Kieran's boots were soaked before nightfall.
Mud clung to the worn leather as he trekked through forest trails that barely qualified as paths, snow crunching underfoot and damp seeping into his bones. His pack—sparse as it was—rubbed raw against his shoulders, and every breath steamed in the chill air like ghosts fleeing his lungs.
But he didn't stop.
Not when his legs burned.
Not when the trees whispered in a language older than speech.
Not when night settled like a predator behind him.
Two days. That's what Daerun had said. North, through Ash Hollow, past the Black Root Stream, and up the ancient stairs carved into the mountainside—until the monastery rose from the mist like a buried memory.
Kieran didn't know what he expected.
Certainly not what he found.
---
The Temple of Whispering Ash wasn't made of stone.
It was grown—a cluster of great black trees interwoven by root and vine, shaped by magic into halls and spires and curved bridges that floated without support. The whole monastery pulsed faintly, like it was breathing. Soft lights hovered under archways. Bell-chimes whispered in the breeze.
It was beautiful. Terrifying. Alive.
He stood at the base of the mountain, heart hammering.
"You don't belong here," he whispered to himself. "This place is for people with names. Magic. Bloodlines."
But the other voice—cold, clear, buried in the back of his mind—replied: You're not here to belong. You're here to survive.
So he climbed.
---
The ascent took hours.
Stone stairs slick with moss. Wind clawing at his cloak. Once, he nearly slipped—and would've fallen if not for instinct kicking in. His body twisted, braced against the wall, muscles moving before his mind caught up.
By the time he reached the top, his legs were shaking. His fingers numb.
A pair of monks waited at the gate.
One was tall, robed in deep green, with a sharp nose and slanted eyes that glowed faintly. The other was shorter, broader, with a scar across his brow and knuckles calloused like a fighter's.
They said nothing.
Kieran bowed low. "My name is Kieran. I seek sanctuary. And… if it's not too much, a chance to learn."
The taller monk arched a brow. "You're young."
Kieran straightened. "I won't be a burden. I can work."
"And why should we train you?" asked the shorter one, voice like gravel.
Kieran hesitated. Then reached into his pack and pulled out a scroll he'd scribbled in Daerun's home—his own creation: a method of calculating wind direction based on falling ash, using only shadow angles and terrain slope.
"Because I can see patterns," he said. "And I remember."
He met their eyes. "Please."
Silence.
Then—unexpectedly—the shorter monk smiled.
"Let him in," he said.
The gates opened.
---
Temple life was quiet. Disciplined.
The monks rose before dawn, practiced martial forms in the frost, meditated through sunrises, studied scrolls that spoke of energy lines, spirit flow, and the Song of the World.
Kieran soaked it in like a starving man.
He wasn't the strongest. He wasn't the fastest.
But he learned fast.
It shocked the others.
In the first week, he mastered the First Breathing Form. By the second, he could light a flame with his breath—not magic, just friction and chi. By the third, he'd corrected the footwork of a senior student in front of Master Syen, earning a grunt of approval.
They called him "ghost boy" behind his back.
Not out of malice. But because he moved like he'd been born here.
And still, Kieran stayed quiet. Careful.
He kept his secrets close.
Like how he could sometimes hear the temple breathing. Like how numbers appeared before his eyes when he closed them, calculating trajectory, tension, pressure points. Like how, in his dreams, he saw fragments of the novel his sister had read to him before she died—except different, now.
Twisted.
In the novel, the heroine was raised by monks here. She awakened her divine starmark at thirteen and caught the eye of a powerful noble boy during a temple festival. Together, they rose to greatness.
But here… she didn't exist.
Only him.
So whose story was this now?
---
It wasn't long before Kieran met him.
The boy from the capital.
It happened during the Spring Trials—a test of agility, intellect, and will that all disciples underwent before advancing to the inner halls.
Kieran, barely seven, had no intention of participating. He wasn't strong enough yet. The monks hadn't even given him proper robes.
But Master Syen ordered it.
"Observe," the old monk had said. "Or be observed. Your choice."
So Kieran stood among the others on the trial grounds—nervous, uncertain—until he walked in.
Tall. Golden. Bored.
Damon Arclight.
He was thirteen. Son of the Lord Archmage of Caeldor. Royal blood. Arcane prodigy. He didn't wear monk's robes—he wore a black jacket lined with silver thread, and he didn't bow to anyone.
Everyone whispered his name.
Kieran stared.
He was one of the male leads from the novel.
Damon was meant to fall for the star-marked heroine after watching her overcome a brutal trial. He was cold, distant, brilliant—and destined for power.
But now he was here.
And the heroine wasn't.
Damon's eyes swept the crowd, bored—until they landed on Kieran.
He stopped.
Just… stared.
Kieran flushed and looked away.
---
The trial began.
Obstacle courses. Riddles written in moonlight ink. Sparring under waterfall mists. The temple's challenges were old and strange, designed not just to test strength—but perception. Spirit. Intention.
Kieran didn't compete. Not directly.
But he watched.
He memorized the puzzle patterns. Sketched a path through the maze of mirrors before others finished tying their sandals. Silently mouthed the answers to breath-riddles as older students sweated and stammered.
And every time he did—
Damon was watching.
It was… unnerving.
After the trial, Kieran ducked into the lower gardens to avoid attention. He sat by the koi pond, counting ripples.
Then a shadow fell over him.
"Your footwork's off," came a low voice.
Kieran looked up.
Damon stood there, arms crossed.
"Excuse me?"
"In the third stance. You step too far. You lose center."
Kieran frowned. "I wasn't sparring."
"You were watching."
He crouched beside Kieran, staring into the water.
"I've seen a lot of fakes. People who pretend to be clever. You're not pretending."
Kieran blinked.
"Do you want something?" he asked cautiously.
Damon tilted his head. "You're strange."
"Thanks."
"It's a compliment."
Kieran didn't reply.
Damon stood. "Come to the upper terrace tomorrow. I want to spar."
"I'm not ready."
"I don't care."
Then he walked off.
Just like that.
---
Kieran didn't go.
Not out of fear—but strategy.
The last thing he needed was a powerful noble's attention. He'd read enough stories to know how that ended—used, discarded, forgotten.
But the next day, Damon found him again.
In the library.
"You didn't come."
"I said I wasn't ready."
Damon narrowed his eyes. "You're not afraid of me."
"Should I be?"
"…No," Damon admitted. "I think you're interesting."
Kieran sighed and shut his scroll. "You're persistent."
"I'm bored. And you're better company than the others."
"Because I don't grovel?"
"Exactly."
And that was the start.
---
They didn't become friends. Not exactly.
But they began to train together—sparring in secret. Debating strategy over old war texts. Meditating in silent corners of the temple.
Kieran taught Damon mathematical models for channeling chi. Damon, in turn, showed him how to detect leyline fluctuations with just a breath and touch.
The bond between them was strange. Unspoken. Tense.
But undeniable.
Damon never treated him like a servant. Or a project. Or a mystery to be solved.
He treated him like an equal.
Or… tried to.
Sometimes, when their hands brushed or their eyes met during a duel—something flickered between them. Something not in the original story.
And Kieran?
He didn't know what to do with it.
He'd never been wanted before. Not like this. Not by someone like Damon Arclight.
---
One night, months later, Kieran sat alone on the rooftop, staring at the stars. Counting constellations from memory.
Damon climbed up beside him, quiet.
They sat in silence for a long time.
Then Damon asked, "Where did you come from?"
Kieran hesitated. "A village."
"That's not what I meant."
"I know."
He looked down. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
"Try me."
Kieran smiled faintly. "Once upon a time, a boy was born in a world of steel and glass. He loved math. Martial arts. And his sister used to read him stories about a magical realm filled with heroes and monsters. Then one day, he died… and woke up inside the story."
Damon didn't laugh.
He didn't scoff.
He simply said, "So you're the wrong hero."
Kieran froze.
Damon met his eyes.
"But maybe you're the one we need."
Then he stood, offered his hand.
And Kieran took it.
---