Aurelian woke beneath an open sky.
That alone nearly broke him.
For several heartbeats he couldn't breathe—not because his lungs failed, but because his mind refused to accept the vastness above him. Endless blue stretched overhead, pierced by drifting clouds and blinding light. No stone ceiling. No runes. No bars.
Sky.
He curled instinctively, hands clawing at dirt and grass, grounding himself as panic surged. His scars burned as though the world itself was too large, too loud, too free.
In.
Hold.
Out.
Still Blade.
The panic receded enough for him to think.
He pushed himself upright slowly, every movement careful. His body was wrecked—bruises blooming dark across his ribs, his muscles screaming in protest—but he was alive.
Alone.
The word echoed with a hollow weight.
Lucien was gone.
Elenora was gone.
Kael was gone.
Aurelian pressed a trembling hand to his chest.
Something answered.
Not pain.
Presence.
Two of them.
The Soul Sword rested within him like a spine of steel—silent, steady, unyielding. It did not speak in words, but in alignment. When he shifted his posture unconsciously, his balance corrected. When his breathing wavered, it steadied. It was Lucien's will, sharpened and distilled.
The Soul Bow lay deeper, warmer—a lattice of intent and calculation woven through his mana pathways. It whispered not with sound, but with understanding. Distance. Trajectory. Efficiency. Alchemy not as mixtures, but as consequence.
They were not fighting him.
They were holding him together.
Aurelian bowed his head.
"Thank you," he whispered—to no one, and to everyone.
Survival came next.
Hunger arrived before grief could fully settle.
His stomach cramped violently, reminding him that legacy did not feed flesh. He scanned his surroundings with cautious eyes. Forest edge. Rocky slope. No immediate signs of pursuit.
Good.
He moved.
Slow at first, limping through brush and stone, guided by instinct and the faint, wordless correction of the Soul Sword whenever he placed his feet wrong. By sunset, he found a stream and drank until his hands stopped shaking.
That night, he didn't sleep.
He sat with his back against a tree, staring into darkness, flinching at every sound. When exhaustion finally dragged him down, his dreams were fractured—blood on stone, purple eyes dimming, white hair matted red.
He woke screaming.
The second night was easier.
The third, he slept.
By the end of the week, he learned how to move like someone who didn't want to be seen.
The first town nearly killed him.
He wandered in just after dawn, clothes torn, skin scarred, white hair hastily dirtied to dull grey. He kept his head down, posture slightly hunched—nothing, as Lucien had taught him.
A farmer spotted him near the well.
"Oi," the man called. "You. Boy."
Aurelian froze.
Still Blade.
"Yes, sir?" he said, voice soft, uncertain.
The farmer squinted. "You alone?"
Aurelian nodded. "Yes."
"Parents?"
Aurelian hesitated exactly one heartbeat too long.
"…Dead."
The farmer grimaced. "Plenty of that lately."
He tossed Aurelian a crust of bread. "Don't steal. Don't cause trouble. You can sleep by the stables if you're gone by morning."
Aurelian bowed—deep enough to show gratitude, shallow enough to not invite questions.
That night, as he chewed stale bread beneath the stars, he realized something vital.
People didn't look closely at children who didn't matter.
And that could be used.
He didn't keep his name.
Not his real one.
The first time someone asked, he panicked and said the first thing that came to mind.
"Aur—" He stopped himself. "Ren."
It stuck.
Ren the stray.
Ren the runner.
Ren the quiet boy with too many scars.
He worked for food. Carrying loads. Cleaning stables. Running messages through back alleys where adults didn't want to go. He learned the shape of towns by smell and sound rather than maps.
And when work wasn't enough—
He fought.
The first fight was ugly.
A pair of older boys cornered him behind a tannery, laughing when they saw how thin he was.
"Look at him," one sneered. "Skin and bone."
Aurelian didn't answer.
The Soul Sword shifted.
Not forward.
Down.
Center.
When the first punch came, Aurelian moved without thinking.
He stepped inside the swing, twisted, and drove his shoulder into the boy's chest. The movement was economical, precise—Lucien's discipline stripped of mercy.
The boy went down gasping.
The second attacker froze.
Aurelian looked up slowly.
Grey eyes. Empty expression.
The boy ran.
Aurelian stood there shaking, heart pounding.
He hadn't meant to hurt him that badly.
But he hadn't meant not to.
That night, he realized something else.
The legacies weren't making him stronger.
They were making him accurate.
By twelve, he stopped wandering blindly.
He followed roads that made sense. Border towns. Trade hubs. Places where mercenaries passed through and no one asked too many questions.
He learned how to listen.
"How much?"
"Who's paying?"
"What's the risk?"
He never took jobs that involved nobles. Never took work near churches. Never stayed anywhere long enough to be remembered.
And he never used his real name.
By thirteen, he was known in some places as a child mercenary.
Not famous.
Useful.
Quiet.
Reliable.
He carried a knife he bought with his first real pay—nothing fancy, but well-balanced. The Soul Sword didn't object.
The Soul Bow helped him judge distance when he threw stones or improvised traps, when he aimed knives at targets he prayed he wouldn't miss.
He avoided killing.
Not because he couldn't.
Because Lucien wouldn't have wanted him to.
Because Elenora's legacy whispered of consequence.
But sometimes—
Sometimes he didn't have a choice.
Those nights stayed with him longer.
The cult searched.
He felt it—not with certainty, but with instinct. Rumors of burned compounds. Of purges. Of missing prisoners. Of "traitors" hunted quietly and erased.
Once, in a town near a river crossing, he saw a man with a familiar posture.
Older. Robed. Watching too closely.
Aurelian didn't wait.
He left that night without collecting pay, moving until his legs bled, hiding beneath roots when patrols passed. He slept submerged in cold water with only his nose above the surface.
Still Blade held.
The seal held.
But the white in his hair spread slowly, strand by strand, no matter how much ash or dye he used to hide it. His eyes sometimes flickered purple in moments of exhaustion or anger.
So he learned to keep his head down.
To look tired.
To look ordinary.
At fourteen, Aurelian stood on a hill overlooking a city larger than any he'd seen before.
Stone walls. Towers. Banners snapping in the wind.
An academy city.
He didn't know it yet—not fully—but something in his chest aligned.
The Soul Sword felt… expectant.
The Soul Bow calculated distances not just of space, but of future.
Aurelian wrapped his cloak tighter around himself and turned away.
Not yet.
He wasn't ready.
He still woke some nights reaching for parents who weren't there. Still flinched at certain sounds. Still felt hollow where a name should have been spoken freely.
But he was alive.
He was learning.
And he was no longer running blindly.
He would reach fifteen.
He would step into the light on his terms.
And when the world finally asked who he was—
He would decide whether to answer.