The days after the funeral did not feel normal.
The village of Aerindal did not stop moving, but everything felt slower. People still went to the docks, still sharpened blades, still trained the younger ones. But they did all of it quietly, as if loud sounds were no longer welcome.
Kael noticed it first in the mornings.
Before, the village used to wake early. Metal would clang. Children would run between houses. Someone would always be shouting from across the road. Now, mornings came softly. Footsteps were careful. Doors were closed gently. Even the wind felt quieter, though Kael knew that was only his mind.
No one spoke to him directly.
They looked at him, though. Some with pity. Some with discomfort. A few with something colder—something close to resentment. Kael did not understand that part yet. He only knew that when he walked past, conversations stopped.
At night, he lay awake in the small room that once belonged to his father. The space felt too large now. The bed creaked when he moved, and every sound reminded him that he was alone.
He tried not to think about the fire.
He tried not to think about the blade in his father's hands.
Most of all, he tried not to think about Zeik.
His brother's face came to him in fragments—laughing while running along the cliffs, standing proudly during training, placing a hand on Kael's head and calling him slow. Kael held onto those moments because they were all he had left.
Everyone said Zeik had been taken.
No one agreed on who took him.
Some whispered it was outsiders. Others said monsters from the sea. A few believed it was punishment for something Kael's father had done long ago. Kael heard all of it, even when they thought he wasn't listening.
He did not believe any of them.
Zeik was alive. Kael felt it in a way he could not explain.
On the fifth day after the funeral, the village head came for him.
Elder Ronas was a tall man with a broad back and a voice that never shook. He had trained Kael's father when they were young, and he had stood beside him in more battles than anyone else in the village.
Now he stood at Kael's door, his face tired.
"You'll be staying with us," Ronas said simply. "My wife has prepared a room."
Kael nodded. He did not argue. He did not thank him either. The words felt stuck somewhere inside him.
Ronas did not push. He placed a hand on Kael's shoulder, firm and steady.
"You are not alone," he said. "Even if it feels that way."
Kael followed him without speaking.
Ronas's house was larger than most, built close to the training grounds. That was where Kael first saw Lyra standing in the yard, holding a wooden sword that was almost too big for her.
She stopped when she saw him.
For a moment, she only stared.
Then she ran to him and hugged him without warning.
Kael froze.
He was not used to being touched anymore.
"I'm sorry," Lyra said into his chest. Her voice shook. "I didn't know what to say."
Kael did not hug her back, but he did not pull away either.
"It's fine," he said quietly. He was not sure if that was true.
Lyra stepped back and wiped her face quickly, as if embarrassed by her tears.
"You'll train again soon," she said, trying to sound confident. "Father said you're allowed back once you're ready."
Kael nodded again.
Training.
That was the one place where things still made sense.
The next morning, Kael returned to the training grounds.
The other children were already there. Some were younger. Some older. Many of them already carried practice swords bonded to faint traces of Essence.
Kael did not.
His sword was plain steel.
No glow. No reaction. No power.
Whispers followed him as he walked to the edge of the field.
"That's the human's son."
"He can't resonate."
"Why does he still train?"
Kael ignored them. He always had.
Tavian was waiting near the racks, holding two wooden swords.
"You're late," Tavian said, grinning.
Kael looked at him. "I'm not."
"You are emotionally late," Tavian replied. "Which is worse."
Kael almost smiled.
Almost.
Tavian had always been like this. He talked too much, joked too often, and somehow knew things no one else bothered to remember. He was not the strongest, but he was quick. More importantly, he never treated Kael differently.
"I heard three theories already," Tavian continued. "One involves sea gods. One involves cursed bloodlines. One involves a very angry elder with too much imagination."
Kael took a sword from the rack. "Which one do you believe?"
Tavian shrugged. "None. Zeik wouldn't disappear without a reason. And your father…" He paused. "Your father wouldn't fall that easily."
Kael tightened his grip on the sword.
Training began shortly after.
Kael moved like he always did—clean strikes, careful footwork, controlled breathing. Without Essence, every movement mattered. Every mistake hurt more.
Some of the others avoided sparring with him. A few did not.
When Kael was knocked to the ground, no one offered a hand.
Tavian did.
"You're getting slower," Tavian said, pulling him up.
"I'm tired," Kael replied.
"Everyone is," Tavian said. "You just carry it more quietly."
Later that day, Kael stood alone at the cliff overlooking the sea.
The water was calm. Too calm.
Ships patrolled the distance, armed and alert. The sea monsters had not appeared in weeks, but that meant nothing. Everyone knew they could rise at any moment.
Kael stared at the horizon.
No one had crossed it in a hundred years.
No one was supposed to.
Still, he wondered what lay beyond it. Not monsters. Not legends.
Truth.
His hand brushed the hilt of his sword.
He could feel something beneath the surface. Not power. Not yet.
But pressure.
Like something waiting.
Kael did not know it then, but this was the moment his life truly began to move forward.
Not with strength.
Not with destiny.
But with unanswered questions.
And questions, he would learn, were far more dangerous than blades.