Kael woke before sunrise. The tavern had been quiet for hours, the early morning fog curling around the streets outside like a shroud. He rubbed his face, eyes swollen and bloodshot, still tasting the bitter ale from the night before.
He didn't know why he was here. He didn't know why he was alive. But the man's words replayed in his head: That sword will devour you long before grief does.
He stepped outside, the chill biting through his worn cloak. The city was still half-asleep, the streets wet with the remains of a late rain. In the distance, the eastern gate loomed, gray and silent in the fog.
Kael walked toward it without thinking, his boots splashing in puddles. He kept his eyes down, fingers brushing the locket hidden beneath his shirt. He hadn't spoken of her to anyone. He couldn't. That pain was his alone.
By the gate, the man waited. Cloaked, hood drawn back, he leaned against the stone like he belonged there, calm, almost patient. As Kael approached, he straightened.
"You came," the man said, voice low, almost approving.
Kael didn't answer. He merely stopped a few paces away, keeping his gaze on the ground. His hands trembled, whether from cold or nerves, he didn't know.
The man studied him, tilting his head slightly. "I see the mark of loss," he said softly. "It's heavy. It would have broken most boys. Yet here you are. Alive. That's… uncommon."
Kael's throat tightened. He wanted to curse, to bite back words, but he said nothing.
"Good," the man continued. "Silence is honest. I can work with silence."
Kael looked up finally, eyes meeting the sharp steel-blue of the stranger. There was something in them—an understanding, though not pity. A recognition of the weight he carried.
"Follow me," the man said, motioning down the road beyond the gate. "If you want to waste your life on drink and shadows, stay. If you want something else… then come."
Kael hesitated, the locket pressing against his chest. He thought of the woods, of blood and screams, of the girl he could never save. That memory burned him from the inside, raw and unrelenting.
He stepped forward. Slowly.
The man nodded once, almost imperceptibly, and started walking. Kael fell in step beside him.
He didn't speak. Neither did the man.
But in that silence, something shifted. Kael realized the first time in days that he could breathe without the weight of the tavern pressing down on him. The air outside felt colder, sharper, but cleaner. The fog clung to the streets, but he didn't mind—it felt like the world was giving him space to think.
The man glanced at him briefly. "You carry a sword," he said. "And it carries you. That is dangerous. I can help you learn to master it… or it will destroy you."
Kael didn't answer. His jaw was tight, his fists clenched. But he felt… something. A small spark, buried deep under the grief, a faint pull of curiosity.
"You'll need that spark," the man continued. "Because there's a world out there far worse than grief. And it's waiting for someone like you."
Kael swallowed. He didn't know what "someone like him" meant. But he knew one thing: he was no longer the boy who had run from the woods. That boy was gone.
For the first time since the forest, he walked forward—not fleeing, but toward something unknown.
And behind the fog, the city held its breath.
The next morning, the fog still clung to the city's outskirts. Kael awoke on the hard ground of the clearing, his body stiff, muscles screaming with exhaustion from the physical training. The old man was already standing, motionless, eyes scanning the mist.
"Good," the man said, without turning. "You survived. That counts for something. Now, we begin properly."
Kael rubbed his eyes, brushing dirt and sweat from his face. "I… I don't even know where to start."
"You start here," the master said, crouching and pressing a palm to the earth. "Essence exists everywhere. In the air you breathe, in the water, in the soil beneath your feet. It is the life of the world. Some can awaken it naturally. Others, like you, must learn to sense it first."
Kael frowned. "Awaken it… like the sword?"
The master shook his head. "Not like the sword. That is a curse, feeding on your pain and rage. Essence is different. It is balance, control, awareness. If you try to force it… it will destroy you."
Kael clenched his fists. His mind flickered to Elara. The rage he had unleashed in the forest pulsed like a second heartbeat in his chest. He wanted that power again. But he forced himself to calm, remembering the master's words.
"Close your eyes," the master instructed. "Breathe. Feel your body, every muscle, every bone. Do not move. Do not act. Just feel."
Kael obeyed, lungs tightening with effort, heart hammering in a rhythm he couldn't still. The world fell away—he heard only the subtle hum of life around him. The fog, the soil, the trees—they pulsed with something faint, almost imperceptible.
"That," the master said quietly, "is Essence. Not power. Awareness. Without it, no cultivation can exist. Without it, even the strongest sword is just a blade."
Kael's hand brushed the cursed sword instinctively. Its dark energy flickered, impatient. He drew a deep breath, forcing his awareness outward. Slowly, he felt the edges of the energy, raw and chaotic, like a storm barely contained.
"Do not let it control you," the master warned. "It will twist your emotions, feed on your grief, your anger, your fear. If you cannot dominate it, it will dominate you."
Kael nodded. He could feel the sword's hunger, but he also felt… the faint tug of Essence in the air, guiding him. It was subtle—like a whisper in his bones. He inhaled, exhaling slowly, letting his body synchronize with it.
The master's eyes narrowed. "Good. A spark, at least. Now, circulation." He tapped Kael's chest lightly. "Essence flows through the body in channels, like water through a riverbed. You will learn to control it, to store it, and eventually transform it. But that comes later. First, you must awaken your own conduit."
Kael opened his eyes. "Conduit?"
"Your body is your vessel. Every awakened cultivator must open their core, the center where Essence gathers. It is the first step. Pain will come. Resistance will rise. Fear will tempt you to flee. You will face it. Only then can you grow."
Kael's gaze flicked to the sword again. Its hum was insistent, dark, like it wanted him to abandon the calm he was building. He tightened his grip, forcing the rage down, letting the faint pull of Essence take root in his chest instead.
"You will meditate here for hours," the master said. "Do not move. Do not open your eyes. Let the Essence flow. Feel its rhythm. Learn to contain it, not chase it. Tomorrow, we begin the first awakening exercise."
Kael swallowed. His body ached, but the fog in his mind—the grief, the rage, the loss—was still there. And yet, beneath it, he felt a faint spark of something new: control. A thread of purpose.
For the first time in days, he touched the necklace at his chest and didn't feel despair. He felt… responsibility.
And the sword, though dark and hungry, did not move in his hand.
The old man's voice broke the silence. "Control it. Control yourself. And perhaps one day, that sword will be a tool, not a curse."
Kael closed his eyes again, letting the city and the tavern fade away. The world narrowed to his body, his breath, and the faint pulse of Essence flowing through him.
And for the first time, he allowed himself to imagine a path forward—one where he might survive, one where he might grow, and one day, perhaps, become strong enough to honour her memory.