For the next few weeks, Doren's evenings were a quiet, solitary ritual. Every sunset, he would go to his secluded spot on the hill, the Focal Stone a constant weight in his pocket. He practiced connecting with the earth, focusing on the feeling of stability, pushing past the initial panic of his skin-to-stone transformation.
He started with small, manageable goals, holding the connection for a few seconds longer each day. He learned to control the power, to let it flow through him without it overwhelming him. Eventually, he graduated from simply feeling the presence to actively harnessing it. He could now form a thin layer of hardened earth over his skin, a defensive technique his father had mentioned in his journals as "earth armor." It wasn't a thick, impenetrable shield, but it was enough to offer protection against a few blows. More than that, he could channel the earth's strength into his fists, granting him a couple of powerful, stone-hard punches before the energy was depleted.
One evening, exhausted but exhilarated from his training, Doren returned home, his clothes torn from a particularly rough practice session. As he approached the cottage, Damurah crossed his path, heading in the opposite direction, toward the village. Unlike his usual brooding, Damurah seemed in higher spirits. He was dressed in his best clothes, a heavy satchel slung over his shoulder, and a glint of reckless ambition in his eyes.
"Where are you going?" Doren asked, surprised by his brother's upbeat demeanor.
Damurah grinned, a rare, genuine smile. "I'm going to try and sell my blades to the local hunters," he said, the lie smooth and practiced.
Doren, still riding the high of his successful training, didn't press him. He knew his brother was lying. He knew those blades weren't for hunting. They were cursed, weapons meant to paralyze, not to kill. The satchel was undoubtedly filled with the tools of Damurah's escape, a bribe for a pirate vessel he had been negotiating with. Damurah was going to try to join their crew.
Doren simply nodded, his mind already churning with this new problem. He had found his footing in the earth, but his family was still on the verge of falling apart. The calm of his training was a world away from the chaos that was about to unfold.
Doren, his mind reeling from Damurah's lie and his own exhausted state, returned to the cottage. He ate a quick dinner, his muscles aching with the pleasant fatigue of a long day's training, and retreated to his room. He fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, the familiar scent of the sea a comforting presence.
A few hours later, he was startled awake by a familiar noise: the frantic click of the front door's latch. He sat up in bed, listening. He heard Damurah's heavy footsteps, followed by the clatter of tools and the rustle of clothes being stuffed into a bag. Damurah was packing. This was it.
Doren heard the sound of the forge door opening and closing, followed by the soft clinking of metal against metal. His brother was taking his tools. Doren got out of bed, creeping quietly to his door and peeking through the crack. He saw Damurah standing in the living room, his satchel now bulging and heavy. In his hand, he held not the flawed blade Doren had seen earlier, but his own personal weapon—a beautifully crafted blade with the same sinister curse etchings Doren had recognized, but with several more curses spiraling up its length, glinting malevolently in the moonlight. Doren's heart sank. He knew his brother's ambition was greater and more dangerous than he had imagined.
Damurah gave a final, lingering look at the silent cottage, his family sleeping within its walls. He said a quiet, choked farewell to the home he was leaving behind, a whisper that Doren could barely make out. Then, without another word, he raced towards the village, the soles of his boots igniting with a powerful burst of fire energy, a desperate, fiery escape from the solitary, boring life he once had.
Doren watched him go, a sense of helplessness washing over him. He had known this was coming, but he had been too slow, too consumed with his own secret journey. He had found his strength in the earth, but he had lost his brother to the fire.
Doren stood at the window, watching the trail of fire disappear into the darkness. A wave of helplessness washed over him, followed by a fierce, new resolve. He had failed to save his brother from himself, but he wouldn't fail his family. He knew he couldn't leave yet. He was still too new to his own power, too uncertain of his abilities. He needed to get stronger, to become a true master of the earth. He would use every waking hour to harness the power of the Powerhart. He needed to be strong enough not just to protect himself, but to protect them all.
The thought of leaving his mother and sisters behind was a sharp, painful one. The cottage, once a home of comfort, was now a fragile fortress, each person a solitary guardian of their own grief. He worried about them. Without the men of the family, they were vulnerable.
But then, he remembered something. He thought of Daria, her hands, once soft, now calloused from a decade of turning barren earth into a vibrant garden. He remembered Jemsie, her silver hair shining in the lamplight as she mended the town's ailments, a beacon of hope in the darkness. He thought of Leasie, her quiet presence a shield against chaos, her rare darkness affinity a profound and gentle power. They were not fragile. They were strong. Each in their own way, they had become masters of their worlds. The worry didn't disappear, but it was replaced by a quiet pride.
His immediate journey wouldn't be to find his brother, but to find himself. He would not leave until he was sure he had the power to protect them all, and his first step was to master the earth. He would be the rock that his family could stand on.
Doren watched the last embers of his brother's fire fade into the night. His heart ached with a new kind of loneliness, but his resolve was iron-clad. He would not leave. Not yet. The family needed an anchor, and he would be it. He would keep his secret, no matter how heavy it felt. It was a burden he was finally strong enough to carry. He had to be.
He returned to his room and lay on his bed, the weight of the Focal Stone in his pocket a silent, comforting presence. The memories of his training, the feel of his skin hardening like stone, and the hum of the earth's pulse gave him a new kind of strength. He was a secret, a guardian, a foundation. He was the rock that his family would stand on, whether they knew it or not. With this new purpose, Doren finally closed his eyes, and for the first time in a decade, he slept with a sense of peace.