Morning came softly to the edge of the continent.
The wind carried the scent of pine and salt, whispering through the crumbling watchtower where Elin lived. The light poured gently over the cliffs, brushing golden warmth across the jagged horizon. Below, a sea of mist rolled slowly over the broken land, obscuring the monstrous shapes that sometimes prowled beneath.
Elin was already awake.
She sat on the old stone railing, legs dangling over the sheer drop, chewing the last of her morning bread. Her uniform was simple — patched canvas and a faded scarf — but her eyes watched the distant horizon with quiet precision. The east perimeter looked fine. No tremors. No shapes moving wrong. The beasts hadn't stirred in weeks.
She hoped today would stay quiet.
Behind her, the clatter of an axe echoed through the forest slope. Davor was splitting wood again — likely more than they needed. He always claimed it helped him think. A rhythm of strength, he called it. Each swing was loud and sure, like thunder made steady.
Closer to the tower, in the ruined stone hall they'd half turned into a library, Sevrin was probably still hunched over one of his many notebooks, muttering to himself about pattern theory or the contradictions of cursed brand symbology. He hadn't come to bed last night. Again.
Elin smiled faintly.
She stood, brushing crumbs from her scarf, and slung her scouting bag over her shoulder. Another patrol, another loop. It was always the same, and yet… not unpleasant. There was peace in predictability. She had her tasks, and she liked them. Her parents had taught her to find joy in small things — in the wind, the trees, the sound of footsteps in the quiet. That was enough.
She didn't have echoes in her soul. No bright, burning wish. No hunger for power. Just… this.
And for a long time, that was all the world asked of her.
Until the day it asked for more.
The tower creaked as Elin descended the crooked spiral stairs. Ivy had long since claimed parts of the stone, crawling through cracks in the mortar like quiet fingers. Birds sometimes nested in the rafters. She didn't mind. The old place still held.
She stepped out into the clearing, where the trees opened to a wide view of the sky. There, just beyond the patch of flat earth they'd cleared for their little home, Davor stood among the stumps.
He was bare-chested, as usual — even in the morning chill — his thick brown hair tied back with a strip of leather. His body was all strength and breadth, marked with faded scars and old tattoos. And across his massive back, black like burnt ink carved into flesh, coiled his brand — a jagged, spiral crest that pulsed faintly beneath his skin. It crawled from his right shoulder down to his spine, like a beast half-asleep.
Each swing of his axe was fluid, heavy, and sure. No wasted movement. Like a man dancing with gravity.
"Elin," he called without looking up. "You're early."
"You've been chopping since before dawn," she replied, crossing her arms. "We have enough firewood to last until spring."
Davor gave a chuckle, deep and rough. "Wood's not for the fire today. Sevrin wants something denser. For shelves, I think."
"Shelves for books he doesn't have space for," she muttered with a sigh, then stepped past him toward the open door of the old chapel they'd turned into Sevrin's den.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of dust, ink, and dried herbs. Parchments were pinned to every surface — walls, ceilings, even the underside of the old wooden pews. A pile of half-sorted metal scraps and discarded brand frames cluttered one corner. And in the middle of it all, hunched over a mess of notes and tiny glass tubes, was Sevrin.
He looked up as Elin entered, a pair of cracked lenses perched on his nose. His dark hair, streaked with pale silver, fell messily around his face. He wore a long coat with too many pockets, each one stuffed with something strange — feathers, gears, half-eaten fruit. The sharp curve of his cheekbones made him look severe, but his eyes sparkled with a mix of wit and weariness.
The black brand on his temple slashed back into his hairline like a blade, was his own brand. A twisting crown of interlocking runes, etched in unnatural symmetry. The lines shimmered ever so slightly when he moved — not with light, but with something deeper, as if reflecting thought itself.
"Elin," he said, blinking as if surprised she was real. "You didn't eat the fruit, did you?"
"What fruit?"
"The blue ones by the well."
"There are no blue ones."
He frowned. "Good. That means I hallucinated them. Better than the reverse."
Elin stared at him. "Sevrin, when's the last time you slept?"
He shrugged. "Time is subjective."
"Sevrin…"
Davor's heavy tread approached behind her. "He's been working on something dangerous again," he said, dropping a split log near the wall. "He hasn't spoken a word in two days. Now he's making jokes about poison berries."
Sevrin raised a hand, defensive. "Not poison. Unverified. There's a difference."
"You're going to rot your brain," Elin muttered.
"Too late."
Davor only laughed again. Then he stepped past them and lifted the fallen log easily with one arm, balancing it on his shoulder. "Go on, Elin. Do your rounds. We'll hold the fort."
"Don't forget to eat," she told them both, slipping her scarf tighter.
"And don't forget to breathe," Sevrin called after her. "Some of us forget that too!"
The door closed behind her, and silence returned — the wind brushing through the trees, the echo of waves far below.
Elin paused at the edge of the clearing, gazing toward the worn path that snaked along the cliffs.
This place — this strange family of outcasts, rebels, and the girl without a soul-echo — was all she knew.
And for a time, it had been enough.
But something was shifting. The air felt different today.
She couldn't say why, but her hands tightened around the strap of her bag. And her feet stepped forward.
The wind picked up as Elin reached the edge of the cliffs, where the path narrowed and began its winding descent into the mist-veiled forest below. The trees here were different — ancient, their roots tangled like sleeping beasts, their bark scarred from past fights. But the morning sun caught on dew-slick branches, casting dappled light across her boots, and to Elin, it looked like the forest was smiling.
"This place always tries to scare me," she said aloud, grinning. "Too bad I'm used to it."
Her voice was light, almost teasing, as if she were chatting with the woods themselves.
She adjusted the short spear slung across her back and pulled out a piece of dried bread from her satchel, chewing while she walked. Her patrol route wound along the outer rim of the southern cliffs, just past a series of fractured watchstones — ancient markers built before even her foster parents arrived. The symbols on them had long worn away, but she liked to tap each one in passing, like greeting old friends.
"Morning, Watchy," she said, rapping a knuckle against the mossy stone. "Still standing. You win."
She hummed as she walked. The cliffs yawned open to her right, the drop steep enough to make most soldiers pale. But she danced along the ledge with an ease born from years of routine, years of Davor's gruff shouting and Sevrin's lectures on structural integrity.
Something rustled in the underbrush.
Elin stilled instantly. She didn't even flinch — just crouched, one hand on the dirt, the other slowly reaching for her spear. Her expression didn't harden, didn't change. It only grew more curious.
Then she saw it: a pale-horned fox, limping slightly as it pushed past a fern.
Elin exhaled in relief. "Hey, little guy…"
She reached into her pouch and tossed a strip of dried meat gently toward the creature. It sniffed, then snatched it and bounded off with a wag of its stubby tail.
"Still limping," she murmured. "I'll tell Davor to leave extra scraps near the den."
Further down, she reached a stretch of broken trees — old claw marks scored into trunks, black rot festering in the wounds. The kind of marks that made patrols stop breathing. These were not the work of animals.
But Elin only tilted her head at them and whispered, "You haven't come close in a while."
She didn't smile now. Her fingers brushed the grooves in the bark, reverent. Monsters didn't always roar. Sometimes they lingered, watching.
Elin stood in silence for a moment. Then she stepped back, took a smooth stone from her pouch, and carefully placed it in the hollow of the scarred tree. A small offering. A ritual of hers.
"Don't come closer," she said gently. "I like my mornings quiet."
The rest of the patrol passed in flickers of calm: a rusted sword buried halfway in the grass, which she stopped to inspect; a flower blooming out of season, which she cupped with both hands in awe; a raven that followed her for several minutes, cawing like it was trying to gossip.
By the time she circled back to the tower, the sun was higher in the sky and the clouds had burned away, revealing the vast emptiness beyond the cliffs.
Elin stood there a moment, looking out toward the fractured horizon — a distant line of hazy mountains and drifting Shards. The boundary of the known world. Everything past that was death.
Or so they said.
Elin didn't believe in absolutes. She only believed in what she could see. And she could see the sun, rising like it always did. The birds, flying toward places people had long abandoned. Even the monsters, twisted and dangerous, still clung to something like life.
She closed her eyes.
"The world is cruel," Sevrin once told her. "It will give you nothing unless you take it. And even then, it might take more."
"But it's also warm," Davor had added. "You just have to notice."
Elin had never been blessed. No mark. No gift.
But she had eyes. She had ears. She had moments like this. And to her, that was enough.
By the time Elin returned from patrol, the sun was dipping low behind the cliffs, painting the sky in hues of lavender and gold. Smoke curled lazily from the tower chimney — a sign that Davor had started dinner. She smiled.
The tower wasn't much to look at from the outside: a squat, patchworked structure built from old stone and salvaged beams. Moss clung to the shaded side, and vines ran wild over the cracks. But inside, it pulsed with quiet life. A long table. Maps tacked to the walls. A row of knives hanging above a hearth, polished to gleaming. Books stacked precariously high in corners that only Sevrin dared navigate.
The door creaked open as she pushed it, and the scent of roasted root vegetables and smoked meat filled the air.
"I'm home," she called.
"Welcome back, chickpea," came Davor's deep, rumbling voice from the kitchen. He was bent over the hearth, sleeves rolled up, muscles taut as he stirred the pot with exaggerated care. "Hope you didn't make friends with a bear again."
"One time," she said, grinning as she kicked off her boots. "And she was very polite."
Davor looked over his shoulder and gave her a wide smile — warm and unguarded. His thick brown hair was tied back in a short tail, a streak of silver cutting through it like a scar.
His frame was massive, his shoulders broad from years of wielding axes and carrying trees like kindling. A jagged black brand curled around his collarbone, creeping up his neck like ink in water — the mark of the Condemned. But to Elin, it was just a part of him. Like his crooked nose or his thunder-laugh.
"Dinner's almost ready," he said. "Sevrin's still trying to write a book about how to cook rice wrong."
"Incorrect," came a voice from the study loft above. "I'm writing a tactical essay on the volatility of grain-based starch under thermal assault."
Sevrin appeared on the spiral stairs, descending with a notebook in one hand and a teacup in the other. He was lean and sharp, his eyes always half-lidded like he was already ten steps ahead in the conversation. The black brand on his temple slashed back into his hairline like a blade — clean and deliberate. His robes were slightly singed. Again.
"You set something on fire, didn't you?" Elin asked.
"Only my pride."
She burst into laughter and rushed to set the table, humming while she moved. Davor served the stew in wide wooden bowls, while Sevrin poured tea with a theatrical flourish.
They all sat down together, just as they always did. No gods, no blessings, no prayers. Just family.
"So," Davor said between bites, "did you see the limping fox again?"
"Yep. Fed him dried meat. Still doesn't like my singing voice, though."
"You're lucky he tolerates your existence," Sevrin added. "Unlike some of us."
Elin narrowed her eyes playfully. "You mean unlike the squirrel that bit your finger last week?"
"That was a calculated negotiation," Sevrin muttered. "I just misread his tone."
Davor laughed, loud and booming, shaking the table. Elin leaned back in her chair, full and content, watching them both — her mismatched pair of protectors. Sevrin, with his wit and endless theories; Davor, with his strength and heart too big for his chest.
She'd grown up like this — in between their battles and philosophies, their silence and fire. She didn't know what made them stay with her, but they had. Even when the world cast them out and marked them in black.
They'd given her a name. A home. A reason to laugh.
And now, sitting under the glow of lantern light while the wind howled faintly outside, Elin couldn't imagine a better place to be.
"I think I'll add a swing outside the tower," she said suddenly.
Sevrin raised an eyebrow. "We're a hundred meters above a death gorge."
"So I'll tie it tight."
"I'm not saving you when the rope snaps."
"You'd miss me too much."
He opened his mouth, then closed it, defeated. Davor clapped her on the back and nodded with pride.
"I'll help," he said.
And just like that, the house filled with laughter again.
That night, the stars were bright.
Elin sat by the window, chin resting on her arms as she watched the night sky stretch across the world. Davor was already snoring in his chair by the hearth, and Sevrin was tinkering with some crystal contraption upstairs that pulsed softly with arcane light.
Everything felt… right.
Until the wind died.
In an instant, the night went still — unnaturally so. No rustling leaves, no howling cliffs. Even the old tower's groaning wood held its breath.
Elin's smile faded. She stood slowly, heart suddenly thudding. She turned toward the door—
And then the world lit up.
A blinding white glow poured through the window, so brilliant it drowned out the stars. A deafening silence fell, thicker than snow, and then—
Boom.
A pulse of pressure, like the heartbeat of a god.
Davor jerked awake, eyes wide. "Sevrin," he said immediately, voice low and grim.
"I feel it," came Sevrin's voice, already at the stairs, face pale in the unnatural light. "She's here."
Elin barely had time to ask before the sky opened.
She ran outside, barefoot on the stone path, her breath stolen from her chest.
And then she saw her.
Descending from the heavens like judgment made flesh.
A woman floated in the air above the broken cliff path, surrounded by a soft storm of golden motes that danced in slow, reverent orbit. Her armor gleamed white under the moonlight, elegant yet impenetrable — more like divine sculpture than battle gear. Each plate was etched with radiant sigils that shimmered with quiet authority. Her face, the only thing left uncovered, was calm. Too calm. Serene in the way a blade is serene before it strikes.
And from between the seams of her armor, glowing brands pulsed across her skin — dozens of them. Golden, intricate, and absolute. Each one a badge of perfection.
The mark of the true Ascender.
"Elin," Davor said quietly, stepping forward and putting an arm across her. His voice had lost all warmth. "Go inside."
"But who—?"
"She's the reason we on the run," Sevrin said, appearing behind them. His hands were trembling — not with fear, but fury barely chained. "The Seer."
The Seer hovered above them like a descending sun. Her gaze, pure and unblinking, settled on the tower.
"I have come," she said, voice echoing through the stones, "to collect what was hidden."
The air rippled as her power pressed down like gravity. Light spilled from her brands, pulsing with divine rhythm.
"We're not hiding," Davor said, stepping forward, muscles tense. "We left. We didn't run."
The Seer tilted her head. Her hair, long and silver-blonde, drifted weightless in the golden air.
"And yet you remain," she said softly. "Living in peace while the world crumbles under your rebellion. How quaint."
Sevrin took one step forward, the shadows clinging to him like armor of their own. "This is your last chance to leave."
"You will not strike me here," the Seer replied. "Not while she stands between you."
Her gaze flicked to Elin.
And Elin froze.
In that moment, she felt it — not pain, not fear, but exposure. Like her entire being had been seen and measured and quietly judged lacking. That serene face hadn't changed, but something in the air grew colder.
Davor roared and surged forward, axe in hand. Sevrin vanished into smoke. The ground cracked as golden light and raw rebellion collided.
But the Seer didn't flinch.
She raised one hand, and the world exploded into white.