The tower loomed in the distance, its shadow stretching long across the land, reaching for him as it always did. No matter where Hageawn went, he couldn’t escape it—except here, by the lake. The water seemed to push the shadow back, rippling softly under the sunlight as if to say, Not here.

He crouched at the shore, his knees sinking into the damp soil. The lake didn’t judge him. It didn’t care about the tower or the fact that he hadn’t climbed a single step closer to its top since the day he arrived. It didn’t care about the pendant that hung heavy against his chest, nor the question that gnawed at him day and night: What is Spellcraft?

A fish leapt, breaking the water’s surface with a splash before vanishing into the calm. Hageawn’s eyes followed the ripples until they blurred his reflection into nothing. He stared at the shimmering surface, waiting for it to clear, but when it did, he almost wished it hadn’t. His ash-blonde braids were a mess, his silver eyes dulled with exhaustion, and his brown, dusty robes hung loosely on his frame. He rubbed at the dirt on his face, but it didn’t make him feel any cleaner.

His hand brushed the pendant, and he froze. The broken stone it held was unremarkable, yet today it felt heavier, as if the lake saw something in it that he couldn’t. He wrapped his fingers around it, the cool surface pressing against his palm, and let out a slow breath.

The air shifted, cool and gentle against his skin, carrying the faint hum of mana that always surrounded the tower. Even here, miles from its gates, its presence reached him, threading through the land, the water, the air itself. Hageawn let his hand fall to his side, his gaze returning to the lake.

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The ripples stilled. For a moment, his reflection stared back at him, clearer than before. But the longer he looked, the less he recognized it. The person staring back wasn’t who he wanted to be—not yet.

Frustration flared, sudden and sharp. Before he could stop himself, his fist shot out, striking the water. The ripples exploded outward, shattering his reflection and scattering droplets into the air. His chest heaved, his face hot. He didn’t want to see it anymore.

He turned his back to the lake, but there it was again—the tower, and its inescapable shadow.

Hageawn’s fists clenched. He didn’t know why he felt so angry, only that he needed to get away. But where could he go? The tower was all he knew. Yet in the quiet moments of the night, when he lay awake staring at the darkened ceiling, he thought of the future. Of what he might someday be able to do.

The frustration twisted deeper. His boots scraped against the soil as he stomped away. But after only a few steps, his hand moved absently to grasp his pendant. The cracked stone pressed against his fingers, its sharp edges biting into his skin. The pain steadied him, even as it churned something deeper. How much longer could he rely on it—this broken thing that held him like a chain?

It wasn’t like he had anything else. No friends. No family. Just this fraying string and the stone that dangled from it. He let it fall back against his chest with a sigh, its weight settling just beneath his throat.

A faint smile flickered across his lips, though it didn’t reach his eyes. He looked up at the tower—it seemed so far away, a place meant for someone else. He knew who he was here: the strange, silver-eyed fae with no mana.

His fists curled at his sides. He resisted the urge to swing them. Not today. His anger, he knew, usually led to the troubles that followed.

But as the thought passed through him, his head tilted, his tense fingers loosening. The corners of his lips tugged upward into a sly grin. He looked at the tower, his silver eyes narrowing. Suddenly, it appeared less foreboding and more like—prey.