The young woman’s eyes burned with intensity, their gaze boring into Aric’s as though she already knew the questions he hadn’t asked. She moved with purpose, her steps soft and deliberate as if she knew this house, this village, even him.

“How do you know me?” Aric asked, his voice edged with suspicion as he gripped the doorframe, his chest still tight with the weight of everything that had transpired.

“I know what you carry,” she said, her tone steady and unnerving. “The shard. Your father’s Labor. You’re not the first to inherit such a burden.”

The words struck him, cold and unrelenting. He hadn’t told anyone—no one except Tavrin knew about what happened in the Deadlands, about the shard his father had passed to him. “Who are you?”

The woman stepped forward, her cloak shifting as the dim light revealed her face, sharp and serious. “My name is Lira. I’m here because you’re in danger. We all are.”

Aric stiffened. “What kind of danger?”

Lira’s eyes moved from his face to the sword that lay discarded near the hearth, a silent symbol of his father’s Labor. The same Labor that now pulsed in his own body, waiting for him to master it. “The shard you carry isn’t just a relic of the Creator’s power. It’s far more dangerous than you realize.”

Aric’s frown deepened. “Dangerous? It… it gave me my father’s Labor. Isn’t that what it’s supposed to do?”

Lira shook her head. “Yes, but shards weren’t meant to be transferred lightly. The power inside them is volatile, and now that you’ve taken it in, you’ve drawn attention. Attention from things far worse than the Un.”

His breath caught in his chest as he thought back to the Un—his father—who had been twisted into that grotesque creature. He had clutched the shard, using the last moments of sanity to pass it to Aric.

“My father… what happened to him? Why did he have the shard?”

Lira’s expression softened, but only for a brief moment. “Your father was part of a group—a secret one—dedicated to keeping the shards from falling into the hands of the Prime Evil’s followers. He took the shard into the Crater to hide it.”

Aric’s heart clenched. “Then why didn’t he come back?”

“The Crater changes those who enter it. The Prime Evil’s influence is stronger there, twisting minds, corrupting even the strongest. Your father wasn’t just fighting demons—he was fighting the shard itself.”

The world around Aric seemed to sway, as if the ground beneath him was suddenly unstable. Everything he thought he knew—his father, the battle between the Creator and the Prime Evil, even his own Talent—felt like half-truths now.

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“I can’t even use the full extent of his Labor,” Aric muttered bitterly. “My body isn’t made for swordsmanship. I have the knowledge, but my body’s too weak for it.”

Lira nodded. “That’s because a Labor doesn’t change your body—it gives you the skill, the instinct, but it doesn’t give you the physical conditioning. Your father’s mastery came from years of training. You inherited the Labor, but not his strength.”

Aric felt a surge of frustration. “So what am I supposed to do? I can’t just ignore the Labor. I can’t throw away what my father gave me.”

Lira stepped closer, her gaze unwavering. “You’re not supposed to ignore it. But you need to control it. A Labor won’t consume you like a Desire could, but if you push yourself too far, too fast, you’ll break. The shard gave you your father’s power, but it didn’t give you his endurance.”

Her words hung in the air, each one sinking deeper into Aric’s mind. He knew she was right. Every time he had tried to wield the sword, his body protested. He could feel the skills within him—the techniques, the moves—but his muscles weren’t ready. The Labor had given him everything but the strength to use it.

Aric’s mind drifted to his Talent—the one thing that always felt right. His Marksmanship. “What about my Talent?” he asked, his voice quieter now. “That’s my strength. It’s something I’ve trained for.”

Lira nodded slowly, her gaze softening just slightly. “Your Talent is yours by right. You can manifest it, control it, because it’s part of who you are. Talents like yours are tied to lineage, passed down through generations, and the stronger your connection to it, the more powerful it becomes.”

Aric thought back to his rifle—the physical manifestation of his Talent. He had summoned it in battle countless times, and over the years, it had evolved from a simple gun into something more. His marksmanship allowed him to manifest specialized ammunition—bullets that pierced through armor, ricocheted off walls, or even tracked moving targets. His rifle was more than just a weapon. It was a part of him, and it grew stronger as he did.

“It’s instinct,” Aric murmured, recalling the countless times he had felt the rifle in his hands, an extension of his will. “When I aim, everything becomes clear. I can see the target, feel the wind, calculate the distance without even thinking.”

“That’s the essence of a Talent,” Lira said, nodding. “As you grow stronger, your rifle will become more powerful. Your Talent will grow with you, and as it does, the manifestation will become more deadly. But Talents are stable—they won’t consume you. That’s the key difference between them and a Desire.”

Aric knew what she was talking about. He had heard the stories of those who were driven by their Desires—their deepest, most personal wishes, given form as a supernatural ability. But Desires were dangerous. They had a way of taking over, twisting the person who wielded them into something unrecognizable, consumed by their own want.

“I’ve seen people lose themselves to their Desires,” Aric said quietly. “I won’t let that happen to me.”

“It won’t,” Lira assured him. “Your Talent and Labor are different. They are bound to your effort, your mastery. They will grow with you, not against you.”

Aric’s hands tightened at his sides as he tried to make sense of the path in front of him. His father’s Labor was out of reach for now, but he wasn’t without hope. He had the chance to master it, to grow stronger, but he needed time.

“And you can still gain another Labor,” Lira continued, her eyes meeting his. “Your father’s was your first. But every person can have two. If you train, if you focus on what your body can do, you’ll unlock another Labor—one that aligns with your Talent.”

The realization hit him slowly. He hadn’t even considered it, but she was right—he still had the potential for another Labor, one that might complement his marksmanship, rather than clash with it. The thought of mastering both filled him with equal parts fear and determination.

“And if I fail?” Aric asked, his voice low.

Lira’s expression didn’t change. “Then you’ll still have your Talent. But failure isn’t the real danger. The real danger comes if you ignore the gift your father gave you. If you don’t train, the followers of the Prime Evil will come for you, and then nothing will save you.”

Aric felt the weight of her words. He thought of the shard, the Un, his father’s last moments. The world was darker than he had ever known, and the Prime Evil’s forces were stirring. He had no choice but to prepare for the battle ahead.

“I’ll train,” Aric said quietly, determination hardening his voice. “I’ll be ready.”

Lira stepped back toward the door, her movements deliberate, as though every step had been planned. “Good,” she said. “Tomorrow, we begin your training. But rest now—you’ll need your strength.”

Aric watched her disappear into the night, leaving him alone with his thoughts. His father had given everything for this battle, and now it had fallen to him. The road ahead was long, but he would walk it. He had to