At long last, the journey began before dawn. The carts rolled slow and steady across uneven paths, barely strumming enough to break the dead silence of twilight.
Aamon, Hazel, and Michael shared the same wagon, sitting on bundled straw and rations.
Michael leaned against the side, the creaking wheels and strong scent of oiled wood surrounding him. It gave him time to think, and to speak.
"I took the liberty to, ask around, for our fates…," he began, voice low. "The ones heading to the Legion. They said it's mostly physical training for them. A lot of drills. Endurance. Fighting."
Aamon smirked. "Sounds like my kind of place."
"The Magic Academy is different," Michael continued. "Classes. Theory. Magecraft. More structured. We'll be students again."
Hazel groaned. "Ugh. I just got out of Miss Sarah's lectures."
"It won't be like that," Michael said. "It's more intense. But worth it. Graduates can do anything. Work for noble houses, become adventurers, mercenaries... even stay on as staff or join the army with higher rank."
Aamon raised an eyebrow. "You sure? Sounds good. Almost too good"
"They don't graduate everyone," Michael said. "It's a four-year program. The last year is basically a trial. Practical missions, assessments. Fail, and you're out."
Hazel looked thoughtful. "And if you pass?"
Michael smiled faintly. "Then the world opens up."
They fell into silence again, each lost in thought. The road stretched ahead, long and winding.
They were leaving their old lives behind.
They travelled for two days with little fanfare. Dust clung to their boots and cloaks, the roads dry and cracked from a long drought. The caravans were mostly quiet—each wagon holding a few select youths, all marked by the aptitude crystal's touch. Some were bright-eyed and eager. Others, like Michael, had grown quieter.
He noticed how the others kept a slight distance from him now. Word had spread, as it always did in closed spaces. That one of the crystals broke. That a noble took him aside, and that he was supposedly flame.
Hazel stayed close, though. And Aamon pretended nothing was different, which in its own way was a kind of loyalty Michael appreciated.
If there was something micheal noticed, it was that the steady stream in his body still pulsed, as though calling to him.
On the second night, under the veil of stars, Michael slipped away, asking the guards for someplace to poo.
It was habit by now. The need to move, to breathe in open air, to feel his pulse race not from fear, but from motion. His body had changed in subtle ways. The cold didn't bite as hard. His muscles felt tighter, more coiled. Every breath stoked a warmth deep in his ribs, like embers catching in a hearth.
He found a clearing about fifty paces from the camp, surrounded by sleeping oaks and whispering grass. The moon shone down like a quiet observer.
He knelt.
And waited.
Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out.
The stream surprisingly obeyed. Coiling in his chest, traveling down his spine, limbs, into his fingertips.
He focused.
He extended a hand, imagining that bright incandescent lance. That seared image of destruction into his memory.
He shaped it. Or tried to.
The stream recoiled as if insulted, then returned whence it came, unpredictable.
He bit his lip. Held the focus tighter.
And just when he thought he had it, was close to recalling it…
"Boy."
The voice cleaved through the stillness like a blade through silk.
Michael spun, the sudden noise dispersing startled birds.
A vauge shadow stood just beyond the tree line. Shadow cloaked his form,
Coming into full view under the moonlight, that unmistakable crest, an obsidian snake over flame, caught the moonlight and gleamed like a threat.
"You again," Michael said, wary.
The noble stepped forward. His boots made no sound on the moss. "You??"
Michael's breath faltered realizing his grave mistake. "I… sincerely apologies, Lord Synthor, for the Disrespect i just committed?"
The noble offered a venomous smile. "Well, Well, Well. What do you know, even beasts can have manners. Tell me boy, how did your feeble mind come across the esteemed Family name."
Michael hesitated. "My apologies milord, you mean House S-"
"You are not fit to speak it." The Noble interrupted, his voice betraying a hint of disgust
"Yes, Milord"
"In any case, i will excuse the unexplainable act you just attempted, but for the last time. In your best interest, be safely enrolled before attempt anything that will earn the head of your backwater village on a spike"
Michael skipped heartbeat
"Return, immediately."
"Yes, sir"
Michael retraced the path, feeling a creep up his spine even as he advanced, and as the the mysterious Noble, just as he suddenly appeared, he turned and vanished into the trees.
Michael returned to camp just before dawn, muscles sore, heart still pounding. Hazel stirred and gave him a half-conscious glare before falling back asleep. Aamon was out cold, one boot missing and a satisfied snore rumbling from his chest.
Michael lay down and stared at the sky, eventually drifting off to sleep.
They reached the first proper outpost by midday on the third day. A stone-paved road led up to a small fortification. A Legion checkpoint, mostly ceremonial, but it offered a reprieve from the bumpy forest tracks.
While the guards traded supplies and checked manifests, the caravan groups were allowed to stretch, eat, and relieve themselves.
Michael wandered toward a training yard at the edge of the compound. It wasn't large, just a fenced area with straw dummies, blunted weapons, and a pair of worn rings for sparring.
But what he saw there gripped him.
A group of Legion trainees were running drills. Their forms were precise, efficient. Spears spun, feet pivoted in unison. It was like watching gears turn inside a well-oiled machine.
Aamon appeared beside him, eyes alight. "Look at that. That's what I'm talking about."
"They're not just strong," Michael murmured. "They're disciplined. See how the line rotates? No wasted movement. Everything flows."
Hazel joined them, wiping sweat from her brow. "I'd hate to fight one of those guys."
Michael shook his head. "They're not the ones you should fear."
She raised an eyebrow. "Who, then?"
He hesitated, thinking of the noble.
"The ones who don't need to show their strength."
A group of Legion officers walked by, talking freely.
"...Capital's boiling over. After the Harken incident, the nobles are all jittery, even the old Dragon of the North."
"You think they'll push another reform?"
"They might have to. Too many Demonic Beasts showing up lately. Even the western provinces are reporting anomalies."
"That's what you get when the balance shifts. The old lines are fading."
"Or being erased."
Michael stiffened. The words cut too close.
Hazel frowned. "What's Harken?"
"City up north near the Frost Veil mountains," Michael answered absently. "Something happened there a few months ago. Explosion or attack. No one's saying."
"And what's this about deviants?" Aamon asked.
Michael shrugged. "Still don't know. we'll find out soon enough."
The remaining days were a blur of winding roads and shifting landscapes. The forest gave way to open fields, dotted with windmills and farmland. Caravan traffic thickened. They passed merchant convoys, pilgrims, soldiers, even a troupe of performers juggling flames from horseback.
At each checkpoint, the guards grew stricter. Some looked over them with bored disinterest. Others watched Michael for too long.
More students joined their group as they neared the capital. Some wore polished boots and embroidered cloaks, the sort that screamed money. Others were like Michael—quiet, observant, uncertain.
One girl with silver eyes and a crescent tattoo on her throat introduced herself as Neera. She hailed from the salt-coast city of Tylea and had a wind affinity.
"People like us," she said during a rest stop, "we don't get to relax. The nobles are already weighing our worth."
Michael gave her a long look. "You say that like you've played this game before."
She smiled thinly. "oh darling, But I have."
On the final morning, as the sun rose like molten gold over the hills, a voice rang out from the lead wagon.
"Look!"
Michael scrambled to his feet, climbing to the top of a packed crate.
What he saw stole the breath from his lungs.
The capital.
It rose like a vision from the earth, built in concentric rings that glimmered under the sun. The outer districts were a sea of rooftops and smoke columns, dense and sprawling. Within those rose stone towers, bridges that spanned wide canals, and ivory arches crisscrossing the avenues like the ribs of some sleeping giant.
At the center, crowned in silver and flame-colored glass, was the Imperial Spire.
It seemed to pierce the sky itself, vanishing into the clouds.
Hazel whispered, "It's... beautiful."
Aamon whistled low. "That thing's taller than any mountain I've seen."
Michael said nothing.
Because somewhere within that city—within that towering maze of power, ambition, and ancient secrets he felt unease.
something was watching.
and the more he stared, the heavier that feeling got.