Three days had passed since Aldrin felt that strange warmth in his chest, and he'd been trying to recreate it ever since.
Every spare moment—before dawn, during lunch breaks, after dinner—he would sneak away to quiet corners and attempt to summon that sensation again. He'd close his eyes, focus on his breathing, visualize energy flowing through his body just like the old combat manual described.
Nothing.
"Maybe I imagined it," Aldrin muttered to himself as he hauled another bucket of water from the village well. The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of dew-soaked earth and distant pine forests. Most of Riverton was still asleep, which was exactly why Aldrin had volunteered for the early water run—it gave him time alone to think.
And to practice.
Setting the bucket down, he flexed his hands and tried once more. He concentrated on that spot in his chest where he'd felt the warmth, willing it to ignite like a candle flame.
"Come on," he whispered. "I know you're there. I felt you."
His reflection stared back at him from the water's surface—a young man with messy dark hair, grey eyes shadowed by lack of sleep, and the lean build of someone who worked hard but rarely ate enough. Not exactly the image of a legendary knight.
"Talking to yourself, boy?"
Aldrin spun around so fast he nearly kicked over the bucket.
An old man stood at the edge of the village square, leaning heavily on a gnarled walking stick. He wore a travel-stained brown cloak that had seen better days, and a hood shadowed most of his face. But what immediately drew Aldrin's attention was the empty right sleeve of the man's cloak, pinned neatly across his chest.
One-armed. A veteran, perhaps?
"I'm sorry, sir," Aldrin said quickly, straightening up. "I didn't mean to disturb anyone. I was just—"
"Trying to awaken your Aura?" The old man's voice was rough, like gravel grinding together, but there was an edge of amusement to it.
Aldrin's blood went cold. How could this stranger possibly know?
The old man chuckled and moved closer, his walking stick tapping against the cobblestones. Now that he was nearer, Aldrin could see more details—a deeply scarred face, sharp eyes that gleamed with intelligence despite the weathered features, and the unmistakable bearing of someone who'd once stood tall in armor.
"Don't look so shocked," the stranger said. "I've seen a hundred young fools doing exactly what you were doing. Eyes closed, hands clenched, face scrunched up like you're constipating. Classic signs of someone who read about Aura in a book and thinks they can just will it into existence."
Aldrin felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment. "I wasn't—I mean, I just thought—"
"You thought that if you concentrated hard enough, you'd suddenly burst into flames of power and become a hero?" The old man snorted. "Doesn't work like that, boy. Aura isn't something you think into existence. It's something you feel. Something you live."
"Then how do you awaken it?" Aldrin blurted out before he could stop himself.
The stranger studied him for a long moment, those sharp eyes boring into Aldrin as if peeling back layers to examine what lay beneath. Finally, he spoke.
"Tell me, boy—what's your name?"
"Aldrin. Aldrin Riverborn."
"Riverborn." The old man tested the name. "Farmer family?"
"Yes, sir."
"And you want to be a knight?"
There was no point in lying. "Yes, sir."
"Why?"
The question was simple, but the weight behind it was enormous. Aldrin had been asked this before—by his father, by village elders, by the part of himself that whispered doubts in the dark. But somehow, standing before this one-armed stranger at dawn, the answer felt more important than ever.
"Because..." Aldrin hesitated, searching for the right words. "Because I want to protect people. I want to stand between the innocent and the dangers of this world. I want to matter."
"Noble sentiments." The old man's expression didn't change. "Also common ones. Half the boys who enter the Royal Tournament say the same pretty words. Most of them are dead within the first round."
The blunt statement hit like a physical blow, but Aldrin didn't look away.
"I know the odds," he said quietly. "Everyone's told me it's impossible. That I'm just a farmer's son with delusions of grandeur. But I have to try. Even if I fail, even if I die trying—I have to know that I gave it everything."
Something shifted in the old man's expression. The cynical amusement faded, replaced by something else. Recognition, perhaps. Or memory.
"Three days ago," the stranger said slowly, "something happened to you. A moment where you felt different. Warm. Like something inside you was trying to wake up."
Aldrin's eyes widened. "How did you—"
The old man held up his remaining hand, and for just a second, a faint golden shimmer surrounded his fingers before fading away. "Because I felt it too. This ring"—he tapped a worn piece of metal on his finger—"it's an old knight's artifact. Detects Aura fluctuations within five miles. Three nights ago, it pulsed. Someone nearby had their first awakening."
"You're a knight," Aldrin breathed.
"Was." The correction was sharp. "Past tense. I haven't been a knight for five years. Not since..." He gestured vaguely at his missing arm.
"What happened?"
"Northern Border War. A Rank A Dire Bear tore my arm off before my squad could kill it. Saved three soldiers that day, but the kingdom doesn't give medals to crippled knights. They give pensions and early retirements." The bitterness in his voice was palpable.
Aldrin didn't know what to say. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant crow of a rooster announcing the approaching dawn.
Finally, the old man sighed. "My name is Gareth. Sir Gareth Ironheart, formerly of the Royal Knights, Third Division, Rank S."
Rank S. Aldrin's mind reeled. He'd read about the ranking system—F through SSS, with each rank representing an exponential increase in power. Most knights never made it past Rank C. Rank A was considered exceptional. Rank S was legendary.
And this broken old man had been Rank S.
"Sir Gareth," Aldrin said carefully, "why did you come to Riverton?"
"Because I'm a bitter old fool who can't let go of the past." Gareth's laugh was harsh. "When that ring pulsed, something in me woke up. Curiosity, maybe. Or hope—the most dangerous poison of all. I wanted to see what kind of person could have an Aura awakening in a backwater village like this."
He studied Aldrin again, more carefully this time.
"You're weak," Gareth said bluntly. "Your body is a farmer's body—some muscle from hard work, but no real combat conditioning. Your stance is terrible. Your hands have never properly held a sword. You probably can't run two miles without collapsing."
Each word was like an arrow, and each one hit true. Aldrin wanted to argue, to defend himself, but he couldn't. Everything Gareth said was fact.
"However," the old knight continued, "you have something most of those pampered noble brats at the academy don't have. I can see it in your eyes. You've got fire. Real fire—not the kind that burns bright and fast, but the kind that smolders for years if you feed it right."
Aldrin's heart began to pound. "Are you saying—"
"I'm saying that if you're serious about this insane dream of yours, I can help you." Gareth jabbed his walking stick into the ground for emphasis. "I can teach you how to properly awaken your Aura. How to fight. How to survive long enough to even make it to that tournament you're dreaming about."
"Really?" The word came out as barely a whisper.
"But," Gareth's expression turned severe, "understand this, boy—what I'm offering isn't kindness. It's not charity. If you become my student, I will break you down to nothing and rebuild you into something that might survive. The training will be brutal. You'll hate me. You'll hate yourself. You'll question everything and wish you'd never met me."
The old knight leaned closer, and Aldrin could smell the faint scent of alcohol and old leather.
"Most importantly," Gareth said quietly, "there's no guarantee. You might train for three years and still die in the first round of the tournament. You might never advance past Rank E. You might waste the best years of your life chasing an impossible dream and end up crippled and forgotten like me."
He straightened up, letting those words hang in the morning air.
"So here's my question, Aldrin Riverborn: knowing all that, knowing that I'm offering you pain and suffering with only the slimmest chance of success—do you still want to try?"
Aldrin didn't hesitate. He'd been waiting his entire life for this moment, even if he hadn't known it.
"Yes, sir. I want to try."
Gareth stared at him for what felt like an eternity. Then, slowly, a smile crept across the old knight's scarred face—the first genuine smile Aldrin had seen from him.
"Good answer." Gareth turned and began walking toward the edge of the village. "Meet me at the old mill outside town tomorrow at dawn. Don't be late. And don't tell anyone what you're doing—not your family, not your friends. If you can't keep one secret, you can't keep the hundreds that knighthood demands."
"Wait!" Aldrin called after him. "What should I bring?"
Gareth glanced back over his shoulder, that grim smile still in place.
"Your funeral clothes. You're going to need them."
Then he was gone, disappearing into the morning mist like a ghost.
Aldrin stood alone at the well, his hands trembling—not with fear, but with excitement. The warmth in his chest flickered again, stronger this time, responding to the emotions surging through him.
Three years. One thousand and ninety-two days left until the tournament.
His real training was about to begin.
Aldrin spent the rest of the day in a daze, going through the motions of farm work while his mind raced. His father noticed his distraction and snapped at him twice for sloppy work. His mother gave him concerned looks during dinner. Even little Elara kept asking if he was feeling alright.
"I'm fine," he lied, forcing a smile. "Just tired."
That night, lying in bed while Elara slept peacefully across the room, Aldrin stared at the ceiling and made plans. He'd have to wake even earlier than usual to meet Gareth without his parents noticing. He'd have to work twice as hard during the day to make up for the energy he'd spend training.
It would be exhausting. Painful. Maybe impossible.
But for the first time in his life, Aldrin felt like he was moving toward something real. Not just dreaming, but doing.
The warmth in his chest pulsed gently, like a second heartbeat.
His Aura, still sleeping, waiting to be awakened.
Tomorrow, that would change.