it was a new day. The village of Greenthorne woke up slow and crooked. Dawn stretched lazily over clay rooftops and patched stone roads, warming mist-drenched fields where morning birds and cockrels sang with shrill half-chilled throats.
Inside the orphanage, the day began with the usual chaos.
A half-eaten crust flew past Michael's head, followed by a loud cackle.
"You missed!" he called out, not looking back.
"I wasn't aiming for you!" yelled Benji, the smallest of the lot, sticking out his tongue from across the hall.
Michael flicked a dried bean at him in return, catching him square on the forehead. Benji collapsed dramatically, clutching his skull like a dying soldier. The kids erupted in laughter. It was a game they played most mornings—a defense against the cold and the hunger, a distraction. The kitchen smelled of old broth and spent tea, though the leaves having been reused too many times to matter.
Michael sat cross-legged on a creaky bench right by the main entrance, grinning faintly. Aamon slouched beside him, nursing a tin mug of something vaguely warm. His curly hair was tied back today, and his shirt, for once, was mostly unstained.
"You're gonna be late again," Michael said without looking.
"Pfft." Aamon sipped. "Bakery doesn't open till the owner stops crying about her husband. That gives me fifteen minutes."
Michael raised an eyebrow. "so thats why you put effort to look presentable today, till pining for her, are we?"
"She's got nice arms," Aamon said solemnly. "Strong. Like she could snap me in half."
Michael snorted.
They sat in the warmth of shared silence, the orphanage waking around them. Wooden floors creaked under barefooted children. Somewhere in the distance, Miss Sarah's voice filtered through a cracked window—tired and low, like a song that had long since lost its melody.
Then Aamon stood, slinging his satchel over his shoulder.
"You still going to Old Mernan's?"
Michael nodded. "Always needs those herbs for something. Told me it's urgent."
Aamon scoffed. "It's always urgent with that old bat."
"You're just mad he banned you from his shop."
"Because I tried to sell him my snot as 'healing mucus balm' for coughs. One time!" Aamon threw his hands up in mock outrage.
They laughed again, and then headed out, the air biting their skin with leftover frost. The village road was lined with uneven cobblestones and yawning doorways ready to face the work of the day. Most of Greenthorne's residents were already up and about, fetching water or haggling for meat too tough to sell in real towns.
As they passed the eastern crossroad, their chatter dwindled.
There, lounging under the withered branches of an ash tree, sat three men. Weathered, grey-haired, silent, and entirely still—like statues left behind from a war the world forgot. They wore no armor now, only patchy tunics and old boots. But something about them carried the weight of steel. Broad shoulders, calloused knuckles, backs too straight for farmers.
Aamon nudged Michael and whispered like they were at a funeral.
"Legionnaires. Imperial Fourth. Retired. or so i heard."
Michael glanced sideways. "We've seen them before."
"Yeah, but not together like this, not gathered." Aamon's voice trembled, half from cold, half from awe. "They used to be demons, you know? Back in the War of Lindeljin. Sliced through trenches like butter. One of 'em—tall one with the scar—they say he killed a behemoth with nothing but his bare hands when his spear shattered under his vice grip."
Michael gave him a dry look. "Sure. And I'm the Emperor's lost son."
"I'm serious!" Aamon grinned. "Back during a street brawl—months ago—one of them watched me fight. He just watched. Didn't say anything, but I know for sure he saw something in me."
Michael chuckled. "What, a future war hero?"
"You're damn right. I'm going to join the Legion someday. Top three centuries. Maybe even the Second. No—screw it—the First." He paused, eyes sparkling. "I wanna be a deviant, Like Centurion Goltra."
Michael blinked. "Goltra as in Meredith Goltra? The Flame Binder?"
"No," Aamon corrected with dramatic flair, "Indicus Goltra, The Gravity Reaper. That woman bends space like a tunic. She doesn't walk—she just floats. One of my uncle served her once in battle, said her presence made the air heavy."
Michael laughed, shaking his head. "Well, when you make it that far, call on me to be your squire."
"Damn right you will," Aamon said proudly. "Keep my boots polished. Maybe I'll let you carry my cape."
They parted at the crossroads, Aamon heading toward the bakery and his hopeless crush, Michael venturing deeper, toward the woods.
The forest right outside Greenthorne was less a place than a forgotten threshold. It didn't welcome you. It tolerated your presence like an old man at a tavern—sour, quiet, unpredictable.
Michael moved carefully, following the alchemist's map etched into memory. There were roots to find, herbs to pull. His boots crunched against frost-dappled leaves, and the trees overhead murmured with a wind that seemed almost... aware.
He found the first two herbs quickly. One looked like a dead worm curled around a stone. The other reeked of damp leather and curdled beans.
and then he saw it.
Tucked beneath a half-buried log, surrounded by moss and shadow, grew a small plant with thick, obsidian-black leaves. It gleamed faintly in the light, as though each leaf had veins of glass.
Michael crouched.
"Never seen you before," he muttered.
He didn't need Old Mernan's dusty books to recognize something rare. The air around it even smelled different—cooler, charged. He gently wrapped the roots in cloth and slipped it into his satchel. It would fetch a price, maybe. Or maybe he'd keep it. Something about it whispered of use.
Old Mernan's shack wasn't far from the forest path, Smoke curled from the crooked chimney, and the front door let out a drawn-out creak as Michael pushed it open.
"Boy!" Mernan's voice croaked from somewhere inside. "You better have brought back both the knotted stems and the sour root or I'll boil your toes for tonic instead!"
"Morning to you too, old man."
"Shut your mouth and come in."
Michael stepped into the cluttered gloom, shelves filled with vials, dried bones, and things that blinked without eyes. Mernan looked like a bundle of robes that had been cursed with life, bony, hunched and everirritable.
"Got everything you asked for," Michael replied, placing the satchel down.
A grunt. "Good. My son's in the back room. Tell him to check the roots. He owes me that much for freeloading this month."
Michael stepped into the next room, and there he was.
Roadagan. Ulyessus Roadagan
a Captain in the Sixth Legion. Second-in-command to the vice commander. Currently, on break from the frontlines—though 'break' didn't quite fit the man.
He stood tall, sharp lines drawn into every feature. His flair oriented coat was half-unbuttoned, revealing a thin tunic and the hilt of a shortblade strapped to his side. His face was hard with a jaw like stone, eyes colder than steel. But there was something simmering beneath. Power wrapped in skin. almost perceivable, he didn't bother to hide that he was'nt the average man.
"Hey," Michael offered.
Roadagan looked up. A faint smirk ghosted over his lips. "The herb-fetcher."
Michael grinned. "You remember."
"I remember all the fools who pester my father. You just do it more than most."
Michael shrugged. "I like to keep busy."
Roadagan set the herb bundle aside, inspecting a root. "You're lucky he likes you."
Michael stepped closer. "Say, Captain—can I ask you something?"
A pause. "No."
"Too late," Michael said. "How do i get into the legion, i hope to be just as strong as you. I know the first step is to awaken some sort of internal energy, is there some way to fast track it?."
Roadagan's eyes narrowed. "You think there's a trick to vitalis? A cheat?"
"I think there's something most people don't get told."
Another pause.
Then Roadagan stood. Stretched. Walked to the center of the room.
"You want to see something?" he asked.
Michael nodded.
Roadagan exhaled.
He turned towards the door behind him and lead the way to the backyard, a space largely occupied by a massive blackwood tree
From his body, flames erupted.
But they didn't rage—they moved, controlled. Clinging to him like a second skin. Not orange or red, but a fierce, shifting violet. The heat that surged through the room made the windows shiver.
Then the most bizzare thing happened.
It was sudden. Too fast. The flames coalesced into a blazing lance.
Michael blinked.
"You don't awaken power like this by hoping," Roadagan said, his voice low. "You grind for it. Bleed for it. You break, and when you're nothing but ash and spite, then it answers."
He Reached back, the lance growing hotter, frightening by the second.
Michael stood frozen, mind racing.
Roadagen shot foward with imperceivable speed and what followed was a deafening roar in the newly created incandescent crevace on the tree.
the heat suddenly died down like it was never there, as though the point he sought to make was settled.
"What was that?" Michael asked, still caught in awe
Roadagan smirked faintly. "That's mine. Don't copy it. You'll snap your neck."
Michael grinned despite himself.
Roadagan turned away. "Now get lost. Tell the old man the roots are clean."
As Michael stepped to the door, Roadagan added, "Next time you pester me, bring meat. I don't teach on an empty stomach."
Michael left with a spark in his chest, he had finally gotten a glimpse of the path he wished to tread one day. One which was foggy until now.