The slums of Caelth were not a place where children dreamed. They were where dreams went to die.
The air stank of rot, of stagnant water and unwashed bodies. Ragged shanties leaned against one another like drunkards, their roofs patched with scavenged cloth and rusted tin. Rats scurried brazenly across the narrow alleys, fatter and bolder than the orphans who hunted them for food.
And in that gutter of humanity, a boy crouched beneath a broken archway, arms wrapped tight around his bony knees. His hair was black with grime, his face hollow with hunger. The other slum brats called him Ash. Not because it was his name—he had long forgotten that—but because ashes were what remained when all else was burned away.
Ash had learned two truths in his twelve years. First: the strong devoured the weak. Second: cleverness could sometimes tip the scales.
That was why, instead of stealing stale bread with the others tonight, he waited. His sharp eyes tracked the gang of older boys swaggering down the alley, carrying their loot from the merchant quarter. Ash had placed a broken crate just so in the shadows. When the leader's boot caught the edge—
Crack!
The gang leader pitched forward, his sack of pilfered turnips spilling into the mud. The boys behind him cursed and scattered.
Ash darted like a rat. He scooped two turnips, three, four—enough to live another day. He spun to flee, but a hand like iron clamped around his wrist.
"You little pissrat." The gang leader's voice was a low snarl. His face twisted with fury as he yanked Ash off his feet. "Think you're clever, do you?"
The other boys closed in. Ash's stomach dropped. He had played the game too close this time.
Fists slammed into his ribs. A boot drove the air from his lungs. He curled, coughing in the filth, tasting blood.
"Leave him," one boy muttered. "He's not worth—"
"No," the leader growled. "We teach him what happens to thieves."
The dagger gleamed in the torchlight. Ash froze, breath shallow. The world narrowed to that single blade.
So this is how I die.
But then—
A sound. A whisper.
Not from the boys, not from the alley. From the shadows behind his skull.
> Do you wish to live?
Ash's eyes widened. The voice was neither cruel nor kind—it was inevitable, like the shifting of tides.
Yes, he thought desperately. Anything.
> Then grasp me.
Something tugged at him, deeper than flesh. His fingers, almost without will, brushed the mud. They closed around… a corner of something. A fragment half-buried in muck.
A book.
Its cover was blackened, its leather brittle, etched with faint sigils that pulsed like embers.
The gang leader sneered. "Clutching garbage, even at the end?" He raised his knife.
And the world changed.
For an instant, Ash saw the alley from above. Saw the leader's arm poised to strike, saw the loose stones under his back foot, saw the splintered plank within reach of Ash's grasp. Lines of possibility unraveled before him—if he twisted there, if he struck there, if he ran now—
The voice whispered again.
> A battlefield exists wherever men struggle. Every field has a path to victory. Find it.
Ash moved. His hand snapped up the plank and jabbed it into the leader's ankle. The boy screamed, stumbling on the loose stone. The knife clattered into the dirt.
Ash rolled, snatched the blade, and pressed it to the leader's throat before the others could blink.
The gang froze.
For a heartbeat, the filthy alley was silent but for the ragged breath of children. Ash's chest heaved. He felt the knife tremble in his hand. He could kill him. He should. That was how the slums worked.
Yet the whisper coiled in his mind.
> Power is not always in the killing blow. It is in the choice others believe you hold.
Ash pressed the blade harder. "Leave me," he rasped, voice cracking but steady. "Or I'll gut him like a pig."
The gang hesitated. Then one spat on the ground. "Come on. Not worth it."
They melted into the shadows, their curses fading.
Ash dropped the knife at last. His whole body shook. He looked at the strange book in his hands. The sigils glowed faintly, then faded, as if sinking into his skin.
"What… are you?" he whispered.
> I am the Strategos Codex.
The words echoed inside his skull, clear as a bell.
> I am war's memory, carved into eternity. You have awakened me, child of ashes. In return, I awaken you.
Ash's eyes widened as warmth surged through his veins, burning and icy at once. The world sharpened—sounds crisper, shadows clearer, his heart thundering like a drum.
A shimmer flickered before him. Faint, like smoke. He stretched out a trembling hand—and a spark leapt from his fingertip, scattering in the dark.
A whisper of magic.
He gasped. Slum brats told stories of mages: lords who could summon fire, nobles who wielded storms. Magic was blood and birthright. Not for gutter trash like him.
Yet the spark had been real.
Ash hugged the book to his chest, tears burning his eyes. For the first time in his life, hope flared.
---
The next days blurred.
Ash returned to the ruined chapel where he sometimes slept. He dared not show the Codex to others. By night, he opened it, though its pages seemed blank. By day, he listened to the voice within.
It taught him to still his breath, to feel the flow of mana—the unseen river beneath the world. To draw it into his core, shaping it like clay.
Most children never touched mana. But Ash, guided by whispers older than empires, grasped it.
On the seventh night, he lit a steady flame in his palm.
The first Circle.
His body shuddered with exhaustion, but his heart soared. He was no longer just Ash of the gutters. He was something else now.
Yet power drew notice.
One evening, as he practiced in secret, the chapel door slammed open. A tall figure strode inside, cloak of crimson trimmed with silver. His eyes glittered beneath the hood.
"Well, well," the man said softly. "A rat with fire."
Ash stumbled to his feet, flame flickering out. "Who—who are you?"
The stranger smiled thinly. "A question better asked of you. How does a slum wretch kindle mana? Did you steal a noble's trinket? Or…" His gaze fell upon the Codex clutched to Ash's chest. His breath caught. "By the gods. That relic—"
Ash's blood ran cold.
The man stepped closer, voice low with hunger. "Give it to me, boy. Now."
Ash shook his head. His whole body screamed at him to flee, but his legs refused.
The stranger's hand rose. Mana swirled, heavy and suffocating. A mage. Far stronger than Ash could dream of.
"You cannot hope to resist me," the man whispered. "But if you obey… perhaps I will let you live."
Ash trembled. The Codex's voice stirred in his mind.
> This is your first true battlefield. His strength dwarfs yours. Yet strength is not victory. Think. The field always hides a path.
Ash's gaze darted. The cracked rafters above. The half-collapsed wall behind. The oil lamp flickering on the altar.
Lines of possibility unfolded before his eyes once more.
He gritted his teeth, heart pounding. He had one chance.
The man's spell coalesced.
Ash moved—