FIRST TASTE OF POWER ARC
The snowfall hadn't stopped in two days.
Thick, slow flakes drifted across the forest trail as the horses trudged forward, their breaths steaming like ghosts in the cold. Four riders moved through the trees, cloaked in noble insignias — House Zars, House Solthein, and House Merien. An escort mission. A test of real-world competence.
At least, that's what the Pavilion had called it.
Deus didn't believe in "tests." Only traps.
He rode third in line, eyes half-closed against the wind. Ahead of him, Kairen Solthein scanned the trail like a seasoned scout. Behind them, a girl named Corva Merien muttered about freezing to death while adjusting her gloves.
Their task was simple: escort an envoy from the minor province of Taresca back to the capital. A formality. No expected threats. No known rebel activity.
But Deus had noticed something.
Too quiet.
Too clean.
The trees didn't rustle.
The wind didn't shift.
And the birds were gone.
By midday, the envoy — a short man with ink-stained fingers and terrible posture — coughed violently and asked for a stop.
They dismounted near a half-frozen river. Kairen collected dry wood. Corva complained about her boots. Deus stood at the edge of the clearing, one hand on the hilt of a traveling blade.
The Antrar hilts were back at his pack, wrapped and locked.
They weren't for show.
They were for something else.
Something closer to instinct.
Then the arrow came.
Fast. Silent.
Straight for the envoy's throat.
Deus moved first.
A blur.
His palm snapped up — redirected the arrow just enough to catch it on his bracer.
Kairen spun, already drawing his short blade. "Contact!"
Corva ducked low, whispering a defense rune.
From the trees, five masked figures emerged — dark leather, no sigils. Bandits?
No. Too clean.
Trained.
The fight erupted.
Kairen met the first attacker with brutal efficiency, parrying and countering with soldier's precision. Corva activated a flame ward that blinded one opponent long enough to land a stunning blow.
Deus, meanwhile, didn't unsheathe his travel blade.
He didn't need to.
He waited.
Observed.
Let them commit.
One attacker lunged.
Deus sidestepped, grabbed the man's cloak, spun behind, and drove an elbow into his spine. Another came — twin daggers flashing — and Deus disarmed him in three precise movements.
The third didn't charge.
He circled.
Smarter.
Deus turned slowly to face him.
Then felt it.
A second presence. Behind.
Too close.
Too fast.
The blade sliced clean across Deus's side.
Shallow — but real.
He stumbled back.
Blood soaked into the snow.
The attacker grinned beneath his mask.
"Your first scar, noble?"
Deus stared at him, eyes unreadable.
Then turned — and walked to his pack.
Kairen saw it happen from across the clearing. "Deus!"
Another attacker lunged toward the wounded noble — but stopped short as something pulsed from Deus's position.
The snow around his feet cracked.
A low hum filled the air.
Like steel remembering its name.
Deus knelt at his pack.
Unwrapped the cloth.
Pulled out the twin hilts.
Antrar.
For a moment, they remained silent.
Then, together, they ignited.
Black and silver light surged along each blade — crackling arcs of shadow and fire intertwining like twin storms.
The attackers froze.
Even the wind seemed to pause.
Deus rose.
He said nothing.
He didn't need to.
The blades spoke for him.
The first man came at him, shouting something about fear.
Deus cut him down in three movements.
The second lasted longer — a shield bearer. Deus broke the shield. Then the arm. Then the man.
The third tried to run.
Deus didn't follow.
He simply raised the black blade and let shadow energy pulse from it — fast, silent, precise.
The man collapsed.
Alive. Barely.
By the time it was over, four attackers lay unconscious. One was dead.
The envoy stared in horror. Corva looked pale.
Kairen approached, panting. "What… what were those blades?"
Deus didn't answer.
He stood in the center of the blood-streaked snow.
Antrar still humming.
Not loud.
But waiting.
Later – Campfire
"You moved like someone else," Kairen said, sharpening his blade. "That wasn't training. That was something… darker."
Deus sat across from him, shirt off, tending to his wound. The cut wasn't deep, but it had bled more than expected.
"I didn't lose control," he replied.
"No. But I don't think you had any to begin with."
They sat in silence.
Finally, Kairen said, "You're changing."
Deus stared at the fire.
And whispered, "No. I'm remembering."