Ethan learned the truth the hard way.
Power was not a gift—it was a burden.
After the attack in the garden, the academy placed Ethan under observation. He was given a separate training ground, isolated and silent. No cheering. No mockery. Just stone walls and endless hours.
"Control first," Master Alaric said. "Power without control destroys its owner."
Ethan trained until his muscles trembled. Each time he called on the Fate Mark, pain tore through his chest like fire. His vision blurred. Blood sometimes dripped from the corner of his mouth.
Still, he continued.
At night, Lyria secretly brought him food and bandages.
"You're hurting yourself," she whispered, wrapping his hands.
"If I stop," Ethan replied quietly, "I won't be strong enough to protect you."
Those words cut deeper than any wound.
One evening, Ethan pushed too far.
He tried to force the energy into a stable form—compressing it, shaping it. The Fate Mark burned violently. His body rejected the power. Ethan collapsed, his breathing shallow.
"Ethan!" Lyria screamed, catching him.
For a terrifying moment, the light in his chest flickered.
Then… it stabilized.
The pain didn't disappear—but it changed. It became sharper, clearer. Like a blade instead of fire.
Master Alaric arrived, eyes wide.
"You survived forced synchronization," he said slowly. "That means your body is adapting."
Ethan opened his eyes, exhausted but conscious.
"So… I'm getting stronger?" he asked.
Alaric nodded. "Yes. But every step forward will cost you."
Ethan smiled weakly.
"That's fine," he said. "I already chose this path."
Outside, thunder rolled across the sky.
Power was carving itself into his bones—and there was no turning back.