Promise?

"So, what's your Gift?" Simon asked, barely able to contain his excitement.

Tarrin hesitated. He hadn't exactly figured that part out yet.

"And... how am I supposed to know? You're the Scarred expert, aren't you?" His tone was dry, laced with amusement.

Simon blinked. "Wait—don't tell me... You have no idea, do you?" His voice dropped to a whisper, as if the walls themselves might judge Tarrin for his ignorance.

"Not a damn clue." Tarrin shot back, deadpan.

"Do you at least have, I don't know, super strength? Lifting cars? Punching through stone? Something?" Simon's voice turned almost desperate by the end, like he was praying Tarrin had at least one cool ability to show off.

But Tarrin had nothing. He didn't feel stronger, faster, or different in any way. Maybe he wasn't hurting as much as he should be, but that was it.

"Okay, so you're telling me you don't even know how to figure it out? Then what the hell are all these books for?"

Tarrin motioned to Simon's overflowing bookshelves, stacked with everything from Scarred history to legendary figures.

Simon crossed his arms, looking a little embarrassed. "Most of these are just stories—exaggerated as hell, barely any real info."

Tarrin exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair.

"So not only are they gonna ship me off to the mainland—the most dangerous place in the world, where Scarbanes use fresh recruits as chew toys—but I don't even have any damn powers?"

A heavy silence filled the room.

Tarrin slumped back, staring at the ceiling. 'I'm so fucked.'

"You're fucked, bro. I'll visit your grave once in a while." Simon cut through the silence like a blade, his voice completely deadpan.

Tarrin felt his stomach drop. "Stop fucking joking. If I die, I actually die, bro." His voice had a slight edge—half-joking, half-terrified.

Simon sighed, rubbing his chin like some kind of wise scholar. "There's gotta be a way to figure it out. I mean, in the stories, they always train or something. You could try cardio—maybe that'll help."

Tarrin stared at him, expression flat. 'How did someone as sharp as Helga give birth to this retard?'

"Does it look like I need to be skinnier than I already am?" His voice was dry, his patience wearing thin. 'This dumbass is not helping at all.'

But then Simon's eyes widened. He clenched his fist like he'd just cracked the code to the universe.

"Wait!" he declared, standing up. "I'll search the web."

Tarrin was already shaking his head, ready to tell him to shut the hell up—until the words actually sank in. He paused.

"That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard—" Then he hesitated. "—but actually, not a bad idea. Do it, bro."

"On it." He said as he was already fiddling with his phone. He typed, and then began to read.

"Most Scarlings instinctively know what their Gift is and how to use it," Simon read aloud, his eyes scanning the screen. "But... there have been cases where newly awakened don't have a clue. Some don't even realize what their Gift is until much later."

He paused, exhaling sharply before continuing.

"These cases are mostly tied to passive Gifts—ones that work on their own or only activate under specific conditions."

A heavy silence settled between them. They locked eyes, and an unspoken understanding passed between them.

'Yeah. I'm fucked. Totally fucked.'

"So this tells us nothing," Tarrin muttered, running a hand down his face. "Basically, I either sit around and wait for it to magically activate or somehow figure it out on my own." Dread laced his words.

Simon, ever the optimist, tried to grasp at hope. "I mean, won't the Union train you? Y'know, to slay the Banes and all that? Like they say on TV?"

Tarrin snorted. 'Yeah, right. Reality didn't work like TV.'

"Sure, buddy. And they say I'm the uneducated one." Tarrin leaned back, a smirk creeping onto his face. "Ever heard of Edrin Valco? The forefather of propaganda? Fifth century? No? Nothing?"

Simon's blank stare was all the answer he needed.

Tarrin chuckled, the weight on his shoulders easing just a little. It was easy to forget the creeping dread when he was around family.

They kept at it for another twenty minutes, tossing around theories, arguing, and getting nowhere. In the end, the final verdict was simple: Tarrin was fucked.

With a sigh, he excused himself, ready to head home. But as he pulled the door open, he was met with a piercing set of sharp blue eyes—cold, unyielding.

Uncle Harry.

Tarrin barely had time to flash his usual grin, his charisma working overtime. "Oh, Uncle Harry. Did you need something?"

Harry said nothing. Just stared.

Then his hand shot out.

Tarrin barely flinched before rough fingers closed around his wrist, yanking up the sleeve of his coat. The chain-like scar stood stark against his skin, fresh and unmistakable.

A sharp breath. Then, a whisper—almost too soft to hear.

"Oh, good lords."

Tarrin barely had time to react before Harry's grip tightened around his wrist, his uncle's stare burning into him like a blade.

"It's nothing," Tarrin said quickly, forcing out a casual shrug.

Harry's eyes darkened. "It's not nothing. It's a fucking scar. When did this happen?" His voice was more growl than words, low and dangerous.

"Today," Tarrin admitted. "Don't worry, I haven't crossed the two-week mark yet." He forced a smirk, trying to ease the tension pressing down on the room.

Harry didn't look convinced. If anything, his expression only grew colder. "That's not what I'm worried about. They'll force you to go. And you're not ready."

Tarrin let out a dry laugh. "Oh, come on. What's the worst that could happen? A few Scarbane running around? Nothing I can't handle."

Harry didn't blink. Didn't flinch. Didn't buy a single word of it.

"Look, Tarrin," he said, voice flat. "I don't know what you think that place is, but let me tell you—you're wrong."

Tarrin crossed his arms, tilting his head. "Then tell me. What's it really like?"

Harry exhaled slowly, his gaze distant, like he was seeing something long buried.

"I was there for three years. Auxiliary unit." His voice was quiet, edged with something that sent a chill up Tarrin's spine.

"I watched the toughest bastards alive break. Not just their bodies—their minds. You think these things just kill you?" He shook his head, his next words barely above a whisper.

"They make you wish they did."

Silence hung between them, thick and heavy. Then Harry spoke again, his voice quieter but no less sharp.

"Even the Scarred drop like flies out there. The peace of the Isles won't prepare you for the Mainland."

Tarrin met his uncle's gaze, his usual smirk long gone. For the first time, his expression hardened, his voice steady.

"Then tell me—what the hell am I supposed to do? I can't fight. I don't even know what my Gift is. What choice do I have?"

Harry studied him, his face unreadable. Then, finally, he exhaled.

"I'll teach you." The words were firm. Final. "I'm not letting you step foot on that battlefield as you are now. Stay here tonight. We start tomorrow."

Before Tarrin could respond, soft footsteps echoed down the hall. A small, drowsy voice cut through the tension.

"Daddy? What's going on?"

Mira stood in the doorway, rubbing her eyes, barely clinging to consciousness.

Harry's expression shifted in an instant, the steel in his eyes melting into something softer. He scooped her up with practiced ease. "Nothing, little pumpkin. Just catching up with Tarrin." His voice was calm, reassuring. "Come on, let's get you to bed."

He gave Tarrin one last look—a silent promise, a warning—before turning and walking away.

Tarrin stood in the hallway, momentarily stunned. He figured me out just like that.

With a quiet sigh, he turned on his heel and pushed open Simon's door again. Inside, Simon was already half-dressed for bed, rubbing his eyes as he glanced up in confusion.

"What are you still doing here? Forgot something?"

Tarrin shook his head. "Harry saw right through me. Read me like a damn book. And here I was, thinking I could get through these last few days without them worrying."

Simon flopped onto his bed, brow furrowed. "Yeah… he's scary like that. Dude's got some kind of hyper-awareness, always watching, always catching the little things nobody else does."

Tarrin exhaled sharply. "Yeah, I figured that out the hard way. But why the hell didn't you tell me he was on the Mainland?" His tone was flat, missing its usual edge of humor.

Simon winced. "Right… kinda forgot about that. He never really talks about it. His past, the war—he keeps it locked up tight."

Tarrin let that sink in, the weight of it settling over him. 'So even Simon doesn't know the full story.'

As Tarrin lay on the floor, staring up at the ceiling, Harry's words kept playing in his mind. How bad is it really… if even he looked like that?

The weight of the day pressed down on him. Just this morning, he'd been normal—just another nobody scraping by. Now, he was marked. His fate sealed.

How the fuck did everything go so wrong in a single day?

He closed his eyes, but sleep didn't come. The floor was uncomfortable, but that wasn't what kept him awake. His thoughts churned, looping back to the same helpless conclusion.

Simon's voice cut through the darkness. "Bro… I know I joke around a lot, but I do take this seriously. So just—don't die, alright?"

Tarrin hesitated. "Yeah, bro. Don't worry. Let's share a cold one when I get back."