Three figures made their way through the Red Barrens, walking beneath the scorching light of the Twins. They carried little in the way of travel gear; nothing more than the clothes on their backs and the weapons at their sides. Even their provisions were bare, with Eurya disappearing each night and returning in the morning with fresh meat and water. It had been a week since the boy had left his home, and Farathun, behind. There were many more weeks to come, before they would reach their final destination.

They traveled off the Red Road, heading east, away from the Kingdoms of Athun, and towards the Gravel Sea. The boy knew very little about the terrain nor the people that lay in this direction. The Gravel Sea was generally considered to be a nearly insurmountable hazard, thus there was little in the way of trade between the kingdoms of the east and Farathun. He assumed that his new teacher had a reliable method of crossing it. Her confidence certainly suggested so.

His new teacher. That was a truth the boy was still coming to terms with. He had sworn himself into obedience, but the woman took little advantage of it. She had yet to teach him much of anything. Her sole request, in fact, was that he keep track of the number of steps he took each day. She would demand the number from him at random, but was otherwise silent, leaving most of the talking to her companion.

The Keeper, as the blind man called himself, was much more willing to engage with the boy. The man was no swordsman, but he helped pass the days by telling old stories filled with battle and adventure. Several involved the boy's father. These were what interested him the most, as the fallen Hero had rarely spoken of his time abroad. The boy remembered him as a firm, but proud taskmaster, who brooked no disrespect and expected perfection.

His traveling companion instead described a man of good humor and a light heart, who raised the spirits of his men through laughter and generosity. A great warrior, but not a proud one. Humble, despite his great skill, who always held a word of encouragement for those under his charge. A man that the boy had never met before.

And one not fond of bloodshed.

The boy had raised a complaint at this evaluation. His father had been proud to kill at the command of the All-King. He'd said so, himself.

"It's different, in war," the blind man had explained. "You have to experience it yourself. No man wants to watch his friends die, and that Valka was no exception."

The revelation did nothing to dull the boy's enthusiasm at hearing stories of battle. Especially those in which his father played a critical role. The Keeper had known his father for the better part of thirty years, and had run into him many times in the course of his wandering. He had no shortage of stories.

"I'm an expert at reminiscing," the Keeper had once stated, with good humor.

Like this, time had passed. The stories had fueled him onward, and every great deed he learned that his father had performed, eased the dull ache within him. They had spent the days trudging across the featureless wasteland, following a path that the boy was not capable of seeing. The nights had passed in darkness, sheltered inside a simple canvas sack, and laying against hard stone. Eurya and the Keeper took turns keeping watch, as the boy slept.

They stopped for the day, as the Twins passed over the edge of the horizon, and the boy expected much of the same. This time, however, Eurya turned to him, and spoke, "Tonight, your training begins."

A thrill shot through him at her words. At last! The woman clearly had much to teach, and he was eager to learn.

"But first," she continued, "your steps."

The boy sighed dully, and recited the number.

She nodded. "Good. You're keeping track well. You'll continue to do so until I tell you otherwise."

"Yes teacher," the boy acknowledged.

She smiled approvingly, then turned to the Keeper. "We'll need a fire."

The boy blinked at that, then glanced around him. There were no trees within sight. He hadn't seen one for days, in fact. They hadn't the means to sustain a fire, so how...?

The Keeper hummed to himself. "Watch carefully, little Nicos."

The boy reacted to the name, much to his own unwillingness. Children born in Farathun were not granted names at birth; they had to be earned. He had not yet earned his name, and yet he found himself answering to one that had been handed to him. It was galling.

The blind man grinned at the boy knowingly, then held his hand out, palm facing downward. The air shimmered beneath it, then twisted. Light bloomed; fire, and heat. The ground split open, forming a crack as long as the boy's forearm, then widened and raised. The edges flattened out, forming a shallow bowl, and the earth pushed upwards into a pillar. The flame, now a vivid, crackling orange, danced merrily within the bowl.

The boy gaped at the clearly impossible action.

Then, understanding seized him. "Is that your Talent?!" he asked in excitement. He had never met a Talented, besides his father.

The Keeper laughed. "You think my Talent is creating campfires?"

"Father said that there is no limit to what a Talent can accomplish," the boy replied, flushing in embarrassment.

The Keeper stroked his chin consideringly. "Well, he's not wrong. Most strive for something grander, however. People are just built that way, I suppose." He eyed the boy. "How much do you know about Talents?"

"Father said that they are the world's way of acknowledging a person's accomplishments," the boy replied. They were a true mystery of existence. Occasionally, after completing some grand encounter, or surviving some impossible situation, the world itself would gift that person an exception to the rules of existence. "He told me that he gained his after defeating the champion of Azathun in single combat, and ending the Two Day War." The boy made a swinging motion with both hands. "His sword could not be stopped, when swung in service of the All King!"

"Of a higher cause," Eurya interrupted.

The boy blinked in confusion.

"His sword could not be stopped when swung in the service of a higher cause," she explained. "The cause he chose was the All King's, for good or ill."

She paused, then added, "The distinction is important. There are two types of Talented. Those who define their Talent, and those who let their Talent define them.

"But we are getting off topic. That was not this one's Talent," she gestured to the Keeper "but rather a skill that any can learn, with time and practice."

"How is that possible?" the boy asked eagerly. He imagined, briefly, firing great gouts of fire from his blade as he swung it, setting his enemies alight.

"The first lesson you must learn," Eurya replied, coming up to his side, "is that the world is more malleable than it appears."

His head turned to face her. "What?"

"The world," she waved her hand around herself, "is shaped, in part, by Memory." She gave him a long, questioning look. "What do you know of Memory?"

The boy considered his answer. He recalled the lessons his father had taught him, while guiding him in the family's blade arts.

"Memory is the remnant of time passed," he decided to say.

Eurya snorted. "A typically superstitious answer. Your father was always one for flowery words."

The boy scowled.

"But not entirely inaccurate," Eurya conceded, rolling her eyes. "Memory is, at its core, the lingering echo that actions leave upon the world." She held up a finger. "Now, what do I mean by actions?" She cocked her head, then grinned. "Simply put, everything."

"What?" The boy blinked.

"Everything that has ever occurred in all of history, has made an impact on Memory," Eurya explained. "Thinking beings, like myself and by some definitions, you, are capable of sensing these echoes. We can read them with a touch and a moment of concentration. Some of us can even empower ourselves through them."

The boy nodded. "I can tap into the Memory of my ancestors in order to borrow their skills."

"Resonance," Eurya stated. "That is the technical name of what you are doing. A catch-all description for internal Memory manipulation. Your specific family technique focuses entirely on personal Memory. Simple, but powerful."

Resonance. His father had not named the technique. Truthfully, he had assumed it was something that only his family could do. It was slightly humbling to realize otherwise. But something was off about her description.

"Personal Memory?" he asked. How could his ancestors have any relation to his personal Memory? "I've never met the men from whom I draw power."

"No, but they are your kin," Eurya replied. She waved her hand over him. "Your bloodline empowers you. Those who came before you performed great deeds, empowered by those who came before them. Those who came before them, performed slightly less great deeds, empowered by those even weaker. It's a process, you see? It builds upon itself. Memory has a certain amount of undeniable momentum. Living long and well is its own source of power."

"The reason your father was so capable," Eurya continued, standing before him with a solemn expression, "was not because of his Talent, nor his personal skill. It was the weight of those who came before him, from which he drew power. That strength, or rather, that perception of strength, is what gave him his fame."

The boy shook his head. "My father worked hard for his skills."

"He did." Eurya nodded. "But even if he hadn't, he would have been strong, so long as he learned to resonate with the Memory of his forebears. Even if he hadn't, he would have held strength beyond that of most mortals. His lineage alone granted him such. Not from within, you understand, but from without. Memory is more than the sum of your actions. It is also the ripples that your actions cause on others. How they perceive you can grant both strength and weakness."

She gazed down at him. "That is the second lesson you must learn. Just as Memory shapes the world, perception shapes Memory. While everything in existence imprints itself upon Memory, sapient creatures have the strongest impact. It is from us, creatures capable of belief and imagination, that even the gods are given life."

Eurya, the boy had noticed, had an unfortunate love of blasphemy.

More importantly, the boy was uncomfortable with the idea that his father was only strong and skilled because others assumed that he would be. The boy had known of the deleterious effects that Memory could have on the famous and powerful. He'd felt it himself, losing strength as the Memory of his father grew tainted. Even so, it was nothing that couldn't be overcome. His own fears, of failure, of loss, had weakened him far more.

The boy had often heard the tale of his first ancestor, the first Hero in his line, who had risen from a simple farmer. How could any layman gain such strength, when it depended so heavily on perception? He had to be misunderstanding something. He quickly asked his teacher to elaborate.

"How can one gain strength without a storied bloodline or a strong backing? Easily," Eurya answered. She smiled at the boy's confusion. "Perception shapes Memory. Not just the perception of others, but your own. People's thoughts rarely linger on others. It's the nature of thinking beings to have a certain amount of selfishness. Even a weak-minded fool's self-image will weigh far heavier upon himself than the opinion of hundreds of others. One of strong will can ignore entire civilizations telling them that they cannot amount to anything. Slaves have overthrown emperors. Be exceptional, Nicos, and the world will part before you."