Rowan's steps echoed softly against the polished floor as he walked beside Mira, the sword still clutched tightly in his hand. The golden light from the chandeliers above reflected off the blade, dancing across his face.
He couldn't take his eyes off it.
I can feel it… he thought, brushing his thumb along the silver edge. The sword I usually use to train, the small steel one—it's decent, but this… this is on another level.
Every movement, every shift of weight, felt perfectly balanced. It pulsed faintly with energy, as though it recognized him.
It feels like it's been ages since I held something like this… back when I was still a swordsman.
His lips curved into a faint smile, nostalgia flickering in his eyes.
When they reached his room, Mira gently pushed the door open.
"Here we are," she said, her tone soft but tired. "You should rest. You've had quite a day."
She turned to leave—but Rowan's voice stopped her.
"Mom," he said quietly.
Mira turned, her golden hair brushing her shoulder as she bent slightly. "What is it, dear?"
Rowan hesitated, then asked, "Is it true… that your father is a Duke?"
She blinked in surprise before smiling faintly. "Yes. He is."
Rowan looked down at the floor, his expression thoughtful. "Then that means… the naming ceremony tomorrow… it's something important, isn't it?"
Mira tilted her head, realizing he truly didn't know. "Oh," she said softly. "I thought you already understood."
Rowan scratched his cheek awkwardly. "Not really.
Mira chuckled gently. "It's simple, really. A naming ceremony is a celebration. It's when a child's name is formally blessed and announced to the spirits and the world." She smiled, eyes glimmering with warmth. "It's not just a formality—it's a promise. That you're here, that you belong."
Rowan's chest tightened slightly at her words. A promise that I belong… huh?
"Thanks, Mom," he said quietly.
Mira smiled again, brushing a strand of hair from his face. She placed her hand on his head, her touch light but comforting. "You've grown so much already, Rowan. I'm proud of you."
She turned and slowly walked out, closing the door behind her.
Rowan stood in silence, staring at the sword once more. The faint reflection of his face shimmered on the blade—young, but with eyes that had seen another lifetime.
It was already dark—moonlight spilling across the rooftops like silver silk, bathing the quiet estate in a serene glow. The night wind hummed softly through the curtains, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth.
Inside his room, Rowan sat by the window, his fingers tracing the length of the sword resting across his lap. The metal shimmered faintly, catching threads of starlight.
"Wow…" he breathed, voice barely a whisper. "Finally, I have it."
He lifted the blade slowly, admiring how the edge caught the moonlight and danced with it. "The material… it's perfect. Just holding it gives me goosebumps." His reflection looked back at him in the mirror of steel—young, yet carrying the gaze of someone far older.
This feeling… this thrill… I missed it. It's been so long since I've held a sword that sings like this.
Rowan stood and turned toward the window, heart pounding with a quiet excitement. "I should test it," he muttered. "Ever since I came to this world, I've only been training… but I haven't felt what it's like to fight." His lips curved into a small, mischievous grin. "Father and Mother said not to go deep into the forest because of monsters… but that makes it even better."
He unlatched the window, the hinges creaking faintly as the cold air rushed in. The night stretched before him—dark, vast, and alive. He placed a foot on the sill, then paused.
"Wait…" he murmured, glancing back at his bed. "What if Mom comes to check on me? She always comes around this time… probably to drag me to the bath again."
He sighed, then raised his palm, whispering under his breath, "Duplication."
A ripple of mana swept through the air. The faint hum of magic filled the room as a translucent shape peeled itself from his body, solidifying into a perfect copy of him standing beside the bed.
Rowan smirked. "Hey, you—stay put. If Mom comes in, pretend you're asleep."
The clone nodded silently and slipped under the blanket, eyes closing as if truly at rest.
Rowan chuckled softly. "Perfect."
He tightened his grip on the sword, feeling its weight balance naturally in his hand. "Alright," he whispered. "Let's go."
He leapt from the window. The wind rushed past his face, cold and exhilarating, his cloak fluttering like a shadow behind him. He landed quietly on the grass, knees bending to absorb the impact.
The world outside was beautiful in a quiet, haunting way. Fireflies drifted lazily through the air, glowing faintly like spirits guiding him toward the woods.
The forest loomed ahead—dark, ancient, whispering secrets only the brave or foolish dared to hear.
As Rowan stepped between the trees, the world changed. The chirping of crickets faded. The air grew heavy. Mist coiled around the roots like living smoke.