The night air was thick with tension. Bolt sat on the edge of his bed, his fingers clenched into fists as Valeon's words from their last session replayed in his mind.
"Power isn't just given. It's taken."
"You think the Warborn are born by chance?"
"You're not ready for all of it. Not yet."
It wasn't just the training anymore. It wasn't just the pressure of leading Celestial Tempest or the constant target on his back. There was something bigger at play, something Valeon wasn't telling him. And Bolt wasn't sure if he was prepared for the truth.
His eyes flicked to his hand. Sparks of lightning danced across his fingertips, shifting erratically, unstable. He clenched his fist, forcing the energy to dissipate. No matter how much power he had, it meant nothing if he couldn't control it.
Then his thoughts drifted—back to them.
To his past.
To the family that had abandoned him.
Years Ago—Before the Great Surge
It had been raining that night. Bolt—back then just a fragile, lonely boy—stood on the porch of his home, drenched, shivering, his heart hammering in his chest.
"Please," he had begged, gripping the edge of his mother's coat as she stood in the doorway. "Please don't leave me."
His mother, a woman who had once held him close and whispered promises of love, looked down at him with cold, unreadable eyes. His father stood beside her, his expression grim, as if this was something painful but necessary.
"You're not like us, Bolt," his father had said. "You never were."
"I can be! I'll change! I'll be better!"
His mother sighed, prying his fingers off her coat. "This is for the best."
Then the door shut.
And Bolt stood there, staring at the wooden surface, the rain masking the tears slipping down his face. He had pounded on the door, screamed, pleaded. But it never opened again.
They had left him.
Thrown him away like he was nothing.
And the worst part? He never even knew why.
Present Day
The memory still burned inside him, even after all these years. It wasn't just about power. It wasn't just about surviving. He wanted answers.
A sudden knock at the door jolted him from his thoughts. His body tensed—his instincts were sharper now, trained by battle, and he knew better than to let his guard down.
Then came a voice. "Bolt. Open up."
Aether.
Bolt exhaled, releasing the tension in his shoulders. He stood and opened the door. Aether leaned against the frame, arms crossed, his sharp eyes scanning Bolt carefully. The dim moonlight from the hallway made his expression even more serious.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," Aether muttered, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. He shut the door behind him. "Something's been off with you ever since Valeon showed up. What's going on?"
Bolt hesitated. He wanted to tell Aether everything. The doubts creeping into his mind, the feeling that Valeon was withholding something important, the nagging sense that he was just a pawn in a game far bigger than himself.
But where would he even begin?
Aether sighed when Bolt didn't respond immediately. "If you won't talk, fine. But at least hear me out." He sat down at the desk, running a hand through his hair. "Something's happening, Bolt. The factions are getting restless. Crimson Fang might've been defeated, but they're not staying down. And now, there's another problem."
Bolt's brow furrowed. "What kind of problem?"
Aether's gaze darkened. "A new faction. One that shouldn't exist."
Bolt narrowed his eyes. "You're talking about Eclipse, aren't you?"
Aether nodded. "I've been gathering intel. Eclipse was supposedly wiped out years ago. No one knows exactly what happened, but they vanished overnight. No survivors. No trace. Just… gone." He leaned forward. "And now? There are whispers that they're back."
Bolt frowned. "Why would they be after me?"
Aether let out a humorless chuckle. "Isn't it obvious? You're different, Bolt. You're the Warborn."
That word still unsettled him.
The legend. The mystery surrounding his existence. The feeling that there was more to him than even he understood.
Aether continued, "You're either a threat to them… or a prize."
Bolt clenched his fists. He was sick of being hunted. Sick of being treated like he was some kind of thing instead of a person.
Before he could respond, a sudden noise broke the silence.
A sharp knock—this time on the window.
Both of them tensed.
Bolt turned quickly, his body instinctively charging with energy. He slid the window open cautiously, expecting an ambush.
Instead, a small slip of paper fluttered inside.
Bolt grabbed it, unfolding it with wary hands.
The message was scrawled in sharp, precise handwriting:
"You are being watched. You are being tested. The past is not done with you."
His blood ran cold.
There was no signature. No indication of who had sent it.
Aether read over his shoulder. "What the hell does that mean?"
Bolt's grip tightened on the paper. The past… Could it mean them? The family that abandoned him? Or was it something else entirely?
Then, before their eyes, the ink shifted.
The letters rearranged themselves, forming a new message right in Bolt's hands:
"Eclipse is coming."
Aether's face went pale. "Okay. That's not normal."
Bolt's heart pounded. He had seen a lot since the Great Surge. He had fought monsters, battled enemies stronger than he could imagine. But this…
This was something different.
Something unnatural.
He could feel it in his bones—the war wasn't just coming.
It had already begun.
Before Bolt could even react, the ink bled again, twisting into one final message:
"You're not the only one searc
hing for the truth."
And for the first time in a long time, Bolt felt something deep in his chest.
Not just fear.
But dread.