When the Flow Awoke

Chapter 18 - When the Flow Awoke

Morning sunlight in Greyhollow was never as gentle as it was in Elen’shade.

Light slipped through the narrow gap of the window, dust drifting lazily in the warm air, breaking the beam into thin lines across the wooden floor. The house was quiet. The scent of breakfast lingered, soft footsteps crossed the room, and cold air crept in through the cracks of the door.

Zio sat on the edge of his bed. His body responded slowly, as if the world had shifted its rhythm overnight. His eyes remained half-lidded, adjusting.

From the kitchen, Martha moved with practiced ease. She had prepared breakfast, warm bread, a pot of root stew, leftover meat from the night before. Simple. Familiar. Enough.

“Morning,” she said softly, as if this were an ordinary day.

“Morning,” Zio replied. His gaze lingered on his hands. Something felt different, though he couldn’t name it. He lifted the bowl, tasted the stew. Warm. Familiar.

Martha stood beside him, watching quietly. Her thoughts, however, remained tangled in the long conversation from the day before.

After eating, Zio leaned back for a moment, then stood.

“I’m going to the workshop,” he said. “I miss it.”

Martha let out a slow breath and followed him without argument.

Trod’s workshop was already open. Tools lay neatly arranged. Metal gleamed faintly in the light. The air smelled of heated iron and oil.

Zyon sat on an old chair, staff resting beneath his hand. His presence was silent, yet heavy, like a wind carrying history with it. His eyes remained on Trod until Zio stepped in.

“You’re up,” Trod said.

Zyon turned, his gaze settling on Zio.

“I am,” Zio replied. His smile was thin. His eyes, however, held a quiet strain, as if his body no longer felt entirely his own.

They spoke lightly. Childhood memories surfaced, Zio helping in the workshop, lifting metal too heavy for his size, polishing iron until his hands ached. For a moment, the world felt unchanged.

As the sun climbed higher, Zio stepped into the backyard, the small clearing where he used to train. He began with light movements. Small jumps. Slow rotations of his arms.

Martha remained behind him.

The first movements felt normal. Controlled. Predictable.
Then one landing came a fraction late. Zio paused, frowned, then dismissed it.

Zio inhaled deeply.

The air filled his lungs, too warm. Too dense.

Something swelled inside his chest. Not pain. Not yet.
It felt like pressure trapped beneath bone and muscle, pressing outward with no direction to escape.

He steadied himself.

Just fatigue, he told himself.

His next landing was slightly off.

Not enough to stumble, only enough to force him to stop.

Zio frowned.

The pressure returned, heavier this time. Heat followed, spreading unevenly, crawling through his ribs like liquid fire searching for a path. His heartbeat stumbled once, then surged.

His breath hitched.

That’s not normal.

The pain came without warning.

It tore through his chest in a sharp, suffocating burst, stealing the air from his lungs. His vision blurred. His knees buckled as his body convulsed against his will.

“Argh!”

“TROD!” Martha screamed.

Both Trod and Zyon turned at once and rushed toward him.

“Bring him inside,” Zyon said calmly, his voice firm with authority.

Trod lifted Zio without hesitation and carried him in. Zio’s body trembled violently, the pain tightening its grip.

Zyon moved quickly. He reached for the pendant at Zio’s neck. A gentle light surfaced as he guided his energy into it, pressing the pendant firmly against Zio’s chest.

For a brief moment, Martha’s thoughts slipped back to an old memory.

“Clara,” she murmured, then fell silent.

Zio opened his eyes. The pain receded slowly, like a tide pulling back. Whatever had surged through him faded once more. He looked at Zyon.

“What was that... that flow?” he asked, his voice unsteady.

“Yes,” Zyon answered. “Mana. Yours never flowed when you were young. It’s natural that it feels unfamiliar now.”

Zyon’s gaze hardened slightly.

“Now you must choose,” he said, pausing as if weighing the words themselves.
“To live with your mana sealed... or to learn how to control both cores.”

Zio looked at Martha and Trod, the two people who had always stood beside him. Martha’s worry was clear. Trod remained silent, steady.

“Alright,” Zio said at last. “I’ll learn to control it.”

Zyon nodded once.
“Then you’ll come with me. Training will take place at the foot of the northern mountains.”

Martha frowned.
“Why not here?”

Zyon met her gaze, cool, yet not unkind.
“You already know the risk if others learn the truth.”

“But it’s cold there,” she insisted. “It’s far. How will Zio rest at night?”

“I’ve lived there for over ten years,” Zyon replied evenly. “I built a small house.”

He turned to Zio.
“Your mana is sealed again for now. I’ll release it later. Until then, recover your stamina. Your body is already strong thanks to Trod’s training. You’ll simply repeat it.”

Martha lowered her head. The weight of his words left no room for protest. Trod nodded quietly, accepting the decision.

Morning returned to Greyhollow.

Sunlight slipped into the yard behind the workshop, glinting off iron and wood. Dust drifted in the air, and the scent of damp earth mixed with warm metal.

Zio stood upright, focused. He repeated familiar movements. His body, long accustomed to silence, now sensed faint remnants of flow beneath the surface.

The wind brushed through the leaves, carrying the smell of the forge. Memories surfaced: lifting hammers, shifting glowing iron, laughing when metal slipped from his grip. A faint smile crossed his face.

Trod stepped out, his expression warm.
“It’s been a while,” he said. “Still remember how to balance iron?”

“A little,” Zio replied. “But I will.”

Nearby, Zyon observed from his chair, silent. He interrupted nothing, only watched. Every breath. Every tension. Every subtle response of mana.

The sun climbed higher.

Heavy footsteps approached along the path. The clang of the forge faded beneath the sound of hooves. A dwarf arrived on horseback.

Trod’s face lit up.
“Teodor. It’s been a long time.”

“Too long,” Teodor replied, dismounting with ease.

They clasped hands. Teodor then turned to Zyon. He felt it, not fear, but an overwhelming presence, heavier than anything he had known.

“Teodor,” he said, extending his hand carefully. “A distant relative of Trod.”

“Zyon,” came the reply, calm and measured.
“Khan-dur?” Zyon added.

“Yes. That’s where we were born.”

Zyon nodded, fragments of old memories stirring briefly.

“You don’t usually come here without reason,” Trod said, handing him a mug. “And you didn’t come straight from Ravenhold.”

Teodor laughed.
“You’re not wrong.”

“A mission?” Trod asked.

“Southwest forest of Greyhollow. Along the trade routes.”

“That far from monster territory?” Trod frowned.

“Lately, monsters have been appearing well outside their nests.”

Zyon’s eyes narrowed, just slightly.

Villagers soon arrived, farmers with chipped tools, hunters with broken weapons. The forge roared back to life. Time slipped by unnoticed.

By afternoon, Teodor stepped into the training yard, watching Zio lift a heavy piece of iron.

“Strong for a human,” he said with a grin.
“Most focus only on fire magic and neglect the body.”

Zio inclined his head modestly.

“Zio, is it?” Teodor asked.

“Yes.”

“Teodor,” he said, gripping Zio’s hand. His fingers traced the calluses, the hardened muscle. Nothing about it had come easily.

“You’re lean, but solid,” Teodor remarked. “You remind me of someone who used to work with Trod.”

Trod approached.
“He’s from the city,” he said lightly. “Adventurer guild.”

Zio glanced at Teodor, memories of Ravenhold’s noise flickering briefly.

Trod laughed and patted his shoulder.
“Don’t worry about that yet. Focus on training. The guild accepts people at seventeen.”

The sun dipped low, shadows stretching across the yard.

“That’s enough for today,” Trod said.

Zio smiled faintly. His body felt light, yet alive with unfamiliar sensations.

“Don’t overdo it,” Zyon said gently.

Zio nodded.

Zyon’s gaze drifted north, toward the mountains.

“Zio,” Martha called. “Dinner’s ready.”

“Alright,” he replied, heading inside.

The evening wind swept the yard, carrying the scent of earth and iron.

Zio looked up at the violet-tinged sky. Today was only the beginning.

The sun disappeared beyond the horizon. Night settled over Greyhollow.

Among iron, soil, and the echoes of childhood, Zio stood ready, facing a future filled with mystery, trials, and a power he had yet to truly understand.