Dawn had barely broken over Oakhaven when Thiriel opened his eyes.
He hadn't truly slept; his mind had spent the night dissecting every borrowed memory, every detail of Drowen's betrayal, every fragment of information about this new and cruel world.
The body was still weak, but the will was relentless.
He rose silently so as not to wake the others.
Barefoot, he walked to the orphanage kitchen, where a rusted pot awaited with the daily ration meant for the orphans.
Thiriel took it without complaint. In his previous life, he had eaten worse during winter marches.
Right now, every spoonful was necessary fuel to repair and sustain the fragile body.
The stab wound had miraculously closed when he awakened in this body, but the blood loss was still taking its toll.
He ate standing, leaning against the wall, watching pale light seep in through the window. When he finished, he rinsed the bowl with cold water and stepped out into the back courtyard.
The space was small, barely a strip of compacted earth between the main building and a crumbling wall. There, Thiriel began his usual routine.
Push-ups. Squats. Punches thrown into empty air. Imaginary sword movements.
After fifteen minutes, the body gave in.
His legs trembled, his arms refused to support him on the third set of push-ups, and a sudden wave of dizziness forced him to drop to his knees. He gasped for air. His heart hammered wildly inside a chest that felt far too tight.
Thiriel closed his eyes and smiled bitterly.
"Pathetic."
In his previous life, he could endure twelve-hour battles without rest, shatter enemy formations with his bare hands. Now he could barely support his own weight for a few minutes.
It didn't matter. The body was merely a tool. And tools could be sharpened.
He sat cross-legged on the cold ground and began to regulate his breathing. Deep inhale through the nose, brief retention, slow exhale through the mouth. With each cycle, he guided blood flow, directing what little energy remained toward the most damaged muscles, toward channels that still needed to heal.
It was a martial recovery technique he had refined over decades.
There was no magic to channel here… not yet. But the principle was the same: optimize, conserve, endure.
Half an hour later, he stood up. The tremors had lessened. His lungs no longer burned. He wasn't recovered—not even close—but he was functional.
He returned inside the orphanage. In the main hall, the Matron was shouting instructions at the staff. Thiriel approached.
"When does the selection begin?" he asked in a neutral voice.
The Matron looked him up and down, as if appraising merchandise.
"Soon. As soon as the evaluator arrives. Don't be late, boy. If you don't show talent, you'll keep scrubbing dishes until you rot."
Thiriel inclined his head in a minimal show of respect and stepped aside.
Caethiriel appeared then, carrying a bucket of soapy water. When she saw him, her face lit up.
"Brother! How do you feel today?" She stepped closer and touched his arm with genuine concern. "You're still pale… did you eat anything?"
"Yes. The usual ration."
She frowned, then smiled.
"Then you have to pass the test. If they take you to a tower or an academy… maybe they'll get us out of here. Though…" her voice lowered, tinged with sadness, "I still have two more years. I can't take it until I'm sixteen."
Thiriel looked at her steadily. There was something in that smile, in that mixture of hope and resignation.
"I will," he said quietly but firmly. "And when I do… I'll get you out of here. I promise."
Caethiriel blinked, surprised by the intensity in his tone. Then she nodded, blushing slightly.
"Then… good luck, brother!"
A horn sounded outside. The Matron's voice echoed through the corridors:
"All those sixteen and older who haven't been evaluated yet, to the courtyard now!"
The group from Thiriel's dormitory stirred. Drowen walked at the front, talking loudly with the others, feigning ease. When his eyes met Thiriel's, he simply looked away and quickened his pace.
Thiriel followed behind, his steps calm. Drowen was already marked on his mental list. He wouldn't act today. Not yet. But every second the traitor breathed freely was merely a courtesy Thiriel allowed himself.
In the courtyard, standing beside the Matron, waited the evaluator.
An old man in a crimson robe, embroidered with silver threads forming complex runes. His white hair fell to his waist, and his eyes were such a pale gray they seemed almost translucent. He held a dark wooden staff crowned with an opaque crystal.
Thiriel saw him, and immediately all his warrior instincts went on alert.
Something was… wrong.
The old man exuded an aura that tried to remain unnoticed, but to someone who had spent decades in battle, it was as obvious as fresh blood on snow. It was subtle, malevolent, tinged with rot. Not human. Or at least, not entirely.
Thiriel kept his expression neutral as he lined up with the others, analyzing what purpose someone with such an aura had in recruiting apprentices.
The old man raised a gloved hand. The Matron bowed with exaggerated deference.
"All present, Master Vexar," she announced.
The old man nodded slowly.
"Good. Listen carefully, children. Today we will evaluate your affinity for magic. Those who possess talent will be taken to my tower to receive instruction."
"The test is simple: you will step forward one by one and extend your right palm. The crystal of my staff will react to the resonance of your soul, displaying different colors for talents."
"If it does not activate, you lack talent. If the crystal on the staff lights up…" he paused, his smile widening slightly, "…then you are something better."
A nervous murmur rippled through the group.
Thiriel did not move. His eyes remained fixed on the old man. Now that he was closer, the malignant sensation was unmistakable.
One by one, the orphans stepped forward.
A scrawny boy received brown. A freckled girl also brown. Two larger boys were rejected when the crystal failed to react, retreating with their heads lowered.
When it was Drowen's turn, the traitor stepped forward with false confidence. He extended his hand. The crystal glowed red.
The old man tilted his head.
"Interesting. Superior talent. Come stand beside me, boy."
Drowen smiled triumphantly and moved next to the evaluator, casting a brief glance toward Thiriel.
Then it was Thiriel's turn.
He walked forward with steady steps, ignoring the lingering tremor in his legs. He stopped before the old man and extended his palm.
The crystal on the staff began to glow.
First, brown.
Then, blue.
And for an instant—so brief that perhaps only he noticed—a black flicker coursed through the crystal's interior, like a vein beneath the surface.
The old man narrowed his eyes.
"Very interesting…" he murmured, almost to himself. "Very interesting indeed."
Thiriel held the old man's gaze. He did not lower his head. He did not tremble.
Inside him, the decision had already been made.
He would learn whatever this monster had to teach.
He would absorb every scrap of knowledge.
And if, at some point, the sense of danger grew too strong…
He would escape.
Or kill him.
Whichever proved more convenient.