CHAPTER SIX: VEINS OF MANA

  [Age Thirteen | Emberrest, Deep Cycle]

  Beneath the camp's southern ridge, hidden beneath layers of soot-black stone and burnt root, lay the Ember Hollow — a scorched cavern known only to the shamans. The air hung heavy with ancient secrets, each breath carrying the metallic tang of dormant power.

  Walls whispered with soot marks older than memory. Circles of ash etched the ground, untouched by time or wind. No warriors trained here. No fires were lit. The heat came from within. The cavern itself seemed alive, breathing in rhythm with the earth below.

  Sarkan knelt on bare stone, sweat clinging to his brow like morning dew on spiderwebs, his breath sharp as flint striking steel. His muscles trembled not from exertion but from restraint, fighting against the urge to let power flood his veins unchecked.

  Esherra sat across from him, legs folded beneath her worn leather skirt, eyes closed, her palms resting lightly on her knees. The shaman's weathered face remained still as stone. Around her, motes of red-blue light flickered in the still air like curious fireflies. Her silver-streaked braids, partially wrapped in leather bands bearing the mark of Chief Gorvak, hung motionless despite the energy swirling around her.

  "Mana doesn't roar," she said softly, her voice barely disturbing the sacred silence. "It listens. It flows through pathways already present, not ones you force." She opened one eye, studying him. "Begin again. Slower this time."

  Sarkan clenched his jaw, frustration evident in the tightness around his eyes. "I'm trying."

  "Don't try," Esherra corrected, her tone firmer now. "Be. The power is not separate from you."

  He inhaled deeply, centering himself. He drew from his core — the center Esherra had helped him find through stillness, breath, and pain. Three moons of meditation of sitting motionless while ash storms raged outside. He guided the warmth into his legs... too fast.

  His limbs twitched violently. His shoulder spasmed like a trapped animal. Then— A shimmer rose along his back, too bright, too wild.

  The light flickered uncontrolled, casting erratic shadows against the ancient walls.

  "No," Esherra said, rising in one fluid motion with effortless grace. "Too much force, too little harmony. You wield it like a weapon." Her eyes narrowed. "Again."

  Sarkan's breath caught in his throat. His veins pulsed with pressure, glowing faintly beneath his ashen skin. Then, pain shot through him like molten metal. He collapsed forward, palms slapping against the stone floor.

  Air left him like smoke from cracked stone. His lungs burned as though filled with embers. His fingers trembled against the cool rock beneath them.

  Esherra knelt beside him and placed her hand just over his chest, not touching but close enough that he could feel the steady heat radiating from her palm.

  "This is not a weapon to be wielded," she whispered, her breath smelling of herbs and smoke. "It is your marrow... learning to listen." Her eyes found his, holding his gaze. "The tribe teaches control through dominance. I teach control through understanding."

  Sarkan pushed himself back to sitting position, wincing. "The others make it look so easy. Krokar can light the ritual fires with a gesture."

  "Krokar burns bright but brief," she replied, settling back into her position. "His power is impressive but unsustainable. Is that what you seek? Momentary brilliance followed by ash?"

  Sarkan clenched his jaw, determination hardening his young features. He focused again, this time narrowing his will. Not the whole body. Just his knees. Then his heels.

  A deep warmth spread without sound or spectacle. No shimmer. No crackle. Only stillness.

  “Yes," Esherra whispered, a rare smile touching her lips. "Now you begin to understand."

  And in the stillness, the Seed stirred within him.

  A vision unfolded behind his closed eyes—not dream, not prophecy. Memory.

  A figure stood in silence, barefoot on smooth stone unlike the rough volcanic rock of Emberrest, surrounded by falling leaves of crimson and gold. Hands moved in intricate patterns, each position flowing seamlessly into the next. Breath timed perfectly to steps. Movements clean, efficient—honed over generations.

  It was not orcish. Not brutal or wild.

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  It was different—distant, refined, and real.

  "What... what is this?" he whispered, eyes still closed, afraid movement would break the vision.

  Not a spell conjured in desperation. A system built with intention. Not raw force. Structure.

  And Sarkan understood with sudden clarity.

  This was not his mother’s magic, nor the secret lessons she had passed down in the shadows. This was older—deeper—a remnant of something beyond her, beyond him.

  A memory carried by the Seed inside him. Knowledge from another world, waiting to be remembered.

  Not all power was taken from us. Some was remembered.

  "Let them see a shadow," he murmured, opening his eyes to meet Esherra 's knowing gaze. "Let them never see the fire, until it's unstoppable."

  She nodded once; satisfaction evident in the set of her shoulders. "Now you understand why I chose you. The others seek to burn brighter. You..." she studied him intently, "you seek to burn longer."

  Three days later, the youths gathered at dawn for the Ember Run — a tribal rite of endurance through ash-choked ravines and sun-scorched steps. Mist clung to the lower valleys, promising heat once burned away by the climbing sun.

  Barefoot. No Armor. Only instinct and breath.

  Gruknar, the war leader’s son, pounded his chest and roared to the gathering crowd. "Watch closely! Today I claim my father's legacy!"

  Nearby, Sarkan stretched silently, eyes focused on the path ahead rather than the spectators. He felt the familiar weight of stares—some curious, some dismissive—on his back. The chief's son yet never fully accepted.

  "Save your breath for running, witch-blood," sneered Morvak, a hulking youth with ritual scars already marking his shoulders. "Son of the chief or not, if you finish at all, it will be crawling."

  Sarkan didn't respond, didn't flinch. The insult was as familiar as his own name.

  A horn carved from ancient dragon bone sounded, its deep resonance vibrating in their bones. The strongest sprinted ahead immediately, veins already beginning to glow with barely contained mana. Each team of five moved through the first descent like wolves on a hunt, fierce and focused.

  Sarkan ran in silence, his steps deliberate, every motion mapped from memory of the figure in his vision. He felt the flow of mana — not wild, but measured. Tuned. He let it glide into his thigh muscles, lifted by rhythm, not rush.

  The older youths burned hot—too hot. Their laughter and taunts echoed off stone walls as they passed him.

  "Is that all you have, son of the witch?" called Gruknar over his shoulder, feet sparking against stone with each powerful stride, veins pulsing crimson beneath gray-green skin.

  By the second ascent, where the path narrowed and climbed steeply through a passage of jagged obsidian, Gruknar stumbled. His momentum faltered. His next step missed its mark, and he collapsed—gasping, his arms glowing painfully bright. Mana overburn had claimed its first victim.

  "Get up!" he gasped at himself, pounding a fist against unyielding stone. "GET UP!"

  Sarkan passed him quietly, neither slowing nor acknowledging the fallen youth.

  "Don't you dare..." Gruknar wheezed, reaching out to grab Sarkan's ankle.

  Sarkan sidestepped smoothly, never breaking his rhythm. "Save your strength," he said softly, not looking back. "The healers will come."

  His own core began to heat as the path steepened. The pull was seductive, whispering promises. More power. More speed. More visibility. Show them all.

  He refused.

  He cut the flow from his arms, where it threatened to manifest visibly. Redirected energy to his core and legs. Breathed deeply. One breath. One step. One control.

  He remembered the hollow. He remembered Esherra 's lesson. Only the marrow that listens can carry fire without being consumed by it.

  Ahead, two more runners faltered on the razor's edge path that crossed the Throat—a deep chasm where heat from below distorted the air. Their teams stopped to help them, loyalty overriding ambition.

  Sarkan pressed on, alone as always.

  The final stretch lay before him—a narrow bridge of volcanic stone spanning the Ember's Maw, where geysers of steam periodically erupted from below. Ahead, just two runners remained—Varek and Thokk, cousins from the elite warrior caste, their backs heaving with exertion.

  Sarkan could feel their fatigue from here—their mana patterns erratic, overdrawn. They sensed him approaching and exchanged a quick glance before pushing harder, desperation in their stride.

  He crossed the final bridge behind them. Third place.

  No cheering from the sparse crowd that had gathered. No glory for the half-blood. Only suspicious glances and muttered conversations.

  But he wasn't limping like Varek, whose right leg dragged slightly. He wasn't glowing with overdrawn power like Thokk, whose veins still pulsed visibly. He wasn't gasping desperately for breath.

  Only sweat sheened his body. Only measured breath filled his lungs.

  From a shaded rise overlooking the run, Elder Krogar leaned on his gnarled staff of blackened heartwood. The ancient orc's single remaining eye narrowed as he watched Sarkan's exit from the course. Quiet. Precise. Controlled.

  "That one," he muttered to Esherra , who had approached silently to stand beside him, her ceremonial shawl marking her as both shaman and the chief's mate. "Runs too clean for his age..."

  Esherra kept her expression neutral, watching her son with practiced detachment. "Perhaps he simply lacks the power the others possess."

  Krogar spat on the ground. "Do not take me for a fool, old friend. I've watched Gorvak's son. He contains it, the spirit whisper." The elder turned to face her fully. "The question is... why?"

  "All younglings find their own path to power," she replied carefully, the protective mother hidden beneath the shaman's composure.

  "Indeed." Krogar's eye returned to Sarkan, who was now moving through the dispersing crowd, avoiding contact, heading toward the solitude of the lower camp. "And I wonder where his path leads. Gorvak expects much from his heir."

  Esherra followed his gaze, her expression unreadable. "Perhaps where it needs to."

  The elder grunted, unconvinced. "Watch him carefully, Esherra . Your position protects him for now, but those who hide their fire often harbor the most dangerous flames. Not all in the tribe are pleased that the chief's mate bears such... unusual blood."

  Below them, Sarkan paused at the edge of the gathering, feeling the weight of their gaze. He looked up, meeting their eyes briefly before continuing on his way, back straight, steps measured.

  Just as his mother and elder Esherra had taught him.

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