Chapter 10 - Outburst

  The familiar ceiling of the makeshift infirmary greeted me when my eyes opened again. Rough timber beams crossed above like ribs inside a great wooden beast, each one darkened by years of smoke, age, and damp winter air. The scent of bitter herbs lingered in the room. For a moment I simply lay there, the blankets coarse beneath my fingers, trying to understand why my heart was pounding so sharply against my ribs.

  Something was wrong. My memories drifted like leaves in a storm, out of reach, never settling long enough to grasp. Yet the unease in my stomach was solid and cold, a heavy stone I could not seem to move.

  Margo stepped through the door before I could gather my thoughts. Her voice was brisk, practiced, not unkind but lacking warmth. “Young Lord, your father will be here soon.” She did not wait for a reply. She simply bowed her head and left, letting the old door swing shut behind her. It groaned on its hinges once again, as if complaining about the pace of the day.

  Why did that message sound like I was about to be disciplined?

  The door opened again, this time with purpose. Father entered with long steps that carried the weight of responsibility, authority, and quiet anger. Lars rarely looked angry, at least not in a way I could read clearly, but today the tension in his jaw was unmistakable.

  “What do you remember?” he asked at once.

  No greeting. No softness. Only the question.

  I swallowed, my throat dry. There was no point pretending ignorance. “I remember Anton screaming. Ice mixing with his skin and blood at the tip of my spear.”

  Father walked past me, his boots creaking against the old boards. He stopped near the small rectangular opening that served as a window, his silhouette framed by the pale afternoon light. Snow blew in from outside, drifting across the floor in thin wisps.

  “You manipulated mana. Two separate types.” His voice held no judgment, only precision. “Magic applied in combat at the age of nine. In front of the entire trainee unit. During a simple mock spar.”

  Hearing it aloud sent the fragmented pieces of memory slamming back into place. The intensity of that moment. The pressure. The thrill. My desire to win against someone stronger, bigger, older. The instinctual rush that had taken over.

  The desire for strength.

  “Son,” Father continued, still facing the window, “your ascension ceremony is three months away. While basic manipulation is possible before the ceremony, what you have shown has been recorded in very instances in the entire history of our continent. Your mother and I have spoken.”

  He turned to face me fully. His eyes were calm, but that calmness felt like still water hiding a deep current.

  “You are a unique child. Far more observant and analytical than others your age. Even if you do not understand the scale of your actions, others will. Your mother and I have considered your accidents.” He paused only long enough to choose his next words. “I have decided to meet with the Guardian of the North. You will come with me.”

  My mind barely kept up. My pulse quickened. Everything moved too fast, thoughts stacking on top of each other with no chance to breathe.

  The Guardian of the North. What had I done that required leaving the estate for someone like that?

  I rubbed my eyes and felt a sudden burst of frustration rise through my voice. “Why does it matter if people find out? There are always exceptions in life. Especially when strength is involved.”

  Father did not let the argument take root.

  “Because of your accident we had to require every trainee to sign a Core Contract. Their memories are sealed. Their tongues cannot spread what they saw.” His tone held a finality that pressed against the air itself. “You have one week to rest. After that, we climb. If all goes well we will return just in time for the ascension ceremony. You simply dont understand the potential ripples your actions could cause if you are what I think you are my son.”

  He left the room before I could ask anything else. The door shut, leaving behind silence and the constant presence of the herbal scent.

  Well, that was bad.

  I stared at the ceiling again, feeling a familiar sense of annoyance settle in. Everything had been going so well. I trained with Darvish, made progress, learned to balance the strength of my body with the lessons I absorbed from Sir Darvish’s technique. There had been peace, quiet discovery, moments to breathe.

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  Of course something needed to disrupt it.

  The week that followed passed slowly, each day filled with contemplation. Memories returned in fragments. I remembered the feeling of releasing mana, not with technique or control, but instinct. My body had reacted before my thoughts had even formed. Mana, the thing I was not supposed to sense, let alone wield, had erupted from me with reckless force.

  It was like handing a delicate piece of paper to a child who only understood hammers. No finesse. No guidance. Only the raw desire to win.

  Yet I had done it. I had used mana in combat. And that was not supposed to be as easy as I made it seem.

  Throughout recorded history, from the limited texts I had access to, no one without a Core had ever used mana in such a way. At most, someone with prodigious talent could nudge ambient mana, barely forming a sphere or shaping a wind gust, maybe a small flame. Nothing more.

  Yet I had shaped ice and lightning in the middle of a spar. Manipulated them in the form I needed and applied them in a High-stress environment, without a Core.

  The question tormented me every night. How did I project mana without channels or a Core?

  No answers came.

  But one possibility lingered in the back of my mind, creating an ache I could not shake. Maybe the Guardian of the North knew.

  The night before we were scheduled to leave, I overheard my parents speaking. They were in their room, voices muffled by the thick wooden door.

  “Are you certain it is wise to bring him?” my mother asked. Lafiel sounded worried, her voice tight. “The climb is treacherous for both you and Darvish, and you want to bring our nine year old son.”

  “I have Darvish with me,” Father replied calmly. “You and Margo can manage the affairs of the town while I am away. I expect some improvements now that winter is easing.”

  He paused. I could imagine him fastening the last button of his undershirt, or smoothing his hair as he often did before difficult decisions.

  “Our son is an anomaly. Even with your elven bloodline, he should not possess this degree of mana control. Nothing like this has ever been recorded. I want the Guardian to assess him and provide answers if possible.”

  Mother’s voice softened, reluctant yet trusting. “I know, my love.”

  I moved quietly away from the door. Their words only deepened the weight in my chest.

  Morning came sooner than I expected.

  The Loren Estate sat near the back of the mountain ridge, overlooking the main town. The high walls, the layered roofs, and the sight of distant villages made the estate feel like the heart of something larger than itself. Father, Sir Darvish, and I dressed in traveling gear prepared for the cold and the climb.

  The town had grown since my arrival. More militia on the streets, more activity behind the walls, more life in the air. It felt alive, thriving, moving.

  And here we were, preparing for something far removed from that life.

  As we descended the estate path into the town proper, I glanced up at Father. “Have you done this before? Seeking out the Guardian?”

  He did not slow his steps. “Do not speak of this until we are past the town. If anyone asks, we are going hunting.”

  Hunting. Right.

  We walked in silence except for the occasional greeting from guards and townsfolk. At the gate, the iron bars rose immediately at the sight of Father. We passed through and stepped into the forest that blanketed the land between the town and the mountain.

  The air was fresh, full of the scent of damp earth and new growth. Winter had loosened its grip, allowing the green beneath to reawaken. Sunlight filtered through branches glittering with melting frost.

  “Father,” I asked after a long stretch of silence, “why are we entering the forest if we need to reach the mountain?”

  Darvish let out a low laugh through his nose. Father answered for him. “You know of our alliance with the Northern Dwarfs. They make traversing the mountain far easier. We are going to request their assistance.”

  This startled me more than I wanted to admit. I thought the dwarven presence was limited to the eastern outpost. Apparently their ties ran deeper.

  The conversation drifted then into a quiet exchange between Father and Darvish about weapons and forging traditions. I focused instead on my mana sense.

  The forest was saturated with life mana, thick like humidity pressing against my awareness. My own lightning and ice mana felt distant, strained, harder to call upon. My vision through mana sense was greener than usual, a strange shift from the usual blue and white tones.

  But my range had not diminished, which gave me comfort.

  Father suddenly stopped. “We are here. Stay beside me, Lance.”

  He crouched, touched the earth with one finger, and released a gentle spark. Lightning danced across the ground in branching patterns, thin and soft, like delicate cracks spreading across glass.

  “It is a call,” Father murmured. “They will come.”

  Darvish stepped to his side, ready in a way that made the hairs on my neck rise.

  Perhaps our relationship with the Dwarfs was not as stable as I imagined.

  Inside her chamber high within the Loren Estate, Lafiel watched the fading outlines of her husband and son as they disappeared along the forest path. Her hands were clasped together near her chest, fingers laced tightly.

  A Quiet Moment Before the Climb

  Lars stood a few steps behind her, Lafiel still staring through the window Where Darvish and Lance always trained.

  The morning light washed over the scars on Lars arms, illuminating every mark earned through years of battle and leadership.

  “He will be safe,” he whispered softly.

  Lafiel did not turn. “You always say that.”

  “And I have always returned him to you.”

  She closed her eyes, exhaling slowly. “He is changing faster than I can understand. Faster than either of us expected.”

  “He is our son,” Lars replied. “He has your gift, and something more. Something the Guardian may understand.”

  Lafiel finally faced him. Her expression wavered between fear and pride. “Bring him home before the ascension ceremony.”

  Lars stepped close, resting his forehead against hers. “I swear it.”

  Outside, the wind howled against the mountain. Inside, the promise settled between them like the first quiet snowfall of winter.

  The mountain awaited.