Artemis woke with the dawn's grey light bleeding through the cracks in their wooden shutters. His mother's confession clung to him like salt-damp linen—Adamanthe. Diamond teeth. The words felt foreign, dangerous. As he lay there, the memory surfaced like driftwood from dark waters: his neighbors, the hopeful couple who'd birthed an Aurumtouched(gold teeth) child. He remembered the mother's proud smile in the market, how she'd cradled the babe whose gold-flecked gums promised a better life. Then, the capital noble's lacquered carriage rolling into their dirt-poor street. The refusal. And the acrid stench of smoke that hung over Ocela the next morning, thicker than sea fog. No one spoke of the charred timbers or the silence where a family's laughter once lived. They all knew. Privilege wasn't gold teeth or noble titles—it was surviving the system that demanded them.
He rose, the packed-earth floor cool beneath his bare feet. Routine was an anchor. He filled buckets at the public tank, the water sloshing heavy as guilt. Beside him, hollow-eyed Fleshborn women whispered of ration cuts, their knuckles raw from treacherous salt fields. Artemis kept his head down. At home, he swept sand from the threshold while his mother, Rhea, scrubbed cookware with grim focus. Her eyes avoided his—a silent treaty between fear and love.
He found Arthur leaning against the rusted lamppost at the street's end, tapping a bronze-knuckled fist against his thigh. The rising sun gilded the sea beyond the docks, but Ocela's shadows clung stubbornly to the alleyways.
"Sorry, Arthur! How long have you been waiting?" Artemis bent double, hands braced on his knees, lungs burning from the sprint. Salt crusted the air, sharp and familiar.
Arthur pushed off the lamppost, his grin easy but his gaze sharp. "Long enough to know we'll soon be late..." He jerked a thumb toward the hillside where Rox's stone house hunched like a brooding gull. "We need to get to Old Man Rox's house to move the fish from the cold room."
Artemis straightened. The cold room's chill seemed to seep into his bones already. He hesitated, the weight of last night's secret pressing against his ribs. The burnt house flashed in his mind—a warning etched in ash.
"Arthur, before we go, I have something to tell you," The words felt like stones in his mouth. He watched Arthur's face, remembering Rhea's trembling hands, the tears she'd wiped on her apron.
Arthur raised an eyebrow, the playful glint in his eyes dimming. "Why are you suddenly so tense? What's wrong—do you have a crush on my sister or something?"
The attempt at humor fell flat. Artemis shook his head, the leather mask suddenly stifling. "No...Listen:" He drew a steadying breath, the truth a live wire in his chest. "My mum just told me something yesterday: that apparently, I am Adamanthe (diamond teeth)."
"WHAT!!!" Arthur staggered back as if struck, boots scuffing the grit. His eyes widened, darting from Artemis's masked face to the worn streets around them, as if expecting nobles to materialize from the morning mist.
"Hey, don't shout! .." Artemis hissed, panic tightening his throat. In one fluid motion, he ripped the mask down. The dawn light caught the impossible facets of his teeth—crystalline, refracting tiny rainbows across Arthur's stunned face. Just as quickly, he yanked the mask back up, the rough fabric scraping his jaw. "She told me I was Fleshborn because she was afraid a noble would take me away."
Arthur stared, mouth working soundlessly. "Wh— ho— Okay..." He ran a hand through his unruly yellow hair, grappling with the revelation. "So you're Adamanthe.. Wait, how is that possible?" Bewilderment warred with disbelief. "Adamanthe are ridiculously strong, but you usually struggled with carrying heavy things!" The memory of Artemis straining under fish crates, sweat beading on his brow, clashed violently with the diamond-tier truth.
"I thought of that." Artemis met his friend's gaze, the first ember of understanding warming the chill inside him. "My only explanation is that my mental block of not realizing my innate abilities suppressed them. But when I woke up this morning..." He flexed his hand, remembering the unnatural ease with which he'd lifted the full water bucket. "I felt stronger. So I guess my realisation broke the block."
Arthur paced a tight circle, kicking a loose pebble. "Hmm... You've got a point." He stopped, a slow, determined grin spreading across his face. "Still, this is a lot. Looking on the bright side," he clapped a firm hand on Artemis's shoulder, the bronze knuckles cool against his tunic, "with you being an Adamanthe, you will rise through the ranks in the military."
Artemis's fleeting smile faltered, extinguished by the image of his mother's fearful eyes. "I can't really, though—" The words tumbled out, raw with vulnerability. "There's still a chance a noble could come and take me or kill my mum and claim custody. I can't just—"
"Hey!" Arthur's voice cut through the spiral of fear, sharp as flint. He gripped both of Artemis's shoulders now, forcing him to meet his steady gaze. "You're too paranoid." His voice softened, earnest. "Don't let all that hold you down. Sure, this comes with its problems," he acknowledged, his knuckles tightening briefly, "but don't dwell on them or they will drown you."
Artemis searched his friend's face—the familiar stubborn set of his jaw, the unwavering loyalty in his eyes. A genuine chuckle, brittle but real, escaped him. The tension in his shoulders eased a fraction. "When did you get so smart?"
Arthur released him, puffing out his chest with mock pride. "You keep forgetting I am three months older than you..." He winked, a familiar smugness settling over his features. "Remember that, child?"
"Suuuuure!" Artemis rolled his eyes, the ghost of a real smile touching his lips. The absurdity of the moment, the steadfastness of his friend, was a lifeline thrown across the chasm of his fear.
Arthur nudged him, jerking his chin towards the path leading uphill to Rox's. "I'm going to ignore that." He started walking, calling over his shoulder. "Let's go—that old man might actually kill us this time."
***
Artemis and Arthur walked in silence toward Rox's house, the morning sun casting long, brittle shadows over Ocela's salt-crusted lanes. As they passed the charred skeleton of the neighbor's house—its blackened beams jutting like broken ribs against the sky—Artemis felt the ghost of that family's tragedy brush against his skin. This was the cost of power in their world. But Arthur's steadfast acceptance last night had carved a small pocket of relief in his chest. He clung to it now, replaying his friend's words like a ward against fear: "Don't let it drown you."
"Wow..." Arthur's whistle cut through the quiet, his boots crunching on grit-strewn cobbles. He gestured at Rox's looming, two-story stone house, its windows shuttered tight against prying eyes. "This place is massive. Doesn't he live alone? Or does he have kids? 'Cause I sure as hell haven't seen any."
Artemis' gaze drifted to the weed-choked garden, where rusted tools lay forgotten. "I heard he did. But when his family was stripped of their title, some capital nobles sent men to torch the place. Rox was out fishing. Came back to ashes." He swallowed, the memory of his mother's whispered warnings coiling cold in his gut. "Can't really say much for his family."
"He never told us." Arthur's voice dropped.
"Not really a fun story, is it?" Artemis murmured just as the heavy oak door groaned open. Rox stood framed in the doorway, the pungent scent of brine and yesterday's catch clinging to him like a second skin.
"Hmm... So your mum finally told you you're Adamanthe." Rox scratched his coarse, salt-and-pepper beard, his silverstone eyes sharp as flint. Artemis and Arthur instinctively stepped back, shoulders tensing. Arthur's hand flickered, a jagged bronze knife shimmering into existence.
"How did you know?" Artemis demanded, fingers tightening on the strap of his empty fish-basket.
"Calm down." Rox's sigh ruffled his beard. "It's simple: your physiology was always off for a Fleshborn. I am Silverstone. My senses catch things—heartbeats too steady, muscle density too high under that skinny frame. You're lucky most folks here top out at Brontide." He jerked his head toward the dim interior. "Get inside."
The cramped front room was a cave of shadows and maritime clutter: nets hung drying from rafters, glass floats glinted on shelves, and charts yellowed with age were pinned haphazardly to stone walls. Artemis perched on a stool slick with fish-scale residue. "If you knew, why didn't you say anything? And how did you know Mum told me yesterday?"
Rox leaned against a scarred worktable, arms crossed. "Wasn't my secret to tell. As for your other question?" A faint, humorless smirk touched his lips. "Wanted to see if ignorance stunted your growth. And i Confirmed it this morning. Your stance is tighter, shoulders set different. But you're still pathetically weak for what you are."
"What?"
"Because of your stunted growth," Rox stated bluntly, "you're barely stronger than a seasoned Brontide officer. For an Adamanthe? That's a death sentence. Diamond-tier military training will snap you like driftwood on day one. Get stronger in these two months, or don't bother showing up."
Artemis gripped the edge of the stool. The wood bit into his palms. "Actually, I didn't plan on saying I'm Adamanthe in school."
Rox's laugh was a harsh bark. "Are you stupid? You'll drown in a sea of Auroras and Argentbloods. Their senses are keener than mine. Lie about your tier? They'll smell the deceit before you finish the enrollment papers. Penalty's execution for falsifying class."
"So what do you think I should do?" Artemis' voice was raw. "I'm terrified of what happens if they find out what I am."
"Noble Kidnapping? You're aged out of that horror." Rox waved a calloused hand dismissively. "Nobles want infants to mold, not half-grown teens with memories. Your only battle is survival in that academy. Which brings me to my offer... I'll train you."
"Really?" Artemis stared, hope warring with suspicion.
"I can't very well have my former worker dying like that." Rox grunted. "Bad for business."
"What about me?" Arthur piped up, his conjured knife vanishing.
Rox fixed him with a withering look. "Why should I train you? Artemis is a diamond in the rough. You're bronze acting like bronze. You manifest weapons already. You'll manage."
"What I create isn't that good!" Arthur protested, stepping forward. The floorboard creaked under his weight. "The blades chip. The shields shatter after two hits. Please, train me too!"
"Argh!!" Rox scrubbed a hand down his face, suddenly looking every one of his fifty years. "But no whining when I break you."
"Thanks, Old Man!" Arthur grinned.
"Alright, enough." Rox pushed off the table, his shadow swallowing the room. "We've still got fish to haul today. But starting tomorrow at five sharp, meet me at the edge of Griff Forest. Bring water, tough clothes, and your sense of self-preservation." He eyed the dusty, silent cold room door. "Guess this means I'm hanging a 'Closed' sign for two months. Hope you brats are worth the coin I'll lose."
***
The walk home felt different. Shadows stretched long and blue across Ocela's streets as the sun bled into the sea, and the salt-wind carried the day's exhaustion—the metallic tang of fish scales, the acrid bite of the Reculator's steam, the phantom sting of Rox's assessment: "Pathetically weak for what you are." Artemis dragged his boots through the grit, his mind replaying Arthur's unwavering loyalty and the grim promise of training at Griff Forest's edge. The mask felt heavier tonight.
He pushed open the creaking door of their wooden house to find Rhea stirring a pot of thin vegetable stew over the hearth. The firelight carved hollows beneath her eyes.
Artemis spoke softly, watching her shoulders tense as he described Rox's offer—the brutal honesty about his stunted strength, the predawn meetings in the forest, the two-month closure of the fishing business. Her knuckles whitened on the wooden spoon.
Rhea murmured, staring into the simmering pot as if reading omens in the bubbles. "That man... i don't know how i feel."
Artemis stepped closer, placing a tentative hand on her arm. He felt the tremor beneath her worn sleeve. He met her worried gaze. "Don't. Worry mum he really wantsto help."
Rhea's sigh was the sound of a rope fraying. "Just... be careful, Arty. Power attracts eyes. And eyes in this world often mean knives."
Later, in the small, dirt-packed yard behind their cottage, Artemis's thoughts churned. The axe felt clumsy in his hands tonight. Rox's words echoed: "Barely stronger than a Brontide officer." A spark of defiance ignited in his chest—a hunger to know what lay dormant within him. Moonlight silvered the rough bark of the old ironwood tree he'd split logs against for years. Its trunk was thick, gnarled, and defiant—a symbol of everything he hadn't dared challenge.
He dropped the axe. Its thud against the earth was unnaturally loud in the still night. He approached the tree, placing his palms flat against its weathered skin. It felt alive—a slow, deep pulse of sap and resilience humming beneath the bark. He closed his eyes, reaching inward, past the lifetime of conditioned restraint, searching for the diamond-bright core Rox claimed was there.
There was no grand wind-up, no roar of effort. Just a focused exhale, a coil of tension in his shoulders, and a single, devastating push.
A sound like thunder cracked the stillness.
Splinters exploded outward in a shower of pale wood. The ironwood groaned, a deep, mournful protest tearing from its roots. Then, with a shudder that vibrated through the ground and up Artemis's bones, it tilted. Slowly at first, then gathering terrible momentum, it crashed down. Branches shattered against neighboring fences; leaves rained like green confetti. Dust plumed, ghostly in the moonlight.
Artemis stood amidst the wreckage, breathing hard. Not from exertion—there'd been none—but from shock. His hands stung, not from impact, but from the raw, unfiltered power that had surged through them. He stared at the ruin he'd created. No strain. No burn in his muscles. Just... will. The ironwood's fallen trunk lay like a slain giant, its splintered heart exposed.
He lifted his hands, turning them over in the moonlight. They looked the same—calloused, scarred from fishing lines and salt. But beneath the skin, something ancient and hungry had awakened. It terrified him. But he smiled.