Ren was dreaming of warmth.
Not the kind found in beds or sunlit fields—but something stranger. Familiar. A fire in the shape of a woman, speaking without words. The wind leaned toward her voice.
Then it happened.
A sharp breath.
A pulse in his head.
And the world snapped into focus.
Widow's Clarity.
That's what the system had called it. A gift. A reward. A curse.
Ren's eyes flew open.
He rolled—hard—as something sliced down through the air where his chest had been a second ago. The wooden bed shattered, splinters flying.
"What the hell?!"
He hit the floor and scrambled backward, the haze of sleep evaporating as fast as his comfort.
Castor stood over him, fists raised, already swinging again.
"Get up."
"What's your problem?"
Another punch came. Ren ducked it, breath catching in his throat. He backed away across Ezralda's floor as Castor came at him like a silent storm. Ren burst through the door, sunlight blinding him briefly as he stumbled outside, barefoot and disoriented.
The clearing was still. Quiet. A bird chirped from a branch.
And then came steel.
Castor unsheathed his sword with a practiced flick.
"You serious right now?" Ren spat, arms raised. "I don't even have a weapon!"
"You had your chance to ask for one," Castor replied coldly. "You've been playing at strength since I met you. Time to find out what you're really made of."
He lunged.
Ren dodged—barely. The edge of the blade sang past his ear. Widow's Clarity pulsed in his head, helping him see the trajectory just in time. But knowing wasn't enough. His body still struggled to keep up.
"You're insane!"
Castor didn't answer. Another swing. Ren ducked, grabbed a branch from the ground, snapped it over his knee, and held the jagged half like a dagger. In a heartbeat, he had taken up Kaelis' stance, ready to defend himself. Not ideal—but better than empty hands.
"You expect me to fight you?" Ren growled.
"I expect you to survive."
He came again. This time low.
Ren leapt back, lost balance, rolled, then surged upright, swinging the broken wood. Castor deflected it easily, spun, and drove a kick into Ren's gut. Ren doubled over, coughing, but didn't fall.
Widow's Clarity flickered again. A whisper. A flash. A warning.
He moved just before Castor's blade tip sliced toward his neck.
"You think you'll get a warning before Varren swings?" Castor barked. "You think power waits for permission?"
Ren swiped at him, furious. His makeshift weapon caught Castor's arm—but it was like hitting stone.
"Why are you doing this?"
Castor's next blow knocked the branch from Ren's hand. He grabbed Ren by the collar and slammed him to the ground. The point of the sword hovered at his throat. Breathing hard, eyes wild, Castor spoke.
"Because you don't get it. You still think this is some story where you find yourself just in time to save the day."
Ren winced.
"I let it go yesterday. The things you said. The way you acted. But today? You needed to learn. This is war. The world doesn't care what you're feeling. Neither does the Wyrd. And Varren—he especially doesn't. He'll tear you apart unless you get strong enough to stop him."
He sheathed the sword and stepped back.
"You want answers? Earn them. You want strength? Bleed for it."
Ren lay there, chest rising and falling, lips pressed into a line. No witty reply. No smug comeback. Just silence.
Castor turned his back. "I'm not your enemy. But if it takes being the villain to get you moving, so be it."
He vanished into the trees, leaving Ren alone in the clearing.
The sky stretched wide above him, painted in early blue and quiet clouds.
Ren stared up at it, eyes stinging.
Not from pain.
But from truth.
He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again. Widow's Clarity still hummed faintly in his mind—tuned to something greater. Something waiting.
The next time Castor attacked…
He would be ready.
Later that evening, the wind had settled. Smoke curled from Ezralda's chimney, and the clearing was bathed in orange glow. Ren sat near the edge of the firepit, arms folded around his knees, watching the flames dance. His shirt was damp with sweat and stained with dust from the morning's ambush.
Castor stood a few feet away, sharpening his blade against a whetstone, each stroke harsh and deliberate.
"You always fight like that?" Ren asked, voice flat.
Castor didn't look up. "Only when someone I care about is acting stupid."
Ren scoffed. "Care about me, huh? Could've fooled me."
Silence followed. Only the rhythmic scrape of steel on stone.
Then Castor spoke. "I nearly died the first time I fought someone who had the intent to kill me. I was trained. Armed. Ready. Or so I thought."
He glanced at Ren now.
"You wouldn't have lasted ten seconds."
Ren bit down on the urge to respond. The fire cracked. A log split in two.
"I didn't ask for this," he muttered.
"No one does. Not really," Castor replied. "But we're not here to choose what we face. Only how we face it."
Ezralda emerged from the cottage with a bowl in hand. She handed it to Ren.
"Your reward," she said lightly. "One meal. Extra stew. Congratulations for not dying."
Ren accepted it, unsure whether to smile or glare.
She turned to Castor. "You hit him too hard."
"He's fine."
"Mm-hmm," Ezralda hummed, sitting down on a nearby log. "You know, I once hit you that hard and you cried for an hour."
Castor said nothing.
Ren looked between them. "He cried?"
Ezralda smirked. "Like a kicked puppy."
Castor stood abruptly. "I'm going for a walk."
Ren laughed for the first time all day.
After Castor had disappeared into the woods, Ezralda leaned closer, her voice softer now.
"You stood up well," she said. "Most wouldn't have. He doesn't fight unless he thinks it matters."
Ren stared into his stew. "He still thinks it's supposed to be him, doesn't he?"
Ezralda's smile faded. "He trained for years believing it. Dreamt of it. Lived for it. So yes. In some part of him, it still stings."
"Why was I chosen?"
She didn't answer immediately.
Then: "Maybe because you didn't ask for it. And because you're not ready. Yet."
Ren let that hang in the air.
"I'm not afraid," he said finally.
"No," she replied. "But you're still learning what it costs."
The wind shifted. The flames leaned slightly eastward.
"Tomorrow," she said, standing, "we train for real."
Ren looked at her.
"Wait," he asked, "you're training me too?"
Ezralda winked. "You didn't think Castor was the only one who learnt how to kill things, did you?"
She disappeared into the dark.
Ren stared into the fire a moment longer, then whispered to himself.
"Guess I'd better survive tomorrow, too."