"The young witch speaks from concern, not doubt, Lady Morgana. In my experience, when a warrior fails to arrive at the appointed hour, the wise commander prepares for complications."

Rena looked at him, pursing her lips, her brows knit together, as if telling him that she didn't need his help.

Since her stay in the Coven's mansion and the hard training, she had changed a lot, and one thing she had come to realize was that no one would be by your side when you need them the most. Surviving as a lone wolf was the best way.

The only people she cared about now are the two friends from her village, Taeryn and Baren, and she was worried that Baren hadn't returned when he was supposed to.

And Jaenor will always have a place in her heart, as she cherished her memories with him.

As their carriage passed between the towering Guardians, Rena felt the fundamental shift in the air itself.

Here, closer to the Silverspire's heart, Origin moved in currents so dense they seemed almost visible. The gas lamps that lined the ceremonial approach burned with unusual intensity, their flames taking on the argent hue that marked places where the barriers between the physical realms grew thin.

The silverspire wasn't just a simple structure, and it served the purpose of gathering the Origin energy. The spire in the middle of this colosseum was a conduit for it.

"Tell me again why the Mother Witch requested our presence," Rena said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Morgana's eyes held depths that seemed to reflect the entire night sky—stars swirling quietly in the black oceans of her gaze.

"Well, it's simple," she said. "You are the Chosen Ones."

Silence followed, heavy and pulsing.

"I've waited to tell you everything—about this world, the war that scars it, and your place in that war. I've held it back not out of cruelty, but because truth is a weapon, and weapons must be wielded when one is ready."

"And you were not ready to hear it when we first met. So I held back, but now is the time. After Baren returns, I will show you what we are up against and how important your role is in the war against the dark legions."

Her voice softened, but only slightly, seeing the serious expressions on both of their faces. Taeryn and Rena had somewhat come to the realization that they have a heavy responsibility on their shoulders, and it was also one of their driving forces behind their hardcore training.

Power to change the world was a rare gift—and most would never even come close to it.

"You are the last of the Chosen. And you don't yet understand what that means."

The firelight flickered across their uncertain faces.

"There are very few in this broken world who still believe the Chosen can change its course. Even fewer who've lived long enough to see what happens when they fail." She paused, letting the weight of that linger.

"But I believe. And you must believe. Because everything is moving now. And time is no longer on our side."

The carriage lurched to a halt as they reached the Silverspire's entrance.

Through the windows, Rena could see robed figures emerging from the structure's shadowed entrances, their faces hidden beneath cowls that seemed to drink in the surrounding light. Each moved with the natural grace of those who had surrendered their individual will to serve as conduits for Origin's infinite wisdom.

Darian was the first to disembark, his armored form cutting an imposing figure as his golden aura blazed in response to the concentrated power surrounding them. He extended a gauntleted hand to assist the ladies from their conveyance.

The entrance hall of the Silverspire defied mortal comprehension, its vaulted ceiling disappearing into shadows that seemed to contain their own starlight. Columns of marble spiraled upward in circular and curvy patterns, their surfaces alive with veins of liquid silver that pulsed in rhythm with the great spire above.

The very air thrummed with such concentrated essence that Rena felt.

"Welcome, children of the ancient compact."

The voice that greeted them carried the crystalline clarity of mountain streams and winter wind. From the hall's ethereal depths emerged a figure that seemed carved from moonlight itself—Synnove Taelia, whose very presence caused the air to freeze in place.

She stood nearly six feet in height, her platinum hair cascading like spun silver down shoulders draped in robes of deepest indigo. Her eyes held the color of polished steel, yet within their depths moved currents of Origin so refined they appeared as liquid starlight. Her skin bore the translucent quality of one who had transcended the crude boundaries between flesh and essence, while her form spoke of classical perfection—the idealized proportions that Origin itself preferred when shaping its most devoted servants.

"Lady Synnove," Morgana inclined her head with the precise degree of respect due to one of the Mother Supreme's direct instruments.

"How have you been?"

Synnove's smile held warmth that somehow coexisted with absolute authority.

"I'm well, as you can see."

"And how fare our young inheritors of the First Compact?"

Her gaze settled first upon Taeryn, whose amber aura flickered uncertainly under such scrutiny.

"Such a strong young man," she purred, seeing him, a glint of amusement shown in her eyes.

Then to Rena, whose raw potential caused the very air around her to shimmer.

"And what do we have here, a five-star talent, hmm," she said with an interesting gaze.

A subtle glance passed between Synnove and Morgana—a communication conducted through the minute fluctuations in their Origin-networks that lesser practitioners could barely perceive.

"Come," Synnove gestured toward a corridor that seemed to stretch beyond the hall's physical boundaries.

"The Mother Supreme awaits, though she walks the borderlands between patience and action."

They followed her through passages lined with portraits of previous wielders—women whose eyes held the weight of centuries.

The hallway terminated at a platform of living stone, its surface inscribed with symbols that predated human civilization.

As they stepped upon it, the platform responded to Synnove's will, carrying them upward through the Silverspire's countless floors with the smooth inevitability of rising smoke.