The sunlight pushed its way through the broken shutters, casting crooked stripes of gold across the stone floor. Dust hung in the air, not drifting but clinging—as if even it didn't want to leave this place. Caelan sat at the edge of his narrow bed, fully dressed. Elbows to knees. Fingers interlocked. His eyes were somewhere far off, detached from the room, from the morning, from everything.
Thornebrook Orphanage had always felt like a place someone once built and then forgot. Crumbling walls. Splintered wood. Children who stopped dreaming the moment they stepped through its gates. The staff weren't cruel, just... cold. Distant. The food didn't kill you, but it didn't try to do much else either. Punishment was routine. Kindness was rare.
Caelan had been here since he was eight. Now he was sixteen, tall for his age with a lean, wiry frame. His dark hair refused to obey a comb, falling over a face that was striking in an understated way. Sharp cheekbones. A calm jawline. Eyes the color of tempered steel—gray, unblinking, always watching. There was a quiet gravity to him, something that made people hesitate, as if unsure whether to speak or stay silent.
He preferred silence.
The bell clanged outside—a cracked, rusted sound that marked the start of another thankless day. Beds creaked. Feet thudded against warped floorboards. Somewhere down the hall, a half-asleep curse was muttered.
And then, like clockwork, the shimmer appeared.
Above one boy's head, a subtle glow danced—bronze and warm, but quiet. Garric. Fifteen. Solid as a tree trunk, slow to talk, slower to trust. His hands looked like they belonged to a man who split wood for a living. His jaw had the beginnings of stubble. His hair was always a mess, but his eyes—those dark, patient eyes—held weight.
[Talent: Aura Synchronization | Potential: A-]
Caelan blinked once. No surprise. He'd seen it all before. Auras, halos, strange hovering sigils—things only he could see. They began showing up when he turned thirteen. First as flickers. Then as full-blown indicators floating over heads like judgment from the gods.
He called it the Halo Screen.
Most people's halos barely glowed. Some sparked. A rare few burned.
Garric was a slow-burning fire. Unshakable.
Then another flicker. Near the cracked window, a figure stood with arms folded. Lena. Fierce posture. Chin high. Eyes like quicksilver—sharp, piercing, confident. Her dark hair was tied back in a high ponytail, strands loose around her face. Her skin was smooth but pale, the kind of beauty that didn't smile easily, and didn't need to.
She moved like she was always preparing to strike. Balanced. Measured.
[Talent: Reflex Overclock | Potential: A]
Caelan didn't need to guess. Her potential radiated in the way she stood. A blade in human form, still in its sheath.
He hadn't approached them with promises. Just suggestions. A word here. A test there. Let them feel like they'd decided for themselves. Let them believe they were walking a path they chose, not one he had built stone by stone.
Two weeks from now, Aetherhold Academy would open its gates. For nobles, it was tradition. For the rest, there was the Trial—grueling, vicious, and very real.
Caelan planned to take it. And he wouldn't be walking in alone.
He didn't care about the prestige. He cared about access. Power didn't sit on thrones. It whispered in corners, wrote ledgers, made deals. Inside the academy were future warlords, councilmen, inventors, and financiers. People who would matter. People he could use.
He'd walk in invisible. He'd leave untouchable.
Outside, the city of Eldrun exhaled. Chimneys belched smoke. Shopkeepers rattled open their stalls. The orphanage's crooked yard looked out over the old rooftops of the Lower District. Here, magic was bedtime talk. Aura, though—that was real. That was survival.
Caelan moved outside, boots crunching frost. He wore patched boots, but his stride didn't match them. His presence didn't match his clothes. He moved like he belonged somewhere better.
In the back garden—his garden—rows of small plants pushed through the brittle dirt. Silverroot. Fireleaf. Bitterroot. He knelt, crushing a silverroot leaf between thumb and forefinger. The scent cut sharp through the air, earthy and metallic.
In his old life—whenever that was—this would've been nothing but trivia. Here, it was potential. Healing. Trade. Leverage.
He wasn't a herbalist, but he learned fast. In a world built on aura, sometimes the smartest weapon was a pouch of dried leaves.
Garric and Lena waited at the edge of the yard. Lena spun a knife slowly in one hand. Garric leaned against a fence post, arms folded, eyes scanning the city like a soldier.
"Ready?" Lena asked.
Caelan nodded. "Two weeks. We enter."
"And after that?" Garric's voice was low, casual, but he never asked empty questions.
Caelan's lips twitched into a faint smile. Not enough to break character. Just enough.
"Then," he said quietly, "we stop playing by their rules."
The three of them walked side by side, toward the road that led into the city. Others saw three orphans walking into a storm.
Caelan saw something else.
He saw the board.
And soon, he'd start placing pieces.