The forest gave no answers, only space.
Corren stayed hidden beneath its canopy for months. He learned the sound of every creature, the way the wind shifted before rain, the difference between solitude and stillness. No one looked for him here—not the knights, not the mage, not the ones who feared what he was. Time passed differently in the wild. Days stretched. Nights folded in on themselves. Seasons bled together.
By the time the first frost returned, Corren had turned eighteen.
He'd wondered, in those first weeks, if the knights or the mage had exposed him. If the Baroness even knew what he was. Maybe they hadn't said anything. Maybe they had. He couldn't be sure.
But it didn't matter. Being wanted was enough. Truth never had to be spoken aloud to be dangerous.
He'd changed. He could feel it in his movements, in how the world slowed when he focused. The song—his curse, his companion—had grown clearer. Sharper. He no longer needed to reach for it. It reached for him.
He was close now. No longer just a Warden Flicker.
Soon, he would be Bearer.
For most, rising through the Gift's tiers took years. It was like muscle: use, then rest, then use again. But Corren's power never needed rest. It didn't pull from Thirra like a mage, or from Vira like an enhancer. It simply existed. It burned through him like a second soul.
He fought when he needed to. Stalked and killed a baby basilisk that had wandered too close to the edge of its den. Bound-tier Emerger, by the look of it. Still dangerous. Still enough to tear a man apart. But not him.
He kept the teeth. Peeled some scales. It wasn't pride. It was coin.
When Corren finally stepped back into civilization, it was a small trade hub called Tushell, straddling the northern road. One market. Two taverns. No questions.
He walked into town under a stolen cloak—black with a deep hood, cut long enough to hide the worn edges of his boots. He sold the basilisk teeth to an alchemist who didn't ask where they came from. The scales went to a tanner who muttered a prayer after touching them.
It bought him a warm meal, threadbare gloves, and a place to sleep that didn't sway with the wind.
Then he saw it.
Pinned to the tavern's main board, beside bounty notes and missing cattle posters:
WANTED – ALIVE
The sketch was rough, but the eyes were unmistakable.
Corren.
Maybe the poster was just for questions. Maybe it wasn't. He couldn't be sure.
Corren stared at it for a long time.
He already knew the Baroness was Stilleon's daughter—half-blooded, technically. Her claim to the north was tenuous, but politically useful. If both her and the Duke wanted him, it meant more than fear. It meant value.
He stepped away from the board before anyone could look between the poster and his face.
It wasn't just fear of what he was. It was greed.
Power without allegiance was dangerous. Everyone knew mages and enhancers came with training, with rules. But Gifted? No one knew where their power came from. No rules. No center. That made them threats.
Or tools.
He walked out of the tavern without finishing his drink. The town was quiet. No guards. No hunters. Not yet. But they would come.
They always did.
That night, he found the river again.
Far from the town, deep in the pinewood, it wound like a dark ribbon across the earth. Corren crouched by its edge, peeled the gloves from his hands, and washed the day from his skin.
Blood he hadn't noticed came off in swirls. His hands trembled. He didn't know if it was from cold or something else.
He finished, dried his arms on a strip of cloth, and climbed into the branches of a nearby pine. The trunk was wide, the limbs sturdy. He settled between two thick boughs, pulling the cloak around his shoulders.
The stars above blinked through the needles. The wind whispered.
He didn't sleep. Not right away.
He listened.
The melody had quieted.
But he knew it hadn't left.
Not really.
It never did.
When sleep finally came, it brought the nightmare with it.
His mother stood at the doorway, silhouetted by the hearth. She was humming—soft, like she used to—and for a moment, Corren felt safe. Then the humming changed. Dissonant. Wrong. The melody he knew now too well twisted through the air.
The door behind her burst open. His brother, face wild with something darker than rage, stepped in. There was a knife in his hand. Not for food. Not for defense. Corren remembered yelling, but the sound had no voice in the dream.
His mother tried to shield him. Too slow. The blade found her side.
The song screamed in his ears.
He remembered the weight of the kitchen stool. The way his hand closed around it. The way it cracked his brother's skull.
He remembered not crying.
Not then. Not after.
The dream ended with blood on his hands and silence where his mother's song had been.
He woke just before dawn, sweat cold beneath his cloak, heart hollowed out by memory.