The dawn mist hung low over Camp Valis, coiling like a living thing around the roots and stones. Dew clung to the leaves like whispered omens, and birdsong faltered before it reached the ear. For most of the trainees, this was a morning like any other — painful muscles, aching pride, and the constant pressure of being not good enough.
For Lucien, it was a war before sunrise.
His body screamed as he rolled out of bed. Every joint felt cracked, every muscle stretched to its limits. Yet there was something different now. A subtle pressure behind his heart — a weight he hadn't felt before.
Mana.
Faint. Fragile. But his.
He touched his chest lightly. The blockage hadn't vanished, not by far, but Dusk Embrace had carved a hair-thin thread through the wall. It was progress. Real and earned. The gods might have tried to bury his birthright, but now it was waking — not with divine blessing, but through pain and grit.
Outside, Raemond waited again. He stood barefoot on a moss-covered stone, blade unsheathed and resting across his shoulders.
"Morning, cripples," he called, voice cold and amused. "Today, we see who among you bleeds with purpose. You'll be sparring."
Murmurs broke out among the children — fear, anticipation, and silent calculation.
Lucien tightened the cloth around his hands. He wasn't ready. Not truly. But he had no choice.
He stepped into the arena — a circular ring formed by ancient stones, worn smooth by centuries of training. Across from him stood a tall boy named Coren, second son of a minor Verdant house. Fast. Proud. Already in his second year of training.
Coren smirked. "They said you didn't awaken. Want to kneel now or after I break your nose?"
Lucien said nothing. But inside, his nerves burned.
The whistle blew.
Coren surged forward, mana swirling faintly at his feet. His steps were like coiled springs, launching him across the ring in a blink. Lucien barely ducked in time — the blow whistled over his head. His instincts screamed. He countered with a jab that lacked precision but carried weight.
The fist met Coren's side. Not clean, but enough to jolt him. Lucien moved again — but slower. The second blow from Coren cracked into his ribs, and he bit back a grunt.
"Pathetic," Coren sneered. "They should've sent you to the kitchens."
Lucien stumbled, but his legs held. Memory flashed — the cold of the underground chamber, Neroth's whisper in his bones.
You shouldn't be standing.
He was. Still. Just barely.
He shifted his footing, recalling one of Raemond's earlier lessons. Let your opponent think you're broken — then strike from below.
Coren came again, overconfident. Lucien ducked low and drove his shoulder into the boy's gut. The air left Coren's lungs in a rush. They both crashed into the dirt, grappling.
The crowd roared. Raemond watched, unmoved.
When it ended, both were heaving. Bruised. Bleeding.
"A draw," Raemond said at last. "Barely. But interesting."
Coren stumbled off, glaring.
Lucien staggered back to the healer's tent.
Caldrin was waiting again, arms folded. He eyed the bruises with casual annoyance and wordless sympathy.
"You attract bruises like a festival attracts fools," he muttered. He passed a glowing salve over Lucien's arms. "But I saw your movement. You're starting to feel the mana now, aren't you?"
Lucien nodded slightly.
"Good. Keep breathing. Keep hurting. It's working."
He paused. Then added with uncharacteristic softness, "If your mother were here, she'd weep and cheer at the same time."
Lucien froze.
"I didn't know her," he said carefully.
Caldrin gave him a long, searching look.
He turned away, but his brow furrowed. Something about the boy felt… familiar. Resonant. But no, it couldn't be. Seraphina's child had vanished, long ago. Surely not—
That night, Lucien returned to his room. A faint scent of herbs lingered from his earlier treatment. He sat on the floor, breathing slowly, centering himself. The room was modest, but still marked by the prestige of the Valis name — a carved oaken bed, green curtains trimmed with golden thread, and a small brazier that held the scent of burnt sage. It was comfort wrapped in discipline.
The shadows thickened.
And Neroth returned.
The God of Twilight stood in silence, watching. His voice, when it came, was a whisper wrapped in the hush of dusk.
"Still alive. That's something."
Lucien exhaled. "I feel it now. Just barely."
"Then you're ready."
Neroth raised his hand, and a sphere of fractured twilight appeared between them. Within it shimmered ancient figures — three thrones once united.
"The Old Pact of Three," Neroth said, eyes distant. "Long ago, Light, Shadow, and Twilight walked as one. Balance held the world. Then ambition shattered it."
Lucien listened, silent.
"They fear you," Neroth continued. "Not just because of who your parents are. But because you are what they tried to erase. You, boy, are the thread left from that broken pact. And I will see if you are strong enough to restore it — or burn everything trying."
He extended his palm again, and a scroll of dusk-light unfurled before Lucien.
"A challenge. My Twilight Quest. Not divine. Not holy. Just pain. Discipline. Suffering. You will complete these each day."
Lines burned into the Akashic Record:
[Twilight Quest: Daily Physical Trial]
100 Push-Ups
100 Sit-Ups
100 Squats
10km Run
"Fail," Neroth said, "and the blockage remains. Persist, and you break chains even gods could not."
The god faded.
The next morning, Lucien began. Before dawn. In silence. He pushed his body to the brink again. Muscles screamed. Vision blurred. The air seemed heavier here — like the camp itself watched.
Raemond stood from afar, watching, unseen.
"He's doing extra," one of the other instructors noted.
Raemond's storm-gray eyes narrowed.
"No," he murmured. "He's surviving something the rest don't even know exists."
That evening, Lucien returned to the edge of the forest — a clearing he had discovered by chance, where twilight always seemed to linger a little longer. He knelt, panting, feeling every pulse of pain as sacred. He began the breathing motions Neroth had shown him — movements that mimicked the waning light and deep silence of dusk.
This time, he felt more than pain. He felt pull — a magnetic draw inside his core, like something ancient shifting. His thoughts flashed, images flickering behind his eyes: a hand of shadow holding one of light, a third hand — his — closing over both.
He nearly collapsed from the vision.
But when he stood, something within him had changed.
Later that night, the Akashic Record shimmered before Lucien's eyes:
Akashic Record – Status Screen
Name: Lucien Valis
Age: 10
Gender: Male
Race: Human (??? - Bloodline Sealed)
Title: Bastard | Godborn Candidate
Affinities: Locked
Mana Pathways: Severely Obstructed
Breathing Technique: Dusk Embrace – Level 1
Attributes:
Strength: 5 → 10
Agility: 4 → 9
Endurance: 7 → 13
Vitality: 8 → 13
Mana: 1 (Newly Detected)
Intelligence: 17
Charm: 16
Lucien closed the screen with a faint breath.
It had begun.