Location: Kürdiala, Hakakit Oasis – Day | Year 7002 A.A.
Adam emerged from the portal as though stepping not from one place into another, but from one state of being into something altogether different. The edges of the gate shimmered like the afterimage of lightning, snapping faintly with veins of azure mana, before closing with a sigh so soft it seemed almost human—like the last exhalation before sleep.
He stood alone.
The world he entered was neither loud nor desolate. Instead, it breathed. The air carried a coolness unlike the dry cliffs of Kürdiala's outer face, moist with the kiss of water and scented with the lush perfume of an ancient spring. His fur prickled, every strand feeling the shift in atmosphere, as though the very air was alive with awareness, brushing against him like unseen hands.
But it was not quite a place. Adam sensed that at once. Its beauty did not strike him as something grown or built—it felt remembered. A memory the world itself had decided to keep, locked away from decay.
Before him, waterfalls spilled endlessly from cliffs that had no visible crowns, pouring down in liquid gold and silver streams that arched unnaturally, spiraling like ribbons of light mid-air. Some twisted into braids, some broke into mist and reformed again, never once touching the ground in any ordinary way.
Trees with leaves of green glass swayed silently. Each motion seemed deliberate, as though the trees were not moved by wind but by will, like dancers bowing in some forgotten liturgy. Their scent was heavy with jasmine, yet beneath it lingered something stranger—something ancient—like the freshness of rain remembered from before the first dawn.
Petals glowed faintly where they fell, landing upon the luminous grass. The insects were no ordinary insects either: they darted like moving jewels, their wings bending the sunlight into arcs of rainbow flame. Each was a fragment of wonder in motion.
The ground beneath Adam's paws was soft, a carpet of grass so fine that it seemed spun from woven light. Every step sent a faint ripple of blue radiance outward. He realized it wasn't simply grass—it was mana. Not flowing above or beneath the world, but resting visibly, tenderly, within it.
And humming. Always humming. Not loudly, not insistently—just a thrum, low and steady, like the beating of a living heart.
Adam stopped walking. He could not help it.
His body tensed—not in fear, but in recognition of something larger than himself. At first, he had thought this stillness was emptiness, the hush that follows a storm. But no. It was the opposite. This was presence.
It enfolded him like an unseen cloak, not hostile, not demanding, but tucking him in the way a mother pulls the blanket to a child's chin.
His throat grew tight, though he couldn't have said why. He hadn't realized until this moment how weary he was—not simply in body, but in soul. The weight of battles, of secrets, of a destiny thrust upon him… here, in this oasis, those burdens slid just slightly off his shoulders.
He let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. It escaped him long, slow, almost reverent, and with it his muscles loosened. The ache from Toran's test—his brush with the Perfect Sphere—faded to a quiet throb, no more pressing than the memory of pain. His heartbeat steadied.
The Crescent Moon pendant at his throat stirred. Not in violent response, not blazing with fury or answering mana, but pulsing softly, like a second heart. It was not a weapon here. It was simply… at peace.
For a fleeting moment, Adam allowed himself to close his eyes.
And it was almost enough. Almost.
______________________________________
At the center of the Hakakit Oasis, beneath the leaning curve of a waterfall that seemed to bow toward him, sat King Azubuike Toran. His form was at once regal and strangely human in its quietness. He did not perch on a throne of stone or rise from a dais of crystal, but sat cross-legged upon the grass, as though he were nothing more than another pilgrim who had come here to rest.
His fur—black and white, impossibly clean—caught the misting light in alternating bands of shadow and brilliance, as though the sun itself had chosen him for canvas. His robe of midnight blue pooled at his sides, silver-thread catching every ripple of air. To Adam's eyes, it was not so much clothing as a mantle of starlight draped carelessly upon a figure who had long ago ceased to need crowns.
Before him, the waterfall curved mid-air. It did not fall with the thoughtless roar of a mountain spring, but leaned forward, bending its cascade as though drawn by his presence. Adam felt a chill at the sight. It was as if even the elements recognized the panther and had come to listen.
Toran did not move when he spoke. His words carried in the mist like ripples across water—low, deliberate, softened by something Adam had not expected to hear.
"How are you feelin', Adam?"
For a moment Adam said nothing. The question—so plain, so almost ordinary—struck him more deeply than any lecture about mana or strength. It was not the voice of a king demanding report. It was the voice of an elder, worn by memory, heavy with concern.
He stepped forward slowly, each paw sinking into the luminous grass, each breath carrying with it the scent of rain long past.
"Before I stepped in…" Adam's voice cracked slightly, betraying more weariness than he wanted, "…I felt like my body was made of stone."
The words hung in the air, heavier than they seemed. He remembered the suffocating pressure of Toran's Perfect Sphere, how his bones had screamed and his blood had felt as if it were tearing itself apart to resist. He remembered Trevor's collapse, the sudden silence after the storm, and the quiet fear that they might never rise again.
For all his training, for all the strength he had cultivated, he had felt then like little more than a boy—fragile, breakable, powerless against the truth of mana itself. That weight had clung to him even after Toran had dismissed them, like invisible chains wrapped around his chest.
But now—here—something had changed.
He lifted his eyes to the spiraling waters. The light struck them in silver fragments, scattering across his vision like fragments of a dream. He took another breath, deeper this time, and found it came easier.
"Now… it's like I can breathe again."
Toran nodded once, violet eyes opening slightly, gaze fixed on the water as though he read truths within its endless fall.
"Hakakit does that," he said. His tone carried neither pride nor boast, only memory. "A gift from Asalan himself, or so the Chronicles say. It changed the day he rested here, years ago. Became somethin' more. A place of healin'. Of clarity."
The words struck Adam deeper than he expected. Healin'. Clarity. They were words he longed for, words he hardly trusted.
Toran's eyes shifted at last, turning toward him. The indigo irises no longer gleamed with the sharpness of a monarch weighing judgment. They were softened, dimmed—familial.
"It doesn't hide your pain," Toran continued, "It uncovers what's been buried beneath it."
Adam swallowed. The thought unsettled him. What lay beneath his pain? What had he hidden even from himself? His tail flicked once against the grass, betraying nerves.
"Sit with me."
It was not a command. Not an order. Not even a request, in truth. It was an invitation—and Adam felt its weight more than he would have any order.
For a heartbeat, he hesitated. He looked at Toran, this figure who was both king and mystery, mentor and stranger, blood-tied and yet distant. Was this an act of trust? Or submission?
Then, quietly, he crossed the space between them and lowered himself opposite the panther.
The grass welcomed him, cradling his body with the softness of water, cool and strangely alive. The mist clung lightly to his blue fur, carrying the scent of rain and starlight. He felt, absurdly, as though the earth itself had sighed in relief at his choice.
"You're wonderin' why I brought you here," Toran said.
His voice was calm, but beneath it there was a note of inevitability, as though the words had been waiting for centuries to be spoken.
Adam nodded, his throat dry. "I am."
The answer was plain. Yet in the nod there was more: an ache that admitted confusion, resentment, and a hunger he had never confessed aloud.
For a moment Toran did not move. His eyes held Adam's with quiet gravity, longer than comfort allowed. Adam felt laid bare, as though no fur, no armor, no posture could hide what churned within him. Then Toran looked down, folding his hands in his lap, the silence breaking only by the waterfall's unending hymn.
"You carry more than just legacy, Adam," Toran began. His words landed like stones, one by one. "Loss. Anger. The burden of bein' a king without a throne. All that… that's real. That's yours to own. But there's another weight, one you've never understood."
Adam stilled.
Toran's tone did not rise, but it sharpened, precise and piercing. "One you've felt since you were a pup. A voice you never heard, yet always followed."
Adam's heart skipped. The ground beneath him felt suddenly fragile, as though one wrong breath might cause it to give way.
The question—the question—slipped from the depths of his soul, unbidden, unwelcome, but impossible to suppress. It was the question that had haunted him in silence when he was alone, the one he smothered beneath the noise of battle and training, the one that stirred each time he felt the eyes of others weigh upon him.
'What is wrong with me?'
The words echoed through him like a wound reopened. His hands curled against the grass, claws digging into the earth as if to anchor himself.
"How do you know this?" His voice was low, tight with both suspicion and fear.
Toran did not answer immediately. His gaze turned toward the waterfall, where silver streams bent in their impossible arc, pausing almost mid-air before cascading into the pool below. Mist clung to his whiskers, yet he looked not at water, but through it—into memory.
"Because I've seen it before," Toran said.
The words struck like thunder muffled beneath clouds.
Adam's ears twitched involuntarily. He leaned forward without meaning to, as though some gravity drew him nearer.
"Before the Great Narn War," Toran continued, voice sinking lower, "there was an Arcem unlike any other. Passed down through bloodlines not by force… but by resonance. It didn't just bend mana—it commanded it. Could crystallize it. Mold it. Define it."
Each word scraped against Adam's nerves, awakening an echo he could not place. Crystallize. Mold. Define. These were not abstractions to him. They were sensations he had known in battle but never explained—moments where mana seemed not to obey him, but become him, responding as if it recognized something in him.
"What Arcem?" His question burst out, sharper than intended. His tail flicked, betraying agitation he could not suppress.
Toran's violet eyes turned back to him, steady, heavy, inexorable.
"Kurtcan."
The name struck him not as sound, but as resonance. Like a bell rung too deeply for ears, its vibration filled the marrow of his bones. Adam inhaled sharply as though the word itself had stolen his breath.
His vision swayed for a moment, and he found himself gripping the grass just to remain grounded. His heartbeat was no longer steady—it surged, faltered, surged again.
Kurtcan.
The syllables lingered in his chest like molten iron. Something inside him recoiled in fear, yet another part leaned toward it, as though at last a puzzle piece had been returned to a place it had belonged all along.
Adam's breath faltered. He could not speak. He could hardly even think.
Toran did not press. His voice softened to a whisper, though its weight deepened.
"An Arcem that lives," he said. "A soul and consciousness, fused into form, ancient and eternal. It doesn't just obey the wielder. It chooses them."
Adam blinked slowly. His lips parted, but the words dragged like stones.
"That's… that's not possible. Arcems are mana-formed abilities—living things can't be made of…"
"Don't tell me what's impossible, boy."
Toran's voice was not sharp, not scolding. It was steady, like a stone pressing gently against a trembling hand. He leaned forward slightly, eyes softened by something that almost resembled sorrow. "Tell me what feels familiar."
The words pierced deeper than accusation.
Adam looked down. His paws trembled in the mist-light. He hated that Toran could see it, hated more that the tremble wasn't fear of Toran but of himself. The soft grass beneath his claws glowed faintly with each touch, as if the Oasis itself knew what churned inside him.
Toran did not give him time to retreat. His voice dropped lower, weaving past Adam's defenses.
"Kurtcan was the first king of Narn. The first Wolf Tracient."
The words carried a weight beyond history—something ceremonial, sacred, like a name forbidden until now.
"He poured his soul into the Arcem when he died. Not to become immortal… but to make sure his vision survived. That Arcem didn't vanish. It waited. It passed on through bloodlines like a shadow."
A pause. The waterfall seemed to hold its breath. The mist hung heavier. Even the jewel-winged insects circling above went still.
Toran's violet eyes fixed on Adam.
"You have it, Adam."
Adam's chest constricted. The Oasis blurred at the edges, his breath stumbling against the sudden heaviness pressing inward. His claws dug into the grass so tightly the glow dimmed beneath them.
"No…" His voice cracked. His head shook violently, ears flattening. "I awakened Kirin. My father's Arcem. That was enough."
It had to be enough. That was the story he told himself—the story he clung to when others questioned the strange flickers of power, the voice that never left him, the wild fire that raged unbidden in his veins. He had always traced it back to Kirin, his father's legacy, because to admit otherwise was to stare into a void with no bottom.
But Toran's silence did not waver. When he finally spoke, his tone deepened.
"Yes. You did. Which proves your blood."
Toran shifted, the silver-threaded robe across his shoulders catching the faint light. His gaze did not flinch from Adam's.
"Kirin isn't exactly a lineage blade, but it was tied to your father's side. It listened to you because of that bond. But the voice inside you… the chaos, the cold fire that rages when you don't even summon it—" Toran's voice lowered to a whisper. "That's not Kirin."
Adam's vision flickered. His breath quickened.
His eyes burned. At first with heat, then with light. Flecks of yellow shimmered in the blue, dancing like sparks in storm-dark water.
Toran's expression did not change. He only nodded, slowly, as though he had been waiting for this very flicker.
"You inherited two Arcems, Adam."
The words struck harder than any blade.
"Kirin from your father."
Adam's breath caught.
"And Kurtcan… from your mother."
____________________________________
Adam froze. Entirely. His breath stalled, his tail went still, even the trembling of his paws ceased.
"My… mother?"
The word felt foreign in his mouth, like he had never spoken it before, though it had lived in his chest since the day she was gone.
The waterfall's song seemed distant now, the mist cold against his face. His ears rang with the echo of that single word, stretched thin and heavy across his memory.
Toran did not move closer. He did not reach out. He only sat, cross-legged, watching with the stillness of the waterfall itself. His voice when it came was neither pitying nor triumphant. It was resolute.
"You've always asked yourself what was wrong with you. But the truth, Adam… nothing's wrong. You were born carrying more than any one soul should."
He leaned slightly forward. His violet eyes gleamed, not with command, but with recognition.
"Kirin was your father's strength. But Kurtcan—" he tapped his chest once, lightly, "—Kurtcan is blood older than thrones. Older than war. Older than even I can remember. It is the wolf that outlived time itself. And it chose your mother. And through her…"
His gaze pierced Adam's, unwavering.
"…it chose you."
Toran's voice carried the final weight of revelation.
"Amaia Kurt. The White Witch of Narn. Hazël Number One. Stronger than you can imagine"
The words did not echo in the air — they echoed in Adam's bones.
"She was my friend. My family. And she loved you beyond reason."
Adam's throat tightened. His lips parted, but the sound that escaped was not steady.
"Then why did she leave me?"
The question was too raw, too jagged, pulled not from reason but from years of loneliness, of nightmares, of the cold weight of exile. His ears flattened, eyes burning.
"Why let me grow up hunted and abandoned, with power I don't understand? Why not prepare me?"
His voice cracked at the end, carrying the boy he had once been.
Toran reached forward. Slowly. Deliberately. His paw came to rest on Adam's.
The touch was grounding, warm as the grass beneath them.
"She didn't get the chance. She and your father both died tryin' to protect you."
Adam's gaze trembled.
Toran's grip tightened.
"But listen to me: you are not alone. Their souls live on—in you. And through Kurtcan, you can speak with them."
Adam's chest lurched, his voice caught between disbelief and desperate hope.
"How?"
Toran turned toward the great cascade of water, where the fall curved ever so slightly as though bowing. He raised a paw toward it, his violet eyes softened.
"Close your eyes. Breathe. Don't listen with your ears. Listen with what remembers."
Adam hesitated, the storm inside him thrashing. 'What if nothing came? What if this was a lie, a cruel mirage dressed in Toran's authority? But beneath the fear was something greater: the yearning that had never stilled since childhood.'
He closed his eyes.
The world changed.
The roar of the waterfall dulled, as though the air itself leaned close in silence. Light faded behind his eyelids, dimming into a softer shade, like dusk in memory. His breath came in shallow pulls at first, then steadied, falling into rhythm with the hum of the Oasis.
And then something stirred.
Not the weight of Kirin, sharp and heavy, the battle-honed weapon of his father's side. No. This was older, deeper. A warmth that was not heat. A fire without burn.
It came like a lullaby not sung but remembered — notes not carried by sound but by the marrow of his bones.
A warmth like stars hiding behind a storm.
Something that had always been there.
Hidden. Patient. Waiting behind breath and blood and pain.
His lips moved before he knew it.
"Mom…?"