Dawn broke over Eldenbrook like liquid gold, spilling across timbered roofs and cobblestone streets. Children's laughter floated in the air, sweet and fragile, a melody that seemed impossibly at odds with the shadow creeping over the horizon. Smoke from chimneys carried the scent of bread and herbs, warm and comforting, but even the birdsong could not mask the distant unease in the wind.
Aeren crouched by the riverbank, tossing stones into the shimmering current. Each ripple fractured sunlight like scattered diamonds. Marek, ever playful, balanced on a smooth rock beside him, nudging a pebble forward.
"You can't skip it three times," Marek said, voice teasing, but there was a hint of something else — a nervous tension Aeren hadn't noticed before.
"I can," Aeren replied softly, watching the hills. His gaze lingered beyond the village, where rumors whispered of mercenaries and Dominuses scheming. Something gnawed at the edge of his mind, a chill that had nothing to do with the morning air.
---
The first warning arrived as a low, rolling horn. Villagers froze, eyes wide, breaths catching in the throat.
"They're coming," a farmer gasped, clutching his scythe like a lifeline. "The mercenaries… they've found us."
Panic ignited like wildfire. Mothers grabbed children, men seized whatever weapons they could find, but Aeren stood frozen for a heartbeat too long, heart hammering against his chest. Marek yanked his arm. "Hide! Now, Aeren! Don't think — move!"
They dove behind a stack of firewood just as the first wave arrived. Hooves thundered, cracking earth beneath them. The raiders moved with an eerie precision, faces twisted in cruel delight. One man, scarred across his left eye, swung a blade that danced in sunlight as though alive.
"Why are they smiling?" Aeren whispered, trembling. The laughter — wild, unrestrained — cut through the morning air like a blade.
"They're not smiling," Marek hissed. "They're enjoying it… enjoying us being afraid."
Screams erupted. Eldenbrook's peace shattered, replaced by smoke, fire, and blood. Aeren's stomach turned, his hands trembling. Mothers cried out, children shrieked, and the village he loved became a stage for merciless chaos.
---
By midday, Aeren's wrists were bound in coarse iron cuffs. Marek was gone; his parents, gone. The village lay in ruins. Every memory — every sunlit morning, every laugh — was gone, replaced by the acrid scent of smoke and the metallic tang of blood.
Aeren's chest constricted, not from exhaustion but from grief that gnawed at his bones. He could feel the ember of something else too: I will survive. I will not be powerless again.
Through the wagon slats, he glimpsed Velthryn for the first time. Towers of silver and black tore into the sky, banners snapping in the wind. Marble walls gleamed coldly, daring any who looked upon them to challenge their dominion.
---
The ride was long. Each jolt of the wagon, each whisper of captors, each twitch of a horse's muscle was cataloged in Aeren's mind. Observation became instinct. He noticed patterns among the captors: the way a Praetor ordered the Novus without a word, the way Disciplus moved with subtle dominance, the flicker of fear and ambition in fellow captives.
At sunset, they reached the gates of Velthryn. Guards in crimson and gold studied the new arrivals, expressionless yet heavy with scrutiny. From the shadows, a tall, lean figure stepped forward. Aeren did not yet know the man's name — Torren — but his gaze cut through the courtyard, precise, unyielding, a predator in human form.
"You are the new Novus," Torren said, voice low but cutting. "Observe first. Move second. Survival is not given; it is claimed."
Aeren's throat tightened. "Novus?" he whispered to himself. Chains had been removed, but the weight of expectation was heavier than iron. The courtyard teemed with trainees, each movement deliberate, each glance loaded with meaning. Wooden swords clashed in precise arcs, grunts and shouts punctuating every strike.
"You… you will fall if you hesitate," a nearby trainee muttered, eyes hard. "This place doesn't forgive weakness."
Aeren swallowed, nodding faintly. "I… I understand," he murmured, though his voice felt small, fragile. His hands shook as he gripped the wooden sword, unsure, yet aware that observation, patience, and understanding might keep him alive where strength alone would not.
---
Night fell. Aeren lay on the narrow cot, stone cold pressing against his back. The quiet allowed memories to intrude: Eldenbrook, Marek, the river, the smell of morning bread. Grief mingled with anger, and through it, a spark of determination: I will endure. I will grow. I will rise.
And in the shadows, the estate whispered its secrets: Novus, Disciplus, Vigilant, Auctor… Ascendant… Aethernal. Few knew the true measure of these ranks, fewer understood the path to greatness, and the rarest — the Aethernal — was a legend whispered only in fear and awe.
Velthryn's towers loomed above, silent sentinels over ambition, cruelty, and possibility. Aeren's journey had begun. Acceptance would not come easily. He would stumble, resist, and struggle. But in the marrow of his fear and grief, one truth burned brighter than the chains that bound him: I will not be powerless again.
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