The morning came cold and slow.
For once, no one called him to train. No voice barked orders. No blades waited in the courtyard.
Instead, a silent figure approached through the mist—an armored courier draped in the colors of House Vasco. In his gloved hands was a single sealed scroll, bound with a black ribbon and stamped with the insignia of a crow in flight.
Aden took it wordlessly, the wax seal warm to the touch despite the morning chill.
He broke it open.
The parchment smelled faintly of smoke and steel.
To my son,
You have walked into a storm that will never end.
You've chosen a path that burns the soul and hardens the heart. And yet… that path may be the only one worth walking.
I will not offer you false comforts.
The world does not care for us. But I do.
So survive. Not because you're strong, or because you're mine.
Survive—because only the living protect what they love.
The dead only leave regrets behind.
—Ed Vasco
Aden stood frozen.
The words weren't long. They weren't grand. But they struck deeper than any sword. And in them, he felt something rarer than encouragement.
Conviction.
His father's love wasn't tender. It was forged in fire and silence. The kind that didn't weep—but bled beside you without a word.
Aden folded the letter carefully and tucked it inside his coat, close to his heart.
Behind him, the warriors resumed their drills. The clanging of steel returned to the air.
But something had shifted inside him.
This wasn't just about power anymore.
It was about surviving for those who couldn't afford to fall.
The fire cracked softly in the heart of the Bastion's courtyard, its flickering embers casting long shadows on the stone walls.
Most of the warriors had turned in for the night, their bruised bodies lost to sleep or silence. But Aden sat awake, arms resting on his knees, eyes fixed on the flames.
He hadn't meant to stay behind. His body ached. His legs screamed. But his thoughts wouldn't settle—not after the letter.
A shuffle of boots drew near.
Aden turned slightly.
It was the soldier with the scar across his jaw—the same one who mocked him on his first day, the one who'd sent him flying with a single kick during their first spar.
"Didn't think you'd last past day two," the man said, lowering himself beside the fire with a grunt. "Most don't."
Aden didn't respond. Not immediately.
"I almost didn't," he muttered.
The man let out a short, amused breath. "None of us did."
For a while, there was only the crackling of fire and the occasional hoot of a distant night-bird.
Then the man spoke again, his tone quieter. More serious.
"You ever wonder what it'll be like? Facing Wrath?"
Aden glanced at him. "Every day."
The man nodded slowly. "First time I was thrown in the chamber, I was told I'd see my worst fear. Thought it would be fire. Or pain. Or failure."
He leaned in, shadows deepening under his eyes.
"But for me," he said. "It was an Orc driven mad by the Wrath. I fought it. Barely lived. When they pulled me out, I'd bitten through my own tongue."
Aden didn't speak.
"It never leaves you," the man continued. "Some never come back right. Some stop talking. Some stop sleeping. And a few..." He looked at Aden now, expression unreadable. "A few get stronger. Not because they win. But because they understand."
"Understand what?"
The man's eyes glittered faintly in the firelight.
"That Wrath isn't something you conquer. It's something you make peace with."
He rose slowly, joints popping, and started to walk away.
But he stopped just at the edge of the fire's glow, turning back to offer one last thought.
"If you're lucky, it won't break you. If you're not… well." He gestured to the moon above. "Better men than us have tried."
Then he disappeared into the night.
Aden remained by the fire long after the flames had burned low.
His hands rested atop his knees, but they were clenched tight, as if already bracing for the war to come—not just against the Wrath…
…but within it.