The man wasted little time and poured both bowls to the brim with the two mixtures he had been brewing.

"Choose one and focus your mind on the colours within." The fateweaver said.

"Which one?" Nair stammered. He had suddenly forgotten which bowl held his blood.

"Choose one." The fateweaver called Jeksen said and crossed his arms.

Nair tried to remember, while fighting the worried whimpering of the memories of the boy and the disapproving silence of the memories of the man. But he could not. The fateweaver made sure he could not. He was certain it was part of the ritual, but it did not make him any happier.

There was little distinguishing the two potions. While the herbs in each were different, both looked little different from pure water with a light iridescent layer of oil on top. Trying to focus on the countless hues, Nair's gaze jumped from one bowl to another. The droplets of his blood weren't even visible. The colours had swallowed them.

Without caring which bowl it was, Nair took a step closer to the counter, almost involuntarily. He leaned over one of them and found himself lost in the swirling colours.

A tuft of rich brown hair came to life and the face of his mother in all its expressions rose from the swirling depths. A warm smile, brown hair, and brown eyes. A taller shadow behind her back smiled in a similar fashion. A man with blue eyes and black hair and an unruly beard smiled at him. But the father's smile was more reassuring, with hints of pride and satisfaction. While the mother's smile was only made of thoughts about Nair.

Everyday joy danced vividly in front of Nair's vision. Two smaller figures joined the father and the mother. A sister and a brother, the first older than the latter. The boy a reflection of the mother and the girl of the father. And behind those everyday scenes a final face was taking shape. A somewhat thin and serious face, the boy's black hair reminiscent of the father's but straight instead of lush locks. And green eyes that burned.

Nair was breathing fast, almost gasping for breath as he stared into his own eyes. And a conviction took shape in his mind. This was the life that failed. The boy, gone, and instead of it, a new soul had been forged. A soul of a man that had been denied much in his life and who believed in his right to live above all.

He screamed.

Nair tore his mind into the present as the potion in the other bowl burst into white flames. He stumbled about, bumping into a heavy shelf filled with potions and vials. It jingled ominously, but stood firm. Nair lurched to his knees as his head felt light as a feather and the rest of his body as heavy as an anvil.

Through a shimmering haze at the edge of his vision, Nair recognised Iva, whose concerned face was squatting before him. Even now she said nothing, but only kept nodding and gently caressed Nair's head.

"Fire." Nair slurred.

He shook his head and finally managed to find enough strength to pull himself to his feet. He watched the white flames of marble slowly die in the other bowl and his gaze then met the fateweavers. Nair's heart dropped when he noticed the look of utmost horror on the man's face.

"You have an apt name, boy. I can only hope now that this war will move further from Lunden. Nothing else I can do. An apt name indeed." The man grimaced at that, as if he had swallowed something bitter.

"It is only a name!" Nair roared.

"A name drenched in power." The man replied even louder. "I wish you'd have made the third choice and drowned in the mud. For just as what has happened, has happened, now, what has been shown to you, shall come to pass."

"I saw nothing." Nair growled.

"We all saw enough. The flames of the Third Makir burn. The God of War shall return to the battlefield of the mortals. He will bring justice, but justice through rage. How just is it?" The fateweaver sighed heavily and sat down a small stool.

"I will ask no payment for this." He said just as Iva was about to say something. "Sometimes I wonder whether I was granted the right gift, but I suppose this is enough. A chance to survive in this hundred-king war is worth more than coin. Now, get out!" The fateweaver barked.

Nair had not noticed how overpowering the pungent aromas of the fateweaver's workshop were until he stepped out of the house again. The cool air filled his lungs as he and Iva made their way back through the garden. He stopped at the gates, looking back at the old house. For the first time since the siege of Lunden ended, the two memories in his mind had fallen silent.

No, not only that. The faint presences of those two beings had disappeared. He was Nair, after all. It made sense that the boy's memories would not feel foreign any longer. Yet, that was the life that failed. He knew it with certainty.

Then what of the man? What was he now? What was he becoming? Perhaps Nair was never the boy's own name.

The urge to laugh came from nowhere. But a few meagre grunts were all he could manage. Despite the overwhelming urge, he could not bring himself to laugh. There was power in the fateweaver's words.

Perplexed, Nair sought Iva's gaze.

"It's the fateweaver's way of saying you will be a great warrior." Iva said in her commanding voice. "You have an idea now of what happened to you, do you not? And it's easier to focus on this moment now. I've seen you amble around in a haze this past third. The gods have long left us to our own devices, what little power they left behind we now wield as a weapon to destroy or as a tool to build. This man, Jeksen, fateweavers, they tend to forget that. They still believe that the divine exists and attribute it to power that is very much mundane."

With a thankful shock, Nair realised her words were true. He could feel his expression lose its tension as he closed his mouth, took a deep breath and nodded at Iva.

"Come. Let's find a smithy." Iva encouraged him.

Throwing one last look at the garden and the house, Nair followed. As much as he tried, one final tinge of uncertain feelings still bothered him. "There was power in the fateweaver's word's." He mumbled.