ASHES AND ICE

The night Michael fell from the sky, Gian was alone in the fields.

The stars shimmered unnaturally that evening. Gian, a simple farmer with more scars than coins, had just finished burying a lamb taken by wolves. When a blinding light split the sky in half, followed by a loud crack of thunder — yet no rain — he thought the gods were finally calling him home.

But instead of death, he found life.

Wrapped in scorched white cloth at the edge of the woods, a child no older than a minute lay crying, glowing faintly. On his back was a strange scar — a swirling symbol pulsing red and blue like it couldn’t decide what to become.

“Sanctus Deus…” Gian muttered, falling to his knees. (Holy God...)

The boy’s eyes met his, calm and unafraid.

“I don’t know what you are,” Gian whispered, lifting the child gently into his arms. “But you’re mine now.”

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🌾 Seventeen Years Later

Michael ducked beneath a beam as the barn collapsed, catching the last falling chicken mid-air and tossing it back into its coop.

“You fight wood better than wolves!” Gian called from the porch, laughing.

“Maybe because wood doesn’t bite,” Michael replied, smirking as he dusted hay from his shirt.

Their home was small, worn but warm — a safe haven in a harsh world. Gian had raised Michael like blood. He taught him how to sow land, read ancient texts, and swing a hammer. But Michael had always sensed something inside him — something he couldn’t explain.

Some nights, he dreamed of fire devouring forests. Other nights, of snowflakes falling in reverse. Sometimes, he woke to smoke on his breath. Sometimes, frost on his fingertips.

He never told Gian.

Gian never asked.

But his eyes said he already knew.

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🎓 First Day at Arkvale High

When Gian finally saved enough to send Michael to school in the city, he nearly cried.

“You’ll be the first Marten in this family to hold a diploma,” he said, hugging him tightly. “Not a sword.”

Michael chuckled. “Let’s aim for both.”

Arkvale was nothing like the farms. Tall towers hummed with magical energy. Spell glyphs lined the school walls. Students floated books with gestures and used tech-scrolls instead of notebooks.

Michael tried to keep his head down… until he met Elisa.

“You’re sitting in my seat,” she said flatly.

“There are literally twenty empty ones,” Michael answered, not looking up.

A pencil flew past his cheek, pinning his hoodie to the wall behind him.

“I like this one.”

He pulled the fabric free and smiled. “I like girls with aim.”

From that day, they were friends. She was fierce, sharp-tongued, and obsessed with underground fighting arenas. Illegal but popular.

“You need to let some of that pressure out,” she said one evening, handing him a flyer. “It’s just for fun. No spells. No gear. Just fists.”

Michael hesitated. Gian had always warned him: Stay low. Stay small. Let the world pass you by.

But something in him itched. And the pull… was growing.

The arena was madness.

Magic lights flickered above rusted chains. Teenagers screamed from the stands. Enchanted symbols shimmered across the ring floor.

Michael stepped in, heart steady but unsure.

His opponent was a mountain of muscle.

“Name?” the announcer shouted.

Michael blinked. “Planning my tombstone already?”

Laughter erupted. The bell rang.

The giant charged.

Michael moved instinctively, dodging strikes, weaving through brute force. But he wasn’t fast enough — a thick arm closed around his neck, lifting him off the ground.

He gasped. Panic flared.

And then something unlocked.

His hands moved on their own — reaching behind him, where there were no weapons. Yet suddenly, there were. Twin hilts materialized in bursts of flame and frost.

Two blades.

One shimmered like burning gold. The other glowed a pale, icy blue. Together, they pulsed — like they were alive.

“Quid est hoc…?” Michael whispered. (What is this…?)

Power surged through him.

He swung — and the world changed.

A shockwave of fire and freezing wind erupted across the ring. The crowd screamed. His opponent flew backward, armor cracking with frostbite and flame-burns.

Silence.

Only the blades hummed in the silence.

Elisa stared. “Michael… what are you?”

He stood in the center of it all, breathing hard, blades still glowing.

“I… I don’t know.”

Back at the house, Gian slammed the flyer down on the table.

“You drew the swords?! In front of people? Do you have any idea what you’ve done?!”

“I didn’t mean to,” Michael snapped. “They just appeared—”

“Because they’re tied to your blood!” Gian barked. “To something you don’t understand. And the world won’t either. They’ll fear you. Hunt you.”

Michael’s voice cracked. “Then tell me. Tell me who I am!”

Gian went quiet.

“I will,” he whispered. “But not yet. You’re not ready.”

Michael’s fists clenched. “Maybe I’ll never be ready.”

Two days later, Michael returned home to blood.

The door hung off its hinges. The lamps were shattered. And the stench of magic — dark magic — filled the air.

“Gian?!”

He found him on the floor, breathing shallowly, a crimson pool beneath him.

“Michael…” Gian choked. “They found us… They’re coming…”

Michael fell beside him. “Who?! Who did this?!”

“Go to the Kalem ruins… find the old seer… she knows…”

“You’re not dying here!” Michael cried. “Don’t you dare—”

Gian’s fingers gripped his shirt weakly. His voice, trembling.

“Vita tua… non est tua…” (Your life… is not your own…)

His eyes faded. His hand dropped.

Michael screamed.

But no sound could reach the storm rising inside him.

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