By the time James reached six years of age, the manor had found a use for him—by forgetting him entirely.
He was moved to the outer ranks, a cluster of stone barracks, training yards, and storage halls pressed against the far edge of Reed territory. Too close to the walls to matter, too far from the main estate to be seen.
No one called it exile. They called it placement.
A servant muttered to another as they sent him off with a threadbare satchel and no escort:
"Better the bastard boy earn his keep outside than drift inside like a ghost."
The outer ranks were not a school. They were a filter.
Children of guards, squires unwanted by their own houses, and those of dubious bloodlines were kept there—not to be shaped, but to prove they could survive in the shadow of knights before being deemed useful.
James said nothing when they sent him. He simply left.
On his first night, a storm rolled in from the east. The barracks were drafts and old wood, crowded with boys who fought over blankets and girls who guarded food as though it were gold.
James lay on a thin cot near the wall, eyes closed, listening to the wind cut through broken shutters.
Then he felt it.
Not sound. Not pressure.
Space itself shifted around him—a disturbance three bunks away before the boy even moved. He opened his eyes to see a fistfight break out exactly where he had sensed it begin.
He did not understand how he'd known—but instinct recognized what the mind did not yet name:
Spatial awareness had awakened.
The air was no longer invisible. Distance was no longer empty. The world had edges he could feel.
In the mornings, the older boys were forced through drills led by half-trained squires.
James was not included. Bastards were not given swords.
But he watched.
He memorized the rhythm of wooden blades striking. The way weight shifted between feet. How breath moved with motion. His thoughts did not drift—nor did they race. His mind became still, then sharp, every time he chose to focus.
Clear thought.
Not a gift. Not a lesson.
An awakening.
And no one noticed.
Learning Without Instruction
He found his own ways to train. When the others slept, he stood barefoot in the dirt, imitating the guard stances by memory.
He lifted old practice swords when no one watched—too heavy at first, but his grip adjusted quickly. When he walked the training yard at night, he avoided every uneven stone without looking down once.
One evening, as torches were being doused and boys argued over rations, a squire named Bram passed by and paused.
"Didn't hear you behind me," he muttered, frowning. "You move quiet for one your size."
James didn't answer.
Bram waited, then clicked his tongue in dismissal and walked on.
But the comment stayed with James—not as praise, but as measurement.
Silent feet.
Measured breath.
Weighted steps.
He practiced them all.
In the main estate, Adrian Reed trained under a weapons master. His wind and fire affinity earned him polished steel and tailored instruction.
Cedric was kept indoors with tutors, his water-aligned mana considered delicate and worth guarding.
James received no training, no name, no guidance.
Yet he advanced.
Not because someone pushed him.
Because the world kept trying to ignore him—and he kept learning anyway.
A week after his arrival, while slipping between the barracks and the old armory, he felt something again—that same sensation from the night of the storm.
A fluctuation in space behind him.
He didn't turn.
Instead, he stepped to the right before the older boy lunged where he had been.
The attacker stumbled past him in confusion, failing to catch even his sleeve.
"Thought you weren't paying attention," the boy muttered, annoyed more than startled.
James only stared at him in silence.
He hadn't reacted out of fear.
He had simply known.
The outer ranks had swallowed many children.
But it had never seen one like him.
And it had not realized the mistake of letting him grow there.
Not yet.