Klaus Sev stood at the forest's edge, where the trees gave way to the smoldering ruins of Eldwick.
Dawn painted the sky in pale gold, but smoke hung heavy, curling like a dark shroud over the town. The cosmic battle from last night—gods, demons, or whatever those creatures were—had left its mark, not just on the land but on Klaus himself.
The strange voice in his head, the Mark of Ascendancy, had spoken as he cowered in the woods: The Path of the Unbowed begins. Those words burned in his chest, sharper than the cuts on his hands.
He wasn't the same arrogant, lazy noble who'd lounged in the manor yesterday, snapping at maids for sport. The world had shown him power—raw, earth-shaking power—and he craved it.
His fine blue cloak was torn, streaked with mud and ash. His hands, scraped raw from crawling through the chaos, throbbed as he flexed them. Eldwick lay ahead, its cobblestone streets littered with broken carts and charred wood.
The air smelled of smoke, scorched stone, and something bitter, like fear. Klaus took a deep breath, his green eyes narrowing. The town was a wreck, his father would be furious, but none of that mattered.
He had a goal now: to become so strong that the world would kneel before him.
The path into Eldwick was unnaturally quiet. The market square, once alive with merchants hawking apples and cloth, was a graveyard of debris. Splintered stalls lay scattered, their goods trampled into the dirt. A burned banner fluttered in the breeze, and the blacksmith's shop was a heap of blackened rubble.
A few townsfolk wandered, their faces pale, picking through the wreckage. An old woman knelt beside a shattered stall, sobbing over a basket of crushed bread.
Klaus ignored her. He wasn't here to wipe tears or play savior. He had bigger plans.
The Sev manor loomed on its hill, its stone walls scarred but standing. One tower had collapsed, its stones strewn across the courtyard like a giant's broken toys.
Klaus pushed through the iron gate, its hinges groaning under the weight of ash. The courtyard was a mess—broken barrels, scattered armor, and a dead horse sprawled near the stables, its eyes glassy.
Two guards stood near the manor's entrance, their faces smudged with soot, their spears leaning against the wall. They straightened when they saw Klaus, but their eyes held no warmth.
"Young lord," one said, his voice rough.
"Your father's inside. He's in a foul mood."
"When isn't he?" Klaus snorted, brushing past them.
The guards' glares followed him, sharp with disdain. They'd never liked him—too lazy, too soft, they'd whisper. Let them. Soon, they'd learn to fear his name.
Inside, the manor's grand hall was a shadow of its former glory. The long oak table was cracked down the middle, its polished surface dusted with ash.
Tapestries of knights and dragons hung in tatters, and the chandelier lay shattered on the stone floor, its candles melted into puddles.
Baron Alric Sev stood near the hearth, his broad shoulders hunched, his graying hair a mess. He was a tall man, his face carved with lines of worry, but his dark eyes blazed with fury.
Beside him stood Torren, Klaus's older brother, his armor dented but gleaming, his sword still sheathed at his hip.
Torren was twenty-two, broad-shouldered, with a calm face that made Klaus want to punch him. He was everything Klaus wasn't—dutiful, strong, the perfect heir.
"Where were you?" Alric's voice thundered, cutting through the dim hall.
"The town burns, our people die, and my son vanishes like a coward?"
Klaus stopped, his jaw tightening. He met his father's glare, forcing his voice to stay steady.
"I wasn't hiding. I was surviving."
"Surviving?" Alric spat, stepping forward. His boots crunched on broken glass.
"You ran while Eldwick fell apart! Torren was out there, pulling people from the flames, while you—what? Cowered in the dirt?"
Torren shifted, his hand resting on his sword hilt.
"Father, he's here now. Let's focus on what's next."
Klaus shot his brother a look. Torren's calm tone grated more than Alric's shouting. Always the peacemaker, always the hero. It made Klaus's skin crawl.
"I saw what happened," he said, his voice low.
"The sky broke. Creatures—gods, demons, I don't know—fought above us. They leveled half the town. You think I could've stopped that?"
Alric's face darkened, his fists clenching.
"You're a Sev. You should've stood with us, not fled like a rat. Do you know how many died? How many homes are gone?"
Klaus's hands balled into fists, the cuts stinging. He wanted to shout back, to tell his father those creatures made their little manor look like a child's toy.
But then he felt it—a heat in his chest, like a spark flaring to life.
His vision blurred, and golden runes glowed in his mind's eye, sharp and burning. A voice, deep and cold, echoed in his head: [The Unbowed does not kneel to scorn.]
He blinked, the runes fading, but the words stayed, like a brand on his soul. His heart pounded.
Was this the Mark again? It felt like a challenge, a push to stand taller. Klaus straightened, his green eyes hard.
"I didn't run because I was afraid," he said, his voice steady now.
"I ran to live. And I'm going to do more than that. I'm going to be stronger than anyone in this room."
Alric laughed, a harsh, bitter sound.
"You? Strong? You can't even lift a sword without whining about the weight."
Torren stepped forward, his voice calm but firm.
"Father, enough. The town needs us. We can't waste time arguing."
Klaus ignored his brother, his gaze locked on Alric.
"Mock me all you want. You'll see."
The heat in his chest pulsed, urging him to move, to act. He turned and strode out, his boots crunching on the shattered chandelier.
The Mark's words echoed in his mind, fueling a fire that hadn't existed yesterday. He didn't know what it was or why it chose him, but it felt right. Like it was his destiny.
The courtyard was busier now. Servants hauled broken beams, their faces streaked with soot. A few townsfolk had gathered at the gate, begging for food or shelter, their voices a desperate hum.
Klaus spotted Lila, the maid from yesterday, kneeling beside a wounded guard. She was bandaging his arm, her hands steady despite the blood. Her brown hair was tied back, and her simple dress was torn, but she worked with a quiet focus that stood out in the chaos.
Klaus watched her for a moment. Most servants would be weeping or hiding, but not her.
"Lila," he called, his voice sharp. She flinched but turned, her hazel eyes wary.
"Yes, my lord?" she said, wiping blood from her hands onto her apron.
"You're not crying like the others," Klaus said, stepping closer. "Why?"
She hesitated, then squared her shoulders. "Someone has to help. The town's broken, but we're not dead yet."
Klaus raised an eyebrow. Bold, for a maid. Most would've stammered or bowed.
"Keep that spirit," he said, his voice low.
"I might need people like you."
Her eyes widened, but she nodded, her face unreadable.
Klaus turned away, his mind racing. People like Lila—loyal, unafraid—could be useful. If he was going to rise, he'd need more than power. He'd need allies who wouldn't break under pressure.
He headed toward the town square, his cloak flapping in the cold morning wind. The damage was worse up close. Half the houses were rubble, their wooden beams charred and splintered.
The tavern where Klaus had once drunk with merchants was gone, reduced to a pile of blackened stone. A few knights patrolled the streets, their armor dented, their faces grim.
They nodded to Klaus but didn't stop. He was a noble, but not one they respected. Not yet.
As he walked, he overheard whispers.
"The sky broke," a woman said, clutching a shawl.
"Gods fought above us. What does it mean?" Her friend, a wiry man with a burned hand, shook his head.
"The end, maybe. Or a sign. The old stories are coming true."
Klaus kept moving, but the words stuck with him. The old stories—tales of gods and demons, of warriors who cultivated their bodies to wield magic, who became legends.
He'd dismissed them as a boy, laughing at the idea of men climbing mountains to find masters. But after last night, those stories didn't seem so foolish. If gods could fight in the sky, maybe he could rise to meet them. Maybe the Mark was the key.
He stopped at the edge of the square, where a crowd had gathered around an old man sitting on a broken barrel.
He was thin, with a white beard and a tattered cloak, his eyes sharp like a hawk's. His voice carried over the murmurs, steady and commanding.
"The heavens clashed last night," he said, his hands raised.
"Gods, demons, archangels—call them what you will. They fought above us, and Eldwick paid the price. This is no accident. The world is changing, and only the strong will survive."
Klaus frowned, pushing through the crowd. He knew this man—Elder Marin, a wanderer who'd passed through Eldwick before. Some called him a sage, others a madman. Klaus had never paid him much mind, but now his words hit too close. The crowd listened, some nodding, others trembling.
A woman called out, "What do we do, Elder Marin?"
"Survive," Marin said, his voice firm.
"Seek strength. The old ways—swords, coins, titles—won't save you. The world demands more now."
Klaus stepped forward, ignoring the townsfolk's grumbles.
"You talk of strength," he said, his voice cutting through the chatter.
"What kind? Magic? Cultivation?"
Marin's eyes locked on him, and Klaus felt a chill, like the old man saw more than he should.
"You're the Sev boy," Marin said, his tone neutral. "The lazy one."
The crowd snickered, and Klaus's jaw tightened. He was tired of that word—lazy.
"Answer me," he said, stepping closer.
"Can you teach strength?"
Marin studied him, his gaze piercing.
"Strength isn't taught. It's earned. Through pain, through will. But you…" He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing.
"You've been touched, haven't you?"
Klaus froze. Touched? Did Marin know about the Mark? His chest warmed, and his vision blurred again. Golden runes glowed in his mind's eye, sharp and fleeting. The voice spoke, soft but clear: [Seek the path, Unbowed. Power awaits the resolute.]
He blinked, the runes fading. The crowd was quiet, watching him. Marin leaned on a gnarled staff, his expression unreadable.
"Come find me when you're ready to bleed for it," he said, then turned and walked away, the crowd parting like water.
Klaus stared after him, his heart racing. Marin knew something—about the Mark, about power. The voice in his head was no trick. It was real, and it was tied to the cosmic battle. Klaus didn't know how, but he'd find out.
He turned back toward the manor, his mind buzzing. Eldwick was broken, but it was just the start. He'd rebuild, not for his father or the town, but for himself. He'd find Marin, or someone like him. He'd learn cultivation, unlock the Mark's secrets, and become the power he'd seen in the sky.
As he walked, he passed a group of townsfolk hauling water from a well. Lila was among them, her arms straining under a heavy bucket. She didn't complain, didn't falter, even as others grumbled.
Klaus paused, watching her. She was different—steady, loyal. He needed people like that.
"Lila," he called, his voice sharp but not unkind.
She looked up, startled, nearly dropping the bucket. "My lord?"
"Stay close," Klaus said, his eyes meeting hers. "Things are changing. I'll need people I can trust."
She nodded, her hazel eyes curious but steady.
"Yes, my lord."
Klaus kept walking, a faint smile on his lips. Loyal subordinates, a teacher, a path to power—it was all falling into place. The world had mocked him for too long. It was time to make it kneel.