Chapter Three: The Cost of Power
Power in this world did not come from gods or destiny.
It came from awakening.
When the world fell and the Awakened rose, abilities became the new currency—power etched into blood and soul. No two gifts were alike, and no man could choose their fate. What awakened was what defined them.
Some lit fire with a blink. Others swam through stone or twisted steel with a whisper. Some called storms; others calmed minds.
Abilities were ranked in Tiers, based on the raw strength, versatility, and impact of the gift:
Core Ability Tiers:
Low Tier: Minor tricks—lighting candles, warming soup, encouraging plants to grow faster. Small, domestic, and often overlooked.
Mid Tier: Combat-capable—throwing fireballs, speed bursts, short-range teleportation, temporary shielding. Useful for mercenary work and regional guard forces.
High Tier: Devastating and wide-reaching—seismic disruption, time-slowing fields (limited), long-range telepathy, energy-based weaponry. Heavily monitored and occasionally feared.
Legendary Tier:
Gold Tier: Neither rank nor reward—legend. Gifts that affect the foundation of other abilities. Not omnipotent, but capable of rewriting the rules of power under strict conditions. Only one confirmed case.
Color Ratings (Nature of the Gift):
Light: Healing, defense, empathy, growth. Nonviolent in essence. Trusted but often underestimated.
Bright: Adaptive, versatile—equal potential for creation or destruction. Often the most balanced and feared in battle.
Dark: Deception, corruption, control, or violence. Often targeted by law or feared by commonfolk. Dangerous, though not inherently evil.
Abilities were innate and fixed. You could not trade them. You could not reroll fate.
But Techniques—how you used that power—could be studied and upgraded.
Technique Tiers:
Low: Basic and instinctive. Often the first method someone discovers with their gift.
Mid: Refined and trained. Taught by masters or forged through hardship.
High: Rare and advanced. Forged through intense understanding or genius application. Sometimes passed down through generations or invented in desperation.
Some powers drew inspiration from myth and fiction—gifts akin to the floating fruit legends of the old world, abilities that mimicked flame bodies, intangible shadows, or object animation. These were rare, usually in the Mid to High Tier, and demanded creativity.
Every person had one gift. That gift, over a lifetime, defined them.
Kael Ardyn had none.
Just sight. Slightly enhanced. He could read motion better, see clearer in darkness, detect emotion in a twitch or tone. Enough to survive. Not enough to conquer.
His years from fifteen to thirty weren't glorious—they were a ledger of jobs, scars, and silent study.
He worked as a butcher's hand. Carried bloody sacks while men laughed at him. Learned where bone ended and pain began.
He served as a courier. Heard confessions behind sealed letters. Learned who loved, who lied, who plotted murder with a kiss.
He dug graves. Too many. He memorized the weight of grief.
He scrubbed noble halls and watched the way the rich lied without blinking. Learned how cruelty needed no power—just protection.
In one city, he met Lira. Bright-green eyes. A Light-ranked gift—flame that healed. She saved a dying boy in secret.
They shared bread. Shared silence. Shared plans.
Three years later, he tracked her down.
He was two days late.
She had been executed. Her school burned. Her name vanished.
A noble stormcaller ordered it.
Kael buried a locket he found in the ruins.
He didn't cry. He didn't scream.
He remembered.
Through the years, Kael learned one truth:
It wasn't powers that made monsters.
It was people.
Power only amplified what they already were.
Then came his thirty-first year.
A cold morning. A ruined bridge. And a pain behind his eyes like knives in fire.
He collapsed.
Time broke.
Raindrops froze. Leaves stopped mid-fall. Sound vanished. The world became still.
And in that silence—
Kael saw them.
The faces of every life he'd touched. Butcher. Thief. Lover. Child. Killer. Victim.
Floating around him.
Watching.
The voice returned:
"Fifteen years you watched. Fifteen years you endured. What you have become is not power. It is cost."
Golden light exploded from his chest. Symbols wrapped his spine, his eyes, his arms.
They didn't burn. They remembered.
And then—
**"You have earned the gift no one is born with. The Giftmaker.
Create, but only what you understand.
Only those shaped by truth, memory, and price.
You may not gift others.
Only yourself."**
He awoke beneath the bridge.
Blood dried on his lips.
Sight gold and trembling.
He wept.
Not because it hurt.
But because—for the first time—
He felt seen.