My father saw it too. For the first time in years, I caught it in his eyes—uncertainty. Just a flicker. But it was enough.I didn't know how or why, but my anger had reached into whatever force bound me to the Stone of Fate... and it had answered.
I turned my arm slowly, the Warrior's sigils pulsing beneath my skin like burning brands.Let them think I was a Mage. Let them think I was a Warrior.Let them all try to define me.The truth was something more.And it was just waking up.
He stared—my father, Lord Carran—eyes narrowed, jaw set like stone.But I no longer felt small.
The runes carved in light along my arm pulsed with each heartbeat, louder, heavier, stronger. I felt it surging through me—the weight of mountains, the fury of stormwinds. The power wasn't just beneath my skin anymore... it was becoming my skin, reshaping me from within.
I stepped forward slowly.His scowl deepened. "Don't you take that tone with me—""I haven't said a word," I growled, voice lower, harsher than I remembered. "But I'm finally feeling one."
The air shimmered with heat as if the tattoos themselves were searing truth into my flesh. My hands clenched without meaning to, fingers curling into fists as my shoulders squared.
"I bent my knee to your demands," I said, stepping closer. "Trained with blade and shield until my knuckles bled because you said it was the only way I'd be worth something."
He took a small step back. Enough to show he felt it—the change. The power.
"I followed your path," I snarled, "but it was never mine."
His lip curled. "You think glowing skin makes you a warrior?"
"No," I said, lifting my arm. The runes flared—not with light, but wrath. "But it means I don't need your permission to be one."
The tattoos roared like wildfire, spreading down my bicep, over my shoulder, burning through the fabric of my tunic. They weren't just marks—they were armor, chains breaking.
He raised a hand as if to strike.
I didn't flinch.
This time, he hesitated.
"I'm not afraid of you anymore," I said, voice steel on stone. "And if you ever try to touch me again... you'll learn what it means to face a real warrior."
The silence that followed was suffocating—every priest and witness frozen, unsure if the gods themselves would intervene. But they didn't need to. I had found something stronger than their judgment. I had found myself.
With a sudden surge of strength, I pushed past my father, nearly shoving him off his feet. He screamed and cursed, but his words fell away like hot air from a failed warrior beneath me.
As I walked out of the temple, the tattoos slowly faded, blending into ordinary ink.
At home, the weight of the past clung tight. I moved through the dim rooms one last time, fingers trailing the rough wood walls, the cracked stone hearth. Each step echoed faintly—ghosts flickering behind my eyes.
I slung my worn satchel over my shoulder, heavy despite holding all I owned. The old house—if it could still be called that—was finally behind me. Its walls had watched me suffer, bend, break. They echoed with shouts, silence, the sound of a boy never allowed to be one.
I took one last look at the hearth. Cold now. Always cold.
Turning toward the road, I stepped past the threshold—and there she was.
Auralia.
For a moment, the world held its breath.
She stood where she had all those years ago—just beyond the garden gate, late afternoon sun haloing her in gold. Her hair, loose and windblown, swept across her shoulder. Her leather armor hugged her like a second skin, but the softness in her eyes... that hadn't changed. Not even now.
I blinked.
For a heartbeat, I was eighteen again—standing here, staring at the girl who bested me in sword training, then laughed when I sulked. The girl who called me out for faking bruises. The girl who saw me.
Now, she saw me again.
Only this time, there was no laughter. Just silence—and something unspoken, caught between us like a blade sheathed but heavy in the air.