The days following Eryndor's awakening passed in a strange haze.
Training continued in brief, careful sessions. His Wind core responded best when he didn't push too hard—when he listened instead of demanded. Each success felt earned, each failure instructive. Still, the feeling of stagnation gnawed at him.
Zephyra Academy was too far.
The entrance test lay months ahead, an unmoving horizon he could not yet reach. Waiting felt wrong. The wind around him seemed restless, urging him onward.
That night, Eryndor sat alone in the small home his parents had left behind.
The house was quiet in a way that only orphaned homes were—still, preserved, heavy with memory. He knelt before an old wooden chest at the foot of his bed and opened it slowly.
Inside lay what little remained of them.
A traveling cloak, faded but well-stitched. A silver wind-chime charm, dulled with age. A pair of worn leather gloves, reinforced at the knuckles. None of it was extraordinary. None of it was replaceable.
Eryndor's hands trembled as he lifted the gloves.
"I'll bring something back," he whispered. "Something worthy."
By morning, his decision was made.
He wrapped the items carefully and made his way toward the market district. The streets were already awake—vendors calling out prices, apprentices hauling crates, and travelers weaving through the crowd with purpose.
This was not the village market meant for farmers.
This was where core users gathered.
Stalls displayed enchanted canteens, reinforced boots, wind-resistant cloaks, core-stabilizing talismans, and travel rations dense with mana. Weapons leaned against racks—short blades, spears, compact bows designed for movement.
Eryndor swallowed.
This was the world he was stepping into.
He sold the gloves first.
The merchant examined them carefully. "Old craftsmanship," he muttered. "Good balance. I'll give you a fair price."
Eryndor accepted without haggling.
Each coin felt heavier than the last.
With what he earned, he purchased essentials: a reinforced cloak, dried travel food, a small wind-aligned talisman designed to calm unstable cores. He lingered longer than necessary at one stall, watching a Wind user demonstrate controlled air bursts for cutting brush and clearing paths.
That could be me, he thought.
By midday, his pack was full and his purse lighter—but his resolve was solid.
At the edge of the market, Kael found him.
"So it's real," Kael said quietly, eyeing the pack. "You're leaving."
Eryndor nodded. "East. The Gale Expanse."
Kael exhaled slowly. "Figures. My siblings mentioned it once. Open land. Strong currents. You'll either grow… or get torn apart."
"I know."
Kael reached into his pocket and pressed something into Eryndor's palm—a small fire-marked token. "If you ever need shelter, show this at the academy gates. They'll recognize it."
Eryndor closed his fingers around it. "Thank you."
They parted without ceremony.
At dawn the next day, Eryndor stood at the village gate, pack secured, blade resting against his side. Elder Marrec watched from a distance, leaning on his staff.
"You seek understanding beyond guidance," the elder said. "That path sharpens some… and breaks others."
"I won't break," Eryndor replied.
Marrec studied him for a long moment before turning away. "Then go."
As Eryndor stepped beyond Lowreach, the wind surged—free, powerful, welcoming. It wrapped around him like an old companion, urging him forward.
Behind him lay memory, loss, and limitation.
Ahead lay open skies, danger, and growth.
And for the first time since his awakening, Eryndor felt something close to peace.
He had chosen his path.