Alethar led Zeron through the tavern, where the air hung heavy with the scent of smoke and stale ale. Laughter and shouts bounced off the walls, blending with the clink of mugs and the thud of boots on warped floorboards. Zeron tried to stay close, but the bodies pressing in on all sides made him feel even smaller than he was.

  Alethar moved like a blade through fog—calm, deliberate, untouched by the chaos around them. When they reached the bar, he leaned in and exchanged a few quiet words with the broad-shouldered barkeep. Without fanfare, the man jerked his head toward a door tucked behind a hanging curtain.

  They slipped through.

  The hallway beyond was dim, narrow, and muffled. The noise from the tavern faded into a low hum behind them—a distant echo of another world. At the far end of the corridor, Alethar approached a bare wall. He reached up, grasped a mounted torch, and pulled. Metal groaned. With a slow grind of stone on stone, the wall slid aside, revealing a staircase spiraling down into darkness.

  “You coming?” Alethar asked, his voice level—too level.

  Zeron nodded, though his throat felt tight. The stairs yawned before him like the throat of a beast. He took the first step, then another, the chill deepening as they descended. The shadows closed in, pressing tighter with every step, until finally—

  They reached the bottom.

  The space that opened before them was vast and echoing, carved from stone and lit by flickering torches set high into the walls. Cloaked figures moved in and out of the light, shadows swallowing their faces. What struck Zeron most wasn’t the movement—it was their eyes. Icy blue. Unblinking. Like staring into the heart of winter.

  “A-are all of us…” he began, his voice catching.

  “All of us are Sylvalis,” Alethar said, placing a hand on his shoulder to guide him forward. “You’ll come to understand soon enough.”

  Sylvalis.

  The word fell into his mind like a stone into deep water, sinking, stirring silt he hadn’t known was there. Nothing about his life—about himself—was simple anymore.

  He opened his mouth to speak, but Alethar was already ahead, moving deeper into the hollowed halls. “All your questions will be answered in due time,” he called back.

  They passed beneath a wide stone arch, descending a few more steps. The next chamber was broader still, and brighter. Torchlight shimmered off polished floors. At the center, five grown men were sparring, their wooden blades thudding and cracking in rhythm. But it wasn’t the men who held Zeron’s gaze.

  It was the boy among them.

  He couldn’t have been older than Zeron, yet he moved like liquid shadow—each step flowing into the next with a grace that felt more instinct than training. His hair was the color of snow under moonlight. His skin pale as frost. But his eyes—his eyes glowed with an otherworldly blue that cut through the air like a blade.

  Zeron stood frozen.

  The boy danced through attacks, slipping past swings with almost lazy precision. When he struck, he did so with sharp, economical force—fast, clean, final. One by one, the men fell back, winded and bruised. When the last one dropped, the boy stood over them, chest rising and falling, not with exhaustion—but with something closer to quiet triumph.

  And then… he looked up.

  Their eyes met.

  Zeron felt the breath catch in his lungs. For a heartbeat, everything else vanished—noise, light, movement—all of it swallowed by that cold, knowing stare.

  Then the boy smirked.

  And turned away.

  “That is my son, Lucien,” Alethar said, his voice low, tinged with pride as he stepped beside Zeron.

  Zeron’s eyes widened. He could hardly believe what he’d just witnessed. “H-he’s incredible.”

  “That he is.” Alethar’s gaze lingered on the boy, who now moved among the fallen men, helping each one up with silent efficiency. “He was blessed at birth. Divine grace clings to his soul—but no one knows why.”

  Zeron tilted his head. “Blessed?”

  “Yes,” Alethar said. “No priest has ever given an answer. Some say it’s a gift from God Himself—a mystery even the faithful can’t explain.”

  Zeron’s brows drew together. “A gift from God?”

  Alethar nodded once, his expression unreadable. “Come. There’s more you need to understand.”

  He turned, and Zeron followed.

  They moved deeper into the underground halls, the torchlight dancing against stone walls and casting long shadows that seemed to twist behind them. The further they went, the quieter it became—until even the distant sounds of the tavern above faded completely. The silence felt sacred somehow, as if the stone itself were holding its breath.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  Zeron’s thoughts spun, tangled with questions. Lucien. Blessed. Divine grace. What did it mean? And why did everyone down here look like him?

  The air grew cooler, damper, the scent of stone and aged wood thickening. At last, the corridor opened into a grand chamber unlike anything they’d yet passed through.

  Vaulted ceilings stretched high above, supported by thick, carved pillars veined with some faint, glowing mineral. The chamber pulsed faintly with energy Zeron couldn’t name. Dozens of figures filled the space—some seated in deep, monk-like stillness, others speaking in hushed tones. All of them bore the same otherworldly traits: skin like pale porcelain, and eyes like ice in moonlight.

  Alethar’s voice carried softly but firmly across the chamber. “Welcome to the Heart of the Sylvalis.”

  Zeron turned in a slow circle, absorbing the gravity of the space. Every gaze he met seemed to peer through him, assessing not just who he was, but who he might become. The Sylvalis… they were more than just a race. They were a presence.

  He swallowed, unsure whether he was meant to feel honored or afraid.

  “Alethar, is that him?” a voice called from the far end of the room.

  A tall figure stepped forward from the crowd. His voice was gravel wrapped in velvet, deep and commanding. White hair streaked with silver fell past his shoulders, and his brilliant blue eyes shimmered like cracked ice.

  “Yes,” Alethar replied, stopping beside Zeron. “This is him. He’s... new.”

  The tall man’s gaze swept over Zeron with quiet intensity. It wasn’t hostile—but it wasn’t gentle either. He looked as though he were measuring the weight of a weapon still unsharpened.

  “A child of the Sylvalis,” the man mused, his voice soft, but heavy with meaning. “A rare thing. But the question remains, Alethar—what will you do with him?”

  Alethar’s posture stiffened. “I’m not sure yet, Malgor. But for now, he stays with me.”

  Malgor’s mouth curved into a faint smile, though it didn’t touch his eyes. “We shall see.”

  Zeron couldn’t help but notice the tension between the two men. Something unspoken hung in the air—a quiet friction, unresolved and dangerous. The moment passed too quickly to unravel. Alethar was already moving again, leading Zeron deeper into the chamber.

  They entered a smaller adjoining room, warm and quiet, where a fireplace blazed in the hearth. The flickering firelight danced across the stone walls, casting long shadows that pulsed with each crackle of the flame. Two high-backed chairs sat near the hearth, their oak frames carved with elegant, ancient patterns, their red velvet cushions worn but regal.

  Zeron hesitated at the threshold, then climbed into one of the chairs. His feet didn’t reach the floor. He pulled his knees to his chest, curling in on himself like he had in colder places. This room wasn’t cold—but it wasn’t quite comforting either.

  Alethar lowered himself into the opposite chair with practiced calm, his posture tall, composed. There was authority in his stillness, but not cruelty.

  “Zeron,” he said, his voice low and even. “Do you know why I bought you?”

  Zeron fidgeted, his thoughts still swirling. “Because... I’m Sylvalis?”

  “Yes,” Alethar said, leaning forward slightly. “But do you know what that means?”

  Zeron shook his head. “No. Not really.”

  Alethar studied him for a moment, then nodded. “The Sylvalis are an ancient people—older than most remember. We were born with the ability to harness shadow magic. For us, it’s not learned the way humans learn spells. It’s instinct. Like breathing.”

  Zeron straightened a little, drawn in despite himself. “Shadow magic?”

  Alethar nodded again, his tone sharpening just enough to hold weight. “Not tricks. Not illusions. True shadow. You can vanish into it. Move through it. Shape it.”

  Zeron leaned forward. “How do you shape it?”

  Alethar raised one hand, and a sphere of shadow formed above his palm. It swirled like smoke caught in a storm, deep black laced with faint violet sparks.

  “If I threw this at you,” he said, his eyes fixed on the orb, “and used enough force—it could blind you. Deafen you. Or put you to sleep.”

  Zeron flinched at the thought, shrinking back slightly.

  “Incapacitate,” Alethar clarified. “Shadow can overwhelm the senses. Drown the mind. That’s what makes it powerful—and dangerous.”

  He closed his hand around the orb. It vanished with a soft hiss of air, like a candle snuffed out.

  “As Sylvalis, this power belongs to you,” Alethar said. “It’s in your blood. Your birthright.”

  Zeron sat in silence, Alethar’s words weighing on him. He hadn’t felt anything like that power before—but the thought of it stirred something in him, quiet and hungry—a quiet hunger. Not for destruction, but for understanding. For control.

  He swallowed hard. “What about… about Lucien?” he asked, his voice unsteady. “How is he so fast? So strong?”

  Alethar leaned back, his expression unreadable but not without pride. “That’s something else entirely. What Lucien has mastered is called Genesis.”

  Zeron frowned. “Genesis?” The word tasted foreign.

  “It’s a technique,” Alethar said, his voice lowering. “One that allows you to tap into your very soul. It draws upon your soul force—your essence—and turns it into power. Strength. Speed. Reflexes sharper than thought. But it comes at a cost.”

  Zeron’s brow furrowed. “What kind of cost?”

  Alethar’s gaze darkened. “The more you draw on your soul’s energy, the more it changes you. You begin to align with something older, something deeper than magic. And once you touch that... it touches you back.”

  Zeron wasn’t sure what that meant—but it sounded like a warning.

  Zeron sat very still, the chill of those words settling over him like a second skin. “And Lucien?”

  Alethar looked across the room toward the training ground. “Lucien has reached a level most can’t imagine. His speed, his strength—that’s not just talent. It’s Genesis, used with frightening precision. But it’s shaped him into something… not quite like the rest of us.”

  Zeron’s heart pounded. “So he’s using Genesis all the time?”

  “Yes,” Alethar said, his voice distant. “But the path he walks—it's steep. Lonely. And unforgiving. You’ll face that same path if you choose to follow it.”

  Zeron looked down at his hands, trying to imagine them wielding that kind of power. “What if I can’t control it?” he asked. “What happens then?”

  Alethar’s tone softened, but it still carried an edge. “Then it controls you. Genesis is not a gift to be taken lightly. If you push too far, too fast, it will consume you. It will hollow you out. You’ll forget who you were. But if you’re careful… if you learn to wield it with purpose…” He paused. “You may become something greater than any Sylvalis before you.”

  Zeron leaned back, his thoughts spinning. He had always known he was different—different from the others, different from his father—but now the truth stretched far deeper than he’d ever imagined.

  Alethar stood, his gaze never leaving him. “There’s more to learn. Much more. But remember this: power—true power—always demands a price. The choices you make from here on… they’ll shape who you become.”

  Zeron nodded slowly, his chest tight but steady. The fear hadn’t left him. But beneath it, something else had begun to burn.

  Hope.

  A chance.