A Background Character’s Path to Power

Nusayel continued. "Don't get me wrong. You are indeed capable of protecting yourself and your friend; however, it won't work here, not now. Because the resonance winds outside will disrupt all aura flows—especially spatial frequencies. Your portal could collapse mid-transit, or worse, tear open unpredictably." His gaze bore into the silver-haired youth. "That power could become your death sentence out there."

He then exhaled sharply through his nose, the blizzard's growing howl pressing against Eclipse Keep's ancient stones like a living thing. Time was slipping away, and every moment spent arguing was a moment lost.

The silver-haired youth met his gaze unflinchingly. "I understand your concern, Lord Luthaire. But I assure you—my control is precise. And even if I refrain from spatial techniques, I am far from helpless."

The golden-eyed boy stepped forward, his usual nervous energy replaced by quiet determination. "We may look unremarkable, but we've trained for situations like this. We won't let our friend's family face this alone."

For a heartbeat, Nusayel studied them—the silver-haired one's unnatural stillness, the golden-eyed boy's clenched fists. He saw no arrogance in their words, only resolve. And time, damn it all, was running out.

"Fine," he relented, voice clipped. "But you follow my orders without question. One reckless move, and I'll send you back immediately."

The two youths nodded in unison, their expressions solemn.

Just then, Professor Harken cleared his throat. "Then I suppose I'll join as well. It would be shameful to let my students shoulder the danger while I sit idle."

Nusayel gave a curt nod. "So be it. Stay close."

"Yes, sir."

The group moved swiftly through the obsidian corridors, the distant howl of the storm growing louder with every step. As they ascended to the upper keep's main courtyard, the full force of the Whitefall became visible—a swirling wall of mist and snow already swallowing the lower keep whole.

It appeared even worse than they thought, thanks to the heavy snow.

Through the thickening haze, faint light beacons flickered erratically, their glow struggling against the unnatural storm. The golden-eyed youth sucked in a sharp breath. "It's already that bad?"

Nusayel didn't answer, his jaw set. But the others didn't need words to understand—this was worse than they'd thought.

The butler hurried forward, his voice tight. "My lord, communications with the lower keep are failing. Within ten, maybe twenty minutes, the second wave will cut it off completely. And the anchor rooms—there's instability in the western wing."

The baron's expression darkened further as he gazed at the largest part of the keep. "And the town?"

"Evacuation has begun, but it's slow. There are injured from the lower keep, and some scouts haven't returned yet."

Nusayel didn't hesitate.

"You," he said, turning to the butler, "take the healer and him—" He gestured to the golden-eyed youth. "—to assist with the evacuation. Prioritize the injured and get the townsfolk to the underground shelter."

Then he faced the remaining three—Professor Harken, the silver-haired youth, and himself. "We'll head to the lower keep. If those anchors fail, the entire western wing could collapse."

The butler bowed. "Understood, my lord."

The golden-eyed youth opened his mouth as if to protest, but the healer placed a hand on his shoulder. "We'll help where we're needed most."

Nusayel gave a sharp nod. "Move quickly. And stay alive."

With that, the group split—the butler leading the healer and the golden-eyed youth toward the storm-lashed gates, while Nusayel, Harken, and the silver-haired youth turned toward the descending thin stairwell that led to the lower keep.

The blizzard roared around them, its fury only growing.

And time was running out.

______ __ _

The butler and the two youths arrived at the town square, where the evacuation was already in full swing. Thanks to years of preparation—this was, after all, an annual ordeal—the townsfolk moved with practiced efficiency.

Guards directed the flow of people while others carried supplies toward the underground shelters. The vice-captain, a stern woman with a heavy obsidian armor and a large longsword, spotted them immediately.

Her hand flew to the hilt of her sword—then paused. Recognition flashed in her eyes as she spotted the butler; she relaxed slightly and saluted. "Sir Veylan. You're here earlier than expected."

The butler wasted no time. "Lord Luthaire's orders. We are here to assist with the evacuation, particularly the injured."

The vice-captain's sharp eyes flicked over the golden-eyed youth before lingering on the healer for a moment longer. "Good timing, then. We've got wounded who aren't responding to treatment. The healers say it's best to move them underground before the fog reaches us."

The golden-eyed youth frowned. "Not responding to treatment?"

She gave a grim nod. "You'll see."

With that, she assigned six soldiers to escort them to the infirmary and help with the job.

_____ __

The infirmary was in chaos.

More than twenty people lay on cots, some eerily still, others trembling violently. A few of the conscious ones stared blankly at the ceiling, muttering under their breaths—words that made no sense, syllables strung together like broken incantations.

The butler's stomach twisted. This wasn't just frostbite or exhaustion. And this was too early to happen.

He spotted the head healer—an elderly man with deep circles under his eyes—and relayed the baron's orders.

The man exhaled in relief. "Thank goodness. We've tried everything, but whatever's affecting them… It's not natural. You know what I mean." He gestured to a young woman whose fingers clawed at her own arms, her whispers frantic. "And they keep saying the same thing—'Eyes in the snow' or something like that."

Eyes in the snow?

The phrase chilled them more than the wind ever could. Maybe it gave the feeling that something or someone was watching beyond the blizzard

"Excuse me." The young healer stepped forward, his blue eyes narrowing behind his monocle. "Can I take a look?"

"Huh? But be careful." The head healer replied.

The young healer knelt beside the nearest patient, a man whose skin had taken on a sickly gray pallor.

With practiced movements, he checked the man's pulse, then pressed two fingers to his forehead. A faint cerulean glow emanated from his touch, so subtle it could have been a trick of the flickering lantern light.

The room held its breath.

After a long moment, the patient's frantic muttering ceased. His trembling stilled, and his eyelids fluttered shut as he slipped into what appeared to be peaceful sleep. The unnatural tension drained from his body.

The head healer gasped. "What in the frost just happened…?"

But the young healer wasn't listening. He turned to the butler, his usually melodic voice now grave.

"This isn't just a simple blizzard, is it?"