After Rafael left, the church fell silent once more.
Vivian stood alone near the benches, the echo of his footsteps still lingering in her ears. Slowly, she gathered the books they had been reading and stacked them neatly in her arms. The warmth he had brought with him faded.
She turned toward a narrow door at the back of the church and pushed it open. Cool air brushed her face as she stepped through and descended the stone staircase beyond. The basement greeted her with darkness. Only a single lantern burned in the far corner, its flame trembling softly atop a wooden table. Shadows clung to the walls as Vivian crossed the room, placing the books carefully onto a shelf and aligning their spines with practised precision.
This was her world. A small table with a lantern and several open books—pages marked, corners worn. A thin mattress pressed against the stone wall. A modest stove sat in the centre of the room, a few utensils scattered neatly beside it. Above, a line of clothes hung from the ceiling, swaying gently with her movement.
Simple. Quiet. Lonely.
Vivian walked to the table and sat down, lifting one of the books she had left open earlier. She flipped through its yellowed pages absentmindedly.
Then—Something slipped free. A photograph fluttered down and landed softly on the table. Vivian froze. She picked it up with trembling fingers. In the picture, a younger Vivian stood among a group of girls dressed in nuns' robes. They were smiling—bright, unguarded smiles. Behind them stood the very church she lived in now.
An older woman stood with them as well, her expression kind and watchful. Vivian pressed the photograph to her chest. A tear slid down her cheek. "What should I do…?" she whispered, her voice cracking. "Sisters… I'm so lonely."
The lantern flickered. And for the first time since Rafael had walked out that door, the basement felt unbearably cold.
Meanwhile...
Rafael found Draven sprawled across the grass behind the house, arms folded beneath his head, eyes drifting lazily across the sky.
Clouds passed overhead. Peaceful. Carefree. Rafael stopped in front of him. "Get up, brother," he said. "It's time to train." Draven tilted his head just enough to glance at him. "Train?" he muttered. "Train for what?" Rafael's brow twitched. "I want to get stronger. I want to master my new power." That was enough for him.
Draven sat up with a grin, stretching his arms. "Oh? So my little brother finally wants to grow strong enough to catch up to me?"
He rose to his feet, smirking. "Alright. I'll train you."
They moved to the open space behind the house.
Draven pulled off his shirt and rolled his shoulders. "Come at me. Let's see what you've got."
Rafael frowned. "Did you not hear me? I want to practice my new power, not brawl."
"I did hear you," Draven said calmly, fists tightening. "But before magic comes form. You need a solid foundation for fighting first. Trust me." Rafael hesitated—then nodded. He removed his own shirt and settled into a stance. The moment he moved, instinct took over.
In his previous life, Rafael had survived countless battles. Street fights. Assassinations. Brutal close-quarters combat. Boxing and Muay Thai had been his favourites—direct, efficient, merciless.
He lunged. A straight punch. Draven slipped aside effortlessly. Rafael followed with a body shot—blocked.
He stepped back, then surged forward again, pivoting into a roundhouse kick. Draven parried and shoved him away. Rafael stumbled—but caught himself mid-fall. From the ground, he spun and swept his leg low. Draven's balance broke. He hit the grass with a surprised laugh. Rafael was already back on his feet, standing over him.
Draven grinned wider than ever. "Well done." He took Rafael's hand and pulled himself up. "You've got talent. Real talent. But your style is off" "Off?" Rafael said. "What do you mean?" Draven tapped his chin thoughtfully. "You fight like someone with fire magic. Direct. Explosive. Overwhelming." Rafael blinked. "And that's bad?"
"For you? Yes," Draven said. "You wield wind. Wind isn't brute force—it's flow. Movement. Control." Rafael nodded slowly. "So I should change my style?" "Not change," Draven corrected. "Adjust."
He stepped back and raised his guard. "Gentler. Less force. More footwork. Let the fight move around you—like the wind itself." Rafael exhaled. Then shifted. He adopted a new stance—Aikido. Circular. Fluid.
Draven attacked. Again and again. Rafael redirected every strike, twisting wrists, stepping aside at the last second, turning force into empty air. He danced around Draven, his movements light, precise. In a blur of footwork, Rafael slipped behind him.
Silence. "Well done," Draven said quietly. He turned and raised his fists again. "Now we add magic." Heat shimmered as fire flickered around Draven's knuckles. Rafael stayed calm. Draven struck—jabs coated in flame.
Rafael deflected them with bursts of wind, redirecting attacks, slipping past fire that never quite touched him. They clashed in a rhythm of flame and air until Draven halted.
Rafael moved. A powerful gust exploded outward, throwing Draven off balance. Rafael launched himself into the air—higher than he meant to. Then came down. The impact sent a shock wave through the ground.
Dust scattered. Rafael stood over Draven once more. Draven laughed, breathless. "You win."
Rafael smiled. "What about my shadow magic?" Draven shrugged. "No idea. That's beyond me. You'll have to figure that one out yourself." He grabbed his shirt and turned away. "I'm exhausted. I need a bath."
Rafael remained behind, staring at his hands.
Night draped the world in silence.
Rafael sat alone.
The house behind him slept—Sara, Draven, Malrek—unaware that something was about to change. He rose quietly and walked to the backyard, the same patch of grass where he and Draven had trained earlier that day.
Moonlight stretched his shadow long across the ground.
He sat down and closed his eyes.
Shadow magic is an extension of your body.
Veleina's voice echoed in his mind.
Rafael focused inward, feeling the unfamiliar presence coiled within him—cold, patient, obedient. He pictured the shadows flowing like blood through his veins, responding to thought rather than command.
A weapon. A sword. The image wavered at first. The shape refused to settle, dissolving into formless darkness. Rafael grit his teeth and tried again, refining every detail—the length, the weight, the edge.
Slowly, shadows seeped from beneath him. They stretched, twisted, and rose. A blade began to form. Rafael held his breath as the sword solidified, its surface swallowing the moonlight itself. When it was complete, he reached out and grasped the hilt.
It was heavy. It was real. He swung it once—twice. The blade moved naturally, as if it had always belonged in his hands. Light yet devastatingly sharp. Rafael ran his thumb near the edge and felt the air split.
A laugh escaped him.
To test it, he stepped toward a nearby log and brought the sword down. The blade did not shatter. The log did. Wood split cleanly in two, clean and precise. Rafael stared—then laughed again, louder this time.
He set the sword down and focused once more. A spear formed next—long, balanced, deadly. Then a bow. Arrows followed, each one perfect. Axes. Daggers. Shields.
Weapon after weapon rose from the shadows, answering his imagination without hesitation. Time slipped past him unnoticed as he created endlessly, pushing further, faster—until exhaustion finally claimed him.
Rafael collapsed onto the grass and slept.
Morning came. Draven stepped outside, stretching. "Hey, have you seen Rafael?" he said. Malrek followed, frowning. "Where could he be at a time like this?"
They raced to search for him. They rushed to the backyard and were surprised at what they saw. The backyard was no longer empty. Weapons covered the ground—swords, spears, bows, armor—an entire arsenal forged from shadow. For a heartbeat, they thought a battle had taken place while they slept.
Then they saw Rafael. He lay at the centre of it all, asleep on the grass, shadows scattered around him like discarded dreams. Draven shook him awake. "Rafael. What the hell happened here?"
Rafael opened one eye, exhausted but calm. In a tired voice, he said, "I'm going to be the strongest in the world." He sat up slowly, shadows dissolving into nothing around him. "I finally mastered shadow magic."