The words on the parchment didn't scream or shout; they simply settled into Alph's consciousness with the weight of a mountain. The air in his lungs seemed to freeze, and the faint, sputtering light of the candle suddenly felt very far away. He read the line again, his eyes tracing the faded ink, then a third time, as if the lawyer in him was cross-examining a hostile witness, demanding the unvarnished truth. ...my sister, Elara – she's only fourteen now... and with her, my own infant son, Alph...
A strange, hollow feeling opened up inside him. It wasn't the explosive shock of a sudden plot twist; it was the quiet, world-altering finality of a verdict being read. Elara, his aunt. He knew that. But a fourteen-year-old aunt, then. A child herself, who had arrived in this village not just as his guardian, but as a refugee carrying an infant, her brother's son.
His father. The words echoed in a part of his soul that had been silent his entire life, on Earth and here. A man he had never known, had never even conceived of, had written these words. This wasn't just a letter; it was a testament, a final request from a man facing an end so dire he had to entrust his son and his teenage sister to the care of a mountain druid. The weight of Elara's sacrifice, the true depth of what she had done for him, crashed down on Alph with a force that left him breathless. Every memory of her being stern, of her being protective, was instantly reframed. She hadn't just raised him; she had shielded him, a child carrying a child, after fleeing a catastrophe that had wiped out their family.
The foundation of their life here, the story she had told him to protect him from that very truth, was what came to his mind next. It was all built on a lie. A kind lie, perhaps, a necessary one, but a lie nonetheless. He could clearly access the memories of a younger Alph, a boy of about seven, asking Elara where his parents were. He remembered her face, sad but firm, as she told him the story she had clearly maintained for years: that they were brilliant scholars who died in a bandit attack while traveling, chasing after some ancient legend. That story had become the bedrock of the original Alph's identity. It had pushed him to become a bookworm, to chase after history and legends himself. He had wanted to immerse himself in the same passions that his parents had supposedly given up everything for, to honor their memory by following in their intellectual footsteps. But this letter, these few faded lines, shattered that entire foundation. His parents hadn't abandoned him for seven years to pursue a hobby; his father had given him up to save his life.
He took a slow, steadying breath, consciously pushing the emotional storm back from the center of his mind. The lawyer took over, his thoughts sharpening, focusing on the facts presented by the letter. It didn't elaborate on the "why," but the "what" was damning enough. A fourteen-year-old girl and an infant sent into hiding with an old druid. This wasn't a bandit attack; this was an escape from something far more total, a "massacre" as his own vague, inherited family lore suggested. The grim deduction settled with chilling certainty: he and Elara were very likely the last survivors. Then another piece clicked into place, slotting into his understanding with a jolt. The Frostmoon bloodline. He had always thought of it as something unique to Elara, her personal inheritance. But Elara was his father's sister. The bloodline wasn't just hers; it was their family's. It was his.
This personal crisis was monumental, but the distant sound of Emil's sister letting out a happy squeal reminded Alph of the more immediate one. The mercenaries. The threat to the village. That was the reason he had risked coming in here in the first place. He carefully refolded the worn letter, his hands surprisingly steady now, and slipped it into an inner pocket of his tunic. He then turned his full attention back to the drab ledger in his hands.
He opened the book. It was exactly as he suspected. The first dozen pages were filled with mundane, spidery script detailing planting times and grain yields. But the rest of the pages had been hollowed out, creating a hidden compartment. Nestled inside was another, much smaller book, bound in dark, unmarked leather. It was thin, but Alph could tell from the feel of the vellum pages that it was dense with information.
Forgetting his caution for a moment, Alph carried the hidden booklet closer to the candle. There was no title. He opened it to a random page. His eyes widened. It wasn't written in prose, but in concise, almost clinical detail, outlining the initial abilities gained upon awakening as a 'Fighter,' with sub-headings for 'Stamina Enhancement' and 'Basic Weapon Proficiency.' He flipped a few more pages. Another section detailed the 'Hunter' profession, with notes on 'Enhanced Senses' and 'Beast Empathy.' It was a primer, a technical manual for the very 'Professions' he'd only read about in folklore.
He lost track of time, completely absorbed. He skimmed through sections on the seven core paths, his mind racing to absorb the information, cross-referencing it with what he already knew. He learned about the initial abilities, the potential branching specializations, the different tiers of power. It wasn't a "how-to" guide, but it was a detailed "what's what," a roadmap of possibilities that was infinitely more valuable than any legend.
It was the sputtering of the candle, its flame finally guttering out and plunging the room into near-total darkness, that snapped him back to reality. Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through him. How long had he been in here? He could no longer hear any sounds from Emil's room. He scrambled in the dark, his hands finding the small booklet. He quickly placed it back in its hollowed-out compartment, closed the heavy ledger, and slid it back into its exact spot on the shelf. Then, as silently as he had entered, Alph slipped out of the study, his mind reeling not with the shock of his ancestry, but with the explosive potential of the knowledge he now possessed.
When Alph stepped back into Emil's room, he found the atmosphere had quieted considerably. Emil's little sister had apparently tired herself out and was now curled up asleep on her woven mat, her small chest rising and falling rhythmically. In the center of the room, Kael and Emil were hunched over the floor, deeply engrossed in a game involving smooth, marked stones on a crudely drawn grid – a mountain version of chess, Alph supposed. It was Kael who looked up as the door creaked, his playful expression faltering slightly as he took in the look on Alph's face.
Kael's gaze met Emil's, and he gave a slight, almost imperceptible shake of his head before putting a finger to his lips and gesturing towards his sleeping sister. They rose silently, and the three boys quietly let themselves out of the dwelling, the door closing with a soft click behind them. Out in the frigid night air, under the dim light of the veiled moon, Kael finally broke the silence. "Well?" he asked, his usual boisterousness toned down by the look on his friend's face. "Did you find anything important in there?"