The crystal atop the staff was still glowing with a faint blue hue when Master Vexar slowly averted his gaze from Thiriel.
For a fraction of a second, his gray pupils dilated unnaturally, like those of a predator that had just discovered its most succulent prey.
The mask of the benevolent old man remained firmly in place, but Thiriel saw it with absolute clarity: hunger, greed, and desire. The warrior's instinct that had saved his life in hundreds of battles screamed a single word in his mind: imminent danger.
Vexar recovered his composure with almost admirable speed. The paternal smile once again curved his thin, dry lips, and when he spoke, his voice was gentle, almost syrupy.
"Very well, little ones," he said, sweeping his gaze over the selected group.
"Six talents in a single group… This year's harvest is truly exceptional. Fate has been generous with us."
The six chosen were:
Drowen, whose crystal had shone with an intense red.
The two boys with brown talents.
Kael, the quiet roommate of Drowen and Thiriel, with white talent.
An orphan with an unremarkable face, about whom almost nothing was known and who barely spoke, and white talent as well.
And Thiriel, who remained still, observing everything with indifference.
When the group gathered at the center of the courtyard, Vexar examined them one by one, lingering a moment longer on Thiriel, as if measuring something the others could not perceive.
"At dawn tomorrow, we depart for my tower," he announced calmly.
"Prepare what little you own. The journey is short, but you will not return to this place for a long time."
Thiriel stepped forward. He kept his voice low, almost humble.
"Master Vexar…" he began. "Would it be possible to bring my sister, Caethiriel? She is not yet old enough for the test, but she is the only thing that binds me to this world. I will not leave without her."
The old man stared at him. His gloved fingers tapped slowly against the dark wood of his staff. The silence stretched out long enough for several orphans to grow restless and for the Matron to frown in visible irritation. Finally, Vexar nodded slowly.
"A reasonable request," he conceded. "The girl may come. She will be useful in the herb gardens while her potential… matures. If she has any."
The final phrase carried a tone meant to sound kind, but to Thiriel it rang false.
"Thank you very much, Master," Thiriel said, inclining his head in gratitude.
As Vexar walked away with the Matron toward the main building, Thiriel began his preparations.
He searched every corner of the orphanage. He found a piece of rusted iron which, carefully wrapped in cloth and bound with thick cord, could serve as an improvised and discreet dagger; he gathered the ragged clothes he owned, including an old, worn cloak that could double as a blanket; he added a small cloth pouch containing several smooth, rounded stones; and finally, he concealed everything inside a sturdy burlap sack he found in the abandoned woodshed.
He found Caethiriel in the wash area, scrubbing sheets with hands reddened by cold water. When he explained that she would be going with him to the mage's tower, the girl's eyes widened dramatically. She dropped the rag and threw herself into his arms, trembling with emotion.
"Really, brother?" she whispered against his chest. "Won't it be dangerous? The Matron always says that those who leave with mages… sometimes don't come back."
Thiriel hugged her more tightly than he intended. He felt her fragile bones beneath the thin fabric, the rapid beating of her heart against his own chest.
"Everything is dangerous, Caethiriel," he murmured to his sister. "As long as we're together, it will be less so. I promise you. No matter what happens, I won't let anything happen to you."
"Mmm," his sister nodded before heading away to pack the little she owned.
That afternoon, as the sun sank behind the rooftops of Oakhaven, Thiriel isolated himself in the farthest corner of the back courtyard, behind the crumbling wall where no one usually came. He would attempt to use one of the fundamental techniques of his former life: the Warrior's Aura. That layer of vital energy that multiplied strength, speed, and endurance at the cost of brutal strain on the body's energy, muscles, and will.
He closed his eyes and searched for the internal flow that had once been as natural as breathing.
Nothing.
The muscles responded, but the flow diverted through channels that had not existed in his former anatomy. Thin, luminous pathways ran like faint rivers of light beneath the skin. Magical meridians. The internal pathways of magic in this strange world.
He tried to force the aura again and again. Each failure revealed where he had erred, allowing him to attempt it once more.
The body was too weak, the meridians too narrow, and the connection between his martial will and this new system of power still nonexistent.
After nearly two hours of fruitless attempts, he gave up. The aura would not manifest until he strengthened his physique and learned more about those strange channels—until he identified which ones truly mattered.
Instead, he performed gentler exercises, gradually training his body while concealing his true efforts, in case the old man was watching from somewhere.
When the sky darkened, he returned to the dormitory. He lay down on his worn cot and entered a visualization technique. His consciousness sank inward, exploring the body. He traveled through atrophied muscles, fragile bones, narrow veins… and those luminous meridians. They were delicate and alien to his understanding of anatomy from his former life.
If he could somehow unite his knowledge of raw strength with the proper use of these channels…
After some time exploring, he decided to stop and rest for the day.
He slept deeply that night, knowing he would need to be at his best to face whatever awaited him once he left the orphanage.