After lunch, the house grew still—almost reverent—as Rowan rose without a word and turned toward the staircase. Alden followed, heart already thudding. With practiced hands, Rowan brushed aside a threadbare tapestry and tapped a sequence into the woodwork. A faint click. The hidden door groaned open, revealing a steep staircase that plunged into shadow.
The basement stretched far deeper than the modest home above suggested. It wasn't just a storage cellar—it was a sanctum. A fortress buried in earth and time.
The first chamber was a library, cloaked in dust and the scent of dry parchment. Towering shelves leaned under the weight of forgotten tomes, some bound in dragonhide, others pulsing faintly with arcane seals. The books whispered as Alden passed—faint, sibilant murmurs that spoke of forbidden knowledge and ancient pacts.
The next room shimmered with a colder kind of wonder. Glass vials held liquid starlight, glowing like bottled moons. Strange tools lined the walls: crystal arrays that hummed, knives of obsidian with runes etched in blood-gold, and cauldrons that stirred themselves. A half-dissected homunculus floated in a jar, its lid sealed with red wax and holy symbols. This was Rowan's alchemical laboratory—the forge of pain and power.
But the heart of the basement lay beyond.
A chamber of stone, vast and silent, scarred from years of war-games and real combat. Torches flickered in their sconces, casting golden fire across runes carved into the walls. This was their training ground—a crucible where Alden's blade had sung a thousand times against Rowan's, the clang of steel on steel echoing like war drums in the hollow dark.
Here, muscle remembered. Here, spirit burned.
Before dawn, while the rest of the world slept under velvet skies, Alden trained alone in the backyard. The forest loomed like a sentinel, its breath cold and watching. His own breath fogged in the air as he moved—blade slicing through the chill, feet finding rhythm in ritual. Birds dared not sing. Not here. Not while something ancient stirred in the roots.
When the sun finally rose, Rowan would be inside, cooking breakfast over coals. The scent of charred bread and spiced root would mingle with the lingering tang of sweat and iron. Mornings forged his body. Afternoons fed his mind. Evenings belonged to the sword.
This had been Alden's life for as long as memory allowed. Time had blurred into routine, and routine into ritual. But nights—oh, the nights had changed.
For months now, Rowan had added something new to the fire. After dinner, when stars blinked through the canopy and silence ruled the woods, Alden would kneel in the alchemy chamber. There, Rowan administered the potion.
Pain incarnate.
The liquid was thick and dark, glowing faintly as it entered Alden's bloodstream. Within seconds, he would crumple, knees slamming to the stone, every nerve a live wire. The pain felt like a thousand needles tearing through muscle and skin, like his bones were trying to escape his body. He'd choke on screams, eyes wide and bloodshot, yet never once did he beg for it to stop.
And Rowan, hardened soldier that he was, clenched his fists until the knuckles went white. It never got easier—watching the boy he raised suffer. But it was necessary.
Because this pain was a gate.
Alden endured it. Every. Single. Time. Eyes locked on Rowan's. Face forward. Never falling unconscious—until recently.
In the last few weeks, Rowan had increased the dosage. Alden sometimes fainted now, body seizing before slumping like a puppet with cut strings. His mouth bled from biting down too hard. But he rose. Again and again, he rose.
Days bled into weeks, and weeks into months.
The day before Alden's fifteenth birthday arrived like a blade in the dark—silent and sharp. The boy woke early, his muscles stiff with memory, and helped Rowan pack. The old man was unusually quiet, his movements methodical but slow, as though every item they tucked into the bags carried invisible weight.
By midmorning, they set off. The forest gave way to paved roads, and Alden's world widened.
The roads of Bloodridge—the militaristic heart of the Ironhold Kingdom—were marvels of obsidian stone and seamless design. The very air felt different here, tinged with ozone and magic. Spires rose like knives against the sky, baroque and beautiful, etched with floating glyphs and wards that shimmered faintly in the sun.
Gliding across the streets were magic-fueled cars, silent and sleek, their tires hovering inches from the ground. And people… the people wore bracelets of metal and crystal, each projecting shimmering holographic screens or vanishing physical objects into enchanted storage.
Alden's jaw slackened. "What are those?" he whispered.
"Aether Bands," Rowan answered. "Only licensed citizens and ranking officers are allowed to use them. They're powered by the city's leyline core."
Alden couldn't take his eyes off them. So much progress, so much power—and yet so clean, so casual. He felt like a relic from another world.
They wandered the city for hours, Alden soaking in every detail—the neon sigils above weapon shops, the talking statues of fallen heroes, the quiet hum of defense wards layered into the pavement. Rowan remained close but distant, his eyes flicking toward the palace on the hill more than once.
As twilight approached, they found an inn tucked between two towering supply depots. A squat building, weathered but sturdy. Six copper coins for the night, the innkeeper said, food included. Rowan nodded. They didn't have luxury, but they had enough.
After settling in, they visited the common bathhouse. Alden scrubbed himself raw, muscles aching from the road and the memory of last night's torment. Rowan said nothing, but the silence hung heavy between them, as though a storm waited just beyond the horizon.
When they returned to the inn's dining hall, it was packed. Soldiers, merchants, pilgrims—all elbow to elbow. Laughter rose like smoke, mugs clanked, and fires crackled in the hearths. Alden and Rowan waited nearly half an hour for a seat, and when food came, it was simple but warm—boar stew, black bread, and pickled roots.
Back in their room, the cot creaked beneath them. A single candle burned between their beds. The silence returned, thicker now, almost suffocating.
Rowan sat on the edge of his bed, tense. Not pacing. Not speaking. Just staring at the floor like it might swallow him.
Alden, sensing the weight in the air, moved beside him.
"I'll be fine," he said quietly.
Rowan flinched. Just barely.
"I know," he said, but his voice was raw, hollow. "I know you will."
But Alden could see it—the tightness in his jaw, the fear behind his eyes. The man who had withstood demon charges, who had faced the abyss with steel and fury, was afraid.
Not for himself.For Alden.
And that made it real.