The morning mist clung low to the grass, weaving between roots and branches like silent serpents. Dew glistened on every leaf and rock, refracting the faint dawn light into shimmering flecks of gold and blue. Birds chirped overhead, cautious but curious as we prepared to move.
Father stood at the edge of our clearing, arms crossed, eyes scanning the surrounding terrain. He looked every bit the adventurer he once was—scarred, silent, calculating. But then he turned to me with a grin that broke the tension.
"You're lucky you have me, boy," he said, tossing a thin stick my way. "Most people learn wards in scroll-covered halls or monasteries after years of training. But today, you're learning in the wild—where failure could get you mauled."
I caught the stick with a raised eyebrow. "Encouraging."
"Realistic," he replied. "Now carve a sigil."
I blinked. "I thought we were doing a ward?"
"A ward is just a collection of controlled sigils or runes—or sometimes glyphs. Depends on the user's style. But today, we're starting with aura-based wards, which means sigils."
He squatted beside a flat boulder and began clearing moss from its surface. Then, with a sharp dagger, he carved a bold pattern into the stone. Every stroke was precise—each line an extension of will, not just muscle memory.
"This one's simple," he explained. "It activates when something steps within ten paces. Once triggered, it releases a sharp burst of aura—enough to knock back a predator or disrupt an attacker's footing."
I knelt beside him, studying the sigil closely. "Why not just use magic or glyphs?"
"Because aura is tied to the physical world," he said, tapping the rock. "This ward is meant to defend, not persuade or enchant. Glyphs are too fluid for instant reaction. Runes are too slow. Sigils hit hard and fast—just like a warrior."
I mimicked his movements, carving my own crude sigil onto a nearby rock with the stick. It was uneven, shaky.
He peered at it, then smirked. "That's the equivalent of swinging a sword by the blade."
I groaned. "Show me again."
He did, this time slower. "See this curve? It anchors the sigil's energy to the ground. And this spike? That's the directional trigger—it points toward the target zone. The core?" He tapped the center. "That's where your will goes. Without intent, it's just a pretty drawing."
I closed my eyes. Focused.
In my mind, I imagined a beast—a large one—charging out of the woods. I pictured it tripping, startled, as a sudden force pushed it back. I imagined the pressure building in the center of the sigil, ready to explode outward like a pulse of sound.
When I opened my eyes, I carved again.
This time, the lines felt... right. Not perfect, but guided. As I finished the final mark, the sigil pulsed faintly with silver light.
Father raised his brow. "Not bad. Now fuel it."
I took a breath and reached inward, feeling the familiar burn of aura stir behind my ribs, crawling up my arms like heat under the skin. I pressed my palm against the sigil.
It flared, then settled into a quiet hum.
"Ten paces," I said.
He nodded. "Stand back and throw something."
I grabbed a rock and tossed it into the trigger range.
The sigil snapped awake with a flash—fwoom—and a wave of force burst from its center. The rock went flying, and dust billowed from the impact point.
I laughed, almost in disbelief.
"I did it."
"You did," he said, giving me a nod of approval. "You made your first functional ward."
I grinned, but he held up a finger.
"Don't get cocky. That was a push ward. Basic. There are dozens more: stun, blind, slice, redirect, explode, shield—and that's just in the realm of sigils. Wait 'til we get to runic barriers or anima siphons."
I tilted my head. "Anima siphons?"
He chuckled. "Another lesson. For now, let's cover a few more."
We spent the next few hours inscribing variations: one that triggered only when I wasn't present, one that echoed a soundwave instead of force, and one that created a faint mirage. Each time, I carved, focused, fueled.
Each time, I learned.
But I also started noticing something else—subtle things. As I worked, Raven lingered nearby, eyes narrowed, head slightly tilted.
At one point, as I traced a sigil's spiral too tightly, she crouched behind me and guided my wrist, correcting the flow without a word.
"Interesting," she whispered. "You're adapting fast."
"I'm trying," I replied.
"You're remembering," she corrected.
I turned to ask what she meant, but she was already gone again, fading into my shadow.
Father either didn't notice or pretended not to.
As the sun neared its zenith, we paused for water. I sipped from a waterskin, my fingers still twitching from aura use.
"Why don't more people use sigils?" I asked. "They're so practical."
He shrugged. "Because most people don't feel their aura like we do. They train it, sure. But not many form a bond with it. It takes focus and intent—not brute force."
He leaned back against a tree. "Back in the day, I'd use sigil traps to ambush bandits. Ward an entire canyon in half a day if needed. My old squad used to call me the Walking Minefield."
I laughed. "Seriously?"
"Ask my left leg," he said, tapping a faded scar. "Tripped my own ward once. Blew me into a stream."
We both chuckled, and I felt warmth in my chest—something deeper than fire or aura.
I realized something then.
Yes, I was learning sigils.
But more than that... I was learning my father.