"Once you turn twelve, you either receive a blessing or a gift. This is the same for everyone. Gifts are not necessarily weaker than blessings, though they are often less broad in scope."


    He paused and thought for a moment. "What applies to both, however, is that they can be improved through one''s own understanding." His gaze fell on a sunbeam streaming through the window, making the dust particles in the air dance.


    "Understanding is based on four things. First, your own mental state. If you receive a gift of light but are inherently evil, the compatibility doesn''t align well."


    His voice became more urgent as he spoke of the next point. "However, the most important thing is training. You must repeat your abilities over and over to get a feel for them. It''s like memorizing something," he said, nodding to himself as though reassuring his own logic.


    "Almost forgot, the third point is equally important: understanding your own ability. You must grasp its different facets. This point is more important for people with a blessing than for the others."


    You could see your progress by the mark on your palm. The color of the mark indicated how many times you had experienced an "enlightenment." The more intense the mark glowed, the closer you were to the next enlightenment.


    "Now, we come to the fourth point, and with it, something that unsettles me," Azrael murmured, letting his voice trail off thoughtfully. A slight discomfort twisted in his stomach as he formed the next thought. "Actions corresponding to the command also significantly increase one''s understanding."


    Unconsciously, he began to pace in circles, his brow furrowed slightly. The command. Everyone received it and had to obey. Azrael’s heart quickened as he pondered it. The command took different forms for each person, but there were always similarities—sometimes more, sometimes less. To be exact, with blessings, the commands were different; with gifts, they were similar.


    The thought that there were different punishments for not following the command gnawed at him. Sometimes, it could be relatively harmless, but there were also things one would rather not do. A short sigh escaped him as he pushed the thought aside and refocused on the book.


    As if struck by a hammer, a sudden wave of exhaustion hit him. "Ugh, this is going to be a lousy day. Tired of working the bellows, this won''t be fun," he murmured and sighed deeply.


    To clear his mind, he decided to open the window so the cold air could invigorate his senses. Quietly, so as not to wake Bartho, he pushed the window open—and froze.


    The figures from yesterday were still standing there, motionless and pale. Their eyes were wide open, with a vacant, absent look in them. A shiver ran down his spine as he saw their trembling bodies. The cold had gnawed into their limbs, their skin was marbled, and bluish shadows stretched along their cheeks. Their lips had taken on an unsettling dark blue hue, like a harbinger of doom.


    "What the... were they here all night?" A cold shiver ran through him. Such fanaticism wasn’t possible. At some point, the instinct for self-preservation should kick in, right?


    "Hang..." A coughing fit cut him off.


    "Hang the white-haired one!" he croaked, his voice weak, and the others, cloaked in darkness, weakly echoed him. But unlike yesterday, they lacked the energy, their voices sounded brittle and feeble, as if they were about to break at any moment.


    The pained expressions on the people’s faces reminded him that they might be more than just angry believers. Perhaps they were also victims of their own fanaticism, trapped in a world they could no longer control.


    "You know what, just die then. I don''t care." Annoyed, he closed the window again and leaned against the cold wall. "By tonight, they''ll leave, or they''ll die," he muttered, turning away, unable to bear the sight any longer.


    Since it was already too late to sleep, he decided to continue his self-conversation. "Where was I? Ah yes, the command. The last commonality..." He rubbed his eyes, trying to concentrate. "When you''ve attained an enlightenment, you get two options. You must choose one of them: Either you improve one of your abilities, or you get an enhancement to your body. New abilities weren''t typically granted. Everyone has three abilities, one of them is passive."


    Slowly, the energy in his body dwindled, and the desire to keep pacing around faded. He sat back down in the chair, a yawn escaping his lips. His eyelids grew heavier as the urge to sleep overtook him.


    "It bothers me a little that so much of one''s fate depends on whether you get a good gift or a blessing. Though, the difference probably isn''t earth-shattering. At least I can train well..."The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    His thoughts began to blur, and slowly his eyelids closed until they finally sank shut.


    A loud knock jolted him out of his dark dreams.


    "Get up, or it''ll be dinner before you finally wake up!"


    His eyes snapped open, and he sat up, shaking the drowsiness from his limbs.


    "I slept? Damn, I slept!" he realized with a shock, his heart pounding faster. "What time is it?" His slightly blurred gaze wandered toward the window. The warm sunlight of a pleasant autumn day flooded the room, leading him to guess it was around midday.


    He immediately turned to Bartho to apologize, but he just waved it off uninterested. "Your sword''s done. Come and test it. I also brought your bow up from the cellar."


    Eager, Azrael was about to rush downstairs when a sudden thought struck him. He quickly approached the window and looked outside.


    "Hang the white-haired one." The familiar cry echoed again, a hoarse, powerless whisper that made his heart tighten.


    Shaking his head, he closed the window once more, a cold shiver running down his spine. "I wonder... but that can''t be. They must have drunk something by now."


    With a shrug, he followed Bartho back into the forge. There it lay, his sword, in all its glory, waiting to be wielded.


    It was sheathed in a sturdy, blackened leather scabbard, adorned with fine silver engravings. On the scabbard, the poignant inscription read: "Strength through stillness."


    "I thought that phrase would suit, to remind you not to lose yourself in your rage," the blacksmith grumbled in response to Azrael''s questioning look.


    Azrael bowed gratefully before finally approaching the sword and lifting it. "Light," was the first thing that caught his attention. The weapon barely weighed more than two pounds and felt almost weightless in his hand. Reverently, he drew the sword from its sheath.


    The blade was elegantly crafted, with a gentle curve that tapered to a fine point. It was about forearm-length and made of polished, dark steel that shimmered softly in the light. Upon closer inspection, Azrael noticed subtle patterns running along the blade, resembling the ripples of water, evoking the flow of life. The fine engravings seemed to break the light in mysterious ways, giving the blade an almost lifelike quality.


    The hilt was thin and ergonomically designed, perfect for swift and precise handling. "What is this material? It''s light, feels pleasant to hold, and looks beautiful," Azrael asked, his curiosity piqued.


    "The grip is made from the wing bones of a griffin," Bartho explained proudly. "It radiates a delicate gray color that shifts softly in the light. Look at the patterns – a faintly hinted design of intertwining lines and shimmering white accents spirals around the grip. It gives it an elegant yet powerful appearance, almost as if it carries the essence of a majestic tree, its veins swaying in the wind."


    "Thank you," Azrael replied, his voice filled with gratitude and admiration, as he took in the beauty and functionality of the sword.


    Bartho, embarrassed, coughed and waved his hand. However, it was clear that he enjoyed the compliment.


    "Now, try pulling the bowstring," he said, gesturing to a bow resting on the table to his right.


    Azrael’s surprised gaze shifted to the bow. It radiated a subtle elegance, but what caught his eye most was its color: deep black, as though it absorbed the very light around it.


    Eagerly, he picked up the already strung bow. It was about his size. The grip had a slightly rough texture, offering him a firm hold. The bow was slightly heavier than his sword, but only marginally. As he pulled on the string, he immediately felt the resistance. At first, nothing happened. He pulled harder, but the bow didn’t give. Finally, he put all his strength into it. Slowly, the bow began to bend, but not enough.


    "I can''t do it," he said flatly.


    Bartho''s laughter snapped him out of his thoughts. "You should see the look on your face," he chuckled. "Almandin would have loved that."


    After calming down, Bartho began to explain. "This bow was made from black ash. It''s the best bowwood. Normally, you''d take a branch of the tree and carve runes into it. But Almandin wanted a bow made from the heart of the tree itself. This wood is so hard that the bowyer couldn’t carve runes into it."


    He lifted the bow and admired it with pride. "The difficulty of drawing the bow increases exponentially with each additional inch. You can pull it halfway, but it gets harder the further you go."


    A broad grin crept across his lips. "But just imagine its penetration power. If you shoot at regular armor, it’ll punch right through. You could even take out multiple armored targets in a row. Distance hardly matters either. As long as the line of sight is clear and your aim is good, you could shoot hundreds of meters with it."


    Azrael gazed in awe at the valuable bow. The dark grain of the wood shimmered slightly in the light, as if it were telling mysterious tales. "So, I’ll need to focus heavily on strength training," he murmured, imagining himself hunting with such a powerful weapon.


    "Come on, boy, there’s food. Ah, almost forgot," Bartho added, pointing to a black quiver with long, black-feathered arrows. "These are precision arrows. They’re a bit longer than regular ones, perfect for piercing armored targets. Try to collect them wherever you can. Arrows of this quality are hard to replace. I’ll make you some regular arrows so you can save the good ones. And later, I’ll show you how to properly maintain your weapons."


    After lunch, they went together into the room in front of the forge. Bartho began the weapons maintenance. "It’s important to always take care of your weapons so they serve you well. A weapon doesn’t last forever, but you can significantly extend its lifespan. Two things are especially crucial: cleaning and sharpening."


    He carefully explained how to remove small nicks from the blade, maintaining the angle, and how to find the right angle for different types of weapons.


    "A steeper angle doesn’t cut as well, but it’s more stable and less prone to deep nicks. This is particularly recommended for greatswords or broadswords."


    His face lit up with enthusiasm as he spoke. It was clear how much he cared for this craft. Even more, he seemed to enjoy passing on his knowledge.