The road from Crimsonhold to their forest home twisted through a labyrinth of ancient trees, their gnarled branches clawing at the indigo sky. The air grew heavy with the scent of damp moss and iron-tinged sap, the forest's pulse a low hum beneath their boots. Alden and Rowan paused at a roadside market, its ramshackle stalls glowing under lanterns that flickered with enchanted flame. Merchants, their faces weathered as the stone hills, bartered fiercely—sacks of coarse grain, slabs of dried venison, jars of pickled roots, and vials of herbal salves. Rowan haggled with a grizzled vendor, securing six months' rations to spare Alden weekly treks to town. Time was a currency they couldn't waste.
Rowan's gaze lingered on a bookseller's cart, its shelves sagging under tomes bound in cracked leather. He selected a dozen volumes: treatises on Aether manipulation, chronicles of Ironhold's demon wars, alchemical primers, and practice manuals for the Ironhands Royal Academy entrance exams. "Knowledge is your blade," he muttered, handing Alden the stack. The weight of the books joined the rations in Alden's pack, but his trained shoulders bore it with ease, his corded muscles a testament to years of discipline.
They reached home as the moon carved a sickle through the clouds, its light pooling on their sagging dwelling. The forest pressed close, its silence thick with unseen eyes. Inside, the house groaned under the night's weight, its peeling walls and creaking staircase whispering of forgotten battles. Over a modest dinner—stew thickened with roots, bread charred from Rowan's distracted cooking—the day's events hung heavy. Alden's fork paused, his dark brown eyes, nearly black in the candlelight, locking onto Rowan's.
"It happened as you feared," Alden said, voice barely above a whisper. "The black angel grabbed my hand. I thought… with all our pain training, I could endure it. I thought it'd be a cakewalk." He swallowed, the memory of searing agony tightening his chest. "It was like my soul was being ripped apart."
Rowan's face tightened, his gray hair catching the flicker of flame. A scar above his brow twitched, a relic of battles Alden could only imagine. "I prayed you'd be spared the dual awakening," he said, voice cracking like dry wood. "I've never seen one. Only heard your father's tales. If I'd known the pain…" His fist clenched, knuckles whitening. "I'd have forged you stronger."
Alden's jaw clenched, but he forced calm. "It's done. Do you think Kael suspected?"
Rowan shook his head, eyes haunted. "No one knows of this power. No one can know. The dual awakening… it's a myth to most, a curse to the few who understand. If word spreads, it'll bring doom—not just to us, but to all we've fought for."
"I won't use it," Alden vowed, his voice steel. "Not until we're ready."
Rowan's gaze drifted to the hidden door beneath the stairs, his thoughts distant. "But how do we harness it? We don't even know its name—Eidolon, Shade, something older? Will it taint your Aether?" He leaned forward, voice low. "Your father said reaching its first star mirrors Aether training, but it's stronger, wilder. He swore it could reshape the world… or destroy it." His eyes flickered with grief. "He never told me how he learned that."
Alden's chest tightened at the mention of his father, a shadow he barely knew. "We'll uncover it," he said, resolve burning. "Step by step."
Rowan nodded, but his silence spoke of burdens Alden couldn't yet fathom. They ate quickly, exhaustion dragging them to their narrow beds. As Alden drifted into sleep, the black angel's cruel eyes lingered in his mind, a promise of power and peril.
Dawn broke cold, mist coiling through the backyard like a living thing. Alden stepped outside, expecting the solitude of his morning routine. Instead, Rowan stood waiting, his tall frame cutting a stark silhouette against the forest's gloom. A longsword rested against his shoulder, its blade etched with runes that pulsed faintly. It was the first time in a year he'd joined Alden at dawn.
"You're early," Alden said, a wry smile tugging at his lips.
Rowan's eyes glinted, a rare spark of warmth. "The Ironhands Royal Academy waits for no one. From today, we train for the entrance exams. Aether control is your key. Let's begin."
They sat cross-legged on a circle of packed earth, the forest's hum a distant chorus. Rowan pressed a calloused hand to Alden's chest, directly over his heart. A pulse of Aether surged from his palm, igniting Alden's core like a star flaring to life. Energy flooded his veins—his body lightened, as if gravity had loosened its grip. His muscles thrummed with strength, and the world sharpened: the rustle of leaves became a symphony, the skitter of a distant creature a drumbeat. He sensed the forest's heartbeat, its life woven with threads of Aether. But when Rowan withdrew his hand, the sensation collapsed, leaving Alden achingly ordinary.
"This is Aether," Rowan said, voice steady as stone. "The lifeblood of Ironhold. To climb this world's ladder, you must master it. There are nine stages—Circles of Aether. The First is weakest, the Ninth strongest. Only eleven Nine-Circle Masters live today, four in our kingdom. They're gods among men, untouchable. General Darius is one. But they all began here, with a single spark. So will you."
Alden's eyes widened. "You're a Four-Circle Master, aren't you?"
Rowan's nod was curt, pride tempered by humility. "Fifteen years of blood and sweat. I was called a rare talent. But you, Alden—you must surpass me, and quickly. The academy selects only four students per region. You will be one. There, you might find answers about your other power."
"Understood," Alden said, his voice a vow.
"Close your eyes," Rowan instructed. "Your heart's awakened. Feel the Aether in the earth, the air, the trees. Sense its flow, then draw it in."
Alden sank into meditation, the world fading to a quiet hum. Hours passed, his breath steady, his mind a still lake. Then, a flicker—a pulse of energy, faint as a whisper. Aether's presence, alive and elusive. He'd felt it. Sensing was the first step; absorption was the crucible.
Their days forged a relentless rhythm. Mornings honed Aether control in the backyard, afternoons fed Alden's mind with academics—Ironhold's demon-slaying history, maps of its fortified regions, alchemical formulas, and basic spellcraft. Nights descended to the basement's deepest chamber, a stone vault lit by runes that pulsed like heartbeats. Here, they probed the mysterious energy of Alden's dual awakening—tentatively called Eidolon by Rowan, a name whispered in ancient texts. It was similar to Aether, yet alien, its presence a shadow that teased but refused to be grasped. Rowan's guidance was tireless, but progress was a distant star. Alden's will, tempered by pain, refused to break.