After training ended that afternoon, the students were surprised to hear an unexpected summons.
They weren't being dismissed.
They were being called—to the throne room.
The word spread like wildfire through the Citadel. The usual hum of activity—training drills, magical exercises, and healing sessions—came to a sudden, eerie stop. The sound of swords clashing in the courtyard stilled as the last strike hung suspended in the air. Students glanced at one another, confusion and curiosity written on their faces. The walls, usually alive with the sound of focused conversations, seemed to absorb the questions that buzzed among the students.
Something was happening, something important.
In the healing rooms, the bright, steady glow of healing magic flickered and dimmed. Healers paused mid-treatment, their hands hovering over the injured, a mixture of uncertainty and concern spreading among them. Caelum, normally the calmest of healers, furrowed his brow as he placed a hand on a patient's shoulder, momentarily losing focus as the silence stretched on. He looked up at Serael, who stood nearby, her face pale and tight with worry.
"What's happening?" Serael whispered, almost to herself.
Nythorel, the eldest healer, stepped forward, her voice low and even as always. "Wait."
In the training courtyard, the combat instructors exchanged meaningful glances. Thalion, the silver-haired instructor, was the first to stir. He gave a small nod to Faelar, who stood silently beside him, his expression unreadable. Eryndor, as usual, stood with a frown etched deep into his face. Sylrieth remained composed, though her sharp eyes scanned the room, taking in the anxious faces of the students. All the instructors instinctively knew that this moment was different—different from the many others when they'd called the students to train, to prepare. This wasn't just another drill.
After what felt like an eternity of waiting, the orders came through—everyone, instructors and students alike, was to gather in the throne room. The news spread like ripples in a pond, and the halls of the Citadel quickly filled with a mixture of nervous energy, curiosity, and the faintest trace of dread.
Soon, the halls were filled with students and teachers, all walking toward the throne room. This wasn't a place they usually went to. It was a big, quiet room with high ceilings, tall windows, and stone walls. Light streamed through the windows, painting bright lines on the floor.
The journey to the throne room felt longer than usual. The students walked in quiet rows, the sharp echo of their footsteps bouncing off the stone walls. Instructors led the way, the weight of the moment pressing down on them. Thalion walked first, his tall, imposing figure cutting through the tension like a blade. His silver hair, tightly bound, shimmered under the light filtering in from the high windows. His sharp eyes remained vigilant, scanning the space around him as if expecting danger.
Behind him, Faelar walked with fluid grace, a contrast to Thalion's rigid discipline. His movements were purposeful, every step a measure of control. Eryndor, with his heavy, deliberate steps, seemed to carry the weight of the entire Citadel on his broad shoulders. His face was stoic, but there was a sense of something darker—something personal—hidden beneath the surface. Sylrieth brought up the rear of the combat instructors, her face calm but sharp, her eyes scanning the corridors, always alert.
The mages followed in their turn. Althaea, draped in white robes, moved with serene authority, her every step exuding quiet wisdom. Vaelrya's robes shimmered with a soft, ethereal glow, the quiet flicker of magic in her presence making the air hum gently. Lythiel, silent as always, moved with fluidity, as though his very existence was intertwined with the stillness of the Citadel. Sylvanna, though usually reserved, gave the occasional reassuring glance to a student, her usual seriousness momentarily softening in the presence of the younger ones.
The healers were the last to arrive, moving with an air of quiet competence. Caelum walked at the front, his expression peaceful, the calm center in a storm of rising tension. Serael leaned slightly toward Nythorel, murmuring something too soft for anyone else to hear. Nythorel, ever the thoughtful one, listened intently, her sharp gaze already turning inward, considering the implications of whatever news they had received.
Then came the students.
Rafael, with his usual sense of leadership, walked at the front of his group, his hand resting casually but protectively on the hilt of his longsword. Maria, his younger sister, followed closely behind him, her hand firmly clutching her sword and shield. She looked nervous, but there was a determination in her gaze—something quiet but fierce that spoke of a warrior's spir
Behind them came their friends—Patricia, always the quickest to act, her fingers tapping out an unconscious rhythm against her leg; Erika, who seemed to be having a hard time keeping her hands from pushing her hair back over and over, a telltale sign of her anxiety; Vincent, his usual calm demeanor cracked by the evident worry in his clenched fists; and Mark, quiet as ever, his eyes fixed on Rafael's back, his thoughts hidden behind a mask of trust and loyalty.
As they entered the throne room, they saw Protheus standing before them. His tall, imposing figure was set against the backdrop of the throne, but he did not sit. Instead, he stood in front of it, his posture straight and unyielding. A large, smooth table stood beside him, and on it lay a clean parchment, a quill, and an ink bottle.
Protheus was not the type to give speeches often, but when he did, it was clear that every word mattered. His presence was heavy in the room, not with fear, but with the weight of something significant—something important.
The doors closed behind them, and the room was filled with a heavy silence. It wasn't uncomfortable, but it was thick with anticipation, as if everyone present could feel that something was about to change.
Protheus broke the silence first. His voice, calm and steady, rang out across the room. "I have returned from the south."
The students leaned forward slightly, listening closely. This was no ordinary announcement.
"I traveled beyond the ruins of Metro Manila," Protheus continued, "and reached the stronghold in a place called Laguna."
Rafael's heart sank at the mention of Laguna. It was only a few days ago that they had left the stronghold, their minds focused on finding food, trying to stay ahead of the growing scarcity. They had never imagined that their absence would cause such a swift deterioration. His jaw tightened as the weight of the situation settled over him like a storm cloud.
"It is barely standing," Protheus said, his voice unwavering but heavy with the gravity of the news. "The walls are damaged, the food supply is running low, and disease is spreading quickly. They are holding on, but only just."
A wave of emotions swept through the students. Rafael felt a mixture of guilt and helplessness. They had left so quickly, so focused on survival. But they never expected it to deteriorate so quickly. They hadn't even been gone long—just a few days—and yet, it seemed the situation had gone from bad to worse.
He opened his mouth to speak, but Protheus continued before he could get the words out.
"They are struggling," Protheus said, his voice calm but serious. "Their medics are exhausted, and their guards are poorly armed. I saw them using strange weapons—small, dark metal objects with a trigger-like hook. I do not know what they do, but they look dangerous."
Patricia let out a soft, worried exhale. "It's worse than we thought," she whispered, her hand tightening on her sleeve. "They're starving, sick…"
"They are sick too," Erika added, a hand over her mouth. "And we… we escaped."
"You didn't escape," Protheus said, his voice softer now, as though he understood the feelings swirling in their minds. "You survived, but those you left behind… they are still fighting."
Rafael stepped forward, his voice steady but full of emotion. "Then let us help them. We can bring supplies. We can—"
"You are still students," Thalion interrupted, his voice firm. "You are not ready for such danger."
"We're ready," Rafael said, his voice steady but full of determination. "We've trained for this. We can't just sit here while they're out there fighting for their lives."
"They are our people," Erika said, her voice tight. "We can't just leave them to suffer."
Protheus raised his hand, and the room fell silent once more. He looked around at the gathered group, his gaze meeting each of their eyes. When he spoke, his voice was calm, but it carried the weight of authority and the burden of a decision.
"I will allow it," he said, and the words sent a wave of relief through the students, but they were tempered by the seriousness of what came next. "But this will not be a reckless mission. This is not a rescue operation. This is a relief mission."
The students exchanged quick, hopeful glances, but they knew that the challenge ahead would not be easy.
"You will carry supplies—food, clean water, healing potions," Protheus continued. "But there is something else I will ask of you. Something that you may not expect." He lifted the quill, dipped it into the ink, and began to write on the clean parchment, his movements deliberate and precise.
"To the leaders of the stronghold in Laguna,
I am Protheus, the one who once saved a group of survivors who now call this Citadel their home. I write to you with an invitation. If you are willing, I welcome you to send your strongest, your wisest, or your leaders to our Citadel. Here, they may learn healing, magic, combat, and the ways of survival.
You are not forgotten.
If you accept, your messengers will find safety here. If you choose to stay where you are, we will still offer aid whenever we can.
Hope remains, so long as we stand together.
Protheus."
He set down the quill and looked around the room, his eyes meeting those of the students. "This letter will accompany the supplies," he said. "It is an invitation, not a command. It will be their choice."
Rafael stepped forward, his voice steady with determination. "We will deliver it. We won't let them think they've been forgotten."
Protheus's voice was steady as his gaze swept over the gathered students and instructors. "You will not go alone," he declared. "I will assign instructors to guide you and protect you on this journey. It will be planned carefully, but we do not have the luxury of time. In three days, you will leave."
His words spread through the room like a cold breeze. They had just three days, not weeks. The air grew tense, but instead of fear, a steady determination settled over everyone.
Protheus's gaze swept over the students, but then it focused. "Not all of you will travel to the stronghold. Only a small group—those with the most training and the strongest resolve."
He paused, letting the words settle.
"Rafael, Maria, Mark, Angela, Patricia, Vincent, Clarisse, Miguel, Nolan, Sofia, and Joshua—you will be the ones to go."
Rafael's eyes widened slightly, but then he nodded, his jaw setting with determination. The others exchanged glances—nervous, excited, but ready.
"Why them?" one of the younger students whispered.
"Because they are the ones who excel the most out of all of you," Protheus answered, his voice firm. "Each of them has something that sets them apart, and together, they form a team that is both balanced and powerful."
The eleven chosen students stood together, and their determination seemed to solidify. Rafael stood at the front, his hand resting on his sword. Maria by his side, her shield steady. Mark, quiet but sharp-eyed. Angela, her gaze firm. Patricia, light on her feet. Vincent, strong and steady. Clarisse, watchful. Miguel, calm but powerful. Nolan, clever and observant. Sofia, quick and precise. Joshua, quiet but dependable.
"You will be led by your instructors," Protheus continued. "Thalion, Faelar, and Eryndor will ensure your safety. They will guide you on the journey and protect you along the way."
The three warriors nodded, their expressions serious.
"Vaelrya will go with you," Protheus said. "Her elemental magic will guard you against any threat."
Vaelrya's faint smile was all the promise they needed.
"Serael, Nythorel, and Caelum will be your healers," Protheus added. "If you are injured, they will ensure you survive."
The three healers bowed slightly, already planning what to pack.
"Lythiel will provide you with enchanted scrolls—magic that even those without talent can use," Protheus added.
Lythiel nodded. "I will make sure you are well-armed with magic."
Protheus's gaze returned to the eleven students. "This mission is not just about battle. It is about hope. You will bring more than food and medicine—you will bring a promise."
The students exchanged determined looks. Some whispered to each other, while others straightened their backs, feeling the weight of their responsibility.
"Rafael," Protheus said, his voice steady, "you will lead this group. But you are not just a leader. You are their shield, their protector. Your strength with the sword and your ability to command will guide them through."
"I understand," Rafael replied, his voice unwavering.
"Maria," Protheus continued, "you will defend the group with your shield and courage. Your heart, as much as your sword, will protect them."
"I will," Maria promised.
"Mark, Angela, Patricia," Protheus went on, "stay alert, keep watch over the surroundings. You are the eyes of the group. Mark, your skill with a bow will help keep enemies at bay. Angela, your support magic will give them the strength to keep going. And Patricia, your fire magic will help clear paths when needed."
The three nodded, faces serious.
"Vincent, Miguel," Protheus said, "stand at the front and back. Your strength and endurance will guard them. Vincent, with your heavy sword, you'll smash through obstacles, and Miguel, your shield will be an unmovable barrier."
The two exchanged a look and nodded.
"Clarisse, Sofia, Joshua," Protheus continued, "your speed and awareness will be critical. Clarisse, your defensive magic will shield them in moments of danger. Sofia, your healing will keep them alive when their strength fades. Joshua, your speed with dual swords and your quick thinking will be vital in responding when things go wrong."
The three looked at each other, a quiet confidence in their eyes.
"Nolan," Protheus's voice softened slightly, "your cleverness and ice magic will keep them safe. Guide them, advise them, and see what others might miss. Your ability to control the cold will be a useful tool when facing threats."
The weight of the moment settled over them all.
For a long time, no one spoke. The names had been called, the mission declared. The room, once filled with tension and uncertainty, now brimmed with silent resolve.
Slowly, Protheus stepped back from the table, his dark cloak sweeping behind him like a shadow, and placed a hand over his chest—a rare gesture of solemn respect.
"You leave in three days," he said. "Use them well. Prepare not only your bodies, but your hearts."
He turned toward the throne behind him, though he did not sit. Instead, he cast one final look across the gathered crowd. "You are no longer just students—you are messengers of hope."
The doors opened behind them with a low, echoing creak. Light spilled into the chamber, painting golden lines across the stone floor, stretching like paths toward an uncertain future.
No one needed to be told what to do.
The instructors turned first, leading the chosen and the unchosen alike back through the towering halls of the Citadel. The sound of footsteps returned—quieter now, but purposeful. Gone was the fear that had stilled them earlier. In its place walked quiet resolve.
Rafael lingered a moment longer, his eyes locking with Protheus. A silent understanding passed between them—of duty, of trust, of the fragile line between survival and sacrifice.
Then he turned and followed the others, his hand resting on his sword, Maria at his side.
Behind them, the throne room emptied slowly, the echo of Protheus's words hanging in the air like the final chord of a solemn hymn.
They were no longer just students,
They were the beginning of something greater,
They were the ones who would carry the light into the dark.