Godling, a word created for those too powerful to handle, but normally they burn themselves out and die before they can be reached. The human body isn’t made to handle that much Aether.

  The birds woke him before the pain did. Crows-maybe ravens-calling overhead, hopping from branch to branch. Somewhere, the sun was rising. Arin only saw it as orange light pressing through his eyelids, painting the darkness behind his eyes with fire. He stayed like that for a long time, still and barely breathing, as if the world might forget him if he didn’t move. The earth was cold beneath his cheek. His muscles ached. His mouth was dry and bitter, the taste of tears and blood and dirt.

  When he finally rolled over, the world spun and his stomach threatened to empty again. He clenched his jaw and forced himself upright, one hand pressed to the new mark on his shoulder - a skull, black and hungry. His shirt, already ruined, hung in ragged strips. Bandages stuck to dried blood on his ribs. All gone. He waited for the tears to come again, but there was nothing left-only a numb heaviness, like he was buried beneath the ground with everyone else. The crows scattered at his movement, flapping up into the gray dawn. Arin pulled himself to his feet, legs shaky, and squinted at the ruined town in the valley below. There was no smoke. No sign of life. Keep moving. If he stopped, the memories would catch him. He stumbled forward, one hand braced against a tree, trying to remember the lessons his mother had whispered when he was a child. Don’t drink from standing water. Check the sky for weather. Never, ever walk toward a crow that won’t fly away. He paused, suddenly aware of a pair of black eyes watching him from the undergrowth-a single crow, closer than the rest, not afraid. For a moment, Arin stared back, feeling the air around him tense, electric. The mark on his shoulder prickled cold. He forced himself onward, ignoring the bird, but it hopped after him, persistent. There was something unsettling in the way it moved, almost deliberate, almost… purposeful. A voice, low and rasping, rose behind him:

  “You look half-dead, boy. That’s better than most around here.” Arin spun, stumbling, heart thudding. A figure stepped out from the trees-a woman, tall and ragged, with a staff in one hand and green tattoos curling up her bare arms. Her eyes flicked from the mark on his shoulder to his battered face, and she smiled, showing crooked teeth.

  “Lost, are you? Or just running from ghosts?” Arin opened his mouth, but no words came. For the first time since the massacre, he realized how alone he was-and how little he trusted even the living.

  “Quiet for a young one like yourself, but I guess that makes sense for one like you,” she said, walking around to stand in front of him before kneeling down, lightly brushing against his wounds. Arin flinched, but didn’t exactly pull away. Her tattoos started writhing against her arm like snakes in the dirt, and felt almost like his skin was burning, but instead of pain, his wounds started to close.

  “The forest has seen some strange things lately, godlings, knights, and death on a level it hasn’t seen in a moment,” she continued. “Now, here you are, with that mark on your shoulder, the stench of death surrounding you, and wounds like these. I wonder what the connection there is.”

  “Ma’am, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Arin responds, pulling away from her and attempting to cover his shoulder. The woman shakes her head at that, sitting back on her heels as the crow jumps up to sit on her head.

  “Two marks, severe bruising and broken bones, that numb look on your face, you know what I’m talking about.”

  “I really don’t, I just got lost here after falling out of a tree,” he bluffs, attempting to rise to his feet but the nausea comes back in force.

  “I was born at night, but not last night. If you don’t want to talk, I won’t force you. Yet. Would you like some food or water maybe?” She offers. Arin’s stomach rumbles and his mouth floods with saliva. It feels like he hasn’t eaten in days, but that can’t be right.

  “I wouldn’t say no, but what’s the catch?”

  “The only catch is your name.”

  “...Arin.”

  “There we go, was it really that hard?” She asks, pulling a loaf of bread and some cheese out of the bag on her hip and handing it to him. Arin ate like a starved animal, the food starting to make him nauseous. The lady sat quiet until he was done, watching him intently.

  “One of the drawbacks of expending everything you have is that your body can’t keep up with your strength. You can feel it, can’t you? The way that your skin burns up when you exert too much force,” she counsels him, pulling out another loaf of bread. “Don’t eat too fast, you’ll just end up throwing it all up again.”

  Once he finishes, Arin flops to the ground, his arm over his eyes. She could be dangerous, one of the knights that survived. How can I trust her? Nevermind, there’s nothing I can do in this state anyway. If she was one of them, I’d be dead or captured by now.

  “If you can stand, let's get moving. It’s not safe here,” the woman says, rising to her feet and holding out a hand towards Arin. He reaches out to take it, and almost gets pulled over past center. She’s strong. Wordlessly he follows her, walking deeper and deeper into the forest. As the daylight starts to dim he looks up, the endless canopy above them masking the light of the sun.

  “How much farther are we going?” Arin says, breaking the silence.

  “Not much, you’ll know when we get there,” she responds. Almost as soon as she said that it felt like a waterfall crashed into his head and he stumbles, only staying upright by the sudden hand gripping the front of his shirt.

  “Oh come on now, this much pressure shouldn’t knock you off your feet,” she states simply as she pulls him through it. Once his face pushed through the waterfall of pressure it felt like he entered a different world. The dim forest behind him was replaced with a brightly lit clearing. A single log cabin dominated most of the small clearing, single story but well built, the wood interlocking in ways that didn’t make any sense to him. It was almost like the logs grew around each other to keep the walls together, and the leaf roof looked almost too solid to be real leaves. As he keeps walking forward she turns back to him.

  “My name is Mira, and this is my humble abode. My sanctuary in the woods. What you stepped through was a basic ward, meant to keep eyes off of me. If you aren’t near me, you’ll feel confused as soon as you get within a hundred or so yards, your sense of direction will fail around fifty yards, and if you manage to make it to the sanctuary through all of that there’s enough pressure in the ward to keep most people out.” Arin remains silent, absorbing everything she just said and everything around him. Wards are advanced and draining, requiring a constant flow of Aether, the power that keeps the world turning. His concentration is broken by the sound of Mira opening the door. Inside, the air was warm and full of the smells of woodsmoke, herbs, and something faintly metallic. Mira moved easily among the clutter, setting a kettle on the fire, the crow hopping behind her as if to supervise.

  “You can sit, if you trust the furniture,” she said, quirking a crooked smile. “It’s sturdier than it looks.”

  Arin eased onto a low bench, eyes flicking to a set of runes carved along the mantel. A battered sword leaned against the wall, its hilt wrapped in old bandages. Above it, a faded map showed three kingdoms and a wide stretch of no-man’s land.

  “You’re not the first to come through here,” Mira said, not looking at him. “But you are the first to come out alive with two marks. I imagine the knights would pay dearly to have you delivered.”

  Arin tensed. “Are you planning to sell me?” His eyes flickering around the cabin, his hands clenching into fists almost instinctively.

  She snorted, dropping tea leaves into a pot. “If I wanted you dead, you’d never have made it past my ward. I don’t work for the knights, or for you. I help who I can, until I can’t anymore.”

  “Why?”

  Mira’s hands paused over the fire. “Maybe because someone once helped me. Maybe because I like making things hard for the bastards in armor.” The crow cawed, as if in agreement, startling Arin. It has to be a familiar of some kind. His eyes lingered on the sword, and Mira noticed.

  “It’s an old artifact of a war long gone, hopefully I don’t have to rip it from its slumber any time soon,” she states simply, turning away from Arin both to end the conversation and to tend to the fire.

  Arin sat in uneasy silence, the warmth of the fire slowly unknotting his shoulders. The crow watched him with unblinking eyes from the mantle. For a long time, only the bubbling kettle and Mira’s quiet movements filled the cabin. He tried not to stare at the old sword or the faded map, but his eyes kept drifting. Every detail in the room spoke of battles survived, or battles yet to come.

  Mira handed him a battered clay cup. “Tea,” she said. “Nothing fancy, but it’ll settle your nerves. Maybe help you sleep.” Arin cradled the cup, letting the steam curl around his face.

  “I don’t know if I want to sleep,” he admitted. “Not after—” He stopped, throat closing.

  Mira sat across from him, hands loose in her lap. “Then don’t sleep. Talk, or sit, or just listen to the rain if it comes. No one’s going to push you here.” He nodded, staring at the dark liquid. The cabin was safe, but his mind was not.

  Outside, dusk was falling. The light through the small window turned gold, then gray. Somewhere in the trees, wolves howled, their voices distant but restless. The crow hopped down from the mantel, landing on the table beside Arin’s elbow. He almost pulled away, but the bird just cocked its head, as if judging him.

  “Is it a familiar?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

  “Something like that,” Mira said. “Old companion. He’s got a sense for trouble. Saved my life a time or two.” As the light faded, Mira rose and busied herself at a shelf. “Rest here tonight. You need it. In the morning, you’ll have choices.”

  Arin set down his cup, finally feeling the exhaustion in his bones. “What do you mean, choices?”

  Mira glanced back at him, her expression unreadable in the firelight. “Word travels faster than you’d think, even out here. There are others looking for people like you—some mean to help, some to harm, and some to use you for their own ends. You can stay here a while, learn to control what’s inside you. Or you can leave at first light, and take your chances with the world.”

  Arin hesitated. “And you? Why stay?”

  Her lips quirked in a tired smile. “Someone’s got to mind the door.” He wanted to ask more, but the weight of the day finally pressed him down. He curled up on the cot Mira pointed to, pulling a rough wool blanket around his shoulders. The crow hopped to the end of the bed, settling like a shadow. He listened to the fire, the wind, the quiet. Sleep crept in, uninvited.

  He dreamed of Az, of fire and screams, of white-armored figures and the sickening wet crunch that echoed even in his memory. The marks on his skin burned hot and cold, fighting each other until he thought he might split open. He woke gasping, the room flickering with pale light. His right arm—where the white flame mark curled—was glowing faintly, and cold shadows crawled up from the new skull-shaped mark on his shoulder.

  The crow cawed once, sharp enough to break the spell. Arin forced the Aether down, breathing hard. He could still feel the dream clinging to him. Mira’s silhouette appeared in the doorway. “The power doesn’t rest easy with you yet,” she said softly.

  He shook his head, too shaken for words.

  “Come outside,” she said. “Let’s walk before the dawn.”

  The woods were quiet, wet with dew. The ward pressed softly at Arin’s senses, a reminder of hidden protections. Mira walked beside him in silence until they reached the edge of the clearing. “You’re not alone in this, Arin. Not anymore. But if you want to survive—really survive—you have to master the Aether before it masters you. Most can’t handle a single mark. Two… That’s not just rare, it’s dangerous.” She pointed to a patch of earth near the ward’s edge. A strange symbol had been scorched into the grass—something recent, and definitely magical.

  “Someone’s been close,” she said, her voice tight. “Someone who shouldn’t have been able to find us.” Arin felt the cold mark on his shoulder prickle.

  “What does it mean?”

  “It means your time here is short.” Mira looked at him, eyes hard as stone. “At dawn, you decide—hide, run, or fight. Whatever you choose, I’ll help you. But you can’t be passive, not anymore.” A branch snapped in the forest. Both of them turned, the crow’s wings flaring. But whatever had made the sound melted back into the darkness. The sun was just beginning to rise.

  Arin laid there in the grass, watching as the sun started to rise in the East of the clearing, breaking through the tree line and shining rays through the leaves. Mira came back out of the house, walking over to sit beside him.

  “Have you made your decision?” She asked softly.

  “If you’ll have me, I’ll stay. I don’t think you mean to harm me, if you wanted to you already would have, and you know more than you’ve told me so far,” he responded, sitting up.

  “Then we’ll begin your training. With our… uninvited visitor so close to my sanctuary we don’t have much time. It will be rough, but you’ll survive. Now stand and show me what you can do.”

  “What I can do? I don’t think this is a great place for me to just start releasing Aether.”

  Mira chuckles. “This isn’t your ordinary house, everything here should be strong enough to survive at least one hit from even the King,” she states, and with a wave of her hand the entire clearing started releasing enough energy to make Arin feel sick. Runes covered every inch of the clearing, from the edge of the grass to the roof of the house. She’s strong. Really strong. He closed his eyes and started gathering Aether in his chest, but as soon as he did he felt a thud against the top of his head.

  “How do you expect to fight if your eyes are closed? Keep them open, keep an eye on your surroundings as you gather your Aether,” she chastised, lowering the stick in her hand. Where did she even get that? With his eyes open this time Arin started again, the white tattoos on the right side of his body started to heat up again, releasing a faint white light. Suddenly, like a sprinter taking off, he doubled, then tripled the amount of Aether he was holding. It felt like his chest was about to burst from the pressure, and his skin started to tingle slightly.

  “Not bad, you’ve managed to reach the first stage of mastery. Release it now,” Mira said, a faint smile on her face. Arin focused again, the marks on his body erupting into a bright white flame that seemed to almost roll off of him. His hair started to float and whip around, his tattered shirt fluttering slightly.

  “Keep going, there’s more in you, you just have to reach for it.” With a short grunt Arin reached deeper inside of himself, scraping the bottom of the barrel for the last bit of Aether he could muster up, and as he did he felt the cold slipping into his chest. Not again, not yet. He suddenly severed his connection, his hair falling limply onto his face as he tried to catch his breath. He hunched over slightly, gripping at his heart where the coldness was receding from.

  “You can’t be scared of what you have, if you are you’ll never grow.”

  “It feels unnatural, like there’s another person in my brain.”

  “It will feel like that until you conquer it. Again, but this time only use that side of your Aether.”

  He started one more time, this time ignoring the heat he normally reaches for and instead grabbing at the cold. A faint black mist started to form from the left side of his body, a slippery, unpleasant feeling forming in his chest. He resisted the urge to drop it again and kept grabbing. Voices started in his head, at first just wordless mumbling but rising into a cacophony of screams and cries stabbing into his brain like hot needles. He grimaced, releasing it just like his light, the black mist thickening and starting to pour out of his left side. Out of nowhere, a voice cut through the noise in his head.

  “Arin, how could you leave us, how could you run?” Az’s mom. He choked back a sob, falling to his knees as the power slowly dispersed. Mira took a step forward and placed a hand on his shoulder, silencing the noise in his head as he started to sob.

  “Death, that’s what it is. Your body somehow houses the very idea of life and death,” Mira whispered, more to herself than to Arin. Her grip tightens slightly, and Arin raises one hand to hold onto hers as his tears fall to the grassy floor. Seconds turn to minutes, minutes turn to almost an hour as Arin regains his composure, Mira staying by his side the entire time.

  After Arin recovers, he asks, “Does it ever get easier? Living with this?”

  She shakes her head. “Loss will never get easier. You learn to cope with it, but the pain will always be there,” she calmly says in a knowing tone. A single crow call breaks the silence, and Mira turns sharply to the edge of the clearing.

  “Arin, you remember that sword? Get it. Now,” she commands, her eyes watching intently into the forest. He rises to his feet, stumbling slightly, before running into the house. The battered sword sat there in its resting place. Arin grabbed it, bringing it outside to Mira.

  “Now watch, this may be a time for you to learn or it may be a time for you to run. Whatever you do, don’t try to fight.” A hint of worry in Mira’s voice brings a sense of fear to Arin, and he takes a few steps back. An armor-clad boot steps through the barrier, followed by a familiar figure. Another one of the knights who attacked his village. His breath catches in his throat, and almost instinctively he gathers Aether in his chest. The voices are louder this time, almost as if they’re responding to the figure in front of him. He can feel Mira’s hesitation, but she draws the sword from its scabbard. The tattered leather makes way to a beautifully crafted weapon, covered in etchings and runes, a silvery blade that has seen battle. Who is Mira really?

  “The next step you take will be your last,” Mira commands, pointing the blade toward the knight.

  “The Crow Mother, I never expected to see you here,” the knight calls out. At a second glance his armor was different, more ornate. He has to be the commander of the outfit of knights who came for me. His helmet makes it impossible to read his face, but his voice drips with malice. Mira didn’t flinch, but her body coiled like a drawn bow. The crow circled overhead, shrieking in a spiraling arc.

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

  “Did you follow me all this way for a boy?” she asked, her voice carrying across the grass. “Or do the Dalldar have new sport in mind for old witches?” The knight tilted his head, studying her blade.

  “Neither, Crow Mother. I came to finish what we started. Orders are orders, but for you? I make exceptions.” His gaze drifted past Mira, settling on Arin, and a cruel smile flickered. “You survived. I suppose miracles are real, after all.”

  Aether surged at Arin’s marks, icy and hot, begging for release. He forced his breath steady, chest burning with grief and hate. Mira stepped forward, blade unwavering.

  “You’ll find this place less welcoming than your last slaughter.”

  The knight removed his helm, tucking it under one arm. His hair was cropped close, streaked with silver at the temples. A faded scar traced his jaw. “Do you remember my name, Mira? Or did you forget the captain who let your kind walk away in chains, once?”

  For the first time, Arin saw Mira’s eyes flicker—recognition, regret, anger—then harden to flint. “I remember every soul I’ve ever lost to the Empire’s chains. I remember yours, too.”

  He laughed, short and bitter. “Then you know how this ends.”

  Lightning-fast, his free hand shot forward—Aether crackled, swirling black and violet between his fingers, streaking for Mira in a spear of force. She met it with her blade, runes blazing, and the clearing exploded in light and noise.

  Arin staggered backward, shielding his eyes. The crows screamed, flaring up from the trees. For a heartbeat, the world was white fire and howling wind. Then the air snapped back, and Mira and the knight circled each other, both alive, both braced for the next attack.

  “Stay back, Arin!” Mira shouted, not turning. “You’re not ready—this isn’t your fight yet!”

  But Arin’s marks burned, the voices in his mind already stirring. He could feel Mira’s Aether pooling inside of her, radiating off of her, the grass shifting at her feet. Just as suddenly as it began, it felt like someone emptied an ocean of Aether into the air. Mira launched herself forward, her blade swinging toward the captain, cutting through the air. The captain raised his hand, but her blade changed direction at the last minute and cut deep into his side. Her attack wasn’t without fault though, as the knight took the hit his right hand punched out, striking Mira cleanly in the side, knocking her back.

  Mira barely touched down before she was moving again, her silhouette a blur against the grass. This time her blade swept low, carving runes of pale fire in its wake. The captain snarled, blocking with his armored forearm—a ring of violet Aether crackling at the point of impact, sparks arcing to the trees.

  He retaliated, twisting his injured side away as he thrust his palm toward Mira’s chest. The air warped, a pulse of force erupting from his hand. Mira threw up her sword in time—the runes along the blade flared, absorbing most of the blow, but she staggered back a step, boots digging furrows in the earth.

  “You always did like to play with your food, Crow Mother,” the captain taunted, blood seeping through his armor. “But you’re slowing down.”

  Mira didn’t answer. She spat a smear of blood into the grass, then flicked her sword—three crows shrieked, swooping low as if to harry the captain’s eyes. He batted them aside, but missed the shimmer of Mira’s Aether as she slipped in close, feinting left and slicing for his leg.

  Steel rang. The captain dropped low, almost impossibly fast, and caught her wrist, wrenching her arm behind her back. Aether crackled—she grimaced but did not cry out.

  “Drop it,” he hissed, twisting harder.

  Arin’s heart hammered. The marks on his arms burned, voices clamoring. Help her. Strike now. Kill him. He’ll kill her. You’ll be alone again.

  For a moment, the world narrowed to the three of them—Mira straining, the captain’s iron grip, and Arin at the edge, power rising.

  But Mira, teeth gritted, shifted her weight and drove her heel into the captain’s knee. He buckled, loosening his hold just enough for her to break free and roll clear. The blade flashed up, carving a sigil in the air—a wall of wind slammed into the captain, hurling him backward into the trees. Branches snapped, leaves spiraled, and the ward crackled with sudden power. The clearing that hadn’t flinched at anything Arin could do now seemed to pulse with tension. His marks burned, the air crackled, and for a moment it felt as if the ground itself was holding its breath.

  Arin’s body moved before his mind could catch up. He launched himself at the knight, spinning through the air, fist clenched tight. The world narrowed to Mira, the knight, and the hate in his veins.

  But Drast was faster. The captain stepped back, iron calm, and brought his elbow down toward Arin’s spine—only for Mira’s blade to thrust forward, a blast of wind knocking Drast back just in time.

  “Stay out of this! It’s too dangerous for you!” Mira’s voice cracked like a whip, her gaze never leaving Drast. “Drast, leave him out of this. This fight is between you and me.”

  Drast spat blood into the grass and smiled, something wolfish in his eyes. “See, that’s where you’re wrong. The King’s content to let you rot in your little sanctuary, Mira—but the boy? He’s different. You may be a first-generation godling, but he’s a second-generation.”

  Arin scrambled to his feet, confusion warring with rage. “What does that even mean?”

  Drast’s gaze flickered, almost pitying. “First-generation godlings are monsters in their own right. But when two of them breed—well. The strength doubles. You get two marks. We never believed the stories—until you. You’re too dangerous to let live, Arin. The Empire will use you, then break you, just like the rest of Mira’s kind.”

  Arin felt the marks on his skin flare—white-hot and ice-cold, his own grief and fury surging. He took a fighting stance, jaw clenched. “You’ll have to kill me first.”

  Drast laughed, teeth bared. Blood slicked his armor, but his eyes were sharp as ever. Mira squared herself between the godling and the captain. “You never could finish what you started, Drast.”

  “Today’s different,” he growled, drawing a blade from his belt—a short sword, rune-etched, glowing faintly with violet Aether. He lunged. Mira met him head-on, steel flashing. The air around them shimmered with the clash of Aether: wind and shadow, force and flame. For a moment, it was all Arin could do to shield his eyes, the world blinding and roaring. He tried to move, to help, but his body locked with fear and uncertainty—the marks burning, voices hissing: Not ready. Not strong enough. Not yet.

  The duel shifted—Drast, brutal and relentless, pressed forward, landing a glancing blow to Mira’s arm. She gasped, blood blooming beneath the torn fabric, but she did not yield. Instead, she twisted, using the momentum to slam the pommel of her blade into his temple. Drast staggered, shaking his head to clear it. Mira seized her moment. She lifted her sword, runes flaring bright, and carved a wide arc in the air. The crows screamed, swirling in a tight vortex as a sudden gale howled through the clearing.

  “Begone!” Mira’s voice rang, terrible and ancient. The wind smashed into Drast, hurling him off his feet and sending him crashing into the trees. Branches cracked, leaves scattered, and the ward flared once, sealing shut behind him.

  A silence fell. Drast’s form did not reappear. Somewhere beyond the trees, the sound of armored retreat faded into the woods. Mira let her sword fall, shoulders sagging. Blood dripped steadily from her arm, soaking the earth. Her breath was ragged, her stance trembling for the first time.

  Arin rushed to her side, guilt and fear crashing over him. “Mira, I—why didn’t you let me help?”

  She gave him a small, tired smile, pain etched deep. “You’re not ready, Arin. You would have died, or worse. This fight was mine.”

  Arin looked at his hands, feeling the heat and cold warring beneath his skin. He remembered the screams, the power just out of reach, and the look on Drast’s face when he’d called him “too dangerous to be left alive.” He felt helpless. Useless. Even now, after all he’d survived.

  Mira squeezed his arm, her blood warm against his skin. “Your time will come. But you have to survive to see it.”

  He nodded, swallowing the shame. For now, all he could do was help her back toward the house, praying the Empire would not return too soon. As they stumble back into the house Arin starts searching for medicine and bandages, Mira’s aether surging as she attempts to stabilize her arm. She sat with her back against the wall, breathing slow and shallow. Arin knelt at her side, hands shaking as he pressed the last of the herbs against the wound. Blood soaked the cloth. The arm hung limp, already starting to bruise a sickly black around the bicep.

  She met his gaze, her face etched with pain and resignation. “It’s poisoned, that’s what Drast’s Aether brings. I won’t be able to use this arm again for a long time, if ever.” She spoke as if discussing the weather, not the end of a life’s work. Arin’s shame surged. She’s hurt—because of me. He started to apologize, but she silenced him with a look. “No time for guilt. There’s things you need to know, Arin. Things I should have said sooner.”

  She nodded toward the battered sword, then to the faint glow of the marks along his skin. “Godlings—people like you and me—aren’t born normal. We’re shaped by the Aether before we ever take a breath. Some call us cursed, others say we’re chosen. Truth is, we’re both.”

  Arin stared at the floor, feeling the echo of that curse in every fiber of his body.

  “I’m a first-generation,” Mira went on, her voice softer, tired. “Born of ordinary parents. But you… You have two marks. Your power is doubled, but so is the danger. There are old stories about what happens when godlings bear children. Nobody believed them, not for generations. Most of us don’t survive long enough to try. But your parents did.”

  She paused, jaw clenched. “I knew them. That’s how I found you after the massacre. Your mother was the strongest Light-bearer I’d ever met. Your father… Well, let’s say the shadows loved him more than the sun. They were hunted like animals, always running, but they never stopped fighting for a world where their child could grow up safe. They died trying.”

  Arin’s throat tightened, the names of his parents suddenly feeling like distant echoes he’d almost forgotten.

  “I promised them I’d watch over you if I could. For a while, I did. But the Empire’s reach grows longer every year.”

  Mira shifted, wincing, and met his eyes again. “You can’t stay a child forever, Arin. I’ll teach you as much as I can, for as long as I have. You need to learn to control those marks—both of them. Light and dark. Life and death. Only then will you have a chance.”

  The house felt colder than before, the crows silent outside. Arin swallowed, determination burning through the shame. “I’ll learn. I have to. I won’t let anyone else get hurt because of me.”

  A faint smile ghosted across Mira’s lips. “Good. We start at dawn.”

  Dawn painted the clearing in soft gold, but Arin barely noticed. Sweat slicked his brow as he stood ready, Aether humming at his fingertips. The mark on his right blazed bright—white, sure, familiar. Light was second nature now; with a thought he could summon a blade, a shield, or a cleansing warmth that knit flesh and seared ghosts from the air.

  Mira watched from a low stump, her wounded arm swaddled and her gaze sharp as ever. “You’ve grown comfortable with the light, Arin. That’s good. But comfort breeds carelessness. And you can’t ignore the other half of yourself forever.”

  She nodded at the left side of his body, where the dark mark pulsed dully, cool as river stone. “Draw it out. Don’t let it control you. Touch it, shape it, then put it away.”

  Arin hesitated, mouth dry. He’d tried before—always ending in nausea, cold sweat, sometimes voices clawing at the back of his skull. But Mira was right. He forced himself to reach for that place inside, where the cold Aether waited.

  A chill seeped into his veins. Black mist rose from his left arm, fingers tingling with unfamiliar, prickling energy. He fought the urge to clench his fists or pull back.

  Mira’s tone softened, encouraging but insistent. “Good. Now use it. Not against me—against your own fear.”

  He exhaled shakily, focusing. He shaped the darkness into a small, flickering arc—barely more than a blade’s shadow. It wavered, then solidified in his grasp.

  “Again,” Mira ordered. “Keep your light ready too. One must not drown out the other. You must learn to balance, not suppress.”

  He nodded, alternating—calling light to one hand, dark to the other, holding both for a heartbeat, sweat beading on his brow as the marks ached and the voices pressed in, fainter this time. Each time he faltered, Mira guided him: “Let it pass through, not overtake. It is power, not possession.”

  By midday, his light shone true, and his shadow, though small, was steady. His head throbbed from the effort, but the fear was less—a wild thing tamed, for now.

  Mira managed a tired smile. “Your mother would be proud of your control. Your father… would tell you to be careful whose shadow you walk in.”

  Arin let both powers ebb, chest heaving. For the first time, the darkness inside him felt like something he could face—if not yet master.

  The training left Arin trembling. He dropped to one knee, palms pressed to the grass, sweat mixing with the morning dew. The dark Aether still lingered along his left arm, coiling and flickering like smoke refusing to be scattered by the wind.

  At first, there was only the ache behind his eyes and the familiar burn in his muscles. Then, beneath the noise of blood rushing in his ears, he heard it—a whisper, softer than breath but undeniable, slithering up from the black mark.

  You could be so much more… You could keep her safe. Let me help you. Let me in.

  He squeezed his eyes shut, jaw clenched. The voice splintered, became many, some pleading, others snarling. Faces flickered behind his eyelids—Az, Az’s mother, the villagers lost in flames, Mira as she’d fallen, blood blossoming on her sleeve.

  Why did you run? Why didn’t you save them? Coward. Monster. Useless.

  Arin staggered upright, shivering, suddenly cold to the marrow. He looked at his left hand, half-expecting to see it changed, monstrous, but it was only his—trembling, smudged with earth and shadow.

  Mira was beside him in an instant, her good hand on his shoulder, her voice low and urgent. “Don’t listen. That’s not you—that’s the dark, clawing for a hold. Breathe. Stay here, with me.”

  He tried, drawing a breath so deep it hurt. But guilt pressed down on him, heavier with every beat of his heart. “What if it’s right?” he choked out. “What if I am all those things?”

  Mira shook her head fiercely. “You’re Arin. You’re more than what any mark or memory tries to make you. The darkness is a tool, not a master. It knows your fears and your grief, but it is not you.”

  He didn’t answer, barely hearing her, his mind a churn of shame, longing, and regret. It took long minutes for the whispers to fade, for the trembling to slow. When it did, he felt wrung out, hollow, and smaller than ever.

  The crows circled above, silent.

  Mira sat with him until the worst had passed. “You’re learning,” she said, not unkindly. “Sometimes that hurts more than failing.”

  Arin didn’t trust his voice, so he only nodded. The darkness had not won, but it had left its mark—and for the first time, he understood why Mira had always looked so tired.

  The next day, Mira woke him before the sun rose.

  Arin sat up groggily, body sore and spirit hollow from yesterday's failure. His marks throbbed faintly under his skin, the light still warm, the dark pulsing like a low drumbeat.

  "Up," Mira said simply, tossing a battered waterskin at his chest. "Pain or not. Fear or not. If you can walk, you can fight."

  He rose stiffly, following her out into the clearing. The grass was wet and cold against his bare feet, the air sharp and cutting. Mira stood a few paces away, sword propped beside her, arm still bound uselessly against her side.

  "Today," she said, "we stop treating your marks like rivals."

  She drew a line in the dirt with the toe of her boot. "On this side—your light." She scratched another to the opposite side. "Here—your dark. I want you to fight between them. Flow. Not one, then the other. Both."

  Arin stared at the space between, unease stirring again in his gut.

  "You said yesterday the darkness made you doubt yourself." Mira’s voice softened slightly. "Good. That means it sees your weakness. Now show it you're stronger."

  He closed his eyes, breathing deep. He summoned the light first, easy, the way he always had. Warmth surged up his arm, steady and pure. His muscles loosened. His heartbeat evened.

  Then the harder part—he reached for the cold place. The mist slithered out reluctantly, draping his left arm in black. The whispering returned, softer now, murmuring half-formed doubts and half-forgotten faces. But Arin gritted his teeth and stood his ground.

  Mira barked, "Now move!"

  The training was brutal. She conjured illusions again—not simple beasts, but human forms now: a knight here, a villager there, a specter with Az’s face twisting into a snarl. Each image jabbed at Arin's emotions, forcing him to fight not just with his hands, but with his will.

  Light lanced out from his right hand, burning away a knight. Darkness flowed from his left, catching a second specter by the ankle and dragging it down into the earth. Every breath was a battle to keep the powers balanced, not letting either side overwhelm him.

  "You hesitate!" Mira shouted as he stumbled. "Your light alone won't save you! Your dark alone will destroy you! Only together can you be whole!"

  Sweat blurred Arin’s vision. His arms shook under the strain. He forced the aethers together, weaving threads of light and shadow into a single blast, hurling it at the illusions. Some shattered instantly. Some staggered—and smiled with Az’s dead face.

  He almost fell to his knees again—but caught himself. Steeled himself.

  Not today.

  He pivoted on one foot, cutting a line through the last image with a blade of pure twilight—neither light nor dark, but something in between.

  The clearing fell silent. Only his heavy breathing filled the space between the trees.

  Mira studied him, something like pride flickering behind her stern gaze.

  "You still fall to doubt," she said. "But you're learning. Faster than most ever could."

  Arin wiped blood—his own—from the corner of his mouth and straightened, light and dark flickering along his skin like restless fire.

  "I won't let it control me," he said, voice hoarse but steady.

  "No," Mira agreed. "You’ll do worse than control it. You’ll wield it."

  She turned away, retrieving her sword and starting back toward the house.

  "Rest while you can," she threw over her shoulder. "Tomorrow will be harder."

  And as Arin followed, exhausted but burning inside with new purpose, he realized: for the first time since Angloria fell, he wasn’t surviving. He was preparing to fight back.

  Almost a week later, the training continued. Arin spun low, dragging a ribbon of black mist with one hand and slashing a searing arc of light with the other. The two forces braided together in the air—a crude but growing mastery. The last of Mira’s conjured phantoms burst apart in a shower of dying Aether.

  He dropped to one knee, panting. His body ached. His marks burned, raw from hours of strain. But the balance had held.

  Mira watched him from the shade of a broad oak, her good arm crossed over her chest, a rare glint of approval in her eyes. "Better," she said. "Crude, ugly—but better. Another month, and you might actually stand your ground against—"

  The words died in her throat.

  The crows exploded from the trees all at once, a black storm surging skyward, shrieking their alarm.

  Arin staggered upright, senses screaming. Through the tangle of trees beyond the ward, something crashed—stumbling, dragging itself through the undergrowth. Heavy boots. Labored breathing.

  Mira was moving before she spoke, weaving a quick sigil into the dirt with her boot, reinforcing the outer ward. Her face was set, grim.

  Arin dropped into a ready stance, Aether surging to both marks instinctively. "Enemy?"

  "Not yet," Mira said tightly. "But close."

  The figure broke through the trees a moment later—half-falling, half-running. A man, battered and bloodied, his armor shattered, one eye swollen shut. His cloak, once deep green, was now black with dirt and blood.

  He collapsed at the edge of the clearing, the ward sparking weakly where he touched it. For a heartbeat Arin thought the magic might reject him—but it flickered, then allowed him through. Mira was there in two strides, kneeling beside him.

  "Ren," she breathed, voice breaking. She pressed her hand to his chest, muttering something under her breath that made the crow perched on the cabin’s roof caw sharply.

  The man—Ren—coughed, spitting blood onto the grass. His hand fumbled inside his tattered cloak, pulling free a small bundle wrapped in old linen. He shoved it weakly at Mira.

  "For the boy," he rasped, his voice broken and raw. His single working eye flicked to Arin, filled with a mix of horror and hope. "They know. They’re coming, Mira. They’re coming in force."

  Arin moved closer, heart hammering. He could feel it—the traces of terrible Aether clinging to Ren’s skin. Magic wounds. Knight’s work.

  Ren sucked in a shallow breath. "Hundreds. Drast—and others. Hunters. Relic-born. Mages. The King’s own... they want him alive. Or dead. Doesn't matter which."

  Mira’s mouth tightened into a thin line. She opened the bundle quickly, revealing a carefully preserved set of gear: a leather cuirass inscribed with glowing runes, blacksteel gauntlets traced with Aether channels, a battered cloak stitched with unfamiliar sigils. A dagger, bone-handled, hummed quietly under the touch. All of it… his parents’ gear. Arin felt the marks on his skin pulse in answer, like a distant heartbeat he hadn’t known was missing.

  Ren gripped Mira's sleeve. "You have to move. Now."

  Then he went still. His fingers slipped from Mira’s grasp. His chest did not rise again. The clearing was silent except for the crows crying overhead. Mira stood slowly, her face carved from stone. No tears. No words. Just grim certainty. She turned to Arin and tossed the relic bundle at his feet. "Put it on."

  Arin stared, heart in his throat. "Mira—"

  "No arguments," she said, her voice iron. "The Empire’s coming. We don’t have days anymore. We have hours."

  As he fumbled to unwrap the armor and strap it on with trembling hands, the ward pulsed again—this time not from a friend. Far beyond the trees, he could already hear it: The march of boots. The crackle of Aether. The hunt beginning in earnest.