It has been three years since my brother left with Priestess Valerius. He had returned briefly after that first year of preliminary training, a walking sun in white and gold, before leaving again to officially attend the Dawnspire Institute. He writes letters sometimes—carefully composed updates on his studies and the capital’s light—so the family doesn’t worry too much.

  But while the household’s heart is with the golden son in the capital, I have remained here, growing in the silence.

  I am seven years old now. My body is taller, my white hair longer, and my blood-red eyes have learned the art of looking without seeing. To Kael and Elena, I am the helpful, quiet survivor. I spend my days helping my mother with the household and standing in the clearing with my father, the rhythmic crack of wood-splitting serving as the soundtrack to my evolution.

  "Again, Satan. Focus on the swing, not the strength," Kael commanded.

  I raised the heavy axe. I didn't need strength. Over the last three years, the dark Marble in my chest has grown steadily, and more importantly, I have learned to speak its language.

  I practiced my breathing—a slow, deep circulation I called Internal Logic. With every inhale, I pulled the chaotic pressure of the void into my center. With every exhale, I pushed a microscopic fraction of that weight into my limbs.

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  Strike.

  The axe moved with a speed that shouldn't belong to a seven-year-old. At the moment of impact, I let a sliver of gravity increase the axe's density. The thick oak log didn't just split; it collapsed as if the world had suddenly doubled its pull on that single point of wood.

  Kael wiped sweat from his brow, looking at the perfect pile of firewood I had created in record time. "You have a natural gift for the tools, son. Most men take decades to find that kind of efficiency."

  "It is only a matter of finding the path of least resistance, Father," I replied calmly.

  He didn't catch it. He couldn't. I had learned to use my power in such small, controlled bursts that it left no trace in the air. To a master soldier like Kael, it just looked like perfect form. I was in control now. The "implosions" of my fourth year were a memory; I was no longer a leaking dam, but a refined engine.

  Later that evening, I helped Elena in the garden. She talked about Joran’s latest letter—how he was being scouted by the Royal Guard's mages. I listened and nodded, playing the part of the supportive younger brother.

  But as the sun began to set, I felt the familiar hum of the void in my marrow. Joran was training under the brightest lights in the kingdom, learning the laws of the Sun God. Meanwhile, I was here in the dirt and the shadow, perfecting a power that didn't exist in the Church’s books.

  The logic was simple: Joran was being built to be a beacon. I was building myself to be the night that eventually claims it.