Kahel awoke before the sun, fifteen years old and already worn by the weight of the world. The cold air bit at his skin, and the thin blanket draped over him did little to keep the chill at bay. His room was a bare, cramped space in the attic of the old bakery. The scent of yeast and stale flour clung to the walls. The floor creaked beneath him as he sat up, stretching sore limbs from a night of restless sleep.
He swung his legs over the side of the small cot and stared at the worn floorboards. His hands trembled as he clenched them into fists. The callouses on his palms were rough, reminders of the work that barely kept him fed.
I am weak, he thought, the words sinking in like a stone in his chest.
The memories came unbidden. His mother's soft smile. The gentle scent of roses in her hair. Then the roar of power tearing through their home, the dark figure standing in the doorway, the flash of light. Her scream. The smell of burning wood. Silence.
Kahel gritted his teeth and shook the image away. He couldn't afford to drown in the past. Not now.
He rose and pulled on his worn clothes. A loose shirt that hung off his shoulders, pants patched too many times to count. He splashed icy water on his face from a cracked basin, hissing at the sting of cold. His reflection in the chipped mirror showed a boy with hollow eyes, blue and sharp, and a jaw set too tightly for someone only fifteen.
Valmont stirred to life outside, its cobblestone streets bathed in the soft glow of morning light. The town's people went about their business, the familiar sounds of their lives filling the air. The blacksmith's hammer struck metal in steady rhythm, merchants called out their wares, and the scent of fresh bread drifted from the bakery below.
Kahel walked unnoticed through the village. Whispers followed him.
That boy... trouble, they said.
He's the one whose mother—
Shh. Don't talk about it.
He clenched his fists tighter. Let them whisper. They didn't know what it was like.
At the butcher's shop, Gérard barked orders without looking at him. Kahel worked in silence, hauling carcasses, scrubbing blood from the floors, and sharpening knives until his hands burned. The stench of raw meat clung to him, heavy and sickening.
Time crawled. His body ached, but his mind drifted.
He thought of the stories he had heard. Whispers of cultivators who could move mountains, summon storms, and crush enemies with a flick of the wrist. Power beyond comprehension. Kahel barely understood the words, but the hunger for strength gnawed at him.
If I had that power, I could have saved her.
His grip slipped, and the knife nicked his thumb. He hissed as the blood welled up. His heart raced. How fragile he was. How small.
By sunset, Gérard tossed him a stale crust of bread without a word. Kahel left, walking through the twilight streets in silence.
The horizon blazed with streaks of gold and crimson, the stars just beginning to flicker in the deepening blue. His feet carried him toward the edge of the village, where the fields met the dark woods beyond.
He stopped and stared into the shadows. The trees loomed, their twisted branches swaying in the wind. They seemed to whisper, inviting him to step closer.
Kahel's breath caught. He had heard the warnings. Wolves. Bandits. Things that lurked in the dark. But the woods called to him. The unknown called to him.
He took a single step forward, the grass crunching beneath his boots. The air felt colder here, sharper, as if the night itself watched him.
Tomorrow, he thought. I'll start tomorrow.
As he turned to leave, a flicker caught his eye. A brief shimmer, almost like a ripple of heat in the air. It vanished as quickly as it appeared, leaving only the whisper of wind and the rustle of leaves.
Kahel stared at the spot, his pulse racing.
Then he turned back toward Valmont, the fire in his chest burning brighter than before. He was fifteen, and he was weak, but not forever.
Tomorrow, he would begin.