The village disappeared behind him like a fading dream.

  Lusei walked in silence, the black cloak hugging his shoulders, the forest breathing around him. The sky above was painted in soft pastels — early morning light filtering through high clouds, birds calling to one another in lazy tones. The wind was gentle, brushing against his hood like a farewell.

  He didn’t look back.

  Not out of pride, or coldness — but because he knew if he turned around, he might not leave.

  Each step forward was heavier than the last, not with fatigue, but with finality. This was no longer a retreat from danger. It was a step into something unknown — and he was walking it alone.

  A day passed.

  Then another.

  Seven days in total lay between him and Elaren, the capital city. He hadn’t expected the journey to be easy — and it wasn’t — but something about his body surprised him. No blisters. No exhaustion thick enough to stop him. His legs should’ve given out. His back should’ve ached. But it didn’t.

  Maybe it was Celeste’s power lingering beneath the surface — mending him quietly, pushing him forward.

  Or maybe he was changing.

  The forest grew denser the farther east he traveled. The trail narrowed, splitting into uneven branches where wagons had passed and strayed. Birds scattered overhead. Shadows danced between the trees.

  Then, as he rounded a bend near a shallow hill, he saw movement ahead.

  A caravan.

  Two wagons. Eight figures. All wearing dark, coordinated clothing — deep gray with maroon linings. Their armor was sleek and reinforced in the right places: forearms, chests, knees. Mercenary-style. Quick to move, but ready for a fight. They didn’t carry banners, but they didn’t look like travelers either.

  One of them stepped forward from the front wagon — a man with short white hair swept back, pale skin with a faint scar running from the side of his brow to his jaw. His eyes were striking — one golden, one an unnatural shade of violet. He wore a high-collared cloak beneath a slim cuirass, a blade at his hip and gloves on both hands, though he didn’t look like he needed them.

  He smiled as Lusei approached.

  “Greetings, traveler,” the man said warmly, voice calm but practiced. “Didn’t expect to see anyone this deep in the path alone. You heading east?”

  Lusei slowed his pace, cautious. “Yeah. Elaren.”

  The man nodded, still smiling. “As fate would have it, so are we. Name’s Veyren. These fine folks behind me are part of my crew — we’re traders of sorts. Dangerous roads these days. You’re welcome to ride with us if you’d like.”

  Lusei glanced past him. Some of Veyren’s “crew” were smirking. Others whispered to each other without even trying to hide it. One leaned casually against the wagon with his hand hovering near his sword hilt, watching Lusei like a hawk.

  Something wasn’t right.

  Lusei gave a polite smile. “I appreciate the offer… but I’m used to traveling alone.”

  “Nonsense,” Veyren said, stepping a little closer. “It’s a long, dull road. We could use the company. Safer, too.”

  “Still,” Lusei replied, eyes steady, “I’m good on my own. Thank you.”

  He moved to step past them.

  Veyren’s smile faded.

  “That’s not going to happen, friend.”

  Lusei froze.

  Veyren’s hand slipped casually to his sword, drawing it just enough for the steel to gleam.

  “We’re short on quota,” he said smoothly.

  Lusei’s brow furrowed. “Quota?”

  Veyren tilted his head, as if surprised Lusei hadn’t caught on. “Slaves. Flesh trade’s booming in Draven. We’re just a collection crew — and lucky us, you make our eighth.”

  Lusei’s face darkened. “…Slavery. That’s a thing here.”

  Veyren grinned. “Where there’s coin, there’s business.”

  He waved lazily at one of his men.

  “Bind him.”

  A stocky brute with thick arms and a crooked grin walked toward Lusei with shackles in hand — iron and rune-marked, clearly used often.

  Lusei didn’t move. Just watched him approach.

  The man chuckled. “You’ll fetch a good price, boy.”

  He got close.

  Too close.

  Lusei met his gaze, cold and still.

  “Big mistake.”

  His right arm lit up in a flash of silver-white light — the moonmark pulsing to life.

  Before the man could react, Lusei’s fist slammed into his chest like a battering ram.

  CRACK.

  The man flew backwards, crashing into the front of the cart with a bone-snapping thud. Wood splintered. The cart rocked.

  Silence.

  Lusei lowered his glowing hand, eyes burning with calm fury.

  Then he looked at Veyren.

  “Next?”

  Veyren’s eyes narrowed as he looked at the crewman Lusei had just launched into the cart — the man wasn’t moving.

  The smile vanished.

  His voice snapped like a whip. “Don’t hold back! The boy’s an Enchanter — he’ll fetch ten times the price if you bring him in breathing.”

  Then he raised his blade and shouted, “Subdue him! Now!”

  The rest of his crew moved instantly — a pack of wolves pouncing all at once. Four Bladesworn rushed Lusei from different angles, their weapons drawn, footsteps synchronized.

  Lusei dropped into a defensive stance, breathing steady, eyes locked forward.

  Then he felt it.

  Heat.

  His head snapped toward the rear of the caravan — just in time to see a cloaked figure step out from behind a cart, hand raised.

  A ball of fire surged to life in the figure’s palm, glowing bright red against the shadows of the trees.

  A spellcaster.

  Lusei’s eyes lit up — not with fear, but fascination.

  Then the fireball was already in the air.

  He dove sideways, the blast narrowly missing him and slamming into the dirt trail with a fiery explosion. Smoke and debris kicked up, but he rolled through it, coming up to his feet with a skid.

  “Interesting,” he muttered.

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  But no time to think.

  Two Bladesworn came at him from the front — one swinging low with a curved blade, the other lunging for his side with a dagger meant for vital spots.

  Lusei twisted.

  The dagger missed his ribs by inches.

  He grabbed the attacker’s wrist mid-motion, pivoted, and used the man’s momentum to hurl him into the other oncoming attacker. Both crashed to the ground in a heap.

  A third crew member closed in from behind.

  Lusei spun, parrying a heavy strike with his forearm as silver-white light surged from his tattooed arm — the mark reacting on instinct.

  Sparks flew.

  The warrior pushed harder, muscles bulging as he tried to overpower him.

  But Lusei leaned in close and whispered, “You’re not fast enough.”

  He ducked low, slipped inside the warrior’s stance, and drove a glowing elbow into the man’s abdomen. The impact cracked ribs — the man dropped instantly.

  Another fireball whizzed past his shoulder — too close this time. He looked back.

  The hooded caster had moved closer, both hands now channeling heat.

  Lusei narrowed his eyes.

  You’re next.

  But the fourth Bladesworn was already leaping from above — having used the cart as a springboard, sword raised high for a two-handed crushing strike.

  Lusei reacted on instinct.

  His hand flew up — moonlight gathered into a disc-shaped shield just in time to absorb the blow.

  The force still sent him sliding back across the dirt, boots dragging trenches, but the barrier held.

  He dispelled it with a flick, then countered.

  His fist glowed, tracing a silver arc as he stepped in and launched a straight punch into the airborn attacker’s chest — the warrior’s breath caught mid-shout as he was launched backward into a tree.

  Crash.

  Branches shattered.

  He didn’t get back up.

  Lusei exhaled, a line of blood trailing from his lip where a stray blade had grazed him earlier.

  Three down. One staggered. One with a shattered chest. Two more readying weapons again.

  And a mage.

  The air shimmered with tension.

  Then Lusei cracked his neck and looked at the cloaked spellcaster.

  “Your turn.”

  Lusei surged forward, boots hammering the dirt as he closed the distance between him and the cloaked spellcaster.

  But before he could reach him—

  A faint smirk slipped from beneath the hood.

  Not good.

  The ground beneath Lusei shimmered — glowing red veins like cracks on molten glass. Heat surged upward.

  BOOM.

  An explosion tore through the trail. Fire and ash erupted in a burst of smoke and burning debris.

  Lusei barely leapt back in time, arms raised as a burst of silver energy shielded his torso. He hit the ground, rolled, and coughed violently through the haze of smoke, embers swirling around him.

  “Damn,” he muttered, wiping soot from his cheek. “That caught me off guard.”

  The cloaked figure’s voice slithered through the clearing, calm and confident.

  “You didn’t really think I only had one spell, did you?”

  Lusei pushed himself up, his eyes narrowing.

  “That’s on me. But don’t worry…”

  He cracked his knuckles, the silver aura returning around his arms.

  “…I learn fast.”

  This time, he didn’t charge head-on.

  Instead, he raised both arms and whispered under his breath.

  The moon tattoo across his forearm pulsed — not bright, but focused. The silver aura thinned, then expanded — and vanished.

  To the spellcaster, it looked like Lusei had disappeared into the smoke.

  “Where—?”

  A faint breeze swept past the caster’s ear.

  Then another.

  A blur darted just at the edge of his vision.

  He spun to fire another blast—

  But nothing.

  Then—a whisper behind him.

  “Moonlight Style: Echo Step.”

  The caster turned sharply — too late.

  Lusei was already there.

  Not in front.

  Above.

  Descending like a silver comet, fist first.

  The spellcaster raised a fiery ward—

  But Lusei’s fist, wrapped in a thin crescent of glowing magic, broke through like glass.

  CRACK.

  The caster’s barrier shattered with a shriek of magic — the follow-up strike slammed into his chest, launching him into the dirt with enough force to carve a small crater.

  He didn’t get up.

  Lusei landed lightly, brushing ash off his shoulder. “Thanks for the warm-up.”

  The remaining crew members stared in horror.

  Then came a voice — rough, sharp, and boiling with fury.

  “Enough.”

  Veyren stepped forward, slow and deliberate.

  He sheathed the sword in his left hand — then pulled it back out in one fluid motion, letting the light catch on the dark steel. His right arm, now ungloved, pulsed with a shadowy aura — black veins crawling up to his shoulder like smoke under skin.

  Lusei’s expression shifted.

  That arm… that aura. That’s not normal magic.

  A battle mage?

  The elder’s voice echoed in his mind:

  “Some wield both — spell and sword. Dangerous. Rare. Battle mages blend force with fury. They don’t just cast. They destroy.”

  Veyren pointed his sword at Lusei, the blade humming with dark energy.

  “You’ve cost me money,” he said, voice low. “Men. Patience.”

  He smirked. “Time to even the debt.”

  Lusei cracked his neck, silver light curling from his arm.

  “Always ready.”

  They moved at once.

  Veyren’s blade came in with terrifying speed — faster than a normal strike. Augmented.

  Lusei ducked under it, twisted, and lashed out with a moonlit strike aimed for the ribs.

  Veyren blocked it with his shadow-arm, absorbing the blow — then countered with a backhand slash that Lusei barely dodged, the edge grazing his cloak.

  Lusei kicked off a rock, flipped backward, and raised both hands — crescent projectiles formed instantly and launched like bolts of light.

  Veyren raised his arm — dark aura surged outward in a shield-like burst that deflected the strikes, scattering them like sparks.

  Then he retaliated.

  “Nightbrand: Void Lash.”

  The air tore open as a whip of shadow lashed toward Lusei.

  Lusei sidestepped the first — but the second lash wrapped around his leg.

  “Gotcha.”

  He was yanked forward — Veyren spun and drove a knee into his gut, then slammed his sword down for a killing blow.

  CLANG.

  Lusei blocked it just in time — silver light flaring across his arm like a flash of moonlight.

  Breath ragged, Lusei jumped back, skidding across the dirt.

  He was strong. And fast. And that magic… it wasn’t just dark — it was unstable.

  Lusei smirked through the pain.

  “Alright,” he said. "You got me there."

  The two clashed again.

  Lusei struck first — a sweeping roundhouse laced with silver light. Veyren parried with the flat of his blade, stepped in, and slammed his shoulder into Lusei’s chest.

  Lusei stumbled back, barely keeping his footing.

  Veyren didn’t let up.

  He moved like a man who had fought real battles — not duels, not training drills. Real wars.

  Each swing of his blade came with punishing weight, every move paired with footwork that kept him on the offensive.

  Lusei ducked a wide arc and retaliated with a palm strike aimed at Veyren’s side — but the battle mage twisted, caught Lusei’s wrist, and drove an elbow into his ribs.

  Crack.

  Lusei’s breath hitched. Pain bloomed through his side.

  “You're fast, I’ll give you that,” Veyren said with a sneer, pressing forward. “But speed alone doesn't win fights.”

  He slashed. Lusei blocked with both forearms, silver sparks flying.

  “But you’re new,” Veyren continued, circling like a wolf. “You’ve got power, but no idea how to wield it. You’re just swinging moonlight around and praying it lands.”

  Lusei gritted his teeth and charged again — low, fast, feinting left before lunging with a punch to the gut.

  Veyren dropped his stance and twisted — letting the blow graze him — then pivoted into a brutal kick that caught Lusei in the thigh and knocked him off-balance.

  Before Lusei could recover—

  Veyren’s right hand glowed with sick, shadowy energy.

  “Nightbrand: Spite Spiral.”

  The aura whipped around him like a black cyclone — and then burst outward in a spiral of jagged, shadow-forged blades.

  Lusei's eyes widened.

  Too close. Too fast.

  One of the dark blades slashed across his side — deep. The burn of it was different than fire or steel. It was cold. Like something had been taken from him with the cut.

  He hit the ground hard, dirt in his teeth, blood in his mouth.

  Veyren walked slowly toward him, his blade dragging in the dirt behind him.

  “See?” he said. “That’s the problem with new blood. You think power makes you untouchable.”

  Lusei tried to rise, but his legs shook beneath him.

  “You’re not untouchable. You’re just young.”

  Veyren stood over him now, blade hovering inches from Lusei’s chest.

  His voice turned sharp, mocking. “You’re just another lost brat in a world that eats the weak.”

  Lusei’s head hung low, blood dripping from his lip.

  But his hand was still clenched.

  And the mark on his arm… was still glowing.

  Faintly.

  Lusei’s bloodied hand dug into the dirt. His fingers trembled.

  His breath was shallow. Everything hurt. Veyren’s blade hovered above him like a final judgment.

  And then—

  Time slowed again.

  Not just slowed — halted.

  The battlefield, the smoke, the shouts — all vanished into silence.

  He was floating once more in that endless silver void. The same place he’d seen before.

  But this time, Celeste was already standing there.

  She didn’t smile.

  She watched him — expression calm, but not soft. Her silver eyes bore into him like moonlight cutting through fog.

  “You did it again,” she said, her voice echoing like wind through stone. “You reached me.”

  Lusei opened his mouth to speak — but as before, no sound came. Just breath. Just urgency.

  Celeste stepped forward, each footfall causing ripples through the silver mist below.

  “But this time… it’s not answers you seek. It’s power.”

  She didn’t raise her voice, but her tone sharpened like a blade.

  “You want strength because you're afraid. Because you're bleeding. Because you're about to lose.”

  She stopped inches from him, her gaze locked to his.

  “You're not ready for the truth yet, Lusei. But you’re still mine.”

  He swallowed, chest tight.

  Celeste raised her hand — and from the tip of her index finger, another orb of silver-white light emerged, glowing brighter than the last.

  “This,” she said softly, “is another fragment. Of me. Of what I was.”

  She brought the marble to his forehead — just like before.

  “This gift is not for vengeance,” she whispered. “Not for pride. Use it well.”

  Her voice dropped to a breath.

  “And only in good.”

  Then her eyes narrowed, and her voice grew firm — not cruel, but commanding.

  “Now stand, my Moonborne.”

  The light surged.

  —

  Back in reality—

  Veyren blinked as silver wind whipped past him.

  “What the hell—”

  Lusei’s body lit up in a sudden, blinding pulse.

  BOOM.

  An aura shockwave erupted from his chest — white and silver energy blasting outward like a moonburst at midnight.

  Veyren was thrown backward, crashing into the dirt and tumbling across the ground. His sword skittered from his hand.

  He growled, looking up—

  And froze.

  Lusei stood tall.

  His body was no longer trembling.

  It was glowing.

  From head to toe, silver light pulsed along his skin in slow, rhythmic waves — like breath, like a heartbeat. His schoolboy face was shadowed beneath his hood, but his eyes burned through — twin orbs of silver fire, cold and focused.

  The crescent tattoo on his right arm wasn’t just glowing — it was alive, arcs of magic dancing up to his shoulder like flowing ink, swirling with constellations and thorns.

  His cloak fluttered behind him in the breeze, pushed by his own energy.

  He didn’t speak for a moment.

  Then he raised his head.

  His voice was low, even — but laced with weight, as if the world itself paused to hear it.

  “First Phase: New Moon.”

  Lusei’s entire presence shifted.

  No warmth.

  No hesitation.

  Just silence and power.

  And Veyren, for the first time, felt something tighten in his chest.

  Fear.