The Sap Cascade

Vael woke before the sun, the world beyond his windowsill a blur of shadows and half-light. His mind replayed the day before: the festival, the clutch of villagers in their best clothes, the radiant blue flash and accompanying deep humming noise during the Awakening, and that strange, tingling pulse that seemed to settle deep into his bones. For a moment, he lay motionless, listening to the distant caw of crows and the faint trickle of last night’s rain in the gutter. In that hush, the world felt unchanged—yet also entirely new.

Downstairs, the familiar clatter of his father setting out herbs for drying mingled with the gentle voices of his mother and sister preparing breakfast. The scent of thyme and dried apples drifted up the stairs, grounding him in the reality of home. He swung his legs from the bed and padded to the washstand, splashing cold water on his face. Eyes closed, he remembered the words of old Mr. Brant, the village’s most-travelled adventurer: “Your first true Cultivation skill comes from the part of you that’s most honest. Don’t overthink it. Let the sap show you.”

Resolved, he stretched out on his bed and let his focus drop inward, the feeling he’d brushed against yesterday. The shift came as gently as a breath, and he found himself in his soul space—a dream-warped version of his parents’ apothecary. Everything was brighter, sharper: glass jars glowed in slanting sunlight, each flower and herb seemed etched in perfect detail, and the air was laced with both the green of fresh growth and the clean edge of metal.

He noticed eight objects declaring abilities, possibilities, each humming with significance:
—A sword on the hearth: Steel Slash—a practiced, reliable cut, the foundation of every swordsman’s art.
—A bracer: Bulwark Body—the memory of turning aside a blow through strength and resolve.
—A chain shirt hanging from a hook: Steel Skin—a quiet, constant resilience, subtle protection woven into every movement.
—A battered dagger: Galvanised Grip—adaptability, the pull and hold of metal, drawing small things to hand.
—A lighter, slender blade nearby: Breeze Blade—striking in a swift arc, the air itself sharpening and speeding the attack, knocking foes off balance or driving them back.
—A pair of boots: Stolen Step—speed and agility, darting aside before harm can strike.
—A silver bell: Whisperwind—communication, the subtle art of sending a message on the wind.
—A length of silk ribbon, fluttering beside the boots: Gale Grace—a sense of lightness and effortless movement, granting the poise of someone aided by the wind in every step, whether sneaking, climbing, or simply walking unnoticed.

He weighed each one, recalling every lesson and memory. The sword—Steel Slash—felt like home; years of practice, muscle and will sharpen into one reliable motion. The boots—Stolen Step—promised near-supernatural movement, the chance to be where danger wasn’t. The other choices—like the lighter blade and the ribbon—intrigued him, but he was drawn to building a foundation on offense and survival first. As he made his choice, the knowledge seemed to knit itself into his bones. The soul space faded, and the waking world returned.

The room was the same, but not. Light spilled gold across the floorboards. His boots waited by the wall, worn soft at the toes. He dressed in an old shirt and made his way to the kitchen. His mother looked up, her eyes bright with questions she didn’t voice. Instead, she simply pressed a small glass vial into his palm. “Take this,” she said, voice low. “It’s not much—just enough for fever or a shallow cut. Better to have it, just in case.”

He nodded, throat thick. “Thank you, Mum. We’re not sure if we’ll need to stay in Nexara, or if an assignment will keep us a few days. Me and Frosya are packing travel kits, and we’ll see what we need once we know more.”

She smiled, then crossed to a shelf, counting out coins into his hand. “Just in case,” she whispered. “Don’t be afraid to spend a bit for comfort. And make sure you find decent rooms, the Silver Kettle is pleasant and clean. Your father stays there when he’s looking for rare herbs from the merchants.”

Violet, always irrepressible, grinned as she loaded the last of the morning deliveries. “Try not to get yourself killed in Nexara. If you do, at least leave us something good to remember you by.”

Vael rolled his eyes, warmed by her teasing. “I’ll do my best.”

Crossing the village green, he passed neighbours already at their work: the blacksmith’s son splitting kindling, Mrs. Renfield at her linens, children daring each other near the old boundary stone. It was a morning steeped in the scents of wet earth, baking bread, and possibility.

At the lane’s end, He had arranged to meet up with Frosya. He saw her, hair pulled back and the silver lines on her arms catching the light. Her satchel was packed with tidy confidence. 

With a shared glance of anticipation, they set off toward the woods, leaving the village to its routines.

After a stretch of silence, Vael asked quietly, “Did you… see? your soul space, what happened, what choices did you get?”

Frosya smiled, the memory lighting her face. “Yes. Not Rivenholt—a birch and aspen forest, like home near Nordkova. There was a stream, clear and cold, with red-brown leaves in the current. I always felt safe by water there. My choices were all… reflections, I think. First, a surge of water—Water Whip—a way to defend myself. Then Mist Mirage—a promise of concealment. Wellspring—steady healing and resilience. And Purify—to cleanse water and make it drinkable. I chose Water Whip—I want the power to act, not just hide or heal, and to be able to help in a fight.”

She hesitated, then added, “There was a smooth, metallic orb among the roots. Its surface shimmered with strange veins of energy—couldn’t read the inscriptions, but I knew it held significance. Maybe for later or someone else.”

Vael grinned. “Perhaps it’s a key to unlocking your potential.”

Frosya laughed, the tension leaving her shoulders. “Or just a reminder that there’s always more to discover.”

They passed through a thicket, dew sparkling on the grass, and stepped into a wide clearing. Vael shrugged off his jacket, unslung his sword, and handed Frosya the healing potion for safekeeping.

“We should see what we can do.” he said.

They started by picking easy targets: a mossy boulder, the trunk of an old willow, a stray fallen branch. Vael gripped his sword, drawing a calming breath, and focused his will into the blade. Sap pulsed in his senses as he swept Steel Slash across the air, the edge shimmering faintly. The sword bit into the tree with a clean, decisive thunk, wood chips scattering at his feet.

Frosya watched, impressed. “You made that look easy. Let’s see if water can do the same.”

She cupped her hands, pulling a thread of moisture from the air. It coiled into a slender Water Whip, which she swung at the mossy boulder. The whip cracked sharply, sending droplets scattering and leaving a deep, visible welt on the rock.

“Wow,” she murmured. “I can feel the energy flowing through me.”

“Great!” Vael encouraged. “Let’s try together.” He lined up again, slashing at a branch, while Frosya sent her Water Whip at the same target. The branch snapped, half from steel, half from the lash of water.

They circled each other, testing their abilities on stone, bark, and even tossing a pine cone into the air to see if Frosya could pluck it down with her whip—she missed the first time, landed it the second, and gave a little celebratory hop. Vael tried combining a quick step with Steel Slash, imagining how Stolen Step might work, though he hadn’t quite worked up the nerve to try it with sap just yet.

They talked through tactics, swapping encouragements and critiques. “If you can get your whip around someone’s leg, you’d have them off-balance,” Vael suggested.

Frosya grinned. “And if you can use Stolen Step right after they lunge at you, you’ll be behind them before they can turn.”

The sun rose higher, dappling the clearing. They practiced until they were breathless, each time nudging their new magic a little further, learning its quirks and limits.

Finally, Frosya let her hands fall to her sides, smiling and out of breath. “We could do this all day, but how about some sparring?”

Vael wiped his brow. “First to three?” he asked, raising his sword and stepping lightly, anticipation sparking in his chest.

She nodded, focusing, water swirling to her palm.

They squared off, keeping it friendly but focused. Vael moved first, lunging with Steel Slash. Frosya dodged, sending her Water Whip snaking toward his arm. He triggered Stolen Step for the first time, sap surging through his legs. The world seemed to slow as he darted aside, the whip missing by inches.

Back and forth they went, trading quick blows, feints, and laughter. Frosya’s whip lashed forward perfectly. Vael’s Steel Slash landed a gentle tap on her shoulder for a point. Frosya caught his ankle with water and nearly tripped him—point for her.

They called out their scores, cheered each other’s successes, and even argued, mock-serious, over whether a glancing hit counted. The contest drew out, both refusing to give in easily. In the end, Vael eked out the win, both breathless and grinning.

They collapsed in the grass, hair damp, hands sore, and hearts pounding. As they caught their breath, Frosya grinned at Vael. “You know, we’d actually make a decent team.”

Vael nodded, still smiling. “We do. I figure we stand a better chance together—at least for now. Team Rivenholt!”

“Team Rivenholt?” she said, wrinkling her nose. “Sounds a bit lame.”

Vael grinned. “We’re tier one. We are lame, let’s face it. We can be Dragon’s Bane or Rylanor’s Fury when we’ve gained a few levels.”

Frosya laughed, shaking her head. “Okay.”

Vael raised a fist in mock triumph. “Team Rivenholt! Let’s see how far we can go.”

“I wonder how a real fight will feel,” Frosya said, trying for mock-bravery but shining with real satisfaction.

Vael laughed, feeling the pulse of sap in his limbs. “I just hope the monsters aren’t as clever as you.”

They lay in companionable silence for a moment, the clearing around them glimmering with dew and possibility.

They spoke of dreams: of ruins to explore, of seeing the Empire’s great cities, of earning respect and perhaps, one day, mastery. Frosya confided her wish to be a mage. Vael admitted his hope to prove himself more than just the apothecary’s son.

As the sun climbed, they gathered their things—blanket, water skins, bread, cheese, and Vael’s sharpened sword. The village bell rang out three o’clock as they headed home, laughter and hope trailing behind them.

That evening, after a day spent testing their newfound Abilities. Their families met at the Miners’ Strike, a village inn aglow with sap lights and bustling with the comfort of familiar voices. The tables filled quickly—parents, siblings, and friends crowding benches, sharing platters of bread, bowls of stew, ham and cheeses.

Vael, mind still a little flushed from the afternoon’s exertion, described, in his understated way, what it felt like to step into his soul space and what choosing the first Cultivation skills had meant. His mother, Molly, smiled and recounted how her own soul space resembled her grandmother’s reading nook, filled with sunlight and the scent of tea leaves. Robert, more reserved, claimed his was a mountain trail, winding into fog and wild herbs, “endless, but never lonely.” Violet peppered him with questions, wide-eyed and eager, while Vovo teased that his soul space was mostly a workshop full of unfinished projects.

Vasiliy described his own echoing mineshaft, “lit only by hope and a good lamp,” while Marina recalled a cellar lined with aging cheeses and copper tools, “always cool, always home.” Frosya shared the vision of her birch and aspen forest alongside the shimmering metallic orb, prompting Vovo to tease her, saying, “Only you would find a shiny ball in the woods and think it’s a magical treasure waiting to be discovered!”

The meal wore on, laughter and stories flowing as freely as the beer. At one point, Vasiliy leaned forward, lowering his voice and glancing meaningfully at the younger faces. “There’s talk at the mine,” he said, “about something new down in shaft seven. Some say it’s a crack in the rock that shouldn’t be there—a light, blue-white, pulsing. Engineers are muttering about strange readings, high sap levels. The Empire’s sent a surveyor. Rumour is, it might be a portal.”

The table fell briefly quiet, the weight of opportunity and uncertainty settling over them. “No one knows for sure,” Vasiliy continued. “But be careful when you get to Nexara. People are nervous. When the Empire takes an interest, it’s rarely simple.”

The conversation eventually turned back to lighter things—travel plans, reminders about what to pack, and advice on where to find the best bread in Nexara. The comfort of tradition—stories, warnings, and warm food—bound the families together, even as the future loomed with new and unknown dangers.

By the time they left the inn, the stars were out and the road home seemed both familiar and suddenly, thrillingly strange. Plans for the morning were discussed. Frosya’s mother would be traveling to Nexara to sell her cheeses at the market and had offered to take both Frosya and Vael with her.