The Heir of the Lost Wings

The Fading Light

Rhaes stood nearby, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his presence almost as cold and unyielding as the stone walls that surrounded them. His gaze never wavered from her, sharp and calculating, as if analyzing every moment she spent hesitating.

"You've had your moment to sit around and wonder what happens next," Rhaes said, his voice low but firm. "Now, I'll tell you. There's a basement here, secret rooms beneath this shop where we hold our meetings. It's safe, secluded. You can clean yourself up there, rest. Tomorrow, we start training."

Saars blinked, processing the cold practicality of his words. She wasn't sure what to expect, but it certainly wasn't this. Rhaes was treating her as though she were an inconvenience, as if he didn't care about her fears. But he wasn't wrong.

She nodded, reluctantly pulling herself off the couch. "And the training... what's that going to involve?"

Rhaes gave her a pointed, almost amused look, as if he couldn't understand why she was even asking. "Everything. Your mind. Your body. Your magic. You think you can fix all of this without being able to survive it? First, we build you up. After that, Rayl will help you with the rest. Now, move. Don't waste any more time."

His words stung, but they were sharp and clear. He wasn't going to coddle her. If she was going to survive whatever was coming, she would have to rise to the occasion.

Later that evening, Saars woke to the soft, unfamiliar murmur of voices. Her head throbbed as she blinked into the dim room, the faint flicker of lantern light casting long shadows along the walls. For a moment, the world around her seemed dreamlike—too surreal to be real. But as her senses slowly returned, her memory came rushing back. The attack. The glowing light. Kas' urgent words.

This is real, Saars reminded herself. It's all real.

She sat up in bed, feeling the weight of her injuries, the soreness in her body a constant reminder of what she had just endured. The blanket was soft, unfamiliar, and she rubbed her eyes, trying to clear the haze of confusion that clouded her mind. She didn't want to face the reality of what had happened, what she had become. But there was no avoiding it.

I'm the heir, she thought. I have to learn how to use magic.

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, wincing at the sharp pain in her side. The room around her was quiet and still. She took a steadying breath, forcing herself to stand. As she walked toward the door, she reminded herself that there was no choice but to face what was to come.

She opened the door and stepped into the quiet hallway. The faint sounds of conversation drifted from the room at the end of the corridor. As she moved closer, she could hear Rhaes' voice, and she hesitated before pushing the door open.

Inside, Rhaes sat at a table, flanked by two men. One was tall with dark hair, his posture straight and commanding, exuding an air of authority that made him impossible to ignore. The other man was younger, with messy brown hair and a sickly, fragile look. His pale skin was drawn tight over his bones, and his eyes were shadowed with exhaustion. Saars immediately noticed the way he clutched the edge of the table, as if it was the only thing keeping him upright.

The man with the dark hair looked up as she entered. He had a sharp, unreadable gaze that swept over her, before his lips curved into a faint, almost reluctant smile. Saars froze for a moment, unsure of why he looked so familiar.

Rhaes nodded toward them both. "This is Zeyd," he said, indicating the sickly man, "and this," he gestured to the other man, the one with the commanding presence, "is someone you're going to need to get used to."