Where the hell did the king find that bastard?"
Leonard flinched as Marshal Vancaws' voice reverberated through the room. The man's wrinkled face twisted in rage as he grabbed one piece of parchment after another in front of him, his eyes skimming through them under the dim light of the lamp hanging above the large, round table.
Around it sat ten figures—officers, high nobles, and influential leaders—each cloaked in shadows that seemed to grow darker with every passing moment. Four chairs remained empty, grim reminders of their fallen comrades.
Slamming down the last page of the pile, Marshal Vancaws grunted and turned toward the narrow-shouldered old man sitting two seats to Leonard's right. "Did your scouts find out anything about him?"
Aldric Ryehill, the head of the Ryehill House, gave a solemn nod. "Very little, marshal. Most of them were killed whilst following him after the battle. Only a handful survived, and they didn't bring back much."
"Go on," the marshal spat, staring at the noble. "What did they find?"
"Well," the old patriarch began, resting his hands on the table to stop their shaking, "according to a business partner in Arthuri, the man moved to Kastal only a few months ago. And since then, he has founded a village near the Wicked Forest. "
Marshal Vancaws rubbed his dimpled chin. "So, the king is giving him a hand to build a town and in exchange—"
"S-sorry to interrupt, Marshal, but it's not a town," Ryehill House's head stammered, his voice catching in his throat. "It's barely a cluster of houses. He's been building everything by himself… with oaks and rocks."
"Then what did the king give him?" the marshal asked, frowning.
The old man scratched his face with a trembling hand. "That's the problem, marshal. My business partner is quite sure he has no connection with the crown. No known allegiance—"
Leonard jolted a little as Marshal Vancaws rammed down his fist into the table, making the parchments jump. "Don't feed me that nonsense, Aldric! He just killed three thousand of our men! Three thousand Silvers of our household troops, for Gaia's sake! You think a man like that just shows up out of nowhere? A damn Platinum just randomly strolling into that Rift on the very day we decide to gather an army in there?"
"No, he was there for the king," General Grabous interjected. She leaned forward from Leonard's right, her thin gray hair hanging on the sides of her aged face. "The information you received is incorrect, Aldric. My scouts saw him at the palace last week. The king obviously asked for his help—but we have no clues as to what was offered in return. Or why such a man is in Kastal in the first place."
"Could he be also planning a takeover of Kastal?" the head of Ryehill House asked, pointedly avoiding eye contact with the marshal.
"Of course not," the general retorted. "He would have waited for us to overthrow the king and then struck while we were weak and vulnerable."
The old woman then pressed her wrinkled lips together, as if reluctant to say the next thing on her mind. "And the fact that he was there also confirms the king knew about the army. He might not know it was us, at least not yet, but the questions will soon start. Each of our Houses has lost hundreds of Wielders. How do we explain that?"
"We lie," Vancaws retorted, his knuckles white where he gripped the table's edge. "We'll say there was also a rogue operation. An unauthorized raid into the Bridan territory led by some reckless commander who got our men annihilated. We will deny knowing anything about an army gathering in the Silver Sky Rift. The arcane beasts have probably already taken care of the bodies; there will be no proof that it was our men who were in there. As for the individual losses of your Houses… stay as vague as possible. A failed expedition. Deserters. Find a lie and stick to it."
Leonard glanced at each of the nine other individuals around the table. All of them had put their life on the line for this coup, and now, after tonight's massacre, they would have to wait years before attempting it again… if they survived until then.
One mistake—a forgotten crest on a piece of armor, a sentence spoken too loudly near a window, a parchment that should have been burned—and they could all be dead. The king's men were always on the lookout for that one slip-up, tracking them down like vermin.
And now, a powerful predator had joined the manhunt. But how did the king convince him? Leonard thought.
As one of the five dukes of the kingdom, Leonard knew all too well that the previous conflict with the Bridan Empire had depleted the treasury. There was no way the king could have paid in coin for the services of a platinum mercenary—he must have offered such a powerful man something else in exchange. But what?
"A person of such strength must have a good reason to be here," the marshal said while looking around, his hand crumpling the last page of the report. "Why would a platinum settle in Kastal, of all places, and build a small town?"
"To hide, of course," came a voice from Leonard's right.
All eyes turned to the hooded man leaning against the wall in the corner of the room. Dressed in dark leather armor and a gray cloak, the man blended seamlessly into the shadows. From what Leonard could see of his face, he couldn't place the man. And from the reactions around him, neither could the other nobles and top-ranked officers. Except one.
Marshal Vancaws closed his eyes for a brief moment and sighed. "Good evening, Reaper."
Leonard's heart skipped a beat, then immediately started hammering his ribcage. The Black Reapers were a group of assassins from the Bridan Empire that had earned notoriety for their deadly efficiency—taking out targets with ease no matter their status. A high noble? Consider it already done. A lieutenant or a general? Two days and they would be six feet under. The marshal of a kingdom? A week and their heads would roll.
Why is he here?
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"Good evening, Marshal Vancaws," the man said, pushing himself away from the wall and stepping toward them. The lamp flickering above the table lit the man's face, revealing two large scars that ran from his eyebrows down to his chin, crossing at his nose. "I saw tonight's fight. It was quite ugly… for your men."
The marshal pressed his lips together and forced a smile—the kind of smile made by men and women compelled to bow in front of someone stronger. "It was indeed."
Leonard had trouble sitting still, fighting the intense urge to flee. Adrenaline was coursing through his veins and filling every inch of his body. The muscles of his legs were cramping and twitching, as if they were begging him to run—this was more than mere natural fear.
He glanced at the others around the table and saw the same look of terror reflected in each of their faces. Foreheads slick with sweat, nostrils flaring with each shallow breath they took. They—no, their bodies—were all terrified.
An artifact or spell that induces fear, Leonard thought.
"Do you know the man that slaughtered them?" the marshal asked, his voice steady, clearly handling the artificial fear far better than the others.
"I couldn't get close enough to see his face," the man answered with a shrug.
The marshal's brow creased together, slight annoyance flashing across his face. "Why? Were you too frightened?"
"His beast was roaming around," the Black Reaper replied before pulling an apple from under his cloak and taking a loud bite. "I can't say if it was a summon or a contracted beast, but either way, had I taken one step closer that thing would have killed me."
A contracted beast? Leornard thought. The words twisted uncomfortably in his mind as he swallowed hard, picturing a creature that could make a Black Reaper fear for his life.
"Why wasn't this beast mentioned in my men's report?" the marshal asked, glancing at the pile of parchment in front of him.
The hooded man swallowed his mouthful. "Because it didn't take part in the fight."
The voice of the Ryehill's patriarch quivered as he spoke up, "W-why didn't he use su-such a powerful be-beast?"
The Reaper shrugged. "Because he didn't need it."
Leonard had already guessed that answer. But he couldn't blame old Ryehill for asking. The thought of their enemy crushing their army without the help of his beast was hard to swallow.
General Grabous swept a strand of gray hair from her sweat-soaked face, her gaze drifting over the maps and parchment scattered across the table. "How can we figure out who he's hiding from if none of us even know the man?"
"According to this report, he wore a simple linen shirt and brown leather pants, with no crest or any other distinguishing marker," Marshal Vancaws said with a sigh, despair starting to leak into his tone. "Nothing special about his appearance either."
A devilish grin split the Black Reaper's face, yellow teeth gleaming in the lamplight. "What about his golden eyes? I heard a few survivors talking about them. That's quite special."
The marshal looked at the man and frowned. "Wasn't it just a spell…? Wait, Draeria!"
Leonard's stomach churned. Draeria. The word alone was enough to send a chill down his spine. That place was a breeding ground for monsters—both human and otherwise. If that man truly hailed from there, it made perfect sense how he could butcher their entire army single-handedly.
"Exactly," the Black Reaper replied, chuckling. "But I doubt any of you have the means to get there. Nor would you survive the trip. That nation isn't really known for its… hospitality. Finding who's after him won't be easy. I must admit, I don't envy your position."
Marshal Vancaw's face hardened. "What's your price?"
"Why be so rude, marshal? I just want to help," the man said with a broad smile, strolling around the table. "But both you and I know that even for me it won't be without danger. Those golden-eyed bastards are no laughing matter—a little compensation seems fair, don't you think?"
"I assume you aren't seeking coins," the marshal said in a gruff tone. "What do you want?"
"Two small services," the assassin answered, his intense gaze locking on one person after another. "The first one is simple: I want you to help me with a kill order. "
"Who?"
"Jaeda, the head of Kastal's Adventurers Guild."
Leonard clenched his jaw to prevent himself from shifting in his chair. Any coup demanded sacrifices, but this one felt like an immense loss. The woman had been one of the few beacons of hope Kastal had seen in years of corruption.
The bitterness that swept over Marshal Vancaw's face was impossible to miss as his grip tightened on the armrest of his chair. "Agreed," he said through gritted teeth. "And the second one?"
"Well, the second one is a little more… complicated," the Black Reaper said, his gaze lingering on the lamp hanging from the ceiling. "Let's just say I will need your assistance at some point in the future in a Temporary Rift… to kill a beast."
"What kind of beast?" the marshal asked.
"Does it really matter?" the Reaper retorted, lifting both palms and tilting his head.
"It—it does," General Grabous managed through the unnatural fear. "We need its Tier and Rank to determine whether we even have the manpower—and whether we can sustain the casualties it would cause."
The Black Reaper took a slow, deliberate bite of his apple. He chewed loudly in the silence, letting the question hang in the air until it withered.
"That information is on a need-to-know basis," the assassin said at last, swallowing. "And right now, you don't need to know."
"That is un-unacceptable!" General Vancaws exclaimed, her voice cracking. "You—you're asking us to accept a vague term like that when our soldiers' lives will be on the line. We need details. Is this a simple—"
Before she could finish, Marshal Vancaws raised a hand. "Enough, general."
The old woman's eyes widened for a brief moment, then she shut her mouth. The Reaper immediately let out a loud and wet chuckle.
"Ahhh, at least someone here understands the situation," the assassin said. "I'm not asking for anything. I'm telling you what will happen. The what is my concern. The who is yours."
Leonard swallowed as several people around the table bristled with indignation. Unfazed, the assassin continued, "As for the when… it will be a few days before the next double lunar eclipse passes east of Bridan and Kastal."
Marshal Vancaws blinked, then a nervous laugh escaped his mouth as his eyes darted between the cloaked man and the assembled officers and nobles. "That's in a decade."
"Indeed, Marshal," the Black Reaper answered with a smirk. "That's why you and everyone here will sign a soul-contract with me."
A sudden and absolute silence fell over the room, and time itself seemed to hold its breath. No one dared to move; no one dared to say a word. The air turned thick and suffocating.
A soul-contract, Leonard repeated in his mind, his stomach tightening into a tiny ball. Does he really believe that we will si—
"I know what you're all thinking. Why would you sign such a thing?" the assassin chuckled, his broad smile digging deeper in his scarred cheeks. "Because you'd rather sign this honest contract with me than have your king find out who the traitors are that tried to backstab him."
Leonard glanced at the others seated at the table—they all wore the same nervous expression, their faces drained of all color. Their backs were against the wall.
"Threatening your future allies. That's quite shameful, even for you," the marshal retorted with a sigh, pausing for a moment before continuing, "We shall vote to decide if we accept your offer."
"You can proceed, I will wait." The Black Reaper then pointed at the empty seat next to Leonard. "Is that seat taken? Oh, I forgot— the previous occupant was decapitated in the king's courtyard for treason."
The marshal's eyes narrowed into slits. "All in favor of signing the soul contract and assisting with the kill order, raise your hand."
Arms moved into the air one by one, everyone looking at their laps, already regretting their decision. They would likely live for ten more years, but at what price?
We are selling ourselves to the devil, Leonard thought as his gaze drifted to the assassin next to him, who juggled with his half-eaten apple and whistled a tune.
"Reaper," Marshal Vancaws said, glancing at every person at the table—each of them had a hand in the air. "We accept your offer."
The hooded man caught the falling fruit and sprung back to his feet, the grin on his face growing even wider than before. "It will be a pleasure to work with all of you."
Nine years later
Crouched in a bush, Seth carefully pushed a branch aside, an arrow gleaming at the end of his bow. His golden eyes scanned the ground, and with every step, he made sure to avoid dry twigs, wary of making any noise. He couldn't afford to come back empty-handed. Not today. Not two hunts in a row.
As he inched forward, a soft burbling reached his ears. The sound was barely audible, buried under the rustling of the leaves and the crickets' chirping. A stream, he realized.
The perfect place to find animals.
Gradually, the thickness of the foliage decreased, allowing the sun's rays to pass through and reach his black hair, which he kept short to avoid snagging on the undergrowth. The moment he arrived at the end of the cluster of bushes, Seth narrowed his eyes to peer around, looking carefully left and right.
Nothing. Not a single animal in view.
Seriously, how can I be this unlucky?
He sighed inwardly, lowering his bow. A single catch wouldn't have made much of a difference, but at least he wouldn't have to take from his reserve to eat again—especially with the tax collector expecting payment tomorrow.
Just as Seth was about to turn and leave, something caught his eye.
A hare.
It was right next to the stream, dipping its head to drink at its edge. The small beast's silver fur swirled in the wind, shimmering with jade-like tints that gave it a baffling look—one that could only be conferred by aether. Only the mystic energy's properties could make something so distinct and beautiful.
Yet he was miles away from the Wicked Forest. Why would an arcane beast enter an area with almost zero aether density? Sure, carnivorous beasts sometimes came to hunt easy prey, but this was a goddamn hare, not a wolf.
Seth's gaze drifted past the creature, scanning the bank, and then he froze.
Two dozen feet away from the beast, a solitary flower bloomed from the mud. Its azure petals pulsed with a faint, rhythmic glow that had nothing to do with the sunlight. The air around it seemed to warp and ripple like heat haze.
That's why.
Resources saturated with aether were usually found only deep inside the Wicked Forest, where they drew arcane beasts with their nourishing pull. And even there, Adventurers passing through Sunatown always complained how hard those things were to come across.
Seth glanced back at the hare, then down at his arrow. Can I kill it?
Some arcane beasts had only the same Toughness as normal humans, so theoretically, he could. Theoretically. It was also possible this creature was far more powerful than that.
Looks could be deceiving, especially with arcane beasts. Or so he'd heard.
No one from Sunatown had ever succeeded slaying one… or had survived to share their attempt.
Running away was the best—and only—option when encountering an arcane beast that ventured forth from the forest. But despite knowing that, Seth couldn't shove the idea aside.
The flower… it was just sitting there.
If he could harvest the plant without being attacked by that hare, his life could change forever.
Sericar had told him that those kinds of resources were precious enough that, even if they weren't the rarest, they could still be sold for copper. Since each of those was worth a hundred common coins, the payout could sustain him for years... or allow him to buy an awakening stone.
He couldn't let such an opportunity slip by.
With his current rate of earnings and the suffocating Faertis tax, it would take him at least two more years before he could afford even his first stone; three if he counted the fifty percent additional tax to just use it. And even then, the odds of becoming a Wielder would be almost nonexistent. Awakening with a single stone was unheard of.
Yet this was still the chance of a lifetime.
Being a Wielder would free him of both the endless days of hunting and the financial shackles binding him to this place. After making sure no one in Sunatown would starve again, he could finally embrace the life of an adventurer. Earn a good living, explore the world, and—finally—take it easy.
Seth knew he had to take some risks to get to that dream. He'd never heard of a harmless arcane beast, but could a little hare really kill him? And even if it tried, he could defend himself—fur coated in aether or not, an arrow should still drop it… right?
Steeling himself, Seth tightened his grip on the bow but didn't draw and instead crouched lower and stepped forward.
He moved with agonizing slowness, placing each boot carefully to avoid leaves and dead branches alike. Every rustle of the fabric covering his large bulk against the foliage sounded like a thunderclap to his ears as he advanced toward the glowing flower.
Ten feet. Five feet.
He glanced at the hare in the distance ahead; the creature remained oblivious, lapping at the water.
Seth reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he closed his fingers around the fragile stem. The air near the blue petals felt warm, vibrating against his skin. With a quick, decisive motion, he snatched the flower out.
Crack.
The sound was sharp. Seth held his breath, his heart hammering against his ribs.
The hare didn't move.
Not wasting a second, Seth delicately put the glowing flower into his pocket. Got it.
Just as a smile began to appear on his lips, the hare suddenly snapped its head toward him. Shit.
In one motion, Seth nocked an arrow, drew back the bowstring, and released it. The arrow hissed across the clearing, flying straight for the hare's head, ready to drop it before it could attack or bolt away.
But then, in a flash, a vortex of air appeared around the creature, rapidly expanding into a tornado, shattering everything in its path—rocks, grass, trees… and his arrow.
The blast of wind spread and hit him, forcing Seth to lean forward and shield his face with both arms. Instantly, a searing pain sank into his forearms, as if thousands of boiling-hot knives were slicing through his skin, slowly peeling it layer by layer. He screamed and dug his boots into the ground. Freaking hell!
The wind battering him, he struggled to stay on his feet, his hands desperately searching for something to grab onto—without success. Teetering on the edge of falling backwards, Seth shut his eyes and braced himself.
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Then, it stopped.
The violent and powerful wind vanished, dissipating into the clearing's ambient trees. Hot blood dripped from Seth's shredded forearms, slowly pooling onto the ground.
What the hell was that? he thought, raising his head.
In front of him, the hare seemed to stand at the same place it had been, but it was hard to say—all the lush grass and bushes around it had been replaced by a large barren crater. The nearest saplings had been knocked down, roots ripped from the ground, and the rocks bordering the stream were now all scattered, some more than a dozen yards away from their initial location.
What kind of spell could cause such destruction? It would probably be best to leave before—Shit.
Seth rolled to the left, dodging a blast of wind hurtling his way. As he sprang back to his feet, a thunderous crash echoed, followed by a series of sharp cracks that made him glance over his shoulder—the massive oak behind him had begun toppling over onto the neighboring trees, two-thirds of its trunk completely destroyed.
Seth snapped his head the other way.
Dirt was whirling around the silver hare as if it were standing in the middle of a small tornado. The beast's red eyes were gleaming, staring at him from within the spinning dust. Seth's stomach tightened in knots, and intense fear crept up his chest. A single thought drowned out everything else in his mind.
Run.
With a burst of adrenaline, he turned and broke into a sprint. Branches struck his large body, scratching his skin and clothes—but he couldn't care less. Barely a few steps later, a deafening bang erupted from behind, shaking his bones and ringing in his ears.
As he dared to look back, Seth saw the silver hare was now only a few steps away, standing amidst a new smoldering crater, surrounded by uprooted oaks and pine trees. The air in front of the beast seemed to blur and condense into a small veil of mist before shrinking vertically.
Looks like it's being compressed into a thin… blade!
Seth dove to the ground, and the wind whipped past him before slicing an enormous rock in half.
"Holy shit!"
Without hesitation, he stood up and dashed away once again. Driven by fear, he weaved through the dense forest, ducking down into the undergrowth almost every dozen yards to dodge the deadly blasts. The blurred trees on each side were getting cut or smashed into thousands of tiny pieces left and right. Probably two different spells—and two different ways of dying.
Seth kept running for what felt like an hour, the wind lashing his face, and his heart pounding in his ears. With each breath he took, his throat grew drier and his lungs felt like they slowly turned into a desert, scorching and searing upon contact with the air.
The dull thuds of the falling trees had ceased some time ago, but his body still refused to stop its sprint. Eventually, his legs gave out and he collapsed to the ground, drenched in sweat.
For several long minutes, he strained his ears, trying to catch any suspicious noise. Yet all he could hear was his own ragged breathing and the sharp gasps each time a breeze brushed against the raw skin of his injured arms.
The hare had probably concluded he wasn't worth the trouble, which made sense. Even if the arcane beast had been a carnivore, his muscular six-foot-two body still wouldn't have been a tasty meal. After all, it didn't hold a single drop of aether.
Wincing, Seth leaned against the pine tree behind him, then reached into his pocket with a trembling hand and pulled out his prize.
The flower was intact. Its petals pulsed with a soft glow and cast a faint violet hue against the dirt-stained skin of his palm. He stared at it for a moment, mesmerized.
A weary smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
This single bloom had to be worth a fortune. Surely, it would be enough to cover the cost of an awakening stone—and then some. The agony in his shredded forearms suddenly felt like a fair trade.
For once, luck was actually on his side.
Seth rubbed some of the dry blood off his forearms as he emerged from the forest, a quarter of the sun barely visible above the Sunatown's high wooden walls on the horizon.
He almost never got injured, so showing up like this would draw attention and questions he didn't want.
The smart move would be to head home and clean up first, but he simply couldn't bring himself to do so. Night would fall soon, and with it, the Wandering Merchants would pack up their stalls. Some would leave for the next town tonight; others might reopen tomorrow.
Sure, he could wait. But that would mean not selling the flower and getting an awakening stone until tomorrow?
Not a chance.
As Seth neared the east gate, he stopped to turn his cloak inside out, hiding the blood-stained fabric against his tunic, and kept his injured arms tucked beneath the folds. The moment he reached the post, he angled his body to shield the wounds from Rick, the young kid who fancied himself a watchman, and offered a casual smile.
"Good evening, Rick."
"Hey, Seth! How was the hunt?"
"Could have been better," Seth replied without stopping, moving past the wooden barricade before the boy could ask for details. "See you tomorrow!"
"Better luck next time! Yeah, see you tomorrow!"
The dirt streets of Sunatown were bathed in the orange glow of the setting sun. In the distance, a group of children chased each other, laughing as they played with nothing more than jagged pieces of scrap wood, pretending they were swords. Further down, a middle-aged woman was supporting her frail mother while guiding her slowly up the steps of their porch.
That was all Sunatown had left: its people. Their mutual solidarity. They even maintained as a whole a collective fund held for emergencies, which had been entrusted to Marcus—the town's Alchemist and one of its only two Wielders, alongside Vandric the Priest.
A pang of guilt tightened in Seth's chest as he watched the woman help her mother. For years, he had scraped together every single coin he earned to pay for pain-relief treatments during his own mother's final days, often starving himself just to afford a single vial. But, in the end, the townsfolk had intervened to force him to use the fund—something he never would have allowed himself to do on his own.
As the old woman disappeared inside the house, Seth saw the daughter pause in the doorway. She rubbed her face vigorously with her sleeve, as if wiping away tears she didn't want anyone to see, before stepping inside.
Despair was slowly gaining on them all.
Seth stopped at a street corner, waiting for a group of laborers to pass so he wouldn't draw attention to his injuries. As he leaned against the wall, voices drifted from the open window of the house beside him.
"We should leave, Elna," an exhausted male voice whispered. "Pack up and settle somewhere else."
"For where?" a woman replied. "The taxes are almost as high in every noble territory close by."
"Then let's go far away. Another country?"
"And what tells you it would be better? On top of that the borders are closed, and the roads are crawling with the king's soldiers. We could get killed before we even make it out of Kastal."
"No... listen. We could go just to the Surani or Chester territories instead of staying in the Faertis'. I heard a Wandering Merchant say that commoners are more respected there."
"I don't want respect, John! I want to be able to live! I want to give food to our children without working myself to death!"
Seth closed his eyes for an instant, trying to ignore the desperate sobbing that followed, and continued on his way.
It was the same story in every household in the town recently. Ever since the Faertis House had been kicked out of the nation's Twenty Great Houses a year ago for being too weak, things had spiraled out of control.
Being demoted to a mere noble House was obviously hard for them to swallow.
Property taxes increased, sales taxes doubled, and forced labor mandates tripled. The officials claimed they were doing everything necessary to raise the coin needed to regain their status amongst the elite. But in Seth's opinion—and the opinion of everyone in Sunatown—they were simply killing their own workforce.
There was a limit to how much you could push a population before they either fled or snapped. And looking at the hollow faces around him, Seth knew that breaking point would be reached very soon.
As the distant noise of the market grew louder, Seth sidestepped a puddle of mud, only to witness a young boy digging his boots into the dirt, partly resisting his mother's grip on his arm.
"Look, Momma!" The boy pointed a grimy finger toward a distant stand draped in blue cloth. "It's the one who sells awakening stones! Do you think I can get one when I'm older? Please?"
The woman froze. Her shoulders sagged for a fraction of a second before she plastered a strained smile onto her face. "Of course, sweetie," she answered with a voice that could only fool children. "We will get you one. The best one they have."
Seth looked away with a grimace.
He had turned seventeen just days ago, finally crossing the physical threshold required to handle the surge of energy from those jagged pieces of crystal that could turn a normal human into a Wielder. Something that could allow him to escape the miserable life of a non-awakened. A life without coin, or any future.
But one stone was rarely—if ever—enough. On average, a person needed seven or eight attempts to succeed, and for those dreaming of greatness, the clock was already ticking.
They had to awaken before eighteen.
The elite academy of Kastal had no seats for late bloomers; if one failed to ignite their Well within that single year after turning seventeen, the doors to upper-class education slammed shut.
Trying to avoid the gaze of the few people still in the marketplace, Seth moved closer to the stand. His eyes weren't drawn to the balding man standing behind the counter, but to the fist-sized orb resting on a velvet cushion: an awakening stone.
Next to it sat a small, dusty parchment Seth easily recognized as an Identify spell-scroll. The biggest scam in the kingdom.
Merchants always tried to push them on people buying their first stone. The spell, which was dirt-cheap, was supposed to show a Wielder their attributes and class, but what was the point? The odds of awakening with a single stone were practically nonexistent. Most people saved for years just to buy one; spending extra coins on a scroll they would likely never get the chance to use was just throwing money into a fire.
Seth rolled his eyes as he stepped up to the counter. Yeah, no way I fall for that scam.
Seth strode down the less-occupied alleyways, keeping his head down and his pace swift. He stuck to the shadows to avoid the main thoroughfare and the prying eyes of the townsfolk.
His hand instinctively went to his pocket, fingers brushing against two hard objects: the jagged, uneven surface of an awakening stone and the papery texture of an Identify spell-scroll.
He had failed to resist. The moment the Wandering Merchant had seen the glowing bloom and offered him the stone and the scroll in exchange, Seth had immediately said yes. The excitement had simply been too much to contain.
Sure, maybe he could have gotten a slightly better deal if he'd haggled by showing Marcus the flower first to know its real value, but Wandering Merchants had a reputation to uphold. Especially the ones who frequented the town; they couldn't afford to be known as swindlers.
Also, Seth was used to bartering for everything instead of selling then buying. In Sunatown, most of their daily services and meager goods weren't worth even a single common coin so trading a sack of grain for a tool repair and such was the only way to survive.
Reaching the end of a dirt road, he came to a halt in front of a lonely single-story house; well, with the stacked logs that served as walls and the marble stone pillars at the corners, it looked more like a hunting cabin than a house.
Seth barged inside without wasting any time.
The interior was one large, open room that was dimly lit and smelled like stale air. The wall on the left was filled with paintings of stunning landscapes, from majestic rivers and forests to bustling cities, but as always, it was the simplest one that made him stop for a second: a portrait of two adults and a child in front of a house. His father, his mother and him, back when he was eight.
Despite Seth's and his father's golden eyes, it was his mother's smile that stood out the most from the painting. Leaving their remote house in the middle of the forest and building Sunatown from nothing had brought her so much joy.
As Seth looked around at the grime covering the floor, he realized just how much he had neglected the house since her passing. Even though it was hard for him to remain inside, he knew he should make an effort to clean up. Tomorrow, he told himself.
He walked to the back of the room, where a rusted iron sink stood beneath a small window. Seth stripped off his tunic, his muscles tensing as the cool air hit his skin, and cranked the handle. Brown water sputtered out before running clear. He splashed it over his forearms, hissing as he cleaned most of the dirt and rocks among the dried blood covering his injuries.
As he leaned over the basin, a silver chain slipped out from beneath his undershirt, dangling freely. Two small, lustrous, bluish teardrops shone under the last ray of the sun coming through the windows.
A gift from his mother on his sixteenth birthday. He could still remember the broad grin on her face when she had handed it to him. Seth didn't like jewelry and had thought more than once about selling it, but he always stopped himself—after all, it had once belonged to his father.
That was why he wore the fragile thing every day beneath his clothes.
Drying his arms with a rough cloth, Seth turned toward the corner of the room that served as his bedroom. It was a mess: an unmade bed, a broken chair he hadn't repaired, and an old wooden desk cluttered with sketches of hunting techniques.
One small piece of parchment at the top stood out from the others; it was yellowish, moldy, and charred around the edges—the trademark of Marcus' scrolls. Seth had needed to beg the old Alchemist for five whole minutes before the man had finally cast Identify on him and written his attributes down on the parchment.
According to Sericar—the Wandering Merchant Seth was the closest with—that spell had originally been created for people to compare and track their own progression in terms of physical abilities. However, over the decades and centuries it had become more complex and served now many other purposes.
Seth picked it up and looked at it for the third time that day.
Seth
Class: -
Rank: 3
Subclass: -
Strength: 8
Arcane Power: -
Toughness: 6
Well Capacity: -
Agility: 7
Regeneration: -
Spells: -
Back then, Marcus had mentioned that most adults had only four or five points in each physical attribute, placing them within Rank 2, which ranged from eleven to twenty total attributes. At first, being above average had made Seth feel proud, but having no number in the right column had soon started to depress him.
Things are about to change, he thought, gazing out the window at the two moons slowly appearing above the wall of Sunatown in the distance.
Seth placed the moldy scroll back on the desk and reached into his pocket to take out the awakening stone. He then held it up to the dim light filtering into the room. The crystal was rough, unpolished, yet it seemed to hum with something just like the flower did.
Everyone knew that the class one awakened was determined by their Path.
That destiny people choose for themselves, the route they shape with each step and each breath, from insignificant daily choices to incredible accomplishments; every interaction one had with the world's aether impacted who they were and what they would become. That mattered much for broke, unawakened commoners like him, but it did for Wielders.
For the past nine years, he had poured every ounce of his energy into shaping his Path toward a single goal: a combat class. He had pushed his body beyond its limits, logging countless hours of sword sparring, and trained as much as he could to mold himself into a Warrior—one of the five combat classes.
Sure, becoming a non-combat Wielder like a Farmer, an Alchemist, or a Merchant would be safer. It meant more coins and no risk of dying in a ditch somewhere. But would he really be able to make a difference for the people of Sunatown with one of those?
Probably not.
Not with the Faertis House breathing down their necks, ready to crush any dissent. A Merchant couldn't stop a tax collector from bleeding a family dry. A Farmer couldn't stop the guards from executing someone who had rubbed the nobles the wrong way. To change things—to truly break the cycle—he needed power.
The best solution, and only real solution, was to enroll in the nearest of the three elite academies of Kastal, located in Trogan City, as a Warrior. There, he could acquire the knowledge and strength normally hoarded by the nobility. Once he graduated, he could become a powerful Adventurer and then return to protect his home.
Seth closed his eyes for a brief instant, his grip tightening around the stone until the sharp edges dug into his palm. But for any of that to happen, he had to clear the first, insurmountable hurdle. He needed to beat the odds and awaken with a single stone.
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Seth lay down on his bed with the piece of crystal in his hand.
Two years.
That was how long it would take him to earn the seventy common coins he needed to buy another stone to get another chance if he didn't awaken with that one.
I can't fail, he thought as his heartbeat quickened behind his ribs. Not if I want to get into Trogan Academy.
Seth took a few deep breaths and stared at the ceiling, trying to calm his mind. He had pestered Marcus and Wandering Merchants countless times to explain how to use stones—even though it was fairly simple and he'd already known every step by heart.
First, squeeze it in your hand. Then, focus on the inside. When you sense a tiny bit of aether, pull it toward your sternum. Finally, hold it there as long as possible to ignite your Well.
The trap lay in that last step.
He had to keep the foreign energy inside his chest long enough for it to light his dormant Well. The problem was that the unawakened body naturally rejected the intrusion. Most people could only withstand the agony for four or five seconds before their concentration shattered, severing the connection. That was why the average person needed seven or eight stones to finally succeed—they needed to chip away at the barrier little by little.
But Seth didn't have eight stones. He had one. So, he would need to hold it longer. Thirty seconds. Maybe more.
After repeating the instructions another dozen times, he finally felt ready and closed his eyes. This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. He couldn't fail.
Squeeze it.
His fingers closed around the awakening stone, pressing down onto its hard surface as if trying to break it.
Focus.
All his attention moved onto the crystal ball in his palm, and everything else around him blurred away, just as it did when he aimed with his bow. He searched for the slightest change in the orb. Anything. Seconds turned into minutes, yet he remained focused.
Finally, it appeared.
A flicker. Soft and warm, like a tiny flame was dancing in the middle of his palm. It was what he had been waiting for: aether.
Pull it.
Seth visualized the energy moving up his arm. To his surprise, it offered no resistance. It flowed like water, eager and fluid, racing up his wrist, past his elbow, and diving straight into his chest.
Then, it hit his sternum, and Seth arched his back, a silent scream dying in his throat.
The moment the spark settled between his ribcage, it transformed into a searing pressure that threatened to tear him apart from the inside out. His muscles locked up, seizing in violent protest.
Hold it.
The pain was blinding, a white-hot spike driving itself into his chest. His instincts screamed at him to let go, to drop the stone and end that torture, but he forced his hand to remain shut, and his mind focused.
Five seconds.
He had already passed the average. But it wasn't enough.
The pressure in his head mounted, building behind his eyes until it felt like his skull was about to crack. Seth clenched his jaw until his teeth groaned under the strain. He tried focusing on something else—anything to pull his mind away from this agony. In a futile attempt, he tried visualizing a quiet house surrounded by trees and nature on a vast, peaceful island. Then the image twisted.
The oaks withered, the light dimmed, and the peaceful house dissolved into a dark, cramped room. His mother's face appeared instead.
She looked exactly as she had on her deathbed—hollow cheeks, skin like parchment, and wisps of thin white hair plastered to her forehead. Her illness had stripped away all life from her once radiant smile, leaving only a mask of exhaustion and pain.
Warm, thick liquid trickled from the corners of Seth's closed eyes, trailing down his temples. It was too viscous and hot to be tears. It was blood.
I can't let go.
He clung to the memory, using the sharp sting of grief to anchor himself against the firestorm consuming his chest. He remembered how small her hand had felt in his. He remembered the crushing weight of his failure as a son, the inability to help her, to fully alleviate her suffering.
He was so tired of being helpless. So tired of being weak.
Thirty seconds.
His body began to scream in pain. His heart hammered in an erratic rhythm, struggling to beat in his chest. The edges of his consciousness began to fray, and darkness crept in to swallow him whole.
He couldn't take it anymore.
With a final, ragged gasp, his grip failed. His fingers went slack, and the awakening stone slipped from his hand, rolling off his bed onto the floor with a dull thud. Instantly, the connection severed.
The next instant, the artificial flame that had been ravaging his insides vanished, leaving behind a cold, hollow silence.
Seth lay there, gasping for air, his chest heaving as he stared blindly into the darkness behind his eyelids.
I failed.
The thought was crushing. He hadn't held on long enough. But then, as his breathing slowly leveled out, he realized something.
The agony was gone, but the heat remained.
Something was still swirling in his chest. It wasn't the violent, intrusive fire of the stone—it was a steady, rhythmic hum, pulsing in time with his heart. It remained dense and strong, rooted deep within him.
"I... I did it?"
He winced, wiping the blood from his cheeks with a trembling hand before laboriously pushing himself up to sit. He was now a Wielder. His life had just changed forever.
"I have to tell everyon—wait, my class!"
Seth reached into his pocket once more and pulled out the Identify spell-scroll this time. He then examined the old parchment and the rusty seal, his fingers brushing the engraved magnifying glass.
Learning spells was normally a long, arduous process. Wielders needed to first understand the theory behind shaping aether into the desired form, such as a fireball or a wind blast, then practice tirelessly on a daily basis for months—or even years. During that time, the repeated flow of aether would slowly carve out specific pathways, known as grooves, that would allow Wielders to perform the task more efficiently and quickly. Once fully developed, these elaborate and complex formations of grooves were what people referred to as spells.
However, over the years, the nobles had invented a way to skip this laborious task: spell-scrolls. Crafted by Scribes and Scholars, these scrolls were single-use items that could instantly imprint these grooves into a Wielder's Well and aether channels. Not only did it save a tremendous amount of time, it also ensured that those newly carved pathways were optimal—one of the best, if not the best, routes aether could take, which would allow them to cast stronger spells with less aether.
Unsurprisingly, these scrolls became a luxury available only to the nobles due to their exorbitant price. Except for Identify, thankfully.
Without wasting any longer, Seth broke the seal of the spell-scroll.
After unrolling the parchment, he quickly went through the three short paragraphs of instructions it contained. The first one explained how to carve the spell into his Well by crushing the scroll in his hand, while the second and the third briefly described how it would allow his right eye to see through the aether of his target, transposing it into numbers and words that would appear in his field of vision.
Alright, let's do this.
Seth's hand pinched the bottom of the scroll, causing it to disintegrate in a cloud of blue particles. Almost instantly, aether surged into his palm and streamed into his chest. In mere seconds, it etched deep, intricate grooves inside his Well, then branched out into his aether channels and rushed toward his eyes. The sensation was intense—as if his very soul was being rewritten—and yet the pain wasn't really that bad. Especially after what he had just been through.
As the grooves solidified, Seth could easily feel them shimmering within himself like illuminated paths on a dark night. Pushing aside his amazement, he channeled aether from his Well into the freshly formed pathways. The process felt much the same as drawing the spark from the awakening stone.
Yet to Seth's dismay, the grooves, despite being well-defined, still allowed him to make mistakes. In the end, it took him great focus and six attempts to properly guide and shape the aether through the complex labyrinth before finally being able to direct it to the back of his right eye.
Quickly straightening himself up, Seth squinted at one of his hands.
Seth
Class: Primalist
Rank: 4 (Low-Copper)
Subclass: -
Strength: 8
Arcane Power: 3
Toughness: 6
Well Capacity: 5
Agility: 7
Regeneration: 8
Spells:
- Identify [Copper〜Common (Refined)]
Seth skimmed through the new lines of text and almost instantly, his heart plummeted.
Primalist.
The word stared back at him like a death sentence.
It was widely considered the worst possible combat class. Not because it was weak, but because it was suicidal. It was a class that didn't just invite danger; it required it.
Everyone knew the cruel reality of the Primalists: those who refused to take risks progressed slower than any other Wielders, stagnating in mediocrity. To Rank up? To actually gain attributes? They had to throw themselves into the jaws of death and hunt in places others would avoid, diving into perils that any sane person would flee.
Madmen addicted to the rush of a near-death experience.
There were even a few people in Sunatown who viewed them as cursed. A few rumors claimed that their reckless nature brought ruin and early graves not just to themselves, but to everyone close to them. Seth knew it was likely superstition, nonsense born from ignorance, yet the stigma was real.
And it was worse outside the village.
From what he heard, to the nobles, Primalists were barely a step above the animals they hunted. They were viewed as uncivilized savages who spent too long in the wild and lost their humanity. And in Kastal, being looked down upon by the nobility was a sure way to ensure you never rose above the mud.
A bitter smile appeared on Seth's lips.
He had done everything to avoid this.
Despite being a hunter by trade, he had fought against his own instincts for years. He had purposely limited his long days in the deep woods. He had filled his schedule with sword drills and relentless sparring matches with Mael, his best friend, desperately trying to steer his Path toward the disciplined, respected nature of a Warrior. He had rejected woodcraft, ignored the call of the wild, and done everything right.
It was all for nothing, Seth thought with a sigh.
Sure, he was now a Wielder. He had defied the odds to become the third person in the entire history of Sunatown to awaken, joining Marcus and Vandric. That alone was a monumental achievement. However, things were definitely going to be far more complicated than he had anticipated.
Without a seasoned combat-Wielder to teach him the basics, throwing himself into the unnecessary danger—the very situations he had spent years avoiding as a hunter—just to rank up would be foolish. Yet, without embracing that risk he wouldn't secure a spot at an institution like Trogan Academy.
Taking a deep breath, Seth rubbed the back of his neck.
I guess I'll find a way.
Seth woke up to a symphony of birds chirping outside and the sun, already high in the sky, gleaming through the window. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he swung his legs over the edge of his straw-stuffed mattress. The previous night had been so emotionally draining that he had apparently overslept. At least the bit of frustration in his stomach had faded away.
His class couldn't be changed even with all the money in the world, so he could only make the best out of it. He was still a damn Wielder.
After finishing a meager breakfast, Seth reached for his hunting gear and slowly pulled on his tunic, his breath hitching as the rough fabric grazed the blood-caked wounds on his forearms.
He paused, looking down at the gashes. There was no way he would wait for them to heal naturally—he needed to see how hard increasing his attributes as a Primalist really was.
I'll stop by Marcus's shop first, he decided, grabbing his bow. A jar of his healing ointment should numb the pain enough to let me function.
As Seth strode toward the Alchemist's shop, he noticed a few kids staring at him as usual. Even though his gear wasn't flashy, it still made him stand out in a town of farmers. The shoulder pads of the hooded brown leather jacket were considerably damaged, with small fragments flaking away, while the dark pants bore dirt stains still clinging on the knees despite numerous washes. The arrow-filled quiver and the bow on his back swayed with each step, unlike the ten-inch hunting knife strapped firmly to his thigh.
Years ago, the stares had been because of his golden eyes, but over time, they had stopped. His mother had always insisted he avoid large cities, for reasons she never fully explained, so he'd never seen it for himself, but from what he'd heard, strange eye colors were quite common there—red, purple, orange, and many more. No one ever mentioned gold, though it probably wasn't as special as he'd once thought.
In no time, Seth reached Marcus' potion shop. From the outside, the building looked gloomy, dark, and unwelcoming with the discolored timber planks that made up most of its outer structure and the small, stained windows. As he entered, Seth was welcomed by the usual dust falling from the doorframe and a strong scent of iron. Blood.
The smell was new, but the gruesome interior was the same as the previous month. Wooden beams supported the upper floor with small, molten candles hanging from them. Different potions filled the shelves, their bottles varying in color and form, the majority of them covered in a layer of grime and dust.
The only clean ones were the bestsellers: the Growth Accelerators, Basic Medicines, and Strong Alcohols—everything the citizens of a farming village like Sunatown needed.
"What are you doing here?" the old Alchemist growled from behind the counter, not bothering to look up from the red liquid he was carefully pouring into a vial.
The man's long, white, clumpy hair was almost as poorly groomed as the moth-eaten black robe draping his slender frame. His hooked nose dotted with a dark mole and heavy brows gave his face the look of a carrion bird—sharp, watchful, and perpetually displeased.
"I know our next appointment should be in, um—"
"Three days," Marcus interrupted.
"Yes, exactly," Seth answered before moving closer. "But I need a favor. Do you have any of that healing ointment left? The strong stuff."
The old man's eyes narrowed as he turned around to arrange potions filled with red liquid on a shelf behind him. Two crimson words were painted on the labeling wooden sign: Baiting Potions.
That explains the smell, Seth thought.
"You? Injured? That's rare—" Marcus began before stopping suddenly. The Alchemist's eyes then widened slightly. "You awakened."
"Yeah," Seth admitted with a bit of pride in his voice. "Yesterday evening."
The next instant, he walked to the counter and carefully rolled up his sleeves with a wince as the fabric peeled away some of the crust of dried blood. "But before I did, I got attacked by an arcane beast."
"An arcane beast?" Marcus scoffed, though his eyes remained fixed on the shredded forearms. "Don't tell me you were dumb enough to wander into the Wicked Forest."
Seth raised his hands defensively. "No, it wasn't in there. It was lured out by a flower. One filled with aether."
Marcus grunted before turning to rummage through a cabinet behind him. "And what did you do with it?" He grabbed a jar of greenish paste and put it down on the counter. "Did you eat it like an idiot?"
"No. I traded it to a Wandering Merchant," Seth replied as he grabbed the jar and unscrewed the lid, causing a pungent smell of herbs to instantly fill the space. "For an awakening stone and an Identify spell-scroll."
Marcus stopped moving. "Sericar?"
"No, he wasn't there. Some guy I had seen before a few times."
"And you didn't think it would have been a good idea to show it to me first?" Marcus asked. "I could have cast Identify and appraised it. Tell you its value so you wouldn't get ripped off."
"Yeah, maybe," Seth muttered. "But I couldn't bring myself to wait. The stone was right there."
Marcus rolled his eyes and turned back to his potions. "Always so impatient."
Seth began slathering the cold paste onto his injured forearms with as little pressure as possible before glancing back at the old Alchemist. "Aren't you surprised I awakened with a single stone? Everyone says the odds are impossible."
"Knuckleheads are known to be good at enduring pain," Marcus retorted with a shrug. The old man then popped the cap off a bottle of Strong Alcohol and poured a generous amount into his teacup. "Stubbornness counts for a lot when your body is trying to reject the aether."
Tea and alcohol. Why am I not even surprised? Seth thought with a grimace. "And not a word about my class?"
The Alchemist took a loud sip. "You've hunted every day for nine years. You smell like the forest, you think like a beast. It was obvious you'd awaken as a Primalist."
Seth stopped rubbing his arm. "And why didn't you stop me? Or warn me?"
"Why would that have been good for you?"
"I don't know," Seth answered, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice. "Maybe because I wouldn't have gotten a class known for trying to get killed for a living? I wanted to be a Warrior. I wanted to fight properly, not run around in the mud hoping I don't die."
"It suits you," Marcus replied with indifference. "And it will keep you away from the big cities. That is a good thing."
"I always avoid unnecessary risks during my hunts. I don't see how that suits me." Seth shook his head, forcing himself to calm down. "And why is avoiding cities a good thing? Because of the nobles? They're easier to read than beasts. You just avoid them. And if you can't, you bow and make sure not to offend them. "
"Easier to read than beasts?" Marcus repeated dryly, pointing a bony finger at Seth's arms. "You seemed to have had plenty of trouble with the one that made those."
"It was an arcane beast," Seth retorted. "That's different."
Marcus blew gently over his tea to cool it. "It makes me wonder… what kind was it?"
"A hare," Seth answered as his mouth twitched before taking out a set of bandages he had brought from his house and began to roll them over his arm coated with healing ointment. "One that summoned tornadoes and wind blades that could cleave trees and rocks."
Marcus's eyes widened for a brief instant. "Silver fur, with a green tint?"
"Yes," Seth answered, tilting his head. "Why?"
"You're lucky to be alive," the Alchemist answered as his expression turned even more serious. "That was a Tempest Hare. A high Arcane Power beast. The worst possible encounter for an unawakened with no spells."
Suddenly, something flashed in Seth's mind. Maybe today will be different since I'm now a Wielder.
Moving forward, Seth grabbed the quill on the counter and a piece of parchment next to it. "How high is the Arcane Power of the weakest Tempest Hare? What's their strongest spell? What Tier can they reach?"
"No," Marcus answered flatly. "I'm not your personal encyclopedia."
Seth threw his hand in the air. "Oh, come on! You want me to avoid big cities? How am I supposed to progress with a suicidal class without any knowledge? I can't just guess which beasts will kill me and which won't."
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Marcus stared at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with a heavy sigh, he turned and walked toward the back of the store.
"Wait here."
Why does he try so hard to keep me in the dark? Seth wondered. The thought barely had time to settle before the old man returned, a small wooden box cradled in his hands. He set it gently on the counter.
"Your father asked me to give this to you once you awakened."
Once I awakened? Not if? Seth blinked, taken aback as his gaze fell on the object.
The box's cover was magnificently carved with a young woman's face: long curly hair, a delicate jawline, deep eyes, and a shy smile. It took Seth less than a second to recognize her—the only woman he had seen nearly every day of his life. His mother. She looked twenty years younger and far healthier, her disease having not yet robbed her of her beauty.
Seth's hand brushed the cold oak as tears welled up in his eyes. Memories of her flooded his mind—her love, her warmth, and the broad smile she wore even in her worst moments. It had been seven months, and yet that tightness, the feeling of having failed her, was still there in his chest.
Taking a deep breath, Seth pushed those thoughts aside. His father had prepared a gift for him before dying nearly a decade ago. He should focus on that.
Carefully, he lifted the lid and opened the box.
Inside, nestled in velvet, was a thick, leather-bound book with a crimson-written title: 'The Encyclopedia of Beasts.'
Seth ran his hand over the cover, feeling the embossed letters. Knowledge. The one thing he was desperate for.
"Go read that," Marcus said. "Study the beasts. Train your aether control a bit. And come see me in a week or two."
"Why in a week or two?" Seth asked, looking up. "What will happen by then?"
"Just do it, okay?" Marcus groaned in exasperation. "Now get out. You're ruining my tea time."
Seth tucked the book back into the wooden box, then smiled. "Is it really tea if you put alcohol in it?"
"That's your fault. I cannot endure you without an ounce or two."
"Or three," Seth retorted.
Marcus dismissed him with a flick of his hand. "You'd better get out of here before I kick your ass."
"Fine, I'm leaving," Seth answered with a laugh, throwing the gift box under his armpit before walking out of the shop.
As Seth exited Marcus' store, clutching the wooden box tightly, a young man with a blond ponytail reaching the middle of his back and striking blue eyes walked down the street.
Mael. Shit.
"Hey, Seth!"
Seth instinctively shifted the box behind his hip. I can't tell him yet, he thought. Not until I figure out just how bad this class is—I don't want any pity.
"Hey," Seth replied, forcing a casual tone. "What brings you here?"
Mael stopped a few feet away, flashing the kind of effortless, roguish grin that made half the girls in Sunatown trip over their own skirts whenever he walked by. He had that infuriatingly perfect symmetry—high cheekbones, a sharp jawline, and a lean, athletic build that didn't look like it came from hard labor, even though it did. While Seth looked like he wrestled bears for a living, Mael looked like the hero of a romance story.
"I was heading to the market to buy something for Renwal," Mael said, hooking a thumb over his shoulder. "You know how he loves to make me do his errands."
"Can't you just tell him to do those himself?"
"Asshole, you know it's part of my job," Mael answered with a laugh.
Seth smiled, stepping forward to grab his friend's shoulder. Although Mael wasn't particularly short, he barely reached Seth's chin. "You should hunt with me instead."
"Nah, the smith is paying good," Mael said, shaking his head. "And you know how bad it ended up last time I came with you."
Seth remembered well. A damn bear had chased his friend across the forest for a solid mile while Seth had sprinted parallel to them, trying to drop the beast with a dozen arrows before it turned Mael into its next meal.
"Yeah," Seth admitted. He then paused for a moment to weigh his next words. "Will you have enough for a stone by next year?"
Ever since Seth had known him, Mael, who was one year younger, had always harbored a single goal: becoming a Wielder and getting into Trogan Academy. In contrast, Seth had only begun pursuing that path after his mother's death a couple of months ago, and for a very different purpose.
While Mael aimed for glory and an officer position in Kastal's army, which would be granted to him upon graduation, Seth viewed the academy solely as a way to acquire the knowledge a Wielder need since the nation's paranoid king restricted most of it from commoners.
That would allow him to get as strong as he could and give back to the people of Sunatown.
"Yes," Mael answered, rubbing the back of his neck. "Sorry to break it to you, brother, but I'm making far more at the forge than you do hunting. I'll have enough in a month or two. I don't sell anything, so I only pay the land tax."
If only you knew, Seth thought, a bitter taste rising in his throat.
His friend had no idea how expensive Seth's mother's pain-relief treatments had been. If Mael knew, he would have quit his job at the forge and tried hunting again. Without those medical expenses, Seth could have bought at least two awakening stones by now. And he would have had even more if they hadn't been living in the territory of the Faertis House.
Suddenly, Seth's heart skipped a beat. "Shit! The land tax!"
Mael's lips awkwardly pressed together. "Don't tell me you forgot again?"
"Yeah, damn it!" Seth muttered before giving Mael's shoulder a hard pat. "I've got to go! See you later!"
Without waiting for a response, Seth spun around and burst into a sprint.
His jacket's hood flapped violently behind him, arrows rattling in his quiver like dry bones. He clamped his arm down on Marcus' gift box, ignoring the sting of his fresh wounds against the fabric. He had to get there before the collector.
The noble's lackey wasn't particularly forgiving, to say the least. Especially not since the Faertis House had lost its place among the Twenty Great Houses. Even if Seth knew deep down the man was pressured by his superiors to act that way, it didn't stop him from hating him. The last time Seth had forgotten to pay the land tax at the central market, the man had punched him so hard in the gut that he had vomited for nearly ten minutes.
Seth skidded to a halt in front of his cabin, barely taking the time to catch his breath before dashing inside.
The door creaked open, and he kicked the mud from his boots against the frame before striding to the kitchen area in the back. He grabbed a large, empty leather bag and shoved Marcus' gift box deep inside. Then, dropping to his knees, he pried up a loose floorboard in the corner of the room and snatched the small pouch hidden underneath.
Less than a minute later, just as Seth replaced the plank and stood up to count the meager coins in his hand, a sharp knock echoed through the room.
Seth froze. His heart instantly leapt into his throat, and his stomach clenched.
Here it comes.
Seth's fingers tightened around the pouch as he approached the door, hesitating for a brief moment before turning the handle. Pulling it open, he came face-to-face with a large man dressed in the purple and black of the Faertis House, the house's emblem—a black lion on a white shield—proudly displayed on his chest.
But the man didn't look haughty like the nobles who wore those colors. He looked tired. His face was stern, etched with the deep lines of someone who spent too much time ruminating.
"The land tax," he said, extending a hand.
Coins before the punch, Seth thought, bracing himself. He remembered all the times he'd lied to this man about how much he'd sold at the market, just to dodge part of the sales tax. Meat from several hunts, a bundle of fox pelts, deer antlers, whatever he could scrape together. Desperate, foolish efforts to save a few measly common coins for his mother's treatment.
On the few occasions the tax collector had caught him, the beatings had been…not very pleasant.
Suddenly, the expression of the man from the Faertis House changed. A flicker of surprise crossed his face, followed by a sharp inhale.
Then, a cold sensation bloomed in Seth's chest—more precisely from his Well—and then spread throughout his body, leaving goosebumps in its wake. This wasn't fear. It was something else. Something was scrutinizing his Well and his body. Identify, probably. Shit.
"So, you've awakened," the man said, his voice lowering to a grumble. Instead of sounding impressed, he sounded resigned. "I hope you did not forget about the awakening tax?"
"No, sir, I didn't," Seth mumbled, reaching into his pouch. He pulled out fifty-three common coins, leaving a mere dozen inside. "Three coins for the month's land tax and fifty for the awakening tax."
The tax collector didn't take the money. He stared at the small pile of coins in Seth's palm, then looked up, his brow furrowing. "Fifty coins? Are you playing me for a fool, boy? It's fifty coins per awakening stone, not fifty for the whole process."
"I awakened with only one stone, sir."
The man let out a harsh, weary sigh. "I get why you lied back then. Any son would have done the same. But do you really expect me to believe that a commoner like you is some kind of prodigy? That you beat odds that even nobles can't?"
"I swear, it's true—"
Before Seth could finish, the tax collector grabbed him by the collar, lifting him from the ground with surprising force—a strength no man should have. "Stop. That's enough."
A heartbeat later, Seth was hurled out of the house. He slammed face-first into the dirt, skidding several feet as rock bit into the skin of his belly under his clothes. But at least, his fall had not broken his bow, or Marcus' gift box.
Behind him, the noble's lackey stooped to gather Seth's coins, now scattered across the cabin's porch.
"I can't do much for you, kid," the tax collector said before standing up. "You know the Faertis House doesn't accept partial payment."
He gestured to the cabin. "I have to seize the place. We'll auction it."
"What?" Seth's eyes widened. "It doesn't have much value! It's just logs and stone!"
"No, but it's better than nothing," the man replied, avoiding Seth's gaze. "And it will serve as an example to the rest of the town."
A lump rose in Seth's throat. "Let me grab a few things inside, then. Things without value. Like... my parents' painting. It's the only thing I have left of them."
The tax collector hesitated. He looked at Seth, then back at the empty street. For a second, the cold mask of the enforcer slipped, revealing a man who took no pleasure in this.
"Fine," he muttered. "Stay here."
The man stepped inside the cabin. A moment later, he reappeared in the doorway, the framed painting of Seth's parents in his hands.
"Here," the collector began, stepping down from the porch.
But then, he froze.
His gaze darted over Seth's shoulder, focusing on something—or someone—in the distance behind the houses. Seth turned to look, but saw only shadows. Yet, when he looked back, the tax collector's face had gone pale.
Something had shifted in the man's eyes. Fear? Panic? It was hard to say, but the humanity that had been there a second ago vanished, replaced by a desperate need to prove something.
"Actually," the man said, his voice louder now. "Those could be contraband."
"What?"
For a split second, the air around the tax collector's hands seemed to shimmer
For a split second, the air around the tax collector's hands seemed to shimmer with heat, then flames erupted.
"No!" Seth shouted, the word tearing from his throat.
He reached out, lunging forward despite the distance separating them, but it was too late. The magical fire engulfed the canvas in an instant, curling the paint and blackening the faces of his mother and father. The man tossed the burning pieces aside into the dry grass, where they crackled and slowly turned into ashes.
"Under the King's laws," the collector declared, chin raised as if performing for an audience, "I revoke your right to own a house or any property."
He stared down at Seth, sweat beading on his forehead. "You have three months to pay the fifteen coppers, representing the average ten stones to awaken and their usage tax. Fail to do so, and you will be arrested and sentenced to forced labor. And if anyone in this town tries to shelter you, they will be liable to pay the fine in your place."
Seth gritted his teeth, his hands balling into fists until his knuckles turned white. He glared at the man. He was not a monster, but a coward. One who had just destroyed the only memory of Seth's parents to save his own skin. To avoid rubbing some nobles the wrong way.
The tax collector turned on his heel and marched away without looking back as Seth stood alone in the dirt.
His golden eyes remained locked on the pile of ash smoldering in the grass. His nail dug into his palms. This was what living in Faertis territory was. A reign of terror where everyone, from the lowest peasant to the enforcers, lived in fear.
One more reason to grow stronger. To make them pay and be sure that things would change.