The late afternoon sun dipped toward the horizon, casting a warm, golden glow over Maya's chambers. The room, once immaculate, now reflected the chaos swirling in her mind. Clothes lay strewn across the bed, travel gear formed a precarious pile on the floor, and her sword leaned against the wall as if unsure whether it still had a purpose.
Maya stood in the center of the disorder, her brow faintly furrowed as she reached for the heavy leather pack resting on the bed. She began stuffing it with folded clothes, each item she added weighing on her like a reminder of what she was leaving behind—the life she had fought so hard to protect, the titles that had served as both a burden and a shield.
"Such a mess," the ancestor's voice chimed in her mind, his tone carrying a note of amusement.
Maya didn't respond immediately. Her hand hovered over the revolver resting on the nearby table. She picked it up, running her fingers along the polished barrel. Turning it over, she inspected the familiar weapon with the precision of someone who had done so countless times. The weight felt right, comforting in a way that little else did these days. She gave it a light spin before sliding it into the holster she placed in her pack.
"You seem oddly attached to that thing," the ancestor remarked, his curiosity piqued.
Maya shrugged, her fingers brushing the weapon's grip. "Habit," she said simply. "I've spent years learning how to shoot, practicing until my arms ached. And now…" She trailed off, a sigh escaping her lips.
"And now you think it's pointless," the ancestor finished for her, a tinge of exasperation in his voice.
Maya nodded, tossing the pack onto the bed. "What's the point? Guns, swords, bows—all of it feels useless now that I have this… power."
The ancestor groaned audibly, the sound reverberating in her mind. "You truly are a child sometimes, Maya. Do you believe that power alone will protect you? That it negates the need for skill, precision, or discipline?"
She turned to the wardrobe, rummaging for a sturdy jacket. "I'm just saying," she muttered, "if I can wield fire and frighten people into submission, why bother with weapons at all?"
The ancestor's tone grew sharper, like a teacher addressing a particularly stubborn pupil. "Allow me to enlighten you, then. All those years of training—the hours spent honing your aim, your footwork, your swordplay—were not wasted. They built your physical coordination, your ability to think under pressure, and, most importantly, they toughened your resolve."
Maya paused, jacket in hand. "But if I have powers that trump everything else, doesn't that make all of it irrelevant?"
The ancestor sighed, the sound heavy with patience. "Let me ask you this: what will you do if someone breaks into your room with a gun, and you're unarmed? Stand there and hope your mystical abilities manifest before they shoot you?"
Maya winced at the bluntness of his question.
"The wings of power," the ancestor continued, his voice taking on a lecturing tone, "are tools, just like your revolver or your sword. Their efficacy depends entirely on the wielder's prowess. Without mastery, without the foundation you've spent years building, they are little more than ornaments."
She glanced at the sword leaning against the wall, its hilt gleaming faintly in the fading light. With a sigh, she picked it up, testing its familiar weight. The balance felt right, the grip worn smooth from years of practice.
"I suppose you have a point," she admitted grudgingly.
"I often do," the ancestor replied smugly.
Her lips twitched into a faint smile as she sheathed the sword and added it to her pack.
As Maya worked, her thoughts wandered to the fiery display she had unleashed on her father in the meditation chamber. The memory filled her with a mix of pride and unease.
"Ancestor," she began hesitantly, "what exactly did I do back there? What kind of power was that?"
"The fire of righteous wrath," the ancestor replied, his tone measured. "It is a subdivision of the Tier 1 wings of blazing flames. At this level, its effects are primarily psychological. It seeps into the minds of those with weaker wills, amplifying their fear and doubt, making them hesitate or falter."
Maya frowned, considering his words. "So… it doesn't actually hurt anyone?"
"It can," the ancestor admitted, "but not at this stage. Your father, for instance, is easily influenced. He lacks the assertiveness and conviction of a strong-willed individual, which is why he felt nervous at your display. A person with a firmer will would be unaffected."
Her excitement from earlier began to dim. "So, you're saying my powers are useless against anyone who actually matters?"
The ancestor chuckled softly, his tone soothing. "You must learn patience, child. Every great power begins as a seed. Would you expect a sapling to uproot mountains? With cultivation, your abilities will grow. When you unlock the full wings of blazing flames, you will wield powers capable of razing cities and reshaping landscapes."
Maya shivered at the imagery, both exhilarated and terrified. "But where do these powers come from? How does it all work?"
"Ah," the ancestor said, his tone shifting to one of thoughtful explanation. "Every being is connected to nature, child. Nature selects its guardians from those who prove themselves worthy, bestowing the wings of power upon those whose souls resonate with their essence. Your first set of wings is determined by your personality—your emotions, your will."
He paused, as if choosing his next words carefully. "When you confronted your father, your rage and defiance reached a peak. Nature responded, granting you the wings of righteous wrath."
Maya considered this, her brow furrowing. "So… if I hadn't been angry, I might have gotten a different set of wings?"
"Perhaps," the ancestor said cryptically. "But speculation is futile. You have the foundation of blazing flames, and it will serve you well if you cultivate it properly."
He paused again, his tone growing lighter. "There is an entire study devoted to the origins of the wings and their connection to nature, but I will spare you the details for now. You might find it dreadfully dull."
Maya smirked. "You mean you don't want to bore me to death."
"Exactly," the ancestor replied cheerfully.
As she secured the last of her belongings, the ancestor's voice returned, laced with mischief. "Aren't you curious about how I plan to get you to that fortress of a country?"
Maya rolled her eyes, feigning disinterest. "I'm not falling for your game. You just want me to beg for scraps of information, don't you?"
The ancestor sputtered indignantly, his voice rising in mock outrage. "Ungrateful brat! Here I am, offering you a glimpse into the mystical unknown, and you—"
Maya broke into a fit of uncontrollable giggles, clutching her sides as the ancestor's indignant muttering filled her mind.
"You are impossible," he declared finally, his tone somewhere between exasperation and amusement.
Wiping tears of mirth from her eyes, Maya grinned. "And yet, you're stuck with me."
"For better or worse," the ancestor agreed with a sigh. "Now, gather yourself, child. The journey ahead will demand all your wit, resolve, and perhaps even your humor."
Maya slung her pack over her shoulder, the weight oddly reassuring. The world outside awaited, vast and uncertain, but as she stepped forward, she felt an unfamiliar steadiness in her step. Whatever lay ahead, she would meet it head-on—with wit, resolve, and fire.