Arasha awoke to the scent of warm broth and the feeling of a hand shaking her shoulder.
"Wake up, Commander," Leta's voice cut through the haze of sleep, firm yet laced with something uncharacteristically bright. "You need to eat."
Arasha groaned softly, blinking away the remnants of exhaustion. She felt… strange. Lighter.
Her body, once weighed down by wounds, aches, and exhaustion, now felt remarkably whole.
Frowning, she pushed herself upright. There was no pain. No tightness in her muscles, no burning ache from overused blessing, no dull throb from old injuries that had never quite healed right.
She flexed her fingers experimentally. Even the deep scar along her left forearm—earned from a wyvern's talon years ago—was gone.
Impossible.
Her sharp gaze snapped to Leta, who was watching her with a beaming smile.
"What happened to me?" Arasha demanded, voice low, wary.
Leta set a tray of food on the bedside table, her expression brimming with barely contained excitement. "Last night," she said, her voice almost reverent, "the gods heard my prayers."
Arasha stilled.
Leta's eyes shone with something holy. "I've been Awakened," she whispered. "The gods have made me a Divine Healer."
Arasha's breath hitched.
Leta gestured at Ashara's flawless skin, the absence of wounds. "I used my gift on you first, of course," she said with a laugh. "Then the others. The ones we thought wouldn't make it—they're awake. Alive."
Arasha could only stare.
The implications crashed through her mind like an avalanche.
The rifts were suddenly everywhere. And now, so did the Awakened—those gifted with new power. And now, the gods were intervening directly.
Too much, too fast.
Arasha hid her unease behind a slow, measured nod.
"That's… a miracle," she said, keeping her voice steady. "We owe you our lives, Leta."
Leta grinned, full of joy and conviction. "I was only a vessel, Commander. This is the will of the gods."
Arasha forced a small smile, but her mind was racing.
The gods were never this generous. Power always came at a cost.
Right now, these gifts were a blessing—healing wounds, sealing rifts, protecting the people. But what of the long term?
What price would they have to pay?
She had no answers.
So she kept her doubts buried deep, hidden beneath a mask of gratitude.
She reached for the bowl of food Leta had brought her and offered a quiet, "Thank you."
For now, she would play along. But she would not be blind.
***
Arasha moved with purpose, stepping out of the healer's ward and into the cold morning air. The scent of smoke and damp earth lingered—a reminder of the battles fought, the chaos barely contained.
She didn't have the luxury of lingering in awe over her miraculous recovery. There was work to be done.
Her sigil-bound communicator, a small, ornate device etched with divine inscriptions, pulsed faintly at her belt. Countless messages.
She activated it with a touch.
At once, voices flooded her mind.
"Commander! The rifts—they're closing!"
"The Awakened—some of them are sealing rifts with just a gesture, others are reinforcing our defenses, treating the wounded!"
"We're stabilizing, but the damage is done. The dead… there are too many."
"Commander, are you well? We heard what happened. Sir Garran said you collapsed—"
Arasha cut off the messages before they could overwhelm her.
She exhaled slowly. Then, with practiced precision, she responded.
"I am fine. Continue securing the cities. Assist the injured, manage the survivors. I will contact you soon."
No unnecessary details.
No mention of Leta's gift.
Arasha was not naïve. People would seek to control power like that. Kingdoms would fight wars for the ability to cheat death.
Her gut twisted at the thought.
With each step toward the barracks, her mind raced.
The rifts—what were they? Why suddenly multiply now?
The casualties—how many lives had been lost before the Awakened appeared?
The Awakened themselves—who were they before this? Could they be trusted?
The gods' intervention—why were they bestowing gifts so freely? And at what cost?
Arasha clenched her jaw.
This was more than a battle. It was the beginning of something far greater.
And she had to decide—how would she lead her knights through it?
How should I navigate through this changing times? Am I capable of choosing the right path?
Arasha's thoughts were in chaos yet she moved with purpose and determination.
***
Arasha strode through the bustling courtyard, her orders already set in motion. Her knights dispersed swiftly, moving to establish a network of informants to track both the rifts and the Awakened. Others went to assist wherever they could—rebuilding, protecting, and restoring order to the kingdom.
Despite the urgency of the situation, Arasha made her way to the training grounds, drawn by the clash of steel against steel.
And there he was—the young man who had closed the rift.
He moved with a natural grace, his longsword cutting through the air in fluid, precise arcs. His technique was honed—not the wild, unrefined swings of a novice, nor the rigid, disciplined style of a knight.
Arasha frowned, crossing her arms.
Who had trained him?
She stepped forward, speaking just loud enough to be heard over the ringing steel.
"You handle a blade well," she observed.
The young man halted mid-motion, glancing her way. His expression unreadable.
She tilted her head, measuring him. "Would you humor me with a spar?"
His lips quirked up slightly. "An honor, Commander."
They took their stances.
Arasha was fast—a storm of precision and force. She tested him, gauging his reactions. He met her strikes with calm efficiency, his movements more instinctive than practiced yet graceful.
Their blades clashed, parted, clashed again.
Arasha spoke between strikes. "You fight well for a civilian."
The young man scoffed, deflecting her blade. "I had teachers. Briefly."
Arasha narrowed her eyes. "You weren't always a commoner?"
A sharp exhale. Then, "No."
A shift in his stance. He pushed forward, forcing her back with a series of rapid attacks. She met him blow for blow, but she could feel the weight of his words as much as his blade.
"I was the third son of House Valehart," he admitted.
A ducal house. One of the most powerful in the kingdom.
I did hear about an illegitimate son of Duke Valehart, so this is him? hmm.
She raised a brow, sidestepping his next strike. "And now?"
His smirk was humorless. "Now, I am no one."
Arasha feinted left, then struck toward his exposed flank. He barely parried in time. "Why?"
His grip tightened on his sword. "My mother was a foreign maid. And I was born without the Valehart gift. That made me… invalid."
Arasha understood all too well what it meant to be judged by lineage. So she didn't pressed on that topic any more.
Still, she inquired on, shifting the conversation. "And how did you awaken?"
A brief flicker of something crossed his face.
"I heard a voice," he said carefully, "just before I sealed the rift. It told me to act."
His footwork faltered for just a second—a hesitation.
Arasha caught it. He was holding something back.
But she didn't push. Not yet.
She stepped back, lowering her blade. "That's enough."
He mirrored her, sheathing his sword as she inclined her head. "Thank you for the spar."
As Arasha turned to leave, she had barely taken a few steps when his hand caught her wrist.
She stilled.
When she turned back, his gaze bored into hers—steady, unflinching.
"I want to join your order," he said.
Arasha didn't move. Didn't speak.
The wind shifted around them, the weight of his words settling between them.
And for the first time since meeting him, Arasha wasn't sure what to say.
Should I let him?
Arasha stared at the young man, his grip still firm around her wrist. His words hung between them, heavy with conviction.
She studied him carefully. His boldness. His desperation. His certainty.
A third son, discarded for lacking his house's divine gift—only to awaken with a power that could seal the rifts.
It was too convenient. Too sudden.
Too suspicious.
Arasha's sharp eyes softened just enough to mask her scrutiny. She would be a fool to ignore the opportunity before her. If she took him in, she could observe him closely, perhaps even uncover some truths about the Awakened, the gods, and the nature of their gifts.
She would be watching.
But first—
"What's your name?" she asked.
The young man blinked, as if startled she hadn't asked earlier. Then, after a brief pause, he answered,
"Kael. Kael Valehart."
Arasha committed the name to memory.
Then, to Kael's clear surprise, she nodded. "Very well. You're in."
He frowned, almost suspicious himself now. "Just like that?"
"Just like that."
The closer you are the better...
Arasha wanted to observed him and he just gave her an excuse to do so than the guise of training and supervising?
Kael let go of her wrist, his expression shifting into something unreadable. Then, a slow, relieved grin spread across his face.
"You won't regret it," he said, his voice filled with quiet confidence.
Arasha simply smiled—a small, enigmatic curve of her lips.
"Time will tell."
She turned away, already thinking ahead. The weight of duty still pressed on her shoulders, but…
The burden of sealing the rifts was no longer hers alone.
Yet uncertain matters still needed to be observed and be cautioned with.
But the appearance of the Awakened ones, a brighter future however uncertain, was now possible.
***
Arasha barely looked up from the mountain of reports sprawled across her desk as the door to her office swung open with purposeful force.
A familiar presence filled the room—unyielding, unwavering.
She sighed. Here we go.
Leta stood in the doorway, arms crossed, her gaze sharp with practiced authority. A steaming tray of food rested in her hands, its contents betraying its purpose.
"Eat," Leta ordered, stepping forward with the confidence of a battlefield medic issuing an unarguable command.
Arasha didn't glance at the tray. "I'm fine."
"You always say that." Leta placed the tray down directly in front of her, blocking her view of the reports. "And I let it slide before, but not anymore."
Arasha exhaled through her nose, rubbing her temple. "Leta—"
"You're recovered, not immune to exhaustion," Leta cut in, unmoved by rank or reputation. "I won't have you collapsing on us again."
Arasha's fingers twitched at the reminder. "That was—"
"Not up for debate. Eat."
Arasha clenched her jaw, her sharp blue eyes meeting Leta's unyielding ones.
A silent battle of wills.
She could fight rift-spawned horrors, battle impossible odds, and defy kings—yet here she was, outmatched by a single woman with a food tray.
With great reluctance, she picked up the spoon.
Leta narrowed her eyes.
Arasha took a bite.
Only then did Leta finally sit down, arms still crossed, watching her like a hawk.
Minutes passed in silence as Arasha begrudgingly finished her meal. The warmth of the food spread through her, easing the tension she hadn't realized was coiled tight in her muscles.
When the last bite was gone, Leta examined the empty plate before standing.
"Good." She gathered the tray and made her way to the door, pausing only briefly. "You might be the Commander, but I'll keep reminding you that you're human."
And with that, she was gone.
Arasha leaned back in her chair with a heavy exhale.
Leta had become more formidable since awakening last month. More confident, more decisive. Perhaps even taking on too much responsibility.
Arasha frowned. She would have to keep an eye on that.
But right now, a greater concern loomed.
The Awakened.
Not just those in her order—but the commoners who had received gifts. They were vulnerable.
The nobles would covet them. Exploit them. Use them.
Arasha had seen it before—power was never freely given without a cost.
She could not let that happen.
She would have to act quickly—bring the Awakened under her protection before the nobility claimed them as pawns.
Even if that meant wielding the royal bloodline the court so despised.
Even if it meant becoming the very force they feared.