Lord of the realm

And still, he did not set aside his smithing.

For several hours each day, he toiled in the dwarven forges, the air thick with the scent of molten metal and coal smoke. The rhythm of hammer on anvil, the hiss of quenching steel—it was a music unlike any other. The dwarves' methods were unlike the human ways he had known: every strike was deliberate, every fold of the metal a part of a centuries-old tradition. The craft of the stout folk fascinated him so deeply that he became more than a visitor—he became a worker of their smithy, earning the respect of masters who rarely gave it to outsiders.

They stood there, watching the distant skies and stars.

Somewhere across the vast reaches of the realm, his companions were growing into their own legendary status.

The scattered paths were converging once more, and when they finally met again, the world would tremble at what they had become.

-

Morgana had yet to inform the council—or the empire—about the chosen ones. Upon her return, questions had swirled like a storm around her, but she vanished before offering a single answer. Without ceremony or explanation, she sent all three of them away on a grueling quest to train, leaving only the promise that they must be ready when she returned.

Since that day, neither she nor Darian had been seen.

And still, the enigma of Jaenor lingered—a riddle neither the Ladraella Coven nor the Emerald Coven could unravel. His existence was like a shadow cast across the fate of the world, hinting at something far greater, and far more dangerous, than anyone dared to voice aloud.

After that day, the world itself seemed to shift. Shadows lengthened, whispers of dread spread across every kingdom, and the dark forces—long thought broken—rose once more to wage their wars upon the living.

It was the Older chosen who took their place at the vanguard. Hardened by battles past, they stood unflinching before the tide, becoming living symbols of defiance. Their presence alone was a torch in the darkness, giving the people something they had nearly lost—hope.

***

Far from the lands of the empire, in the south corner of the lands, situated was a coastal city called Basmonte. It was a city that had the largest harbor with a population of diverse races.

Most of the city residents are seafolk and halflings.

It was a neutral city that had its own governing system, and the empire didn't have any power here.

In the city, in one of the open port warehouses.

The salt-heavy air of Basmonte harbor carried the familiar scents of fish, tar, and sea-weathered wood as a young man wiped his bloodied hands on his leather apron.

At eighteen, he had grown lean and strong from six months of working the fish-cutting stations near the port, his movements precise as he cleaned the last of the day's catch.

The work was honest, if humble—a far cry from the mysterious powers that had once coursed through his veins like liquid fire.

But it gave him purpose, and more importantly, it gave him cover.

Few would look for a wielder of origin power among the common dockworkers of this bustling port town.

"Another good day's work, Jaenor," called Petrus, the grizzled fishmonger who ran the adjacent stall.

"The Earl's buyers were impressed with your cuts again. Clean as a surgeon's blade, they said."

Jaenor nodded his thanks, hanging his apron on its designated hook.

The comparison to a surgeon wasn't entirely wrong—his hands had learned precision from necessity, though the skills he truly practiced were far more dangerous than any blade work.

As he made his way through the winding streets of Basmonte's merchant quarter, neighbors and shopkeepers called out their evening greetings.

Mrs. Aldara, an amiable octopus in a flour-dusted apron, waved one of her many arms from the bakery window. Young Tom, the half-shark lad, looked up from mending fishing nets and lifted a webbed hand in greeting. Even stern Master Greg—a half-merman with sea salt in his beard and scales glinting at his temples—gave a grudging nod from the doorway of his smithy.

Six months had been enough time to establish himself as a reliable fixture in their small community.

But they didn't know the truth about him.

They didn't know about the power that still thrummed beneath his skin, carefully controlled now but always present.

They didn't know about his origins or why he was here.

Most importantly, they didn't know about Odessa.

The modest two-story house stood at the end of Fisherman's Lane, its weathered blue shutters and climbing ivy making it appear no different from a dozen others nearby.

But to Jaenor, it was sanctuary—the one place in the world where he could let his carefully maintained facade drop.

He pushed open the front door, calling out as he entered. "Odessa? I'm home."

He looked around to find her and spotted her.

She stood at the large wooden table that dominated the main room, her back to him as she worked over what appeared to be an array of maps and documents.

Even after six months, the sight of her still took his breath away.

Odessa was a woman who commanded attention without effort—tall and statuesque at six feet, with the kind of presence that seemed to fill whatever space she occupied. Her long black hair was pulled back in a practical braid, though a few rebellious strands framed her face as she concentrated on her work.

At forty-three, she possessed the kind of beauty that came from strength and experience rather than mere youth. Her figure was full and curved in all the ways that made Jaenor's pulse quicken—broad hips with a big ass below, more than a handful of bosom, and the kind of confident bearing that spoke of a woman who knew exactly who she was and what she wanted.

Just the sight of her massive bust would make any man drool, and her creamy, voluptuous body was full of sensuality and power. Jaenor couldn't help but feel drawn to her magnetic presence.

"Welcome home," she said without turning around, though he could hear the smile in her voice. "How were the fish today? Did you manage to avoid cutting yourself again?"

He crossed the room and wrapped his arms around her waist from behind, feeling the familiar comfort of her warmth against his chest.

She leaned back into his embrace, and he buried his face in the crook of her neck, breathing in the scent of jasmine and something uniquely her.

"The fish were cooperative," he murmured against her skin. "And I still have all ten fingers, as promised."

She turned in his arms then, her hands coming up to cup his face as she looked into his eyes with that penetrating gaze that seemed to see straight through to his soul. Her own eyes were a deep green-gold, flecked with amber that seemed to shift and dance in the lamplight.

"Good," she said softly, before pressing her lips to his in a kiss that tasted of honey and promises.

When they finally separated, she brushed a strand of dark hair from his forehead.

"You look tired. Was it just the work, or are the memories troubling you again?"

It was a question she asked often, always with the same gentle concern.

Odessa was the only person who truly understood what he had been through, because she was the one who had found him in the aftermath.

"Just tired," he lied, not wanting to worry her.

But she saw through him immediately, as she always did.

"Jaenor." Her voice carried that note of patient authority that brooked no argument. "What have I told you about hiding things from me?"

He sighed, leaning his forehead against hers. "The nightmares are getting stronger again. More vivid. Sometimes I can almost remember what happened in that chamber before..." He trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

Before she saved him.

Before she pulled his broken, bleeding body from the ruins of whatever catastrophe had scattered him and his companions to the winds. He remembered awakening weeks later in this very house, wrapped in bandages and surrounded by the scent of healing herbs, with this incredible woman tending to wounds that should have killed him.

At first, Jaenor wasn't sure about her so he kept his distance.

He spoke little, hid much, and wrapped every word in caution. There was something in the woman's calm eyes that made him uneasy—not threatening, but searching, as if she could see past his guarded expressions and into the marrow of him.

A week after he had awoken, she asked a question that made his blood run cold.

"Can you use the Origin power?"

The words struck him like a blade slipping between his ribs. His breath caught; for a moment, he could only stare at her.

She didn't press. Instead, she leaned back in her chair and said softly, "I am a witch, or I was. I can feel its traces clinging to you—faint, but there.

When his silence stretched, she lifted her hands as if to ward off his fear. "I'm not interested in your power. I'm more curious about what happened to you. It is very rare that a male wields the Origin power. And you can believe when I say I am not the enemy."