CHAPTER 4: Blood Not of His Own - Part 2

  Varne put it on his left wrist like his father. The bracelet clicked as it clasped. “What should I do?”

  Lorn's lips opened, but no words came out. Instead, he said, “Try channeling Prana into it in your own way.”

  He tried to channel Prana into his left hand as if he were going to release a technique, but nothing happened. He repeated it, and still, nothing. He then attempted to draw and gather Prana into his body first before...

  One bead lit up.

  “Father, I did it!” He exclaimed as he watched the sparks of lightning tickling his hand.

  Then two beads lit up. The arches of lightning grew thicker, and his hand muscles tensed. Three beads, and his fingers moved on their own. Four beads, and lightning was striking and scorching the grass.

  “Enough, Varn. Stop.”

  Varne cut off the flow of Prana to his hand, but nothing happened. He redirected the flow, he jolted the Prana to expel the power in his hand, but still failed. He then withdrew his power… and the fifth bead lit up.

  Lightning engulfed his left arm. Every hair on his body stood on end, and his hair waved. The lightning bolts were no longer intermittent but continuous, writhing and crackling.

  “Varn!” Lorn tackled him. It was the last thing he saw before the bright light turned everything white.

  When he opened his eyes again, he was lying in the grass, cradled in his father’s arms. Lorn's clothes were torn, and his back was severely burned.

  “Father!”

  The surrounding area was scorched, with embers scattered here and there. His tent had also caught fire. Lorn rose, forcing a smile. “It's nothing. This injury isn't as bad as it looks, but let's call it a day for our training.”

  Varne rushed to grab a half-burned bag of ointments and began to apply salves to the wounds. Despite his father’s repeated assurances that it was just an accident, guilt still overwhelmed him.

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  “I'm the one at fault. I should have taught you how to do it. Whatever method you used just now, don't do it again. Forget about it.”

  Among the burned belongings, Varne found his flint. He rebuilt the campfire, skinned and bled the hares, and gutted and scaled the fishes. He skewered them all on twigs – ensuring they were not poisonous – and began roasting them. Plenty of garlic for Lorn.

  That night, fierce wind tore at the campfire, creating a sound like whipping cloth.

  “Varn, by the end of this season, I will entrust you to an old friend of mine.”

  “More training?” Varne took a bite of the hare.

  “That's part of it.”

  “Why should I continue training if all that effort will just be kept hidden away? It would be different if you let me join the war or a Guild.”

  “Another reason is that I want to keep you away from the war. Kargadin fell not too long ago, and Terzion has already defeated us in a naval battle once. Our kingdom has started a conscription.”

  “Then this is my chance to show my training! If I succeed and get recognized, you won't have to live like this anymore.”

  “I'm training you so that you can protect yourself because you will need it one day.”

  Lorn gazed at him from across the campfire. His black eyes reflected the flickering flames. The shadows cast deep creases on his face.

  Lorn opened his mouth but then closed it again. Varne had never seen his father hesitate. He had always been confident and unwavering; it was his temperament as a Prana Decima.

  “Varn, you're seventeen now. Until now, I've never told you about your mother. Do you want to hear it now?”

  Varne paused, the hare meat forgotten in his mouth. After swallowing, he replied, “Yes.”

  “Your mother died during the second Arvane-Wyndor War on the Denois mainland. At that time, my old friend and I were members of an... organization... on the Wyndor side. We passed through a village where everyone was killed. There, we found you. Your mother died holding you in a swamp, your umbilical cord still uncut.”

  Varne furrowed his brow. “Found me? Found... me?”

  “I’m not your birth father, Varn.”

  As if suddenly plunged into the sea at night, he was at a loss. Lorn never joked, and he was not joking now.

  “Uncle Dorian and I,” Lorn continued, “decided to save you and leave the organization. After Wyndor fell, we moved to this island.”

  “Then… who are my real parents… Father?” Calling Lorn ‘father’ now felt awkward. “Do I have siblings?”

  “I don’t know. You're the only one alive. But I want you to understand something. I am your father, and you are my son.”

  Varne stared at the tips of the flickering flame. In that moment, Lorn seemed like a stranger to him. All of a sudden, the name Varne did not hold the same meaning as it did earlier in the day. And all of a sudden, he understood Eiran's feelings.

  “I'm sorry, I didn't tell you this before because I didn't want you to be burdened by your inheritance. Tomorrow we'll go back to the village and leave as soon as I recover.”

  “Where does Uncle Dorian live, Father?”

  “The other end of the island. About two weeks’ walk in the summer.”

  “How long will I stay there?”

  “Uncle Dorian will make that decision.”

  Varne did not feel like arguing and nodded. They slept under the open sky that night. The vast expanse of stars was above their heads, yet Varne felt a profound solitude.