George POV

  They clattered down the dirt path through the darkened woods, the rush of pounding hooves shattering the forest’s stillness.

  The caravan’s task was simple—escort young Master Tyrius and Mistress Lillia to the city of Caelthall safely. George glanced across the carriage at the two people he had sworn his life to protect.

  Lillia, Tyrius’ mother, stared worriedly out the window, her gaze fixed on the dark blur of forest racing past. In one hand, pressed tightly to her chest, she clutched a strange, impossibly black object. It pulsed dimly at regular intervals, radiating a quiet, unsettling weight.

  What is that? And when did she even bring it out?

  George hadn’t seen her retrieve it—and worse yet, he couldn’t sense anything from it. That alone set him on edge.

  Curiosity tugged at him. He reached out gently with his aura, probing the object as subtly as he could—careful not to alert her. It was rude, certainly, but Lillia either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

  She was a low-end Tier 3. George, on the cusp of advancement, had sharper—more refined—aura control.

  And yet… the object defied him. Its purpose was hidden, but the subtle power within was undeniable. That only unsettled him more.

  He shifted in his seat uneasily as the carriage jolted along the worn path. He should ask about it. He knew he should.

  But he said nothing. The circumstances were already too strange. Lillia had always placed her son’s well-being above all else. If she carried this now, it was for a reason.

  George caught the faint vestiges of conflict in her expression. Her thumb brushed slowly across the object’s surface, and he could tell—it eased her worry. If only slightly.

  Her concern made sense. His own nerves were fraying.

  When the current Patriarch had summoned them earlier that evening and ordered an immediate departure for Caelthall, George had known something was wrong. No preparation. No planned escort route. No ceremony. Just orders—and urgency.

  It reeked of politics.

  But House Creedmore never acted without cause. Perhaps the elders had finally decided to remove Tyrius from the internal struggle—get him away before tensions worsened. The boy’s intrinsic ability alone made him valuable to the House… or dangerous.

  George turned his gaze to Tyrius.

  The dark-haired boy sat quietly, staring into empty air as though it held the secrets of the world. His eyes sparkled with wonder.

  George smirked faintly.

  Ever since he had acquired [Spiritual Sensitivity]—a lesser form of the rare skill [Spiritual Awareness]—Tyrius had often gazed at nothing, wide-eyed. George had seen it countless times. It unsettled some. The way the boy looked at the world could make you question whether you were truly seeing it at all.

  George envied him, in a way. He felt bad the boy was prohibited from learning magic by the House, but that wouldn’t last. Not when they were bound for Caelthall so he could attend Drexmere Academy.

  [Spiritual Sensitivity] was virtually unheard of. Even among the rare few born with intrinsic abilities, such a skill was beyond rare. Unlike [Mana Sensitivity], which heightened one’s feel for mana alone, the boy’s ability likely heightened awareness of all spiritual forces.

  Aura, mana, soul—these were the components of one’s spirit. And Tyrius could sense them all, if the name was any indication.

  George’s own perception skill, [Total Alertness], heightened awareness as well. It was tuned for combat and danger—meant to catch threats before they struck. But it couldn’t truly compare—not to a skill with spiritual in the name.

  Even so, he knew one day, the boy’s innate gift would eclipse his completely.

  Intrinsic abilities didn’t occupy one of the ten standard skill slots available to humans. They existed in their own space—untouched. Foundational. Permanent.

  And nearly all intrinsic abilities evolved during the Soul Well Ceremony—the moment a person filled their soul with mana for the first time and advanced to Tier 1. Tyrius would begin his path with an advantage over nearly everyone.

  When the boy turned twelve and that day arrived, George had no doubt his ability would become something extraordinary.

  That was what made Tyrius different.

  Even now, George could see it in his eyes—dazzling light blue like his mother’s, but far too deep for a child. Sometimes, when he concentrated, they even seemed to shimmer like rippling water.

  George had seen stranger things. And for a child like Tyrius, anything seemed possible.

  He looked out the window again.

  Storm clouds were gathering fast on the horizon.

  It’s going to rain soon.

  This was yet another oddity compounding their situation. Why would the House send them out on a night like this? Rain would force the caravan to stop. They’d be stranded before even reaching the border.

  With a frown, George made his decision. He sent a wisp of mana to the communication stone on his belt, felt the enchantments flicker to life, and issued a mental command.

  “Gerald, bring the caravan to a halt. It’s going to rain soon. Let’s make camp before we leave Creedmore territory.”

  “Yes, Captain. I was just thinking the same,” the lead rider’s voice echoed back in his head moments later.

  Soon after, the caravan began to slow.

  This caught the young master's attention. A look of mild disappointment blossomed across his face.

  “Are we stopping already?”

  George felt a twinge of guilt at the tone.

  He knew how badly the boy longed to begin learning about mana—and the Ethereal Words that governed it. But House Creedmore had forbidden him from studying any of it. Tyrius was eager. That much was obvious. And George understood the disappointment in his voice.

  To Tyrius, this journey was likely his long-awaited chance.

  George wished for nothing more than to help him begin his path.

  If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

  But first, they had to reach Caelthall—alive.

  “Yes. A storm is coming. Travel will be impossible soon,” George replied, glancing briefly at Lillia.

  Her brilliant blue eyes locked with his. She gave a small nod of affirmation, then turned back to the window, worry still carved into her face. Outside, the blur of trees began to slow with them.

  Her thumb traced slow, nervous circles over the strange object still clutched in her hands. It pulsed softly at steady intervals.

  Still, George could feel nothing from it.

  He shifted his focus from the object to her expression instead. He could feel her unease—taste it through the tension in the air.

  She was acting strangely, and George knew Lillia well enough to understand what that meant.

  She wasn’t as strong as him, no—but she was powerful in her own way. Her affinity to fate mana was rare... and burdensome.

  It slowed her progress. Isolated her. Left her misunderstood even within the House.

  But that same affinity made her instincts impossible to ignore.

  And right now, she was afraid.

  George exhaled slowly.

  Fate magic was unpredictable. Often unreliable. But when it surged strong enough to shake Lillia, even he couldn’t brush it aside.

  He wasn’t sure if that was truly what had her on edge—but he had known her long enough to trust her worry.

  He pushed more mana into [Total Alertness] as the caravan rolled to a full stop. His perception sharpened—

  —and that’s when he felt it.

  Something was rapidly approaching the side of the carriage.

  His skill screamed at him.

  “Get down, Tyrius!” George roared, throwing himself across the carriage and shoving the boy toward his mother. His shield arm came up mid-motion, and with a pulse of mana, a heavy tower shield materialized from his storage relic. He poured energy into his defensive skill—

  A bright green barrier began forming across the pavise—

  Too slow.

  George gritted his teeth.

  A searing mass of fire hissed through the air—faster than normal eyes could follow. With a shrill whistle, it tore through the carriage door and slammed into his half-formed defense. Heat washed over him—then the spell detonated.

  The explosion tore the world apart.

  The blast shredded the carriage, hurling them into the air.

  George was already moving. No time for pain. No room for error. Instinct and training took over. He flared his awareness, searching—

  Tyrius and Lillia—airborne, flung in opposite directions.

  His shield must’ve caught the worst of it.

  That much, at least… he’d managed.

  But it wasn’t over.

  A prickle surged up George’s spine—a warning.

  [Total Alertness] screamed of an imminent strike—aimed straight at Tyrius.

  No time to think.

  George poured mana into his shield, forcing every drop he could spare into the construct. He even wove in a tendril of his Fragment of Absorption—anything to make it hold. The barrier flared to life.

  Midair, George twisted and hurled the pavise with all his strength. The shield spun like a flying wall, mana thrumming across its surface.

  His hair stood on end.

  A blinding white bolt tore from the sky.

  George’s eyes widened.

  He recognized the mana instantly.

  Marcus.

  He hadn’t heard from Marcus in weeks. Why was he—?

  The realization hit like a hammer.

  This wasn’t an escort mission. It was a hit.

  Traitors.

  Just as the bolt closed on Tyrius, the shield passed over him. The barrier flared in protest as the lightning diffused across its surface—

  A crack of thunder. A flash of light.

  The shield disintegrated.

  Tyrius slammed into the ground like a ragdoll.

  George twisted mid-fall, braced himself, and landed seconds later—rolling hard, bouncing once, twice, then skidding to a stop, feet carving furrows in the dirt.

  Panic surged. He scrambled upright, sprinting toward the crater.

  Smoke choked the air. Scorched debris rained through the trees. Shouts, magic, steel—chaos everywhere.

  Then—from the crater—a scream. Raw. Visceral. Pain-filled.

  Tyrius!

  George ran faster. The scream cut off just before he reached the edge.

  “Master Tyrius!” he shouted.

  The boy lay at the center, face twisted in agony—yet his eyes still burned with resolve. One leg trembled, bent awkwardly—he was still trying to stand.

  If it weren’t for the blood, George might’ve admired the tenacity.

  Then he saw it.

  The boy’s left arm—gone.

  George winced. Too slow. Again.

  The shield hadn’t been enough.

  But no time for guilt. The boy was dying.

  George dropped to his knees, pulling out a health potion. His hands swept over Tyrius’ mangled form—burns, cuts, lacerations everywhere.

  Gently, he lifted his head and poured the potion down his throat.

  The effects were immediate. Wounds began closing. Bleeding slowed.

  The arm, of course, wouldn’t return.

  But at least he shouldn’t bleed out.

  And yet… something was wrong.

  Tyrius’ life force was still dropping—slow, steady, unrelenting.

  George frowned. Was the potion failing? Or was something deeper breaking inside the boy?

  He wasn’t a healer. He had no skills for this.

  Then Tyrius’ face contorted again—not just in pain, but something else. Something closer to… concentration.

  Before George could give it a second thought, the drain slowed.

  Not stopped—but slowed. He felt it instantly. The boy could survive this.

  Maybe the potion just needed more time.

  George pushed the thought aside and refocused on the present.

  “Master Tyrius,” he said, tapping the boy’s cheek. “Stay with me.”

  Slowly—painfully—Tyrius’ eyes cracked open. Recognition flickered behind them.

  Relief had barely begun to form in George’s chest before it shattered beneath a sudden spike of warning from [Total Alertness].

  Behind.

  He tensed—ready to turn.

  He never got the chance.

  A blade tore through his back. A silver edge burst from his chest.

  George gasped. He didn’t need to look.

  A mortal wound, he thought bitterly.

  “NO!” Tyrius screamed.

  The blade yanked free, and George collapsed forward, catching himself on one arm—blood spilling freely as he leaned over the boy.

  “George!” Tyrius cried, trying to press against the wound. His eyes widened with the realization: he only had one arm left.

  Still—that didn’t stop him.

  He leaned in harder, using every ounce of strength to try and hold George together.

  George knew it was futile. The boy couldn’t save him.

  But he tried anyway.

  [Total Alertness] was already fading, but George could still see Lillia, standing off to the side of the crater. Her expression was unreadable. Her gaze heavy on his dying form.

  I’m sorry I failed you, Lillia. And Kaelon… I promised I’d protect him.

  The object in her hand pulsed again—brighter this time. George noticed, only because he’d been watching for it.

  Then he felt it. A faint ripple of alien energy—barely noticeable amidst the chaos of the battlefield.

  But he recognized the intent.

  A beacon. She’s calling someone. But who?

  A flicker of hope ignited in his chest.

  If Tyrius could survive…

  George clenched his jaw. Forced himself upright.

  “Tyrius—listen. Listen to me closely,” he rasped, blood spilling over his lips.

  He could feel Marcus behind him. Sword raised.

  The boy looked up. Their eyes met.

  And there it was—burning behind Tyrius’ gaze: a sharp, unnatural clarity. Something deeper than pain. Something that unnerved George.

  “Tyrius…” George’s voice trembled, but his stare held. “You must survive this. Live. Endure. Focus on that, and I know y—”

  The blade fell, severing his head from his body.

  As the world tilted and darkness closed in, George’s final thought was unspoken.

  —you’ll do just fine.