One hundred and sixty-four days after the awakening
The wind howled through the narrow defile like a wolf pack closing in, whipping my cloak around my legs and stinging my cheeks with needles of sleet. Voss Keep loomed behind me, a black silhouette against the bruised twilight sky, its towers like jagged teeth biting at the storm clouds. I had slipped out the postern gate an hour ago, telling no one—not Clara, not the guards, certainly not Mother. The unborn sibling in her belly was due any day now, and she had barely spared me a glance in weeks. Why would she? I was the spare part, the Common-tier disappointment, the child who had proven himself nothing more than a footnote in House Voss's grand ledger.
I clutched the satchel tighter against my chest, feeling the weight of the forbidden items inside: a shard of unrefined mana crystal pilfered from the armory stores, a vial of quicksilver essence distilled from the black-bound books I'd burned, and a dagger etched with runes I had copied in secret. The plan was simple in its madness—climb to the summit of Frostbite Peak, the forbidden ridge where the duchy's ley lines converged like veins in a god's wrist. There, under the full moon's glare, I would force a second awakening. The texts called it "Soul Rending": a rite so dangerous it was banned by imperial edict. Success meant shattering the limits of my Grey affinity, potentially unlocking something—anything—beyond Common. Failure meant... well, the books were vague on that. "The soul unravels," one had said. "The body becomes a vessel for the void." In other words, death. Or worse.
I paused at the base of the trail, breath pluming white in the freezing air. My hands—still small, still child-soft despite months of calluses—trembled as I adjusted the straps. "I thought I had learned my lesson," I whispered to the storm, my voice swallowed by the wind. After the void-salt disaster, after staring at that pea-sized grey spark in the primer and accepting my ordinariness, I had promised myself: no more risks. No more tantrums disguised as heroism. Act like the twenty-seven-year-old you are, not the impulsive ten-year-old body you're stuck in. Read the books. Practice the basics. Grow slowly, steadily, like everyone else.
But promises are fragile things in the face of indifference.
Mother's cool dismissals had chipped away at me day by day. The way her eyes skimmed over me in the halls, the way she spoke of "the heir" now as if it were already the baby kicking in her womb. Father had buried himself in war preparations, vassal disputes, anything to avoid the living reminder of his house's weakened bloodline. Even Clara's pats on the head felt mechanical, obligatory. I was a ghost in my own home, fading a little more each time someone looked through me.
So here I was, about to do something drastic. Again.
The trail wound upward like a serpent's spine, slick with ice and treacherous rock. I had chosen tonight because the full moon would amplify the ley lines' pulse—or so the forbidden scrolls claimed. My boots—too big, hand-me-downs from a cadet who pitied me—crunched through the crust of snow. Each step sent jolts up my legs, reminding me how small I still was. Ten years old. Barely tall enough to reach the stirrups on a pony. What was I thinking?
"I thought I had learned my lesson," I muttered again, louder this time, as if saying it would make it true. The void-salt had nearly killed me, a hallucination born of denial. This was different, I told myself. This was calculated. Adult. I had cross-referenced three sources, practiced the incantation for weeks in whispers under my blankets. But deep down, in the honest part of my mind, I knew the truth: this was impulse. Childish desperation dressed in rational clothes. A ten-year-old's tantrum against a world that had stopped caring.
The wind picked up as I climbed higher, howling through crevices like accusations. My fingers numbed inside wool mittens; I flexed them around the satchel strap to keep the blood flowing. The peak was still a league away, but I could feel the ley lines already—a faint hum in my bones, like standing too close to a beehive. My grey spark flickered in response, that pathetic pea-sized light behind my navel stirring like a moth trapped in amber.
What if it works? The question bubbled up unbidden. What if I shatter the Common barrier and pull something real from the void? Ice, shadow, fire—anything. Would Mother look at me then? Would Father summon me to his solar instead of sending messengers with curt instructions? Or would it change nothing? A Common boy forcing his way to Mundane or Regal would still be a freak, a cheater who bypassed the crystal's judgment. Rival houses would cry foul. The academy might dissect me like a specimen.
And what if it fails? The books were clear on that, at least in their poetry: "The rending claims the unworthy, leaving husks for the ravens." My body, small and broken, tumbled down the peak for the wolves to find. No one would mourn long. The new baby would arrive, perfect affinity gleaming like a promise, and I would be a sad story told to warn other children: Don't reach beyond your station.
I stumbled on a loose rock, pitching forward onto hands and knees. Pain lanced through my palms—fresh scrapes on old scars. I stayed there a moment, forehead pressed to the frozen ground, sleet melting into my hair.
"I thought I had learned my lesson," I gasped, the words a mantra now. But had I? The void-salt had been a fever dream of denial. This was... what? Maturity? Or just the same impulse in a new cloak? A twenty-seven-year-old should know better. Plan alliances, study politics, turn weakness into cunning. Not climb a mountain to gamble his life on banned magic.
But the ten-year-old body won. It always did when the blood ran hot.
I pushed myself up, wiped the blood on my cloak, and kept climbing.
The path narrowed to a knife's edge, sheer drops on either side yawning into darkness. One wrong step, and the rite wouldn't matter—I'd be paste on the rocks below. The ley hum grew stronger, vibrating in my teeth, making my grey spark dance erratically. It felt like potential, like the edge of something vast. Or maybe that was just hope, another child's folly.
Halfway up, the storm broke fully. Sleet turned to hail, pellets stinging like bee stings. I huddled against a boulder, satchel clutched to my chest, waiting for a lull. Minutes stretched. My teeth chattered; hypothermia was a real risk now, the kind that sneaks up and whispers you to sleep.
This is stupid, the adult voice in my head said. Turn back. Live to scheme another day.
But the child answered: No one will notice if you fail. No one cares if you succeed. Might as well roll the dice.
I waited until the hail eased, then pressed on.
The summit appeared suddenly, a flat plateau ringed by jagged spires like a crown of thorns. The moon hung directly overhead, full and merciless, bathing everything in silver light that made the snow glow. The ley lines converged here in a perfect nexus—a circle of bare stone where no snow stuck, humming with power that raised the hairs on my arms.
I stepped into the center, knees weak. The air tasted metallic, like blood on the tongue.
"I thought I had learned my lesson," I said to the empty peak, voice cracking. But lessons are for those with time, and I was out of it. The baby would be born soon. The duchy would shift. I would be shipped off to some minor academy or forgotten in a tower room.
No more.
I dropped to my knees, unpacked the satchel with numb fingers. The mana shard first, I drank the vail shapes that looked like screaming faces appeared at the corner of my view.
All that was left now was to use the magic Chrystal.
This could kill me.
It probably would.
My vision blurred, darkness closing in.
And then, from the edge of the void, a voice.
Then the voice arrived, not from the wind, not from the storm, but from somewhere inside my own skull, yet unmistakably separate.
It was calm, deep, and utterly certain, the way a veteran commander sounds when he already knows the battle is won.
"Stop."
One word.
I froze mid-motion, as if the air had turned to glass.
The voice continued, steady, warm, and absolutely sure of itself.
"Lydan. Put the blade down".
I tried to speak, managed only a croak.
The voice didn't wait.
"You are not the kind of man who ends his story on a frozen rock because a pregnant woman looked through him for three months."
The certainty in the tone was almost insulting, like someone stating the sky is blue.
"You think dying here proves anything? The only thing It proves is that you're ten. A grown man wins without bleeding on an altar. A grown man waits, learns, and takes the board apart one quiet move at a time. You already know this."
The mana shard's glow dimmed, as though embarrassed. Although the quicksilver was already within me it wasn't enough to kill me on its own.
The presence faded, leaving only the hush of falling snow and the absolute, unshakable knowledge that I had just been saved by someone who believed in me more than I believed in myself.
I started down the trail.
My legs were steady.