The mountain's jagged slopes stretched before us, steep and merciless. The icy wind clawed at my face as I planted one foot after another on the rocky path, each step a careful negotiation with gravity and fate. A single misstep, and the abyss below would claim us.

The first two weeks of this trek had been uneventful—eerily so. Silence pressed in on us like the weight of the cliffs, broken only by the howl of the wind and the crunch of snow underfoot. The mountain was barren, its promise of game a cruel illusion. Each day brought fewer tracks, fewer signs of life, and a growing pit in my stomach as our supplies dwindled.

The meager warmth of my fire spell barely pushed back the encroaching cold. I huddled closer to Freya and my mother, my breath curling in the frosty air. The glow of the flame illuminated their faces, gaunt and weary. The wind sliced through the cracks in our rocky shelter, and even our thick layers of clothing felt futile against the biting chill. My fingers tingled, and I wasn’t sure if it was from the cold or the relentless tension gripping my every muscle.

Nightfall arrived swiftly, the jagged peaks swallowing the last light of the sun. By the time we reached the small plateau that would serve as tonight’s camp, my legs burned with exhaustion. The deer meat from yesterday’s hunt lay wrapped in cloth, its faint, savory scent a cruel reminder of how fragile our rations were. My stomach growled, but I ignored it. Freya ate first, as always, then me, then my mother. My father, stoic as ever, would eat last—if there was anything left.

I watched him closely as he handed Freya her portion, his hands trembling just slightly. It wasn’t the cold; it was hunger. The quiet sacrifice in his eyes was unbearable. Every bite I took felt like a theft.

And yet, I sat there, complicit.

I wasn’t their son. Not really. Not in the way they believed.

The fire crackled softly, but its warmth couldn’t reach the knot of guilt twisting in my chest. My gaze dropped to my hands, fingers still glowing faintly with the dying remnants of magic. The lie I lived gnawed at me, insidious and relentless. Should I tell them? The question haunted me, as it always did. But tonight, it seemed heavier. Louder.

“What was I like as a kid?” The words escaped my lips before I could stop them, my voice low, almost swallowed by the wind.

My mother turned to me, her expression softening. “Curious,” she said with a smile that was equal parts warmth and weariness. “Always asking questions. Magic fascinated you, even though you struggled with it. You’d spend hours with the blacksmith, insisting you’d forge the ‘Sword of Might.’” She chuckled, a sound that momentarily lightened the oppressive air.

The smile on her face tightened something deep in my chest. That boy she remembered wasn’t me. He’d vanished long before I came into this world—this body. His dreams, his ambitions, they weren’t mine. But here I was, sitting in his place.

“What happened to me?” I asked, barely above a whisper. My voice wavered under the weight of the question.

Her smile faded, replaced by a shadow of sorrow. “You told us you were heading into the village with the blacksmith to find Voidsteel. But you told the blacksmith your father would be with you instead. When we realized the stories didn’t add up, it was too late. You were gone.” Her voice cracked, and she looked away, blinking rapidly.

I stared into the fire, its flickering light dancing across the rocks. Voidsteel. The lie. The last shred of that boy’s story before he disappeared into the unknown.

And now, here I was, pretending to be him. Pretending to belong.

The wind shifted, a sudden gust sending embers spiraling into the night sky. My mother’s words echoed in my mind, and with them came the nagging thought: How did he die?

There was no answer, only the biting cold and the fire’s unsteady glow. My heart ached with the weight of my deceit, but my mind refused to let go of the question. Would they still love me if they knew?

BOOM.

The screeches and shouts from the militia echoed as they rushed from the wagon. I followed, eyes darting around, heart pounding. There were too many ki signatures outside—too many for comfort.

Dammit, the conversation distracted me. An ambush…