The hill was empty.
Ren stood beneath the broad tree, the countryside spread out below him in soft morning light. Mist clung low to the fields, rolling between fences and dirt paths—slow, heavy, unhurried.
He pressed his palm to the bark.
Rough. Solid. Unburned.
Near its roots, the grass had grown back unevenly—thin in one small patch, darker than the rest. Easy to miss unless you knew exactly where to look.
Ren did.
He left his hand there longer than necessary, like he was trying to commit the feel of it to memory.
Beside the tree, the fence post waited where it always did—the one he'd carved into over time, shaping a shallow notch that fit the stick perfectly.
He slid the stick into the holder and let go.
It stayed upright. Steady.
Exactly where he always left it.
The book remained tucked under his arm.
Ren looked out over the land he knew. The orphanage roof peeked through the trees in the distance. Smoke curled gently from the kitchen chimney. Everything looked normal.
He stood there a second longer than he meant to.
If I wait until I feel ready, he thought, I'll never leave.
Ren turned away.
The orphanage was already in motion.
Elda moved briskly between rooms, hands full, voice clipped as she issued instructions. Food wrapped in cloth. Coin counted twice, then tucked away where it wouldn't be obvious. A folded slip of paper was pressed into Ren's hand without ceremony.
"A boarding ledger," she said. "Cheap. Close to the academy. They won't care where you're from."
Ren nodded. "Thank you."
She didn't answer. Just moved on to the next task like gratitude was a delay she couldn't afford.
Outside, the road was crowded.
Children gathered near the caravan—some hanging back, others pressing close. A few tried to joke, the kind that didn't land but were offered anyway. One boy clapped Ren on the shoulder too hard. Another hugged his waist and didn't let go right away.
"Don't forget us," someone muttered.
"I won't," Ren said, and meant it.
Lina stood a little apart.
When Ren turned toward her, she didn't run at first. She took two careful steps, then stopped—like she was afraid that if she moved too fast, this would become real.
Her face crumpled anyway.
She crossed the distance in a rush and hit him hard, arms locking around his middle, grip tight and shaking.
"I don't want you to go," she cried.
The sound hit him straight in the chest.
A few other kids sniffed. Someone wiped their face with a sleeve and looked away. The road felt suddenly smaller.
Ren knelt.
He cupped Lina's face gently, thumbs brushing away her tears—more than he'd expected.
"Hey," he said quietly.
She looked at him, eyes red and searching.
"They said you won't come back."
Ren swallowed.
He leaned forward until his forehead touched hers.
"I will," he said. "I promise."
He didn't know how—only that he had to say it.
Lina nodded hard, forcing herself to believe, then hugged him again—tighter this time.
"Come back soon," she whispered.
Ren stood.
Tarin was nearby, arms crossed, expression closed and unreadable. He hadn't said much all morning. Hadn't needed to.
"Supplies are secured," Tarin said. "Coin's hidden. Don't flash it."
Ren nodded. "I won't."
"The trials aren't fair," Tarin added. "Neither are people."
"I know."
Tarin turned away.
The caravan master cleared his throat loudly. "We're late."
Ren took a step toward the wagon.
Behind him—
"Ren."
He turned.
Tarin's jaw was tight. His voice came low, controlled.
"Come home alive."
Ren met his eyes.
Then nodded.
No words.
That was the closest thing Tarin gave to goodbye.
The caravan lurched forward.
Ren climbed aboard as the wheels began to turn, the orphanage slowly shrinking behind him. Children waved.
Lina waved hardest of all.
Ren watched until the roof disappeared behind the bend in the road.
He didn't look away. Didn't let himself.
He didn't forget.
The road stretched on.
The caravan didn't move like a soldier's march. It rolled. Stopped. Rolled again.
Wheels groaned over ruts. Merchants argued with farmers. A guard laughed too loudly at his own joke. Villages thinned into open stretches where only wind and birds followed the road.
Ren kept to himself when he could.
He listened more than he spoke.
He watched the land change without anyone announcing it.
Fields widened. Roads hardened beneath the wheels. Patrol posts appeared more often. Once, on the horizon, he saw a stone tower and realized he'd never seen anything built that high in his life.
At night, he slept lightly.
The same fog kept finding him in dreams—muffled voices sharpening into screams.
He woke to silence and stared at his hands, remembering the warmth he'd felt in old books when mana was described as obedient, responsive—something that moved when called.
He didn't say it out loud.
But doubt settled in his chest, heavy and unmoving.
I promised I'd come back.
The words weighed more on the road, when no one could hear them.
On the ninth day, the capital appeared.
First the walls.
Not fences. Not stacked stone.
Walls that looked like they'd been carved out of the world itself—thick, towering, crowned with watchtowers that cut into the sky.
Then the towers behind them.
Dozens.
Some narrow like spears. Some broad and tiered. Roofs of slate and copper caught morning light until the whole skyline glittered like something unreal.
Ren stood near the wagons as the caravan slowed, his bag strap biting into his palm.
People flowed around him like he was a rock in a river.
Carts with iron-banded wheels. Horses in polished harness. Soldiers in clean armor walking in pairs, not even glancing at the crowd. Vendors shouting over each other in accents Ren couldn't place.
They passed under the gate's shadow, and the city swallowed everything else.
Sound hit first—layered and relentless.
Hooves. Wheels. Voices. Hammers. Bells.
The air smelled of smoke and metal and bread and sweat and too many lives pressed together. Somewhere nearby, a forge roared hot enough that Ren felt it brush his face as he passed.
He turned once, reflexively, like he might still see fields.
There were no fields.
Only stone. Only people. Only height.
He'd never seen buildings this tall. He'd never seen streets this wide.
He felt small—tight in the chest, lost in the height and noise.
The caravan master called out instructions, and people split around the wagons without slowing, like the city had decided long ago it wouldn't make room for anyone.
Ren stepped down, gripping the strap of his bag until his fingers ached.
He forced himself to move.
Not toward the academy yet.
First—Elda's ledger.
The caravan didn't take him to the academy gates.
It left him where caravans always left people—near the merchant quarter, where wagons could unload without choking the main streets.
"Thank you," Ren said to the caravan master.
The man grunted like gratitude was unnecessary, then softened just enough to nod.
"You've got a place?"
Ren held up the folded slip. "Boarding house. Close to the academy. I've never been here."
The caravan master squinted at the paper, then jerked his chin down the street.
"Keep that road until you hit the brass fountain. Don't follow the shouting—follow the smell. Bakery row's behind it. Tailor shops too. Your place'll be wedged somewhere near there."
Ren repeated the directions under his breath.
"Don't get your coin out in the open," the man added, already turning away. "City's got hands."
"I won't," Ren said.
The caravan master climbed back onto the wagon. Wheels creaked.
The caravan rolled on—swallowed almost instantly by the movement of the capital like it had never paused for him at all.
Ren stood still for a beat, letting the city hit him.
People everywhere.
Not villagers. Not farmers.
Porters moved through the crowd carrying crates stacked far higher than any person Ren knew could manage.
One man shifted the load on his shoulder, and the air around his legs thickened subtly—Ren felt the pressure even from a distance as the man took another step without slowing.
Mana, Ren realized—casual, effortless.
A woman stood beside a wash basin near a side alley, sleeves rolled high. Water lifted from the tub in smooth, controlled spirals, scrubbing cloth clean without soaking the stone beneath her feet. She flicked her wrist and the garments wrung themselves dry before settling neatly into a basket.
Two streets over, a cook worked an open stall with no firepit at all. Flames bloomed in his palm just long enough to sear meat, then vanished again, leaving only heat and the sharp scent of spice.
Ren slowed without meaning to.
A blacksmith's apprentice dragged a slab of metal that should have taken three men. The stone beneath it rippled faintly as it slid, earth reinforcing the path just enough to keep it moving.
Nearby, another craftsman shaped thin sheets of iron with bare hands, the metal softening under controlled pressure before cooling back into rigid form.
Wind rippled through the street in short, deliberate bursts—not a breeze, but something guided—clearing smoke from a stallfront, drying ink on fresh notices, nudging hanging signs back into alignment.
No one even looked up.
It was simply how things were done here.
Ren felt rooted in the middle of it.
He'd trained for years to feel nothing—and here people used it to dry ink.
Stalls spilled out into the street.
Spices Ren didn't recognize. Dried fruits in colors that looked unreal. Fish laid on ice that didn't melt. Metalwork hung like art. Cloth bolts taller than Lina, dyed so richly they almost hurt to look at.
He caught himself staring.
The noise was constant—bargaining, laughter, arguments, wheels, hooves—all of it layered together until it felt like the city had its own heartbeat.
Ren tightened his grip on his bag strap and forced himself to start walking.
Eyes forward. Just walk.
He followed the road the caravan master had pointed out, scanning for a fountain—for anything that matched the picture in his head.
He passed people who didn't glance at him twice.
He passed others who looked him over once—the worn clothes, the village-cut hair—and dismissed him as quickly as they'd noticed him.
By the time he found the brass fountain, he was already sweating.
Not from heat.
From how crowded everything was. From how easily he could disappear in it.
Bakery row was exactly where the caravan master had said—warmth and yeast and sugar cutting through smoke and metal. Tailor signs hung above narrow doorways. Dresses and coats displayed like wealth was normal.
Ren swallowed, feeling the distance between this place and his village like a physical weight.
Then he found the crooked boarding sign.
And stepped toward it.
The boarding house was wedged between a tailor and a baker, its sign crooked, its doorway narrow.
Inside smelled like old wood and boiled cabbage.
A woman behind the desk took one look at Ren's clothes and didn't bother pretending to smile.
"Name."
"Ren."
She scribbled, slid a key across the counter, and tapped the paper Elda had given him.
"Second floor. Third door. No fire. No noise. Pay weekly."
Ren nodded. "Yes."
He climbed stairs that creaked with every step and found a room barely bigger than a storage closet.
A narrow bed. A small wash basin. A window that looked onto brick and laundry lines.
It wasn't home—but it was his.
Ren set his bag down and stood there for a moment too long, listening to the city through the walls—muffled voices, footfalls, life continuing without him.
Then he picked up his bag again.
Somewhere beyond the noise, the academy waited.
Ren squared his shoulders and walked back out into the street.