The morning sun warmed the earth, yet Eudora felt a coldness in his chest as he stepped out of the house. Their home sat on a small hill overlooking the village of Caelworth. A quiet, rural town nestled in the outer edge of the Mournshade Valley—a peaceful place untouched, for now, by the chaos he had once known.
He took a slow breath.
Fresh air.
No blood. No smoke. No screams.
Just the chirping of birds, the rustle of wind in the grass, and the gentle ring of blacksmiths' hammers from the village below.
He had dreamed of this peace in the future, but now it felt unreal. Like a fragile bubble ready to burst.
"Hey!" Ragna shouted from ahead, waving a wooden sword. "Hurry up, Eudora!"
The younger version of his brother—though only by minutes—ran ahead barefoot through the tall grass. His laughter was light, his body glowing with untapped power. Even as children, their differences had been clear. Ragna's aura had stirred early, even if it wasn't yet awakened. He moved with instinct, with promise.
Eudora followed slowly, his legs still adjusting to this smaller, weaker body. His balance was off. His mind and soul were that of a worn warrior trapped inside a child's frame.
He stumbled.
Ragna turned and grabbed his arm to steady him. "You alright? You look sick."
Eudora looked into those young eyes—eyes that had not yet seen death.
"I'm fine," he replied softly. "Just... thinking too much."
"You always think too much," Ragna grinned, nudging him playfully. "That's why you'll never beat me with a sword!"
The words didn't hurt. Not anymore. Not like they did in the past. He knew Ragna never meant harm. The world had twisted their paths, but not their hearts.
Still, Eudora couldn't ignore the ache in his chest.
Because he knew what was coming.
They reached the training field—a small clearing beside the barn. Their father stood there, tall and proud. Kavel Wynhart, a former knight of the Elarian Border Guard, now retired and raising his sons in peace. He had survived one war and sworn never to send his children into another.
Eudora remembered the last time he saw this man—broken, coughing blood, dying as their village burned.
Now, he was whole again. Rough-bearded, strong, and stern-eyed.
"There you are," Kavel said. "Late again, Eudora."
"Sorry, Father," Eudora said quietly.
Kavel raised an eyebrow. "Hmm. You sound older today."
Ragna laughed. "Told you he was weird this morning!"
"Enough chatter. Let's begin."
Kavel tossed both boys a wooden sword. Eudora caught his with slow fingers. It was heavier than he remembered—not because of weight, but because of meaning. The blade that began everything.
"Now," Kavel continued, "stance first. Feet firm. Eyes forward. No hesitation."
Ragna instantly fell into a solid position—untrained but natural.
Eudora's stance was awkward. His body didn't respond the way he wanted it to. Years of war instincts didn't fit into this undeveloped form. He struggled to mimic what should have been simple.
Kavel stepped behind him, adjusting his legs and arms. "No, no. That's wrong. Keep your spine straight. You're not holding a broom, boy."
"Yes, Father..." he mumbled.
The lesson began.
For an hour, they repeated strikes and blocks under the morning sun. Ragna picked up the patterns with speed and precision. Eudora fumbled. His blows were soft. His arms tired quickly.
Kavel's patience wore thin. "You're not even trying, Eudora. Ragna's younger than you and he's already sharper."
Eudora clenched his teeth.
I am trying. More than you know.
But how could he explain the truth? That his soul had carried twenty-five years of death? That his hands had held real swords, stained with blood? That he had fought things beyond nightmare—and now, he couldn't even lift a stick properly?
"You must build your body," Kavel said, sighing. "You're weak now, but that will change with work. No son of mine will stay soft forever."
Ragna tossed his sword in the air and caught it with a grin. "Don't worry, I'll protect Eudora when monsters come!"
"Shut up," Eudora muttered under his breath.
Kavel nodded. "Break's over. Run ten laps. Both of you."
Ragna groaned. "Ten?!"
"Ten. If you want to awaken your aura someday, you need to start here."
Those words struck Eudora like a dagger.
Aura. Magic. Summoning. Swordsmanship. All of it.
He would never have it.
He remembered the tests. The rituals. The looks of pity.
Talentless.
Still, he began to run.
Each step was heavier than the last. His heart pounded, not from the effort—but from the reminder that this world was already setting him up to fall behind again.
But he would not stop.
Not this time.
If the world gave him no gifts—then he would take none and still rise.
Step by step.