We left the dining chamber in silence, Jarin’s fragile smile still lingering in the air.

  Daeryon didn’t move at first. His storm of chi pressed low, steady, but I could feel the weight rolling through him.

  Not rage. Not the fury of battle. Something heavier. Thought. I drifted at his side, watching the lines carved into his face.

  This was a man who had faced monsters, armies, legends. Yet nothing cut deeper than his own children.

  “Two down,” I murmured. The words came softer than I expected, almost like an admission. Then firmer, as if I needed to believe them. “And now… Soryn.”

  His head tilted, eyes sharp as steel. No hesitation this time. No grinding resistance.

  “Yes.”

  We started down the corridor, our steps carrying us toward the wing where steel rang more often than voices.

  “She isn’t like the others,” I said. Not a guess. Not speculation. The certainty of memory, the weight of something I had written.

  “Not hungry like Giron. Not locked away like Jarin. She’s strong, but not for herself. Every strike she makes is for Raion. Every drop of sweat, every breath of training, not for glory or ambition. For him.”

  Daeryon’s shoulders shifted, the barest movement, but I caught it.

  His aura rippled, the storm thickening before he forced it back again.

  “I don’t know if it was now or later, but they approached her,” I pressed.

  “They whispered in her ear. Offered forbidden scrolls, secret training, promises of power. A future brighter than her brother could ever give her.”

  Daeryon’s stride slowed. The storm coiled tight around him. His voice came low, rough. “And she refused.”

  “She spat it back in their faces,” I said, sharper. “Told them that if strength meant abandoning Raion, it wasn’t worth having. Told them to keep their future. She never wavered. Not once.”

  The silence in the corridor deepened until it felt like stone.

  “She’s his shield,” I said, quieter now but cutting deep. “His anchor. The moment you praised Raion, even lightly, she smiled wider than she ever did for herself. That’s who she is. She doesn’t care if the world sees her. She only wants it to see him.”

  Daeryon faltered. He didn’t stop, but his head turned, shadowing his face.

  His aura surged, a storm crashing against the walls, before he forced it down again.

  For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, rough and unsteady:

  “I did not know she loved him so fiercely.”

  I drifted closer, steady, unyielding. “If you want to reach her, don’t just recognize her strength. Recognize the strength of her devotion. Show her that you see him. That’s all she has ever wanted.”

  Daeryon’s jaw tightened. His eyes flickered, unsettled. The kind of shift that proved the words had landed where no blade ever could.

  The storm in him hadn’t yet settled when the first clang of steel rang down the hall.

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  It came again. And again. Not wild. Not frantic. Deliberate. Each strike measured like a heartbeat.

  When we stepped into the wing, Soryn was already there, blade driving through movements I didn’t recognize.

  She moved low and fast, each pivot flowing into a flick that sent sparks from the post.

  Daeryon halted. His aura pressed tight to the walls, as if even his chi didn’t want to break her rhythm.

  She struck three more times before she noticed us. Her head lifted, strands of sweat-damp hair clinging to her cheek.

  “Father,” she breathed, straightening. She didn’t bow, but her blade lowered.

  Daeryon’s eyes narrowed, studying the motions she had left half-finished. “That sequence... is not Kang form.”

  Soryn hesitated, then answered, voice steady. “No. Raion showed me. He said it might suit me better.”

  A pause. Heavy.

  Daeryon’s mouth tightened. “Raion. He has taught you again.”

  Her grip on the hilt firmed, chin lifting. “Yes. He showed me. Raion is quick. He sees things before I do. I don’t know how, but when I copy him, it feels easier. Like the blade wants to move that way.”

  Her voice carried pride, but none of it for herself. Every word belonged to him.

  I folded my arms, grinning. “Oh, come on. She’s practically begging you to praise Raion.”

  Daeryon’s eyes cut toward me for an instant, storm flickering, before he looked back at her. His breath came slow, rough but steady.

  “Your form is strong,” he said at last. “Balanced. You’ve grown.”

  Soryn’s eyes wavered. For a heartbeat, her composure cracked, the corners of her lips trembling upward. “Thank you, Father.”

  The words came soft, almost fragile, yet heavier than steel. Daeryon studied her, then added, lower, more deliberate.

  “And Raion… he has an eye. A gift most overlook. I had not seen it before, until now.” His jaw tightened, then loosened. “He is… my talented son.”

  The air around her shifted instantly. Her smile bloomed, not for herself, but for her brother.

  Bright. Unguarded. As if Daeryon’s words had lit a fire she had been carrying all along.

  “Thank you, Father,” she said again, firmer. “He is my perfect brother.”

  The system stirred before I could even blink.

  [Daeryon Kang → Soryn Kang: 50% → 62%]

  The screen shimmered in the air, undeniable. Her devotion had been seen, not dismissed.

  For the first time, Daeryon had not just recognized her strength; he had recognized Raion’s. And to Soryn, that meant everything.

  The glow lingered in my vision, and with it came a memory. Quiet, unshakable.

  One I never called for, but one that would not let me go.

  The house had gone quiet in those days. Not peaceful silence, but the kind that made every creak of the floorboards feel like judgment.

  I stayed in my room, curtains drawn, as if the walls could keep out the whispers.

  But shame doesn’t fade when the voices do. It lingers, heavy in your chest, until even stillness feels like it’s watching you.

  I buried myself in silence. Stopped eating at the table, even when my family made space for me, even when their voices tried to draw me back.

  I couldn’t sit there and pretend nothing had changed. Couldn’t force myself to meet their eyes.

  At night, I feigned sleep, body still beneath the covers, fists clenched until they ached. The weight didn’t lift, not even in the dark.

  The door creaked one night. Not my mother’s steady hand. Not my father’s shadow.

  My little sister padded in, barefoot, hair a wild mess, favorite toy tucked under her arm.

  She was too young to understand “awakening” or “talent,” but she understood me. She understood sadness.

  She didn’t ask permission. She just climbed into the bed, wedging herself under my arm like she always had when storms rattled the windows.

  “You’re grumpy all the time now,” she whispered, half pout, half scold. “I don’t like it.”

  I almost laughed, almost told her to go back. But she pressed her forehead to my chest, stubborn and warm.

  “Even if you don’t get powers, you’re still mine,” she mumbled. “And I don’t care what anyone says. You’re the strongest, because you’re my big brother.”

  The words weren’t polished, weren’t heavy like my father’s lessons or soft like my mother’s comfort. They were simple. Fierce in their own childish way.

  And something in me cracked. For the first time in weeks, the air went in easier.

  Not because the shame was gone. Not because the world would ever see me differently.

  But because she did. Because to her, I wasn’t broken. I was still her big brother. That was the whole world to her.

  She didn’t ask me to shine. Didn’t demand I rise above the whispers or prove anyone wrong.

  She simply believed in me, with the stubborn certainty only a child could carry.

  And that belief held me up. It didn’t erase the shame or silence the doubt. But it gave me air. Enough to keep breathing.

  Sometimes that is all a person needs. Someone stubborn enough to believe for you, when you cannot.

  As I hovered now, I realized Soryn was the same. I had written her this way.

  Her strength wasn’t just in her strikes or her discipline. It lived in the way she carried Raion in her heart. Every movement proof of her faith in him.

  She believed so fiercely it became her shield, her anchor. The same way my sister once believed in me.