The sun hung low over Shadestone, casting long shadows across the cracked walls of the Redhollow stadium. Summer heat clung to the stone seats, and the wind had died, as if the city itself was holding its breath. Another home match had begun—another battle for pride more than points.
Rowan (as Elias) watched alongside Taran and Lioh, trying to stay composed. He wore his usual plain garb, hood down, eyes sharp. The Knights were struggling again—midfield loose, formations fraying—but that wasn't what he was focused on.
He was watching Aleric, pacing the sidelines with that same dogged fire. Barking instructions. Holding the line. Breathing heavy. Sweating more than usual. Even from this distance, Rowan could see the sheen on his father's brow and the way his hand trembled each time he reached for his water.
Then—he stopped.
Not like a man pausing. Like a man falling.
Aleric clutched his chest and collapsed, legs folding beneath him like broken scaffolding. His water dropped, spinning once on the turf before falling still.
There was a pause—a terrible, suspended second where the stadium didn't move. No cheering. No chants. Just raw, crushing silence. Then shouts rose. A whistle blew off-key. One of the Redhollow players pointed toward the sideline, eyes wide in terror.
Rowan exploded into action. The composure shattered.
He vaulted the barrier without thought. Pushed past officials, sidestepped a security mage. Taran reached for him, but it was already too late—Rowan was on the pitch, sprinting toward his father, mouth open in a silent scream.
"Is he—?!" Lioh started, panicked, but Taran had already turned to him.
"Go back to the office. Now."
Lioh hesitated only a moment, then nodded and disappeared into the crowd.
Taran pulled out a small, rune-inscribed sigil stone from his coat and snapped it in half. He had bought this for 5,000 golden crowns right after the deal with Deepmere Striders as a safety precaution. The light that burst forth didn't fade. It pulsed once, then again, before vanishing into the sky. It was a signal few could afford—one reserved for the highest-priority emergency extractions.
Within two minutes, the magical helicopter arrived, its spinning crystal array slicing through the dusk. Its hull bore the gold-seal sigil of Virelay Medical Citadel—the best hospital in the Republic.
The first responders disembarked like wind: healers in white robes rimmed with iron thread, tech-priests bearing cases of magi-mechanical tools, sigil-runners with portable stabilizers. Their coordination was flawless. They encased Aleric in a stasis cocoon and began spellwork on the field.
The crowd had fallen silent again. Some stood. Some whispered. A few even prayed.
Rowan stood just a few feet away, frozen, trembling. Until he saw Taran, still by the sideline, eyes locked on the team.
That's when Rowan knew. No one else would have made that call. No one else would have spared coin, energy, or favor on a crumbling academy, a nearly forgotten headmaster.
Just Taran.
Rowan ran to him. He didn't speak. He just embraced him—desperate, wordless, tears streaking down his face and into Taran's shoulder.
Taran didn't flinch. He held him tightly.
As Rowan pulled back, trying to speak—some confession, some thanks—Taran cut him off with a soft voice:
"Not here. Let's follow the chopper."
And they did.
—
The journey to Virelay was short by distance, but it felt endless.
Rowan sat with his face buried in his hands. He cried the whole way—not the clean, noble tears of fiction, but ugly, raw sobs that left him breathless. He had never cried like this, not even when he was back on Earth. Every time he tried to calm down, a new wave hit him. The pressure of everything he had buried from his years back on Earth was now crashing over him at once.
Taran didn't speak. He sat beside him, still and warm like a hearth in winter. Occasionally, he placed a hand on Rowan's shoulder, grounding him.
Outside the transport, the night blurred past. Towers gave way to marble walls. Lanterns flickered. Skyrails bent like iron vines. The Citadel loomed ahead, glowing softly against the encroaching dark.
They arrived at the hospital's upper platform two hours after the chopper did, a landing pad lined with sigil-filters and time-slowing wards. The air shimmered with protective runes. Healers moved quickly—no drama, no fanfare. Just care.
Rowan and Taran were led to the observation corridor. A tea service sat untouched on the nearby table. Spell-chimes rang in distant wings. Clerks murmured down enchanted halls. The world felt distant, warped.
A couple of hours passed.
Then a healer arrived—face unreadable, robes still glowing faintly from residual spellwork.
"He's stable," she said. "The collapse was brought on by stress, overexertion, and a preexisting condition he likely kept hidden. He'll recover—but only if he avoids stress. That means no coaching. No business. No arguments. We will have to keep him in the ICU for two weeks before he is allowed to go home. He'll need a trained caregiver for at least a year before we reassess."
Rowan nodded, voice caught somewhere in his throat. The words hung like lifelines. He's alive. No matter what the cost. He is alive!
They were allowed into the room. Aleric lay pale but breathing dependently. Monitors pulsed with dull violet runes, casting soft halos around the bed. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm with the help of the magical apparatus in the room.
The hospital room was silent except for the hum of the magical apparatus. It felt wrong to speak. But Taran, ever steady, broke the silence in the most honest way he could.
"I always knew there was more to you."
Rowan didn't answer. He did not know how to. He turned to him, startled, the words piercing deeper than any question could have. Those words alone drained so much from Rowan, that he had to muster all his energy just to look at his friend. But Taran was already walking toward the door.
He paused in the doorway. Without turning, he said:
"Come. Let's talk."
The door closed behind them with a soft hiss.