John sat in his bath, lost in a haze of steam and reflection. The soothing warmth did little to ease the hollow ache inside—a sense of powerlessness sharper than the collar still pressing against his neck. For a moment, memories flickered of his earliest days, before the awakening: how he’d survived by wit and grit when even hope seemed a distant privilege. Now, he was in a different world: the powerless boy backed by allies whose names inspired nations, surrounded by strength, influence, and fierce loyalty. Yet alone, he felt as fragile as in those vanished days. He was weak, weak like a normal unawakened 12-year-old.

  He was grateful to the radiant goddess who’d shattered the tyranny of the evil gods and dragons. Her intervention had saved Eleonor, his friends, and perhaps the world. But John couldn’t help a brief surge of frustration—the collar remained, suppressing everything, and he chastised himself for daring to wish the goddess had done more. What if she had removed Kael’s and his collar before departing? But what right did he have to ask for another miracle, when she had already bent reality itself for his and the rest of Celestor’s sake?

  Questions tumbled through his mind. Who was she, that serene figure born from light and fury? How come, divine beings were among humans? What did it mean for gods to walk openly in the mortal realm? He remembered words muttered by some passerby, warnings of the veil thinning between the divine and the living—a half-understood truth at the time that now overshadowed everything. Only then did John truly grasp how fragile the boundary was, and how close his world stood to cataclysms, mysteries, and destinies yet unshaped.

  John pulled himself from the steaming bath, droplets trailing down his bare skin. He reached for a thick, embroidered towel hanging within arm’s reach—drying his skin, gestures that once would have been an afterthought, but now demanded the patience and dexterity of a child denied his gifts. In days past, a flick of will or an incantation could have lifted the water from his body given his oceanic affinity or otherwise he could have summoned a gentle current of air to dry him in an instant; fire magic, too, would have left his skin warm and dry in moments. But now, even these simple flashes of power were beyond his grasp, leaving him to rely on mundane motions.

  The bathing chamber was a world away from the freezing water John remembered from Cloudroot when he had to clean himself after a long day of work in the fields. Marble tiles, veined with blue and gold, stretched from wall to wall. The edges of the rectangular pool gleamed with enameled mosaics, while water lilies drifted in tranquil artifice along the surface. Delicate brass fixtures arced over the basin, and scented vapors curled from hidden vents, filling the space with calming notes of lavender and sandalwood. Gold-tasseled towels and elegant soaps stood ready on carved wooden trays, a vision of luxury and grace.

  For a moment, John closed his eyes, savoring the contrast—here, comfort wrapped him with silent care, reminding him just how far he’d come from his earliest days. Yet even in these refined surroundings, the collar’s cold weight kept him anchored, never letting him forget what had been lost—or what new paths still waited just beyond the veil.

  Stepping out of the bathroom and into his hotel room, John paused to take in the elegant space—a far cry from his humble beginnings in Cloudroot but not as opulent as what he had witnessed when he visited noble estates. The chamber was spacious and bright, its polished floors partially covered by a richly patterned rug. Light filtered through tall windows adorned with heavy brocade curtains, casting golden beams across the marble-topped side tables and the subtle gleam of brass fixtures. Against one wall stood a canopied bed, its linens crisp and white, while sturdy wardrobes and a lacquered writing desk completed the scene. The air itself carried a faint, clean scent of laurel and lavender.

  Laid out neatly on the bed was an array of elegant clothes—finely tailored vests, fresh linen shirts, and silk-lined trousers, all cut to fit his size. Struggling a bit with the unfamiliar fabrics and the stiffer cut of noble attire, John dressed, still not used to the brush of luxury against his skin. Yet the thoughtful preparation warmed him, a silent message from his hosts that he was welcome and valued.

  Finally dressed, John crossed to the plush sofa near the window and sank down, gazing for a moment over the city’s rooftops. He let the silence wash over him, mind racing with questions and future plans, uncertain as ever what path to take now that the world and his own powers had both changed so deeply.

  John glanced toward a corner of the room, where a simple paper calendar hung on the wall—a relic of practicality in a chamber of luxury. Its pages were handwritten by a careful attendant, each day marked plainly in ink, with occasional elegant flourishes added for special dates.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  As his eyes drifted over the numbers, John’s heart thudded. Tomorrow’s square was unmarked, but he knew, for him, it was not a common day: “John’s 13th Birthday.” The realization stirred bittersweet memories. In ordinary times, he would be anticipating the subtle thrill that came with every birthday—the familiar notification from his system, a ripple of awakening, the promise of new potential, sometimes of increased stat caps. No one knew when his birthday was, not since the passing of the old monk who had taken care of him in Cloudroot when he was little. When he turned six years old was the last time, someone wished him a happy birthday, and it was that old monk who had done so. There was no real celebration but just an acknowledgment from the most important person in his life at the time.

  But now, the collar at his throat rendered even that small celebration empty. No blue window would appear at dawn. No new stats, no magical glow. Just another day, and the silence where power once greeted him on these milestones. A sense of longing mingled with resolve as he touched the calendar, wondering aloud what his thirteenth year would mean when destiny itself was caught in the grip of uncertainty.

  John snapped from his reverie when a soft but deliberate knock echoed from the ornate wood of his door. He stood and crossed the plush carpet, his footsteps nearly silent in the afternoon hush. When he opened the door, Eleonor stood before him, haloed by warm corridor light.

  At seventeen, Eleonor had grown striking and impossible to overlook. She wore a deep crimson dress, its embroidery catching subtle, golden highlights in the glow—elegant and regal, perfectly tailored to her poised, proud form. The fabric traced her slender frame with practiced artistry, suggesting the strength and discipline shaped by both ducal privilege and private resolve. Her long, golden hair tumbled down her back in silken waves, some strands framing a face defined by high cheekbones, a determined jaw, and lips curved in a faint but enigmatic smile. Her blue eyes, sharp and commanding, flickered with a glint that was at once cool and thoughtful, carrying both the gravity of responsibility and a spark of youthful challenge.

  Now, with a composed nod, she drew herself up—a picture of assurance, maturity, and newfound freedom, the remnants of her ordeal visible only in the subtle tension at her shoulders and the unwavering way she met John’s gaze.

  John found his eyes drawn once more to Eleonor, marveling in silent admiration at her delicate beauty—her poised grace marked by the soft shimmer of her golden hair and the clarity of her piercing blue eyes. She broke the moment, voice calm and poised, yet carrying a tentative warmth: “May I enter?”

  “Of course,” John replied, stepping aside as the door opened wider. They crossed the room together and settled at the small, elegant table arranged near the window, its mahogany surface polished to a gentle glow.

  A pair of quietly efficient servants followed, bearing a fine tea service. They poured the amber liquid into delicate porcelain cups, setting them before John and Eleonor with respectful silence. The air filled with the soft clink of cups and the subtle scent of jasmine.

  Eleonor lifted her cup with practiced elegance, bringing the tea to her lips with a slow, thoughtful sip. Her gaze lingered on John, her blue eyes meeting his with an intimacy borne of gratitude and shared history. “Thank you for saving me again,” she said softly, voice normal but touched by a deep sincerity.

  Though she had not witnessed every moment of the turmoil, Eleonor had been given an account of the greater peril, and only John held the full weight of what had transpired. Her words settled on John like a quiet promise—a bond forged anew in the fragile peace after battle.

  John opened his mouth to respond, but then a wave of realization washed over him. Eleonor had been imprisoned in that cage because she was someone dear to him, while Kael’s sister had been held captive for Kael. John, an orphan with no family or close bonds, suddenly saw how the designation of "loved one" could be misinterpreted in his circumstances.

  But would it really be a misinterpretation? The thought startled him, and he had to admit to himself that, yes, he did like Eleonor more than just as a friend or ally. The silence that followed was heavy with this unspoken truth.

  Across the table, Eleonor’s eyes softened, and the faintest smile curved her lips as she caught John’s lingering silence—the pause pregnant with meaning. Her presence was steady and reassuring, a quiet encouragement that whatever his feelings, he was not about to be mocked because of them.

  John spoke first and asked, “Did they hurt you? How were you captured?” Eleonor answered that she did not remember much. She had been walking through some gardens known for being very secure but then nothing, all turned black and when she woke up again, it was in the arena, in the presence of John. The boy hoped that nothing bad happened to her during her unconsciousness but it was clear, he would not be able to learn more. A silence followed the brief conversation.

  Eleonor’s soft voice broke through the stillness, inviting and tender. “Do you remember when we first met?” she asked, her gaze steady and searching, reaching past the complexities that had grown between them to a simpler, shared beginning.

  John’s mind drifted back. The memory unfolded. He nodded slowly, lips curving into a faint smile despite the weight pressing on his heart. “Yes,” he replied softly. “How could I forget?” The shared past, both a promise and a paradox, hovered quietly between them, anchoring John in the midst of the uncertainty ahead.