I turned eight just two weeks ago.
There was no celebration. No candles, no music, no loud declarations of love. My father wasn't the type for soft rituals. My mother had smiled that morning, kissed my forehead, and made stew. That was enough.
That was everything.
Since then, the days had grown more intense. My training with aura had evolved past raw force and physical conditioning. Now, it was about precision—about shaping that invisible storm inside me into a blade sharp enough to split the world.
But there were parts of me still untouched.
And one of them had begun to stir.
The morning sun filtered through the cracked wooden shutters of our home. I stretched slowly, joints stiff from yesterday's lesson. Father was already outside, I could feel his presence like a boulder waiting to test me.
But something held me in bed a moment longer.
A whisper. Faint. Feminine.
"You're thinking again."
I turned my head.
Raven stood at the foot of my bed, arms crossed, leaning against the wall like a shadow that refused to behave.
"I always think," I replied.
"You're not thinking. You're remembering."
"…And?"
She shrugged. "Memories are dangerous when you start shaping yourself around them."
I sat up, rubbing my eyes. "I'm already shaped."
"No. You're still clay. Burning in the kiln."
Training began before sunrise.
Father said only cowards waited for the warmth of day to test themselves.
We trained in silence for the first hour. Sword drills. Precision strikes. We focused on flow—on translating aura into speed, not just power. Each strike was to be decisive, elegant, without a trace of wasted effort.
The ground around us bore the signs of months of battles. Grooves. Craters. Dead grass.
After an hour, Father tossed his training blade aside and walked to the edge of the field. He picked up a pair of weighted chains.
"Today we begin something new."
I tilted my head. "Chains?"
He nodded. "Your aura flows well, but your limbs move too freely. Too dependent on motion. A true warrior can fight even when restrained."
He tossed the chains. I caught them mid-air. They were cold and heavy.
"Wrap them around your wrists."
I obeyed, binding them tight.
"Now fight me."
What followed was... brutal.
Every swing I made was slower. Every movement restricted. I learned quickly that my instincts relied on momentum. These chains forced me to use leverage, muscle control, and breath in ways I never had.
He didn't go easy. Not once.
Each time I adjusted, he changed tactics. A sweep, a shoulder check, a backhand with his aura-coated palm.
I was on the ground more than I was on my feet.
But I kept rising.
Even as my shoulders screamed.
Even when blood seeped from a split lip and the corners of my vision darkened.
I kept rising.
And that's when it happened.
A spark.
Not of aura. Not of magic.
But something deeper.
Anima.
I didn't recognize it at first. But the moment it flickered through my limbs, my chains grew lighter. My breathing steadied. My vision sharpened.
Father paused.
He saw it too.
"Again," he barked, voice harsher now.
I moved.
The chains clanged—but I flowed with them. I didn't fight the weight—I turned it into momentum. My blade moved in a sudden arc, sharp enough that Father had to parry instead of block.
His eyes widened—just for a breath.
That was all I needed.
I pivoted low, rolled under his counter, and tapped his side with the dull edge.
He froze.
Then smiled.
A rare thing. Like seeing the moon blink.
"You felt it," he said.
I nodded.
"…Anima," I whispered.
We sat on the grass afterward, bruised and breathless. The sun had begun its climb, casting golden light through the mist.
He handed me a water flask. I drank greedily.
"You've awakened all three now," he said, voice soft. "Magic through mind. Aura through body. Anima through soul."
I looked down at my hands. They were still trembling slightly, the chains now resting across my knees.
"Does that mean I'm ready?"
He shook his head.
"It means you're dangerous. To yourself. To others. And especially… to fate."
I blinked.
"What does that mean?"
He didn't answer. Just looked toward the mountains in the distance.
"There are people in this world who will kill a child for possessing what you now carry. Even before they know your name. Even before you raise a blade."
A silence settled between us.
"Will they find me?" I asked.
He met my gaze. "I won't let them"
That night, I sat outside under the stars again. Not to meditate. Not to brood.
But to understand.
My spirits circled me.
Solara floated overhead, her form glowing faint gold. "Your control over anima is still young. Like a heartbeat learning rhythm."
Aelira closed her eyes. "It will whisper truths to you others can't."
Nyssara giggled, drawing spirals in the dirt. "Careful. Anima breaks things too. Especially rules."
Raven sat beside me, arms around her knees. Her presence had shifted since this morning. More… focused.
"You're closer now," she said.
"To what?"
"To what you'll become."
I looked up at the sky.
"What will I become?"
None of them answered.
Instead, Raven leaned her head against my shoulder.
"You'll find out soon enough. But whatever it is… the world won't be ready."
I smiled faintly, my eyes growing heavy.
Tomorrow would bring more pain. More training. More growth.
But for tonight, I was content.
I was eight years old.
And already… I was more than most men would ever be.