Lucian watched as the grizzled man’s smirk faded into something unreadable. The rest of the table remained quiet, their expressions carefully neutral.

  "Orin Kael," the man repeated, tapping a finger against the table. He exchanged a glance with one of his companions before shaking his head. "Interesting name, that one."

  Lucian leaned forward slightly. "Then you do know something."

  The man exhaled through his nose, his amusement returning. "Oh, we know plenty, kid. But that’s not something we can sell."

  Lucian’s brows knitted together. "Why not?"

  The man’s smirk faded entirely. "Because some names carry weight, and some doors, once opened, don’t close again. Best to leave this one shut."

  The others at the table murmured in agreement. One of them shot Lucian a knowing look. "Take our advice. Don’t push it further, kid."

  Lucian clenched his fists under the table, frustration bubbling beneath his calm exterior. He had come all this way, hoping for even the smallest lead. Now, the only thing he had was a warning.

  With a sharp exhale, he pushed himself up from the table, tossing the last of his patience aside. "Fine."

  Without another word, he turned and strode toward the exit. The tavern door creaked as he stepped out into the cool evening air, his breath misting in front of him. The village streets were quieter now, lanterns flickering against the growing night. He had nothing. No leads. No direction. Just another dead end.

  Lucian ran a hand through his hair, forcing down his irritation. He needed to think, to come at this from a different angle.

  Inside the tavern, in the dimly lit corner where shadows clung to the walls, a man who had been sitting alone finally moved. His presence had been unnoticed for most of the evening, his face half-hidden beneath the brim of a weathered hat.

  As he stood, he reached into his coat and produced a single gold coin. Walking past the table where the three informants sat, he flicked it toward them with a casual motion. The coin spun through the air before one of them, the grizzled man, snatched it from the air.

  For a moment, the informants said nothing. Then, the grizzled man’s lips curled into a knowing grin.

  "With pleasure," he muttered under his breath.

  The man in the hat didn’t look back. He simply strode toward the door, stepping out into the night after Lucian.

  -----------------------------

  Lucian walked through the dimly lit village streets, his mind heavy with frustration. His search had led to nothing but dead ends, and now, lost in thought, he barely noticed how the night had deepened. The cool air pressed against his skin, the distant hum of the village settling into silence.

  Then a thought struck him—he had forgotten to ask the bartender where he could rent a room for the night.

  Lucian let out a quiet sigh, slowing his pace. He had been so caught up in his disappointment that he hadn’t planned his next step. As he turned to make his way back toward the tavern, a prickling sensation ran down his spine.

  Something was watching him.

  He froze mid-step, his pulse steady but alert. His fingers twitched instinctively toward his belt, where his dagger rested. He exhaled slowly, his training guiding him. He shut out the noise of the village—the rustling leaves, the flickering lanterns, the distant murmurs of drunkards finishing their night. He reached within himself, drawing on his ascen, the deep attunement to his senses that Father Aldric had drilled into him through years of discipline.

  The air shifted. The sensation of unseen eyes became undeniable.

  Before Lucian could react, a voice emerged from the darkness of a nearby alley.

  "Sharp instincts, boy." The voice was rough, edged with amusement. "Didn’t expect you to notice so quickly."

  Lucian’s muscles tensed, his eyes narrowing toward the source of the voice. A figure stood within the shadows, just beyond the reach of the lantern light. The voice continued, calm yet knowing.

  "You’re well-trained in your ascen. That’s rare for someone your age."

  Lucian said nothing. Instead, he watched, waiting.

  The figure finally stepped forward, emerging into the light.

  He was a tall, battle-worn man with a lean but powerful frame. His left eye was marred by a long, jagged scar, running from his brow down to his cheek. His right eye, still intact, studied Lucian with an unreadable intensity. He wore a dark, weathered coat, its edges frayed from years of use.

  In his right hand, he carried a spear. Not a crude weapon, but a well-crafted one—its shaft wrapped in worn leather, its steel tip gleaming faintly in the lantern glow.

  The man planted the butt of his spear against the ground, tilting his head slightly.

  "You’re looking for Orin Kael, aren’t you?"

  Lucian's grip on his belt tightened. The man wasn’t asking. He was stating it as fact.

  Lucian’s mind raced. Who was this man? And how much did he know?

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  Lucian didn’t hesitate. In an instant, his ascen flared to life, surrounding him in a faint, dark blue aura—the color of black ice under moonlight. The air around him grew sharp and crisp, like the breath of winter, as his body tensed, ready to react.

  The man’s single eye gleamed with intrigue. He let out a low chuckle, clearly impressed. "Quick reflexes. You don’t trust easily. That’s good."

  Lucian remained silent, his stance firm. He wasn’t about to let his guard down.

  The man lifted his free hand in a slow, deliberate motion—not a threat, but a signal. Then, without a word, he turned and began walking, his spear resting casually against his shoulder.

  Lucian narrowed his eyes. "Why should I follow you?" His voice was steady, but his mind was already racing through possibilities.

  The man stopped but didn’t turn around. "Because I’m the only person who can answer your question." His tone was certain, almost amused, as if Lucian had no other real choice.

  Lucian’s fingers twitched at his side. The night felt colder now, the village unnervingly quiet. He could turn back, return to the tavern, and sleep off his frustration. But something about this man—the way he moved, the way he spoke—told Lucian that if he walked away now, he’d never get another chance.

  His frustration with the informants, the dead ends, the uncertainty—all of it pointed to this moment.

  Taking a breath, Lucian released the tension in his stance. His aura dimmed but didn’t fade entirely, the dark blue mist still clinging faintly to his form. Then, without a word, he followed.

  Lucian followed the man through the quiet village streets, the only sounds their footsteps against the dirt road. The farther they went, the more the flickering lanterns of the village faded behind them. Eventually, they reached a secluded clearing just outside the village—a forgotten space where the night pressed in heavily, untouched by prying eyes.

  Lucian stopped a few steps away, The man turned to face him, resting his spear against his shoulder, his scarred eye catching the dim light.

  "Alright," Lucian said, his voice firm. "You said you could answer my question. What do you know of Orin Kael?"

  The man chuckled softly, shaking his head. "You’re eager. I like that." His grip on the spear tightened slightly. "But I never said I’d make it easy for you."

  Lucian narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean?"

  The man took a few steps forward, his presence feeling heavier, more deliberate. "Let’s make this interesting. A simple test." He spun the spear once in his hand before planting the tip into the ground beside him. "If you can land a hit on me—a scratch, a bruise, anything—you win. And I’ll tell you what you want to know."

  Lucian frowned. "And if I lose?"

  The man grinned. "Then you’re not ready to know."

  A challenge. Lucian could feel the weight behind those words. This wasn’t just about fighting—it was a test of something more. A measure of skill, resolve, maybe even worth.

  He clenched his fists, his aura surging slightly as his stance shifted. "And what does this have to do with Orin Kael?"

  The man’s smirk didn’t fade. "Because the man you’re looking for isn’t just some ordinary sellsword. If you can’t touch me, you have no business seeking him out."

  Lucian exhaled slowly, steadying his breath. His mind sharpened. If this was the only way forward, then so be it.

  "Fine," he said, lowering his stance. "Let’s begin."

  ---------------------------------

  Lucian exhaled slowly, centering himself. His dark blue aura flickered to life around him, subtle yet dense, like the deep ocean under moonlight. He had no intention of dragging this fight out—he needed to end it fast.

  Lowering his stance, he focused his aura into his legs, feeling the energy coil within him. The air around him grew heavier as his muscles tensed like a drawn bowstring.

  Then, he moved.

  In an instant, Lucian burst forward, the ground cracking beneath his feet as he shot toward the man like an arrow loosed from a bow. He was fast—faster than most would expect from someone his age. His plan was simple: close the gap, feint to the left, then pivot and strike from the right. If he could just land a hit—even a scratch—he would win.

  As he neared, he flicked his body left, a blur of motion meant to mislead. Then, in the same breath, he shifted right, angling his strike toward the man’s exposed side. His fist, cloaked in dark blue aura, shot forward.

  But before it could land—

  A fist slammed into his stomach with crushing force.

  Lucian’s eyes widened as pain exploded in his core, his momentum shattered in an instant. He barely had time to process the blow before a roundhouse kick struck his side, sending him flying.

  He hit the dirt hard, rolling before coming to a stop. Coughing, he clutched his stomach, his body trembling from the sheer impact.

  Through the haze of pain, Lucian looked up to see the man still standing exactly where he had been, his feet together, his right hand still resting behind his back. The only movement he made was raising his left hand again.

  The man smiled down at him. "I never said I wouldn’t fight back," he said casually. "This is a duel, after all."

  Gritting his teeth, Lucian pushed himself up from the dirt, frustration burning in his chest. He refused to accept defeat so easily. His aura flared, dark blue energy crackling around his body as he lunged forward once more.

  This time, he didn’t hesitate.

  He unleashed a rapid barrage of punches, each strike faster than the last, his fists blurring as they closed in on the man. Every ounce of his strength, every bit of his training under Father Aldric, fueled his assault. He aimed for openings, adjusting his strikes the moment he saw the man move. If speed alone wasn’t enough, then pressure would be.

  But it wasn’t.

  The man barely moved his feet, weaving through the flurry with ease. His body flowed like water, slipping past each attack with a grace that mocked Lucian’s every effort. When a strike came too close, he deflected it with minimal movement, his hand tapping Lucian’s wrist aside as if swatting away an insect.

  Lucian's frustration mounted. He threw a final, desperate punch, putting all his weight into the attack.

  A mistake.

  The man sidestepped at the last moment, pivoting smoothly before driving his knee into Lucian’s ribs. The impact forced the air from Lucian’s lungs, pain flaring through his side.

  Then came the kick.

  A powerful strike to his chest sent him stumbling back, his heels digging into the dirt as he fought to stay upright. His breath came in ragged gasps, his vision blurred for a moment before clearing.

  The man lowered his foot back to the ground, watching Lucian with the same unreadable smile. "You’ve got speed, I’ll give you that," he said. "But speed alone won’t win you battles."

  Lucian wiped his mouth, eyes burning with determination despite the ache in his body. He had to find a way to break through. But how?

  Lucian took a slow, steady breath, forcing himself to ignore the pain searing through his body. He had felt this before—the aching exhaustion, the pressure of battle pressing down on him. But more than that, he remembered something else.

  Varr'Gorrath.

  The monstrous beast he had slain in the depths of the forest. The relentless struggle, the raw instinct that had surged through him in that fight. He hadn’t won through strength alone. It was something deeper—something sharper.

  Lucian closed his eyes.

  He exhaled slowly, steadying his stance. His arms rose, positioning themselves with precision, his feet shifting into a firm foundation. The movements came naturally, as if his body already knew what to do. His mind sharpened, emptying of distractions.

  And then, his aura changed.

  Dark blue energy pulsed from his body, no longer just flickering in frustration but flowing with intent. It coiled around him like mist, controlled, refined. His breathing slowed, his muscles relaxed—but within that stillness, there was something dangerous.

  The man watching him did not move. He observed, his expression unreadable, but his eyes gleamed with intrigue.

  Lucian’s eyelids lifted, and his gaze met the man’s. His pupils were now veiled by the dark blue aura, his face calm—unfazed by pain or hesitation. His focus was absolute.

  The man finally smiled.

  "Now this," he said, resting his spear against his shoulder, "is getting much more interesting."