The sun had not yet pierced the thick canopy of the Eastern forest, but Valaerius was already awake. He sat cross-legged atop a flat stone near the brook, eyes shut, listening. Not just to the rustle of leaves or the hum of insects — but to the rhythm of the world itself. The way the wind curled through branches, the stillness in the air, the subtle shift of something beneath it all. As if the forest was holding its breath.
Eighteen.
In three days, he would come of age — and the mark would appear.
A whisper of movement. Seraphyne.
She moved like wind on water — silent but unmistakable. She didn't call his name, only sat down beside him on the cold stone. Her eyes, once divine, still held their old weight — a depth that unsettled even the bravest warriors. But here, now, she was only a guardian. A mother, in her own strange way.
"You haven't slept," she said gently.
"I'm not tired," Valaerius replied. "It's close. I can feel it."
She nodded. "Your body knows. The seal frays."
He opened his eyes. "Will it hurt?"
Seraphyne's smile was laced with old sorrow. "Pain isn't the point. It's the awakening that changes you."
Valaerius's gaze drifted to his wrist, where bare skin would soon be inked by something older than language. "Tell me again. About the brands."
She studied him for a long moment before answering. "Every child of the mortal realm receives their first Gift when they turn eighteen. The Brand appears — shaped by their soul, their essence. For some, it's simple. A talent honed. A skill born from desire. For others... it's power in raw form. Dangerous. Wild."
He swallowed. "And mine?"
Seraphyne looked away. "Yours will not be like others."
Silence pressed between them like fog.
Finally, he asked, "What if I don't want it?"
She turned to him sharply. "You can't refuse it. The world will not let you remain asleep. You were born to awaken."
Valaerius picked up a fallen twig and began to snap it into pieces. "But what if it's something useless? Like... glowing skin or golden tears?"
She chuckled softly. "Then the world has a strange sense of irony."
He gave a thin smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. "And what happens after?"
"The Temples," she said, voice growing serious. "Once you receive your Brand, you may seek the Temples of Trial. They're scattered across the continents — guarded, ancient, alive in ways most can't understand. Inside, you'll face something unknown. The trial adapts. If you survive, your Brand deepens — evolves. You gain a second Gift, born from the first."
"And if you fail?"
Seraphyne didn't answer immediately.
"Then you never come out."
Valaerius stared at her. "You never told me that."
"You were a child," she said. "Now you're not."
He leaned back against a tree trunk, closing his eyes again. "How many trails are there?"
"No one knows. Some say five. Others say ten. The greatest warriors carry Brands that stretch across their spine and chest. But power is not just about levels, Valaerius. It's about what it reveals. And what it demands in return."
He was quiet for a long time. The brook gurgled, unaware of the heaviness draped over the woods.
"What was yours?" he asked softly.
Seraphyne smiled without warmth. "Mine was never meant for this world."
He frowned but didn't push further. Some doors in her past remained locked for reasons he respected — but never quite understood.
Then she stood. "Come. We train."
Valaerius rose slowly, rolling his shoulders. The wind had changed direction again. The birds were too quiet.
His time was almost here.
And the forest knew.
The forest didn't sleep, but it held its breath for him.
Valaerius crouched low beneath a thick-rooted tree, sweat dripping from his brow as he adjusted his stance. The wooden practice blade in his hand trembled slightly—not from exhaustion, but restraint. There were moments when it begged to shatter, to splinter, to catch fire in his grip. Moments when something inside him stirred too fast, too deep.
"Again," he whispered to himself.
He launched forward—spinning, ducking, slashing at invisible foes in the clearing. The blade moved in wide arcs, his body following an old rhythm that had been carved into his muscles long before he could name it.
Every step was a memory of her.
Seraphyne.
She had trained him like a warrior, not a child. Taught him to observe the terrain, to kill with silence, to fall without fear. Her voice still lived in the woods, in the whistle of the wind, in the way the leaves hissed when he misstepped.
"Control is everything, my son. Strength is meaningless if it answers to rage. You will be feared not because you are powerful, but because you are precise."
He could still feel the sting of her staff against his shins when he forgot that.
The sun filtered in gold spears through the canopy above. His shirt clung to his body, soaked through, but he didn't stop. Not yet. Not while his breath still came steady. Not while the burn in his arms hadn't yet numbed.
He finished his form and fell still, panting.
Somewhere in the trees, a bird took off, startled. He tensed.
That was the other part of his training—instinct.
He scanned the shadows. Not an enemy. Just a presence.
An old man hobbled into the clearing—a local hermit who sometimes traded herbs in the nearby village. His eyes were cloudy, but wise.
"Still fighting ghosts, boy?" he said, chuckling.
Valaerius didn't reply. He lowered the blade but didn't relax.
The old man's eyes glinted. "You're nearly eighteen, aren't you?"
He nodded.
"They say the gods mark your skin when the day comes. I remember my nephew—thought he'd get lightning in his blood. It turned out his power was talking to insects. He's a beekeeper now." The man chuckled again. "Still. It's a strange thing, knowing the world will change the moment a mark appears on your skin."
Valaerius looked down at his own arm. Still bare. Still quiet. But not for long.
The man sniffed the air, frowning. "There's something around you… a heaviness. Like old fire under wet ash."
"Maybe the trees are burning," Valaerius said flatly.
"Maybe," the man muttered, then turned to leave.
As his figure faded into the woods, Valaerius slowly unwrapped the cloth around his left wrist.
The skin beneath it pulsed—faint, but growing bolder. A sliver of a mark, no more than a curved line, shimmered for half a second… and then vanished.
He clenched his fist.
He wasn't supposed to awaken before his birthday. No one did.
"Your seals were placed to protect the world from you, not the other way around," Seraphyne had once warned, her voice trembling for the first time.
He didn't fully understand what that meant. But the air had started to taste different lately. Metallic. Ancient.
And the forest—his forest—had begun to watch.