Chapter 9: Before the White Dawn
Grief is a teacher sharper than any blade.
And Rigorus had been its most loyal student.
The Grave and the General
The soil was still fresh over Liora's grave.
Rigorus stood in silence. No tears. No trembling. Only stillness. The wind carried no birdsong—only the whispers of what once was.
Then came the sound of boots behind him. Heavy, deliberate.
His grandfather.
An old soldier carved from war and silence, once a terror across the battlefield, now a forgotten shadow in the halls of the Draeven. He said nothing at first—only stood beside Rigorus and stared at the grave.
Then finally:
"You're not ready."
Rigorus didn't flinch.
"But I'll make sure you are."
The Cruel Path
They left that night, into the broken mountains where the old gods were said to have wept.
His grandfather offered no comfort. Only punishment. Rigid drills, surprise ambushes, sparring that left bones bruised and breath stolen. No mercy. No leniency.
"You feel too much," the old man snapped. "Emotion clouds the strike. Burn it. Bury it."
But Rigorus endured.
Each day he moved faster. Hit harder. Thought deeper. Until every step was a calculation, every parry a premonition. Until the emotion didn't vanish—it simply became fuel.
Then came the whispers.
At first, faint. Then familiar. Laughter of children. The soft hum of a prayer. A girl's voice calling his name.
Rigorus clutched his head. The sound carved into him like a blade.
His grandfather moved in for the finishing blow.
That's when the air fractured.
Awakening: Mourning Halo
A blood-red ring ignited behind Rigorus's head. A halo of sorrow. Light poured out from behind him like smoke caught in silence. The wind stopped. The sky dimmed.
The grandfather froze. One foot forward—then stopped cold.
Because he saw it.
Not light. Not power.
He saw himself—pierced. Not by sword or spear, but by something deeper. He saw a future that had not happened. One he could not stop.
A future where Rigorus stood above him.
The old man took a shaky breath and staggered back.
"...Oh my..." he whispered. "What... is that?"
Rigorus turned his head. Eyes cold. Lips sealed. The halo burned behind him like a mourning sun.
The grandfather looked into that gaze and saw the end of his path.
"...It seems," he muttered, voice brittle and low, "I've done all I can for you."
He turned away, without pride or farewell.
"You've already surpassed the living."
A Mother's Farewell
The rumors spread quickly.
"They say his aura silenced the general's heartbeat."
"I heard he didn't even swing his blade."
"They say his shadow moves without him."
But Rigorus did not return to the crowd. He returned to one place alone—his mother's bedside.
She was thinner now. Her strength faded. Her breath slower. But when she saw him, she smiled.
"You've changed again," she whispered.
Rigorus knelt beside her. He hesitated—then finally spoke.
"Not enough."
He clenched his fists, arms trembling.
"I don't want to burden anyone. I didn't return to kill my own. Or to watch our name be bought and sold like cattle. I came to become something this world fears. Something that protects… without mercy."
His voice cracked.
"But I'm still human, Mother."
He broke then. The first tears he had shed since he was a child. The first time since the day his father beat him for refusing to train, and he ran to this very room.
She reached up, touched his face with weak fingers.
"Then go," she whispered. "And return… not as my son… but as the salvation this clan doesn't deserve."
A Lover's Plea
As the sun sank below the horizon, Rigorus made one last stop.
Naelira's stall was nearly closed. The scent of fruit and crushed herbs lingered in the air like memory.
She didn't turn as he approached.
"You're leaving again, aren't you?"
He said nothing.
She turned to face him. Her eyes were soft. Not yet crying—but close.
"Every day you change," she said. "And with every breath… you fade. I'm scared, Rigorus. Scared that I'll lose you before I ever truly have you."
He looked at her. The only warmth left untouched by war and sorrow.
"Then remember this," he said.
"I shall bleed. I shall bleed for the peace that must be bought.
I shall bleed for all I love.
I shall live for all I love.
I shall live—for you."
A single tear slid down her cheek.
She stepped forward, kissed him softly, as if that moment alone could keep him from slipping away.
"Then return," she whispered against his lips. "Return to us. Return to me."
Into Isolation
That night, he left.
Alone.
No map. No food. No blessing. Only the twin swords on his back, and the truths carved into his bones.
He walked into the northern wastes, to the broken temples carved into black stone, where old cultivators once went to transcend—or die forgotten.
The clan watched the mountains for weeks.
But no one saw him return.
Final Lines
A boy walked into isolation.
But the next time the world would see him...
He would wear white hair, bear the grief of saints, and move with the precision of divine judgment.