After the intervention of the drunkard. Kenan's time was split in twain. Half of his twilight activities were rationed to the rumination of his walks. The other was paid into pre-dawn pugilist lessons served by Rufus.

Two weeks had passed. While it was slow, it was sure. Kenan transversed a metamorphosis. With each lesson of fist and hand, an emotion would unravel itself. The burden across Kenan’s shoulder would lessen. He felt like he was pulling himself out of a pit, and with each inch of clearance, the fog that covered his mind dissipated.

The emotion was there. Just as painful as before. If not, worse. The correction of his cognitive features magnified and focus the events. All the same, the sting was being turned over to a dullness. Constant it may be, it was better than it was.

Dawn was on its way. The fingers of the sun had just breached the horizon and soon, the image of Lathander would be in full sight. Kenan planned to be well asleep before the bell of the Dawn Church bellowed.

He ate his dinner from the morning cooks. Whom made pork, eggs, and a seared potato. In the first bite of the meet, Kenan was met with a revolting taste of acrid flesh and ash. He decided to keep his hunger for the other food.

After the meal, he made his way to his room. It was temporary, his stay in the church. Kenan knew that, but he didn’t know the extent of the charity the Sisters were willing to grace him with. It could be tomorrow that they asked him to vacate the room, or maybe, never. If his physiological wounds never healed, the Parson might just demand to keep him there forever. Either way, Kenan was thankful for the benevolence that they had already shown for his health. Not to mention room and board.

It was amidst those thoughts that his tired mind fired the regularly used synopsis. Somewhere in its path of travel, there was a wrinkle in memory. Something was there that shouldn’t have been. In his room, sitting on the bed was a man. It made Kenan freeze for a moment. He knew the person. He knew by just the formation of the shoulders. Not to mention the dark leather that wrapped around the man's figure or the shortsword that poked from the belt.

The shocked paralysis passed. Kenan shuffled over to the bed and sat so he and the man were back to back. Then he began to untie his boots. He heard a scoff behind him. Followed by a second of silence. “I figured we should stop ignoring each other. Nephew.” Doco said.

Kennan shrugged. “I wasn’t avoiding you.” He flung his shoe to a corner of the room. He felt it. Like a bitter taste as his uncle tensed for a moment. Like the man was about to bite back with an anger-fueled retort. Then Doco’s muscles relaxed and the anxiety passed. In its wake was left a lingering void of words.

“Our lives have changed. And maybe… I could… Just…” The words fell. Their sharp decline was reasoned by their lack of substance. Not that any of their syllables had a chance to pierce the thought revolutions that turned over and over. An accumulation of emotional tribulations facing the light and the warmth of a family member. Possibly the last living blood that he had.

“I’m afraid. Uncle.” Kenan did not see Doco twist and look at him. Instead, his eyes were glued to his hands. He clutched them until his knuckles turned white. He felt the sting of his nails before he let go.

“I'd be afraid too. Kenan, they…"

“There is no they.” Kenan let off a very slow, deliberate breath. At that moment he felt cold. His body heat, or the warmth of the church was barren in him. He shivered. “I'm afraid because I killed a man. I don't feel anything. Like it was nothing to me. I severed his life, felt his blood and there is no shred of regret in me.

“I thought maybe it was because of who he was. What he and his people had done too… it's not that. I just feel like a… like…”

“A monster?” Doco finished for his nephew. Kenan gave a very slight nod. Then his uncle produced a sound somewhere between a grunt and a harrumph. A few sounds escaped his mouth in several awkward attempts to spark some words. “I’ve killed men too.”

It was Doco’s turn to take a deep, shuddering intake of air. “You, nephew. Gods. How do I begin.” There was a pause, like thought had trouble traveling through whatever path it had to go through. “I guess I should tell you the truth, eh? You aren't who you think you are. What you are.”

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Kenan turned. It was slow, but the intensity of emotion was tucked into the motion. Confusion with a healthy dose of baseless anger. “Uncle?”

“My father, your grandfather. Had an affinity with metal. Your father had one with earth, stone to be specific. Even though he was a little more esoteric with it.” Kenan saw the smile on his uncle's face. “Your mother had practiced with water for so long and effectively that it practically had become a part of her. Your sister has a half-affinity with nature enchantment. Kenan. I’m trying to say that power follows the blood.” Doco looked up, at something that only he could see.

“What about you?” Kenan asked.

“Me?” Doco’s smile repeated before it was crushed into a frown. “The firstborn has the greatest chance of being some form of realm chosen. Either they carry on the affinity, or they form something adjacent to it. The second child, and every one after that has severely lower chances.”

“Realm chosen?”

“A lesson for another time perhaps. There is a pattern, but it’s not infallible. Exceptions are everywhere. Mana has tricks and The Three certainly don’t help.” He paused, hoping Kenan would understand. Get to the point where he did not have to speak any words. But the connection wasn't met. “Nephew. You have an affinity.”

Then there was a great void. Words skipped each of their minds as Doco looked out the window and Kenan gave his uncle a hard, stern stare. Then he turned and looked between his legs. He bored a hole through the floor with his eyes. “Oh.”

Doco flinched. There was no pain or potential fright. But the inflicting damage from Kenan’s expressionless word made him coil back. “I'm… sorry. I could tell you why. Give you my excuse but the truth is that you should've known from the start.” he pulled from his dantian. It felt rough and hard. The magic was easy, but what it lifted was heavy. Its weight had no effect, but its contents did.

Kenan looked down. On his lap was a book telekinetically placed. It was black leather, thick, and had heavy yellow paper. The cover was outlined in heavy stylized dark grey. The title was a stark, unnatural white, pickpocketed with blue. It read “Mortem”. Kenan had to take a deep breath manually. He knew. The knowledge was irrelevant, not because he didn't have it. But something else yelled at him. An instinct that was so deeply impeded in him that it hurt as it writhed into the open. He. Knew.

“It means…” Doco began.

“Death,” Kenan said. The words used in the title were of the old language. He could recognize that. “Im… I'm… a necromancer?”

Doco shook his head. “No. It's in the book. You are…” He stumbled on the last word. Half afraid to say it, and half startled he wanted to say it.

“Worse?” Kenan asked. His uncle did not respond. “Does this tell me how to use… it?”

“No.” Doco shook his head again. “There aren't any books for it. It seems there are too few of…” He paused. “You. The books only describe what you have. And the little recorded people's to share the power.”

“They aren't great stories are they?” Kenan did not need to see Doco's dissension. He looked at it, felt the cover, and sifted the pages. Then he put it behind him. “I don't want it.”

Doco turned around quickly. He tried to establish a speech but Kenan started before him. “I'll be an artist.” The statement was imminently arrested by an awkward aura.

“What?”

Kenan shrugged. Clenched his hands, and kept them balled. They shook with a tensile strength. The effort was contrasted with a smile on his face. “I’ll build an inn and be a barkeep. Or play in one as a bard. A baker who makes pastries for the royals. Or a blacksmith that bends metal with his bare hands.” Kenan let go of whatever excitement was in his body. “You said it your self uncle. You alter magic to fit your purpose.”

Doco's jaw clicked. Like the words from his brain formed, then were pushed to his mouth but failed to create sound. “What is your purpose?”

Kenan shrugged. “Right now. To get Lucy back. After that. I don't know.”

Doco stood. Walked over and faced his nephew. There was a slight gasp. He had not seen the damage Kenan had been infected with. The scar that was etched into his face. “What about revenge?” he asked. He wanted to say more, be greater than he was at the moment. But the flame plastered on his nephew's face made him want to kill. The familiar blood boil rose before Doco had a chance to suppress it.

Kenan shrugged once more. “What about it? I want it. I am going to get it, and that's that.” He looked at his uncle and stared his eyes down. The synergy between their heritage vibrated as something inside resonated, and then laid down. Like a beast beneath stirred. “I'm lost.”

The spike in energy faded in both energies and Doco sighed. He deflated like all of his emotion, each of the complicated knots of feeling untied and settled. He kneeled and hugged his nephew. The motion felt mechanical. Both of them were tired. Doco stood. “Get sleep, it's time for you to come back to the day. We start next dawn.”