The carriage wheels clattered over cobblestones as Aldric Thorne watched the Imperial capital materialize through the morning mist. Towers of white stone pierced the gray sky, their peaks crowned with banners that snapped in the wind. From this distance, the city looked like something from a children's tale—beautiful, pristine, full of promise. Aldric knew better than to trust appearances.
He was nineteen years old, the third son of a minor noble house, and he had exactly forty-seven gold pieces to his name. In the capital, that might buy him two weeks of modest lodging and food, if he was careful. After that, he would be on his own.
"First time in the capital, young master?" The driver's voice was rough, weathered by years of shouting over the wind. He didn't turn around, keeping his eyes on the road ahead.
"Yes," Aldric replied. He saw no point in elaborating. The driver didn't care about his circumstances, and Aldric had no interest in sharing them.
The old man grunted. "Bit of advice, then. Keep your coin purse close and your expectations low. The capital eats boys like you for breakfast."
Aldric's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Boys like you. He'd heard variations of that phrase his entire life. The third son. The spare. The one who didn't matter. His eldest brother Cassius would inherit the family estate, such as it was. His middle brother Damien had been sent to the military, where at least he could earn glory and perhaps a commission. And Aldric? Aldric had been given a small purse of gold and told to "make something of himself" in the capital.
His father hadn't even looked at him when he'd said it. Lord Thorne had simply waved a dismissive hand, his attention already back on the ledgers that showed the slow
decline of House Thorne's fortunes. There had been no embrace, no words of encouragement, no fatherly advice. Just the cold arithmetic of a family that couldn't afford to support all its sons.
The memory still stung, even now. Aldric pushed it aside. Resentment was a luxury he couldn't afford. He needed to focus on survival, and then on advancement. Everything else was a distraction.
The carriage passed through the outer gates, and suddenly they were inside the city proper. The streets were packed with people—more people than Aldric had seen in his entire life. Merchants hawked their wares from colorful stalls. Street performers juggled and danced for copper coins. Beggars huddled in doorways, their hands outstretched in silent plea. The noise was overwhelming, a cacophony of voices and wheels and hammering and music all blending into a single roar.
And above it all, Aldric could see them. The mages.
They moved through the crowds like sharks through water, parting the masses with their mere presence. Some wore the pristine white robes of the Sunstone Consortium, their chests emblazoned with the golden sun symbol. Others dressed in the colors of noble houses, their fingers adorned with rings that glowed with barely contained power. One woman walked past the carriage, her eyes blazing with an inner fire, and Aldric felt the heat radiating from her even through the carriage window. A Weaver of the Path of the Empyrean Flame, he realized. Tier 3, at least.
He watched her until she disappeared into the crowd, his chest tight with something that might have been envy or hunger or both. That was power. Real power. The kind that made people step aside, that made them bow and scrape and beg for favor. The kind that could lift a man from nothing to everything.
The kind that Aldric didn't have. Yet.
The carriage finally stopped in front of a modest inn on the edge of the merchant district. The driver climbed down and opened the door, his expression neutral. "This is as far as the fare takes you, young master. The Copper Bell Inn. Clean enough, and the rates are reasonable. You'll want to negotiate before you agree to anything, though. Innkeepers in this district have a habit of raising prices once they know you're desperate."
Aldric stepped down, his legs stiff from the long journey. He reached into his purse and counted out the agreed-upon fare, plus a small tip. The driver's eyebrows rose slightly, but he pocketed the coins without comment.
"Thank you for the advice," Aldric said.
The old man studied him for a moment, his weathered face unreadable. Then he nodded once, sharply. "You've got a brain in your head, at least. That's more than most. Use it, and you might last longer than a week." He climbed back onto the carriage and snapped the reins, disappearing into the flow of traffic.
Aldric stood alone on the street, his single trunk at his feet, and looked up at the inn's sign. The copper bell depicted there was tarnished and dull, much like his prospects. But he'd expected nothing better. This was where men like him started—at the bottom, with nothing but their wits and their will to climb.
He picked up his trunk and walked through the door.
The common room was dim and smoky, lit by a few oil lamps that cast dancing shadows on the walls. A handful of patrons sat at rough wooden tables, nursing mugs of ale and speaking in low voices. The air smelled of old beer, unwashed bodies, and something cooking in the kitchen that might have been stew. It wasn't pleasant, but it was familiar. Aldric had grown up in a declining noble house; he knew what poverty smelled like.
The innkeeper was a broad woman with iron-gray hair and a face that suggested she'd seen everything and been impressed by none of it. She looked up from the bar as Aldric approached, her eyes taking in his clothes—good quality but travel-worn—and his trunk—small, suggesting limited means.
"Room?" she asked, her voice flat. "Yes. How much?"
"Five silver a week, meals included. Ten silver deposit for the room key."
Aldric did the math instantly. Five silver a week meant twenty silver a month, which was two gold pieces. With forty-seven gold to his name, he could afford roughly two years if he spent nothing else. But he would need to spend on other things—clothes, information, bribes, opportunities. In reality, he had perhaps three months before he'd be destitute.
"Three silver a week," he countered. "And I'll pay a month in advance."
The woman's expression didn't change. "Four silver. And you'll pay two weeks in advance, not a month. I don't know you, and I don't trust you."
"Three and a half. Two weeks in advance, and I'll help with any work that needs doing around the inn. I'm educated and capable."
For the first time, something that might have been amusement flickered in the woman's eyes. "Educated, are you? Let me guess—minor noble, third or fourth son, sent to the capital to make your fortune because your family can't afford to keep you?"
Aldric felt his face heat, but he kept his expression neutral. "Is it that obvious?"
"I've seen a hundred boys like you walk through that door. Most of them are dead now, or worse. The ones who survive learn fast that education doesn't mean shit in the capital. What matters is what you're willing to do to get ahead."
"I'm willing to do whatever it takes," Aldric said quietly.
The innkeeper studied him for a long moment. Then she nodded. "Three and a half silver. Two weeks in advance. You'll help with the evening crowd—serving drinks, cleaning tables, keeping the peace if anyone gets rowdy. And if you steal from me or cause trouble, I'll have you thrown in the gutter so fast your head will spin. Understood?"
"Understood."
"Good. I'm Mrs. Keller. Your room is on the third floor, end of the hall. It's small, but it's clean and the lock works. Don't lose the key." She held out her hand.
Aldric counted out seven silver pieces and placed them in her palm. She produced a key from beneath the bar and slid it across to him.
"Welcome to the capital, boy. Try not to die."
Aldric took the key and climbed the narrow stairs to the third floor. The hallway was dark and cramped, the floorboards creaking under his feet. He found his room at the end, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.
It was, as promised, small. A narrow bed, a rickety table with a single chair, a washbasin, and a tiny window that looked out onto an alley. The walls were thin
enough that he could hear muffled voices from the neighboring rooms. It smelled of old wood and dust.
It was perfect.
Aldric set his trunk down and sat on the bed, which creaked alarmingly under his weight. He looked around the room, taking in every detail, committing it to memory. This was his starting point. The bottom. The place from which he would climb.
He thought of the mages he'd seen in the street, moving through the crowds with such casual confidence. He thought of the power they wielded, the respect they commanded, the wealth they accumulated. He thought of his father's dismissive wave, his brothers' contempt, the long years of being told he didn't matter.
And he smiled.
They were all wrong. He would matter. He would make himself matter. Whatever it took, however long it took, he would climb from this shabby room to the heights of power. He would become a mage, and more than a mage. He would become someone who could never be dismissed, never be ignored, never be cast aside.
The capital had eaten a hundred boys like him, Mrs. Keller had said. But Aldric Thorne wasn't like those other boys. He was smarter, more determined, more willing to do what needed to be done.
He would survive. And then he would thrive. The game had begun.