The Weight of Inheritance Part 2

The training yard at Caelbrim’s southern wall was quiet in the early hours, save for the soft whistle of wind through the banners. The sky above was lavender with dawn, and frost clung to the stone flagstones. Michael stood alone at its center, his palms open, his breath steady, trying once again to draw in the shimmering particles that hung invisibly in the air.

Spirit energy. The lifeblood that the Benohim claimed came from the Celestials themselves, and what his father told him every Nephilim must master.

It began as warmth in his chest, spreading to his arms, a tingling like static beneath the skin. He exhaled slowly, coaxing the threads of energy to gather. In the pale light, faint motes began to appear, like dust made of silver, clustering between his hands.

The air shimmered.

Then it broke.

The motes exploded outward with a sharp crack, searing his skin. Michael hissed and stumbled back, shaking his hand as smoke curled from his palm. The training post ten paces away bore a blackened scar across its wood.

Too fast. Too wild. Again.

He closed his eyes, recalling the lesson drilled into him: Spirit energy is everywhere — in the air, the earth, within our bodies. But it is fickle. Draw too much, and it breaks you before it obeys you.

The scar throbbed across his palm, a warning. Yet, even as pain flared, there was exhilaration. That scar was proof: he had called it, bent it, however briefly.

From the doorway, a voice spoke. “You think wounds make you strong?”

Michael turned. His father stood at the edge of the yard, robed in white and silver, lantern staff in hand. Daniel’s face was lined more deeply than it had been a year ago, eyes shadowed with sleeplessness. He looked less like a king than a man straining to keep the weight of a kingdom upon his shoulders.

“I was practicing,” Michael said.

“You were gambling,” Daniel replied, stepping closer. “Holy energy burns faster, brighter, deadlier than spirit energy — and it eats you alive if you cannot ground it. You will learn restraint, or you will die before you even set foot in Ashveil.”

Michael stiffened. “So that’s your answer? Keep me wrapped in scripture until the day I’m too old to choose anything else?”

“Discipline is not chains. It is survival.”

Michael’s hand curled into a fist. “Maybe I don’t care about survival if it means living only the life you’ve chosen for me.”

For a moment, silence hung between them, only the wind through the banners breaking it. Then Daniel lifted his staff, planting its base on the ground. A sphere of golden light bloomed outward, a holy field humming in the air. The frost around them melted instantly. The brightness was beautiful — and suffocating.

“This,” Daniel said, voice low, “is why you must go to Ashveil. To understand what true burden means. The caravans are being torn apart, the Church is crying for aid, and the Domes are faltering. Eryndor will be nothing if we cannot prove we can stand in that darkness.”

“And me?” Michael asked bitterly. “What am I to you — a son, or a weapon to win your place among the kings?”

Daniel’s grip on the staff trembled. For the first time, Michael saw the cracks in him: the man who had lost his wife, abandoned his daughter, and carried guilt he would never confess.

“You are both,” Daniel whispered.

Michael felt the words strike deeper than any lash. He wanted to scream, to deny it, but he could only stand there, the sting on his palm echoing the ache in his chest.

That night, Michael returned to the archives with Ivo. His friend noticed the burn on his hand but said nothing at first.

“You pushed it too far, didn’t you?” Ivo finally asked, lighting the lantern.

Michael smirked faintly, though it hurt. “You sound like my father.”

“Maybe he’s right.”

“Or maybe he’s just afraid I’ll find something he can’t control.”

Ivo didn’t answer. Instead, he unfurled another map, tracing the paths into Ashveil with ink-stained fingers. “You’re going there soon. Don’t waste the chance. If I were you, I’d use it to chase what I really wanted.”

Michael thought of Lina at her forge, of laughter under lantern-light, of freedom that always seemed one step beyond reach. What did he really want? The question lingered, unanswered, as the candle guttered low.

By the week’s end, the summons came. The Oathbound were mustering in Caelbrim’s square, recruits gathered, names called. Lanterns burned in the morning mist, and the sound of drums rolled across the stone streets.

Daniel stood on the balcony above, his face carved in stone. Michael met his father’s gaze one last time before stepping forward. Neither bowed. Neither spoke. But the weight of everything unsaid pressed heavier than any words.

The gates of Caelbrim opened. And for the first time, Michael Marek walked toward Ashveil.The training yard at Caelbrim’s southern wall was quiet in the early hours, save for the soft whistle of wind through the banners. The sky above was lavender with dawn, and frost clung to the stone flagstones. Michael stood alone at its center, his palms open, his breath steady, trying once again to draw in the shimmering particles that hung invisibly in the air.

Spirit energy. The lifeblood that the Benohim claimed came from the Celestials themselves, and what his father told him every Nephilim must master.

It began as warmth in his chest, spreading to his arms, a tingling like static beneath the skin. He exhaled slowly, coaxing the threads of energy to gather. In the pale light, faint motes began to appear, like dust made of silver, clustering between his hands.

The air shimmered.

Then it broke.

The motes exploded outward with a sharp crack, searing his skin. Michael hissed and stumbled back, shaking his hand as smoke curled from his palm. The training post ten paces away bore a blackened scar across its wood.

Too fast. Too wild. Again.

He closed his eyes, recalling the lesson drilled into him: Spirit energy is everywhere — in the air, the earth, within our bodies. But it is fickle. Draw too much, and it breaks you before it obeys you.

The scar throbbed across his palm, a warning. Yet, even as pain flared, there was exhilaration. That scar was proof: he had called it, bent it, however briefly.

From the doorway, a voice spoke. “You think wounds make you strong?”

Michael turned. His father stood at the edge of the yard, robed in white and silver, lantern staff in hand. Daniel’s face was lined more deeply than it had been a year ago, eyes shadowed with sleeplessness. He looked less like a king than a man straining to keep the weight of a kingdom upon his shoulders.

“I was practicing,” Michael said.

“You were gambling,” Daniel replied, stepping closer. “Holy energy burns faster, brighter, deadlier than spirit energy — and it eats you alive if you cannot ground it. You will learn restraint, or you will die before you even set foot in Ashveil.”

Michael stiffened. “So that’s your answer? Keep me wrapped in scripture until the day I’m too old to choose anything else?”

“Discipline is not chains. It is survival.”

Michael’s hand curled into a fist. “Maybe I don’t care about survival if it means living only the life you’ve chosen for me.”

For a moment, silence hung between them, only the wind through the banners breaking it. Then Daniel lifted his staff, planting its base on the ground. A sphere of golden light bloomed outward, a holy field humming in the air. The frost around them melted instantly. The brightness was beautiful — and suffocating.

“This,” Daniel said, voice low, “is why you must go to Ashveil. To understand what true burden means. The caravans are being torn apart, the Church is crying for aid, and the Domes are faltering. Eryndor will be nothing if we cannot prove we can stand in that darkness.”

“And me?” Michael asked bitterly. “What am I to you — a son, or a weapon to win your place among the kings?”

Daniel’s grip on the staff trembled. For the first time, Michael saw the cracks in him: the man who had lost his wife, abandoned his daughter, and carried guilt he would never confess.

“You are both,” Daniel whispered.

Michael felt the words strike deeper than any lash. He wanted to scream, to deny it, but he could only stand there, the sting on his palm echoing the ache in his chest.

That night, Michael returned to the archives with Ivo. His friend noticed the burn on his hand but said nothing at first.

“You pushed it too far, didn’t you?” Ivo finally asked, lighting the lantern.

Michael smirked faintly, though it hurt. “You sound like my father.”

“Maybe he’s right.”

“Or maybe he’s just afraid I’ll find something he can’t control.”

Ivo didn’t answer. Instead, he unfurled another map, tracing the paths into Ashveil with ink-stained fingers. “You’re going there soon. Don’t waste the chance. If I were you, I’d use it to chase what I really wanted.”

Michael thought of Lina at her forge, of laughter under lantern-light, of freedom that always seemed one step beyond reach. What did he really want? The question lingered, unanswered, as the candle guttered low.

By the week’s end, the summons came. The Oathbound were mustering in Caelbrim’s square, recruits gathered, names called. Lanterns burned in the morning mist, and the sound of drums rolled across the stone streets.

Daniel stood on the balcony above, his face carved in stone. Michael met his father’s gaze one last time before stepping forward. Neither bowed. Neither spoke. But the weight of everything unsaid pressed heavier than any words.

The gates of Caelbrim opened. And for the first time, Michael Marek walked toward Ashveil.