I woke before dawn.
Not from a nightmare.
Not from hunger or the chill.
But from something... wrong.
The air was too quiet. The kind of quiet that smothered the wind and made your heartbeat feel like a shout. I sat up, listening—not with my ears, but with everything else. My aura trembled. My anima stirred. Even magic whispered faint, indecipherable warnings.
Something was coming.
Or had already arrived.
I stepped out onto the cold grass barefoot, dressed only in my tunic. The fire pit still smoldered faintly from the night before.
Father stood at the edge of the clearing.
Silent.
Still.
Sword in hand.
I moved to his side, watching the trees beyond.
"Something's out there," I whispered.
He nodded. "Three things."
"People?"
"No."
He slowly unsheathed the second blade from his back and handed it to me. Real steel, not wood. Not dulled. Its weight was unfamiliar in my hands, but its presence grounded me.
"Stay behind me," he said.
I didn't argue.
Not this time.
They stepped from the forest with the grace of predators.
Tall. Misshapen. Cloaked in midnight. Their bodies were vaguely humanoid, but their proportions were wrong—arms too long, joints too fluid, eyes too bright in the dark. They made no sound as they walked.
No breath. No footsteps. No rustle of cloak.
I saw their auras first. Twisted. Hollow.
Creatures of something... older than hunger.
One of them sniffed the air, tilting its head at me like I was a scent it hadn't smelled in centuries.
"Found you," it rasped.
Father moved like lightning.
What followed was not a battle.
It was execution.
My father didn't hesitate. His aura flared into jagged arcs, cracking the ground beneath him as he moved. The first creature lunged—and its head was gone before I even saw the swing. The second one raised an arm, muttering a spell.
It exploded mid-chant.
The third stepped back—but Father appeared behind it before it could run.
A flash of silver.
A pulse of crimson.
Silence.
It was over in seconds.
But my heart still pounded like war drums.
I stared at the blood soaking into the grass. Not red. Not black. But iridescent. Like oil mixed with starlight.
"What were they?" I asked.
Father stared down at the remains for a long moment.
"Scouts."
I clenched my fists. "From who?"
He didn't answer.
We burned the bodies at first light.
The flames turned green, then blue, then nothing. The smoke didn't rise—it vanished.
"Why now?" I asked as we stood by the ashes. "Why send scouts now?"
"Because you're glowing," he said simply. "Even if you don't see it yet. The world does."
I looked down at my hands. They felt normal. Small. Human.
But inside… I knew he was right.
"I thought you said you wouldn't let them find me."
He turned to me then. Eyes like stone.
"I won't."
That night, the spirits gathered early.
Raven was already waiting, shadows dancing around her fingers.
"Those weren't human," I said.
"They weren't alive," Solara replied.
"Not truly," Aelira added. "What you saw were echoes. Puppets. Meant to test the waters."
Nyssara spun in the air lazily. "Test you."
I felt my stomach twist. "I'm not ready."
"You're not meant to be," Raven said. "But you're getting close."
I looked to her. "Will more come?"
"They always do," she whispered.
Later, I sat alone near the river's edge, my blade across my knees.
A part of me wanted to cry. To scream. To run.
But another part—the deeper part—was quiet.
Resolved.
That part understood.
The hunt had begun.
And I was the prize.
But I would not run.
I was my father's son.
And I would make the world remember the name Igris.
Even if I had to carve it into the bones of gods.