28 years have passed, and Ryfonwas out with his father, practicing how to hunt and shoot a bow. He had finished all his lessons with Vaelwyn—she had taught him everything he needed to know. Of course, most of it was fairly rudimentary; after all, he was only around fifteen, and there was only so much he could learn at that age. When learning and practicing magic, one should take care not to rely too heavily on others, or else they risk limiting themselves when trying to develop new spells. Having nothing to do Ryfonwould just practice and circulate his mana in his body to try and develop his mana circuits. After a while Vamirthought Ryfonneeded something new to focus on, so he decided it was the perfect time to teach him how to use a bow—as all elves should.
"Ryfon, you're almost fifty now, so I think it's time you embrace your roots—and learn how to wield a bow," Vamir said, trying to pull his son's attention toward him. "If you're anything like me, you'll be great with it." "Archery practice? That sounds boring," Ryfon replied. "Why use a bow when I can just shoot a wind arrow instead?" As he spoke, he muttered a short chant and conjured an arrow made of wind, surprising Vamir. It wasn't anything special—in fact, it was pretty unstable—but what stumped him the most was how short the chant had been At Ryfon's age, it should have taken twice as long.
Vamir looked at him with a furrowed brow before realization struck. "No child of mine is skipping out on bow training," he said firmly. Before Ryfon could argue, Vamir grabbed him by the collar and dragged him toward the door like a sack of potatoes. "This is abuse! Elf abuse!" Ryfon protested, clawing at the doorway in exaggerated agony. "I was born to sling spells, not splinters!" His complaints were, of course, ignored. Once outside, Vamir set up a few rough targets about fifteen meters away, then disappeared back into the house. A few moments later, he returned carrying an old, but well-maintained bow and a small bundle of arrows. As he approached, his expression softened. "This fine piece of wood was my bow when I was your age," he said, running a hand along the polished wood. "I named it Whisperbranch. It holds great value to me, and I want yo—" "Wait," Ryfon cut in, raising an eyebrow. "Whisperbranch? Seriously? That's what you named your bow? That's... adorable." He gave a crooked grin, eyes gleaming with mischief. "Next you'll tell me your daggers were named Loudrock?"
Feeling a vein bulge in his head, Vamir looked at his son with a mix of anger and annoyance. "Where did you get that mouth of yours, you brat?" he snapped, and then he practically shoved the bow into Ryfon's hands, trying to hide his embarrassment. 'How did this brat guess that...? You know what, it doesn't matter,' he thought to himself. After helping Ryfon get accustomed to holding the bow, Vamir taught him the basics of how to shoot and aim. After about an hour of instruction, he let Ryfon take a few shots at the target without any assistance. After nineteen attempts, Vamir was a little disappointed. A normal elf child would usually take about fifteen shots to get somewhere near the bullseye—he himself had taken only nine. It was starting to seem like Ryfon wasn't suited for archery.
But then something strange happened. As Ryfon was about to take his twentieth shot, he suddenly stopped before releasing the string. This time, he actually hit the bullseye—but he didn't even have time to feel proud. A strange sensation crept over him, and his hands trembled slightly. Vamir watched his son's expression shift—caught between puzzlement and something almost wondrous. He studied Ryfon closely, though his own face remained unreadable. Vamir rarely showed emotion openly, but internally, he was reeling. Then he saw it—Ryfon's face shifted from awe to shock. Without warning, he dropped the bow and clutched his chest, his expression tightening in pain. Now, choosing between his childhood bow and his son? That was a hard call—but if the bow broke, he could fix it. If something happened to Ryfon… well, Serena would most likely gut him alive. Weighing his options in an instant, Vamir bolted toward his son. But just as he was about to reach him, Ryfon raised a hand to stop him—his breathing unsteady, but his eyes suddenly focused.
*inside Ryfon head*
As I was about to take my twentieth shot, I was getting a little frustrated. I didn't even want to be doing this in the first place, but as I kept shooting, I kind of started to like it. It was fun, sending an arrow flying—even if I couldn't hit the center. It would be a lot better if I could, but whatever. A little magic could help with that. As I was thinking of ways to cheat—no, make my life easier—I suddenly felt something change. Something I should've felt or noticed a long time ago. It was strange, because I knew for a fact I had never had this ability. No two abilities before and yet i felt as though i had. I was still trying to figure this out something clicked. Information began to flow into my head—subtly at first, then clearer. My first Gift was called "Steal". it was and Good... and also horrible?. It allowed me to take a Gift, an ability, or even a skill from someone I killed. That sounded awesome—until I learned... no remembered, the second part of it. My face twisted into a grimace. The Gift had a massive drawback: I could only use the gift once before it was gone forever. Before I could even finish processing that, my second Gift revealed itself to me—and then, a sharp burning pain tore through my chest.
I was fighting through the pain—it wasn't unbearable, just sudden. It felt like someone had taken a spoon, let it sit in boiling water for a few minutes, and then pressed it against my chest for a second or two. (Yeah, random, I know.) As I struggled through it, I started to understand what it was. The feeling was vague—super vague. All I could really gather was that it made my mana burn more fiercely, like a wildfire in my veins, and somehow even improved my mana circuits. At least, I think that's what it did. I was trying to remember more, but everything was foggy. All I could piece together was that this Gift could grow stronger... somehow. I had no idea how. After a few seconds, the pain faded. Just in time, too—I had to raise my hand to stop my father from crashing into me.
*end of Ryfon head*
"Are you okay? You seemed to be in pain—what happened?" Vamir asked in a worried tone. "I'm fine, old man. I just got my Gift," Ryfon replied, still catching his breath and holding himself with his hands on his knees. He decided to keep quiet about his first Gift; it was rare to have more than one, and the fact that it only had a one-time use didn't help his case. "You got your Gift?" Vamir asked in amazement, completely ignoring the "old man" jab. "That's surprising—normally, an elf would get it at fifty. But you getting your Gift doesn't explain why you dropped... I mean, why you buckled over in pain." Ryfon, clearly annoyed, shot back, "First off, I wasn't 'buckling over in pain.' I grabbed my chest—because that's where the Gift manifested, thank you very much." As he said the last part, he pulled off his shirt to reveal a small, strange tattoo that had appeared on his chest. it appeared to be a small flicking flame