The first thing Dorian ever truly noticed about fire was that it didn't care who you were.
It burned wood. It burned bread. And if you were careless, it burned pride too.
"Dorian."
The voice came from behind him, calm, steady, patient.
He didn't turn immediately. He was too busy staring at the smoke curling from the blackened lump on the pan.
"I was watching it," he muttered.
"You were thinking," Father Malric corrected gently.
Dorian finally looked over his shoulder. The old priest stood at the doorway of the small stone kitchen, hands folded neatly inside his sleeves. Sunlight from the morning sky made his silver hair gleam faintly, like threads of light.
"It's different," Dorian said, voice defensive.
"It is not," Malric replied. "Bread does not care about your dreams."
Dorian frowned. "I was only a little distracted."
Malric stepped closer and examined the burnt loaf. He didn't react, didn't scold. Instead, he picked up a knife and cut off the worst parts.
"Knights eat worse on campaign," he said quietly.
"I'm not a knight yet."
"Not yet," Malric agreed. The words hung in the air. Not yet.
Dorian turned back to the stove. He was sixteen, one year away from his Awakening—the moment when every youth of Ashborne discovered their Talent.
What would his be? Strength? Swordsmanship? Aura control?
Something glorious. Something worthy of Ashborne.
He reached for another piece of dough. Malric watched silently.
"You're thinking again," the priest said softly.
Dorian scowled. "You can't know that."
"You stand very still when you think," Malric said simply.
Dorian rolled his eyes and began kneading the dough harder, almost aggressively.
Outside, the village was waking. The sounds drifted in: the blacksmith's hammer ringing, a farmer shouting at his son to bring water, children laughing as they chased each other along the dirt road.
Ashborne's mornings were alive.
Dorian tightened his grip on the bread. One year. Just one year.
"Oi!"
Something thudded against the back of his head. Not hard, just enough.
He spun around. Lio grinned, holding a small apple core.
"You missed," Lio said proudly.
"I didn't," Dorian muttered.
"You were thinking about your bread."
Dorian rubbed the back of his head. "You're ridiculous."
"Maybe. But someone has to keep your big brain from melting," Lio said, stepping aside as they began walking toward the training yard.
The dirt path curved gently uphill, giving a view of the distant outer walls of Ashborne. Tall. Solid. Unbroken. Ashborne had stood for generations.
Lio kicked a pebble. "What Talent do you think you'll get?"
"Something strong," Dorian answered automatically.
"Everyone says that," Lio said with a smirk.
"What about you?"
"Doesn't matter."
"It matters."
"No," Lio said quietly for a moment. "What matters is what we do before we get one."
Dorian blinked. That wasn't like him. Then Lio grinned again. "Still, if I get something useless, I'm blaming you."
"You can't blame me."
"I can try."
They reached the training yard, where several boys practiced sword forms. Wood struck wood. Dust and sweat rose in the morning sun.
Garret stood nearby, arms crossed, watching. His posture was straight as iron. Scars lined his forearms, reminders of battles long past.
"Late," Garret said.
"We were discussing philosophy," Lio replied instantly.
Garret's gaze shifted to Dorian. Dorian shook his head. "We overslept."
Garret nodded. "Honesty is faster."
He tossed Dorian a wooden practice sword. Heavy, real enough to strain the arms.
Dorian stepped into stance. Left foot forward. Right foot back. Blade raised.
"You lean too much on your front foot," Garret said.
"I'm focusing," Dorian replied.
"Same problem," Garret said, knocking Dorian's blade aside effortlessly.
They practiced for an hour. Dorian's arms burned. His palms stung. He loved it. Each strike felt like proof that he could be something more. One day, he would stand on the distant capital walls. Armor gleaming. Banner high. Knight King of Ashborne.
A breeze passed. Cool. Sharp. It carried the smell of grass and smoke from the blacksmith's forge. For a moment, Dorian thought he heard something distant, like thunder.
"What?" Lio asked.
"Nothing," Dorian muttered.
The sky was clear. Blue. Bright. Peaceful.
Garret clapped once. "Enough dreaming. Again."
Dorian tightened his grip and stepped forward. The world felt steady. Solid. Unbreakable.
He did not know what the next year would bring. He did not know that people would one day whisper his name in fear. He did not know that the sky itself could one day fracture.
For now, he only knew this:
He wanted to be strong.
So he would never have to run.
Garret's sword struck his again. Hard. The vibration ran up his arms.
Dorian gritted his teeth. And held his ground.
For now… that was enough.