It had been a few minutes since Uncle Dorthna had left the room for one reason or the other. Actually, according to the man himself, he had left the room to go get himself a cup of hot water.

  For a man who sometimes complained about the heat and sometimes about the cold, he loved his hot water when he could have it.

  His departure left Ark in the room alone with Mel. Once in a while, he found his eyes moving to his brother. It was always so sudden. It was always so annoying. His sister’s words had brought him some level of forgiveness because she was not known to lie to him. But knowing the truth did not suddenly make you believe in it.

  Sometimes, pain and guilt and bias worked as greater opponents to accepting the truth than people thought.

  When Ark’s eyes settled on Mel once more, he did not look away. He did not pretend that it didn’t happen. Whatever had happened, they were brothers. You did not get awkward moments with your brother. No matter what anybody had to say, Ark refused to believe awkward moments between brothers were a normal thing.

  Then again, he knew two siblings who…

  It’s not as if you stole his girlfriend, Ark chided himself.

  Mel’s face looked relatively calm. After all, it was the way with people who were asleep… or unconscious. Maybe Ninra had a point, and he really needed to learn how to tell the difference.

  Ark had cleaned the blood stain from his face and had spent the last few days wiping him down whenever he could. Currently, Mel was lying down dressed in only his boxer. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. At least three bruise spots marred his torso. Ark guessed they were courtesy of Uncle Dorthna.

  As for the living room, it was clean and tidy. And by clean and tidy, Ark meant that he and Uncle Dorthna had cleared out all the ruined couches as well as the television he and Mel had destroyed in the living room. There was a knife from the kitchen with an indentation of a fingerprint. Uncle Dorthna wanted them to throw it out too, but it was currently sitting quietly in Ark’s wardrobe.

  “I hope you’re doing good,” he muttered.

  The door to the room opened once more and Uncle Dorthna walked in. He had a steaming mug held in both hands, cradled as if it was the most special thing and he needed its warmth running through him.

  “He’s doing good,” Uncle Dorthna said, taking a seat at the reading table. “It’ll just take him a while.”

  “Then you’ll heal his injuries.” Ark couldn’t bring himself to look at Mel’s leg. Uncle Dorthna had straightened it out so that there was only a swollen purple bruise left. But it was not yet healed. “Right?”

  “Right.”

  “But why can’t you heal it now?” he asked. He gestured at the bruise. “I mean, it’s right there.”

  “Because I want him to be a part of the process.” Dorthna took a sip of his hot water. “The both of you aren’t just ordinary Gifted. You do remember that, right?”

  Ark nodded slowly.

  Something else was on his mind. It tinkered around as Uncle Dorthna took another sip of his water.

  “You weren’t gone for up to two minutes,” he said.

  Uncle Dorthna looked at him from over the rim of his cup, brow cocked in an unspoken question.

  “How’s the water already hot?” Ark asked.

  Uncle Dorthna took his time to respond. He sipped a little longer, then placed the cup carefully and intentionally on the reading table, making sure not to place it on top of any of the books. When he was done, he returned his attention to Ark.

  He made a flourish above his head with his hands. “Magic,” he said, dramatically.

  Ark raised an incredulous brow at that, but Uncle Dorthna didn’t seem to care. The man had already turned back to the table to retrieve his cup of water.

  In hindsight, Ark could agree that it had been a stupid question. Especially when he took into account everything he’d seen their uncle do so far.

  At least he knows how to use it, Ark thought. He deserves it.

  As for him, his power wasn’t even really his. It hadn’t been earned, simply given. The thought brought Spitfire to his mind, and he bent down to check under Mel’s bed. A grimace settled on his face when he found the demon chewing away at one of Mel’s shirts.

  Hopefully it wasn’t one of his favorites.

  Spitfire paused to look at him and Ark gave it a smile before sitting back up. Was Spitfire’s choice of him a simple mistake or had it gone out of its way to pick him? It was a question that had plagued him a few times.

  All this power and you’re nothing but a violent delinquent. The words bubbled in his head. He couldn’t argue with the delinquent part. His teachers had used the description on him enough times. Also, with all the fights he’d gotten into and all the classes he’d skipped, the title was his, bought and paid for.

  Ark had just always thought he would be different if he’d gotten powers. More controlled, like Mel. Maybe not like Mel, since Mel was far too controlled for his own good. But at least a little bit as controlled.

  Power came with some level of responsibility, after all. It was what everybody said. It was what Spitfire had told him when they’d entered their second demonic portal and he’d seen the sacrifice offered for his arrival.

  But nothing had changed. He was still the same boy he had been before becoming a Gifted. Impulsive and rash. Throwing a fist first and thinking second.

  A smile almost spread his lips, a self-deprecating one. He thought too little out in the world and thought too much in the house.

  His eyes moved back down to his unconscious brother. And look where thinking too much got you.

  “I’ve got a question, Uncle D,” he said after a while, trying to fill the silence with words so that he didn’t have to focus on his own thoughts.

  Uncle Dorthna paused to look at him and lowered his mug. “Here’s to hoping I have an answer.”

  Uncle Dorthna always had an answer. Even to a question as stupid as why he couldn’t teach a child how to fly, asked by a four-year-old boy who’d had plans of jumping off the roof in order to fly like a hero in a comic.

  “What Ninra said,” he began. “Is it true?”

  “About what?” Dorthna asked.” About this not being your fault? If yes, then the answer is yes. It’s true.”

  Ark shook his head. “Not that.”

  He had more to say but hesitated.

  With a sigh, his uncle placed his mug on the table again and folded his arms over his chest. “Alright, kiddo. Let’s hear it.”

  Ark worried his bottom lip between his teeth, trying to get the words out.

  Eventually, he did. “I’m talking about me always acting aloof and troublesome. She said everyone already knows.”

  Dorthna nodded. “Everyone does. But if there’s one thing I’ve learnt, it’s that people handle things in their own ways. I think Mel was the second to find out. Then your mom. With your dad, who can say?”

  “When did you find out?”

  His uncle shrugged. “When your sister told me.”

  Ark thought as much. “So, she was the first to find out?”

  Uncle Dorthna stared at nothing, suddenly thoughtful. “She’s always the first to find out.”

  That was a confusing thing to say so thoughtfully. But it wasn’t wrong. Ark had always thought the same thing.

  “She can be terrifying like that,” he muttered.

  Uncle Dorthna shivered visibly. “You have no idea.”

  “Wait.” Ark paused. “You’re really scared of her?”

  Uncle Dorthna cocked a brow. “Are you saying that you’re not?”

  Ark was, but not in the way of being terrified that she would harm him. It was just in a more instinctual manner, like getting a particular look from your mother that made you stop doing what you were doing. It wasn’t really about the punishment but more about a simple acknowledgement or acceptance that she had power over him.

  He couldn’t really put it into words.

  As for his reply to his uncle, it was simple. “I am,” he said. “But she’s my older sister. What’s your excuse?”

  His uncle was silent for a moment. Then he shrugged. “She’s the spawn of the Oath of Madness and the Oath of War, and older sister to a [Demon King] and the [August Intruder], claimant to an entire world. Yet, she's just human. Does that work?”

  Ark opened his mouth, then closed it. When Uncle Dorthna put it that way, Ninra sounded very badass. But he wouldn’t be caught dead saying that.

  “Fair point,” he said.

  Once again, he looked down at Mel. The awkwardness of looking down at him when Uncle Dorthna had left them alone in the room was gone now, and he was happy for it. Now, however, while it came easily, it brought guilt. It was a reminder.

  “How do people change?” The words came out of his mouth. With his eyes on Melmarc, he wasn’t even sure who he was talking to, their uncle or himself.

  It could’ve easily been Melmarc.

  “Something happens to them.” Dorthna’s words filled the air, calm and gentle. “Or they have something that they want to happen to them.”

  Something had happened to Ark, but that hadn’t changed him. If becoming Gifted was not enough to change him, he wondered if there was anything that would be able to.

  Was there something that he wanted to happen to him?

  He couldn’t think of any right now.

  “If a person has none of these,” he said slowly, eyes still fixed on Mel, “how do they change?”

  At first, his uncle said nothing, allowing a slow silence stretch. It settled over the entire room like a blanket. It was not warm. It did not drive away the chill. Instead, it forced Ark to reflect on what he had said. It forced him to ask himself what he wanted to change.

  Uncle Dorthna spoke before he did.

  “Do you want to change, Tar’arkna?”

  Ark could count the number of times Uncle Dorthna had called him by his complete name since the day he was born on one hand.

  Hearing it jarred him from his thoughts, forced him to look at his uncle.

  Ark’s answer was not as profound as his question. “Maybe?... I don’t know.”

  His uncle let out a slow breath. It wasn’t necessarily a sigh. Ark wasn’t sure what it was.

  “Alright,” Uncle Dorthna said, placing his mug aside. This time he put it on the floor. “People have always misunderstood the concept of change. God knows that for a concept so misunderstood it’s a good thing its Oaths are the rarest in existence—worlds living and dying without ever having one.” He shook his head, somehow making the action look grateful. “Headaches all of them.” He paused, looked at Ark. “Where was I?”

  “Change being misunderstood,” Ark answered.

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  “Ah yes. Change.” His uncle smiled. “There aren’t a lot of people that need change. Those who are bad. Those who turn out to be useless. Those who are without value but seek value. People who sit on a swivel chair and don’t swivel.” He shuddered at the last one. “Those who do not understand their unimportance… Actually, there are quite a few.”

  Ark looked at Melmarc. “Those who try and fail to help.”

  “So that’s where the problem is,” Dorthna said with a sigh. “Tell me something. Do you know the meaning of your name, Tar’arkna?”

  There was something in the way he said the name. It was heavy, demanding attention. Voice serious, Dorthna sounded like someone else. Someone serious. Someone old. Ancient.

  Ark wasn’t exactly sure what was happening, but he knew that he couldn’t joke here or now, not that he wanted to.

  “It means Dying Light,” he answered carefully.

  “Yes,” Dorthna agreed. “But do you know why it means what it means? Do you know what it means to be a dying light—to be Tar’arkna.”

  Ark placed a finger on what Dorthna sounded like now.

  He sounded like an old man. Strong and wise. An elder kept as a part of a tribe’s history to pass on the stories to those who would come before him.

  He sounded ancient and wise.

  “Let me tell you a story, Tar’arkna,” Dorthna said.

  His voice dropped into something slow and enthralling. It was a tone you would expect from an aged storyteller. It forced Tar’arkna to listen. There was nothing else but the sound of Dorthna’s voice.

  “Once upon a time,” Dorthna began, “in a world eons old and eons away, there was a gentle tribe on a gentle planet. They were unknown, miniscule in the wider macrocosm of lifeforms on their world. They were a simple people. Gifted when it was time to be Gifted. No one knew when they began or where they came from. Who their first progenitor was or where they came from. They were nobody.”

  He paused, reached for the table, stopped, then looked down at the cup on the ground. A small smile touched his lips as if looking at something simple but important. Then it was gone.

  “Then one day,” he continued, resuming the story as if he’d never paused, “someone strong rose amongst their ranks. He was the first to grow so powerful. In this world they would’ve called him SSS-ranked, maybe even more. Their kind exists across the cosmos in their own way. But their tribe was small and happy in their unimportance. They were happy to be unknown. And this man was happy to be a part of the tribe, to uphold their nature. So, he was quiet, his power used only for what was necessary.”

  “Necessary,” Ark echoed, his mind focusing on the word.

  Dorthna nodded. “Yes. Necessary. And he lived a long and happy life, growing stronger with every year that passed. Eventually, he lived long enough to become a living part of his tribe’s history, old, powerful, undying.”

  “He was immortal.” Ark had never heard of an immortal Gifted before, but there was always a speculator here or there that theorized the possibility of a Gifted getting so strong that they become immortal.

  “He was,” Uncle Dorthna confirmed, his cup of water seemingly forgotten. “Until powers beyond their world found their way there. Beings with no reason to be in such a world waged war upon each other. The battle was as one would expect, brutal. Mountains crumbled. The skies shifted. The living died and the dead died again in their graves. When a victor emerged alongside a vanquished, their world was nothing but a desolate wasteland. There were survivors to be sure. But they were left in a harsh world, a broken world

  “So they had to grow or leave or die out. And it is not an easy thing leaving a world. It is an almost impossible thing moving an entire people out of a world. So this powerful man who had stood no chance against the two beings that had ruined their world in a single feud made a decision. So he climbed to the tallest of what was left of the mountains, stood upon it, and made a decision. No one knows what he truly did, and if the tribe did, they guard it as their greatest secret to this day. Standing atop the rubbles of his dying world, those who saw claim that a light left him. It shined so bright, filling everything as far as the eye could see. This man was the brightest of light. And witness to his presence, his tribe watched his light die out until all that was left was a man.”

  “Did he die?” Ark asked, a touch of pity for the man in his voice.

  “Eventually,” Dorthna answered. “Like every other person, he grew old and passed. Many people asked themselves what his true sacrifice was. Giving up what he had after countless years of living, knowing he was the most powerful for the world, or doing it, and spending the rest of his life as a normal man, a simple man void of even a molecule of mana.”

  That was odd as far as Ark knew. Every thing had mana. Even the table his uncle was sitting on. He told his uncle as much.

  “All things have mana, though,” he said. “How was he still alive even without mana?”

  His uncle shrugged. “Apparently, you can live without mana. You’ll just have a relatively shorter life than most. Regardless, whatever sacrifice that man made on that day bought their world some time, and only his tribe knew of what he had done. Many years later, another rose from amongst their ranks, powerful and strong, she stood at the pinnacle. And a time came when she stood upon the same mountain and let out a light that eventually died. As the years went by, three more did the same until their entire world was aware of what was happening. With each light that died, their world healed a little more, had a little time.”

  “They were all dying lights,” Ark realized.

  “Yes. And with everything that was happening, the others who shared the same world began to speculate, to wonder if the tribe was grooming the people to become strong, raising sacrifices for their world.”

  “Were they?” It was a horrible thought, to lead someone to great power only to take it from them.

  Dorthna shook his head. “There is a general concession that power corrupts,” he said. “And while that is true, the truly powerful, those who have earned their power, fought and bled for it, are often ever corrupted. The disadvantage of power is that when you get a certain amount of it, you start to see things differently, it becomes deeper the older you get. It is the little things versus the bigger picture. What you see as important or good is different from what your mother will see as important or good.”

  “So, they sacrificed themselves?” Ark asked.

  “Yes. And the interface of their world made a title out of them.” Dorthna smiled something nostalgic. “It was the only thing left to them of their interface until the day they died. The title of dying light, named after the first of them to make the sacrifice. [Tar’arkna].”

  “Tar’arkna,” Ark repeated.

  Knowing what he now knew, the name sounded different in Ark’s mouth. It had always sounded heavy, weighty. It had always carried with it the importance of being his name. Being the only one named by his uncle, had also carried some weight to it. But it had all been superfluous to him.

  Now, though. Now it was heavy.

  “Why?” he found himself asking.

  “Because, like the rest of your siblings—Mel and Ninra—I was present at your birth. And I have learnt that bringing life into existence, no matter the species or power, is always a daunting task. Species are often the weakest in those moments.” Uncle Dorthna adjusted on his seat, leaned forward and held Ark’s attention with his eyes. “You do not know this story. You should not know this story. But your statement on change has led me to believe that you should know this story. So listen and listen attentively. This is the story of your origin. The story of who you are.”

  Ark had not stopped listening for a single moment.

  “When you were born, your mother died…”

  Ark’s jaw dropped. “What?”

  “It was nothing so grand,” Dorthna said with a dismissive gesture. “It was more like being brain dead. The doctors didn’t even catch it. She was gone for like a second. However, it was long enough to weaken her ties to mana, her Oath-hood, her class. So when she was back, she started dying again.

  “You once said that everything has mana, and you are right. At least everything is born with mana. Some people call it life mana and children lose it as they grow, consuming it as they grow and converting what is left of it into something more normal. You were a healthy baby, full of far too much mana. Personally, I believe you had too much and your mother had been unable to handle it.”

  “That’s why she died?” It was so weird talking about his mother dying so casually. “Was it also why she was dying?”

  “Nope,” Dorthna answered. “She was dying because her grasp on the things that kept her alive was slipping away.”

  Ark had an idea of where the story was going. He wasn’t foolish enough to not make the connection. “What did I do?”

  Dorthna smiled at him. The action was a compliment and Ark knew it.

  “To those who can see it,” he said. “The mana of a newborn child is like a bright light that surrounds them. As little as it is, it is a potent thing. To keep your mother alive, to keep what had been your world alive, you gave up your mana. I watched your light die to save your world as I once watched a powerful being’s light die to save theirs. From the moment you were born, you have made the decision, even when you did not know it, to live for those who were important to you. And even now, that has not changed. In the vastness of existence there is a saying that a living being’s potential for evolution is limitless. That potential is in that light at their birth. To save your mother, you gave up your potential, Ark. You gave up any chance you had of ever becoming a Gifted by your own power. That is why you are called dying light. That is why you are Tar’arkna.”

  In this moment, Ark understood why words could move people to do the greatest and worst of things. He understood why words motivated people to great lengths. He would’ve liked to say that he now understood the importance of names, but he did not. All he understood was the importance of his name.

  “Does mom know?” he asked.

  “Perhaps,” Uncle Dorthna answered. “Sometimes I think it is the reason she allowed you keep a pet demon, knowing your father would not like it. They are guardians, and [Dragon Knight] only became a Gifted because her guardian chose her. I’m guessing it is the reason your mother was willing to accept any class a demon would give you. But I could be wrong.”

  Ark found himself with a new appreciation for Spitfire, so much so that he wanted to reach under Mel’s bed and rub its head.

  He did not.

  “If you want to change who you are because of a mistake you made, I can’t tell you what to do.” Dorthna leaned down and picked his cup up. He frowned at the absence of steam rising from it. “But don’t change because you think the core of who you are is wrong. That would be a wrong line of thought. I know what you are and there is nothing wrong with it. I saw you, watched you, and I named you.” He placed a finger against his chest. “I,” he turned it and pointed to Ark, “named you, Tar’arkna. You may have no idea now, but that counts for something.”

  Ark could not remember the last time he felt so important… so… necessary. Dorthna’s words almost dispelled every atom of guilt he felt from what had happened to Mel. Almost.

  Dorthna got up abruptly, a frown on his face. “If you don’t mind, I have to return to the kitchen. My water has grown cold while trying to teach you who you are.”

  When he left the room, closing the door behind him, Ark wondered if his water was so cold that he really had to hurry out of the room.

  Choosing not to dwell on it, he turned his attention and looked down at Melmarc.

  “I’m a mess, Mel,” he said with a smile. “But I’m not bad.”

  Looking down at Melmarc, he noticed a lock of his front hair. It was different from the others. Almost a handful of it was turning white at the roots.

  “I guess you’ll grey early.” He chuckled lightly. But it was nothing a good dye couldn’t fix. Ark’s smile continued to play on his lips as he echoed words he’d said mere moments ago. “I’m not bad.”

  Spitfire poked its head out from under Mel’s bed and looked up at him. It looked confused, like a child seeing one of their parents happy for no reason, entirely out of the blue.

  Ark was not bad. He knew this, accepted it. And it didn’t matter what any title said. So, to test his resolve, he pulled up the only title he had to his name and the one thing that had really bothered him since earning it.

  [You have slain the demon Taluth and avenged the fallen of the tribe of Neth]

  [You have gained the title Pain of the Dying]

  [Pain of the Dying]

  All emotions have power. You have found your worth. You are fueled by the pain and suffering of the dying.

  [Effect: +2 increase to all stats for every being dying painfully within a certain distance.]

  [Radius: 100 feet.]

  Ark stared at it, spoke to it.

  “I am not bad,” he said.

  …

  Pain woke up with a gasp. At least he would’ve gasped if he could, but he didn’t have the necessary will to do so. But he did feel air fill up his lungs. For that, he was grateful.

  The first thing he noticed when he woke up was the pain, but he was always in pain. This one was significantly more so it could not go beyond noticing. It took him half a second to find the reason for the pain. Madness.

  Dead… at… you’re not… least.

  This was the second thing he noticed. His inability to string his thoughts together. Each time he tried to think, the words and the thoughts did not come properly. They were a scattered mess as if each of them was constantly fighting for a place in his mind.

  The third thing he noticed was the warmth that was constantly enveloping him. Most of it was focused on his head, but flickers of it spread around the rest of his body. Pain knew a healing skill when he felt it.

  As distorted as his memories were—scratching their way in a failed attempt to gain some level of coherence—Pain could still remember how he had lost. He hadn’t known it until he’d gone unconscious, but he remembered it now.

  The joy of a mother’s touch. Hate that came with wishing to defy your father and failing. The need to covet what was not yours. The urge to lock yourself in a room and burn yourself alive. World domination. The unnerving need to kill the man who’d driven into his stepmother, killing her and one of his siblings. The undying desire to jump off a high place just because you are standing there and it’s just so high. The dissonance of killing the man you do not want to kill.

  It had been countless, bountiful. It had been dissonant. Pain had never wanted something that he did not want so badly in his life. They had all come rushing in. Emotions. Desires. Mathematical equations that made no sense. A single blade of grass that was too tall in a well mowed lawn.

  Everything had gone white in the blink of an eye. Leaving him unable to… exist. He hadn’t lost because he was overwhelmed or because the pain was too much. He’d lost because he’d grown too mad in the blink of an eye to know how to remain conscious.

  [Pain of The World] was an oath skill designed to share half of his pain with whoever he touched. It was part of the reason for the need to draw all the possible pain available into him in other to use it to his fullest. If he worked by that logic, then [World of Madness] had to follow the same rules.

  He had shared half of his pain with Madness, and in return, Madness had shared half of his madness with him.

  Both Oaths had clashed, and Madness had come out superior.

  Pain would’ve shuddered at the memory. And that was just half of it.

  Was it how Madness walked through life at every waking moment?

  His mind was still reeling from the impossibility of it when he noticed another thing. Conversations were still happening around him. From the sliver he was catching, they had continued the meeting regardless of his state. It was so Oath-like of them.

  “All assets I possess within the country,” he heard Shield say. “I will draft a transfer of ownership—shares and all—and have it sent over to you.”

  “You have money.” Aurora’s voice filled the space. “I have money, too. I don’t need yours.”

  “Then what do you have in mind?” Inevitability’s voice took over.

  “Four punches,” Aurora answered easily. “Four. And a request I will make after the punches.”

  “You want to punch her?” Inevitability asked, confused.

  “I can take it,” Shield said almost immediately. “It’s the request that worries me.”

  Aurora’s laughter was kind. “Oh, no. Not from me. From my husband.”

  “No!” Inevitability said quickly. “That is—”

  “I can take it,” Shield said.

  “No!” Inevitability hissed, voice sharp. “You might be able to take it. But that is not a risk we are willing to take. Counteroffer?”

  The room fell silent for a moment before Aurora answered.

  “I’m listening.”

  “You are aware of the new school program that we’ve been pushing for, right?” Inevitability began.

  “The one that just got approved, funding and all?” Aurora clarified.

  “That one.” There was a thoughtful pause. “I am aware that, with all due respect, your first son has been scouted by a few schools to be a part of the program, and he has accepted a position at Fallen High.”

  “What about it?” Aurora asked.

  “What if I make you an offer regarding your other son?” Inevitability said. “I am aware of his class and how the world views it. I am also aware that he has not submitted an application to any school of repute. So how about I offer my five naira on the matter?”

  Another silence settled on the room. It was pregnant with tension. Everyone present waited even though this conversation had nothing to do with them. Pain felt whatever healing skill was working on him slow down.

  The world waited on the words of the former Oath of War.

  When Aurora dispelled the silence, it was with simple words, vague in their very nature.

  “I’m listening…”