The longhouse hummed with breath and distant hammers. Sparks jumped from the hearth, lighting the old map spread across the table — a hide darkened by oil and time.
Darius stood over it, shoulders broad enough to hide the firelight. His hammer leaned against the wall, its head the size of Dimour's chest.
"Three confirmed sightings," Darius said. His tone carried the same weight as the hammer — steady, final. "Crelins. Small pack. Near the marsh road."
Dimour listened. Not just to the words, but to the silence between them. That was how his father spoke most — through what he didn't need to say.
He traced the map's etched rivers with his eyes, committing the routes to memory.
He'd waited for this day since childhood. His first hunt. His trial.
"They're fast," Darius went on. "They think in circles. First rush blinds you, second kills you. If they throw stones, ignore them — they want your eyes high."
He paused, watching Dimour roll a bead of mana between his fingers. The orb glowed soft and clean — his one trick that could kill if he placed it right.
"Attack fast," Darius said. "Remain vigilant. Keep them on the defensive. Let them breathe, and they'll bury you."
Dimour nodded once. "And you'll—"
"End what you start."
A ghost of a smile crossed his father's face. Dimour caught it, stored it away. That was as close as praise ever came.
He drew a small circle on the map with the toe of his boot. "This far out, the ground's thin with mana. I'll have to rely on proximity to sense them."
"Then stay close," Darius said. "If the soil sings, speak up."
Dimour's palms tingled — a faint rush of energy building in his skin. He pressed one to the floor. The longhouse faded. He could feel the hum beneath the earth: the breath of roots, the pulse of the palisade, the faint shimmer of Jin's Shadow beyond the walls. It was like hearing a thousand heartbeats and trying to name which one was fear.
He exhaled. "Nothing near. We're clear."
"Good."
Darius slung the hammer across his back, the leather straps creaking into place. "Gather what you need."
Dimour took his knife, his charm of woven reeds, his water skin. His hands didn't shake, but his heart felt like it might burn through his ribs.
They stepped into morning.
Nérou was already awake. Smoke from cook fires twisted above the roofs. Chickens darted between the legs of women washing clothes. The scent of meat stew, smoke, and damp wood drifted together — home.
As soon as the pair appeared, work slowed. Heads turned. The smith raised a hand blackened by soot. The younger guards straightened. Children climbed barrels to watch.
The village heroes were moving.
An old woman pressed a charm into Dimour's hand — tiny bones bound with thread. "For luck," she said, voice rasped thin with age.
He nodded, but the word thank you caught behind his teeth.
A young boy ran up with two wooden swords, grinning. "Show them how real soldiers fight!"
Dimour managed a small smile. "Only if you keep practicing."
The boy saluted and sprinted away.
By the gate, the crowd had gathered without planning to. People whispered blessings under their breath. The elders watched with quiet pride — the kind that hurt to look at.
Darius placed his hand on the gate's central beam. The wood groaned open, spilling cold air from the marsh beyond.
He looked back once. "We'll be back before dusk," he said. No roar, no speech — just the word of a Myth.
Dimour followed him out. The gate shut behind with a hollow thud that echoed in his chest.
The shimmer of Jin's Shadow flickered over the palisade — that thin veil of safety he'd grown beneath — and vanished into mist.
For a heartbeat, he wanted to look back. But his father's voice cut through.
"Eyes forward."
Dimour obeyed. This was the day he'd dreamed of. The day he would prove that a Myth's son could earn his place — not through inheritance, but through will.