Master Dren is just sitting in the training yard.
It's not even dawn, but that's not the weird part. He's always here before dawn. The weird part is that he's not doing anything. No drills, no weapon-cleaning, no pacing. He's just... sitting on a practice bench, staring into the pre-dawn darkness, and the set of his shoulders looks... old.
I almost turn back. This feels private, like I'm intruding on something I'm not supposed to see.
But he speaks without looking at me. "You blame yourself for the guard's death."
It's not a question.
I stop. I settle on the bench near him, but not too near. "...Kaela blames herself more."
"Kaela's a warrior," he says, his voice flat, devoid of its usual gruff energy. "We're trained to carry the bodies. It's our job. You're different. You blame yourself because you think your power should have fixed it."
My throat feels tight. "Shouldn't it have?"
"No." His answer is immediate and certain. "Power isn't a shield, Ren. Strength doesn't mean no one gets hurt. You can be the most powerful person in the world and still watch people die. That's not a failure. That's just... reality."
He's not lecturing. He's... confessing.
"How do you live with it?" I ask, the words barely a whisper. "Knowing you... you couldn't save everyone?"
He's quiet for a long, long time. Then he stands up. "Come with me."
He walks past the practice dummies, past the weapon racks, to a small memorial stone at the far edge of the grounds. I've seen it a thousand times, but never really looked at it. The stone is simple, unmarked except for a single name carved in careful letters:
Elian Stormwind
He danced with shadows
"My best friend," Master Dren says, his voice all rust. "Died thirty-seven years ago. I was seventeen. He was sixteen."
I just... wait.
"Elian had the marks," he continues. "Convergence marks. Not as strong as yours. Not as visible. But he could touch ley lines the way you do. Could pull magic from them without formal training. And his gift came with a curse—not vampiric like yours, but still corruption. Still void-touched."
My breath just... stops. Another one. There was another one? All this time, I thought... I thought I was the only one. The first.
"What... what happened?"
He sits. Right on the ground, by the stone. It's strange, seeing my master, this pillar of strength, sitting on the bare earth like a kid. It makes him... real.
"The cult found him," Dren says simply. "They'd been hunting convergence-marked for decades, maybe longer. Their philosophy was the same then as it is now—void corruption is the natural state of the world, and convergence-marked children are bridges to that state. They wanted to capture Elian. Turn him. Use him to create void corruption zones deliberately."
"Like what happened at Millbrook," I whisper. It's a cold, awful click of understanding.
"Exactly like Millbrook. But we didn't know that then. We just knew the cult was hunting him, and we had to protect him." His good hand clenches, the knuckles white. "I was his guard. His friend. His brother in everything but blood. I swore I'd protect him. I trained every single day... so hard... to be strong enough."
"But you couldn't."
"No." The word is hollow. "The cult attacked our settlement. Multiple operatives, coordinated assault, void entities supporting them. We fought. Elian and I fought together—him with his convergence magic, me with my blade. We were winning. I thought we were winning."
He pauses, lost, and I can see him there, in that memory, not here with me.
"Then a void entity got through my defense. Just for a moment—I was distracted by another cultist, and the entity moved faster than I expected. It reached Elian before I could intercept."
"Did it kill him?"
"No. Worse. It started... consuming him. Pulling him into the void. Elian was screaming, begging me to help, and I tried—gods, I tried. I cut the entity, wounded it, drove it back. But by the time I reached Elian..." Master DDren's voice cracks. "...he was already more void than human. The corruption had spread through him too fast. And he looked at me with these eyes—these terrified, still-human eyes—and he said, 'Don't let me become a monster.'"
I can't breathe.
He... he killed his best friend. Dren. My master, who can't stand to see us take a bad hit in training, who drills us on safety and control... he...
"So I killed him," Dren says flatly. Dead. "My best friend. My brother. The person I'd sworn to protect. I put my blade through his heart because that's what he asked me to do. Because letting him be consumed completely would have been worse."
Tears are running down his scarred face. He doesn't wipe them away.
"For years, I hated myself. I was supposed to protect him, and instead I killed him. I failed at the one thing that mattered." He looks at me directly, his eyes burning. "Do you understand why I'm telling you this?"
"Because you see Elian when you look at me."
"No." He shakes his head. "Because I see the chance to do it right this time. To train someone with convergence marks before the cult finds them. To make sure they have the skills, the discipline, the support they need to survive what Elian couldn't. You're not Elian. You're stronger, smarter, more integrated with your curse than he ever was. But you're also what I've been waiting for. For thirty-seven years, I've been preparing for another convergence-marked child. Preparing to protect them properly this time."
The pressure... it's... it's crushing. It's not just my life. It's not just the cult. It's... it's his redemption. It's thirty-seven years of his grief. All of it... on me.
"That's a lot of pressure," I whisper.
"It is." He finally scrubs his face with his sleeve. "And it's not fair to you. You didn't ask to be my redemption. You didn't ask to carry the weight of my failure. But you're here anyway. And I'm going to do everything in my power to make sure you survive what Elian didn't. Not because you owe me anything. But because he would have wanted me to."
We sit in silence. The sun is coming up, casting long, golden shadows across the yard.
"The guard who died at Millbrook," I say, the words thick. "You weren't responsible. But you still feel like you failed him."
"Every teacher feels that way when a student dies," Dren says. "Every mentor carries the weight of those they couldn't save. That weight... it doesn't go away. You just learn to carry it."
"Does it get easier?"
"No. But you get stronger." He looks at me. "You'll carry weight too, Ren. You already do. The question isn't whether you'll feel responsible when people die—you will. The question is whether you'll let that responsibility destroy you, or whether you'll use it to make yourself better."
"Which did you choose?"
"Both," he admits. "For years, it destroyed me. Couldn't sleep, couldn't think. Just... that memory. Over and over. Then Elder Stoneheart found me. Forced me to train again. Forced me to live. And eventually... I chose to use the pain. To be ready."
He stands, offering me a hand up. "Come on. Kaela and Lysara will be here soon. We have training to complete."
"Wait," I say. "Why are you telling me this now? Why after Millbrook?"
He looks at me, and his expression is something I've never seen on him. It's... fear. "Because you're eleven. He was sixteen. Because the cult is escalating. Because I need you to understand that no matter what happens, no matter how strong you become, some people won't survive. And that's not a failure. That's just reality." He pauses, his voice dropping. "And I need you to know that if you ever reach the point Elian did—if the curse ever starts consuming you beyond recovery—I will do what needs to be done. Not because I want to. But because that's what mercy looks like."
He's promising to kill me.
The thought should be terrifying. But it's... not. It's... comforting.
"Thank you," I say. "For trusting me with this. For... preparing for me. For... everything."
His scarred face softens, just a little. "You're welcome. Now get into position. We're doing advanced footwork today, and I expect perfect execution."
That evening, on the roof, I tell them. I have to.
When I finish, the silence is heavy.
"I... I didn't know," Kaela whispers. "Thirty-seven... years...?"
"He's been carrying that for thirty-seven years," Lysara says, her voice small. "Preparing for another convergence-marked child. For you."
"That's why he pushes us so hard," Kaela realizes, her voice thick. "It's... it's not because he's just... hard. It's... he's terrified. He's terrified of failing again."
"And every time we go on a mission," I add, "every time we face the void... he's... he's reliving Elian's death. He's watching us, wondering if... if this... is the time..."
Lysara is... calculating. I can almost see the numbers in her head. "His entire adult identity... his entire life's purpose... has been built around preparing for this. His investment in your survival... it's existential. If you fail... he fails. Elian fails all over again."
"That's not fair," I say.
"Who cares about fair?" Kaela snaps, her voice fierce. "He needs you to live. So... we live. Not for him—though... yeah, for him, too. But... for you. Because you deserve to live, regardless of... of... his stuff."
Lysara reaches over, takes my hand. "For what it's worth, my research suggests that convergence-marked individuals have... approximately a sixty-three percent survival rate... with proper training and support. Master Dren's preparation... it... it raises that. To... seventy-eight percent. Our involvement... it... it brings it to eighty-four."
"Those... aren't great odds, Lysara."
"No," she agrees, her voice tight. "But... they're better than Elian's were. And they're... improving. With... with every protocol I develop."
"He killed his best friend," I whisper. "To stop him from becoming a monster. If... if I ever reach that point..."
"You won't," Kaela says. It's not a hope. It's an order.
"But... if I do..."
"Then we'll handle it," Lysara says, and her voice is cold. Not with malice. With... determination. "We'll find a solution that doesn't involve killing you. We'll research alternatives. We'll find a way to pull you back." She pauses, and her grip tightens. "And... if no solution exists... then... yes. We'll do what mercy requires. But that... that is a last resort. Not... an inevitability."
The three of us just sit there, under the stars, holding hands. Carrying the... the weight... of Master DDren's thirty-seven-year-old grief... right alongside our own.
Below us, I can just make out Dren's shape, walking through the yard one last time. He pauses at the stone. Just... for a moment. Then he... continues home.
Thirty-seven years. Waiting.
For me.
No pressure.