The testers came three weeks after the raid, just when people had started pretending life was normal again.
They arrived at midmorning: eight riders cresting the western road, dust pluming behind them. One flew the grey-and-gold banner of Duke Roderic Velt of Greyreach. Two had Aurelion-style half-plate over chain. One rode in layered blue-and-silver robes, an Essence adept by the look of the faint light clinging to her sleeves. Another wore the clean-cut robes and sash of an Eastern cultivator—probably seconded from Hanyue.
Greyfall gathered in the square as the riders dismounted.
Children craned their necks. Adults muttered, pulled younger ones closer. The bell tolled three times, then fell silent.
The Aurelion official, a lean man with ink on his cuffs and tired lines at his mouth, stepped forward and unrolled a parchment.
"By decree of Duke Roderic of House Velt," he recited, voice practiced, "all youths of age eight to fourteen in the March are to be assessed for martial and arcane aptitude. Those deemed suitable may be selected for levy service, specialized training, or advancement to imperial or sect institutions. Records will be kept. Cooperation is mandatory, compensation as per statute twelve."
He glanced up. "Form lines, please. Twelve and above to my left, younger to my right."
Murmurs rose. Parents pushed; children stumbled into place.
Arlen squeezed Al's shoulder. "I'll go first and show them how it's done."
"You always do," Al said, trying to smile.
Arlen grinned, then joined the older youths. Toren was already there, squaring his shoulders. A pair of Beastkin teens with fox-ears and striped tails stood near the back, wary, saying little.
The Essence adept set a clear crystal on a small iron tripod and laid her hands over it. It brightened with a soft inner light as she murmured a pattern. The Hanyue practitioner unwrapped a smooth stone tablet, its surface etched with fine characters that caught the sun.
The clerk called names.
One by one, the older kids stepped forward, placing their hands on the crystal, then the tablet.
Some the crystal barely noticed—just a dim glow and a polite nod: Spark, minor. Some flared bright for a heartbeat, earning murmurs: Spark strong, maybe Caster someday. The tablet responded in different ways—lines of Qi lighting like trails: firm blocks for toughness, flowing curves for movement, jagged marks for raw aggression.
When they called "Arlen Greyfall", the square quieted a little.
Arlen swaggered—just enough. He planted his palm on the crystal.
For a moment, nothing. Then the crystal glowed with a steady, respectable brightness, not blinding but unmistakable.
"Spark-level Essence," the adept said. "Flow-leaning pattern. Clean."
She gestured to the tablet. "Qi channels next."
Arlen touched the etched stone, inhaled as Bren had drilled them, then exhaled. Pale light traced the characters: sinuous strokes like running water, a ring of sharper accents around them.
The Eastern man nodded. "Good Elan and Fylgja tendencies—movement and reflex. Channels open and smooth for your age."
He wrote something on his slate. "Suitable frontliner candidate. Scout, skirmisher, or martial disciple material."
Corin's jaw tightened and eased at once. Pride. Fear. Lian's hand tightened on her shawl.
Toren went after. The crystal flared brighter than for Arlen at first, then flickered unstable.
"Strong Spark, turbulent," the adept said. "Temper-leaning. Powerful if trained."
The tablet lit in blocky, anchored strokes.
"Qi fit for shield and spear," the Eastern assessor said. "Less for subtle arts. Heavy infantry or guardsman."
Toren looked pleased enough. There were worse fates than being too stubborn to fall.
Then it was the younger group's turn.
"Al Greyfall," the clerk called.
Al's throat felt dry. He walked up anyway, acutely aware of eyes on him—Arlen's, Ressa's, Jana's, Bren's. Edran watched from the shrine steps, expression unreadable.
"Hand," the Essence adept said, brisk but not unkind.
He laid his palm on the crystal. It was cool, faintly humming.
Breathe. Just breathe.
The crystal glowed faintly. Dimmer than Arlen's. Then, oddly, it shifted—pale gold, then bluish, then the ghost of green—before settling into a low, uncertain shimmer.
The adept frowned slightly. She adjusted the iron ring on her finger, murmured another pattern, and nodded to him. "Again."
He did it again. The crystal repeated the hesitant dance.
"Well?" the Aurelion clerk asked.
"Spark-grade at best," the adept said. "But…fragmented. Minor echoes of Anchor, a touch of Resonant, a whisper of Veil or Flow. No dominant affinity. He touches many patterns shallowly, instead of one deeply."
"So?" Toren muttered under his breath. "He's a smear."
Al pulled his hand back, cheeks hot.
The Eastern assessor gestured to the tablet. "Qi test. Fingers here."
Al placed his fingertips on the carved characters. They were cool, smooth with age.
"Inhale," the man instructed. "Down into your belly. Exhale through your hands. Let your…Pneuma, we call it Qi…touch the stone."
Al did as told, thinking of Bren's shouts, of his feet in the yard, of the remembered feeling when the world had hitched by the ditch. Something stirred in his chest, faint.
Light flickered over the tablet.
Unlike Arlen's clear flowing pattern or Toren's solid blocks, it came as a scatter of tiny strokes: a little curve like Elan here, a sharp point like Fylgja there, a brief mark where Wyrd might show, a thin brush of Animus. Then they faded almost at once.
"Diffuse," the man said. "Multiple tendencies, none developed. You touch much and hold little."
"So…is he useless?" someone in the crowd called, half-joking, half-mean.
The assessor didn't smile. "Not useless. Just not suited to focused Qi paths. He may grow into a generalist or support role. For now: Pneuma Novice, no clear sect path."
The clerk scratched something onto his parchment. "Recommendation: village militia, logistics, scribe track. Not for elite levy or academy."
Al stepped back, ears burning. He caught a glimpse of Arlen's face—openly sympathetic, then quickly schooled. Ressa's eyes flashed anger; Jana's brows drew together, lips pressed tight.
He took his place at the edge of the crowd, everything Minutely sharp and muffled at once.
"Hey," Ressa whispered at his elbow. "If they can't see straight, that's their fault."
"They're not wrong," Al said dully. "I'm not Arlen. I'm not even Toren."
"Thank Logos," Ressa muttered. "World only needs one Toren."
Jana leaned close on his other side. "They didn't say you're nothing. They said you're mixed."
"That's…just a polite word for muddled."
"Or broad," Jana countered. "Selene says people who see too much pattern are dangerous with ink. Imagine what they could be with steel."
Before he could answer, someone murmured at the far side of the square. Heads turned.
Another rider was entering Greyfall.
He wore no duke's colors, no imperial crest. His robe was a deeper blue than the Hanyue assessor's, edged in cloud-white, embroidered dragon coils faintly visible when he moved. His hair was threaded with silver and tied back with a simple cord. His face was lined, but his back straight.
He dismounted lightly, despite his age, and the air around him…changed.
Not with bright Essence glow or crushing aura. It was subtler than that. The wind seemed to ease around him. The usual background prickles of tension—people's Pneuma flaring, Essence threads humming around the test crystal—smoothed, like a wrinkled cloth pressed flat.
The Eastern assessor blinked, then bowed deeply. "Elder Liang."
The older man returned a shallower bow. "You are diligent, Jian. The road from Hanyue is long. I did not expect to catch you mid-testing."
"I did not expect the sect to send you personally," Jian said.
Ressa leaned toward Al. "Who's that?"
"Someone important," Al whispered, throat tighter than before. Even without knowing titles, he could tell. This man didn't simply move in the world's patterns; the patterns seemed to make room for him.
The Aurelion official cleared his throat, clearly unsure how to rank this newcomer against his own duke's commission. "You are…?"
"Liang Qingshan," the elder said, his Sula accented but clear. "Of the Azure Dragon Heaven Sect." His gaze swept Greyfall, taking in the ash-streaked stone, the repaired palisade, the mix of faces. "I pass through this region on inspection every few years. I heard of a recent disturbance."
"You're late," Daran called from the back. "We did your work already."
A few people hissed at him to be quiet. Elder Liang smiled faintly.
"So I see," he said. His eyes lingered on the patched hole by the sluice, the fresh log bracing. "You stood. That is good."
Al felt that gaze brush over him like a cool wind. For an instant, it felt like when the world had hitched—but quiet, controlled. Then it was gone.
Liang turned to Jian. "Continue. I will observe."
The rest of the tests went much as expected. A Beastkin girl with keen eyes lit the Qi tablet with sharp Wyrd strokes; she drew whistles and an immediate note from Jian: scout candidate. A boy from a trading family showed decent Anchor Essence and was marked for scribing.
When they were done, the clerk rolled his parchment.
"That concludes assessment. Those flagged for follow-up will receive letters or messengers within the month," he said. "Remember: service to the March is service to your families."
People began to disperse. The Aurelion riders moved toward the inn; the adept wrapped up her crystal. Jian took the tablet under one arm.
Elder Liang did not move. He watched people break into knots of murmurs and embraces and quiet disappointments. Then he walked—not toward Corin, not toward Edran, but toward the cluster of children.
"Arlen Greyfall?" he asked.
Arlen straightened, startled. "Yes, elder."
Liang regarded him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Feet like water. Eyes that stayed on the enemy during fear, not on your own blood. Your Qi flows clean."
"You…you saw the fight?" Arlen stammered.
"I saw enough," Liang said. "Jian's notes are not wrong. You could be refined into something lethal and useful. If you wish."
Corin stepped forward, face guarded. "Elder, my son is pledged to Greyreach—"
"Your son's blood already stained its ash," Liang said, not unkindly. "He is pledged to survival. I am offering a path where he may do more than be a body in a line."
He looked to Arlen. "I am returning to Xianwu. To the Azure Dragon Heaven Sect. I can take three youths from this circuit. One is you, if you choose. The training will be harsh. Many break. Some die. But those who endure stand on peaks where few ever climb."
For a heartbeat, the square was utterly silent.
Arlen's eyes shone. Al's heart clenched and swelled at once.
"I—" Arlen swallowed. "I want to. I…do. But—" He turned, eyes finding Al. "My brother—"
Al flinched.
"—he saved my life," Arlen said, voice rough. "If he wasn't there, if he hadn't…done whatever he did, I'd be ash on that ridge. He sees things. Patterns. Threats. I fight because he thinks. Take us both."
A murmur rippled. Toren's mouth dropped open. Ressa's face lit with a fierce, painful hope.
Elder Liang's gaze shifted to Al again.
Up close, the elder's eyes were not just dark; they were deep. Al had the disorienting sense that the man wasn't just looking at him, but through him—past his too-short frame and bandaged back, through skin and bone and into channels he barely knew existed.
"Al Greyfall," Liang said quietly. "Step forward."
Al's legs obeyed before his thoughts caught up. He stood between Arlen and the elder, feeling very small.
"You touched the Essence crystal oddly," Liang said. "Jian?"
"Fragmented," Jian confirmed. "Minor sparks across several patterns. Nothing focused."
"And your so-called Qi," Liang went on, "skated across half a dozen pathways and settled in none." His head tilted. "Do you know what that means, boy?"
"That I'm bad at everything," Al said before he could stop himself. His voice shook. "Sir."
A few people tittered nervously. Ressa shot them a glare.
Liang did not smile. "It means you are a field sown with many seeds and no irrigation. While your brother is a single strong tree already pushing at the sky." He folded his hands. "The Azure Dragon Heaven Sect does not water every field. We have narrow paths, carved deep. We hammer a few talents into blades suited for our doctrine. We are not gentle. We do not have time to be."
Arlen took a step closer. "He can learn. He—"
"I am speaking," Liang said softly.
Arlen bit his tongue.
Liang considered Al again. "You felt the world's threads once already, didn't you? When the wolf-head's spear moved. When the rock rolled."
Al's blood went cold. "How—"
"I have seen many boys die without touching such things," Liang said. "And a few who did and went mad. You did not." His gaze flicked briefly toward Father Edran, who watched now with sharp intensity. "You nudged without shattering. That is…interesting."
Hope flared and fought with fear in Al's chest. "Then—"
"If I took you with me," Liang said, gently but without pity, "two things would happen. You would slow my training halls because you do not fit their grooves. And they would grind you into bits trying to make you fit anyway. You might survive, twisted. More likely, you would break. Badly."
Silence again. Al stared at him. It hurt more because he believed the man.
"But he's—" Arlen began.
"—not useless," Liang finished for him. "Just…not for my mountain. Rivers drown there. They freeze, or fall, or carve paths in places that should not be cut." He looked at Al. "Your brother's fate is straight: a blade to be honed. Yours is crooked. If you are wise, you will follow it, not chase his shadow."
Al's throat burned. "So you're saying I should stay here and count sacks of grain."
"I am saying," Liang replied, "that if you want to live long enough to find out what you actually are, you start where you can learn without dying in your first winter." His gaze softened a fraction. "Villages need minds as much as swords. Roads need thinking. Armies need someone who knows what to put where and when."
He glanced at Selene, at Father Edran, at Corin. "You have teachers here for now. Watch them. Use them. When you are no longer a Novice in breath or Spark in Essence, then decide if you still wish to stand in halls like mine."
He turned back to Arlen. "My offer to you stands. One day to decide. I leave at dawn tomorrow."
Arlen looked back and forth between them, almost panicked. "I won't go if—"
"You will," Al said, surprising himself with the steadiness in his voice.
Arlen blinked. "Al—"
"You heard him," Al said. "They hit people until they break. That's perfect for you."
A few people snorted. Arlen almost laughed, choked on it.
Al swallowed. "When you come back, you can be the sharpest sword anyone's ever seen. I'll…" He forced himself to hold his brother's gaze. "…I'll make sure you have a place to swing it that doesn't get you killed for nothing."
Arlen's eyes shone, and not just with pride. "You can't promise that."
"No," Al said. "But I can try. And I'll need to learn how. Here first."
Liang inclined his head slightly, as if approving of the answer. Or at least of the lack of begging.
"Good," he said. "The world has too many boys who think they are blades and too few who notice where the ground under them is rotten."
He stepped back. "Decide by sunrise."
Then, as quietly as he had appeared, he walked toward the inn, leaving murmurs in his wake.
Ressa exhaled hard. "Well," she said. "That was…something."
Jana's hand trembled slightly where it rested on her satchel. "You told him to go," she said, half-awed, half-accusing.
"He would've gone anyway," Al managed. "This way he doesn't have to feel guilty about it."
"And you?" Ressa asked softly.
Al looked around: at the patched palisade, at Bren barking at Toren to stop gawking and help with repairs, at Selene already demanding copies of the assessment list for Greyfall's records, at Father Edran speaking quietly to Liang's back on the way to the inn.
Threads. So many threads.
"I stay," he said, feeling the words settle like a stone, solid, in his chest. "For now."
"But not forever," Ressa said. It wasn't a question.
He shook his head.
"Good," she said. "I'd hate to be the only idiot trying to leave this place someday."
For the first time since putting his hand on the crystal, Al smiled and meant it.
He was a muddle. A smear. A boy with no clean place on any sect's chart.
Fine.
If he couldn't be their kind of special, he would learn the shapes they didn't measure.
The ash wind picked up again, lifting a faint curtain of grey between him and the world. Through it, he watched his brother talk with his parents, with Liang, with Edran. He couldn't hear the words.
He didn't need to. He knew how that thread would run.
Arlen's path would leave Greyfall at dawn.
Al's, apparently, began exactly where he stood.