The soft morning breeze drifted through the Eryndor courtyard, carrying the earthy scent of dew-soaked stone and the rustle of birds beginning their day. The sun's golden rays filtered through the high cracks in the palace walls, painting the ruins with a gentle warmth that masked their history of blood and fire.
[Kael's Perspective]
Kael lay on his back atop a blanket of moss, staring up at the sky as if it held answers to questions he had yet to form. His body ached — not the sharp sting of fresh wounds, but the dull, persistent protest of something being rebuilt. Each breath he drew was a negotiation between pain and purpose.
A shadow blocked the light. Lyara stood over him, arms crossed, her mouth pulled into a smirk far too wide for the early hour.
"Good morning, mighty sleeping warrior."
Kael groaned theatrically. "Please. I've only just made peace with the pain in my spine."
She crouched down beside him, inspecting him like a healer might examine a reluctant patient. "You look less like a warrior and more like a scarecrow after a storm."
"Charming as ever, sister. Remind me to quote you when the bards sing of my legendary deeds."
"You'll have to survive breakfast first."
Kael laughed softly, then winced. Every chuckle pulled at muscles he didn't remember using. But beneath the discomfort, he could feel it: a faint thrum within his core, like a heartbeat out of sync with his own.
After a quick meal — half bread, half banter — Kael made his way toward the secluded side garden, where a flat stone had become his makeshift training ground.
Sir Osric awaited him, arms behind his back, posture rigid despite the years on his frame.
"You're late," the old knight said without looking.
"I had to survive my sister's cooking. A miracle in itself."
Osric grunted — not quite amusement, not quite scorn.
[Training – Kael's Perspective]
Kael stood at the center of the stone platform and closed his eyes. He reached inward, searching for the subtle pull of his aura. It was like trying to catch smoke with his bare hands. Magic and aura were supposed to flow — or so the stories said. For him, it was more like a clogged river, blocked by years of frailty and disuse.
He visualized the path Sir Osric had described: aura rising from the base of the spine, coiling through the heart, and converging behind the eyes.
But as soon as he summoned it, it splintered — clashing with the currents of mana that also stirred within him.
A flicker of light pulsed beneath his ribs. His breathing grew erratic.
"No. Focus. Separate the flows," he whispered to himself.
His fingers trembled. Sweat beaded along his brow.
Ordinary initiates took months — even years — to develop sensitivity to one energy type. Kael was trying to manage both, simultaneously, in a body still learning to hold itself upright without pain.
Still, he refused to yield.
His aura flickered again — not enough to spark, but enough to leave a tingling burn along his arms. Like static under the skin.
"Again," he said, jaw clenched.
He repeated the process for hours. Drawing. Separating. Stabilizing. Failing.
His limbs felt heavy. But inside, something had changed — a gate had nudged open, even if just a crack.
[Lyara's Perspective – Watching from Afar]
From a distance, Lyara watched Kael, biting her thumbnail.
"He's going to break himself," she muttered.
Sir Osric, standing nearby, didn't flinch. "That boy was broken long before this day. What he's doing now is putting the pieces in the right place."
"He's rushing it. That kind of reconstruction… it takes months."
"He doesn't have months."
Lyara turned to him, eyes flaring. "He'll never make it at this pace."
"He's not meant to. He'll make his own."
She said nothing, but her worry folded into the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes.
[Nightfall – Meditation]
That night, Kael sat cross-legged inside the broken temple hall. He had wrapped himself in silence, the world reduced to breath and stillness.
His thoughts floated. His pain dulled.
And then — it happened.
A flicker of light sparked in the hollow of his chest. Not imagined. Real.
Glowing runes spiraled to life along his skin, lighting the room with an eerie blue glow. The core — nestled deep within — began to churn.
Mana and aura surged toward each other like opposing rivers.
His body convulsed.
"Agh—!" He clutched his stomach as the energies collided. His veins glowed. His vision blurred. He was seconds away from detonation.
But the rune — the strange, ancient rune that had scarred the earth days before — shimmered above his navel.
And it held.
The energies stabilized, swirling around the rune like a celestial dance.
Kael gasped for air. His heart thundered. And then—
[Vision – Kael's Perspective]
A black void opened.
The same dragon from his dream towered before him — wings outstretched, eyes twin vortexes of flame and wisdom.
Its voice was a whisper in the bones.
"Awaken, Heir of Scars."
Kael reached toward it, unable to speak.
The dragon's breath washed over him like starlight.
"You carry the echoes of a war older than time. And the mark upon your core... is the key."
Kael fell backward through darkness—
And woke up in the temple, drenched in sweat, heart racing, runes still glowing faintly beneath his skin.
[Osric's Perspective – Watching the Aftermath]
Osric stood at the threshold, arms folded.
"So... it begins," he muttered.
He turned away, gripping the hilt of his sword tighter than he had in years.
"There's no going back now."