Ten years passed.
The wasteland had not changed. Its jagged rocks still clawed at the sky, its silence still pressed like a weight against the soul. But within its forgotten corners, something had changed.
A boy stood atop a broken stone pillar, sweat beading down his brow. His hands, wrapped in cloth, gripped a wooden practice sword. His breathing was sharp, focused, yet unsteady.
"Again," came the voice of the wanderer.
Kael adjusted his footing, his small frame trembling with exhaustion. The wooden blade shook in his grip. But when her eyes narrowed, he clenched his teeth and swung. The strike cut the air, weak but determined.
"Too slow," she said. "Your enemy will not wait for you to find strength. Again."
Kael bit back frustration. His chest ached, not only from training but from something deeper — the mark that had haunted him since birth. The sigil of the broken star pulsed faintly through his skin, glowing faintly whenever his heartbeat surged. At times, the light gave him bursts of unnatural strength. At others, it left him weak and gasping.
He lowered his head. "It… burns."
The wanderer's gaze softened, though her tone remained firm. "The mark is part of you. It is curse and gift alike. Control it, or it will control you."
Kael steadied his breath, lifting the sword again. This time his strike carried more weight. Dust scattered as the wood cracked against stone.
The wanderer gave a small nod. "Better."
Despite her sternness, Kael could see the faintest hint of pride in her eyes. He lived for those rare glimpses of approval.
After training, they sat near the campfire, the wasteland winds howling beyond their makeshift shelter. Kael devoured the simple stew she had prepared, hunger gnawing at his thin frame.
"Master," he said between bites, "why do we live here? Why not go to the villages?"
The wanderer's spoon paused. Her gaze flicked toward the horizon, where distant torches sometimes glimmered — search parties, patrols, always too close.
"Because the world does not welcome you," she said quietly. "The mark on your chest is a beacon. If they see it, they will know who you are."
Kael lowered his head, pushing his bowl aside. He had heard the word whispered before — cursed. He had seen how strangers looked at him when they passed too close to villages, how doors shut, how voices fell silent.
"Then… I should just hide forever?" His voice was small, yet heavy with defiance.
The wanderer looked at him, really looked, and for a moment she saw not the abandoned infant she had carried through the wasteland, but a boy whose spirit blazed against the chains of fate.
"No," she said firmly. "One day, you will step into the world. You will carry the name I gave you. But you must be strong enough to bear the weight of it. Until then, you endure."
Kael's eyes burned. He clenched his fists. "I'll become strong. Strong enough that no one can call me cursed again."
The wanderer smiled faintly — the rare, fleeting smile that reminded him she believed in him, even if the world did not.
But as the flames crackled, Kael's mark pulsed brighter, casting eerie silver light across the ruins. For a moment, his small body trembled, the stew bowl rattling beside him. The wanderer's hand tightened on her sword.
The power within him was growing. So too was the danger.
And far beyond the wasteland, in the halls of the kingdom that had cast him away, whispers of prophecy began to stir once more.