Five years ago, Aurora ran across open fields, chasing bolts of movement that werenât really there. Her father, the Head of the Tenshiro, was already far ahead, dashing through the grasslands like wind given form. His footsteps never landed, his presence barely lingered, and the wind carried their laughter. She couldnât catch him yet. He was the fastest among them, silent and elusive, a phantom in daylight. Even then, he was holding back. There was grace in the way he moved, a softness to his speed, and even the grass leaned away as he passed.
Aurora pushed harder, her breath fierce and alive.
Thereâs always a way, she thought. He taught me that.
She bent her knees low, drawing in every thread of strength her body could offer. She was small, barely ten years old, yet something wild was already growing in her bones, something ancient that did not match her age. Above, the clouds stirred and the light dimmed as a shadow swept across the sky like a veil being drawn. The air shifted without cooling. It grew silent and thick, as though the heavens themselves were bracing. Her father slowed, sensing it. Something was wrong. He turned mid-step, eyes widening, his breath catching in sudden fear.
"When did sheâ¦" he muttered, the words nearly swallowed by the wind. "When did she learn to summon Lightning?!"
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He moved faster than thought, closer to vanishing than running. His body launched toward her, but not fast enough. The sky hissed. The air tightened. The clouds crouched low, growling with light. His stance dropped into the shape carved from ancient Tenshiro tradition, one forgotten by every bearer except him. He leaned forward, shoulders low, arms tucked, mind emptied. His pupils faded to white, his expression melting away until nothing remained: no fear, no thought, no face. This was the true manifestation of the Tenshiro sacred style, the Faceless Form of the Lightning God.
Then came the sound: a roar without voice, a silence too loud. Lightning tore itself from the clouds and fell like judgment. Aurora could not move or breathe, her young body frozen and unprepared to control what she had summoned. Time slowed as her father reached her. He did not shout or curse. He simply moved, sliding between her and the storm like a whisper against the will of the sky. He pushed her gently, as though tucking her into bed, and took the full force of the lightning himself.
The flash drowned the world and nearly drowned him with it. When it cleared, he was still standing. Smoke rose from his shoulders, his legs trembled, but his face remained blank. The grass beneath him was burned black, and the field lay silent. Aurora had landed on her knees, eyes wide. He had won, but only barely, and the cost was permanent. The leader of the Tenshiro would never walk the same way again. The Art of Thunder was no longer his to wield. He hadnât lost it in battle, nor had it been stripped away by war. He had given it freely, and the one who carried it now was his daughter, Aurora Tenshiro.