The land to the north of the Blightwood was not known by any kingdom. It had no name on the maps David found in the crumbled libraries of Myndros. And yet, the mana streams that flowed from the Eye of the Hollow bent around it — not by accident, but by force.
David followed this curve until the grass under his feet turned sharp and silvered, and the sky above grew cloudy not with rain, but with pressure. He had grown familiar with the feeling of mana gathering — like a heartbeat beneath the earth. But this was something different.
This was resistance.
The land itself rejected mana.
His passive flow did not cease, but its harmony faltered. The air grew heavy. His steps no longer drifted effortlessly. Every breath required grounding.
And then he saw them.
A wall — not of stone, but of forged iron, taller than any city gate he'd seen. Spiked. Rusted. And lined with symbols not etched, but beaten into the metal by hammer and fire.
A gate opened.
And from it stepped warriors clad in plates of blackened steel, their armor etched with scars, not decoration. Their faces were hidden behind helms of stone and iron.
But he could feel them.
They had no mana.
Not suppressed.
Removed.
They circled him without haste. Their leader stood half a head taller than the rest, helmet off. Her skin was marked with deep ceremonial scars, and her eyes — pale green — held no fear of the glow emanating faintly from David's veins.
"You've crossed into forbidden earth," she said. Her voice was like grinding stone, sharpened not by rage, but by a lifetime of war. "Why?"
"I seek understanding," David replied.
"You'll find death quicker."
He did not flinch. "Then let death offer its wisdom."
The woman tilted her head slightly.
"You speak like the old ones."
"I've read their ruins."
"We buried them."
They led him, unbound, into the heart of the fortress. The ground beneath was iron-hard, the walls spiked with shattered relics of mana-wielders: staffs broken in twain, crystals splintered and blackened, bones etched with failure.
The Ironmarked — as they called themselves — were not savages. They were something far more dangerous:
A people with purpose.
Descendants of those who had once fought against the Hollow — and later turned on the mana-bearing clans when their power turned arrogant. They had purged themselves of mana entirely. Not by ritual.
By surgery. By fire. By choice.
And in its absence, they became terrifyingly efficient.
David was brought before their council — seven warriors, all marked, all with bodies hardened by decades of war without aid of magic or divine gift.
The leader, the woman from before, stood in their center.
"My name is Caeda. You glow like the Fallen Wells. You walk like the first Flood. Why shouldn't we kill you now?"
David stepped forward. The mana in him flickered — not brighter, but steadier. Like a sun dimmed for others to see.
"Because I did not come to destroy," he said, "but to remember what your kind forgot."
A few in the council scoffed. But Caeda's gaze remained fixed.
"Then prove it."
They brought him to the Ironhold — the crucible where those who wished to lead the Ironmarked must pass trial.
The rules were simple.
No mana.
No weapons.
No mercy.
David stripped his tunic, wearing only the bindings on his arms. Caeda handed him a single iron band and clasped it around his wrist — it pulsed once and tightened.
Instantly, the Well went silent.
Not destroyed. Not stolen. But muted.
David blinked.
For the first time since awakening, he felt human again.
Heavy. Vulnerable.
Weak.
The opponent they gave him was a mountain of a man — skin like leather, eyes like coal. He charged without hesitation, hammer swinging like a storm.
David dodged, barely. His body moved from instinct, but his power wasn't there to carry him. Each motion cost him now.
He struck back — cleanly, precisely — but the man barely staggered.
The crowd didn't cheer. They watched.
David realized: this wasn't spectacle. This was measure. A test not of strength alone, but of adaptation.
His Well had grown him strong. But now, it was silent.
So he called on discipline.
Each exchange taught him more — not about his enemy, but about himself.
How deeply he had relied on flow.
How easily he had shaped mana into movement, reaction, evasion.
Without it, he was not helpless. He was raw. Unrefined steel.
So he forged himself in that fight.
He began to move smarter. Let the man's momentum carry him into error. Rolled under swings. Countered only when it mattered.
By the twelfth clash, the man staggered.
By the fifteenth, he fell.
David stood over him, chest heaving, blood on his knuckles.
And then he smiled.
The Well was not gone.
It was waiting.
The council said nothing at first. Then Caeda stepped down, undid the band from his wrist.
Mana rushed back in — not like a flood, but like breath.
David did not fall to his knees. He didn't even flinch.
He had learned now: the Well was not only his strength.
He was.
Caeda nodded once. "You passed."
He bowed slightly. "I learned."
She eyed him with something close to respect. "Then you'll want to know what we've seen."
That night, beneath the moonless sky, David sat with Caeda before the forge-fire.
She told him what the Ironmarked had endured: the Hollow's earliest whispers, long before the world noticed. Villages drained of light. Children born without breath. Mana itself turning on its wielders.
They had resisted it — not by growing stronger, but by growing apart from its touch.
And yet…
Even now, Caeda admitted, the Hollow's presence had deepened. Iron groves were failing. Their runes growing dim.
They had resisted the Well's corruption.
But they could not resist the absence it left behind.
They needed a new answer.
A new kind of warrior.
"You," she said, "are not like the others. You grow, but you still see."
"I've been taught well."
She nodded slowly. "Then let me teach you something more."
She handed him a blade — short, forged from iron not enchanted, but folded a thousand times. No magic. Just pure craft.
"Mana can shape mountains," she said. "But only hands can shape meaning."
David took the blade.
And in that moment, he felt it:
His growth wasn't just spiritual or arcane.
It was human.
Rooted.
Real.
The next morning, he left the Ironmarked, their respect earned, their teachings absorbed.
The Well within him flowed stronger now — not because of power gained, but because of power respected.
And far to the south, the Hollow watched.
It had expected his collapse.
Instead, it saw resolve.
So it turned its gaze elsewhere.
Toward the place David called home.