CHAPTER 1024: BAD FEELING

Erend lay sprawled across the bed, the sterile white ceiling of the military facility above him catching the faint light of the lamp by his side.

The hum of the ventilation system was steady, almost lulling to his tired body.

After an entire day of drilling soldiers on the manual Adrius and Lysander had compiled about the basic but essential steps for grasping the foundation of Magic, his body finally felt the weight of exhaustion.

It was strange for them and he knew it. Soldiers born in a world that had never known Magic now sitting cross-legged in underground chambers trying to channel forces they couldn’t understand yet.

Their brows furrowed, sweat dripping, frustration thick in the air every time the manual asked them to "feel the currents."

The theory wasn’t difficult at all to understand. The practice, however, was like teaching someone to breathe underwater.

Progress came in small sparks—sometimes literally—but it was progress all the same.

Even Marcus, who at first had seemed the most unstable, had fallen into routine like the others. There was no anomaly on him.

He followed the procedure without any eventful things happening, working through the exercises with a quiet diligence that had surprised Erend and the other supervisors.

Nothing out of place. Nothing alarming.

For days now, everything had looked as though it was finally aligning.

That sense of accomplishment filled him with a warmth he hadn’t felt in a long time.

In the underground training halls, where reinforced walls and protective barriers allowed the recruits to release their clumsy bursts of Magic without collateral damage, they had pushed past early failures.

Each flare of energy, faint glow in the soldiers’ palms, and sometimes uncontrollable burst, was proof that this experiment wasn’t doomed.

With that thought, Erend stretched, closed his eyes, and let a small sigh slip past his lips.

For the first time in a while, things felt... right.

But then it came like a crack through the stillness.

A shadow brushing the edges of his heart.

His brow furrowed. His chest tightened.

He sat up sharply, the sudden shift from comfort to anxious stealing the breath from him.

"What is this?" The thought pressed urgently against his mind. "Is it just me, or is something actually happening?"

His hand ran slowly across his face as he tried to dismiss it.

His thoughts wandered to those dearest to him.

Arty was in another world so she was most likely safe under the watch of a powerful Archmage Sylmira. She wasn’t defenseless. She had grown stronger, and Erend trusted her resilience.

Eccar was with Krono, searching for another Dragonborn. It was a mission far more dangerous and difficult than what Arty experienced. But they were both strong. If danger came for them, they could stand their ground.

So why did this feeling gnaw at him?

"Maybe it’s just me. I’ve been too tense and too worn down. This whole experiment, these soldiers, this responsibility... it’s weighing on me more than I realized."

With deliberate effort, he forced himself back down onto the bed.

He exhaled slowly, trying to sink into calm once more.

The tension in his chest resisted but he pushed it aside.

He reached over, grabbed his phone, and dialed the familiar number.

When his warm and steady mother’s voice answered on the other side, the edges of that unease dulled.

For a moment, he really felt as though the shadows that pressed at the edge of his awareness were really nothing more than the tricks of a tired mind.

—

Sylmira had decided she would stay close to Arty tonight, the girl’s words and the crystal ball’s recording leave her thoughts uneasy.

She lay her own bedroll in the chamber beside Arty’s room but when the younger one finally drifted into slumber, Sylmira found herself unable to leave.

Instead, she pulled a chair close to the bedside and sat there in silence, her gaze fixed on the girl’s peaceful face.

Arty’s chest rose and fell softly. Her breathing was slow and steady.

She looked calm, almost untouched by the weight of what she had confessed earlier.

But to Sylmira, that calmness felt fragile like glass ready to crack under unseen pressure.

Her fingers curled tight in her lap as her unease filled her.

She had already watched the recording Jan showed her with more times than she wished to admit. Each time the same dread filled her stomach.

The crystal ball had shown Arty staring at her own hands in horror, eyes wide with a terror that didn’t match reality.

There had been nothing wrong with her hands, yet she looked as though she were staring at something monstrous.

That image lingered in Sylmira’s mind like a quiet horror she couldn’t reason away.

Her thoughts darkened further when she remembered the devastation Arty had unleashed afterward.

A whole forest reduced to ruin in an uncontrollable wave of destruction.

Sylmira knew of course that Arty’s power was immense. If Arty truly wanted she was capable of such destruction.

But that was precisely what unsettled her. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Her teachings had been about balance and discipline. The will to command Magic rather than let it command her. But what she saw in the recording looked like Arty had abandoned control altogether and simply let her rage dictate her power.

Sylmira’s breath grew shallow.

"Was it truly her choice? Or is something else worming its way into her mind?"

The thought chilled her. If something was influencing Arty and bending her will, then everything she had taught her might not be enough to protect her.

Or worse, protect others from her.

Her eyes softened despite the tension inside her chest.

Arty murmured faintly in her sleep, turning slightly to the side, her features still innocent in rest.

But Sylmira couldn’t shake what Arty had told her earlier, the words that still echoed in her ears.

She had admitted that she didn’t remember much of what happened, only fragments, only the burning anger, and the desire to kill the boy who had caused trouble for her and her party.

That was what frightened Sylmira most.

Not the memory of destruction or the crystal ball’s recording, but the possibility that Arty’s will was slipping into something darker that wasn’t entirely hers anymore.

She reached out, brushing a strand of hair away from the girl’s forehead. Her lips pressed into a thin line, eyes heavy with both fear and resolve.

"I have to talk to her brother about this."

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