Five days after the raid, Ivarr found himself in a small village some distance from Felgar.

  He sat alone on a bench near the market road, eating a simple lunch with the kind of slow, distracted bites that meant he wasn’t tasting any of it. In front of him lay a closed book. Not the one that described the divine artefacts.

  His spell book.

  He kept staring at it as though the cover might change shape if he looked long enough.

  “What are you reading?” Thalia asked.

  Ivarr didn’t lift his gaze. “Just… looking.”

  “At your spell book,” she pointed out.

  He gave a faint nod.

  Thalia’s voice sharpened with impatience. “Why are you looking at that book? If there’s a spell you need help casting, I’m here to assist you.”

  Ivarr shook his head once. “No. It’s not about casting.”

  “Then what is it about?” Thalia demanded. “That’s like throwing a lure into the sea with no intention of catching fish.”

  He let out a small breath through his nose, almost a laugh, except it died before it could become one.

  “Back home,” he began quietly, “quite a while ago… our elders announced their plan to hunt the artefacts.”

  “I don’t recall asking for a backstory—”

  “They called for volunteers,” Ivarr continued, speaking over her for once. “Anyone who wanted to venture here, to Westrald, and join the search.”

  His fingers tightened on the edge of the book. For a moment, he stared at it as if it were the only thing holding him in place.

  “I stepped forward.”

  Ivarr hesitated. His throat worked.

  “They rejected me,” he said, his voice thin. “Said I was too weak. My mana was too weak. That I had no talent. That I couldn’t even cast properly.”

  A tear gathered at the corner of his eye. He blinked, but it didn’t fall.

  “I went to my parents. My brothers. My relatives.” His voice wavered, and he hated it for wavering. “I asked them to help me. Training, resources, introductions… anything that might give me a chance to be chosen.”

  Thalia went quiet for once. Then, cautiously, she asked, “Is that how you got the compass?”

  Ivarr’s gaze dropped.

  “They refused.” His jaw clenched. “They said the same things the elders did. That I’d be a burden. That I’d embarrass them. That I’d get myself killed.”

  His hand drifted to the bracelet without thinking. “So,” he said, almost in a whisper, “I stole it.”

  Thalia’s stone flickered. Her tone turned bright, almost delighted. “And you made a brave and fascinating choice. With this, you’ll acquire the power of the Six Primals. You’ll be unstoppable.”

  Ivarr finally looked up, and the look on his face wasn’t hunger. It was exhaustion.

  “It isn’t just about power,” he said. “Or the height.” He swallowed, his voice roughening. “I wanted to show them I could do something big, on my own.”

  His gaze drifted past the road, past the villagers laughing and trading and living as though belonging were effortless.

  “I want to be recognized,” he admitted. “Respected. I want to feel… accepted, like I belong with them.”

  “You will be soon, Ivarr,” Thalia said. A thin, spectral hand emerged from the bracelet, formed from faint violet light, and pointed south, steady as a compass needle. “The next artefact. The closest one. It’s there. Faenril’s flute.”

  Ivarr pushed himself up from the bench. As he stood, a whistle cut through the village air, sharp and familiar.

  For half a second, his heart jumped, because it sounded almost exactly like Catherine when she called Barrel.

  “…Catherine?” he breathed, more to himself than to anyone.

  He turned too quickly, only to see a girl farther down the road whistling at her dog as it chased its own tail. The disappointment hit him harder than it should have.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Thalia’s stone flickered once. “What about her?”

  Ivarr started walking, eyes on the road but his mind somewhere else. “I think—” He hesitated, as though the admission tasted strange. “I think I miss her.”

  “You’ll get over it,” Thalia said briskly.

  But Ivarr didn’t speed up. If anything, his steps slowed.

  “No one treated me like that before,” he said quietly.

  Thalia’s tone turned dry. “Like a servant?”

  Ivarr shot her a look. “Like someone needed.” His voice tightened. “She gave me food. A place to sleep. Taught me to cast… properly.”

  “She did that because she needed your help,” Thalia said. “For Elyndra’s temple. To find treasure. Don’t romanticize it.”

  Ivarr’s jaw clenched. He kept walking, but his grip on his book tightened. “That’s the thing,” he said. “She could’ve run. Found someone else. She could’ve kept you. Kept the artefact for herself.”

  Thalia didn’t answer immediately.

  Ivarr went on, his words coming faster now, as though once he started, he couldn’t stop. “She kept teaching me even after I told her my whole reason was… stupid.” He swallowed. “Just to impress people back home.”

  His gaze lowered to the bracelet on his arm. “She didn’t need me,” he said. “Not really.”

  “And she still did it anyway.” His voice softened, almost bewildered. “And when the shell was right there… she let me keep it. She could’ve taken it, and I couldn’t have stopped her.”

  He exhaled, slow and shaky, as if admitting it out loud made it more real. “That’s not just business.”

  Before Ivarr could continue, a voice spoke from his side, close enough to make him flinch.

  “Who are you talking to, young man?”

  Ivarr turned sharply. An old man sat on another bench. He had a small clay cup in hand, his eyes narrowed with polite suspicion. Ivarr hadn’t even noticed him earlier.

  “You don’t happen to be one of those loons, are you?” the elder added, jerking his chin toward the empty air.

  Ivarr’s stomach tightened. He forced his face into something calm.

  “Just… reciting,” he said. “Something I wanted to say… to family. Back home.”

  The elder’s expression softened at once. “Ah,” he murmured, as if that explained everything. “No wonder you sounded worried.”

  He took a slow sip of tea. “Family,” the old man went on, his voice mild, “despite being close to you… can be the hardest to deal with.”

  Ivarr didn’t answer, but his shoulders loosened a fraction.

  The elder shifted his pot carefully between them, steam curling into the cool air. “Mind staying for a talk?” he asked. “The day’s long. I’ve got a pot of tea, and only myself to indulge with.”

  Ivarr hesitated, then nodded. He had nowhere to be. Nothing urgent, except the ache in his chest that didn’t know where to go, so he stayed.

  They spoke for a while. The elder talked first, as elders often did when given the chance, and before long he admitted he lived alone now. Not because he wanted to.

  “Choices,” he said, staring into his cup. “Some of mine weren’t… acceptable to my relatives. To my wife. Even to my children. It started small. Disagreements, words said too sharply, pride that wouldn’t bend.”

  His mouth tightened into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Eventually they stopped visiting. And then one day I realized I couldn’t remember the last time someone came by just to sit.”

  Ivarr listened quietly, the tea warming his hands. When it was his turn, he spoke carefully. He didn’t say what he was. He didn’t say where he was from, or what kind of home shunned someone for lacking mana. He only told the truth in shapes that could pass for ordinary.

  “My family… my community, they… don’t want much to do with me.”

  His voice dropped. “I can’t remember a time as well after I was very young when I felt… accepted.”

  The elder watched him for a long moment, then asked gently, “And what are you trying to do about it?”

  Ivarr stared at the road ahead, at villagers laughing, children playing in the street, women sharing stories while carrying produce.

  “How do you convince them to give you attention?” he asked quietly. “To finally… see you?”

  The elder didn’t answer right away. He set his cup down, fingers resting on the rim as if he were choosing his words with care.

  “I don’t,” he said at last.

  “If they truly accept who you are,” the old man continued, “you don’t have to bend yourself into something impressive for them to do it.”

  He leaned back, eyes half-lidded against the afternoon light. “They’ll show up,” he said simply, “because they care about you. Not because you managed to impress them. And if they don’t? Let them be.”

  “But—” Ivarr couldn’t form the rest of it, not even in his own thoughts.

  “It may not be our choice where we are born,” the old man continued. “But where we go, where we belong, that is for us to choose and decide.”

  They spoke a while longer, and as the minutes passed, something in Ivarr quietly settled. A thought, simple and almost embarrassing in its humility. Power wasn’t the thing he’d been chasing, not truly. Not all the way down.

  What he wanted was a place where he was wanted. A place where he didn’t have to earn warmth by becoming extraordinary. Where people could look at him and still choose to stay.

  It didn’t take long for the rest of the realization to follow.

  He might have already found the answer.

  When the hour had passed and the pot ran dry, Ivarr stood. The elder rose with him, joints creaking, hands clasped behind his back.

  “Thank you, young man,” the old man said with a small grin. “For sparing this geezer your time. It was a pleasure speaking with you.”

  “And thank you,” Ivarr replied, sincerity plain in his voice. “For your advice.”

  The elder’s eyes softened. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

  Ivarr bowed, then turned to continue down the road. He had taken only two steps when it struck him, sharp and sudden, like waking from a dream.

  He hadn’t asked the elder his name.

  Ivarr turned back, opening his mouth to call out, but the bench was empty. The cups were gone. Only the faint scent of tea lingered in the air.

  The old man was simply… gone.

  “Where did he—” Ivarr stammered, turning in place as if the man might reappear if he looked hard enough.

  “It’s nothing,” Thalia said quickly. “Some strange old villager. Probably slipped away while you were daydreaming. Now move.”

  Ivarr didn’t answer. He started walking anyway.

  By the time they reached the village outskirts, the road opened in two directions, one leading south, the other bending back toward Felgar. Ivarr slowed at the fork, staring ahead… then glanced over his shoulder at the rooftops behind him, the old man’s words still echoing in his mind.

  He turned, and Thalia’s tone snapped sharp. “Where are you going? Faenril’s temple is that way.”

  “We’re taking a detour,” Ivarr said.

  “A detour?!” Thalia hissed. “Faenril’s flute can’t wait!”

  “It can,” Ivarr replied, and his voice didn’t shake this time.

  Thalia’s gem flickered, irritated. “What could possibly be more important than acquiring a Primal’s power?!”

  Ivarr kept walking, boots steady on the dirt path. He didn’t look back.

  When he finally answered, it was only one word, simple yet resolute.

  “Someone.”