The stranger's voice lingered in Alex's skull like a blade wedged between bone. "Will you allow it to reduce you to mere shadows? Or will you rise, broken and bloodied, to forge a self anew?"
He stared at his reflection in the shattered mirror, fingers tracing the uneven edges of the glass. The man in the void had been a paradox—a tempest of cruelty and sorrow, his words both a condemnation and a lifeline. But now, in the harsh light of morning, his face blurred in Alex's memory, leaving only the aftertaste of that searing green gaze.
Who was he? A demon? A delusion?
Alex's nails dug into the windowsill. Does it matter? The answer coiled in his chest, hot and undeniable. The man had seen him—truly seen him—and instead of pity, he'd offered a challenge. A dare to claw his way out of the grave he'd dug for himself.
With a snarl, Alex seized the rusted scissors from his desk. His hair—long, greasy, a curtain to hide behind—fell in clumps to the floor. Cold water from the basin shocked his skin as he scrubbed away years of self-imposed decay. The face that emerged was gaunt, sharp, alive.
The manor's corridors felt alien. Sunlight streamed through stained glass, painting knights and dragons across the stone floor. Alex's boots echoed too loudly, as if the house itself recoiled at his presence.
He passed the portrait gallery, its walls lined with generations of Morningstar triumphs. There, between Arthur's stern likeness and Luna's piercing gaze, hung Lyric's portrait—painted last year to commemorate his acceptance into the Ivory Citadel. The academy's crest gleamed on his lapel: a silver phoenix rising from a blade, symbol of the continent's most prestigious institution for knights and mages. Only the elite survived its seven-year crucible. Lyric and Luna, both second-years, were already legends in the making.
Alex's throat tightened. The Citadel's spires loomed in his mind—towering, unyielding, a fortress where prodigies honed their gifts. Luna's name was etched into its Hall of Luminescence for her groundbreaking mana theories. Lyric dominated the sparring rings, his golden aura outshining even senior cadets. And here Alex stood, eighteen and hollow, the heir who couldn't conjure a spark.
"They'll return for the summer solstice," a voice said.
Alex turned. Roy stood at the foot of the stairs, practice sword in hand. At fifteen, he'd grown into a mirror of Arthur's younger self—broad-shouldered, earnest, with none of Lyric's sharp edges.
"Lyric wrote last week," Roy added, hesitating. "He asked about you."
Alex scoffed. "To laugh?"
"To know." Roy's knuckles whitened on the sword hilt. "He's not… he's not cruel, Alex. Just afraid."
"Of what? My weakness?"
"Of failing you." Roy's voice cracked. "When you stopped training, he stopped smiling. Said it wasn't worth mastering a blade if his brother wasn't there to see it."
The words hung between them, fragile as glass. Alex looked away.
Five Years Earlier
The training yard rang with the clatter of wood on wood. Lyric, twelve and fierce as a wildfire, parried Alex's strike with a grin.
"Again!" Arthur called, golden aura rippling like liquid sunlight around him.
Alex lunged. Lyric sidestepped, but instead of countering, he froze—wooden sword trembling at Alex's throat.
"I… I yield," Lyric muttered, lowering his blade.
Arthur frowned. "You had him."
Lyric shook his head, cheeks flushed. "Alex's footwork was off. Would've been cheating."
"It's sparring, not poetry," Arthur said, but his eyes softened.
Later, as dusk painted the yard in shadows, Lyric cornered Alex by the stables.
"You'll get it," he said, thrusting a practice sword into Alex's hands. "I know you will. You're… you're you."
Alex stared at the weapon. "What's that mean?"
Lyric scuffed his boot in the dirt. "Means when you finally swing right, the whole world's gonna feel it."
Now, in the present, Alex stood in that same training yard, the memory souring like old milk. Lyric believed in me once. Now he pities me.
The wooden sword felt alien in his grip—too light, yet heavier than memory. His fingers brushed the splintered hilt, and—
CRACK.
A surge of pain. A flash of white.
The Vision
A boy stood in a field of carnage, his face blurred as if seen through smoke. Ten ogres lay dismembered around him, their grotesque bodies oozing black ichor. The boy's sword—ordinary steel, unadorned—dripped crimson as he pivoted, a whirlwind of lethal grace.
No aura. No mana. Just motion.
Every slash was a study in efficiency: a flick of the wrist to sever tendons, a sidestep that turned momentum into a killing thrust. The boy fought like water—flowing, relentless, adapting.
As the last ogre collapsed, the figure turned. Though his face remained obscured, his voice cut through the dream:
"A blade is an extension of your will. Not your magic."
Alex gasped awake, the wooden sword still clutched in his blistered hand. His body screamed—muscles atrophied, lungs burning—but his mind raced.
No aura. No mana. Just... physics.
Roy hovered nearby, brow furrowed. "You collapsed. I thought—"
"I'm fine," Alex croaked. He staggered to his feet, the vision seared into his mind.
Roy hesitated. "You keep gripping the sword like… like you're trying to strangle it."
Alex adjusted his hold, mimicking the boy's fluid grip from the vision. "Better?"
"Weird. But better."
Mana and Aura: The Divided Legacy
Alex's fingers trembled as he lunged again. Mana and aura—twin pillars of the Morningstar legacy—had always eluded him.
Luna had tried explaining mana once, her voice crackling with static as she demonstrated: "It's the soul's resonance with the arcane tides. You don't control it—you harmonize*."* Her hands had glowed violet, weaving light into a constellation of fractals.
Aura was simpler, according to Arthur. "It's the body's truth. The fire that burns when you refuse to break." He'd shattered a boulder with a single golden-veined punch to prove it.
Alex had inherited neither gift. His mana slipped through his fingers like smoke; his aura, when he'd desperately tried to summon it, had flickered and died like a guttered candle. But the boy in the vision had needed neither.
The Dance of Blades
Step-pivot-strike. Alex's muscles screamed as he mimicked the phantom swordsman's movements. The style was brutal geometry—every angle designed to maximize damage while minimizing exertion. No flourish. No wasted motion.
"You look like a dying crab," Roy said, wincing as Alex's latest lunge sent him sprawling.
"Helpful," Alex grunted.
Roy tossed him a waterskin. "Why not use the courtyard dummy? At least it doesn't hit back."
"The dummy's predictable." Alex wiped his brow. "I need…"
Unthinking. Unfeeling. Like him.
Roy watched in silence as Alex resumed his drills. The afternoon sun dipped lower, painting the yard in long shadows.
"It's not fair," Roy muttered suddenly.
Alex paused mid-strike. "What?"
"Lyric and Luna. The Citadel. All of it." Roy kicked a pebble across the dirt. "They act like aura and mana are everything. But Father's stories… the Eclipseblades, the Nocturne Archons… they weren't just about power. They were about surviving when power fails."
Alex stared at his brother. Since when had Roy grown so… perceptive?
"You're staring," Roy said, flushing.
"You're quoting Father's lectures."
"Someone has to. You've been hiding for years."
The words should have stung. Instead, Alex laughed—a raw, jagged sound. "When did you get wise?"
Roy grinned. "Had to. Someone in this family should be."
The Hum of Destiny
As dawn approached, Alex's final swing struck true—a clean arc that split the training dummy's torso. No Aura. No Mana. Just the raw crack of wood parting straw.
But as the dummy's guts spilled, the air around Alex erupted. A gust of wind—smooth as a sigh, violent as a storm—surged from the blade's edge. It coiled around him, icy tendrils lashing his cheeks even as the heart of the gale cradled him like a lifeline. The training yard trembled; dust and dead leaves spiraled into a maelstrom, yet the trees beyond stood unnervingly still, as if the world itself held its breath.
Alex staggered, the wooden sword nearly slipping from his grip. The wind died as abruptly as it began, leaving his ears ringing and his pulse roaring. He stared at the splintered dummy, then at the blade. No trace of magic. No golden aura, no violet mana. Just the faintest shimmer of condensation on the wood, like the ghost of frost.
Not mine. Not theirs. But… something.
He glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting Roy to emerge wide-eyed from the manor. But the yard lay empty, the morning sun stretching his shadow across the dirt like a lengthening blade.
Somewhere, in the void between worlds, a pair of emerald eyes snapped open.