He planted his feet, mana surging like a river through him. "Ignis eruptio," he chanted, voice ringing clear. A torrent of flame roared forth, a swirling blast that scorched the air, leaving a blackened scar across the clearing. The heat washed over him, a wave of power that left him staggering, but he stayed upright, grinning despite the exhaustion.
Seraphine closed the distance, her hand cupping his jaw, her touch warm and firm. Before he could react, her lips crashed against his—hot, demanding, a clash of teeth and fire, her tongue brushing his in a fleeting, hungry dance. She pulled back, breathless, eyes alight with something wild, her breath coming in quick pants. "You're ready," she said, voice raw, her thumb brushing his cheek. "For whatever's next."
He nodded, heart pounding, the taste of her lingering—cinnamon and smoke, a fire that burned deeper than any spell. With Seraphine's lessons and Lirien's faith, he might outpace the sun. But as Talsara's hills glowed in the dawn, he knew he'd never want to leave—not fully.
The day passed.
He stood barefoot, the weathered planks cool and splintered beneath his toes, his silver hair glinting like molten metal in the sunlight. His red eyes, narrowed against the glare, traced the rolling slopes that cradled Talsara, their curves soft and familiar yet somehow distant today. Eight years old. The Age of Promise, Veyra had called it last night, her voice hushed with a reverence he hadn't understood. He'd barely listened, his mind snagged on a nightmare—Tokyo's rain-slicked streets, Hiro's terrified face, the scream that never stopped echoing. His fingers pressed against his temple, rubbing at the dull ache that lingered, a ghost of guilt he couldn't shake.
The door hinges groaned behind him, and Veyra stepped out, her dark braid swaying with her stride. She wore her usual gray tunic, patched at the elbows, but her storm-gray eyes held a brightness that caught him off guard. "You're up early," she said, her tone light but searching as she studied him. In her arms, she cradled a bundle of deep blue linen, its edges neatly folded, a faint shimmer of silver thread peeking out.
"Couldn't sleep," he mumbled, shifting his weight, the porch creaking under him. "Bad night."
She crossed the distance between them, her boots scuffing softly against the wood, and pressed the bundle into his hands. Her fingers brushed his, warm and calloused from years of weaving and cooking. "This is for you," she said, her smile small but genuine. "Tradition—Age of Promise means new clothes. Put it on."
He unfolded it carefully, the fabric spilling over his palms like water. It was a tunic, rich sapphire blue, its collar and cuffs embroidered with delicate silver threads that caught the sunlight in tiny, dazzling bursts. The material was smooth, almost silken, and carried the faint, soothing scent of lavender—Veyra's touch, her hours spent pressing herbs into the weave. "You made this?" he asked, glancing up at her, his voice quieter than he meant it to be.
"With some help from Mistress Elryn," she admitted, her smile widening. "She did the fancy stitching—I'm no good with needles that small. Go on, try it."
He hesitated, then pulled it over his head, the tunic sliding over his thin frame with a whisper of fabric. It fit perfectly, hugging his shoulders without pinching, the hem brushing just above his knees. The silver threads gleamed as he moved, a stark contrast to his pale skin and silver hair. It felt… wrong, somehow—too fine for him, too much like something a noble's son would wear—but Veyra's eyes sparkled with pride as she stepped back to look at him.
"You're handsome," she teased, her voice lilting with warmth. "The village girls won't know what to do with you tonight."
Heat surged up his neck, prickling under his skin, and he ducked his head, letting his hair fall over his eyes like a shield. "Mother…" he muttered, half protest, half plea.
She laughed—a bright, unguarded sound that filled the morning air—and pulled him into a quick hug, her arms strong around him. "Come inside," she said, releasing him with a gentle nudge toward the door. "Breakfast's ready, and Lirien's already pacing the yard like a caged wolf."
He nodded, the tunic's weight settling against him, unfamiliar but comforting, and followed her inside, the scent of lavender trailing him like a promise he didn't yet understand.