The morning dew was always best in spring.
When it was cold at night and warmed up quickly, the droplets just on the brink of melting, but still solid. Freshly cast beads that gleamed like little blue gems in the sun's golden rays. When I picked them up I could pretend they were plunder taken from the very depths of the Labyrinth, from the body of Knossos itself, and that when I brought them home I'd be a wealthy man.
I'd imagine myself a place in the Aristocracy. Not that they'd let just anyone buy their way in, and certainly not a mundy, but what did that matter? A whole Cell to call my own. Cell Tharros! Mom always used to say our name stood for courage, in the Old Tongue. So it'd be a worthy name for a Cell.
I'd have it all. A plot of land vast and wide and overflowing with fruit trees and fertile fields. An inheritance to give to my children, and their children for generations after them. Warriors beyond measure would serve our noble line, and they'd be brave and just and true. No evil would go unpunished, not on our land.
I sighed wistfully, and stared up at the sky above. It was always so easy to just imagine. I could create our knights within my mind, down to the very last detail. Row upon row of Blessed-forged steel and runic weapons imbued by Grimnir himself. I could see their shining coat of arms, the rust on their boots, the slight dents and imperfections in their well-worn visors.
Mom loved my imagination. It's why she told me all the stories. She said that I could hear the world singing, and sing right back. Master Ewan just said I had my head in the clouds.
And he wasn't wrong. I did. After all, who'd want to live on the ground when they could soar through the sky? When they could fly, like a Blessed.
Maybe Dad would come back, too.
I couldn't imagine him very well, sadly. I never really knew his face, and Mom didn't like to describe him. All she'd tell me is that I had his eyes and her hair. So I envisioned someone like me, but older, scruffy and handsome, in a roguish way.
Maybe he'd come to our doorstep and say that he was sorry, that it was all a test. He'd console me, tell me he just wanted me to prove that I was worthy, worthy of his Blessed blood. And we'd laugh and smile together. Like a real family.
I stood and brushed the damp earth and crushed dew from my knees, and wiped my bloody hands on nearby greenery.
Dew was not treasure and there were no good Cells, except maybe Uther, or Regis. Mom was dead and Dad long gone. To be honest, I had no idea if he was even still alive. I didn't know if I cared, either.
And besides, no one got made into an 'Crat without being Blessed, and I was unlucky enough to have had not only a deadbeat father, but a human mother too.
I picked up my belongings-two skinned, disemboweled rabbits-hefted them over my shoulders, and turned back towards the village. I couldn't shoot worth a damn, sadly, but I was a pretty good trapper. The song was always stronger in well-traveled places, and allowed me to find the little hidden paths and forest thoroughfares that never seemed to disappoint.
And good thing, too. What with Ewan's training and the house's constant upkeep, I was always hurting for time and money. The skins would sell well-rabbit fur boots were always in demand out in the wilds-and it never hurt to have some extra meat on the table.
I breathed deep and tasted the clean forest air, almost sweet on my tongue. I moved through the brush with barely a sound, despite carrying my quarry. I'd had years of practice. I didn't need to be quiet-not for this, I wasn't hunting anything. But I found that when I moved just right, something magical happened.
Silence.
Normal places were so noisy, people everywhere. They drowned out the song. But here, deep in the wilderness, it was different. Slowly, as I stalked, my eyes half-closed. I held my breath. And I began to listen.
It was hard to hear at first, but I was an old pro at this. And besides, I wasn't hurried.
First, I picked out the trees. Their song was soft and sturdy, slow and steady. It was the creaking of wood, the cracking of branches. The soft rustle of their leaves. They'd been here for decades, maybe centuries, and would continue long after most of us became the soil that nourished them. I moved them aside, and pushed deeper.
Beneath and between and upon the trees, was life. Crawling and hopping, climbing and trotting. It was a frantic song, a burning need for meat and plants and water. It was an anxious song, of hiding and creeping and holding breath. It was a deadly song, of stalking and smelling and fangs on flesh. It was an orderly song, of marching and working and for the hive, to the death. It was a staccato of flimsy, fluid-filled things all competing for survival.
I moved it aside, and pushed deeper still.
The subtle vibrations, the perturbations of earth and sky, of star and stone, filled my ears. I heard the sizzling, scorching, scourging song of the sun's light, that spoke of heat and life and power. I heard the soothing, calming, cooling song of water deep in the earth and high in the sky. It spoke of moving in subterranean caverns and drifting in wispy clouds, of melting and freezing and evaporating and changing. I heard the grumbling, grinding, grating sound of rock moving deep, deep beneath the ground. It spoke of strong impenetrable armor, of slow unstoppable movement, and of throughout all, I endure.
But there was something else. Something more. Something softer than even the softest tones. Hiding within falling raindrops, trapped deep below shifting soil, borne forth on sunlight from above. It was here, and there, and everywhere. It permeated all things, people, and places. It was too small to see, too soft to hear, and yet without it there would be nothing. It spoke of…
It spoke…
I sighed, and gave up. Try as I might, I was no Blessed. And my hearing, while a cute quirk, was just that. A far cry from a true power.
As I walked among the shifting trees, sliding over outcropped roots, I allowed myself to imagine it. Just once more. Just, for a moment.
Blessing.
In what had become something of a ritual, and because no one else was around, I tried it. I licked my lips carefully, worked my jaw, held out my hand before me, and said the word.
"Grimoire."
Nothing.
No ancient tome manifested before me, describing to me the nature of my Blessing, notifying me of my Attunement. I sighed, feeling just as silly as ever. Once upon a time, I'd thought my ability to hear the song might qualify, only to be disappointed.
What mundane child, or adult for that matter, didn't dream of it? And being 19, stuck just between the two, I dreamed of it most of all.
What form might my Blessing take? Would I breathe fire, like the Divine Dragon? Craft wonders, like the Runemaster? Maybe I'd be like Valour, ancient and undying, able to wield lightning with my bare hands. I figured no matter where they lived, most kids my age wanted to be like Valour.
Truth was, though, most Blessings weren't that powerful. Many were strange, situational, or just plain weak. And even if I lucked out, and got one of the really strong ones, I'd still have to work decades to reach the level of an Immortal.
But I wouldn't mind that, not really. Priest knows I worked hard enough as it is for Ewan. No, even a chance, even the meekest, humblest power would be manna from heaven to me.
The problem was my parentage.
Blessed don't often have proper kids with mundies. They seldom legitimize us. We're a company of bastards. The Forsaken, they call us. Because unlike the children of two Blessed, half-bloods don't get powers from birth. It's almost worse than being mundane. Some 'Crats hate half-breeds in particular. They think we pollute the bloodline. Still, doesn't stop 'em from breeding mundies. Plenty of Forsaken always being born.
But if we want to get Blessed, we have to do it the old fashioned way. The way everyone did it, in the old days. Triggering.
I don't know much about triggering. I mean, I know it's supposed to happen on the worst day of your life, but I didn't trigger when Mom died, so I'm not sure I believe that. Mom might've known, but she didn't talk about it. All she said was that she didn't want it to happen to me.
Master Ewan told me some 'crats kept mundy kids in cages, torturing them daily in the hopes they might trigger. I thought about trying that after Mom died, but ultimately decided against it.
After all, Ewan never actually said if it worked or not.
I could tell Mom had felt bad about it, though. She'd never said as much, probably for my benefit, but I knew she'd been sad I wasn't Blessed. Maybe some part of her thought that, despite my heritage, the High Priest or the Gods might smile upon us, and Bless me anyways.
I knew why she'd felt bad, too. It was because she'd told me the stories.
Mom had been a historian when she was younger. She hadn't talked about that much, either. I'd always thought she might've worked for a Cell, given how much she hated them. Regardless, she'd known a lot about the Old World. More than anyone else in the village for sure. And when I was younger, before she got too sick to do so, Mom would tell me stories.
Legends from before the collapse. Heroes, clad in colorful costumes, who'd go out and fight evil. She'd tell me about the Holy Triumvirate, the strongest heroes of the Old World. Grey Knight Alexandria. The Lord of Light. The High Priest.
It might've been blasphemy, but I didn't care. Every night, no matter how meager our food, no matter how threadbare our sheets, her stories would keep me warm and full and whole. Gods, but I loved those stories. Even now, I don't regret hearing a single one.
There were no heroes on Bet nowadays, not anymore. But, as a kid, I'd thought that maybe I could've been one. Maybe I could've been the first.
I'd damn well never abandon my kid, at least.