Thorne lay in a pool of his own blood, his breaths ragged and shallow, his chest rising and falling with effort. His shoulder-length hazelnut hair, now matted and slick with blood, clung to his face and neck. His eyes devoid of irises, stared blankly at the sky above—a milky, cloud-strewn expanse that seemed miles away.

Beside him, his blindfold lay tattered and discarded, its fabric soaked through with blood and mud. He had chosen this path, but as he lay there, every inch of his body screaming with pain, looking up at the sky, or whatever he saw with his white irisless eyes, he couldn't help but wonder if he'd made the right choice.

His father had begged him to stay in the village, to live his life as a normal person, blind but safe. Perhaps even wait until the next Rite of Liberation. Thorne could still hear his father's voice, thick with worry and love, urging him to reconsider. But he had refused.

By the time he turned seventeen, he had made up his mind. He would not hide in the shadows of his disability any longer. He would not be pitied, bullied, or scorned. He would carve his own destiny, just like everyone else. The Rite of Liberation was his chance to prove himself—not just to his peers, but to the himself..

He'd been the outcast, the blind boy who dared to challenge fate. His father's pleas were meant to protect him, but Thorne couldn't live like that. Not anymore. He wanted more than sympathy; he wanted respect. He wanted to see and be seen. And so, when the time came, he had insisted on joining the other initiates. It had been a reckless decision, perhaps, but it was his decision.

He could still remember the look in his father's eyes—the mix of fear and resignation. And the warmth of Lara's embrace, his younger sister who had whispered her own small prayer for him.

It was that stubbornness, that raw defiance, that had driven him to master his unique way of seeing. The masked bat—a nocturnal creature whose mask granted it the ability to see with sound—had been his inspiration.

Thorne had spent years pushing beyond his limits, and what seemed insurmountable became achievable, learning to feel and sense spirituality in the air and more learning to use his spirituality to see like the masked bat before he himself had carved his mask, sending out bursts of spiritual energy in short pulses, then drawing them back to interpret his surroundings.

It was a crude and rudimentary form of echolocation, but it worked.

In his mind's eye, he could see in black and white, shapes and outlines forming around him within a few meters, he called it spiritual gaze. But it took its toll, draining his energy and focus. Even now, after years of practice, it remained a challenge to keep up the technique.

He owed much to his mentor, Agatha. She had called him a genius, capable of doing what few others could do at his age—sensing spirituality. She had taught him to reach deep into himself and find that inner strength, guiding him with a firm hand and a motherly touch. She believed in him when few did, and he carried her teachings with him, like a lantern in the dark.

 His father had played his part too, training him to be aware of his surroundings even without sight, helping him develop his spiritual senses. As soon as he was able to use his spirituality to sense the world, he began his sword training.

Learning to wield a sword was hard. Where his peers gave their all, he doubled it.

For Thorne, training was more than just repetition; it was survival. Every swing of the sword, every thrust of the spear, was another step toward overcoming the limitations set upon him by the gods. To stand leveled with his peers, he had to fight twice as hard. But all that effort seemed like it was about to end. He might not see them again—Kaesa, Lara—all those who had supported him on this path with him.

What was I thinking? Thorne muttered, his voice barely more than a breath.

A blind boy conquering the Gods' Garden? Father... Lara...

He felt a bitter laugh bubbling up from within him, but it came out as a choked cough. His blood-stained lips trembled as he fought to stay conscious. His head felt light, and his body heavy, as though he were being pulled deeper into the earth. His heart pounded like a drum, each beat a reminder of his fading life.

The Rite of Liberation was a festival, a coming-of-age ritual where initiates entered the Forest of the Gods to harvest the material needed to carve their own masks. Once carved, the masks would be blessed by the gods, granting an ability within the domain of whichever god answered the call.

Thorne had hoped, desperately, that he would be blessed with sight—just to see.

To witness the world he had only imagined in his mind's eye. It had driven him to train endlessly, to prove himself worthy of the gods' pity, or perhaps even their respect.

Now, lying there, he felt the weight of his decisions. His body was broken, his blood painting the forest floor. Regret tried to creep into his mind, gnawing at the edges of his resolve, but he pushed it away. He had chosen this. And he would see it through—one way or another.

His hand twitched toward his sword, the familiar grip grounding him back to reality. He forced himself to breathe, to feel the earth beneath him, the rough bark of the fallen branch pressing into his side, the cold air stinging his lungs. Summoning what little energy remained, he willed himself to move.

The fight with the earth beast had been brutal, unexpected. It had come out of nowhere, a mound of rock and soil animated by some ancient force, attacking with a fury that left him little time to react. His sword had slashed and stabbed, but his strikes had only managed to wound it enough to force it to withdraw. He'd barely survived, but he had survived. And that had to mean something.

He had to keep moving. Here, in the Forest of the Gods, the smell of blood would attract other predators, creatures that would not hesitate to finish what the earth beast had started. His stomach churned at the thought of facing a masked beast.

Thorne groaned as he pushed himself up onto one knee, his muscles screaming in protest. The tugging sensation in his chest—the pull that had guided him from the moment he entered the forest—was still there, stronger now.

His breath hitched, and he gritted his teeth, forcing his battered body forward. He'd been blessed, in a sense—blessed by the gardener of the forest to find his material. He had to keep moving. He could feel it; he was getting closer.

A dark laugh escaped his lips, a mixture of bitterness and defiance. A day after entering the forest, and he was already this pathetic. What kind of warrior was he? What kind of fool?

His thoughts drifted to Kaesa, his childhood friend. They had entered the Garden together, but the pull of their source had taken them in opposite directions. She was strong—stronger than most—and he had no doubt she could handle herself. But still, a part of him couldn't help but worry.

He took in his surroundings, his sightless eyes moving over the dark, looming trees that towered above him. He rubbed the ring on his finger—a simple band his father had given him containing most of what he could need for the journey.

Should I just go back? he wondered aloud, but even as he thought those words, his feet kept moving forward. There was no turning back now. Not for him. He'd come too far, and if there was one advantage he had over the others, it was that his sight was not hindered by the dark.

Thorne smirked despite himself, a wry smile that twisted his blood-streaked face.

Help me, he whispered to the void, but he wasn't asking the gods. He was asking himself.

With each step, his spirit grew heavier, but so did his determination. He would find his material. He would carve his mask. And maybe, just maybe, he would prove that even the he could see the way forward in a world that seemed determined to keep him in the dark.