When Lukas turned ten, everything began to change.
It started quietly, almost imperceptibly.
At first, it was nothing more than faint whispers in the dead of night. A hush of voices that seemed to drift in on the wind, brushing his ears like a passing breeze. Words he couldn't quite understand, murmuring at the edge of hearing.
He tried to ignore them. Shook his head, buried himself beneath his blankets, and told himself it was his imagination. But the more he pushed the whispers away, the clearer—and more insistent—they became.
And then came the dreams.
Sometimes, he dreamed of places he had never seen, of battles raging beneath black skies, where fire rained from above and shadows swallowed entire armies whole. He saw blood. So much blood. He heard screams echoing across burning fields. He felt the weight of a blade in his hands, the tremor of steel striking steel. And worst of all—a suffocating darkness pressing against his skin, as if the very air wanted to crush the life out of him.
Faces flickered in these visions—faces he couldn't name. Some were twisted in hatred. Others looked at him with desperate hope. He woke from those nightmares shaking, breathless, drenched in cold sweat.
And every time he woke, his mana core pulsed with a deep, aching throb, like a living thing inside his chest clawing to break free. Sometimes the pain was a dull ache. Other times, it felt as though his core might shatter into pieces.
It was after he defeated Reid in the courtyard duel that things truly escalated.
He should have felt triumphant. Instead, an unease settled over him like a heavy cloak. He caught himself staring off into space, eyes distant, as if he were searching for something he couldn't name.
Late one night, as the moon hung high above the Stoneheart estate, silver light spilling across the polished floorboards of his bedroom, Lukas lay in bed, eyes wide open. The sheets were twisted around his legs, damp with sweat. Outside, the wind rustled the branches of the old trees lining the inner courtyard, filling the silence with gentle sighs.
He closed his eyes, hoping sleep would come.
That was when he heard it.
A voice—not a whisper this time, but clear as crystal, echoing inside his skull:
"Child… try to circulate your mana."
Lukas froze. His breath caught in his chest. For a moment, terror seized him so completely that he could not move.
But then… curiosity rose up, hot and undeniable. And something else, too—a cold, unfamiliar instinct curled deep in his gut, telling him that he had to listen. That this voice, though alien, was tied to his very existence.
Slowly, he pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the bed. His small feet touched the cool floor. He clenched his hands into trembling fists, drew in a deep breath, and closed his eyes.
He began to circulate his mana the way he'd been taught at the Academy. Gently, cautiously, pulling threads of energy from his core, guiding them through the pathways of his body.
At first, it felt normal—warm, smooth, like water flowing in gentle currents. But the moment he expanded his focus, something else surged into him.
A flood of dark, cold power.
It roared through his veins like black fire.
The pain was instant. Brutal.
It felt as though his blood was turning to molten metal, searing every nerve. His vision exploded into a haze of red and black. His entire body seized. Sweat poured from his skin, drenching his thin nightshirt, soaking the bedsheets beneath him. His pulse thundered in his ears like a war drum.
Every instinct screamed at him to let go—to scream, to claw at his chest, to beg for the agony to stop.
But he didn't scream.
He clenched his teeth so hard his jaw felt as if it might crack. His fingers dug into the mattress, leaving deep creases in the fabric. Tears welled in his eyes but did not fall.
Because something inside him whispered that if he lost control—if he gave in to panic—he would die.
Then, through the inferno of pain, the same voice spoke again, cool and precise, every word slicing through the chaos like a blade:
"Steady yourself. Control the flow. Draw it inward. Shape it."
Lukas forced himself to listen.
He slowed his breathing, counting each exhale. Through sheer will, he focused on the violent surge of energy rampaging through him. Bit by bit, he tried to direct it, pulling the dark mana away from his limbs, coaxing it back toward his core.
The pain didn't fade. Not entirely. But slowly… slowly… it became something he could endure. Like holding a red-hot iron and refusing to let go.
Time lost all meaning. Minutes stretched into what felt like hours.
Then suddenly, amidst the swirling darkness inside him, he felt it—something new blooming beside his original mana core. A second source of power.
Smaller. Denser. Darker.
It pulsed like a second heartbeat. Icy and ominous.
He gasped, the air tearing into his lungs as if he'd been drowning. He opened his eyes and stared into the moonlight streaming through his window, panting, his chest heaving. His body trembled violently, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat.
But the dark mana within him had gone still.
It lay quiet, like a hidden beast lurking just beneath the surface of his consciousness. Watching. Waiting.
He reached inward, probing carefully. He could feel the new core—a dense, shadowy knot of energy entwined with his original one.
But he understood the truth instantly:
This new power was his… yet it wasn't usable. Not yet.
It was raw. Untamed. If he tried to wield it before mastering it, he sensed it would tear him apart from the inside out.
He collapsed backward onto the bed, limbs trembling, staring up at the dark beams crossing the ceiling above.
What… am I?
He didn't know who he had been before this life. No name. No face. No family. Only flashes of dying screams and skies filled with shadow. But tonight had proven one thing beyond doubt:
Whatever he'd been, whoever he'd once been—some part of it had followed him into this world.
From that night onward, Lukas carried a secret inside him. A secret forged from the echoes of a life he couldn't remember… and the shadows that refused to let him go.