writ shall be prepared for Bakkur by dawn, and the full stipend of the Chosen One will be allocated to his accounts.” Bakkur broke down completely, burying his face in his hands, utterly overcome. “Thank you, Tiraz! Thank you! I—I don’t know what to say!” Tiraz merely chuckled softly, patting the merchant’s shoulder. “Just keep being you, Bakkur. That’s enough.” He then moved through the lingering chaos, his eyes scanning the faces of the remaining support squad members. His gaze found Niravi, who was helping a stunned cadet to their feet. She looked up, unharmed, saved from the behemoth by his silent kinetic veil. Breath returned to his lungs with sudden ease. “Niravi,” he said, his voice calm. She rushed to him, throwing her arms around his waist. Her hug was fierce, unreserved. “Tiraz! I was so scared! Thank you, you were amazing! You really saved us all!” She pulled back slightly, her brow furrowing. “You know, you feel… different. So strong. And… familiar. Like a dream I can’t quite catch.” Tiraz’s smile softened, a pang of bittersweet longing twisting in his chest. He gently ruffled her hair. “Just a decoy doing his job, Niravi. And perhaps you’re just remembering the kindness of strangers.” He held her a moment longer, savoring the warmth, the impossible reality of her living embrace. Later, as attendants carried out the wounded and the proctor issued terse instructions to the Royal Guard, Tiraz stood alone in a corridor where morning light cut through the stone lattice. A shadow detached itself from a nearby archway. “Roshir.” Miyara’s voice was a barely audible rasp, raw with something akin to desperate hope. She moved towards him, her steps slow, deliberate. Her spear was gone, left against a wall somewhere. She stopped inches from him, her hand lifting, pressing against his chest, directly over the jagged, new scar beneath his tunic. The mark, a unique pattern of intersecting lines, throbbed faintly under her palm. Her eyes, usually so guarded, were alight with a terrifying certainty. They searched his face, dissecting his every feature, every nuance of his smile. “It’s impossible. I saw you die. But that mark… and your stance with my spear… and the way you protected her. The way you always protected everyone.” Her voice broke, a single tear tracing a path down her cheek. “Welcome back, Roshir.” Tiraz didn’t deny it. He didn’t confirm it. He simply met her gaze, his warm, unwavering smile the only answer he offered. The sun rose higher, painting the corridor in hues of fiery gold. [New Constellation Unlocked: The Sunderer’s Veil] [Path of the Glass-Heart: Origin of the Rifts. An intelligent master awakens.]

The Gentle Blade