The Story So Far: According to Merlwyn

  Ah, you've returned. Brave of you, considering where we left our Trace Veeran.

  He arrived in this world broken. A soldier without a war. Drunk and inconveniently mortal. I chose him for these very qualities. Stubborn enough to fight, skilled enough to matter, desperate enough to listen to a voice he couldn't see. Nick offered him the Death Writ, a clean exit from life and pain, and Trace refused it. I still shake my head at that. Don't let him say it was an accident. I chose him deliberately.

  He landed in Bran's yard. That old wolf treats discipline like scripture. Bran made him walk circles, strike until his hands bled, breathe until breathing itself became a weapon. Trace cursed him, sweated under him, but endured. Criterion, the spear that would shape him, answered his grip.

  Bran thought him ready for his first dungeon, though not without a chaperone. The old wolf went along, a silent wall of experience who kept his hands still even when Trace's blood hit the floor. Should have been straightforward, but a rare spawn had settled in the halls. A creature a full tier above what belonged there. It struck with impossible strength. Bran watched, lips pressed thin, testing whether the boy could stand against odds like that. Trace bled. Staggered. Should have died. Instead, he endured. He unlocked Predator's Mark, a gift usually reserved for veterans twice his measure, and Criterion awakened into a Growth Spear. For a heartbeat, Bran's mask slipped. He muttered it was a miracle Trace lived, though he tried to bury the words beneath disapproval. The truth was plain enough. Bran had given him patience, but brilliance had given him the rest.

  And brilliance, as always, was mine.

  After that came the team. Ronan with his great shield, handsome and charming even when the world burned around him, steady as stone and twice as stubborn. Liora, young and naive, eager to save everyone and willing to fray herself to stitch others whole. And Amara. The archer. Fierce, clever, far too alive for the ending she earned. Together they made themselves known in every dungeon, on every road. One delve kept them trapped for days, a brutal grind that tested every breath and bound them tighter with each fight. For a brief time, Trace wasn't alone.

  That made him dangerous in ways he never expected.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Then the Muster Glade burned.

  When they first arrived, it was a fairground alive with color. Smoke rose from food stalls. Gnomes laughed under bright cloth. The air smelled of spice and roasted meat. For three days they lived in that brightness, training and resting, pretending the world could be kind. By the end, it almost felt safe.

  Then the Dominion came.

  Black-armored killers with crimson light in their veins walked among the stalls without warning. The fairground became a graveyard. They cut down merchants and adventurers with calm precision, harvesting without waste.

  Trace fought beside his team until the end. Ronan took a blade from throat to gut, his armor splitting wide as blood poured free. Liora wouldn't let him die there. She dragged his weight to a horse, heaved him into the saddle with strength born of panic, and climbed up behind to hold him upright. With nothing left but desperation, she rode hard for the trees and vanished into smoke.

  Amara stayed.

  She fought until her quiver was empty. Then with knives. Then with one last arrow from her boot. She drove it into the giant's thigh and staggered him. Bought Trace one final opening. The lieutenant's blade came down, and Amara fell.

  Trace broke.

  He fought like a scream written into form. Would have died there. Strength is a god, and the Dominion worships it well. So I revealed myself. The amulet burned, my power tore through the tether, and the giant's arm came off at the shoulder. Trace seized the moment, drove Criterion into the lieutenant's skull, and rose to Level 11 in the silence that followed.

  That's where we left him. Ronan carried away half dead. Liora fading with him. Amara gone forever. Trace alone, burdened with grief, clutching her bracelet, the Dominion ring he cannot open, and my whispers in his head.

  Now he runs.

  The Dominion hunts him without rest, and every step costs more than the last. No coffee. No rations. No comfort left but stubbornness. His eyes see ghosts when trees shift. His hands shake when the spear grows heavy.

  Oh, little reader, he doesn't look well at all.

  Which is exactly when the most interesting things happen.

  Because ahead, in mountains shrouded and sharp, waits a teacher he doesn't know he needs. And watching through the spear he carries, an ancient elf judges whether he's worth the pain that's coming.

  Welcome to Book Two.

  Burden of Mastery

  Burden of Fate. If you haven’t read Book 1 yet, I strongly recommend starting there first.