Calling it a stronghold barely did it justice. Though smaller than the great city of Hepestus, this was no mere outpost—it was a true city in its own right. It stood proud, carved into the surrounding hills, fortified and alive, home to one of Hepestus' most powerful clans: the Suburana.
Its tall gates boasted defenses rivaling those of Hepestus itself. Now that he had reached the rank of Orange-Core, Rifi could feel the mana pulsing through the walls—intricate channels etched into the stone, quietly humming with magical energy.
It would be hard for any mage to breach these walls with brute force, he thought with no small amount of admiration.
And he was right. When fully channeled, these walls could withstand even the destructive might of an Orange-Core battlemage. But as always, walls only stood as long as the mages defending them held the line. And if those defenders broke, no fortification could hold forever. Still, the cost of assaulting this place would be immense.
Unlike the grim atmosphere of the outpost they'd left behind, the streets here were bustling. The voices of merchants rose above the crowd, hawking goods and fresh supplies. Children ran between stone archways, laughing, while legionaries strode through in polished armor, some nodding at familiar faces.
It was in this tide of activity that they encountered him.
"Oh, if it isn't our faithful servant Severus," came a voice dripping with mockery.
A tall young man stepped into their path, his crimson-lined cloak brushing against his boots. Varek. His features were handsome in the most arrogant way possible—smirking lips, half-lidded eyes, the smug confidence of someone who believed the world owed him deference.
"Don't tell me," Varek went on, "the Sobriana cowards need our help again?"
Severus's face tightened, his steps slowing but not halting. "Greetings, Lord Varek," he said evenly. "I'm afraid we don't have time for idle talk. We're on official business."
He moved to step around Varek, but the man side-stepped with him.
"Official business?" Varek repeated, eyes flicking to Rifi. "Let me guess. Another stray you picked up from the mud?"
His gaze lingered on Rifi, trying to provoke something. But Rifi didn't react. He'd seen men like this too many times. Loud mouths, soft hearts.
"You're fortunate," Varek added, taking a step back, "that the clan head summoned me. Otherwise, I'd teach both you and your mute companion a lesson in manners."
Severus gave a sharp nod and pushed forward. Rifi followed, letting the encounter wash off him like rain from stone.
Once they were clear, Severus exhaled. "My apologies, Battlemage Rifi. I hope you took no offense."
Rifi glanced at him. "None taken."
Some of the tension visibly left Severus's shoulders. But the silence between them afterward was heavy. The memory of Varek's words lingered.
Humanity is always the same, Rifi thought bitterly. The strong abuse, the weak endure.
He wasn't a man easily moved, but moments like this reminded him why he held so little love for the world. If not for the promise he had made—to his sister, long ago—he doubted he'd even be walking among the living now.
But there was no time for brooding. The stronghold demanded attention.
Unlike Hepestus, with its grand halls and layered districts, the Suburana city was compact and militarized. Roads twisted through rows of buildings reinforced with beastbone and hardened spells. Barracks, forges, and armories dominated the skyline. It was clear: this was a city made for war, not comfort.
They passed a training ground where youths sparred with controlled ferocity. An older mage barked instructions, pausing only to correct poor form with a swift jab of his staff. Further down, soldiers took meals in open-air mess halls, their conversations low and focused. Most gave Rifi only a brief glance.
"The Suburana are nothing if not orderly," Rifi remarked, watching a patrol pass by in perfect formation.
Severus nodded. "Discipline means survival. Every one of us knows our place. We don't have the luxury of chaos."
"Like the Sobriana?" Rifi asked, his voice quiet but pointed, recalling Varek's sneer.
Severus didn't respond.
They turned a final corner and approached a modest structure nestled against the inner walls. Compared to the grand command towers they had passed, this building was understated. Yet there was no mistaking its importance. The air around it thrummed with magic, dense and coiled.
"Selmak resides here?" Rifi asked.
Severus nodded. "The last Orange-Core of our main clan. He values silence over ceremony."
Two guards stood before the door, unmoving. One stepped forward as they approached, his eyes briefly assessing Rifi.
"You're expected," he said, and stepped aside.
Severus pushed open the door.
"Let's not keep him waiting."
They entered. The air was heavier here—saturated with the subtle pressure of something thick and unyielding, the lingering imprint of high-tier mana. Every breath carried the scent of parchment, old mana residue, and something faintly metallic—like storm-touched stone. The chamber's stone walls were lined with relics of campaigns long past: worn banners, preserved beast horns, and shelves of scrolls aged to yellow. At the far end sat an old man whose presence filled the space far more than his wiry frame should allow.
Selmak looked up from a scroll he had been reviewing, eyes narrowing slightly as he acknowledged them. "Severus," he said, voice calm but edged with an expectant note. Then his gaze shifted to Rifi. "And you must be the lost one."
Rifi stepped forward, posture straight. "Rifi."
Selmak leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping the wood in a quiet rhythm. "A name unfamiliar in this stronghold. I'm told you seek to rejoin the war effort among our ranks. But why should we trust you?"
Severus stepped in, voice steady. "My father is willing to vouch for Battlemage Rifi. He brought a group of Hepestus refugees safely through the lines of Esquiliana forces. It was no small feat."
Selmak's eyes narrowed. "Perhaps. But would there be any refugees at all if not for betrayal within our own ranks? If memory serves, one of Battlemage Rifi's own team helped bring about the city's fall. What assurance do we have that he is not another knife in our back?"
Rifi's jaw clenched. "Long before Kaelin turned on the city, he put a blade through me." He pulled off his upper tunic in one swift motion, revealing a jagged, pale scar on his chest, right where his heart had been pierced. "This was his gift to me."
Selmak's gaze lingered on the wound but remained impassive. "Scars can be bought. Faked. Inflicted in a dozen ways."
Rifi let out a quiet breath. "Then see for yourself. Circulate your mana through me."
The room went still.
Selmak blinked once. "You would allow me that?"
Allowing another mage to thread their mana through your body was a sign of profound trust—or desperation. If Selmak wished, he could rupture Rifi's core where he stood.
Rifi simply said, "I'm tired of all these charades."
They stared at each other, long and silent.
Finally, Selmak nodded. "Very well."
Severus shifted, uncertain, but didn't speak. Selmak rose from his seat, his movements slow but purposeful. He approached Rifi, still cautious—few would be so bold as to offer up their defenses to a stranger.
The elder mage lifted his hand, his mana blooming like a quiet sunrise. A muted orange glow suffused the room, not oppressive, but deep and resonant. His eyes gleamed as he reached forward, allowing his mana to sink into Rifi's body.
Rifi didn't flinch.
Selmak's magic roamed carefully, tracing the path of injury. When it reached the scar, it paused—and pulsed. The wound was deep, stretching from the back to the front, directly through the heart. Selmak could feel where the blade had torn through and what it had left in its wake. It wasn't a wound one walked away from easily.
He pulled back with a sharp breath. "How… how are you alive?"
Severus, who had been still as stone, looked between the two in confusion.
Rifi gave a humorless smile. "I think death sees me as a pest—keeps refusing to take me."
There was a beat of silence—then, to Severus's shock, Selmak let out a dry, genuine laugh.
"You've lived through more scars than most see in a lifetime," he said, shaking his head. "Either death fears you… or it's saving you for something worse."
He turned to Severus. "You've done your part. Return to your father with my thanks—and tell him I'll see the matter of his reward seen to."
Severus saluted and bowed, stealing one last glance at Rifi before exiting.
Selmak turned back to Rifi. "Come. It's time you saw the heart of this place."
The corridors that followed were narrow but rich in history. Carvings of Suburana victories adorned the walls—stone murals depicting ancient battles, mages weaving legendary spells, warriors astride beasts long extinct. The deeper they walked, the more the very air shimmered, thick with the ambient hum of old magic embedded in the stone.
"Everything here was built with intent," Selmak said as they walked. "Defense. History. Memory. The stronghold remembers those who earned their place."
Rifi didn't reply. But he understood.
At last, they reached the grand chamber.
The Matriarch sat high upon a raised dais, cloaked in layered robes of black and gold that shimmered faintly with protective enchantments. Her yellow eyes—bright, sharp, and completely unreadable—met them with cool interest. To the right side of the chamber, a short distance away from the dais, stood members of the City Lord's delegation. Their cloaks were marked with sigils of rank and house, and they stood apart from the clan leadership, observing quietly. Rifi barely caught a glimpse of their faces as he bowed low.
Selmak stepped forward. "Matriarch, I present to you Battlemage Rifi, a true Hepestus Legionary."
Her gaze locked onto Rifi, and a slow smile curved her lips. "Such bold words, coming from Selmak of all people. You must have truly charmed him. Perhaps you intend to charm your way into my heart as well?" She winked.
Rifi blinked, caught entirely off guard.
Selmak sighed and shook his head. "Our Matriarch is fond of theatrics. You'll get used to it."
She snorted. "You always ruin my fun. Tell me again why I haven't killed you yet?"
A rare smile touched Selmak's face. "Because I'm your only Orange-Core mage, you empty-headed hag. And your older brother."
Their playful banter left Rifi bewildered. But before he could adjust, his instincts screamed—a strike was coming.
In an instant, his lightning mana surged. His body flickered aside, dodging a blur of movement. He spun, poised to counter—
—and froze.
The attacker was a young woman, her eyes brimming with tears even as she continued to throw wild strikes at him.
"Mira," he whispered.
The blows landed—barely a sting to him—but she didn't stop.
"You bastard!" she cried, her fists striking his chest in trembling bursts. "You walked into that storm with him—and then you were gone! Days turned into weeks, and we all feared the worst. I hoped—gods, I hoped—but when we learned Kaelin had betrayed us..." Her voice faltered, her eyes burning into his. "I thought he killed you. Why did it take you so long, you bastard?"
Rifi stood still, letting her fists fall. "I'm sorry, Mira."
The chamber had gone deathly silent.
Selmak chuckled. "Well, to be fair… I don't know any mage who could survive a wound like his. Cut him some slack."
The Matriarch rested her chin on her palm, clearly enjoying the disruption. "Ah, young love forged in fire. Always the loudest reunions. Oh, how I envy such passion—if only I were younger, I'd forge a few more of those myself… preferably with someone half as charming."
Mira froze mid-punch, her face flushing. "Love? With this suicidal lunatic? I'm just giving him what he deserves—for letting us believe he was dead!" She huffed and took a quick step back, wiping her eyes.
Selmak cleared his throat, as he gestured toward the adjecent room, intended for the meetings. "There will be time for catching up. For now, we have matters to discuss. We're stronger by one more Orange-Core. Let's start our meeting."
Still trying to gather herself, Mira shot Rifi a puzzled look.
He gave a faint smile and let the faint orange flicker into his eyes.
Her mouth opened slightly. "But… how?"
"Later," Rifi murmured, guiding her toward the large round table at the center of the chamber. "You deserve the full story. But first—this."
She followed, reluctantly, still dazed.
As Mira and Rifi took their seats, murmurs stirred across the chamber. Toward the right end of the table, one figure sat in uncharacteristic silence.
Varek sat stiffly, his eyes wide with the kind of realization that turned arrogance into dread. Just beside him sat a well-composed man—older, noble in bearing, wearing the distinct insignia of a Red-Core mage. Lord Hastor. His father.
Selmak took his place opposite the Matriarch and gave them a long look. "Ah, Lord Hastor. I trust you've now seen the missing piece of our strength."
Hastor looked like he was about to offer a greeting, but Varek—perhaps out of panic—spoke first.
"We exchanged words earlier, Matriarch," Varek said, his voice overly formal. "I wasn't aware of his standing at the time. Had I known—"
The Matriarch raised a brow, her expression glittering with amusement. "Oh? And what exactly did you say to our new Orange-Core before you knew who he was?"
Varek hesitated. That alone was answer enough.
Rifi gave no reaction—just a calm, silent glance that spoke volumes.
Lord Hastor cleared his throat. "My son can be... impetuous at times. I assure the court it won't happen again."
"How responsible of you," the Matriarch said with a smirk. "Swift apologies are rare in these halls."
"Unity is paramount," Hastor replied smoothly. "Especially now."
Across the table, a tall delegate from the City Lord's party gave a subtle nod. His dark hair was slicked back, his sharp gaze resting on Rifi just long enough to be noticed. Felix. A face from the past
Selmak leaned forward, folding his hands. "Then let us begin. With the return of an Orange-Core, we have much to adjust—new tactics, new responsibilities."
The table quieted. Varek kept his head low. Whether it was shame or calculation, Rifi didn't care.
Let him stew.