For ten years, Doren had lived a double life. To his family, he was the quiet, bookish son with no elemental gift, a ghost who haunted the study and stayed out of their way. But in the quiet solitude of that room, surrounded by his father's journals and dusty tomes, he was a student of an impossible science. The Focal Stone remained in his pocket, a smooth, gray constant against his skin, a promise waiting to be fulfilled.
He hadn't attempted to awaken his power. Instead, he had dedicated himself to understanding it. Sophron's journals were a roadmap, but a confusing one. They were filled with observations and theories about the Powerhart that were often incomplete or contradictory. Doren had gone beyond them, poring over ancient texts on elemental theory, and reading every book he could find on the geography and history of Etern. He learned that the elements were not just forces of nature, but the very building blocks of the world itself.
His greatest discovery, however, was about the connections between them. He realized that the six elements were not separate entities, but rather different facets of a single, unified force. Fire was not just heat and light; it was a physical manifestation of chaotic energy, the same energy that, when focused and calm, could become water. Earth was the foundation of all things, but it was also the potential for life, a concept Daria was unknowingly harnessing. He found that the elements bled into each other, that the space between fire and air was where a true master could operate. He had a theory that his own Powerhart, being a wellspring of all of them, was the key to unlocking this grand design.
He understood his family and their powers more deeply than they did themselves, just not on a personal scale. He saw the fire in Damurah's temper, not just his hands. He saw Nergal's freedom-seeking spirit in the very air he manipulated. He saw his sisters' devotion to their mother in the way they cultivated life and brought forth light. He wasn't just reading about magic; he was living with it, observing its effects and its emotional weight on the people he loved.
One afternoon, a sharp, angry crack of sound echoed from the direction of the forge. Damurah's shout followed, a string of frustrated curses. Doren knew that sound. It was the sound of a failed weld, of a piece of metal cracking under a poorly applied flame. Damurah's temper was getting the better of him again. The noise was soon followed by a heavy thud, as if his brother had thrown his hammer in rage.
This was Doren's chance. He could continue to hide in the study, his face buried in the journals. Or he could put a decade of solitary observation and intellectual understanding to the test.
The frustrated clang of metal and Damurah's furious shout broke the quiet of the afternoon. Doren closed the journal with a soft thud, the words he had been reading about the chaotic nature of fire powers echoing in his mind. He tucked the Focal Stone deeper into his pocket and headed for the forge.
The air around the small workshop was thick with the smell of scorched metal and sulfur. Damurah stood over his anvil, a cracked, misshapen blade in his hand. His face was streaked with soot, and his medium-length black hair was matted with sweat. Tiny sparks of fire jumped from his fingertips, his anger fueling the erratic bursts. He threw the ruined blade to the ground with a cry of frustration.
"What do you want, Doren?" Damurah grunted, his voice laced with annoyance. "Come to tell me I'm doing it wrong?"
Doren ignored the jab and walked over to the anvil. He looked at the mangled piece of steel, then at the half-finished rune on the workbench—a symbol of a cursed flame. His father's journals had a section on such curses, detailing them as the most volatile and dangerous form of fire magic, a delicate balance of intense heat and focused will. Damurah was trying to forge a blade infused with a fire curse, a task that required not just power, but a calm, precise mind.
"You're trying to force it," Doren said quietly. He picked up a different piece of steel and placed it on the anvil. "The curse isn't a torrent; it's a river. You have to guide it, not drown the metal in it."
Damurah scoffed. "Easy for you to say, Mr. Weaksauce. You don't understand the heat, the rage you have to put into it."
"I understand the chaos," Doren countered, his voice still low and even. "Your fire is fueled by your temper. That's what's cracking the blade. The curse needs focus, not fury. You need to be calm."
Damurah stared at him, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. He had expected Doren to stay away, or to offer useless, sympathetic words. He hadn't expected him to sound like their father, a man who had understood the intricacies of their magic better than they did themselves.
Doren picked up a small hammer and handed it to Damurah.
"Try again. But this time, don't think about the flame. Think about the form. Think about the river."
Damurah hesitated, then took the hammer. He placed a new piece of steel on the anvil and, with a deep breath, began to hammer. The chaotic bursts of flame from his hands subsided, replaced by a steady, even glow. The rhythm was slower, more deliberate. As he worked, Doren noticed the rune he was forging was becoming cleaner, sharper, the curse a contained, vibrant force.
The blade was still flawed, but it was a thousand times better than the last. Damurah finally looked at Doren, a mix of grudging respect and astonishment in his eyes. "How did you…?"
Doren simply shrugged. "I read a lot."
As Doren walked away, he knew this was only the beginning. He hadn't used his own power, but he had used a different kind—the power of knowledge, the power his father had entrusted to him. It was a secret he couldn't share.
A flicker of something Doren had never seen before—respect—crossed Damurah's soot-streaked face. For ten years, he had seen Doren as little more than a quiet ghost, a boy with no gift. Now, he saw a mind sharper than any blade.
"How did you know?" Damurah asked, his voice softer now, devoid of its usual bluster. "About the chaos... and the river?"
Doren simply shrugged again, the lie of "reading a lot" becoming his new shield. He knew his knowledge would only invite more questions, questions he couldn't answer without revealing his and Sophron's secret.
Doren's eyes went back to the blade, a new kind of magic forming in his mind, one not of fire but of deduction. He saw the intricate rune, the delicate balance of the cursed flame. "The intent of this isn't to kill," he observed, "it's to capture." He looked at Damurah, his blue eyes direct and unwavering. "A fire curse meant for hunting would be an immediate, violent thing. But this... this is a Shadow Curse."
A brief flash of fear crossed Damurah's face. He knew his brother was right. The curse, a subtle manipulation of the chaotic fire, wasn't designed to kill. Instead, it was meant to stop the ability to heal and temporarily paralyze the prey, a more insidious and sinister use of the element.
"I need coin," Damurah said, the lie clumsy and transparent. "Crafting these blades is the only way to get it, and a powerful curse like this will fetch a high price. Unless I start mugging merchants on their way in and out of the village." He let out a large laugh.
Doren knew he was lying. He didn't know the exact truth, but he knew his brother's restlessness was leading him down a dangerous path. He knew the blade was a means to an end, a desperate measure to escape a life he felt was suffocating him. He also knew that his brother's ambition and recklessness with the volatile curse could be a deadly combination.
He didn't press Damurah for more information. Instead, he simply picked up the flawed blade, a new plan forming in his mind.
Before Doren could do anything with the blade, Damurah snatched it back from his hands. "It's mine," he said, his voice a low growl. The flicker of respect from moments ago was gone, replaced by his usual defensive anger. He wrapped the blade in a piece of oil-soaked cloth and tucked it under the bench just as their mother's voice, tired and strained, carried from the cottage.
"Doren! Damurah! Time to say your goodbyes to Nergal!"
The two brothers walked back to the cottage in silence, the tension between them a palpable thing. The cottage was filled with a sense of nervous anticipation. Nergal stood by the door, his pack on his back, his glider neatly folded and slung over his shoulder. His grey hair, usually so meticulously kept, was ruffled by a wild, eager energy, and his blue eyes shone with the promise of adventure. He hugged his mother, Jerter, his tall frame dwarfing her. She was a still, sad point in the whirlwind of his excitement.
"I'll send word," he promised, his voice full of conviction. "I'm going to see everything out there."
He then went to each of his sisters, embracing them tightly. Daria slipped a pouch of dried herbs into his pack, her smile a little watery. Jemsie wove a small thread of light magic into a charm for his neck, her eyes full of pride and a gentle sadness. Leasie, the youngest, with her gray skin and dark amber eyes, simply stood still, her darkness affinity absorbing the collective, bittersweet emotions, giving the room a strange, peaceful calm.
Finally, Nergal stood before his brothers. He clapped Damurah on the shoulder, a wide grin on his face. "Keep your temper in check, brother. And try not to burn the whole village down while I'm gone."
Damurah simply nodded, unable to meet his gaze. A mix of resentment and longing etched on his face.
Nergal then turned to Doren, a slight smile on his face. "Keep reading, little ghost. Maybe one day you'll find a book that teaches you how to fly."
Doren didn't smile back. He just nodded, the weight of the Focal Stone in his pocket a silent burden. He knew Nergal was not just leaving to find a new life, he was escaping the grief that was consuming them all. But he was also leaving the family even more fractured than it already was.
With one last, exhilarating look at his family, Nergal walked out
the door, a final gust of his air magic lifting him slightly off the ground. He unfolded his glider and, with a powerful shove of air, launched himself into the sky, a figure of pure, unadulterated joy against the setting sun. He was gone, a part of their family taking to the skies, leaving the rest to stand on the ground, watching the last of their hope for a return fly away.
Damurah, a storm of resentment and envy brewing in his chest, turned and stalked back toward the forge. The sound of his heavy footsteps on the path was a stark counterpoint to the exhilarating silence that Nergal's departure had left behind. The girls, their faces a mixture of pride and quiet sorrow, returned to their chores. Jemsie went to tend to her herbs, the light from her hands a muted, sad glow. Daria returned to the garden, her touch to the soil a desperate act of grounding herself. Leasie, her presence a silent, calming anchor, stayed with her mother in the cottage, their grief a shared, silent burden.
Doren stood alone on the path, his gaze fixed on the fading point in the sky that was his brother. The setting sun cast long shadows, painting the landscape in hues of lonely gold and purple. He thought of Nergal's unbridled joy, his longing for a life beyond the quiet grief that had settled over their home.
"Be safe, brother," Doren whispered, the words lost to the wind. "Go and find what you're looking for."
He remained for a long moment, the cool evening air a stark contrast to the warmth of the Focal Stone in his pocket. His quiet life of books and observation had been shattered by a single scroll, and now his family was fracturing under the weight of their own separate griefs.
Doren looked down at his hand, closing it into a fist around the stone in his pocket. He wasn't just a boy anymore. He was a keeper of secrets, a quiet observer with a burden no one else knew about.
"Don't worry," he murmured to himself, his voice firm with a newfound purpose. "It won't be long until we meet up again."
He didn't know how, but he knew he would find a way. Nergal had escaped to the skies, but Doren had a different kind of journey to make. A journey inward, to a heart filled with power that was just waiting for its spark. The quiet life was over. The time for action was here.
Doren walked back to the cottage, the weight of the Focal Stone and his silent promise a heavy presence. Inside, the quiet grief had settled into every corner. He found his mother, Jerter, in the kitchen, her long black hair, now streaked with silver, a veil over her downcast face as she stared into the unlit hearth. The absence of Nergal was already a palpable thing.
"Mother," Doren began, his voice surprisingly firm. "I need to talk to you."
Jerter looked up, her blue eyes wide and filled with a new wave of worry. She saw the familiar determination on his face, the same look his father had worn.
"I'm leaving," Doren stated simply. "Not forever, but I have to go. Maybe not even right now, but when the time is right, I will… I have to leave"
Jerter's hand flew to her chest, her fingers clutching at her simple linen tunic. A shocked expression contorted her face, a mix of fear and betrayal. "Doren, no," she pleaded, her voice a cracked whisper. "You can't. Please, stay."
She rushed to him, her hands on his shoulders, her grip surprisingly strong. "You haven't gotten any power yet. The world beyond this cottage is dangerous, my son. Even the journey to the closest village could end in danger." Her eyes were wild with a mother's terror. "You don't have the strength to protect yourself. You can't just leave us."
Doren felt a pang of guilt. He saw the pain in her eyes, the echoes of the day Sophron left. He knew he couldn't put her through that again, not so soon. He looked away, his gaze falling on the small, gray camping stone that sat on the windowsill, a silent monument to her hope and her unending wait.
He took a deep breath, the taste of her fear in the air. "I'll stay," he said, the words a difficult concession. "Just a little longer. I promise."
Jerter's grip softened, her relief a tangible warmth against his shoulders. She pulled him into a desperate hug, holding him close as if he were already gone. Doren hugged her back, his promise a lie to her, but a truth to himself. He would stay, but his journey would begin now, within the walls of their home. He wouldn't leave, not physically, but he knew he couldn't wait any longer.
Doren knew he had to start activating his dormant power, but he also knew he had to do so without his mother's knowledge. He needed to find a time and place to begin his training.