Thunder boomed and faded slowly as rain trickled down the small, glass paneled window beside the door that separated them from an empty narrow street where villagers hugged the sides of homes, shielded from the rain by several feet of slanted roof extending out into the air.

    A mass of gray cloud swelled and churned overhead, snuffing out the sun and sowing a nocturnal gloom as it swept through the valley like a breath caught in a frozen winter wind.

    He smiled softly.

    In all likelihood the twins had fallen prey to the heavy downpour. It fell upon the village suddenly, rushing down from the Dreadnaughts and pelting Falden with a cold biting rain that brought with it a chill as soon as they arrived.

    But one look around the room was enough to smother what little joy he felt.

    He crossed his arms and avoided looking at the walls which stood too close together. The roof hung low above their heads and the lone window beside the door was so small one could barely hope to squeeze through it.

    Although it wasn’t much, it helped to stand beside it. If he leaned his shoulder against the wall he could look down at the rain forming puddles and shallow rivers that spider webbed across the cobble stone street just below the window.

    The gray light coming through the glass would not have been enough to fill the room but an old brick fireplace on the opposite end provided enough to see by. Not that there was much to see.

    A leather chair sat beside the fireplace. Its tall back curved inward and cracked in several places along a row of dull iron buttons rimming the edge of the arms.

    And a small wooden table stood on thin legs in the middle of the room accompanied by several plain wooden chairs.

    Above the fireplace a wall mount made of dark, smoothly finished rockwood held a scabbard once dyed black but faded with age. Silver vines and leaves twining around the scabbard from end to end glowed dimly with the light of the fire dancing beneath it.

    A braided white cord tied the polished hand guard curled around the pommel of a saber to the scabbard, binding the sword and sheath together.

    If not for the sword above the fireplace and the ones both he and his brother carried it would have been impossible to imagine they once had so much more.

    And it was all they had left.

    He dug his fingertips into the flesh of his bicep, clenching his teeth.

    “Gods, man. I’ve seen more life in a frog.”

    Victor Silvertree sat forward, eyeing a thin man sunken into the leather folds of his chair.

    “I can still jump if I want. Just not as high as I’d like.”

    “And how high is that?” Victor said.

    The man said nothing at first. His thin lips formed a line as he studied the floorboards at his feet. It was hard to remember his father as the man as he used to be.

    His favorite robe, dyed a deep blood red, covered down to his ankles a bony withered frame. Dark wrinkles clung to the bottom of his eyes.

    Once bright and sharp as steel, the vigor they once held were now just a memory. The clear sky blue of his youth faded to a watery gray, sunken beneath his brow.

    “You never were the sort to hide from the world. Why stay?”

    “I’ve seen more than I’d ever wanted to,” his father said. “The well suits me.”

    “The well?” Victor crossed his arms and snorted. “You’re not that kind of man, Allanir.”

    “We all find our well someday. Only I’m very much aware of what exists beyond these walls. Unlike the frog you compared me to. A bold move, by the way.”

    Victor sighed. “I should have made you leave with me. It never would have gotten this bad in Lumenos. Gods!”

    “Pills and acupuncture won’t fix this,” his father said, shaking his head.

    “Is that what you were told? By who? A traveling quack passing off his own shit as if it were worth its weight in gold? This might be your last chance.”

    “The sun has shown me the way down a long and perilous road. I’m fine with where it led me. If this is where I die, it’s meant to be.”

    “And your sons? A better life awaits them in the capital than what they’ll find here.”

    “My lord,” his father said. “You did your best with me and I know you’d do the same for them, but I won’t send my boys off to die in another man’s war.”

    “War?” he interrupted suddenly. “Did something happen while we were gone?”

    Victor leaned back in his small wooden chair and pulled out a pipe from inside his coat.

    “While you two were gallivanting through the mountains someone decided we were better off with a change in leadership. The king is dead. Along with the queen and their sons. It’s all a mess.”

    “And you want to throw my sons into it?” His father scolded.

    “They’ll get sucked in one way or another. The legions are opening their ranks and all eyes are on the border. Better off serving the Silvertree name than the Albryte.

    “And you know your boys will be the first ones offered up by that bastard when the recruiters come with their smooth talk of honor this and responsibility that. I’ll keep them safe. Not that they really need my protection.”

    Victor glanced over his shoulder at the scrape along the side of his face. His father saw the dried blood on his cheek but hadn’t made a comment.

    “What do you say, both of you?” Victor demanded.

    Taren looked his father up and down. Pain twisted his eyes, although he tried to hide it by massaging his brow.

    “If we go,” his brother said. “What will happen to mother? She’ll have no one left if things continue on like this.”

    Victor eyed him and he smirked.

    “Why should I care about someone I’ve never met before? I didn’t ask for a king. And I don’t need one. I want to go north.”

    “North?” Victor said, arching an eyebrow. “That’s not a friendly place for one with hair as dark as my asshole. Even now you still hear stories of Delcairans disappearing over night and later found swinging from a tree.”

    “Not that north,” he said. “The true north. Past the frontier lands and the Dreadnaughts beyond them. I want to meet the Lycan lords of Hargon.”

    Victor chuckled as he lit his pipe. Smoke billowed past his lips when he spoke.

    “Don’t believe in nonsense. ‘Lycan lords of Hargon.’” Victor shook his head. “It’s an old tale made up by slaves to scare their masters.”

    “You don’t know that,” he said frowning.

    “True. But I do know it’s pointless for you to go even if they do exist. How long do you think you’ll be welcome when they discover you can’t manifest your soul?”

    “I’ll get stronger,” he said.

    “Until you peak and can’t grow any more. To the best of my knowledge only purebloods have ever been able to break into the second World and cultivate the form of their soul.”

    “There’s nothing wrong with my blood,” he said quietly.

    “Aye. But it’s not enough. Either you’re a full Delcairan or you’re not.”

    He bit his tongue to stop himself from cursing at the old cunt.

    “Thank you for the advice, my lord. I’ll remember it the next time I need to be reminded of what I can or can’t do.”

    He left the room then, done with where the conversation was going. Taren’s voice followed him until he opened the back door and slammed it shut. There was no point to him staying in there another second.

    A single tree sprouted behind their home leaning above a stone bench that overlooked a wide field skirting the edge of the village.

    The storm hurled sheets of rain and strong winds that washed the blood from his face, soaking through his cloak and tunic and plastering his clothes to his skin.

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    He sat on the bench and began to meditate.

    A deep chill seeped into his legs. But the feeling soon diminished along with the prickling burn of the scrape on his face and the cold, stinging rain.

    The world’s essence slowly trickled into him, numbing the chill in his bones. Passing his lips with each deliberate breath, it filled his lungs and spread through his veins.

    It was thin, hardly noticeable at all compared to the essence rich valleys and forests of the Dreadnaughts. Fortunately he had something that more than made up for it.

    His left hand tingled.

    It started on his index finger, slowly creeping up his forearm, moving past his shoulders until it reached his scalp and spread down his chest, enveloping his right arm and both of his legs.

    He wasn’t sure how much time had passed but when he opened his eyes the storm had run its course, leaving puddles in the short grass around the bench.

    Light faded through a shifting blue and gray sky blanketing the field in a soft glow that made it look young and fertile again despite waves of long brown grass swaying in the wind.

    “How does it feel?”

    He jerked away and cursed.

    His father sat beside him wearing a pale grey cloak over his robe with stars sewn around the hem and wrapped tightly around his shoulders. His thin blonde hair rested flat against his scalp, slick and wet as the cloak that hugged his robe.

    Somehow he’d managed to light a pipe and puffed at it several times while he stared.

    He stood abruptly, taking his father by the elbow. But the thin man shrugged him off.

    “Sit,” he said.

    “Are you mad? You need to take this off and sit by the fire.”

    “I don’t need to do anything. Sit.” His father pointed to the empty spot on the bench with his pipe and he sighed, sitting back down reluctantly.

    A silence fell between them. He was content to let it last. But the puddle between his feet couldn’t hold his attention for long.

    “You didn’t ask what happened to my face,” he said.

    “You got your ass handed to you. What’s there to ask about?”

    He grunted and gingerly touched his jaw. It wouldn’t take long to heal with the help of essence but the pain reminded him of his failure and it shamed him.

    “So,” his father said slowly. “How does it feel?”

    “What? This?” he said pointing to his face.

    Allanir puffed on his pipe and smiled.

    “Cultivating essence. I still can’t believe my son’s an Essence Practitioner now. How did that even happen?”

    “Oh,” he said, glancing down at his left hand. “It’s amazing.”

    “How long has it been since you and your brother went into the Dreadnaughts? Three months? And in that time you not only broke into the first World but even cultivated your way through eight of the nine realms.”

    He scratched the side of his head and smiled sheepishly.

    “I guess I’m what you’d call a genius.”

    “Is that what you think?” his father chuckled. “You turn twenty this year. A man fully grown who should be thinking of finding a wife and starting a family. A genius would have broken into the first world at the age of ten. But instead you’re picking fights and trying to be something you’re not.”

    His father said it so casually that it was hard to get mad at him. He winced and looked away, not knowing what to say.

    Allanir sensed his reaction and wrapped his shoulders in a tight hug.

    “I’m joking! Son, I’m proud. It couldn’t have been easy. Any man would have given up years ago. On the path of a cultivator if one hasn’t broken into the first World by the time they’re fifteen then it’ll never happen. But you refused to give up. And not only did you succeed you advanced faster than anyone I’ve ever heard of. Gods, eight realms in three months!”

    His father shook his head and laughed.

    “You’re not worried?” He asked.

    “About what?”

    “What Victor said. If it’s true I’ll never break into the second World. I’ll be like this forever. Compared to them I’ll always be weak.”

    “He’s an old fart.” Allanir said waving his hand dismissively. “What does he know?”

    “He knows how to fight,” he said, remembering how Victor stopped Cera’s sword as if holding back a child.

    “Is that really so important?”

    “What do you mean?”

    “You picked a fight with someone stronger than you,” his father said, pointing at his cheek with his pipe. “The twins I assume? You never could get along with them.”

    “How could I?” he said, heat rising to his face.

    “They treated me like shit my whole life. Whenever I thought it couldn’t get worse they somehow found a way to do exactly that. They’re beasts wearing human skin. And their father is no better. You of all people should know that.”

    “Aye, I haven’t forgotten. But none of that matters now.”

    “How can you say that? Of course it matters. Men like that can’t be allowed to walk over peoples’ lives. It isn’t right.”

    His father puffed on his pipe and grunted.

    “Don’t be a fool. Men like that rule the world. Victor’s a good man, one of the rare few among them. But he has power and isn’t afraid to use it. A peasant with no money and no power doesn’t get to decide for them what is right.”

    “You would have me do nothing?” He asked bitterly.

    “Only the dead do nothing.” Allanir took a long pull of his pipe and breathed out slowly, staring out at the trees beyond the field.

    “Put it behind you,” he said. “All the hate you’ve burdened yourself with. It grows like cancer eating away until one day you wake up and you can’t regocnize who you are anymore.

    “And before you tell me it’ll be fine if you have your vengeance this one time then let me tell you that you couldn’t be more foolish to believe that. Hate does not go away so easily.

    “It seeps into every crack of your being until it becomes who you are. You’ll find someone else to hate and they’ll hate you for it. And the cycle continues until hardly a man is left. Is that what you want?”

    He frowned as he tried his best to follow along. It was rare for his father to lecture him like this.

    “Go north. Or go south with Victor. I can’t stop you. But give up on your need for revenge. And move on. Before one day you realize you’re old and no one’s around to put up with you and it’s already too late to go back to the way it was before.”

    Allanir fell quite after that. He felt content to let the silence stretch. His father’s words chilled him more than the rain had but he couldn’t deny the feelings he’d harbored for so long.

    “If not for vengeance, then what about justice?” he asked.

    Allanir smiled and nodded slowly.

    “Clear the hatred from your heart and what do you find? Addressing past misdeeds and righting wrongs has nothing to do with vengeance. It is the moral obligation of a man who walks the path of cultivation.

    “Of course, there’s a fine line between the two. You’ll be pulled to one side or the other and when that happens it’s up to you to find where you stand.”

    He couldn’t see why it mattered to make such a distinction so long as the twins finally met their end. But the message his father conveyed seemed clear enough. Like with most things, there was a right way and a wrong way to go about it.

    “I think I understand,” he said thoughtfully. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

    Allanir clapped him on the shoulder and rose to his feet unsteadily, using him for support.

    “Good,” his father beamed. “Now, don’t throw your life away trying to be a hero or I’ll never hear the end of it from your mother.”