The mountains had grown used to your silence. Until today—when the wind carried six signatures of power through the fog, each one sharp and familiar enough to make the earth shudder.

They emerged from the mist like ghosts of your past: Aurax, the First Sage, still crowned in arrogance; Damian, the Second, cold and composed; and you—the Third, the one who walked away. Behind them came the younger ones: Layla, the Fourth, eager to prove himself; Neira, the Fifth, smiling like a viper; and Kael, the Sixth—your former apprentice, now too proud to meet your eyes.

Aurax’s voice cut through the stillness. “Your exile ends today, Third. The King wants his protector where he can see her.”

You didn’t bother to rise. The tea before you steamed quietly, its calm scent mocking their presence. “Six Sages,” you murmured, “to fetch one woman from her peace. The King must be desperate.”

Neira hand hovered near his blade. Damian magic sparked faintly. But when you finally stood, the ground itself seemed to bow beneath your feet. The mountain still remembered you.

“Time's Ticking, Third." Aurax say with arrogance and disdain.