Chapter 20: Rule of Power

The sun is warm.

For once, that's all it is.

Not cruel. Not scorching. Just... warm. The kind of day that would've made Reyda smile.

It's been a few days since the clinic. Long enough for Kai's color to return, for me to eat something that wasn't half raw or stolen. We're both cleaner now. Healthier. But the quiet between us still feels like it's holding its breath.

We're standing in a field just outside the outer district—tall grass swaying, a few scattered trees casting shade over broken fence posts and forgotten stumps. The city of Halveth looms in the distance, but here, it's quiet.

Peaceful.

My shirt is half off, my torso wrapped in clean bandages. Every movement tugs somewhere. But I'm upright. Breathing. Alive.

Kai sits a few paces away on a smooth stone, knees tucked under his chin, eyes wide and curious. He hasn't said much today. But he hasn't stopped watching either.

Gil stands a few feet ahead, arms crossed, sleeves rolled. No armor. No cloak. Just a man who looks like he's fought gods and forgot to die.

"All right," he says. "Lesson one. Giftborn."

I raise an eyebrow. "Giftborn?"

He gestures to the open field. "You must learn how they tick before you even think about swinging a sword."

He clears his throat.

"Giftborn are rare. Special. No one really knows why they exist—not even the Church. But the priests'll tell you they're divine. That God reached down and gave certain people little pieces of His power."

He glances at Kai.

"...Usually without instructions."

Kai smiles faintly. I shoot him a look.

Gil goes on. "Every Gift is different. Some are loud—like that bastard Oren lighting up half the woods. Some are quiet. Internal. Mine, for example, is regeneration. Heal fast. Real useful when you pick too many fights."

I nod. "So some Gifts punch through walls, and others stay buried under skin."

"Exactly," Gil says. "And that matters. If you wanna beat a Giftborn—and you don't have a Gift yourself—your only shot is to understand theirs. Inside and out. You've gotta learn their limits before they learn yours."

I mutter, "Good thing I have no limits. Just bleeding holes."

Gil smirks. "That's one way to spin it."

He squats down, draws a line in the dirt with a finger.

"There's one thing you need to get—really get—if you want to survive: Traces."

I frown. "What are those? Like side effects?"

"Bingo. Traces are the price of power. Use your Gift, and it leaves something behind. Could be physical. Could be mental. Could be something worse."

He draws three slashes in the dirt.

"Three levels. A scratch—that's temporary. Maybe your hand burns. Maybe your vision goes fuzzy. It fades."

"One level up is a stain. Longer lasting. Could stick for days. Weeks."

"And last? Brand. That's permanent. Bone-deep. It's the kind of shit you don't come back from."

I scratch the back of my neck. "Like Oren's burns."

Gil nods. "Those weren't injuries. That was his power. It carved itself into him. That's a Brand. The Church sees it as divine judgment—God reminding you the power ain't free."

Kai shifts on the stone. "...Is that why you're always grumpy, Mr. Gil? You have a brain Brand?"

Gil squints at him. "Kid, I fought a wyvern with a broken sword in one hand and my own rib in the other. I earned my right to be grumpy."

Kai grins.

I snort. "What determines what level of Trace you get?"

Gil straightens. "Your output. Stick below fifty percent of your max power? You'll only get scratches."

"Fifty to ninety? You're in stain territory."

"Push past ninety—and you're rolling dice with a Brand."

He pauses.

"And if you go past a hundred…"

A gust of wind cuts through the field.

"You corrupt."

My brow furrows. "Like the bear."

Gil nods again. "That thing used to be something normal. Maybe gifted. Maybe just angry. But it pushed too far. Lost control. Got stuck in that form."

I exhale slowly. "So animals can be Giftborn."

"Yeah. Happens more often than you'd think. Thing is, animals don't have self-control. No filters. So they use their Gifts like instinct. And that means more corrupted beasts than corrupted men."

"Which is lucky. Because when a human corrupts?"

He looks me dead in the eye.

"You run."

Silence stretches.

Kai mimics Gil's hand movement in the dirt when he thinks no one's watching.

Then—like puzzle pieces clicking—my mind snaps to something.

His Gift.

The light. The healing. The warmth.

And afterward—always—he sleeps.

That's the Trace.

Sleep.

I stare at the boy, who tilts his head.

If scratch is a nap… and stain is a deep sleep… then a Brand…

"Would it be forever?" I mutter.

Gil raises a brow. "What?"

I shake my head. "Nothing. Just… connecting dots."

He gives me a long look.

"Good. You should be."

He dusts off his hands. "Now. Let's talk gift control and level."

He squats again, draws another pair of circles in the dirt.

"Control's simple. It's finesse. How clean you are when you use your power. If you're sloppy, you leak energy. Blow up a house just trying to light a candle."

Kai raises a hand. "Is that like... magical clumsiness?"

Gil snorts. "Pretty much. And the clumsier you are, the worse your Trace will bite you."

I nod slowly. "So then level is… what? Strength?"

"Not quite." Gil draws a spiral this time. "Level determines your capacity. Your limit. The size of your Source."

"Source?" I repeat.

"Yeah," Gil says. "It's what we call the pool inside you that holds your power. I just call it what it feels like. Something deep. Something that can run dry."

"The highest level ever recorded is a level six source. Those are walking monsters. Most Giftborn hover around two or three. Me? I'm at level four."

I frown. "What about the glow? Oren was lit up like a bonfire."

Gil grins. "That? That's an essence leak."

I blink. "Seriously?"

"Dead serious," Gil says. "Glow means you've got bad control. Essence bleeding out the edges. Looks cool. Makes you easy to kill."

Kai tilts his head. "So glowing is like… magic sweat?"

Gil stares. "That's... weird, but not wrong."

I mutter, "So if someone lights up like a lantern, either run or mock them."

Gil shrugs. "Depends on how confident you're feeling."

He claps his hands together once.

"All right. That's the crash course. Gifts. Traces. Sources. Control. Levels. Corruption. All the fun stuff."

I pause, thinking. Then:

"Wait. If your Gift is healing… how the hell did you move like that back there? You moved like something out of a nightmare—or a prayer."

Gil smirks. "Not sure if I should be insulted or flattered."

He shrugs. "Sharp eyes, kid. Gifts aren't the only way to use your source. If you learn to tap into it directly, you can channel that essence and distribute directly into your body—into your muscles, your movements, your very self. They call it aura. It requires the utmost training to obtain."

My eyes light up. "And I can use that too?"

He pauses. Rubs the stubble on his chin.

"It'll be hard. But yeah—possible. You don't have a Gift, but that doesn't mean you don't have a source."

Something inside me catches fire.

Gil rolls his shoulders.

"But talk's cheap."

He steps forward, eyes narrowing slightly.

"Let's see what kind of shape you're in."

I shift my stance. "What, we sparring already?"

Gil scoffs. "You? With those busted ribs and noodle arms? No. We're starting simple."

He points to the far end of the field.

"Run."

I stare. "That's it?"

"Run to the stump and back," Gil says. "Then do it again. And again. Until I say stop."

I open my mouth.

Gil raises a hand. "You want to protect a Giftborn without being one? Then your body has to be sharper than theirs. Stronger. Meaner. That starts here."

I grimace. "I should've stayed in the damn pit."

Gil grins. "You'd be dead."

I mutter something obscene under my breath, then start running.

Each step pulls at the healing gash across my side. The sun is warm, the grass soft, but my body is still screaming from days of starvation and blood loss.

Kai watches from his stone, legs swinging.

He doesn't speak. But his eyes follow my every move. Quiet. Wide.

On my third lap, I slow near him. He reaches out—tiny fingers brushing against my hand as I pass.

He whispers something I barely catch.

"Fast."

I glance back—blink sweat from my eyes—and keep going.

I'm not fast.

Not yet.

But maybe one day, I will be.