Selvin felt the wind begin to bend around him as he spoke his True Name to the empty air. It was not as simple as ‘Selvin.’ It was something else entirely, really, and if you asked him to write it out, he wouldn’t be able to.

When he or others spoke his name, ‘Selvin,’ however, he did feel the harmony between the two, in concept. Like two different songs that made counterpoint with one another.

As he spoke it, he felt the familiar growth of his power within him. His power, as surely as someone’s name was theirs, or their body- but more intimately familiar than either put together, doubled. It was everything there was. Self- extant, raging, and brilliant. The world- pure, clarifying, and omniscient. The soul- meaning, perspective, and direction. Each time he spoke his True Name, reality seemed to right itself just a little bit around himself, the air grew lighter, the sky brighter, his eyes clearer.

Of course, a True Name could not achieve real power on its own any more than a regular name like ‘Selvin’ could. It was merely an expression of one’s true self, after all. If that true self lacked power, there was nothing to be found.

That could not be said of him.

He felt the urge to run, leap, dance, as he sat there Speaking, feeling the boundless energy of his Name spreading into his muscles and senses and giving them definition and might. But he made himself stand still, concentrating on his Shroud, refining and honing its raw power.

After two weeks, the turmoil in his soul had vanished. His Shroud was whole once more; unmarred by any other powers. The touch of the void, as he had taken to calling it, had finally vanished. It had taken a disturbing amount of his energy reserves being directed at it to finally heal the insatiable, ravenous fleck rampaging through his bloodstream and body; through the currents of his Shroud as well.

His Shroud had leveled out to relatively pleasing conditions:

[My Shroud]

Strength: 6

Mind: 6

Heart: 5

Perception: 4

Cosmic: 3

Unnamed:

For not the first time, Selvin frowned as he passed over the ‘Unnamed’ Attribute.

The one thing his father would never discuss with him. Perhaps… He pulled out the stone his father had given him, gray and plain. It looked like any other. Maybe it had something to do with this. But he shrugged, tucking the issue away for the moment.

There were Names, and then there were Names, as his father liked to say. He had explained the concept succinctly: There were two basic categories of Named Power- Self-Names and Else-Names. Self-Names were those that were involved directly in one’s soul and Shroud, an extension of one’s identity: a True Name, or a Bloodline Name.

And then there were Else-Names. Names that came from external sources- be they other people, beasts, or spirits. The path that his father had been guiding him down had involved this primarily, as Else-Naming was the most effective method to quickly and stably gain raw power. The steadfast and self-conscious progression of one’s own soul, without any external help, was a very frail thing. That was why so often the very powerful on Elcasia came from noble families and famous bloodlines- they inherited the cumulative power of generations that they could easily, naturally work into their Shroud identity.

Self-Naming was the process by which that raw power was refined, folded into the Ancestral name, or the True Name. About a quarter of the time, his father instructed him to fold into the Ancestral, perhaps less. Most of the time, he told him to focus on honing his True Name. Its foundation, he had said, was far more important because of its complete and utter alignment with his identity. The Ancestral was merely an expression of his bloodline- something he tended to exemplify more than others, something that his heritage gave him dominion over.

Else-Naming was considered to be a dark art.

Selvin didn’t particularly care. Neither did his father.

Even the rich boys and girls used elixirs and other small external boosts. What they rarely did… was what Selvin’s father had steeped him in. Like a vampire, he took power and Names from corpses. From other Speakers. How mortified they’d be.

Of course, if you asked them about what they did with their non-Speaker citizens, they would explain that it was entirely different.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

Of course.

With a sigh of disgust, Selvin prepared to leap into the skies.

”Morasain, Anasain!” He Spoke, and the power that exuded from his lips flung itself at the world around him, pushing the trees around him with the force of a storm. Morasain and Anasain, the Twin Hunters, ancient heroes from a thousand years ago. Their names still bespoke strength on the Named World of Elcasia to this day.

And of all the people on the face of the planet- millions and millions- Selvin alone still knew their Names. Not even the annals of history recorded them- not even their basic first names. So dreadful was their power; so lasting as to leave ripples and influence a thousand years later on the world they had been birthed on.

One of the first stops he and his father’s journey had been to an ancient citadel to the far south, where they had acquired the Names. He still wasn’t sure how his father had known how and where to do it. They had acquired a few other trinkets like that- to supplement his two main powers, his True and Ancestral Names. He had two Strength Names, a single Heart Name, and two Mind Names.

He also had one stranger still, that could give very fleeting boosts to his Cosmic and Perception talent.

Around him, the names of the Twin Hunters slowly unraveled at the world in the echoes following his voice, overlaying it thickly with their dominion and will. And then it turned inward, after finding no worthy vessels, radiating away from the trees and to his Shroud and soul.

Their blessing- aside from giving the base force to allow such an endeavor in spite of his meager Levels- would make the following stresses on his body less severe. It had been years since he had sprained his body in a simple leap-, but he did not enjoy unnecessary risks. Especially when they involved his person.

Especially when… he had so little time. An injury, even a mild one, could be the amount that crushed the scale.

Of course, no matter how you sliced it, this entire path was made of risk. Risk was the thread upon which all his hopes hung. And it grew tighter and tighter with each passing day.

After making sure everything was securely packed in his travel sack, he tensed against the ground with his legs. It had taken a very long time for his body to grow used to having more strength than it had been made to handle. Sometimes it still felt odd- the way his muscles tensed and unwound like springs of great size and tension. Human muscles were weak, frail things. You could only draw so much from them.

With his magically strung legs, it took him a handful of seconds at a casual speed to reach their stopping point as they braced against the ground. He thought he could just faintly hear the sound of the tendons stretching, creaking. And then he took off.

The ground exploded with a dull boom, like the sound of a cannon. Below him, nearby trees were blown away, some uprooting. Then they were gone.

The air ripped at his face, cold and harsh; refreshing after so long on the earth. Like waking from a slumber in a freezing, cold dawn. The Strength Names also had the added benefit of preventing excessive amounts of force being shunted from his body when he took off or landed- especially when he landed. Most Speakers would not have bothered in such a situation. What did the lives of a few mortals matter? If there was some collateral damage when they fell- maybe they should’ve thought about being there before a divine, magical being descended from heaven like a thunderbolt.

It was generally accepted that some people were better than others- and what more obvious metric of that fact was there than Speaking magic? To make the very world bend to the song of your will; to make the heavens themselves heed you.

In comparison… Surely mortals were just idle trash. Remnants. Imperfections.

As that thought crossed Selvin’s mind, it awoke the still-hot embers of a long, long-simmering anger. A hatred. His next thought had as much conviction as any he had ever had- more, even:

Speakers are not worth the power they possess. They are monsters, near enough, one and all. They do not deserve it. He was doing the world of Elcasia a service by pruning their ranks of the arrogant and the violent- those that he hunted. Those that could give him the provocation of self-defense.

Kill only the lost, his father would say. And no one else. The fools. The tyrants. And the lost. Follow those rules, and you will never go astray.

After a few minutes of flying through the air- still on a slight upward trajectory- he saw the forest and plains clear away beneath him with the dark specks and lights of human civilization. He had moved west as fast as he could the past few weeks, putting as much space between the Goddess-Queen and himself as possible. It was better for her to think him dead, after what she had done to him. A handful of leaps like this had carried him away from the Northern Wastes and the Altesian Continent, and- after crossing a relatively small channel of water- he now was in a different place entirely.

This was a quaint land called Unadrel- with little central authority and powerful Speakers to be seen. Hundreds of warring factions dotted the land- each with their own caches of magicians. They would live like savages here, most likely. A place where only the strong- fleeting as that term was- would rule.

Selvin doubted any of them were past the Seventh in any Attribute. And even if they were… He still had his final card to play, should he need it. As it stood, however, he would try not to if he did not desperately need it. The goal of coming to this relative backwater was to fix the scars the Goddess had left upon his Shroud, so he could continue on the journey his father had set for him.

It wasn’t as simple as merely continuing what he had been doing, either, before... Gaining more power would not fix the damage done to his spirit. He wasn’t sure what exactly he would have to do to heal himself- but raising his Attributes was a simple, easy way forward. A plain first step.

Ever so faintly, he felt the power of other Speakers alight below him, as the lights did as well, their variety of spiritual presences attacking his Shroud sense like the scents of different meals in a restaurant. The city’s name was Marsaine- most likely after the hero Morasain who had fought here a thousand years ago. This was the battle that had won him legend on Elcasia. Nobody alive knew the connection besides him, of course.

What were the odds that he would come here using the very Name of the legendary person who had dwelled here? Fate was a fickle thing- and indeed, Cosmics would tell you that Fate was everything. That the future was writ in stone, that it was water, that it was the wind.

Selvin found he never particularly cared. His Fate would be what he wanted it to be, and that was that. What else was there? Why spend your life worrying that some greater power directed you? That sounded like a recipe for failure, for idleness, for weakness. The path one walked was as sure as the steps that carried them forward- each individual one, one after the other. Perhaps you couldn't see where you were going- but you still made the choices to go there. And that was all that mattered.

All that mattered.