The afternoon sun filtered weakly through the dense veil of forest canopy, casting dappled shadows that danced with an unnatural rhythm. The trees around Valaerius's hidden glade had grown eerily silent. No birdsong. No rustle of leaves from passing wind. Only the creaking of wood—old, strained—as though the forest itself held its breath.
Valaerius stood barefoot near the stream, his reflection shivering in the slow-moving water. His breath came in steady, deliberate beats, though a storm churned restless in his chest. The air had thickened over the past few days, like invisible weights pressing against his skin. Today, it was suffocating.
Behind him, Seraphyne emerged from the trees, her cloak whispering against the earth. Her eyes—sharp, mournful—no longer held their usual steel. Instead, a quiet resignation clung to her like morning mist.
"You've felt it too," she said—not as a question, but as certainty.
He nodded without turning. "It's worse today. My hands... they won't stop trembling."
She approached and sat on the moss-covered stone beside him. For a moment, silence filled the space between them. Then, softly:
"It's time you knew why."
Valaerius turned, eyes narrowing. Seraphyne rarely used that tone—the kind that made the ground feel less steady.
"You were born... different," she said carefully, choosing her words like stepping stones across a river. "Most people receive their power on their eighteenth birthday. A divine moment. A thread spun into the tapestry of fate. But you... you were never meant to receive a gift. It was already there."
He froze. "What do you mean?"
Seraphyne looked up at the sky, as if searching for the right language among the clouds.
"Your body was sealed the moment you took your first breath. Not by gods. Not by demons. But by hands that loved you. There are forces within you, Valaerius—ancient, wild, unbound. Powers that were locked away before they could consume you... or be discovered."
He stared at her, the weight of her words sinking into him like slow poison.
"So tomorrow isn't about gaining something. It's about... something being let out."
Her silence was confirmation.
"And the signs?"
She exhaled, her breath fogging despite the summer warmth. "They're cracks. Hairline fractures in the seal. Your power senses the hour. It stirs. The forest, the air, your own reflection—they're all reacting."
As if summoned by her words, a ripple passed through the trees. Leaves quivered without wind. The stream, once calm, shimmered as if disturbed by something unseen. The light dimmed—not from clouds, but as though the sun itself had blinked.
Valaerius rose. His skin prickled. His veins pulsed with a strange, aching warmth. Not fever. Not illness. Like something beneath his flesh was shifting.
"What if I can't control it?" he asked, voice low.
Seraphyne rose with him, placing a hand on his shoulder.
"You won't face it alone. That's why I've stayed. That's why I gave up what I was. For you. For this moment."
Her words, soft as they were, settled into him like iron.
Still, his gaze drifted to the trees—the ones that had once felt like guardians. Today, they felt like witnesses.
By evening, the sky had taken on a sickly hue. The sun—still visible—cast a burnt-amber glow that bled crimson at the edges. Animals that usually crept through dusk remained hidden. The scent of iron clung to the air, though it had not rained.
The signs worsened as the light thinned.
The old stone arch at the forest's edge cracked clean through at its apex. A scream echoed from the distant mountains—neither beast nor man—and every torch in the glade sputtered out after mere seconds.
Inside the small cottage where Valaerius had lived his entire life, things began to move. Objects trembled. Books opened of their own accord. A shard of obsidian—long hidden in a velvet pouch at the bottom of Seraphyne's wooden chest—glowed faintly through the wood, pulsing like a second heartbeat. It had never done that before.
Valaerius sat on the edge of his bed, fingers buried in his hair, eyes locked on the floor as the wood bowed beneath invisible weight.
It was no longer dormant. The seal. Or whatever lay under his skin.
It was scratching. Stretching. Wanting out.
"Seraphyne," he called, his voice little more than a breath.
She appeared in the doorway, her silhouette framed by candlelight. The flame behind her flickered wildly, as if uncertain whether to approach.
"It's not holding," he said, chest rising and falling in uneven beats.
"I know," she replied. "The seal was never meant to last past tomorrow. It's responding early. It knows its time is ending."
A gust slammed into the shutters, though they were nailed shut. Outside, the forest groaned—not with wind, but with something deeper. Grief. Pressure. Recognition.
Seraphyne crossed the room in three quiet steps. She knelt before him, her eyes softer than he had ever seen them.
"Whatever comes—whatever breaks free—it's still you. No matter how it feels. No matter what you see. ."
He met her gaze, a storm in his chest. "I don't even know who I am."
She took his hands in hers.
"You are the boy I raised. The one who laughed in the rain. The one who reads old books out loud when he thinks no one's listening. You were never meant to be ordinary. That's why they tried to hide you."
A sharp, echoing crack split the air beneath them. Dust rained from the beams overhead.
Seraphyne's head turned toward the floor. Her expression hardened.
"It's beginning."