Kael paused on the narrow mountain path, throat burning with thirst. Below him, Redhallow lay nestled among the peaks—quiet, hidden, almost peaceful.
If not for the shadow.
The colossal hand of the dead god jutted from the stone like it had tried to claw free. Fingers twisted toward the heavens, frozen in some ancient agony.
Kael smirked. Twisted, but beautiful.
It always made his skin itch. Part of him wanted to climb up and see it up close. Find out what secrets still clung to its bones.
But Mother wouldn't allow it.
Ah—right. She'd be worried if he wasn't home before dark.
It always bothered him why, yet he knew she wouldn't answer, he suspected it had to do with the itching.
He lingered, watching red sunlight bleed across the god's remain.
"Enough gawking at ancient corpses. Mother'll throw a fit if I'm late." He muttered, hoisting his bundle of firewood, the path home awaiting, darker than before.
The sweet, cloying scent of candles drifted into Kael's nose as he stepped into the house.
Mother's at it again, he thought, pausing in the doorway. Why does she keep doing this, even after everything?
A middle-aged woman knelt before a flickering hearth, her red hair blending so naturally with the flames it seemed born of them.
"I see you finally decided to come home," Lira said, without turning.
"You were at Nyric's again, weren't you?"
"Yeah. Just got him some firewood, nothing more," Kael muttered, fidgeting. "He killed a gryphon. Says it can help increase my veinfire. Plus... he's a great cook."
"You don't need to increase your veinfire," she said, rising and brushing ash from her knees. "And I make better meals."
"Right. Whatever makes you happy, Mother," Kael said, already moving toward his room.
"What's that supposed to mean?" she asked, her voice turning grim.
"Nothing," he answered quickly.
Then, in a quieter, more serious tone, she asked, "How is the itching?"
"It's..." He paused, hand resting on the doorknob. The cursed itch. It felt like his blood was laced with needles these days. "...getting better."
"Don't lie to me, my sweet child. It'll be a thing of the past soon," she said, flashing him a smile.
"But..." He sighed. There's no point asking questions she won't answer. "Forget it," he muttered, opening the door.
"Wait," she called after him. "I can't answer — not yet — but everything will be clear soon."
"When?" he asked under his breath.
"Seven days from now." That was his sixteenth birthday, if he remembered right.
"And you skipped training today. So—no sleep until you complete the First Form," she added with a smile.
His fingers twitched. His heart sank. She hadn't forgotten.
The cursed First Form couldn't be mastered. He'd heard rumors—whispers that it was a test, a trap, or worse. If only she wasn't so stubborn...
He turned back, ready to argue, to plead, to beg her to let it go—but the moment he saw her smile, all his will evaporated.