The sounds of clashing steel echoed through the trees.
Grunts, sharp footfalls, and the rhythmic clang of weapons cut through the quiet morning air of Jurra Forest. Birds scattered. Leaves shook. Somewhere in the underbrush, a startled skyhopper chirped and vanished.
In a small clearing surrounded by towering trees and thick moss, three figures danced in combat.
It was early morning, and instead of going through their usual routine, they trained. No chores. No scouting. No firewood. Just sparring—deep in the heart of the forest.
It was two versus one. Matthew and Leo against El.
Unfair, maybe. But even with numbers on their side, they were overwhelmed.
El's combat experience outclassed theirs by miles. Even with Matthew's strength and Leo's agility working in tandem, she handled them like they were first-timers.
Matthew lunged first, taking a powerful step and swinging his sword in a heavy arc. El braced herself, met the strike mid-air, and parried with such force that Matthew stumbled backward. Her blade vibrated from the impact.
Leo took his shot then, attacking from behind.
El didn't even turn around.
With a flick of her wrist, she twisted her sword behind her back and blocked him without looking. In the same motion, she dropped low and swept her leg across the ground—sending Leo tumbling face-first into the dirt.
But he didn't let go.
Leo wrapped his arms around her ankle. "Now, Matt!" he shouted, ignoring her surprise. "Hey!"
Matthew recovered quickly and surged forward again, sword raised to strike. Just as he prepared to bring it down, El mumbled something under her breath.
A gust of wind exploded from her position.
It hit both boys like a wall.
Matthew and Leo were thrown across the field like rag dolls.
"What the heck was that?!" Matthew shouted, groaning as he hit the ground.
El stood in the center of the field, hair tousled, arms crossed, looking slightly annoyed. "Really? Pinning me down? That's your grand strategy? You two are the unfair ones."
Leo sat up, dazed. "Was that… magic?"
Before El could reply, Old Man Tavon spoke up behind them, casually holding four skyhoppers by their ears. "Domari," he said.
El nodded. "It's called a Domari. When you speak one's true name, using the spirit essence, you can conjure force or elements."
"You mean like actual magic?" Matthew's eyes sparkled.
"Something like that," El replied with a shrug.
But Matthew wasn't the only one who looked excited. Leo felt it too. That old childhood thrill—back when they were obsessed with fantasy books and games. Back when magic was just imagination.
And now it was real.
Leo remembered the old man's fight with the Swordbear. The way he moved. The way the air itself shifted. That must've been Domari.
A grin tugged at the corners of his lips.
Tavon dropped the skyhoppers to the ground. "Well, that's one way to introduce your next training."
Leo's eyes widened. "Wait—you mean… you're going to teach us Domari?!"
Before Tavon could answer, both boys scrambled forward and sat cross-legged in front of him like kids at storytime. Practically wagging their tails.
The old man chuckled, low and amused. "Maybe just the basics. But before you can learn how to speak True Names, you need to understand what they really are."
"And," he added, "we'll need to learn your Classifications."
The two boys nodded in unison, exaggeratedly eager.
Old Man Tavon lowered himself onto the mossy ground with a slow, deliberate sigh, crossing his legs like a teacher preparing to tell an ancient tale.
"Every creature, entity, force, or element has a True Name," he began, picking up one of the limp skyhoppers. "The plants, the monsters, fire, water—even the wind. All of them."
Matthew leaned forward. "So… what exactly is a True Name? And why is it called that?"
"I'm getting there," Tavon said, his voice dry with patience.
He unsheathed a small blade from his belt and began skinning the skyhopper with precise movements, the sound of the blade cutting through fur and flesh oddly rhythmic.
"El," he said without looking up, "do you know the story of the First Mortal?"
Leaning against a tree, arms crossed, El gave a slow nod. "…Yes."
Both boys turned to her with wide, expectant eyes.
She rolled hers. "Fine."
She stepped forward slightly, her tone calm and practiced like she'd told this story before, maybe once around someone else's campfire.
"The Realm was created by the words of the Supreme Being. Every mountain, river, flame, and animal. But when the Supreme Being created the First Mortal, He molded him using His own Spirit Essence not words to bring him to life."
She paused.
"And because of that, the First Mortal was given dominion over all of creation. His first task… was to name everything."
"Exactly," Tavon said, nodding. "That's where True Names came from. The origin of language itself. But those original words, the primal language, were eventually forgotten. Replaced by what we speak now."
Matthew glanced sideways at Leo. "How do they even know that?"
Leo shrugged. "From some sacred book, maybe?"
"It's literally common knowledge," El said with an arched brow. "They teach it to kids. It's basically a bedtime story."
Both boys groaned.
Leo rubbed his head, trying to follow. "Okay, but how do you actually learn a True Name?"
"By memorizing it," El answered. "But that's not enough. Knowing the name lets you conjure the force—but to control it, you need to learn the primal language too."
She opened her palm and whispered a word. A spark flickered. Then fire danced gently above her skin, floating like a flame cradled in air.
Then she extended her arm toward a nearby tree and spoke again—same language, but this time sharper, deeper.
The fire shot outward like a dart.
It fizzled out just before striking the bark.
"That second part…" she said, "that's how you command it."
Matthew's jaw dropped, eyes glowing with wonder.
"So," Leo said slowly, "if I want to summon fire, I speak its True Name. But if I want it to move, or explode, or... wrap around me—I need to speak the primal command?"
"Exactly," Tavon confirmed, still carving meat. "But it's not as simple as learning the words. The primal language is based on pitch, tone, and intention. Even a slight mistake changes the result."
He sighed. "That's why I can only conjure one element. The more you try to master, the harder it gets."
It was complex—but it made a strange kind of sense.
Conjuring was like calling someone's name. But commanding? That required a relationship.
A thought struck Leo.
"So if someone memorized every True Name," he asked, "does that mean they could conjure all the elements?"
Tavon chuckled. "No one's done that. Or… almost no one. It's not just about memorizing or pronunciation. The problem lies in your Spirit Essence."
"Spirit what?" Matthew asked, frowning.
Tavon picked up a stick and began drawing in the dirt.
"Let's say this little figure is you," he said, sketching a shape. "Inside every living thing is a unique kind of energy. For mortals, it's Spirit Essence."
He drew a symbol beside it. A flicker. A flame.
"Fire has its own essence. So does water. Wind. Stone. Now, if your essence is weaker than the element you're calling… you can still summon it. But only a small part."
"How?"
"Because the force will instinctively balance itself. It'll lower its output to match your strength—or rather, beneath it. Not equal. Lower. That's how nature preserves balance."
Matthew stared at the stick figures like they were cursed runes. "I still don't get it."
"Basically," El explained, "the weaker your Spirit Essence, the weaker the force you can summon. The stronger your essence… the stronger the spell."
Leo leaned in, mind racing.
"But wait," he asked, "why doesn't the element just match the caster's essence? Wouldn't that make more sense?"
Tavon pointed his stick at him like he'd just solved a puzzle.
"Good question. Remember what El said about the First Mortal?"
Leo nodded. "Created from the Spirit Essence of the Supreme Being…"
"Right," Tavon replied. "And the rest of creation was made through words. That means—"
"Spirit Essence is the original source," Leo finished. "The creator can't be equal to what it creates."
"Exactly," Tavon said, smiling. "A creation can't match its origin."
"I see," Matthew said, nodding slowly. "So the reason we can command what we conjure—through the primal language—is because Spirit Essence has authority over it. And Spirit Essence holds dominion over all creation."
Old Man Tavon let out a deep, hearty laugh. "Exactly!" he said, tapping Matt's shoulder. "Now you're getting it."
"The act of commanding a True Name," Tavon said, "is called Domari."
He looked at them both. "Only those with Spirit Essence can perform the Domari. Without it, the elements won't listen—no matter how many names you know."
Then, with a grunt, Tavon stood and brushed moss from his pants. "Now, if you want to know whether you even have Spirit Essence… let's do a Domarus Trial."
"Wait—" Matthew frowned. "You mean there's a chance mortals might not have Spirit Essence at all?"
"Oh yes," Tavon said casually. "Not everyone's born with it. Those without are called Hollowborne."
He chuckled, voice raspy. "Some are born overflowing with essence… and some barely have enough to summon a spark. Just like me."
He wheezed another laugh. "Poor old fool."
To discover whether one possessed Spirit Essence was, according to Tavon, simple—at least in theory.
He had both boys sit cross-legged on the soft earth, backs straight, palms resting on knees. The Sun cast long shadows on the surrounding trees as Tavon stood between them, arms crossed.
"The first step," he said, "is not in conjuring... but in sensing. Awareness is everything."
Then came the word. The Domari.
They closed their eyes.
The silence of Jurra Forest settled over them like a thick blanket. Tavon instructed them to whisper the ancient word: "Domari."
It felt strange. Powerful. Like speaking a fragment of creation.
El corrected them softly, "It's not just a chant — it's a command. You're saying: I command the essence to reveal itself."
They repeated it—again and again.
At first, there was only darkness. Then Leo felt it.
Something more than sensation. A presence.
Particles. Not seen with eyes, but with something deeper. Tiny motes of colored light shimmered in the dark.
"That's Essence," Tavon said calmly. "Now… widen your perception. Let it shape."
Leo breathed deeply. The particles began to swirl—gathering. Forming.
Pale white dust-like specks converged around him. Air essence. Light. Ever-shifting.
It was breathtaking.
Beside him, Matthew frowned in frustration. His brow furrowed, eyes shut tight.
"I can't see it," he muttered.
"Just take your time," El said gently. "Be still. Be calm."
Minutes passed. Finally, Matthew's eyes fluttered open. He saw them too.
"Good," Tavon nodded. "Now we try something more direct."
A stick stood upright in the earth, a tiny flame flickering at its tip.
"Next," he said, "we use the Primal Language. Speak the command precisely: 'Domari.' Or it will fail. Or worse."
He walked them through the tones and inflections. Slowly. Carefully.
Then, he pointed at Matthew.
"Extend your hand. Command the flame."
Matthew obeyed. He focused. Whispered the command once. Twice. Still nothing.
On the fifth try… the fire flickered.
Then swelled.
Just slightly.
But it was enough.
Their eyes widened.