The evening light had faded into a heavy dusk by the time Ross returned home. His hands still tingled faintly from earlier—an echo of that icicle he'd accidentally fired toward Marcus. He hadn't told his mother that part. She would've fussed over it, not about Marcus, but the risk to himself.
Magic without focus is dangerous. And you're not built like you used to be.
Marcus's warning echoed in his head. It was easy to remember the vast, cold strength of his former body. He hadn't needed focus to cast magic then—he simply was magic. Now, every spell was a delicate act of balance, and his human frame bore the weight poorly.
He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the ceiling beams. A letter from his father sat on his desk, unopened. He didn't want to read it yet. Sometimes, the words made the distance feel worse.
Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the small leather charm his father had sent weeks ago. A protective rune, sewn with silver thread. It gave off no warmth, no glow. Just quiet resistance, like something in the air pressed gently outward from it. Marcus had called it a warding seal, meant to repel tracking spells.
Ross didn't know how it worked. He only knew it made his chest ache when he wore it too long. Like some part of him was allergic to its purpose.
He tucked it away and grabbed his cloak.
Outside, the air was cool and still. Most of the village had gone quiet for the night. A few windows still glowed with candlelight. Ross walked past the fields without much thought, following the foot-worn trail that led to the lonely tree overlooking the southern road.
The same road his father had taken, years ago.
He reached the hilltop and sat beneath the familiar tree. He rested his head against the bark and watched the stars blink to life one by one. He liked the silence up here. It reminded him of the deep ocean—when it wasn't full of screaming.
Then, the air shifted.
It was subtle—more pressure than sound. Like the earth was holding its breath. Ross's fingers twitched.
He didn't run.
Instead, he stood, pulling his cloak tight and stepping out from the tree, facing the direction of the pressure. Two figures emerged at the bottom of the hill, cloaked in grey, their steps careful and quiet. Definitely not villagers.
Ross narrowed his eyes. His mana stirred under his skin.
"He's here," one of them muttered.
The second nodded. "The boy with the anomaly. Stronger than reports suggest. Marked."
They moved up the slope, but Ross didn't back away. His shoulders squared, and his stance widened. He was prepared to charge—close the distance and flatten one of them with a punch. He'd done worse before, and they didn't look that sturdy.
But something stopped him.
Let's just try it first. One spell.
He raised one hand, not expecting anything to happen.
Wind magic was tricky, slippery. He barely trained it. But it was fast. Maybe, just maybe…
"Gale Burst," he muttered.
To his shock, mana surged into his hand. It was rough and unrefined, but real—real enough.
A compressed blast of air exploded from his palm with a sudden roar, slamming into the closer stranger and launching him off his feet. The man tumbled backward, hitting the ground hard.
Ross blinked, stunned. "That actually worked?"
The second cloaked figure skidded to a halt, eyes wide.
"He cast without a focus—!"
Ross dropped into a guarded stance. "You want more, or are we done?"
Before the man could answer, a third voice cut across the clearing.
"Step away from the boy."
The figure's head snapped toward the sound—and froze.
Marcus walked calmly up the hill, staff in hand, etched runes already glowing. His tone wasn't loud, but the authority in it was unmistakable.
The fallen stranger groaned, dragging himself upright.
"This doesn't concern you, old man," the standing one snapped.
But the injured one suddenly seized his arm. "Wait," he hissed. "That's Marcus Haldeir."
The first turned, confused. "Who?"
The other's face was pale. "Haldeir. The Wandering Judge. High Wizard. Former Obsidian Circle."
A long pause.
"No way," the first muttered, staring hard at Marcus. "What the hell is someone like that doing in a backwater village?"
Marcus stopped walking and planted his staff in the dirt.
"You have five seconds," he said. "Then I stop being polite."
"Forget it," the pale one growled, yanking his partner's sleeve. "We are not equipped for this."
The taller man resisted. "We had him—"
"No. We survived because he let us."
They vanished into the wheat without another word.
Ross let the last of the spell's charge fade from his fingers. His shoulder ached from the effort—it hadn't been clean casting—but he stayed upright. Adrenaline surged beneath his skin. This time, he hadn't frozen. He'd fought.
Marcus approached him with a steady gaze.
"Well?" Ross asked. "Not bad for a first try?"
Marcus nodded slowly. "Not bad. Dangerous. But brave."
Ross allowed himself a crooked grin. "I was gonna punch them, but the spell beat me to it."
They began walking together back toward the village.
"They weren't soldiers," Marcus said. "Not royal agents either."
"Then who?"
"Something older. A faction that doesn't like when gods act without asking permission."
Ross frowned. "They called me a vessel."
Marcus gave him a grim look. "They think something divine is using you as a shell."
Ross looked down at his hand. "They're not wrong."
Marcus didn't answer.
As they reached the edge of the village, Marcus finally added, "They'll come again. Next time, they'll send someone who can fight me."
Ross nodded, jaw tight.
"Then I need to be ready for that too."