A/N 3/3 today!

Ser Loran nodded, his eyes sweeping over the makeshift camp. In a much lighter tone he mentioned “I know a runesmith in Castellio who can do that talent reveal under the table, so to speak. Not affiliated with the guild, but well-respected for forging specialized runic gear.”

James froze. Something about that single word "Castellio" sent an unexpected shock through him. That’s the same word I saw in my Status, he thought. Jameson Castellio. He’d never questioned it deeply, assuming it was some leftover quirk or a half-remembered name from before Bell and Andy took him in. Hearing Ser Loran casually mention it now felt like a punch to the gut.

He tried to keep his face neutral. “Castellio?” he repeated, feigning idle curiosity. “I… don’t think I’ve heard much about it. What’s it like?”

The knight rubbed the side of his jaw. “Ruled by Duke Gabriel Castellio—a cunning man, though weighed down by tragedy. Not the type you want to cross if you can help it. The land itself is southeast of Friengard, bordering the Harrowlands. You’d have to cross the Stormveil from the Straits, then head into the lower valleys to get there. Well-defended territory, famed for runesmithing and magical experimentation. Plenty of advanced runic items come out of there.” He shrugged. “But it’s overshadowed by a… complicated history.”

James’s heart beat faster with every word. That’s the name in my Status—and here it is, belonging to a Duke in a distant domain. Putting on his best mask of calm, he asked, “Complicated how?”

Ser Loran pursed his lips. “The Duke’s wife, Duchess Maria, died about a decade ago. She was pregnant at the time. Official story is that a wyvern snatched her—took her up into the mountains. Search parties found her body in a cave, but no sign of the child. Many assume the infant was devoured, or at least died out there.” His voice had a grim note. “Either way, Duke Castellio was never the same. He’s become… hardened. Withdrawn.”

A cold jolt went through James’s veins, as though a breeze of pure ice had swept over him. A buzzing in the back of his mind, the timeline fit almost too well—he himself was about ten. Could this be the same child? The faint memory of Bell telling him once that he “appeared” as a baby, an anomaly, sprang unbidden to mind. He’d brushed it off then. Now, every piece clicked in a way that made his stomach churn.

Ser Loran must’ve seen the surprise on James’s face but seemed to read it as mere shock at a tragic story. “Grim, I know,” he said, shaking his head. “In any case, Castellio’s not a place to wander lightly. If you ever need that discrete runesmith, though—and you have the means—Castellio is an option.”

James swallowed, his throat painfully dry. Keep it together, he commanded himself Relying heavily on {Strategic Tranquility}. He couldn’t risk betraying the panic coiling in his gut. “I—thanks for letting me know. Didn’t realize it had, um… that kind of backstory.”

Ser Loran nodded, standing up to stretch. “Plenty of grim stories in this world,” he murmured. “No need to dwell on it. We should move soon, check if there’s a way out of this rift before the waves starts. That’s all, right?”

James gave a stiff nod. “Right… yeah. That’s all.”

As the knight moved away, presumably to tend to the aethermares, James sank back onto the stump, the air seeming thicker around him. His mind spun with questions, the biggest one glaring back at him like a beacon: Is it a coincidence that my Status says ‘Jameson Castellio,’ or… am I somehow that lost child?

He remembered Bell’s gentle smile, Andy’s hardworking warmth, and how they’d called him their “miracle child” after he seemingly arrived from thin air. What if that was because he had arrived from somewhere else—spirited away from the Duchess’s womb by a freak teleportation, or something equally bizarre?

And what about Frank? he asked himself, hands shaking slightly. I’m also Frank MacGreen, the man who died on Earth protecting innocent people. Did my soul replace the original baby’s? Or was I born with two souls merged into one body? Manny mentioned that they were merging before but did I as James ever have a chance to be a unique person?

He closed his eyes, forcing a slow breath and summoning the aura-suppression technique Elia had taught him. Inhale… exhale… flatten the aura. Steady, he told himself, focusing on the subtle swirl of mana in his core. Little by little, his heart rate slowed.

When he opened his eyes, the world felt no less complicated, but at least he wasn’t on the verge of panic. Rising unsteadily, he started back toward camp, half in a daze. I can’t tell them. Not yet. If Ser Loran or the others learned he might be the Duke’s lost son, who knew what might happen? He feared losing Bell and Andy, the only real parents he’d ever known here. I’m not ready, he thought.

Joey noticed his ashen face first, standing near the makeshift fire pit. “Dude, you alright? You look like you saw a ghost.”

James forced a tight smile, trying to quell the tumult inside. “I’m… fine. I just—Ser Loran told me a story about Castellio that threw me off a bit.”

Joey’s expression softened. “Sounds rough. Want to talk about it?”

James swallowed hard. “No… not yet. Maybe later.”

His friend nodded, the concern in his eyes obvious, but he didn’t push. James turned away, letting the quiet hum of camp life wash over him. Castellio, he repeated in his mind. Jameson Castellio. If the Duke learned of this… if it even was true…

He pressed a palm to his forehead, feeling torn between his loyalty to Andy and Bell, the memories of Frank’s life, and the unsettling possibility he carried a noble’s blood. For now, he could only bear the weight in silence—and hope that neither the world, nor the Duke, forced his hand before he could find answers on his own terms.

Elia, having finished whatever she was sorting, turned their way. She pursed her lips at James’s uneasy posture. “You good?” she asked, echoing Joey's earlier question.

James wanted to say No, I’m not good. I might be the missing child of a reclusive, possibly ruthless Duke. But that would only raise questions he didn’t have answers to. Instead, he forced another nod. “I’m just… a little tired.”

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Her brow furrowed, but she let it drop. “Alright, just letting you know—Marcus suggested we have a quick meal, then see if we can pick up any sign of a rift exit. Sometimes these wave-rifts have hidden thresholds you can pass through before the wave sequences lock you in.”

Jackson materialized from the shadows just then, his voice startling them. “Hah. Good luck with that. Wave-rifts are notoriously tricky. But I guess if we have to run from the tide of beasts…” He trailed off, leaving the implication hanging.

Elia shot him an annoyed glance but said nothing. Joey huffed, raking his hair with the metal digits of his prosthetic. James noticed the tension in the group—everyone was on edge, but they were all trying to keep it together.

They gathered near the remnants of the campfire. Marcus tossed in a few scraps of kindling, coaxing small flames to life so they could warm some leftover stew in a dented iron pot. The meal wasn’t glamorous—bits of dried vegetables, mushrooms they’d found, and a handful of herbs for flavor. But it was warm and filling, a welcome comfort in this place.

James sat cross-legged next to Joey, waiting patiently as Elia portioned the stew. Across from them, Jackson lounged with his back against a thick tree root, scanning the darkness with disconcerting calm.

Ser Loran arrived with a final load of gear, the aethermares tethered a few strides away. Even they seemed restless, ears flicking at invisible disturbances. The knight set down a coil of rope, wiped his brow, and settled on a large rock to accept a bowl of stew from Marcus.

“Alright,” Ser Loran said, his voice carrying a subdued authority, “we’ve rested enough. Once we eat, we’re moving. If we’re lucky, we’ll find a tear or a threshold that leads out before the wave cycle starts in full. If we’re unlucky…” He paused, letting the thought speak for itself, and took a bite.

An uneasy hush fell. James sipped his stew, its earthy taste mingling with the saltiness of sweat on his lip. Each mouthful was a struggle to swallow around the knot in his throat. He couldn’t stop thinking about Castellio and the child that had disappeared ten years ago. The same age as me…

His gaze drifted to Ser Loran. The knight’s earlier words replayed in his head: be cautious with your secrets. Nobility can be ruthless. James wasn’t sure if Loran suspected something, but the man had dropped that story so casually.

In the flickering shadows cast by the rekindled fire, James’s mind slipped into a cycle of fear and possibility. If I truly am the Duke’s lost son, what does that make Andy and Bell? They’re my parents, but… not by blood? Would they be in danger if the Duke found out? Or if the Duke demanded I return? And do I even want to be a Duke’s heir?

He had never asked for any of this—he’d never even asked to be reincarnated into another world. By all accounts, he was an anomaly. Frank MacGreen, father and husband, had died a hero in a grocery store shootout. Then, abruptly, awakened in the body of an infant. Despite the new name, new circumstances, and new family, he still thought of himself as part of Frank's life as well. That alone made him feel like an outsider at times, but this potential revelation about his noble heritage threatened to widen the chasm between who he wanted to be and who he might be forced to be.

He didn’t realize he was trembling until Joey put a hand on his shoulder. The gentle pressure of the metal prosthetic jolted James from his inward spiral.

“You’re definitely not ‘fine,’” Joey whispered, voice low enough that only James could hear. “Whatever’s going on… just breathe, yeah?”

James exhaled shakily and nodded. He tried to mutter a thanks, but his throat felt constricted, so he merely gave Joey a grateful look and resumed eating, forcing each spoonful down.

Across the campfire, Jackson’s dark eyes flicked in James’s direction. For a brief moment, James felt like the man was studying him, analyzing the cracks in his calm façade. He quickly looked away, not wanting to give Jackson any reason to dig deeper.

Elia, meanwhile, cleared her throat. “Marcus, how far do you think we’ll have to go to find an exit? These wave-rifts can be massive, or they can be pocket-sized.”

Marcus shrugged. “I’ve been in a few. Once, I found an exit after half a day. Another time, it took me and my team five days to find the boundary. I think the best bet is to keep traveling in a consistent direction, scanning for anomalies in the terrain or the mana flow. James has {mana Sight} as well so let us know if anything stands out.”

James lifted his head. “Yeah. I can do that,” he said quietly, grateful for a concrete task that didn’t involve ruminating about Duke Castellio.

Ser Loran cracked a slight grin, his silver hair catching the firelight. “There’s our advantage,” he said, giving James a nod of approval. “We might yet skirt the beast tide entirely if we move cleverly. Once we find the exit Jackson and I will scout further. Enough talk—eat, all of you. Then we pack.”

They complied. Utensils scraped against metal bowls, and the warm stew provided a reprieve from the gloom. The moment felt strangely domestic, as though they were a ragtag family sharing a meal. Yet the tension of the rift, the looming wave, and James’s personal turmoil kept everyone from fully relaxing.

Eventually, the pot was emptied, and each member rose to deposit their bowls and gather their belongings. Ser Loran took a few moments to pack up whatever they couldn’t leave behind, rolling up bedrolls and securing them to the saddlebags on the aethermares. Marcus doused the last of the fire, kicking dirt over the embers until they sizzled and died.

James handed his bowl back to Elia, who wiped it clean with a rag. He contemplated stepping aside to accept his new skill—

{Aura Control (Saffron Level One)} but he also worried that it might trigger a visible reaction or some sign that would draw too many questions. Maybe I should just accept it discreetly, he thought, stepping away from the others.

He ducked behind the massive trunk of a twisted rift oak, glancing around to confirm no one was watching, then focused on his Status. A translucent screen appeared, highlighting the skill prompt in golden letters.

{Active Skill Acquired}

{Accept? Y/N}

Aura Control (Saffron Level One)

James took a slow breath, remembering Elia’s lessons. If he wanted to keep from flaring like a beacon, {Aura Control} would be invaluable. He tapped {Y}, and a faint tingling sensation pulsed through his core. The skill etched itself into his spirit.

At once, he felt an odd sense of structure to the aura suppression technique he’d been practicing. Before, he’d tried to do it manually, clamping down on his emotions and will. Now, the skill felt like a quiet harness around the swirling energy within him—subtle, but comforting.

Skill Acquired: {Aura Control (Saffron Level One)}

-A technique to moderate and refine your aura, reducing magical leakage and preventing mana flares. Higher levels yield greater subtlety and duration.

His heart pounded, half with exhilaration and half with apprehension. Another skill slot used, he realized.

Though he didn’t see a numerical display for his exact cap, he sensed that the intangible “space” in his spirit was starting to get crowded but no way of knowing really. The thought of it made him uneasy. Another reminder of how precarious his growth was. Choose carefully, Andy’s voice seemed to echo from a memory.

Shaking off the disquiet, James circled back toward the group. Elia caught his eye, a slight tilt of her head indicating curiosity about where he’d gone. He mumbled something about “just taking a moment,” and she let it slide.

Within minutes, everyone was mounted with Joey on the back of Marcus'. James, who lacked riding experience with the aethermares had Ser Loran say, “Hop on behind me. You can handle the reins some other time. Right now, we have to move.”

James obeyed, climbing up behind Ser Loran on a broad-chested mare with a coat shimmering faintly like moonlight. The creature snorted, stamping the ground as James settled onto the saddle. Joey, riding behind Marcus, gave him a small wave. Marcus took point, Jackson drifted somewhere in the rear, half-blending with the gloom.

A low whistle from Marcus signaled their departure. And just like that, they rode away from the site of their makeshift camp, venturing deeper into the rift’s labyrinth of colossal trees and twisting paths.