"Who are you?" Blake asked, staring warily at the man's outstretched hand. His voice was dry, cracked from days without speaking.
The man tilted his head slightly, the polished black mask hiding his face entirely. "Your knight in shining armor," he said, voice calm but distant through the mask. "And I've come to rescue you."
Blake didn't move. "That doesn't answer my question. For all I know, you're one of Rollo's men—here to finish what they started."
A soft chuckle echoed behind the mask. "If I were here to kill you, you'd already be dead. Let's not pretend you could stop me in your state." He lowered his hand just slightly. "But even now, with chains on your ankle and blood all over your clothes, you still choose doubt over survival. Interesting."
Blake stuttered. "I… I'm sorry."
"Don't be. Suspicion keeps people alive." The man straightened. "But here's the truth—no one else is coming for you. Not your brothers. Not that coward of a doctor. And certainly not your father."
He took a step forward, the metal of his boots clicking against the stone. "I'm offering you a choice. Stay here and rot, or take my hand, and live. Maybe even fight back one day. But make your decision now—my generosity has limits."
Blake stared at the mask, heart pounding.
The hand was still there, steady in the cold air.
"Last chance."
Blake stared at the masked man's hand for a long moment.His body screamed in protest with every breath, every heartbeat. The weight of chains, of hunger, of betrayal—all of it clung to him like rot. But beneath it, something stirred. A flicker.
A fragile, ember-like instinct that whispered: Move.
He reached out.Their hands met—rough skin against trembling fingers—and the masked man gripped him firmly.
"Good," the man said simply, and without another word, broke his chains and began to guide him. They moved through the narrow stone corridors of the cave, deeper than Blake had ever seen. The air grew colder and heavier until they reached a dead end—or so it seemed. Then the masked man raised a hand, and the wall shimmered.
A pulse of magic rippled through the stone, revealing a swirling, obsidian-framed portal—silent and unnerving, like the eye of a storm.
Blake hesitated.
The man didn't.
He stepped through the portal, and Blake followed, stumbling into blinding white light.
When his vision cleared, they were standing in a forest—dense, ancient, and drenched in early morning mist. The trees towered overhead, their trunks thick with moss, their branches whispering with the wind.
In front of them stood a small, weathered cabin, tucked between the roots of two enormous trees. Smoke curled gently from its chimney.
"Come," the masked man said.
Inside, the cabin was simple but warm. A fire crackled in the hearth. Wooden shelves lined the walls, filled with old books, dried herbs, and weapons. The man helped Blake to a chair, then moved wordlessly to a cupboard.
He returned with food—thick stew and warm bread—and set it before Blake.
Blake didn't ask questions. He ate.
Once the bowl was empty, the man began cleaning his wounds. He worked in silence, hands skilled and precise, the mask never once removed.
For the first time in weeks, Blake didn't feel like prey.
He leaned back, exhaustion washing over him.
"Rest," the man said quietly. "We'll talk when your strength returns."
Blake didn't argue. The bed was rough, the sheets scratchy, but it might as well have been a king's chamber. His eyes closed almost instantly.
And for the first time in a long while, sleep came without pain.
****************
Blake awoke to the scent of burning wood and herbs. The fire still crackled gently, casting flickering shadows along the cabin walls. For a moment, he didn't move—letting the warmth of the room press against his battered body like a balm. The weight of his chains was gone, replaced by thick blankets and a sense of strange, cautious safety.
The masked man sat by the hearth, sharpening a blade with rhythmic precision.
Blake sat up slowly, his voice hoarse. "Where… am I?"
The man didn't look up. "Safe. For now."
"Why did you help me?" Blake asked.
The man paused, then set the blade down. He turned slightly, the light catching the smooth curve of his black mask. "Because I've been where you are. Forgotten. Beaten. Buried." He leaned forward. "You're not the only one they've thrown away."
Blake narrowed his eyes. "You're a deviant too."
A nod. "My name is Malrek. This cabin—it's one of many. A hideout, nothing more. My real home is in the western province, under Duke Ardan's rule.
Blake's breath caught. The western province felt like another world entirely. "Are you alone?"
"Im part of a brotherhood," Malrek said. "A group of deviants, outcasts, people like us, who don't fit the mold they carved for this kingdom. We survive in the cracks—train in silence, and wait."
Blake studied the masked face. "Wait for what?"
Malrek stood and crossed to a nearby table. He picked up a carved wooden figure—shaped like a sword coiled in vines—and turned it in his gloved hands. "For the world to need us. Or for the right spark to light the fire."
He set it down and looked back at Blake. "Now tell me—what do you want, Blake? Not what they told you to want. Not what they beat into you. What you want."
The fire popped. Blake stared into the flames, jaw tightening. His hands curled into fists beneath the blankets.
"I want revenge."His voice was quiet, but sure. "On Rollo. On Felix. On everyone who treated me like I was less than nothing."
Malrek didn't flinch. Instead, he nodded slowly. "Then we train. We study. We shape you into something they never saw coming."
He walked over and reached for a hidden compartment in the floor, lifting a panel to reveal weapons, tomes, and scrolls.
"Years," Malrek said. "This won't be fast. It won't be easy. But if you want vengeance... if you want power... it starts now."
Blake pushed the blanket aside and stood, still weak, but with a fire in his chest that hadn't been there before.
"Then let's begin."
2 Years Ago(Blake is 4 years old)
The sun had just dipped below the horizon, casting Blake's room in amber light. He sat hunched on the edge of his bed, shirt clinging to sweat-damp skin, his arms and ribs mottled with fresh bruises. The wooden practice sword Caelum had used on him still rested in the corner, stained faintly with dirt and specks of blood from the sparring yard.
His breath was shallow, every movement aching.
Then—soft footsteps. A gentle knock.
"Young master?" came the familiar voice.
Judith stepped in, her worn apron already tied, a basin of warm water in her hands. Her presence was calm and familiar, like the soft lull of a lullaby. She didn't wait for permission. She never did—not with Blake.
"You're hurt again," she muttered with a frown as she knelt beside him, setting the basin down and soaking a cloth. "He went too hard on you today."
Blake shook his head slightly. "No. I asked him not to hold back."
Judith didn't respond to that. She simply dabbed at the swelling beneath his eye, her touch feather-light. "You're always trying to prove something…" she whispered, brushing sweat-matted hair from his face. "But to whom, my dear boy?"
Blake didn't answer. He didn't know.
She hummed softly, cleaning the dried blood from a cut on his lip. It was the only time he felt cared for—when Judith was around. To him, she wasn't just a maid. She was comfort. Safety. The only one who saw him for more than his failures.
"There now," she smiled gently. "You'll live. Though I might have to sneak some salve from the stores again."
But before Blake could answer, the door slammed open.
"What do you think you're doing?"
Blake flinched. Judith shot to her feet, bowing instinctively.
Gisla stood in the doorway, a vision of cold nobility—gown pristine, expression twisted in disgust. Her eyes landed on Judith with venom.
"You worthless servant girl—how dare you waste your time here while the floors still wait to be scrubbed?"
Without warning, she struck Judith across the face. Judith didn't cry out. She simply nodded, eyes to the ground.
"Go," Gisla snapped. "Now."
Judith glanced at Blake only once, apologetically, before hurrying past Gisla and disappearing down the corridor, the echo of her steps swallowed by silence.
Gisla turned her gaze back to Blake. Her eyes—so like his—held no warmth.
"Stop clinging to scraps," she hissed. "You're a Tempest. Act like it."
She slammed the door shut behind her.
Blake sat there, numb. The basin of water still steamed faintly at his feet.
In that moment, something in him withered.
He no longer saw Gisla as his mother. A mother didn't strike the only person who ever showed him love. A mother didn't look at her son like he was a stain.
From that day on, he stopped trying to earn her affection.
And he never called her mother again.
Now(Blake is 6 years old)
The next morning, Blake stood in a clearing behind the cabin, his breath fogging in the cold air. His limbs still ached from days of healing, but Malrek had decided that was enough rest.
"Pick it up," Malrek ordered, gesturing to the wooden practice sword lying in the frost-dusted grass.
Blake looked down at it. The sword was plain, slightly too long for his arms, its weight unfamiliar. He bent to pick it up, wincing as sore muscles protested.
"Feet apart. Looser grip. You're not strangling a snake," Malrek instructed coolly, circling him like a hawk.
Blake tried to mimic the stance Caelum had shown him years ago—but he was slower now, weaker. His body betrayed him at every step. The sword wobbled in his hands, and his balance was off.
Malrek didn't comment. Not yet.
Instead, he moved like a shadow—one swift motion, and Blake's sword was knocked from his hands.
"Dead," Malrek said simply.
Blake clenched his jaw and picked it up again.
They repeated the same drill for hours—stance, strike, parry, stumble. Again. And again. The forest echoed with the dull thud of wood against wood, and the occasional gasp of pain as Malrek's staff cracked into Blake's ribs or shoulders.
When the sword dropped for the twelfth time, Blake didn't move to pick it up.
"Tired?"
Blake didn't answer.
"Good." Malrek tossed a water skin toward him. "You'll be tired every day until you forget what rest feels like."
They moved from swordplay to archery that afternoon.
Blake could barely draw the bowstring. His arms shook. Arrows flew wildly into trees, the ground, once even back toward his own feet.
Malrek said nothing. He just stood behind him, correcting his posture, adjusting his grip, and letting the frustration build like a fire in Blake's gut.
Later that night, they studied.
Malrek set ancient books before him, tomes about magical theory, forgotten languages, elemental alignment charts, and the anatomy of aetheric cores.
"If you can't use magic, understand it. Learn its patterns. Its rules. Then find the cracks."
Blake's vision blurred as he read deep into the night, fingers sore, body bruised, brain burning with questions. He didn't understand half of what he read—but he didn't stop.
Because every ache, every stumble, every drop of sweat—Was one step closer to his goal.