The years that followed the merchant's death were years of uneasy peace at the Van Hellsin estate. Grimwald hired tutors from the provincial capital, men learned in philosophy and rhetoric, in mathematics and history. But more importantly, he sought out Masters of the Pneuma—retired legionaries, Academy dropouts, hermit mystics who lived in the deep woods—anyone who might teach Kami to control the terrible gift that dwelt within him.
The boy proved a frustrating student. Not because he lacked ability—quite the opposite. Kami mastered in days what took other students months or years. He understood the theoretical principles of Pneuma manipulation before his tutors had finished explaining them. He could demonstrate techniques he had seen only once, executing them with precision that bordered on the supernatural.
But he did not learn control. He learned disguise.
By age ten, Kami had become adept at hiding what he was. He learned to keep his face neutral, to mimic the expressions and reactions of normal children. He learned which questions to ask and which to keep silent. He learned to make his parents believe he was improving, becoming more human, when in truth he was simply becoming better at pretending.
The servants feared him. They never said so openly—Grimwald would not have tolerated such disrespect—but they crossed themselves when Kami passed, made the old warding signs when they thought no one was watching. Animals were worse. Dogs would not approach him. Horses shied from his touch. Even the ravens that nested in the estate's towers would fall silent when he walked beneath them, as though the very birds knew he was wrong.
Only one person seemed immune to Kami's strangeness: his brother Thorwald.
Thorwald Van Hellsin had grown into everything his younger brother was not. At fifteen, he stood tall and broad-shouldered, his golden hair long and braided in the northern style, his face bearing the kind of honest, open features that made people trust him instinctively. His Pneuma had developed into a pure, steady flame—powerful but controlled, bright but not burning. When Thorwald channeled his life-force into his limbs, he could leap across the courtyard in a single bound, could split logs with his bare hands, could fight for hours without tiring.
The brothers could not have been more different, yet Thorwald loved Kami with a fierce, protective devotion that surprised everyone who knew them.
"He is my brother," Thorwald would say when others questioned why he spent time with the dark, ugly child. "That is enough."
They trained together in the practice yard, Thorwald with wooden practice swords and Kami with... well, Kami never held weapons. He did not need to. Even at ten, he could defeat armed opponents through Pneuma manipulation alone, could make their muscles lock or their vision blur, could drain just enough of their life-force to leave them gasping and disoriented without quite killing them.
One autumn morning, when frost painted the training ground white and their breath steamed in the cold air, the brothers faced each other in practice combat. Grimwald watched from the hall's steps, flanked by two of his old legion companions who had come to visit—Marcus of the Iron Cohort and Decimus Blackblade, both legendary Pneuma-masters in their own right.
"The golden one has promise," Marcus observed, watching Thorwald move through a practice form with fluid grace. "Good foundation. Strong core. With proper training, he could make Centurion by twenty-five."
"And the dark one?" Decimus asked, his scarred face unreadable.
Grimwald said nothing for a long moment. "Watch," he finally replied.
Thorwald attacked first, as was his nature—straightforward, honest, powerful. He channeled Pneuma into his legs and launched forward, his practice sword blurring with speed that would have overwhelmed most opponents. The air itself seemed to part before him, his golden aura blazing like a small sun.
Kami did not move until the last possible instant. Then he simply stepped aside, and Thorwald's blade passed through empty air. But it was not a normal dodge. Those watching could see it—the way reality seemed to bend slightly around Kami, the way Thorwald's perception had been subtly altered so that he struck where he thought his brother stood rather than where Kami actually was.
"Pneuma of Perception," Decimus breathed. "The boy manipulates not just physical force but sensory input. That's... that should not be possible at his age."
The bout continued. Thorwald pressed the attack with the determination that characterized everything he did, his strikes powerful and precise, his footwork textbook perfect. But Kami flowed around every assault like water, never seeming hurried, never appearing to exert effort. And slowly, subtly, Thorwald began to slow.
It was almost imperceptible at first—a fraction of hesitation, a slight sluggishness in his movements. But Grimwald and his companions could see what was happening. With every near-miss, every moment of proximity, Kami was siphoning microscopic amounts of Pneuma from his brother. Not enough to harm, not enough to be obvious, but enough to tilt the balance.
"He's feeding," Marcus said flatly. "Even in practice, even against his own brother, he cannot help but feed."
After ten minutes, Thorwald called a halt, breathing hard but grinning. "You're too quick for me, little brother. One day you'll have to teach me that trick."
Kami smiled—that careful, practiced smile he had learned to deploy. "You are the better warrior, Thorwald. I merely run away more skillfully."
Thorwald laughed and clapped Kami on the shoulder, not noticing the way his brother's eyes flickered with something hungry at the physical contact, not seeing how Kami's hand briefly touched Thorwald's arm and how the elder brother swayed slightly as another small thread of Pneuma transferred between them.
But Grimwald saw. He always saw.
That evening, after the guests had retired and the household slept, Grimwald found Bera in the estate's library, poring over ancient texts by candlelight. She looked up as he entered, and he could see the worry etched in her features. She was still beautiful, but the years of bearing Kami's strangeness had worn on her.
"I found a reference," she said without preamble, pointing to a crumbling scroll written in Old Imperial script. "Here. 'In the days before the Empire, when the Pneuma flowed wild and gods walked among men, there arose those who could consume the breath of life itself. These Devourers were both blessed and cursed, for their hunger was infinite and their power without limit. The first Sovereign, in his wisdom, ordered them destroyed, for no society could survive such predators in its midst.'"
"So the Empire has always hunted them," Grimwald said heavily.
"There is more." Bera's finger traced down the yellowed parchment. "'Yet some among the Devourers learned discipline. They turned their hunger outward, became weapons against the Empire's enemies, protectors rather than predators. The most famous of these was Marius the Black, who served the Third Sovereign and was said to have drained an entire barbarian army of their Pneuma in a single night.'"
"Marius the Black was also executed by the Fourth Sovereign," Grimwald pointed out. "Crucified on the steps of the Senate after he drained three senators who had questioned his methods."
"He lost control," Bera said. "But the principle remains—a Devourer can be more than a monster. Can be a weapon, a tool, even a hero."
"Kami is ten years old, and already I see him looking at people the way a wolf looks at sheep," Grimwald said. "The way he draws Pneuma from Thorwald during their practice, the way he manipulates the servants with fear, the way he studies everyone around him as though calculating how much life-force they might contain... Bera, I love our son. But I fear what he is becoming."
Before Bera could respond, a small voice spoke from the doorway. "You fear what I already am."
Both parents spun to find Kami standing in the shadows, still dressed in his sleeping clothes, his dark eyes reflecting the candlelight with an almost feral gleam. How long he had been listening, neither could say.
"Kami—" Bera began, but the boy raised a hand.
"Do not lie to me, Mother. I can taste lies. They have a flavor, like copper on the tongue." He stepped into the library, moving with an unnaturally fluid grace. "I know what I am. I have always known. The hunger is always there, always whispering. Every person I see is a vessel of Pneuma waiting to be opened. Every heartbeat I hear is a drum calling me to feast."
Grimwald's hand moved instinctively to the sword that hung always at his belt, but Kami smiled—and this time it was not his practiced smile, but something genuine and terrible.
"You could kill me, Father. Perhaps you should. But you will not, because you love me. And because some part of you—the soldier part, the pragmatic part—wonders what weapon I might become if properly forged."
The silence that followed was absolute. Even the candle flames seemed to still, as though the air itself held its breath.
Finally, Grimwald spoke, his voice rough. "If we help you master this hunger, if we train you to be more than a predator, you must swear to me that you will use your gift to protect, not to prey. That you will be a shield for the weak, not a wolf among sheep."
Kami considered this with his head tilted, like a scholar examining a philosophical proposition. Then he nodded slowly. "I swear it. On my brother's life, which I value above my own, I swear I will learn to be what you wish me to be."
"Why?" Bera asked softly. "Why do you value Thorwald's life above your own?"
For the first time, something like genuine emotion crossed Kami's strange features—a softness, a vulnerability. "Because he is the only person who has ever looked at me and seen a brother instead of a monster. Because when I am near him, the hunger quiets. Because he makes me want to be human, even though I know I never truly will be."
Grimwald and Bera exchanged glances. In that moment, they reached a silent agreement. They would not destroy their son. They would not send him away. They would do what parents do—they would hope, and pray, and try to guide him toward the light.
But in the deepest parts of their hearts, they both wondered: could a Devourer ever truly be tamed? Or were they simply teaching a predator to hunt more efficiently?
Three days later, a messenger arrived from the provincial capital bearing the seal of the Imperial Academy. The message was brief but carried the weight of law: all children of noble houses who demonstrated exceptional Pneuma abilities were required to present themselves for testing at the Academy's regional branch. The examination would take place in one month's time.
Both Thorwald and Kami Van Hellsin were summoned.
The brothers would go to the capital. And there, among the Empire's brightest and most privileged young Pneuma-wielders, Kami would learn that he was not the only monster in the world.