Winter no longer felt like winter. The storms had grown too sharp, too sudden — gales slamming the coast without warning, lightning cracking over the sea with no clouds to birth it. Snow fell in crooked sheets, sometimes black with ash, sometimes glittering like glass. Fishermen dragged up nets of bone-white fish with hollow eyes, their scales already flaking apart in the cold. Even the gulls had stopped circling, vanishing inland as though the shore itself had turned cursed.
Jalen noticed, though he spoke of it to no one. He trained harder instead, hammering his body past exhaustion, drawing Dream Mold until his chest seized and his lungs burned. Each night he pushed for more — sword, clone, duel against himself — until his hands trembled even when empty.
"Too much," Mira told him once, watching him bind his wrists with strips of cloth. Her child fussed against her, restless in the storms. "You'll break yourself before you mend."
He only grunted. He didn't have the words to argue, so he said nothing. That night, for the first time in weeks, his body betrayed him into real sleep.
The dream began where it always did, though he hadn't walked it since the underworld.
Black water stretched forever, glass-smooth, reflecting a white sky without sun. And from the center of the shore rose a tree — enormous, roots plunged deep into the water, trunk twisted, bark pale as bone. Its branches bent low with fruit, each one glowing faintly, each one pulsing like a heart.
But many were rotting. Some had already fallen into the water, where they sank without a ripple.
Jalen stepped closer.
The Old Man was waiting. Frail as ever, bent-backed, beard like snow tangled in the wind. His eyes glowed faint blue, the color of smoke clinging to dying coals. When he smiled, it was tired, but it held him steady against the vastness.
"You've been away too long," the Old Man said. His voice cracked like bark splitting. "The tree weakens. Balance shatters. Even the gods are afraid."
Jalen followed his gaze. A branch near the top of the tree shivered. Hanging there, half-hidden in the light, was his own fruit — cracked, leaking threads of color, its glow unstable. He reached for it, but the Old Man caught his wrist with a trembling hand.
"Not yet. You are not ready to see what remains inside."
The branches trembled. Dark clouds bled across the sky, and thunder growled through the tree's roots. Storms raced across the branches, blackening whole limbs. Fruit shriveled, fell, drowned.
And in the reflection of the water, Jalen saw a figure.
A man crowned in fire, shadows crawling from his throne like serpents. His mouth moved, but the tree drowned the words in thunder.
The Old Man's grip tightened. "Freedom roots itself in action, not silence. Stay too long in stillness, and the tree will forget your name."
The crown of fire burned brighter. The tree groaned, splitting down the trunk. Fruit burst into ash, roots tearing loose into the sea. Jalen staggered back as the branches fell, the reflection swallowing everything.
"Wait—" he tried to shout, but the water rose too fast.
He woke choking on his breath.
The shack was silent. No wind howled. No waves hissed. The storm had died in an instant, leaving only the sound of Mira stirring behind him, her child shifting restlessly in her arms.
Jalen pressed a hand to his chest, sweat freezing on his skin. His sword arm still twitched, aching from nothing.
"Another dream?" Mira whispered, her voice drowsy, though her eyes watched him with quiet concern.
He didn't answer. Couldn't.
He stood, crossed to the door, and pushed it open. The beach stretched before him, moonlight pale on the tide. Too still. Too quiet.
Shapes moved in it — familiar ones. The traders, the ones who had stumbled into Hearthgrave with hollow cheeks and cracked voices, now stood tall, weapons in hand. Their wagons sat abandoned, wheels sunken in snow.
Jalen's stomach tightened. He'd listened to their stories, weighed their words like stones. He hadn't seen the rot behind their eyes until now.
The nearest one smiled, lips splitting in the frost.
"The King of Everlock sends his regards."
The others raised blades, their ragged clothes falling back to reveal armor beneath — crude, rust-bitten, but real. The circle closed in, slow, steady, as if they'd been waiting for this moment all along.
Behind him, Mira drew her child closer, whispering his name.
Jalen's hand curled into a fist, Dream Mold sparking faintly at his fingertips.
Jalen stepped out, forcing the door shut behind him. "Mira. Stay inside."
But one of the traders peeled away, circling toward the shack. Toward her.
Jalen charged, sword half-formed in his hand. He slammed into the first man, cutting shallow — too shallow. His body was still slow, his power still fractured. Another blade scraped his shoulder, another caught his ribs.
"You're no god," one spat, pressing him back. "Just a boy crying at graves."
"Kullen says it should have been him." Another trader grinned wide, teeth red with frost. "That power wasted on you, all your childish grief. The King knows it. That's why he sent us."
The name cut deeper than the blades. Kullen. His brother in arms. His friend.
Jalen faltered, guard dropping for half a breath. It was all they needed.
One man slammed him to his knees, blade pressing at his throat. Another shoved the shack door wide. Mira screamed as rough hands reached for her child.
Jalen's vision went white.
The vault inside him groaned — then split.
Power tore out of him, violent and merciless. Dream Mold exploded from his chest, shredding the man who held him down into ribbons of blood and bone. Sparks cracked the night air. The ground itself shook.
Jalen rose, dripping red, eyes burning with a light that hadn't touched them in months. The sword in his hand lengthened, sharpened, gleamed alive. Another figure stumbled out of him — his clone, solid, blade already raised.
They moved together.
One trader lunged — split in half before his scream finished. Another's skull caved beneath a downward strike that shook the sand. A third was run through by the clone, body jerking before crumpling. Blood sprayed across Jalen's face, hot in the cold air.
"Pretender—!" one gasped before his head hit the snow.
Jalen barely heard them. His arms moved on instinct, every strike sharper, harder, carving bodies apart. The beach became a blur of steel and red, blood soaking the frost, steam rising into the night.
When it ended, the sand was littered with broken corpses. The sea dragged pieces of them away.
Jalen stood in the middle of it, chest heaving, sword dripping. His cloak was torn, his body slick with blood — theirs and his own. His clone dissolved back into smoke, leaving him alone in the silence.
From the shack, Mira stood frozen in the doorway, her child clutched tight. Her face was pale, eyes wide, locked on him. Not the scarred wanderer. Not Kael. Not the man who rebuilt a roof for her.
The God of Freedom, woken in blood.
Jalen met her eyes once, then turned toward the dark sea. Blood pattered from his blade into the sand.
The wounds on his body began to sear and glow. At first it was faint — a shimmer beneath the skin — then the light spread, gold streaked with violent violet, crawling across every cut. Flesh knit together in an instant. Bruises dissolved. The ragged tear along his ribs sealed shut with a hiss of steam. The air itself bent around him as the godhood he'd buried clawed its way back into the open.
Mira clutched her child tighter, unable to look away. He stood there in the moonlight, cloaked in blood and light both, more myth than man.
Jalen lowered his sword. The glow dulled, but didn't vanish. It pulsed faintly under his skin with every heartbeat, as if reminding him that hiding was no longer possible.
He left the corpses where they fell and walked the beach until he reached the stone marker. Frost glimmered over the carved name, the tide whispering close to its base. Jalen lowered himself into the sand, sword across his lap, and rested his bloody hand against the grave.
His voice was hoarse, but steady.
"It looks like I'm going after all. But I promise that I'll come back."