Moments passed by until it was time for Narvel to awaken.
His eyes shot open, wide and wild, as though he had been yanked out of sleep by unseen hands. His chest heaved, his breaths sharp. In the haze between dream and wakefulness, he felt the lingering pull of a nightmare and its weight still pressed against his mind.
In that dream, he had been at the edge of something dreadful, moments away from being consumed entirely. Just before the darkness swallowed him whole, he woke up.
But now, in the chamber's silence, the dream was already slipping away. The details vanished like sand between his fingers. All that remained was the unmistakable impression of fear.
'What am I doing on the floor?' He wondered.
Several heartbeats passed. Then, as though a veil lifted from his mind, the memories of the battle came rushing back. The clash, the screams, and then the final strike.
"I won… but why do I feel like I lost?" He muttered under his breath.
"Because you did lose," the statue replied, its voice calm but unwavering. "Amadeel knew you were spent. Any further and he would not have been able to walk away, even if he wanted to. That wasn't a defeat—it was his choice."
The words rang out and echoed softly across the chamber's broken stone walls. Dust still floated gently in the air. The air was also cool, touched faintly by Ember, the remnants of power lingering in the space.
Narvel's brows knit as he processed the meaning behind those words.
He didn't understand all of it, but something resonated. The man he had fought, Amadeel—wasn't just an opponent. He had been a soul weighed down by more than duty. A man carrying burdens too complex for Narvel to fully grasp. And when the time came to cast off those chains, he had chosen to lose.
Propping himself up on one hand, Narvel noticed it immediately. His body had changed again. He was stronger, undeniably so.
There was a new density to his muscles, a tighter harmony in the flow of energy within him. It was familiar to him, this pattern of growth after pain, but it never ceased to surprise him. He immediately wanted to call up his stats screen to inspect the changes but he resisted. This wasn't the moment for that.
He looked around.
All of the statues that had once stood within the chamber were gone. Only the one seated on the throne remained, as still and regal as before. Beside it stood the Mage from earlier, the one clad in faded blue robes, whose presence still seemed to hum with quiet power.
"Your Majesty…" Narvel began, voice steady.
"Oh, there's no need for that," the statue interrupted, his tone carrying a strange warmth. "You can call me Uncle. However, doing so might bring about karma heavier than you're prepared to bear. Still, I suspect you're already entangled with something far greater than I am. And as one acknowledged by my disciple, not just as a rival, but as a friend, you have earned the right."
The Mage's brows lifted in genuine surprise. He glanced sideways at the statue, a chuckle rumbling in his throat. 'If it were that easy, he thought, we should have tried befriending his disciple long ago.'
Narvel didn't quite grasp what the statue meant when he mentioned karma, but he didn't dwell on it. That wasn't where his heart was in the moment. Instead, his thoughts drifted back to Amadeel—the one who had stood before him not just as an opponent, but as something more complex. A fighter, a mystery, and a man who had willingly stepped down from the battlefield.
He leaned forward slightly, resting his hands on his knees.
"Who was Amadeel?" he asked, his voice low, almost hesitant. "Not his identity or his status… what was his personality like?"
The question echoed through the chamber, and silence followed.
The statue, poised in a regal stillness, was caught off guard. It hadn't expected that question—hadn't prepared for it. For a moment, it didn't respond. The Mage looked over with raised brows, also surprised. It was clear the statue had no intention of opening that particular door. But something in Narvel's voice, or perhaps the sincerity behind it, made him answer anyway.
"Amadeel," the statue began, voice softer now, with a trace of memory woven into its timbre, "wasn't the most talented among those who once vied to be under my tutelage. There were others—prodigies, born of noble blood, trained from birth, shaped by ambition and pride. But him… he was different. He was born into a family of farmers. His hands knew soil before they knew steel. He spent his days tending to crops in torn, muddied clothes, never imagining he would stand within palace walls."
The statue paused, the weight of recollection anchoring his voice. His stone eyes seemed to look past the chamber, into a time long gone.
"That difference… it made him stand out. In a moment of spite toward a sibling of mine, I ordered someone to bring Amadeel to the palace to tend to the royal gardens. Then, as part of my plan, I attempted to pressure that sibling into taking the boy in as a disciple, hoping to irritate him. It was petty, really."
He let out a dry exhale, almost a chuckle. There was no mirth in it.
Narvel tilted his head, frowning gently. "So… did he accept the offer?"
He was uncertain. The whole situation sounded strange.
The statue's eyes returned to Narvel. "No. He didn't. He said: 'I don't want to be anyone's tool to make a point.' Even then, he had a spine. And despite the fact he stood barefoot in one of the grandest halls in the continent, covered in soil and sweat, his gaze didn't waver."
The air seemed to still further, as though the very chamber itself was listening.
"I found that… amusing at first, how a weak child could dare to speak to the overlords of his land in such a manner. But do you know what he said next? He said: 'You may rule over the lands, but I rule over my heart.'" the statue continued. "My sibling was furious and was about to deal with him, but I stopped him. Later on, I realized it was the first time that anyone had spoken to me without fear in their eyes. Eventually, I offered to take him in myself. And this time, he accepted—not out of obligation, not because of pressure, but because he wanted to learn because I offered him knowledge more than power."
A long silence followed. The only sounds were the occasional creak of settling stones.
"Amadeel had a quiet fire," the statue added after a moment. "He wasn't loud. He didn't chase glory. He simply walked forward, step by step, bearing everything I placed on his shoulders. Regardless of how selfish those things were. He was loyal, and honestly, way too good of a disciple to me. He grew strong—not because he was forced to, but because he chose to."
Narvel listened, taking in every word. There was no denying it now, what he had felt during their duel, that unspoken bond, that sense of shared understanding, it hadn't been imagined.
Amadeel had lived under a weight that Narvel could only begin to understand. And still, he had chosen to carry it. For Narvel, it was a bit weird that he was connecting to a person that he hadn't truly met, at least conventionally. He couldn't explain it, but his spirit found the connection and they connected.
"When the time came that my other disciples betrayed me, Amadeel remained beside me, along with the few faithful who never wavered," the statue concluded with a calm voice, though it was tinged with a quiet ache that settled over the chamber.
The silence that followed was filled with echoes of memory and quiet reverence.
"Young fellow, time is sparse. Tell me, what request do you have in mind?" The statue leaned forward slightly, the expression on his stone-carved face pulling into a smile, both curious and expectant.
Now that the moment had arrived, Narvel found himself at a loss for words. The weight of the question pressed down on him, not because he feared answering, but because he didn't know what to answer. He furrowed his brow, deep in thought.
'I want many things,' he thought. 'But if I had to name one that rises above the others, then… it would have to be power.'
Even as the thought surfaced in his mind, the statue's voice rang out again, as though plucking the thought straight from his mind.
"I can give you something akin to power. Glyphs—symbols that you could slowly comprehend and internalize, allowing you to mold strength from insight. I could offer a cultivation manual—one to help shape your path, steady your steps, and keep you from wandering too far from purpose. Or a pseudo inheritance, to awaken potential that lies sleeping within your core. These things are all within reach."
"However, do you know where true strength comes from?"
Narvel's lips parted slightly, but no answer came. After a brief moment, he simply shook his head.
"The greatest strength lies within yourself," the statue said with conviction. "All the tools I just mentioned are simply that—tools. They cannot replace what is inside you. If your heart crumbles, then no glyph, no technique, no artifact will uphold you. What pushed you to fight my disciple as you did wasn't something taught—it was born in your marrow."
Narvel remained silent, his thoughts turning inward, remembering the rounds of fight he had, the instinct that had taken over, the desperation in his swings, and the grim resolve behind each move.
"You carry the heart of a warrior," the statue continued. "Your mind, though malleable, is rich with intuition. You think quickly and absorb fast, but also bend when struck. You are not rigid—and that is a rare gift. And you possess the kind of talent that others would fear, not admire."
Narvel listened carefully, feeling something stir within his chest, a quiet acceptance of something he hadn't yet put into words.
'Then… if not power,' he thought, 'the only other thing I want now is to find Joseline.'
Before he could form the request on his lips, the statue let out a resonant laugh that echoed off the far walls, shaking dust from the archways.
"You wish to meet a person? Hahaha!" The laugh rolled through the chamber, not mocking, but amused by the simplicity and boldness of the wish.