The rain fell softly over the broken rooftops of the fortified city. Droplets streamed down the ancient stones, washing away the black dust that still clung to façades scarred by years of decay. Mana crystals, planted along the streets like lanterns, cast a faint pale-blue glow that barely pushed back the lingering darkness.
The world had changed since the appearance of the Gates. What had once been bustling cities had turned into sealed fortresses. Roads were nothing more than a memory, replaced by protected stone corridors linking cities that lived in constant threat of the creatures haunting the plains.
A young boy walked alone through the gray dawn. His footsteps echoed across the soaked cobblestones. They called him Ash. No family name. No lineage. Just another orphan among countless others.
His black hair, weighed down by the rain, clung to his face. His features were still youthful, but his eyes… his eyes unsettled those who met them. A dull gray most of the time, they sometimes seemed to darken, as if a hidden ember tried to awaken. But it was only a fleeting impression, forgotten as soon as it appeared.
Passersby stared at him with a curiosity tinged with disdain. He was only an Omega—the lowest of the recognized Classes among the Awakened. Weak. Incapable of manipulating mana properly. Officially useless. People said that those of his rank were swept aside during their very first mission.
And yet, that morning, Ash crossed the heavy gates of Tier 4 Academy—the refuge of the nameless and the rejected. Here, they didn't train heroes… only survivors.
The metallic clang of the gates echoed as they shut behind him. The vast paved courtyard stretched out before his eyes, lined with cracked statues of ancient heroes and columns still bearing the scars of past assaults.
Dozens of youths were already gathered, standing in silent lines. Their dark coats and light armor gleamed under the rain. Some radiated a bright, fiery aura: Alphas, Betas, the most promising. Others, dim and hesitant, seemed barely capable of holding a weapon.
Ash took his place among them. His worn-out cloak stood out among the new uniforms.
— Look at that… an Omega, sneered a voice behind him.
Ash didn't react. He didn't need to turn his head. The arrogant tone, the muffled snickers of a small group—he already knew that type of gaze.
— I bet he won't last a week, another added.
Laughter followed. Ash kept walking, indifferent. He had heard words like these all his life.
A massive man stepped onto the platform. Short gray hair framed his stern face. His dark cape, marked with ancient runes, snapped in the wind. His gaze alone silenced the crowd.
— Silence.
One word. Enough to crush every voice. The aura he exuded froze even the most confident.
— Welcome to Tier 4 Academy, he declared, his deep voice booming across the courtyard. Some of you think being admitted here is an honor. It isn't. Here, we gather the trash. The weak. The failures. And we'll see which of you survive long enough to be of use.
A nervous murmur ran through the crowd. The instructor's lips curved into a cold smile.
— Those who fail will not be expelled. They will die. Here, every mistake is paid for in blood.
Ash met his gaze without flinching. Where others paled, he remained unmoved. Death was no threat to him. It was a companion he already knew too well.
The day unfolded in a haze of physical trials and mana tests. Students were evaluated, ranked, humiliated at times. Ash didn't stand out. His movements seemed slow, his body frail. Yet he passed every stage—barely, but never failing.
When it came to the mana test, an examiner placed a crystal orb in front of him.
— Focus your energy, the man ordered.
Ash placed his hand on the orb. It remained almost empty. Only a few weak flickers of light stirred inside before fading away.
— Omega Class confirmed, the examiner said with disdain. Reserve: negligible.
A ripple of laughter spread through the rows. Ash calmly withdrew his hand.
But as he stepped away, the orb trembled faintly, as if brushed by a dark echo. No one noticed. No one but him.
A voice, indistinct, brushed against his mind.
— Asleep…
Ash froze for a second. His eyes narrowed. But the sensation vanished at once.
He walked on as if nothing had happened.
That night, he lay down in the dormitory among dozens of other students. Laughter, whispers, tired sighs filled the air. Ash closed his eyes.
And darkness consumed him.
A field in flames. Screams of agony. Winged shadows across a sky of ash.
He walked among the corpses, his hands stained with blood. In his palm pulsed a black lance, alive like a beating heart.
In the distance, a silhouette rose, wreathed in crimson light. Its lips moved, but no sound reached him.
Ash jolted awake. Sweat beaded on his brow. Around him, the dormitory slept in peace.
He lay still, staring at the ceiling.
It wasn't a dream.
It was something else.
The next morning, the rain had ceased, but the air remained heavy, saturated with moisture. The Academy courtyard glistened under the gray light. Students gathered, still weary from the day before.
Ash slipped into the line without a word. Some gazes turned toward him—contemptuous, indifferent. In this crowd, he was nothing more than another face. And that was just fine.
An instructor stepped onto the platform. Not the same as yesterday—this one younger, but with eyes hard as steel.
— Today, he announced, you will face your first opponents.
A shiver rippled through the ranks.
— Not monsters. Not yet, he continued. You will face each other. Simple duels. No excessive mana, no high-level spells. Just show me if you deserve to stay.
Murmurs spread. Some students looked excited, others nervous.
Ash remained impassive. He already knew what to expect.
The first duels began. Students clashed inside a circle drawn on the ground, wielding practice spears or blunted swords. Blows fell—clumsy, brutal. The instructors watched without emotion, noting every weakness.
When his name was called, Ash stepped into the arena. His opponent was none other than the stocky boy from the dormitory—the one who had mocked him the day before. Darian.
— Finally! Darian shouted, flashing a vicious grin. I'll show everyone what an Omega is worth.
Ash tightened his grip on his practice spear. His gray eyes fixed calmly on the other boy.
The instructor raised his hand.
— Begin.
Darian charged at once, his short sword slicing the air. Ash pivoted aside, letting the blow pass, then lowered his spear slightly to block the second strike.
The attacks came one after another, fast, furious. Darian fought with the frenzy of anger. Ash evaded with the precision of calculation. His movements were simple, but each time, he was exactly where he needed to be.
— Stop moving like a rat! Darian roared, panting.
Ash didn't answer. He stepped back once, his icy gaze never leaving him.
A murmur rose among the onlookers.
— He dodges everything…
— It's like he knows the attacks in advance…
— Impossible. He's just an Omega!
Driven mad with rage, Darian raised his weapon for a vertical strike. Ash suddenly planted the tip of his spear into the ground right before him.
Darian froze, eyes wide.
— You should work on your defense… or your ego, Ash said quietly.
A nervous laugh rippled through the circle. Humiliated, Darian tried one last desperate strike.
But before he could swing, the instructor stepped in, halting his arm with a firm grip.
— Enough.
The fight was over. Darian fumed, but the circle broke apart. Ash picked up his spear and walked away without a word.
Later, in the dormitory, whispers spread again.
— How did he do that?
— He didn't strike once, but he still won.
— Maybe he's hiding something…
Lying on his cot, Ash stared at the cracked ceiling. The voices slid over him like distant echoes.
But deep down, he knew they were right. He had anticipated Darian's every move—as if his body already knew what was coming. As if… he had fought this battle a thousand times before.
He closed his eyes.
And in the silence of his mind, the voice returned.
— Your body remembers, even if you have forgotten.
Ash clenched his fists.
— You've danced with death before. You know how it moves.
— Shut up, he whispered.
No one heard.
The next day, the students were summoned into a vast circular hall. Stone golems, animated by mana runes, stood waiting in silence.
— Survival test, the instructor declared. These creatures won't kill you, but they will break your bones without hesitation. Your goal: endure.
The students exchanged uneasy looks.
Ash picked up a spear. His was chipped and worn, but he didn't care.
When the trial began, chaos erupted. The golems swung their stone fists, heavy as hammers. Screams rang out, shields shattered.
Ash moved fluidly, each step carrying him just far enough to avoid the crushing blows. Beside him, a student collapsed, his shield smashed to pieces.
— Help me! the boy cried.
Ash hesitated for an instant. Then he deflected the golem's strike with his spear, giving the boy enough time to retreat.
That was when he felt it—a strange vibration coursing through the floor.
The golem raised its arm for another strike. Ash reacted instinctively. He thrust his spear forward.
A dark spark flashed where the wood met stone. A runic circle lit faintly under his feet, then vanished at once.
The golem's fist was repelled, shoved aside by an invisible force.
Ash froze, his breath caught in his throat.
The other students hadn't noticed—too busy trying to survive. But the instructor frowned.
Then he shook his head.
— Faulty rune calibration, he muttered. We'll fix the golems later. Continue!
The fight resumed as if nothing had happened.
But Ash's heartbeat quickened. He knew. It wasn't a defect in the runes. It was him.
And in his mind, the voice whispered, almost tender:
— You've awakened.
Ash gripped the shaft of his spear until his knuckles turned white.
— No.
But the voice fell silent, leaving only a heavy emptiness behind.
When the test ended, most students were covered in bruises. Some had broken arms, others limped. Ash escaped with only a few scratches.
The instructor jotted notes absentmindedly, making no comment.
But Ash caught his gaze. It was no longer contempt. Not yet suspicion—but something questioning.
A detail. A doubt.
And Ash knew he had to be even more careful.
That night, the nightmares returned.
He stood in a field of ash. The sky burned red. The stench of blood hung heavy in the air.
Shapes surrounded him—blurred, shifting. Some bore wings, others radiant armor. All of them fell, one after another, in suffocating silence.
Ash lifted his hands. They were covered in blood. A black lance pulsed between his fingers, as if breathing.
He tried to let it go, but it clung to him, fused to his arm.
In the distance, a massive shadow rose, its eyes glowing with unholy light.
Ash felt his heart stop.
And just as the figure opened its mouth, he awoke—gasping, drenched in sweat.
The dormitory slept in peace.
He sat upright for a long while, hands trembling.
— That wasn't… a dream.
The next morning, the academy's schedule left no room for dreams.
"Load run – Inner ramparts – 10 km – full gear."
"Theory of rune matrices."
"Polearms – grip / guard / footwork."
"Supervised rest."
Names were already being scrawled across the board, as if ink alone could carve courage into the bone.
Ash collected a harness from the armory. The leather bit into his shoulders, the buckles icy against his skin. Around him, students laughed, boasting of exhaustion before it even began—ready to glorify themselves later with "I still held out, despite everything."
At the ramparts, the air reeked of algae and wet stone. The towers bore scars, patched and cracked from past assaults. A dark-haired instructor in his thirties barked down the line.
— Simple rules. You leave, you come back in one piece. No magic. No helping each other with the packs. If someone collapses, signal. We're not here to collect stupid deaths.
The whistle shrieked. The line lurched forward.
Ash set a short, steady rhythm, ignoring the urge to sprint with pride. Feet pounded stone, breaths rose and fell, then fell apart as each body sought its own pace. By the third kilometer, the excitement had drained away; by the fourth, water felt scarce on every lip. Ash kept his cadence, smooth as a blade cutting wind.
Halfway through, a boy stumbled ahead of him—too small for his armor, his pack twisting his shoulder until his knee struck stone. He cursed under his breath.
Ash slowed, crouched at his side.
— You alright?
The boy looked up, shame flickering in his eyes.
— I… yeah. Just the strap. It keeps slipping.
Ash retied the harness in a firm cross-knot, a motion too precise for someone supposedly inexperienced.
— Keep your arm pressed against the pack when you go downhill. Stops the swing.
The boy nodded mutely.
He fell behind Ash's pace, but not far. Brown hair, hazel eyes—honest, awkward. Ash barely registered the face, storing it somewhere in the corner of memory. He didn't yet know he would hear that voice often.
By the time they returned, legs burned and muscles trembled like overstretched cords. Some limped, others laughed too loudly to mask their grimaces. The instructor checked names without praise—only a hand on a red shoulder here and there, a silent command: again.
Ash stripped off his harness, methodical. The skin beneath was cut in two places, thin red lines lost in dust. He rinsed his hands at the cistern, watched gray water trickle away, and left.
The rune matrix class filled a vaulted, round chamber. Lamp-flowers—crystals set into metal corollas—shone bright and steady. Hexagonal tables held slates, chalk, and compasses.
The master, a gruff-voiced man with a beard braided in rings, rapped his pointer against the board.
— Anyone planning to cheat with oversized spells because "it's faster," get out. Here we do precision. You'll trace, and retrace, until your hand obeys outside your head. Even then, you'll do it again.
Groans followed. Ash picked up chalk. White dust clung to his fingers. Today's exercise: a three-anchor stabilization matrix, meant to suppress unstable flows—shields, transfers. Simple on paper. Treacherous in practice.
— Turn the compass, not your wrist like a monkey, the master snapped.
Circles bloomed—hesitant for some, steady for others. Ash traced, erased, retraced. On his second attempt, the central line quivered, alive under the chalk like a struck string.
For an instant, the lamps flickered. Two flames shrank, then revived.
Ash froze. Adjusted his stroke with surgical exactness. At his side, a boy frowned.
— Master? The lamps…
The teacher grunted.
— Impurities. Focus on your lines.
Ash finished in silence. His hand trembled faintly, not from fatigue but from a sensation he refused to name. You pulled, whispered something at the edge of thought. He ignored it.
The master's pointer suddenly tapped Ash's slate.
— You. This center. You draw it like you've written it a hundred times. Who taught you?
Ash met his gaze.
— No one.
The pointer lingered, then moved on. No praise, no suspicion. Just a thread of curiosity, cut short.
Later, polearms clattered down from racks. Training tips were blunted, designed to bruise, not cut. White lines marked the floor in squares.
— Arms are for novices, the weapon-mistress barked. Here, the legs rule. If your foot slips, your head falls. Show me your feet; I'll know if you're lying.
Nervous chuckles died. Students swung clumsily or cleanly, revealing who had touched a staff before and who confused fighting with flailing.
Ash's grip was loose, thumb resting, not clenched like a drowning man. His body moved without thought: step—point slides, extend—hips follow, pivot—shaft turns, withdraw—distance folds.
— Again, the mistress barked. You, Omega—your feet bind too soon. Let the heel go; the point will repay you.
Ash repeated. Once. Twice. Ten times. The gesture smoothed like a stone in water.
By the end, his arms burned with pins and needles. The students dropped their spears with sighs like prisoners loosed.
— Tomorrow, double the weight, she warned. If I hear one "I can't," you'll scrub the courtyard with your tongues. Dismissed.
Ash replaced his spear. As he let go, it seemed heavier—no, not truly. A thought. A shadow of weight. A presence.
He lingered, hand on wood too long, then turned away.
During "supervised rest," most collapsed into dreamless exhaustion. Ash sat on his bed, knees drawn up, back to the wall. He closed his eyes, not to sleep, but to steady his breath to an older rhythm. Inhale. Hold. Release. Inhale.
By the fourth cycle, something inside clicked into place. Tendons aligned. A groove reopened in silence. Images surfaced—an endless hall, weapons raised in solemn silence, an energy thrumming dark through the air. Not memories. Not dreams. The ghost of gestures relearned.
The dormitory door creaked. An instructor's shadow stretched across the floor.
— You're not sleeping?
Ash opened his eyes. The man was not tall, but broad-shouldered, black hair touched with gray. No cape, no title, only sharp eyes.
— Not now, Ash replied.
— Name?
— Ash.
— I read your file. Orphanage, South Gate. Prep classes, two sessions. No sponsor.
The man studied him, weighing.
— Do you know why you're here?
— To learn how to survive.
A flicker—not a smile—crossed the instructor's face.
— Good answer. Most say "to become a hero." Those die fast.
He tucked the paper into his coat.
— My name is Corven. If you have a question too stupid for fools to hear, bring it to me. No promises. But I'll listen.
Ash nodded. He couldn't tell if he'd just been chosen—or marked.
Corven left, trailing only the faint scent of oiled leather, sharp as intent.
That evening, the academy buzzed with chores, corridors alive with buckets, brooms, and boots. Ash paused by a tapestry in the eastern gallery: the "First Resistance." Human silhouettes, lances in hand, a wall behind them, flames before.
The red threads had dulled to wine. A weaver had stitched the Gates as jagged cuts spilling blue light. And at the edge, half-faded, one figure planted not a sword, but a lance. Black thread colored the shaft. The point stretched beyond the frame, unfinished, absent.
Ash's gaze lingered. A draft stirred. Lamps shivered. Only stone, only dust.
Yet the absent point gnawed at him.
That night, when the dorm quieted into coughs and snores, Ash lay awake, hand against his chest. His heartbeat pounded like a drum for an army he didn't see. Sleep came in shards.
And in the fragments, he stood again—no enemy, no crowd, only a vast emptiness humming with unseen breath. A shaft slid into his palm—not wood, not steel, but presence. He couldn't name it. The word shattered in his mind.
From far away, a sound rose. Not quite a name. Too large for the world to contain.
Ash jerked awake, the dorm unchanged. His legs trembled.
In the silence, one echo brushed through him like a ripple across water:
— Soon.
The pale sun cast dull light over Tier 4 Academy, turning wet stone into dim mirrors. The rain had stopped two days ago, but dust was already clinging to boots once more. Students gathered on the training grounds, a broad esplanade ringed by mutilated statues that served as markers.
Ash stood apart, as always. His gray eyes scanned the faces around him—arrogance in many, fear in a few. All of them were seeking a place in a world where rank was climbed with blood.
The caped instructor strode into the arena. His voice cracked like a whip.
— Today, team exercise.
Murmurs stirred immediately.
— Groups of five. Your goal: cross the field while avoiding elimination by patrol golems.
He gestured. Four hulking figures emerged from the shadows. Smaller than the survival-test golems, but faster. Their crystal-red eyes gleamed with cruel light.
— Rules are simple, he continued. Three hits, you're out. Lose your weapon, out. Abandon your team…
His gaze swept over them.
— …and you'll die later, in the real field.
A frozen silence followed.
Teams formed quickly. Alphas banded together, Betas chose carefully. Omegas were pushed aside, lumped together by default.
Ash ended up in a mismatched group: three other Omegas, and a Beta shoved down for misconduct.
The Beta introduced himself briefly. Tall, brown-haired, hazel-eyed, his look was straightforward but tired.
— Kaelen, he said simply.
Ash gave a small nod.
The others introduced themselves too, but their names slipped from his memory at once—their fear and hesitation said enough.
— Group Seventeen, in position, a master called.
Ash inhaled slowly, tightening his grip on his training spear. The ground vibrated faintly as the golems activated, advancing with perfect coordination.
— Stay together, Kaelen ordered, taking the lead.
The others nodded nervously. Ash followed, steps measured.
The first golem lunged from behind a column, its stone arm swinging like an axe. Kaelen blocked with his shield, barely holding.
— Left! he shouted.
Another golem was already charging. One Omega stumbled, too slow to react. Ash pivoted, his spear arcing down to strike the golem's wrist. The blow deflected its aim, giving the boy just enough time to retreat.
— Th-thanks! he gasped.
Ash gave no reply. His eyes stayed on the field.
The minutes blurred into chaos: dodges, missed strikes, muffled cries. Kaelen fought with surprising grit, covering the Omegas as though refusing to abandon them. Ash studied his movements. He wasn't the strongest, nor the fastest—but he endured. And more than that, he endured for others.
Suddenly, a golem rose behind Kaelen, its fist descending. Ash saw it in slow motion. Kaelen wouldn't turn in time.
Without thought, Ash leapt. His spear thrust up, intercepting the strike.
The impact thundered through the arena.
A dark vibration rippled along the weapon—unseen by the others. The golem staggered, thrown back by a force it should never have felt.
Kaelen spun, slamming his shield to finish the motion and drive the creature back.
— Good cover! he grinned, quick and breathless.
Ash stepped back, throat dry. He hadn't meant to. But it had happened.
No one else seemed to notice. Not even Kaelen. To them, it was luck. Coordination. Nothing more.
But Ash knew.
And in the depths of his mind, the voice whispered, soft, almost affectionate:
— You're already protecting. Just like before.
Ash's grip whitened on the spear.
— Shut up, he muttered.
No one heard.
At last, their group crossed the finish line. Panting, drenched in sweat, they collapsed nearly to their knees.
Kaelen sat heavily, wiping his brow.
— Hey. Not bad for "trash," huh?
His hazel eyes glimmered with pride—and defiance.
Ash studied him a moment. Kaelen hadn't said it for himself, but for the trembling Omegas around them.
— Weren't you afraid? Ash asked quietly.
Kaelen shrugged.
— Of course I was. But if I stop to think about it, I'm dead. So I keep moving.
Ash stayed silent.
Kaelen gave him a faint smile.
— You though… you didn't flinch once. Like you already knew you'd survive.
Their eyes met. Ash turned away.
— Maybe.
The instructor passed among them, jotting names, noting performance. When he stopped at Ash, his eyes lingered too long.
Gray eyes, dull as stone. But for the briefest moment, a red ember flickered there—then vanished.
The master said nothing. But his gaze spoke enough.
Ash lowered his eyes, staring at his trembling hands. Not from fatigue. From something else.
That night, sleep claimed him faster than usual. And the visions returned.
A field of ruins. A black lance. Silhouettes kneeling.
And a voice, not his own:
— You have already protected… and you will again.
Ash woke in a start, breath ragged, throat dry. The dormitory lay in calm silence.
But he knew.
He knew these weren't dreams.
And with each day, he was drawing closer.
The next morning, mist clung to the ramparts like a tattered shroud. Glory gave way to chores: buckets to carry, corridors to scrub, breastplates to re-oil. Tier 4 Academy knew how to wear down its students not only with weapons, but with endless repetition until even boredom became a trial.
Ash followed the list nailed to the wall: "Armory reserve → oiling,""Tapestry annex → dusting,""South basins → grid maintenance." He picked up a brush and a pot of oil, letting the chatter around him wash over. Betas were already retelling yesterday's exercise as if they'd crossed a real Gate. Omegas laughed about smaller troubles: a boot leaking, bread heavier than yesterday.
— Ash!
He turned. Kaelen, a sack on one shoulder and broom in hand, grinned through weary eyes that asked for no pity.
— They stuck me on the basins, he said. Great assignment if you like the smell. You?
— Armory first.
— Treasure cave. Careful, you might fall in love with a staff.
The faintest shadow of a smile touched Ash's lips.
— Lunch together after? Kaelen asked, casual.
Ash nodded.
— Alright.
Kaelen left whistling off-key, the sound echoing through the corridor, bent a half-note out of place.
The armory smelled of oil and iron. Racks lined the walls with practice spears and blunted pikes, their heads gleaming with harmless light. Two apprentice smiths examined halberd blades, trading tired jokes.
— Here, one pointed to a crate. Oil them, don't drown them. Thin coat, not a flood. If it drips, do it again.
Ash nodded, sat on a stool, and set to work. The wood drank the oil in silence. One spear, then another, and another—each motion steady, like breathing.
By the fifth, his hand hesitated. The weight was the same as the others, but under his palm something lingered—an undertone, like the memory of another song. He turned the shaft toward the light. Only a knot, an old scar in the wood.
He kept going. The sixth. The seventh. The eighth sent a chill into his skin—not temperature, but a memory of stone, something buried deep. He set it down, hand lingering a moment too long above the crate.
— You good? one apprentice called.
— Yes, Ash replied.
The cloth resumed its rhythm. The sensation dissolved, like a taste one refuses to name.
At the far wall, an older rack spanned the stone, its stenciled numbers faded: Lot 12,Lot 14,Lot 15. Between 16 and 18 yawned a space, hooks rusted, empty. An absence that felt less like neglect, more like something waiting.
Ash looked away. His cloth slid down another shaft, oil tracing a gleam like a taut thread of light.
— Put those on the north rack when you're done, the apprentice said. And don't bother counting. Like the fish in the basins, numbers never match.
Ash stacked four spears across his shoulder and crossed the hall. The rack groaned under their weight. On the lowest shelf, a tag lay on the floor—dried leather, letters half-erased. A looping "L," a broken "17."
He set it back on the plank. His fingers lingered a moment, touching the wood as if it were a door to someplace vast. Then he returned to his stool, finished the oiling, cleaned his hands on a rag that smelled faintly rancid.
— That's enough for today, the apprentice said without looking up. Halberds tomorrow.
Ash left.
The tapestry annex was long, lined with fragile cloths too old for the main hall. Dust ruled like a patient queen. Ash brushed the borders, steady strokes, stifling a sneeze. A hook gave way with a crack; he caught the tapestry before it fell. Threads rasped under his fingers—the rough black lines of shadow stitched into the scene.
Again, his eyes caught it: a lance thrust into the ground, half-effaced. The point missing, incomplete. The same absence.
He rehung it, breath measured. When he walked away, nothing followed—except the faint hesitation in his step, as though pursued by a thought too stubborn to die.
At the south basins, Kaelen's boots were coated in foul muck. He wrestled with a grate clogged in algae, laughing at his own disgust. He greeted Ash with mock solemnity.
— I'd trade for tapestries any day. At least those are pretty. This…
— Alive, Ash said.
Kaelen blinked, then laughed.
— Right. Alive, and it wants my smell.
They walked back together toward the mess hall. The line was already long, trays tucked under arms, eyes sunk in the soup pot like fortune-tellers. Ash and Kaelen sat at the same bench against the wall—the place of those who prefer stone at their back.
— You're always alone, Kaelen noted between spoonfuls. Choice, or…?
— I choose what I can control. The rest tires me.
— Not wrong. But even walls fall if no one props them up.
Ash glanced at him. Kaelen said it without malice, without expectation. His eyes didn't seek confession—only offered a place.
— Why'd you cover the others yesterday? Kaelen asked. You didn't need to prove anything.
Ash drank from his tin cup, the metallic taste sharp on his tongue.
— He was in front of me.
— That's enough of a reason?
— Yes.
Kaelen nodded.
— Next time we're up against golems, let's stick together. Not because you're strong. Just… because you see. Most stare at their fear, not the field.
A shadow loomed. Corven stood a step away, tray empty, eyes sliding once over Ash, once over Kaelen. He said nothing, only set down his tray at the counter and left.
— He's watching you, Kaelen murmured. Either waiting for you to break… or to hold.
— He wants to know if I endure, Ash corrected.
— Same thing here.
They ate the rest in silence—the simple silence of two who don't need excuses to share a bench.
Night settled, and the academy slipped into its other rhythm: footsteps of patrols, keys jingling, whispers traded between cots. The dormitory sank into the coarse music of breathing—snores, coughs, muttered dreams.
Ash didn't sleep. He laced his boots in silence and slipped out, the corridor dim with lamps turned low. He didn't know why his steps carried him there. He only knew they did.
The records hall slept under the glow of a dying wick. Cabinets lined the walls, exhaling the dry scent of ink and paper. Ash lingered at the threshold. His gaze slid to the framed plan on the wall: the academy as it had been, before scars and reinforcements. In the corner, nearly erased, a note: "Armory hall, spears – Lot 17, unlisted."
He walked on. The main armory was locked for the night, but a side passage led to the annex—used when space ran short, or when certain objects were best kept apart. He had noticed it earlier, watching an apprentice push a cart from there with covered shapes.
The door yielded to a gentle push. No drama; the latch had never been set properly. The room smelled of dust, canvas, and tallow.
Shapes leaned along the walls, wrapped in gray covers—thin as flutes, broad as shovels. Ash reached out, thumb against forefinger, brushing damp from his skin.
No tags. On the second row, half a number: 12. On the third, the leather missing. One hook stood bare, not simply empty but waiting, like a portrait without a frame.
Ash's hand rose without permission. He slid his fingers down a canvas seam, pinched, pulled. Dust breathed into the air. Fabric fell back, unveiling a shaft of dark wood, aged to a matte sheen. No head visible—the cover still clung to its end. Two old bindings scarred the grip, scars beneath his palm.
He touched it.
No light. No hum. Only—worse—a fit. The place where his hand belonged, as though it had always been there, and the weapon had just remembered him.
His breath stopped, not from fear but from recognition. He stepped back half a pace. The canvas brushed his cheek as it fell.
A tremor whispered along the oil lamps, a nail in the wall quivering as if cold.
Ash touched it again, fingertips only. The sensation returned—thin, dangerous, like a promise. Just here. Nowhere else.
A step in the corridor. He let go instantly. Canvas slid back over the wood.
The door creaked. Corven stood in the frame, long shadow cutting the room. He didn't light the lamp. His eyes passed from Ash to the rows of covered weapons, back to Ash.
— Looking for something?
Not an accusation. Not a permission.
— I… couldn't sleep, Ash said.
— Few sleep well here, Corven murmured, his voice low enough not to wake the stone. And some lose themselves while thinking they're found.
Silence thickened. Ash didn't move. Neither did the canvas. But something had shifted all the same.
Corven stepped once inside. His gaze measured the racks, noted the missing tag, the empty hook. He raised a hand—not touching—then lowered it.
— What sleeps here has its reasons to sleep, he said. If anything wakes, it won't be because someone pulled a cover. It will be because the moment knocks three times in the same place.
He turned. And Ash felt, without proof, that the words were not only for him.
— Go back, Corven finished. The stone has kept your place.
Ash obeyed. He passed close, feeling the faint warmth of the man's presence in the narrow hall. Corven didn't stop him. He didn't touch his arm. He didn't need to.
Back in the corridor, the lamps flared unevenly. One flickered as Ash passed, then steadied as if nothing had happened.
He reached the dormitory without crossing another soul. The cracked ceiling returned its makeshift constellations. The bed welcomed him with its familiar hardness.
He lay down, hands folded behind his head. Sleep came without fire this time. Only chalk lines on a slate inside his mind—three circles, three anchors, a stabilization drawn with flawless symmetry. His dream-hand traced the center.
And instead of hearing chalk scratch stone, he felt again the fit of a grip waiting for him.
A single word drifted through the dark. Not a name. Not a command. An adverb. A promise.
Soon.
Ash opened his eyes. The breathing of others filled the room in steady rhythm. His palm was bare, unmarked. And yet he thought the lines had shifted—subtly, as if the grain of wood had imprinted itself beneath his skin.
He lay still until dawn. At the first scrape of benches, the first clatter of buckets, he rose.
Kaelen poked his head through the door, hair a mess, eyes still half-closed.
— You coming? We'll be late if we forget our legs.
— I'm coming, Ash said.
They stepped out together.
The courtyard awaited, cold and clear, its lines freshly drawn, statues staring elsewhere. Corven leaned in the shadow of a column, arms folded, expression even. He didn't signal. Didn't speak. He only watched the line form.
Ash took his place in the middle—visible enough to see, invisible enough not to be seen.
The whistle cut the air. Boots thundered. Stone tasted the same beneath his steps as yesterday.
At the eastern gallery, where the tapestry showed the absent lance-point, a breath brushed his hand. Not the wind. Something thinner than memory, heavier than fate.
He didn't turn. He kept his rhythm, spine straight.
And in the cadence of boots, one faint beat throbbed inside his chest. A pulse that belonged to no one else.
The world, for now, knew nothing.
End of Chapter 1.