The night settled over the chaos like a heavy quilt, muffling the echoes of the comedic disaster that had unfolded hours earlier.

The once-roaring feast site now lay quiet, its scorched earth cooling under a star-dusted sky. Fifteen minutes after the stewards' hasty retreat, they slunk back, their faces flushed with embarrassment but their eyes glinting with a strange pride.

Gone were the singed, tattered robes; they now wore crisp, clean ones, as if trying to erase the memory of their earlier sprint from the serpent-slaying fiasco.

Riven stood at the edge of the clearing, his silhouette sharp against the fading glow of the fire pits.

He greeted them with a curt nod, his gaze flicking to the heap of serpent remains piled near the back, glistening like a grotesque trophy under the moonlight.

"Pack up whatever's left. Cleanly. Put it in cold-seal containers. We'll be taking it back with us."

"Yes, my lord," they chorused, their voices hushed but eager, as if they'd just survived a bar brawl and were damn proud of it. They sprang into action, moving with the quiet precision of men determined to redeem their earlier clumsiness. Riven watched them for a moment, the corner of his mouth twitching.

What a bunch of fools, he thought, but loyal fools, at least.

With the fires dimming and the last wisps of breakthrough energy dissolving into the night, Riven turned to Selene, who stood nearby, her arms crossed and her silver hair catching the starlight like a halo.

"Let's go for a walk. Clear our heads."

Selene arched a brow, her lips quirking as if she'd caught him plotting something absurd.

A walk? At this hour?

The city was practically snoring. Then, as if a spark lit in her mind, she chuckled, her voice low and teasing.

"You mean take Azira on a walk before she explodes from all the questions she can't ask in front of the guards? Clever!"

Azira, who'd been hovering nearby like an overeager puppy, perked up instantly, her eyes wide and bright.

She was at Riven's side before he could blink, practically vibrating with curiosity.

Riven sighed, shaking his head as he ruffled her hair, his fingers tangling in her wild curls. "You're gonna be the death of me, kid," he muttered, but there was a warmth in his tone that betrayed his fondness.

Together, the three wandered away from the feast site, their footsteps soft against the cobblestone roads of the sleeping city.

The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of jasmine and charred wood.

They moved toward the twenty-four-hour arcade markets, where lanterns swayed like drunken fireflies, casting golden pools of light. The night passed without further incident; the city's quiet was a soothing balm after the chaos.

Weeks drifted by, first one month, then two.

The days unfolded in a gentle rhythm of peace, each one blending into the next like brushstrokes on a canvas.

Azira's training pressed on, her laughter echoing through the estate's courtyards, a sound as bright as the morning sun.

The serpent meat, carefully stored in cold-seal containers, was rationed and distributed to those Riven deemed worthy of its power, fueling their cultivation like kindling to a flame.

Azira, ever the prodigy, had begun weaving her inner flame, her diary now thick with scribbled triumphs and her bruises worn like badges of honor.

Riven even caught her grinning at them in the mirror once, to which Selene admonished that a girl's body should be taken care of properly... much to the little gremlin's dismay.

One quiet morning, as Riven sat sipping tea in the estate's garden, he called Selene to a secluded alcove.

Through their telepathic connection, he shared Azira's training regimen, his thoughts flowing like a steady stream into her mind.

Selene's eyes widened, her lips parting as she muttered something incoherent, sounding like a scholar who'd just been handed a forbidden tome.

"You're kidding me," she finally managed, her voice a mix of awe and exasperation.

Riven smirked. Good thing she doesn't pry into my secrets, he thought. She'd probably faint if she knew the half of it.

The morning mist hung low, curling around the treetops like a lover's whisper.

Birds stirred, their songs heavy, as if sensing a shift in the air.

Something changed, subtle as a shadow's edge.

A faint ripple of pressure pulsed from the east wing of the estate, Nysalea's room, so delicate it might have been mistaken for a breeze.

But it wasn't. It spread outward and even pushed upward vertically, the silent wave kissing the clouds above.

The clouds stopped, frozen in the dawn sky like a painting.

Then the ground quivered, a deep, resonant thrum vibrating through the earth, as if some ancient beast stirred beneath the stone.

The clouds, once still, began to gather, growing heavy and dark, their edges tinged with an unnatural silver.

In Riven and Selene's room, where the couple was sleeping, the tremor jolted Riven awake.

"Ugh… the hell was that?" he groaned, rubbing his eyes as he sat up in bed, his hair a glorious mess.

Across the room, Selene stirred, blinking blearily. Beside her, Azira lay curled up like a kitten, having scampered to their room the previous night when thunder had rattled the windows.

Riven glanced at Selene, his lips twitching. "She's gonna be pissed when she realizes we left without telling her."

Selene shot him a look, already swinging her legs out of bed.

"It's Nysalea," she said, her voice sharp with certainty.

Riven nodded, his grogginess fading like mist under sunlight.

He'd been dodging sleeping in the same bed as Selene, his stubborn conscience nagging that she was barely eighteen, while he was… well, mentally a bit... ancient.

Intimacy could wait until marriage, he'd decided. Maintains guiltlessness, as honor in this world is more valuable than gold; in cultivation, the importance of a clear conscience remains unquestionable.

"Honey," Selene said, already pulling on her training gear with the speed of a woman who'd heard a battle horn. "We gotta move. It's time."

"Mm," Riven grunted, changing into his own training clothes with a practiced flick of his wrists. He crossed the room to Azira, brushing her cheek gently. "Little one."

Azira mumbled, "Mmm… just five more…" Her voice was a sleepy drawl, her face scrunched in defiance.

Riven chuckled, shaking his head. "This kid," he muttered, lifting her like a sack of flour. She stirred, blinking groggily, then wiped a trail of drool from her chin when she saw her master's face.

"Oh...," she mumbled, before slumping back against his shoulder, out cold again.

"Lazy little gremlin, what do you mean 'oh'?" Riven said, half-laughing, half-exasperated.

But the sky outside was growing heavier, the clouds swelling like a bruise. He summoned a pulse of yang energy, warm and insistent, to rouse her.

Azira's eyes snapped open, suddenly alert. He explained in a low, steady voice, "We're heading out, kid. We might be gone for a couple of days. Emergency stuff. You know the drill: stay sharp, don't burn the place down."

Her eyes widened, worry flickering, but he ruffled her hair again. "When we're back, we're going home. Promise." She nodded, clutching his sleeve for a moment before letting go.

Riven and Selene exchanged a glance, then moved, their bodies blurring with movement techniques as they slipped into Nysalea's room. The ripple of power pulsed stronger here, a heartbeat thrumming through the walls. Nysalea's transformation was nearing its climax, the final step of her ascent.

They stood side by side, the air thick with anticipation.

For weeks, Riven and Selene had teetered on the edge of their own breakthroughs, the five-hundred-year-old serpent's gallbladder flooding their spiritual cores with raw power.

Their bodies were honed, their cores brimming, ready to cross the threshold with a single breath. Yet they'd waited, at Selene's insistence.

Riven thought back to that moonlit night after a sparring match, the grass cool beneath their feet.

He'd asked her, "Why wait?" expecting some tactical reasoning. Instead, she'd brushed hair from her eyes, staring at the eastern hills.

"I don't know," she'd said, her voice soft but certain. "It just feels right. She deserves a chance."

Riven had mulled it over in silence, respecting her intuition.

Selene's generosity surprised him; her belief that Nysalea should ascend alongside them as an equal.

Was it some hidden strength she saw in Nysalea? A bond he hadn't noticed?

Or just Selene being Selene, soft-hearted but sharp as a blade? Whatever it was, he didn't argue.

Nysalea had earned his respect, too.

Her grace under pressure, her unyielding will, the way she faced the aftermath without flinching. He'd once thought of her as a wild storm, chaotic and untamed.

But he knew how much pain she endured afterwards.

Now, he saw a warrior emerging, her loyalty as steady as her blade. Maybe she did deserve a place beside them.

Still, a part of him hesitated. He'd carried power and pain alone for so long, it felt odd to imagine two women standing shoulder to shoulder with him, not behind.

"Weird," he muttered under his breath, then smirked. "But the good kind of weird."

Selene caught his eye, standing by the window as the horizon darkened with the ripple's spread.

She'd changed in these two years, no longer the timid girl he'd met when he was bloodied and broken.

She was rooted now, fierce and gentle, a queen in her own right. And Nysalea... Maybe she'd join them on that throne.

Riven slid open the balcony's window-door, the mountain air hitting him like a slap of cold mint.

He whistled, sharp and clear. Above, the clouds shifted, parting as Solwing descended in a graceful arc, its golden feathers shimmering with dew.

The crane landed soundlessly, its presence a quiet majesty.

Riven raised his palm, a soft pulse of energy stirring the air.

From Nysalea's room, her unconscious form lifted, floating gently as if cradled by invisible hands. Using the star-shifting art, he guided her to Solwing's back, her body settling like a petal on water.

Selene stepped up beside him, her movements sure, and they climbed aboard. Solwing surged upward, wings slicing through the clouds, the world below still asleep.

The ripple from Nysalea's transformation stretched far, a silent call to anyone with innate spirit sense.

An ascendant event was brewing, and the South Stonewell Mountains knew it.

But none would interfere.

The massacre at the inn weeks ago had turned it into a legend whispered in hushed tones: flaming corpses littering the streets, an Ashvale prince, a name not to be crossed.

Riven Ashvale was a storm best left alone.

So even as the ground thrummed and the clouds darkened, the sects, rogues, and authorities stayed away.

Better to sleep through the dawn than lose your head to a pissed-off cultivator, right?

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