The wound on Kael's shoulder festered before it healed.
Not from poison.
From whispers.
For three days after the attack, Ardent Hollow spoke his name differently. Some with admiration. Some with suspicion. Most with confusion.
"He killed it without Zen."
"As if that means anything."
"He only survived because Tomas weakened the others."
Kael heard enough.
He continued training.
The oak post finally split in half on the fourth morning. He stared at the broken trunk, chest rising and falling, frost clinging to his lashes. His shoulder ached beneath the bandages, each movement a reminder of claws that had nearly torn deeper.
He welcomed the pain.
Pain was honest.
Unlike destiny.
The merchant from Gracia survived.
His name was Hadrien Vale, and once he regained consciousness, the village learned more than it wished to know.
"They came from the western shoals," Hadrien rasped from his bed in the chapel-house. "Not far from Dead Man's Anchor. I saw the mist move against the wind. Then shapes beneath the hull."
He trembled despite the blankets.
"The island is not still anymore."
Dead Man's Anchor.
Even speaking its name seemed to darken the air.
The island lay off the western coast of Gracia, a black wound in the sea. Sailors claimed its cliffs were shaped like broken ribs. Others said anchors dropped near its waters never touched bottom.
Some insisted it was cursed.
Others whispered it was sealed.
By what, no one agreed.
By week's end, soldiers arrived from Zenith.
They rode in disciplined formation — white cloaks trimmed in iron-gray, the sigil of a rising sun stitched over the chest. Their leader, Captain Edrik Solthane, carried himself with rigid composure. His eyes were sharp, assessing.
Tomas stood straighter in their presence.
Zenith revered strength. And strength answered strength.
Captain Edrik gathered the village in the courtyard.
"The creatures that attacked you are classified as Drowned Strays," he announced. "Aberrations believed contained near the western waters. Their movement inland suggests a breach."
"Breach of what?" someone called.
Edrik's jaw tightened. "That is not your concern."
Kael stood near the back, arms folded.
It is always our concern, he thought.
Because we are the ones who bleed first.
The captain continued. "Zenith will be increasing patrols along the borderlands. All awakened Zen-bearers of suitable age will report for evaluation."
Tomas did not hesitate. He stepped forward immediately.
Golden light shimmered faintly around him, responding to his resolve.
Kael felt it again — that familiar tightening in his chest.
Envy.
Hot. Bitter.
He hated it.
That night, Tomas came to find him.
They stood near the broken oak post.
"You should leave," Tomas said without preamble.
Kael snorted softly. "And go where?"
"With the Seltran scholars arriving. If you can't awaken Zen, maybe you can learn Magic."
Kael's grip tightened on his sword hilt. "Magic requires affinity."
"It requires discipline," Tomas corrected. "You have that."
Kael looked away. "I'm not chasing another silence."
Tomas stepped closer. "This isn't about pride. What happened wasn't random. If Dead Man's Anchor is truly stirring—"
"It's always stirring," Kael cut in. "The world is always ending somewhere."
Tomas exhaled slowly. "Zenith believes the island holds a relic."
Kael's gaze flicked back. "A relic?"
"A fragment," Tomas said quietly. "Something tied to the origin of Zen."
The air seemed to still.
Origin.
Most teachings in Zenith claimed Zen was the breath of heaven — the imprint of divine will placed upon worthy souls. But there were older murmurs. Forbidden ones. That Zen was not gifted.
It was bound.
"To what?" Kael asked.
Tomas hesitated.
"To something that chose first."
The Seltran scholars arrived under gray skies.
Unlike Zenith's soldiers, they wore layered robes inscribed with geometric patterns. Silver-threaded runes lined their cuffs and collars. Their leader, Scholar-Magus Ilyra Sen, had eyes like polished obsidian — reflective, unreadable.
Magic hummed subtly around them.
Not loudly.
Not proudly.
But precisely.
They set up in the abandoned granary near the eastern road, transforming it into a temporary study hall. Glyphs flared briefly across the wooden beams as protective arrays activated.
Kael found himself drawn there despite himself.
He watched from the doorway as Ilyra traced symbols midair. Light followed her fingers, forming structured patterns before dispersing into sparks.
Magic did not erupt.
It constructed.
"You're the one who killed the Stray without Zen," she said without turning.
Kael stiffened. "Word travels fast."
"Power anomalies interest us."
"I'm not an anomaly."
She finally faced him.
"Exactly."
Her gaze lingered on him in a way that unsettled him more than admiration ever could.
"You felt something when you fought," she said calmly. "Didn't you?"
Kael's pulse quickened.
He remembered the narrowing of the world. The singular line between life and death.
"That's instinct," he replied.
"Instinct is memory shaped by repetition," Ilyra said. "What you describe is alignment."
"With what?"
She stepped closer.
"Choice."
The word struck deeper than he expected.
"You believe in fate?" she asked.
"I believe in consequences."
A faint smile touched her lips. "Good."
She extended a hand.
"Come tomorrow. We'll test your resonance."
Kael hesitated.
Another stone.
Another silence.
But something within him — stubborn, restless — refused to retreat.
"I'll come," he said.
The test was not like Zenith's.
No Veinstone.
No crowd.
Inside the granary, runes formed a circular array on the floor. Candles burned at precise intervals. The air smelled faintly of ink and ash.
"Stand in the center," Ilyra instructed.
Kael did.
The circle glowed faintly.
"Zen flows inward," she explained. "Magic flows outward. Both require acknowledgment. But there is a third current few consider."
Kael frowned. "Third?"
She did not answer directly.
Instead, she began chanting — not loudly, but rhythmically. Symbols ignited around him, forming a lattice of light.
He felt pressure.
Not crushing.
But searching.
The array pulsed once.
Twice.
Then—
Nothing.
The light dimmed.
The runes flickered out.
Kael released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
Silence.
Again.
Ilyra studied him carefully.
"Fascinating."
"That's what you said before," he muttered.
"You do not reject Magic," she said slowly. "Nor does it reject you."
"Then why—?"
"Because you are not reaching."
He blinked. "What does that mean?"
"Most who stand here desire power," she said. "Desperately. Their will claws outward. Yours doesn't."
His jaw tightened. "I want power."
"No," she corrected gently. "You want worth."
The words struck like a blade sliding between ribs.
Before he could respond, a horn sounded outside.
Not Zenith's.
Lower.
Urgent.
Kael turned toward the door.
Shouts erupted in the distance.
Ilyra's expression hardened. "That is not a patrol signal."
They rushed outside.
Smoke rose near the western treeline.
Kael's stomach dropped.
Another attack.
But this time, there were more.
Four.
Five.
Six Drowned Strays emerged from the forest, their slick hides glistening unnaturally in daylight. Behind them—
Something larger.
It moved slowly between the trees, too tall to be another beast.
Zenith soldiers clashed with the Strays, golden flares bursting like miniature suns. Seltran mages traced barriers in the air, shimmering walls intercepting claws.
Chaos fractured the village.
Kael's instincts surged.
Move.
He ran toward the nearest Stray breaking through a defensive line.
A soldier fell.
Kael stepped in.
Steel met flesh.
The beast twisted violently, knocking him sideways. He rolled, barely avoiding snapping jaws.
He regained his footing and slashed low, severing tendon. The creature shrieked.
Around him, light and glyphs collided in blinding flashes.
And then the larger figure stepped fully into view.
It stood upright.
Humanoid in shape.
But wrong.
Its body seemed woven from soaked cloth and bone, threads of black mist trailing from its limbs. Its face was featureless save for a vertical slit that pulsed faintly.
The air around it distorted.
Captain Edrik charged first, Zen blazing fiercely.
His strike landed—
And passed through.
The entity tilted its head.
Then raised a hand.
Edrik was thrown backward as if struck by invisible force, crashing into a cart.
Magic arrays flared against it next — glyphs detonating in precise bursts.
The entity flickered.
But did not fall.
Kael felt it then.
Not fear.
Recognition.
The same narrowing he had felt days ago.
But deeper.
As if the world was holding its breath.
The entity turned.
Toward him.
Why me?
He swallowed hard.
It took one step forward.
And in that step, Kael sensed something unmistakable—
Not hostility.
Not hunger.
Expectation.
His grip tightened.
"I'm not chosen," he whispered under his breath.
The entity's slit-face pulsed faintly.
As if amused.
Around him, Zen and Magic clashed in radiant chaos.
But in the space between breaths, between prophecy and power—
Kael stepped forward.
And for the first time, the silence inside him felt like it was waiting to answer.