CHAPTER 11 — Ashes of the Ordinary
The hidden domain did not sleep.
Riven learned that within his first hour.
The forest remained still, yet never at rest—roots shifting beneath the soil, energy circulating like blood through invisible veins. Even when he closed his eyes, the place watched him, measured him, weighed him.
He sat on the cold stone platform Aetherion had raised, breathing slowly, trying to steady the tremor in his hands.
His body ached.
Not from wounds—those he knew well—but from something deeper. From being stripped bare in a way no blade could manage.
Aetherion stood a short distance away, hands clasped behind his back, gaze fixed on the forest's heart as though reading a book written in air.
"Again," he said calmly.
Riven looked up, startled. "Again? I haven't even—"
"Again," Aetherion repeated, tone unchanged.
Riven swallowed and rose unsteadily to his feet.
The moment he began circulating the energy as instructed, pain flared through his chest. The crescent mark—now hidden, folded inward under layers of seals—responded sluggishly, like a wounded beast refusing to move.
His breath hitched.
Sweat beaded along his brow.
"Focus," Aetherion said. "Your fear is louder than your intent."
Riven clenched his jaw and pushed.
He gathered the shadow the way Aetherion had shown him—slow, controlled, disciplined.
The moment it responded, pain lanced through his chest. His vision blurred. His knees buckled.
The shadow surged—wild, unshaped—and slammed outward.
The ground cracked.
Energy surged—and immediately backfired.
Riven was thrown back like a broken doll, breath ripped from his lungs. He hit the stone hard and didn't move.
For a terrifying second, he couldn't feel his legs.
Silence followed.
Riven lay there, staring up at the pale canopy, chest burning.
Back then, Riven thought fear was the worst thing a boy could feel.
Fear of the dark. Fear of whispers. Fear of things he didn't understand.
He didn't know how precious those silent mornings had been.
Aetherion stepped closer, looking down at him—not unkindly, but without pity.
"Get up."
Riven laughed weakly. "You really don't soften your words, do you?"
"No," Aetherion replied. "The world will not soften its blows. Why should I lie to you first?"
Riven pushed himself upright, arms trembling.
"I thought… once I hid the mark, things would get easier," he admitted quietly.
Aetherion didn't rush to him.
He watched.
"If that had happened outside this domain," he said calmly, "you would already be dead."
Riven clenched his teeth and forced himself upright, trembling.
"Again," Aetherion added. "Or stay broken."
Riven said nothing.
The truth settled heavy in his chest.
---
Lessons Without Mercy
Training in the hidden domain was not like the stories.
There were no gradual steps. No gentle corrections. No encouragement disguised as kindness.
Aetherion dismantled him piece by piece.
He corrected Riven's stance until his muscles screamed. He disrupted his energy flow mid-circulation, forcing Riven to adapt or collapse. He summoned pressure—vast and crushing—not to harm, but to test whether Riven could remain conscious beneath it.
Again and again, Riven failed.
Again and again, he stood back up.
By the time the domain's strange light dimmed—its version of dusk—Riven could barely feel his legs.
He collapsed near the edge of the clearing, back against a twisted root, staring at his shaking hands.
They looked smaller somehow.
Younger.
He remembered hands like these fixing fences. Holding grain sacks. Passing bread across a wooden table.
He remembered the smell of smoke in the mornings. The sound of goats bleating. The elder's cane tapping stone.
He hadn't said goodbye.
The thought hit him without warning, sharp and sudden.
For a moment, Riven wanted to stop.
Not because of the pain—but because part of him was afraid that if he kept going, the boy who remembered warm mornings and quiet laughter would disappear completely.
His hands shook.
Then he closed his eyes and stepped forward anyway.
He swallowed hard.
"They'll think I ran," Riven murmured.
Aetherion, standing nearby, did not turn. "They will think many things."
"I didn't mean to disappear," Riven said, voice rough. "I just wanted answers."
Aetherion finally looked at him.
"And now?"
Riven stared into the dirt.
"Now I don't know if I can ever go back."
The forest hummed softly, as if acknowledging the truth.
Aetherion's voice lowered. "The world rarely allows us to return unchanged."
---
The Weight of Becoming
Later—when exhaustion dragged Riven into a half-conscious state—he dreamed.
Not of gods. Not of shadows.
He dreamed of Raelor.
Of a morning where the sky was pale gold and nothing hurt. Of laughter drifting from a nearby house. Of himself, younger, annoyed at chores he now would have given anything to do again.
In the dream, he stood at the edge of the village, watching himself walk away.
He tried to shout.
No sound came.
He woke with wet eyes and clenched fists.
For a moment, he didn't know where he was.
Then the pressure returned. The immense presence. The hidden domain.
Reality settled in.
Slowly, Riven sat up.
The shadow creature lay curled nearby, unusually still. When it sensed him stir, it lifted its head and pressed closer,unsteady—mirroring his weakness instead of hiding it.
Riven rested a hand against its form.
"I'm still here," he whispered—to it, or to himself, he wasn't sure.
From across the clearing, Aetherion spoke without looking over.
"You are mourning," he said.
Riven stiffened. "I didn't say—"
"You don't need to," Aetherion replied. "Loss announces itself."
Riven exhaled shakily. "I didn't lose them in a battle. I didn't fail to protect them. I just… left."
"Sometimes," Aetherion said, "that is worse."
Riven closed his eyes.
The cruelty of the world was not just in what it took by force—
—but in what it made you abandon to survive.
---
A Harder Dawn
When the domain brightened again, Aetherion did not give Riven time to dwell.
"Stand," he said.
Riven obeyed, slower than before.
"Today," Aetherion continued, "you will learn restraint."
Riven frowned. "Restraint?"
"You carry power that reacts emotionally," Aetherion said. "That is why it flares when you are afraid. Angry. Desperate."
He stepped closer, golden eyes sharp.
"If you let grief guide it… it will consume you."
Riven nodded slowly.
"I don't want to become a monster."
Aetherion's gaze softened—just barely.
"Then remember this feeling," he said. "Remember what you are afraid of losing again."
He raised a hand.
The pressure descended.
Not overwhelming.
Measured.
Intentional.
Riven steadied his breathing, anchoring himself—not to power, but to memory.
To quiet mornings. To simple warmth. To a life that didn't demand blood for survival.
The energy within him stirred.
This time, it didn't rebel.
It listened.
Aetherion watched closely.
"…Good," he said.
Riven exhaled, legs shaking—but still standing.
For the first time, he understood something crucial:
Power wasn't just about enduring pain.
Power wouldn't save him.
Endurance might.
And the world would take everything else first to make sure he deserved it.
It was about choosing what parts of yourself you refused to let the world erase.
And as the hidden domain watched in silence, Riven Soltray took another step forward—
away from the boy he had been,
and toward the man the world would one day fear.
_
Chapter End