Arelian Keep sat high above the city of Kha’Zadun, the second largest city in Dhuma, and its beating heart of trade and industry. From the mountain road, the city looked like a sea of sandstone and bronze, smoke from the forges rising in lazy spirals to meet the thin mountain air. Its streets wound tightly together, alive with the clamor of merchants, the call of smiths, and the scent of spiced food drifting from the market squares.
Above it all, like a guardian carved from the bones of the world itself, stood the Keep. Nestled deep within the jagged peaks of the Zandari Mountains, it was both fortress and monastery, a place where the sharpest minds and strongest bodies were tempered into protectors of the realm. The mountain range around it formed natural walls of stone, sheer and unyielding, their snow-capped summits veiled by mist.
The road that led up to Arelian Keep was narrow and perilous, a path carved through centuries of stone and sacrifice. Pilgrims and recruits who made the journey described hearing the wind sing through the cliffs, carrying with it whispers of those who had never reached the top. The ascent alone weeded out the faint of heart.
Within the Keep’s walls, the air felt thinner, cleaner, heavy with the scent of oil, steel, and old stone. The great hall, hewn directly from the mountain, was vast enough to swallow sound. Its pillars were carved with ancient runes and the sigils of long-dead guardians, each one marking a generation of those who had stood watch over Dhuma and the rest of Tanaria. Shafts of sunlight pierced through narrow slits high above, catching the motes of dust in the air and illuminating the banners that hung between the columns, faded cloth in the deep ochres and reds of the desert nation below.
Tenzin stood there, the sound of his claws against the stone faint but familiar. The hall had been his home for as long as he could remember. Its walls had watched him grow from a cub to a soldier, its echoing chambers bearing silent witness to his triumphs and failures alike. To the new recruits arriving each season, the Keep was a place of legend, a place where common men and women could learn to wield magic or command the battlefield, but to Tenzin, it was something deeper: a living, breathing monument to purpose.
He paused beneath one of the high archways and looked out through the narrow windows toward the city far below. From here, Kha’Zadun looked impossibly small, the chaos of its markets and streets reduced to a distant hum. Beyond it stretched the golden sands of Dhuma’s western reaches, shimmering under the relentless sun. The Keep, carved into the mountain’s heart, was a sanctuary above the noise, a refuge for those who sought discipline, knowledge, and strength.
Tenzin turned from the view and stepped further into the hall. Its cold floor thrummed faintly beneath his feet, as if the mountain itself still remembered the forge-fire that had shaped it. The air vibrated with quiet purpose, the murmur of instructors, the clatter of weapons in training yards beyond, and the hushed awe of new recruits as they entered this ancient stronghold for the first time.
For centuries, Arelian Keep had stood as the symbol of Dhuma’s endurance. It was said that no army had ever breached its walls, and no shadow had ever lingered here long. It was a place of order amid chaos, light against the creeping dark, the last bastion against the Alzalam and other dark forces that hid in Tanaria’s shadows; and it was here, in the heart of that fortress, that Tenzin waited, a lone figure standing amidst the endless history of those who came before.
Every two years, the great bronze gates of Arelian Keep opened to the world below. From across Tanaria they came; soldiers, mages, scholars, wanderers, drawn by the promise of purpose beneath the Order’s golden banners. The Order of Arelian stood as one of the oldest and most respected organizations in the world, its reach stretching from the gilded coasts of Kamulos to the frozen plains of Kalros. To pledge oneself to the Order was to surrender the self to something greater: to the preservation of balance, and the defense of all mortal kind against the creeping dark.
The Order’s legacy stretched back to the time of myth, when the godly brothers Aurelian and Leohran had walked the mortal plane. It was said that Aurelian, the God of magic and knowledge, used his magic and wisdom to cut through the chaos of the Calamity Era, while Leohran, the God of courage and leadership, stood beside him, strength and loyalty given form. From their brotherhood was born the Order, founded on unity, discipline, and the eternal charge to protect. Where Aurelian’s flame burned with purpose, Leohran’s roar echoed with devotion, and together their ideals became the creed of all who would follow.
At its heart, the Order was built upon the sacred bond between Sahar and Guardian, the union of spirit and strength. The Sahar, gifted wielders of magic, channeled the divine spark that lingered in the veins of creation. Their Guardians, warriors trained to perfection, anchored that power, shielding their partners while lending them strength. Bound by ritual, trust, and fate’s design, these pairs were more than comrades, they were two souls fused by purpose. Theirs was a partnership so complete that the fall of one often meant the fall of both.
The Order operated with strict neutrality, serving no throne or crown. Its banners flew in all lands and none, a mark of balance and unity rather than allegiance. They advised kings and queens, settled conflicts between rival nations, and purged shadows that mortal armies dared not face. Their presence carried both reverence and unease, for the Sahar and their Guardians were not merely protectors; they were arbiters of consequence, their decisions guided by divine will more than mortal law.
Yet such power came at a cost. The path to becoming one of the Order’s chosen was paved with hardship, years of training, trials of both body and soul, and the willingness to give one’s life without hesitation. Only those with innate talent and unbreakable conviction endured long enough to earn the insignia of the Arelian. Those who failed often did so quietly, fading back into the world below, their dreams left behind on the mountain road.
It was this time again, the season of testing, and Arelian Keep was alive with movement. The trickle of new arrivals had swelled into a river, filling the stone courtyards and echoing halls with anticipation.
Tenzin watched them come, his keen eyes tracing the faces of the hopeful as they filed into the great hall. Each face bore the same mixture of awe and fear, the same hunger for something greater than themselves. He remembered that look, though it had been a lifetime since he’d worn it.
For most, the journey to Arelian Keep began in adolescence. Boys and girls left their homes and villages to climb the treacherous path, seeking belonging, honor, or redemption, but for Tenzin, there had been no journey. He had been found as a child, rescued from an unspeakable fate that no child should ever endure, and brought to the Keep to be raised by the Order. Its stone walls had been his nursery, its sparring yards his playground, its warriors his family.
Now, as a grown warrior and instructor, he moved through the Keep like part of its living foundation. His feet against the polished floor barely made a sound in the vast chamber, a rhythm as familiar as his own heartbeat.
The hall was filled with life. The air buzzed with whispered incantations as young mages tested their focus; elsewhere, the sharp clang of steel signaled new recruits sparring in the adjoining courtyards. The mingling of voices created a strange harmony, human, elven, orcish, dwarven, halfling, all gathered under one purpose.
Arelian Keep was a microcosm of Tanaria itself, its diversity a testament to the Order’s ideals. Here, the sons of kings trained beside street-born mercenaries; scholars debated with sellswords; priests stood shoulder to shoulder with heretics. All sought the same thing — mastery, belonging, purpose.
Tenzin’s presence alone was proof of that unity. His leonine heritage marked him as something uncommon. His kind were rarely seen outside of their roaming Prides in the plains of Dhuma, often viewed with awe or fear, their numbers dwindling, but within these walls, he was simply another guardian in service to the Order.
As he stood near the edge of the gathering, he let his gaze wander over the new faces. They shone with hope, with determination, with all the things he had once carried like fire in his chest, but now, that fire had dimmed to embers.
For years, he had waited for a Sahar to call his name. To be chosen, to be bonded, to finally serve as half of a whole. Yet the years had passed, and his strength had been spent in defense of others while his own purpose drifted further away. He had resigned himself to it, accepted his fate as a guardian of the Keep rather than a guardian to a soul.
Still, as the sunlight filtered through the high windows and caught the faint shimmer of dust in the air, he allowed himself a quiet thought, that perhaps, in this new gathering of faces, fate might finally look his way.
Tall and lean, with a mane of hair that framed his rugged features, Tenzin cut a striking figure against the backdrop of the hall. Clad in a simple tunic that belied the strength of his form, he stood apart from the throng of recruits, his gaze fixed on the figure at the front of the room.
At the head of the great hall stood the heart of the Order — the Grand Sahar, Sabine, and her Guardian, Markus, the First Blade.
The Grand Sahar was more than a title; it was the living embodiment of the Order’s soul. Each generation chose one among the Sahar whose wisdom, strength, and purity of purpose surpassed all others. In this age, that mantle belonged to Sabine.
She was human, though the word seemed too small for her presence. Her power filled the air like a living current, subtle yet undeniable, a force that pulled all eyes to her the way gravity binds the stars. Age had etched faint lines across her face, but they only deepened the impression of grace and experience. Her hair, the color of desert sand, was braided back and interwoven with threads of silver, not ornaments of vanity, but symbols of every Guardian she had outlived, every battle she had survived.
Sabine was celebrated across Tanaria not for her beauty or even her power, but for her wisdom. It was said she could see truth as easily as others saw color, that she knew the weight of every soul she commanded, and the cost of every choice she made. When she spoke, even the wind seemed to listen.
At her side stood Markus, her counterpart and protector. Where Sabine was calm and deliberate, Markus was the storm. The werewolf towered above most men, his broad frame wrapped in the simple uniform of the Guardians: dark leather reinforced with plate and marked by the sigil of the twin brothers, Aurelian and Leohran. A thin scar ran from his temple to his jaw, the faint trace of a battle long past. His eyes, sharp, and alert, missed nothing.
The recruits whispered his name like a half-told legend. Markus the Iron Fang. Markus of the Dunes. Markus who had stood alone against the Tide of Shadows at the western frontier and returned with the heads of seven fiends. His ferocity in battle was matched only by his loyalty to the Order, and above all, to Sabine.
Their bond had become the stuff of legend.
They were the living proof of what a Sahar and Guardian could become when the bond reached its truest form, unity so perfect it transcended the mortal divide. When Sabine called upon her magic, Markus moved with her as if guided by the same heartbeat. In battle, their combined strength had turned the tides of wars, their presence alone often enough to rally armies and break dark enchantments.
To see them together was to witness the Order’s ideals made flesh, power and restraint, intellect and instinct, light and steel.
When Sabine spoke, her voice was steady and resonant, carrying easily through the vaulted chamber. “Welcome to Arelian Keep,” she began, her words formal but not cold. “You have come from every corner of Tanaria, each drawn here by purpose, though your reasons may differ. Some of you seek mastery over the elements. Some seek redemption. Some come because you have nowhere else to go. It matters not. What binds you here is greater than ambition or need.”
She paused, letting her gaze sweep over the sea of faces. “The Order of Arelian is not merely a guild or an army. It is a promise, that light and darkness shall forever be held in balance. That we will guard the living from the corruption that stirs beyond mortal sight. Our cause is not for gold, nor for crowns, but for the world itself.”
Markus stepped forward then, his deep voice rumbling through the silence. “Some of you will become Sahar,” he said, his tone roughened by age and battle. “Some will become Guardians. Some will fail, and some will die. Make no mistake, this path will break the weak, but those who endure will find something stronger than blood, stronger than love itself. You will find your other half.”
He turned his head slightly toward Sabine. The brief exchange of looks between them carried more meaning than any words could.
“The bond you form,” Markus continued, “will be forged in trust and tempered in battle. You will learn to breathe as one, to think as one. It is not an easy road, and it is not for everyone. But for those who succeed… there is no power greater.”
A hush fell over the hall. The recruits stood entranced, caught between awe and fear. For many, this was the first time they had seen the Grand Sahar and the First Blade together.
Tenzin, standing among the instructors at the edge of the crowd, had seen them a hundred times before, they raised him, and were the closest thing he had to parents, but the sight still stirred something in him. The strength between them, that silent, wordless unity, was what he longed for. What every Guardian longed for.
As Sabine finished her address, the sigil of the twin brothers glimmered faintly on the wall behind her, a blade inside of the sun, encircled by the symbol of eternity.
“The light endures,” Sabine said softly.
“The blade defends,” Markus answered.
And with those words, the ceremony began.
Vela stood among the crowd, her wings tucked tightly beneath her robe, trying to ignore the itch that crept along her shoulders where fabric met feathers. The hall was breathtaking, but the press of people made her chest tighten, the air thick and close. The claustrophobia gnawed at her nerves and she forced herself to focus on the Grand Sahar’s voice… on anything but the memory that had haunted her dreams.
She had that dream again last night. The screams, the tearing of flesh, the growls of beasts. Not a nightmare, but a memory — the day her village fell. Her mother had hidden her beneath the floorboards of their home, pressing their hands together before whispering, “You are the chosen one. Do not come out until it is safe. Promise me you will become what you are meant to be.”
The memory burned as vividly as ever, she had stayed hidden for three days without food or water until she could no longer bear it. When she pushed open the cellar door, it caught on her mother’s body. The sight had hollowed her and everyone was gone.
It had taken years to reach this place.
She was older than many of the novices gathered in the hall, though not the oldest. Her people aged differently, gracefully, slowly, but the burden she carried had weathered her spirit long before time could touch her face.
In the early days of creation, when the heavens still trembled from the birth of gods, Seraphis, the god of valor and guardianship, looked upon Callen, goddess of the moon, love, and wisdom, and was moved by a devotion so fierce it rivaled the stars. To honor her, he drew from his own celestial essence and breathed life into a new race, beings crafted to embody both of their virtues. Thus, the Seraphelle were born: radiant souls woven from moonlight and divine blood, sworn to protect Callen’s temples and spread her light throughout Tanaria.
The Seraphelle’s blood was a sacred gift, said to heal the wounded and purge sickness from the body. In the old days, that miracle made them symbols of hope, but in darker times, it made them targets.
The Seraphelle were rare now, scattered remnants of a fading divinity, and though the wings upon her back marked her as one of them, it was the flicker of celestial magic beneath her skin that truly set her apart. Her race, the Seraphelle, were said to be born from love itself.
Vela had grown up hearing the stories, of Seraphis’ sacrifice, of Callen’s sorrow, of the ancient war that scattered her kind to the winds. Yet those tales were more than myth to her; they were lineage, and lineage, in Tanaria, could be both a blessing and a curse.
At the far edge of the crowd, standing half in shadow, the leonine figure stood like a statue carved from stone, tall, broad-shouldered, his golden mane glinting in the filtered light. His amber gaze was fixed forward, calm and unreadable, yet when it met hers, something primal struck deep within her chest.
Her heart lurched, her breath caught. The noise of the hall fell away until all she could hear was the drum of her own pulse.
He was not the first of his kind she had ever seen, but he was the first since that day.
The memory flashed behind her eyes like a wound reopening: the roar of beasts, the scent of blood and smoke, her mother’s voice whispering from the dark beneath the floorboards. She had been fourteen then, hidden beneath the bodies of her kin, praying for the screams to stop. When she emerged, her wings were matted with ash, and her god had been silent.
Vela bowed her head quickly, letting her dark hair fall forward like a curtain to hide her face. To anyone watching, it might have looked like prayer, but it wasn’t reverence that stilled her, it was survival. She forced herself to breathe.
In.
Out.
The sound of her heartbeat softened, but the weight in her chest did not ease. She had come to Arelian Keep to master her magic, to control the part of herself that had once brought ruin. But now, standing under the vaulted ceiling of the hall, surrounded by strangers and ghosts, she realized something far more difficult lay ahead, learning not to fear what she was, and what she saw staring back at her from the eyes of the lion.
Tenzin had noticed her the moment she entered.
Even among the tide of faces, bright with awe, weary from travel, some hardened, others trembling, she drew his attention without meaning to. Her shoulders were tense, drawn up like a bowstring. Her eyes darted from wall to wall as if measuring the room for escape routes rather than admiring its beauty.
He had seen fear before, in recruits and soldiers alike, but this was something different, deeper, older. The kind that wasn’t born of the unknown, but of memory.
His gaze lingered a heartbeat too long. When her eyes finally lifted to meet his, he caught the flash of panic in them, sharp and immediate, like the moment before a wild creature bolts. Then she looked away, bowing her head beneath the fall of dark hair. To anyone else, it might have seemed reverence for the ceremony, but Tenzin knew better. He had startled her simply by existing.
He exhaled slowly, his tail twitching once behind him, a small betrayal of the curiosity gnawing at him.
Perhaps she had seen one of his kind before. The Leonin were most common in Dhuma, though a few served among the Order. Most were older, their manes vast and regal, their presence commanding. Tenzin’s own mane was still growing into what it would one day be, full, but not yet broad or impressive. A mark of his youth, though he had long since proven his worth in combat. Still, it was something he noticed each time he caught his reflection in the polished steel of the training hall. Others rarely cared, but among the Leonin, a mane was more than fur; it was identity, pride, and age.
He resisted the urge to run a hand through it now.
When the ceremony ended, the recruits began to murmur again, the air loosening as the Grand Sahar and her Guardian took their leave. The banners swayed softly in the mountain breeze that seeped through the open archways, carrying with it the distant sounds of the city far below.
Tenzin slipped out before the hall had fully cleared, his steps silent on the stone. He had heard the speeches a dozen times before, the same promises of honor and unity, the same warnings of sacrifice. For the new arrivals, it was inspiration. For him, it had become routine.
He preferred the quiet of the training yard, the whisper of his blade through the evening air. The rhythm of motion grounded him, reminded him why he stayed even when the years passed without a Sahar to call his own.
As the recruits were dismissed, the courtyard came alive again. Instructors directed them toward their new quarters, narrow stone halls branching off from the main keep, each lined with small rooms outfitted with little more than a bed, a chest, and a single candle lantern. Voices echoed down the corridors as strangers became roommates, laughter and nervous chatter mingling with the creak of wooden doors.
Vela lingered near the edge of the crowd, clutching the small satchel that held everything she owned. The stone walls made her wings feel heavy, cramped; she longed for open air, for the comfort of the stars above, but she followed the others, wordless, to her assigned room, a modest space tucked between two others, where the walls seemed to press in on her from all sides.
She sat on the edge of the narrow bed, staring at the candle flame flickering in the draft. It should have felt safe here, the heart of the most protected fortress in Dhuma, but her pulse still beat fast, her mind still full of golden eyes and memories that refused to fade, and when sleep finally claimed her, it came fitfully.
The dream returned — the smoke, the screams, the flash of claws and teeth, and there, amid the chaos, was the lion’s face again. Not the monster of her past, but the one she had seen that day: calm, watching. Still, when his eyes met hers in the dream, she woke with a gasp, drenched in sweat, her sheets tangled around her legs.
The silence of the Keep was deafening.
She rose, splashing cold water over her face, watching it run down her arms and glisten in the candlelight. Her heart still hammered, her reflection a stranger in the dim glass of the window. The air smelled of old stone and mountain wind, and somewhere beyond her wall, she could hear the low murmur of voices, recruits talking softly, guards changing watch, the world going on as hers stood still. Even after washing, the feeling clung to her skin.
Tomorrow, the real training would begin.
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