The moon hung low over Tareth, silver light spilling across the rooftops as Isaac walked home. His steps were steady, but inside, his heart still beat with the memory of the White Tiger's roar.
When he entered, his father's eyes widened in surprise. "A… beast spirit?" the man repeated, his voice warm with pride. "My boy has a beast spirit!"
The house filled with quiet celebration — not the loud, drunken kind, but the soft joy of a family who had never expected such fortune.
Dinner was simple: roasted root vegetables, spiced broth, and bread fresh from the hearth. Isaac ate in silence, the warmth of the meal settling into his bones.
When the plates were cleared, Isaac looked up at his father.
"Tell me a story," he said, his voice soft but insistent.
His father chuckled. "A story, is it? Fine, but only one. You'll fall asleep before I finish anyway."
Isaac climbed into bed, his older brother and sister curling up nearby. His father sat by the candlelight, his shadow stretching across the wall, and began.
"Long ago, before the Age of Spirits, kings ruled their lands by the sword. One such king was unmatched in weapon skill. Spear, sword, axe — it didn't matter. His armies swept through the continent, taking territory after territory.
"He believed he was the greatest warrior alive.
"But then… they came."
His father's voice dropped lower, the candle flickering.
"An enemy unlike any he had seen before. They fought with beast spirits — creatures fierce enough to tear through entire armies. The king tried everything. He fought with all his skill. But against the White Boar and the Crimson Vulture, even his legendary weapons failed. In the end, he fled, leaving his empire to crumble."
The story trailed off as Isaac's siblings fell asleep, breathing slow and even. Isaac himself drifted close to dreams, but his father's last words lingered.
From the doorway, his mother whispered, "Don't dwell on the past. Our son… he might become the strongest warrior this land has ever seen."
Isaac's father said nothing — but his gaze lingered on the sleeping boy and the faint mark of the tiger spirit's bond on his hand.
---
Meanwhile…
Far beyond Tareth, a carriage rattled along a forest road. Inside sat a young girl with long dark hair and curious eyes. Vaela — the fourth daughter of a merchant family — stared out the window, unaware of the threads fate was weaving. Her father's work had brought them to Tareth for the first time.
She didn't know that somewhere in that quiet village, a boy with golden hair and the soul of a tiger was waiting.
---
The next morning, Isaac's father handed him a short, double-edged blade.
"No spirit training yet," he said. "First, let's see if you can handle a dagger."
Isaac took it in his small hands, the cold metal reflecting the morning light. His father watched closely.
"Alright, boy… show me what you can do."