The city was a blur of noise and lights, far from the quiet mountains Rivan had known. Buildings scraped the sky, streets buzzed with people and carriages, and the smell of cooked meals, burnt wood, and smoke mingled in the air. Rivan's chest felt heavy with each step, the memory of the destroyed village clawing at him.
"This… this is where we'll stay?" his sister, Mira, asked softly, holding his sleeve. Her eyes were wide, unsure, but she tried to steady herself.
"Yes," Rivan replied quietly, his voice rough. "We… we have nowhere else."
The Secret Society's office loomed ahead—a massive stone structure adorned with ancient symbols glowing faintly. The guards at the entrance nodded to them, recognizing the newcomers, and ushered them inside.
Inside, the office smelled of herbs and burning incense. The walls were lined with shelves of books, scrolls, and glowing sigils. Warriors trained in the courtyard outside, practicing their martial and mystical arts.
Rivan was introduced to a middle-aged man with a stern face. "You will work here," he said, pointing toward the kitchen. "Cooking, cleaning, helping where needed. Do not get in the way of the scorers or the mission."
"Yes, sir," Rivan said, swallowing the lump in his throat. He had never been so small, so powerless, and yet the fire in his chest hadn't died.
Mira was enrolled in the academy rooms inside the compound. The teachers greeted her warmly, noting her sharp mind and determination. Rivan watched her walk away, a small sense of pride flickering in the darkness that had been his world.
Days passed in a blur of cooking, cleaning, and errands. Rivan chopped vegetables with precise movements, cleaned floors until they shone, and prepared meals for warriors who barely noticed him beyond polite nods. Yet he observed everything—the way the scorers moved, the patterns of the mystical energy around them, the aura of authority that seemed to radiate from the high-ranked ones.
One evening, Mira came running to him, a scroll in her hand. "Rivan! Look at my grades! I… I'm improving!"
He forced a smile, wiping his hands on his apron. "That's… great, Mira. Keep it up. You're doing really well."
She hugged him briefly before running off to study further. Rivan stood alone in the empty kitchen, listening to the distant clang of training weapons, and felt the familiar weight of regret pressing down.
One day… one day I'll be strong enough, he thought, staring at the flickering candlelight. I'll never be helpless again.
The evening air was cooler now, carrying the distant smell of smoke from the city outskirts and the faint tang of herbs from the Secret Society's courtyard. Inside their small room, Rivan and Mira had finally returned after the day's long chores and study sessions.
Rivan set down the last bowl of rice on the small wooden table. Mira looked at him, eyes wide, noticing the subtle exhaustion in his posture.
"Rivan… you cooked today?" she asked, her voice filled with both surprise and relief.
"I… I did," he replied, voice low. He forced a smile. "It's… nothing special."
Mira smiled faintly, a glimmer of warmth cutting through the shadows of their recent past. "It's good. Thank you."
They ate quietly, the only sound being the faint crackle of the candle and Mira's careful movements as she savored her meal. Rivan's hands were still trembling slightly—not from hunger, but from the memory of what he had witnessed in the village.
After dinner, Mira cleared the dishes while Rivan leaned against the wall, closing his eyes for a moment. The quiet of the room felt temporary, fragile, as if the world outside might crash back in at any moment.
"Rivan…" Mira said softly, approaching him. "I know it's hard… what happened. But… we have to keep moving forward. Father… he would want that, right?"
Rivan nodded, swallowing hard. His throat was tight, but he could not speak the words he wanted. How could I move forward when I failed him?
That night, when the candle burned low and Mira had fallen asleep beside him, Rivan could not close his eyes. He lay there, staring at the ceiling, and the images returned—sharp, vivid, inescapable.
The entity, its shadowy tendrils wrapping around his father. His father struggling, helpless. Rivan running… screaming… powerless.
The vision repeated itself, relentless. And Rivan felt every pang of regret, every ounce of guilt, every scream that had gone unheard.
No more… he thought, sitting upright, fists clenched. No more will I watch helplessly. No more will I allow anyone I love to die while I stand frozen.
The fire inside him surged, hotter than the lingering pain in his chest. Images of scorers, of warriors who commanded mystical forces with precision and skill, flared in his mind.
"I will become stronger. I will rise. I will not be weak. I will become a high-rank scorer of the Secret Society. I will control the shadows… I will protect the helpless… and I will never fail again."
The words were not whispered, not a private thought. They echoed in the room, in his chest, in his very soul. A vow had been forged, sharp and unyielding as the steel of the blades he had seen the scorers wield.
Rivan's eyes glowed faintly in the dim candlelight, a spark of energy forming at the core of his being. This is only the beginning.
He clenched his fists, the tremor in his hands replaced by a newfound determination. From ashes, he would rise. From regret, he would forge power. And no entity, no force, would ever render him powerless again.
Outside, the night stretched, quiet but heavy, as if the mountains themselves were holding their breath. Within the city, shadows stirred—but inside Rivan, a storm was brewing, a storm that would not be contained.