The world had burned, and silence screamed in his ears.

Altai’s eyes fluttered open, pain striking him like lightning. His head throbbed; every breath made his chest ache, and his right arm felt useless, broken beneath him. Dust and smoke choked the air, stinging his eyes and throat. Somewhere behind him, the groan of collapsing walls echoed, and the faint smell of burning — of wood, of plaster, of something darker — filled his nose.

He tried to move. His limbs obeyed only reluctantly. He tried to call out, a single word for help, but his throat had betrayed him. Only a hoarse rasp escaped, a whisper swallowed by the ringing in his ears.

Everything around him was ruin. The hall that had once stood proud and ancient lay shattered, debris scattered like the bones of a fallen giant. The sun broke through cracks in the ceiling, illuminating the chaos in jagged shafts.

Then memory surged, unbidden, dragging him backward to hours before, to the morning that seemed so ordinary… until it became anything but.

—

The morning had carried a sense of celebration. Baku’s sun glinted on cobblestones as students spilled across the university courtyard. Altai adjusted the strap of his bag, heart fluttering with the usual nervous energy. He carried more books than necessary — a habit, an armor, a comfort against a world that always seemed one step away from chaos.

Kamal, his roommate, walked beside him, whistling lightly. “Can you believe it? Two hundred years. This place has stood through empires and revolutions, and here we are.”

Altai managed a small smile. “Older than you, anyway.”

Kamal laughed. “Don’t be so serious. Today’s the celebration! Music, food, fireworks… and the treasure.”

Altai rolled his eyes. “It’s just a book and an amulet. Big deal.”

Kamal nudged him. “Not just any amulet. They found it buried under the library wall. Hundreds of years old. They say it carries… power.”

Altai suppressed a shiver of curiosity. He told himself it was nonsense, walked faster, tried to leave the thought behind.

In the courtyard, banners of blue and gold fluttered. Students pressed closer to the center, voices buzzing with excitement. A stage had been raised, and staff carefully positioned the glass case at its center.

The amulet gleamed faintly on crimson cloth, shaped like a majestic falcon. Its wings stretched outward as if ready to take flight, and its sharp head was tilted slightly downward, giving the impression it was watching all who approached. The metal seemed almost alive, catching the sunlight, glowing faintly at the edges — a silent promise of power hidden within. Beside it lay a leather-bound book, edges frayed, covered with cryptic symbols. Students pressed around the case, whispering, speculating, awed by what might have survived for centuries.

Leyla’s voice broke through the crowd: “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Altai turned, heart constricting. She stood a few steps away, sunlight catching her hair like molten copper. Her smile was quiet but full of warmth.

“Y-yes,” he murmured, barely audible. “I… guess so.”

“You should come by later,” she said. “They’ll let students examine it closer after the ceremony.”

“I… maybe,” he stammered, ashamed of the weakness in his voice.

Kamal groaned from behind. “Maybe? That’s all?”

Altai pressed his lips together. Words always failed him when it mattered most.

The morning passed with laughter, music, and food. Students moved in groups, excited and unaware of the danger lurking beyond ordinary life. The book and amulet sat at the center of it all — mysterious, silent, beckoning.

By the afternoon, his friends had gathered near the hall for the formal unveiling. Altai lingered behind, returning a borrowed notebook, helping a professor with minor tasks. He was late — unknowingly giving himself a fragile shield. That delay would be the only reason he survived.

Then the world tore itself apart.

A tremor ran through the floor, followed by a deafening roar. Stone and glass rained down. Heat hit his face. His ears rang; the world turned white, then red with fire. Screams were cut short by the explosion, swallowed by the inferno.

—

Pain brought him back.

Altai gasped, dragging himself upright. His legs shook; his right arm burned with pain, useless and broken. Around him, the hall had vanished into rubble. Flames licked shattered columns and beams. Smoke filled the air, thick and blinding.

And then he saw her.

Leyla.

She lay unmoving beneath a fallen beam, hair spread like a halo. Her eyes stared at nothing. His chest tightened; he forced himself forward, but the world would not let him. His throat refused to work — a strangled, useless rasp escaped as his body trembled.

Altai’s knees gave out. Pain, fear, and grief collided. He collapsed into the rubble, clutching his broken arm and chest, gasping. The ringing in his ears made the world spin; the weight of debris pressed down like a physical force. He could not scream. He could not move freely.

Then voices.

Low, cruel laughter. Steps crunching over shattered stone.

Three figures emerged through the smoke. One carried a rifle slung casually across his shoulder. Another gripped a heavy satchel. The third swung a crowbar as if the destruction were a game.

“…too easy,” one said. “All this for one amulet and a dusty old book.”

“Worth it. The boss will be pleased.”

A laugh, sharp and empty, echoed.

Altai pressed himself flatter against the floor, sweat and blood mixing on his skin. Every instinct screamed to run or fight, but his injuries made him immobile. Every heartbeat threatened to reveal him.

The footsteps drew closer.

Closer.

Closer.

And the shadow fell over him.

—

Memory had been a cruel teacher. The morning rewind had shown him everything: the laughter of friends, the festival’s joy, the amulet, the book — and the reason he survived. He had arrived late, just enough to stay out of the direct path of death. That delay, trivial as it seemed then, had become the fragile thread keeping him tethered to life.

Now, in the charred remains of the university, that thread felt thinner than ever.

Altai’s body ached. His broken right arm burned with pain. Cuts and bruises screamed from every direction. His chest rose and fell unevenly. His mind, however, remained painfully alert — absorbing every sound, every shadow, every whisper of movement in the wreckage.

He dared not cry. He could not scream. All he could do was lie, trembling, heart hammering, eyes wide, listening.

The footsteps moved nearer. Their laughter, casual and mocking, sliced through his chest. Altai’s vision blurred with tears he could not shed, with grief and fear and anger.

And then silence, brief and terrifying, as the shadow fell right beside him.

He had survived the morning, survived the blast, but the night had only just begun.

Dust still hung in the air like a choking veil.

Altai lay half-curled in the rubble, his chest heaving shallowly. His right arm throbbed with pain, every heartbeat sending fire through his ribs. The image of Leyla’s lifeless face burned behind his eyes, more vivid than the chaos around him.

Then—crunch.

Footsteps.

His stomach tightened. A long shadow stretched across the stones toward him, tall and jagged, not because anyone stood directly above him but because of the fractured lights flickering behind the smoke. Altai froze.

Voices drifted closer, steady and male. Not survivors.

“Why all this trouble for a book and an amulet?” one asked, his tone uneasy. “We could have just slipped in at night.”

Another answered, smooth and calm, carrying the weight of command.

“At night, Preservation would already be on alert. They would have traced the whispers and been waiting for us. By striking now, in the open, we buried ourselves in the crowd. Too many faces, too much chaos—the recordings will show nothing but confusion.”

The first voice faltered. “Still… all these lives. Did it have to be this way?”

The leader’s reply came sharp, decisive.

“Their lives were the veil. The distraction. That was their only value here. If hundreds moved inside, no camera could isolate us. Their panic gave us cover. And now they are gone. Nothing more than sheep scattered in the dark.”

Altai’s chest heaved harder. His nails scraped stone. Leyla. His friends. His professors. All erased because some man had decided their only purpose was to “cover” his steps.

And then, from deep inside him, another voice rose, harsher, rawer:

They took everything from us.

He clenched his teeth. His whole body shook, not just with pain but with rage that clawed its way up from his gut. His mind screamed to stay down, to keep still, to survive—but his heart, that wounded thing, beat only for vengeance.

“You…” The word rasped from his throat before he even realized he’d stood. His legs trembled, rubble shifting beneath his feet. He forced himself upright, clutching at the debris to hold steady. His voice cracked again: “You took everything from me!”

The figures turned. Through the smoke, their sunglasses gleamed like shards of midnight glass.

A ripple of laughter. “Pathetic,” one muttered.

Another lifted a hand. His voice cut through the night:

“Aeroias!”

Air twisted into a sphere, compacted and spinning, a howl born in the caster’s palm. Then it shot forward, shrieking through the smoke.

Altai had only a moment to raise his good arm before it slammed into his chest. The world whirled. His back struck rubble. The breath was torn from his lungs. He lay sprawled, coughing blood, ribs screaming.

The men laughed again.

“Not even worth the effort,” one said.

“Shall we finish him, Vlad?” another asked.

The leader—tall, broad-shouldered, his presence heavy even through the haze—lifted his chin. His voice carried like steel:

“Not important. Kill him.”

The henchmen began to advance, their steps deliberate, their shadows long over Altai’s broken form.

Then a new voice cut across the ruins, sharp and scornful:

“You really have fallen that far, Vlad? Attacking children?”

The men halted. Their heads snapped toward the sound. Even Vlad stiffened, surprise flashing across his features before it hardened into anger.

A figure stepped from the shadow of a collapsed wall. His green trench coat swayed against brown trousers, the first two buttons of his white shirt undone. His hair, dark brown, caught the broken light, and his eyes gleamed blue, calm and unyielding. A trace of beard shadowed his jaw.

Vlad’s lip curled. “Marco.”

The newcomer smirked faintly, stopping at the edge of the shattered courtyard. “Still hiding behind others, I see.”

“Kill him!” Vlad barked.

Five henchmen raised their hands in unison. Their chant rang like a ritual:

“Aeroias!”

Spheres of compressed wind howled into existence and shot forward, whirling toward Marco.

He didn’t flinch. His hand rose, palm steady, his voice resonant:

“Aegis!”

A shimmer rippled outward, curving into a translucent dome. The wind spheres slammed against it—one, two, three—detonating in bursts that shook the air. Dust and sparks flew, but when the smoke cleared Marco still stood, untouched within his shield.

He tilted his head, smirk curling. “Sunglasses. At night. Original.”

The henchmen stiffened.

Marco’s hand curled into a fist. His tone sharpened.

“Lithon.”

The ground rumbled. Shards of stone and rubble snapped upward like blades, darting through the air in a storm. They cracked against shins and ribs. Two henchmen fell with groans, their glasses skittering away.

Before the others could react, Marco swept his hand high.

“Luxis!”

A searing flash of white erupted, blinding in the smoky dark. The henchmen staggered, clawing at their eyes.

In that heartbeat, Marco surged forward. Coat whipping behind him, he seized two of the blinded men by their collars, jerked them forward, and smashed their skulls together with a dull crack. They crumpled unconscious to the ground.

Only Vlad remained standing untouched.

The leader raised his palm, his voice low:

“Umbrae.”

Shadows coiled from the rubble like serpents, lashing around Marco’s arms and legs. The Aegis flickered and collapsed. Darkness constricted, binding him tighter.

Altai’s chest knotted. Was it over already?

Marco clenched his teeth, exhaled sharply, and snapped:

“Hydros Flow!”

Water burst from the broken stone, torrents forcing between the shadow-weaves. Umbrae shredded apart, vanishing into steam as Marco staggered free, soaked but smirking again.

He spun his palm outward.

“Pyroclast!”

Flame roared, spiraling into a jet that seared across the courtyard. Vlad leapt backward, his coat singed, forced behind a crumbling wall.

Altai’s eyes widened. He had never seen anything like it. Not strength, not tricks—this was magic. Real, terrifying, impossible magic. And all of it flowed from one thing: the amulet Marco wore at his neck, glowing faintly with each incantation.

And somewhere near, half-buried in rubble, Altai knew—his own amulet waited.

Marco’s chest heaved. The steam from Hydros Flow still rose in curls from the stones, dampening his coat. Sweat glistened along his brow, his breath shallow, his fingers trembling despite the grin he forced.

Vlad stepped out from the haze, brushing dust from his sleeve as though nothing had happened. His smirk was measured, almost amused.

“You’ve overextended,” he said flatly. “One after another… Aeroias, Lithon, Luxis, Aegis, Hydros Flow, Pyroclast. A fine display, Marco. Truly. But you’ve wrung yourself dry.”

Marco straightened, rolling his shoulders though his legs swayed beneath him. “I’m not finished yet.”

Vlad chuckled, slow and cruel. “You Preservation agents never know when to admit defeat.”

Marco thrust his hand forward, voice ringing with iron will:

“Gungnir! Spear of Odin!”

Light exploded from his amulet, runes burning across the air. A shaft of radiant energy formed in his grasp, its tip gleaming like a falling star. The spear pulsed with ancient weight, each rune searing against the shadows.

With a cry, Marco hurled it.

The spear tore through the air like lightning. It struck Vlad square in the chest, detonating with a concussive blast. Vlad’s body was hurled across the hall, crashing into the stone wall with a thunderous crack. Dust and rock rained down as he slumped, coughing but alive.

Altai’s heart surged. For a moment, it looked as though the villain had been beaten.

But Vlad only laughed. Low, bitter, scraping. Slowly, he dragged himself to his feet, blood on his lip. His hand dipped into his pocket and emerged holding a small black device, a single button glinting at its center.

“Do you really think I’d gamble everything here?” His smile spread like a wound. “Another bomb waits. Second campus. Hundreds more ready to die. Unless…” He raised the device. “…you surrender that amulet to me.”

Marco froze. His jaw clenched, the weight of the choice pressing heavy across his shoulders.

Altai felt anger twist inside him. Even now, after slaughtering so many, Vlad clung to the lives of strangers as bargaining chips. His cruelty was endless.

Marco’s lips thinned. His voice, when it came, was measured, almost weary. “You win. I’ll give it to you. Just leave them.”

Vlad barked a laugh. “Pathetic. That weakness is why Preservation will fall. Always protecting sheep. Always bowing to the greater power.”

“Then tell me,” Marco said, his eyes narrowing, “how am I to trust you’ll stop once you have it?”

The words hung heavy in the air. The rubble, the smoke, the tension—all of it pressed in, suffocating. Altai’s pulse thundered in his ears. He watched the negotiation with wide, burning eyes.

And then something stirred inside him.

This is all because of the amulet. All this death, all this ruin. It must be the source. They want it… maybe it’s the only way to take anything back.

His breath came fast. His thoughts collided, fractured.

Run. You can escape now. He’s distracted. If you slip away, you’ll live.

But another voice rose, louder, harder.

No. This is the moment. Take it. Take the amulet. Revenge is yours for the first time. Don’t run. Stand.

He pressed his forehead to the stone, torn. His body screamed in pain, but his will ached even more. Finally, he dragged himself forward, crawling, each shift of rubble scraping against his wounds.

And there—there it was.

The amulet. Half-buried, separated from the fallen book, catching a glint of broken light. Not glowing, not pulsing with sorcery—just shining the way any simple trinket might, yet in that moment it shone only for him.

Altai reached with his left hand—his right useless, shattered. His fingers brushed the cool metal.

The world vanished.

Flashes seared his mind. A mountain splitting open, magma spilling like blood. Giants battling across fields torn by fire. The sky burning as a bird of flame, vast and terrible, circled high above.

The bird’s eyes locked to his. It dove, wings outstretched, each feather a burning torch. Terror gripped him. He wanted to scream, to turn away, but he could not.

Then a whisper, not from the bird but from himself:

You have nothing left to lose. Stand. Fight. Even if it’s your last breath—fight.

The terror crumbled. Fear became fire.

Altai roared, his voice raw, tearing his throat. Flames ignited along his shoulders, bursting outward. Green fire feathered into wings, great and terrible, wrapping the air in heat and light.

The hall froze.

Vlad’s eyes widened, the mocking smile slipping from his face. Marco, even through exhaustion, stared in disbelief.

Altai’s body lifted, carried by fire. For the first time, he felt no weight—no broken bone, no shattered rib, no grief pressing him into the dirt. Only flame, only flight.

The glow of his wings burned across the battlefield, casting the ruins into violent light.

Vlad cursed, momentarily distracted.

Marco seized the instant. He whispered through ragged breath:

“Zephyros Step.”

Wind surged beneath him, carrying him across the rubble in a blur. In a heartbeat, he was in front of Vlad, his hand snapping around the detonator. He tore it free, crushing it to pieces in his palm.

Vlad staggered back, teeth bared, shadow rising again to coil. But the distraction had cost him—the battle was lost.

The last of the henchmen stumbled to his side, face twisted in pain. With his other hand, Vlad tore open a swirling pool of darkness at his feet. A shadowed vortex yawned wide, sucking air and dust into its maw.

“Another day,” Vlad hissed, fury twisting his voice. “Another field.”

The henchman grabbed him, and together they fell into the dark pool. With a rush of black air, it sealed shut, leaving nothing behind but silence and the crackle of fire.

The fight was over.

Altai’s wings guttered. The fire dimmed, green embers fading to ash. His body fell, limp, striking the stone. His eyes rolled back, consciousness bleeding away.

Marco turned, chest heaving, staring at the boy collapsed upon the ground, the amulet still clutched in his hand.

For a long moment, only the broken silence of the ruins remained.

The first thing Altai felt was pain.

It ran through his body in jagged pulses, dragging him out of darkness and forcing his eyes open to a blur of pale ceiling tiles. The world smelled of antiseptic and iron. A steady beeping rang to his right, too rhythmic to be natural, too steady to belong in the ruins of the university.

He tried to move. A sharp groan escaped his throat. His right arm refused to obey him—it was locked, heavy, swaddled in white plaster. His chest was wrapped tight, every breath slicing fire through his ribs. He lay on a bed, thin sheets tangled around him, light filtering weakly through the curtains.

A hospital.

For one fleeting moment he prayed it had all been a dream. The screams, the smoke, Leyla’s lifeless eyes staring past him into the dark—it had to be some nightmare his broken body had invented.

But the cast on his arm told him otherwise. The bruises, the pain, the bandages. His reality had been torn apart.

He remembered the moment the wind sphere slammed into him, crushing his chest. He remembered the laughter of men in sunglasses. He remembered fire—his fire—bursting from him in wings of emerald flame.

And the amulet.

His heart lurched. He jerked upright too quickly and nearly cried out. His left hand clawed across the sheets, then the bedside table, searching. His fingers swept only glass, paper, bandages.

No amulet.

His pulse quickened. He shifted again, ignoring the pain. He searched beneath the pillow, around the mattress. Nothing. Panic swelled. If the amulet was gone, if they had taken it—

The door opened.

Altai froze.

A man stepped inside, calm and composed, his green trench coat brushing against his legs as he crossed the room. His dark hair was tied back loosely, his shirt collar open, his eyes the blue of storm-lit seas. He carried no weapon, only a quiet confidence.

He pulled a chair closer and sat by Altai’s bed. For a moment he said nothing, studying him with the weight of someone who measured everything. Then he spoke.

“You’re awake.”

Altai swallowed hard, throat dry. His voice cracked. “The amulet—where is it?”

The man didn’t flinch. He reached into his coat and drew out the faintly glowing trinket, setting it gently on the bedside table where Altai could see. Its bronze edges shimmered faintly in the hospital light, but the fire that had once erupted from it now slept, silent.

“Safe,” the man said. “Safer than in your hands, for now.”

Altai sagged back against the pillow, a mixture of relief and anger boiling in his chest. “Who are you?”

The man inclined his head. “Marco Valenti. Preservation.”

The name was unfamiliar, but the word—Preservation—clung to his ears.

Altai narrowed his eyes. “Preservation? Then those men… the ones who destroyed the university… they were—”

“Libra.” Marco’s voice was calm, but sharp. “Our enemies. Our shadows. They’ve hunted amulets for centuries.”

Altai turned his face away, pain and rage twisting together. “Why? Why kill them? Why kill everyone?”

Marco leaned back, folding his arms. His voice took on the cadence of someone repeating truths burned into his bones.

“Two organizations, both older than nations. Libra and Preservation. For five centuries we’ve warred in the dark, while kingdoms rose and fell above us.”

He held Altai’s gaze. “Libra seeks one thing—power. To gather every amulet, forge synthetic copies, twist them into weapons. They dream of an army bound to their will, a world ruled from the shadows.”

“And you?” Altai demanded.

“Preservation protects,” Marco answered simply. “Amulets are not toys. They carry the weight of ancient creatures, forces vast enough to remake cities. In the wrong hands, they consume their bearer—or worse, everyone around them. Preservation guards the balance, ensures the amulets rest with those strong enough to wield them.”

Altai shook his head, disbelief and fury surging. “Balance? Protection? My friends are dead. Leyla is dead. You call that protection?”

Marco’s expression tightened, a shadow of sorrow flickering across his features. “Their deaths are the work of Libra. Not us.”

“Then what’s the difference?” Altai spat. “People still die. You fight, they fight—innocents get crushed between you. How are you any better?”

For a long moment Marco said nothing. Then he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his voice lower.

“The difference,” he said, “is why. Libra kills to conquer. Preservation fights to prevent that conquest. We are not saints, Altai. We bleed, we fail, and sometimes we cannot save everyone. But we do not slaughter crowds to hide in smoke. We fight so that humanity has a tomorrow.”

Altai’s chest rose and fell quickly, anger still boiling—but somewhere in him, the words began to wedge themselves into the cracks of his grief.

“The amulet chose you,” Marco continued, nodding toward the trinket on the table. “Do you know what that means?”

Altai glanced at it, then back at Marco. “That I’m cursed?”

Marco almost smiled. “That you’re bound. An amulet and its bearer are inseparable once joined. Only death, or rejection by the amulet itself, can break the bond. That fire you summoned wasn’t mine, or Preservation’s. It was yours. The amulet recognized something in you—a will strong enough to wake it.”

Altai swallowed hard, remembering the heat, the wings, the moment his grief had turned to flame.

“So I’m stuck with it?”

Marco nodded. “And that means Libra will hunt you for the rest of your life. Their soldiers, their beasts, their synthetic creations. Many of their agents can’t control real amulets, so they twist broken ones, corrupted fragments. Dangerous things. But you—” He gestured to Altai’s chest. “You’ve already proven you can wield one. That makes you rare. Valuable. And very, very hunted.”

Altai stared at the ceiling. “Why was it even there? Buried in my university?”

Marco’s eyes darkened. “Decades ago, one of our agents found it. But he vanished after hiding it. Preservation suspects Libra took him, but no proof remains. For years, neither side could trace the amulet’s resting place. Until now.”

Altai felt his stomach twist. So all of this—his friends’ deaths, the fire, the ruin—had begun long before he was born. Centuries of war had simply chosen to spill into his life.

Marco rose from his chair, standing tall. “You have two paths, Altai. Stay here, in Azerbaijan, where Preservation’s reach is weak—and wait for Libra to find you again. Or come with me to Venice. Preservation’s stronghold. There you will have allies, protection… and training.”

Altai stared at him, breathing shallowly.

Venice. A foreign land, far from everything he had known. But what was left for him here? Ashes and graves.

Still, his voice cracked with defiance. “If I go with you… I’ll see him again. The man who killed them. Vlad.”

Marco’s eyes hardened. “Yes. With the amulet in your hands, it’s inevitable. He’ll come for you again.”

Altai’s fists clenched beneath the sheets. His gaze burned, not with tears now but with rage. “Then teach me. Teach me to use it. To fight him. I don’t care if it burns me alive—I’ll never forgive him. I’ll make him pay.”

For the first time, Marco hesitated. He saw not just a broken boy but a fire already kindled. Anger, grief, purpose—all tangled together.

At last, he nodded. “Then you’ll be my student. But know this: the path of fire burns. Once we leave, there is no return.”

He placed a hand lightly on Altai’s shoulder, grounding him. “Rest for now. When you’re strong enough, we go to Venice. There, you’ll learn what it means to bear the weight of fire.”

Marco turned and left the room, trench coat whispering against the doorframe.

Altai lay back, his chest aching, his arm throbbing. Yet inside him something pulsed stronger than pain. Purpose.

He looked to the amulet on the table, its faint glow catching the hospital light.

“I’ll find him again,” Altai whispered to the empty room. His voice was hoarse, but steady. “And next time… I won’t be powerless.”

Outside the window, night stretched across the city. A single star burned bright in the dark sky, solitary yet unyielding. Altai closed his eyes, holding to that faint, guiding light.

The war had chosen him. Now he would choose his place within it.