The seasons had done their magic and worn down everything around it
It was yet, another cold morning, the kind that clung to your skin and whispered into your bones. A mist hung over the orphanage grounds like a veil, softening the edges of everything under the grey light of twilight.
Michael slipped quietly from the orphanage, careful not to wake the others. His steps were light, practiced due to repetition. He'd done this enough times that even the old wooden floorboards didn't betray him.
Outside, the world was still. The rising sun barely bleeding into the sky, leaving the trees a silhouette. He tugged the edges of his coat edges tighter and moved quickly through the tall grass, past the looming fields and down into the tree line. The woods weren't dense, but they were enough to swallow him whole. Here, he could disappear without a trace.
It took him fifteen minutes to reach his sanctuary, a small hollow cave nestled between two boulders and partly hidden by a curtain of ivy vines. A place only he knew. He alone.
Michael stepped inside, dropped his bag quietly against the wall, and sat cross-legged on the cold, slightly damp stone floor, leaning his back against the jagged wall. His breath slowed and his eyes closed.
Then it began.
His ritual for the past few months had been waking before dawn, sneaking away from home, and meditating in silence. He was looking for something. A spark. A ripple. A flash. Anything would do.
It was called Vitalis.
A natural force within the body. Once consciously harnessed, it changed one's perception of well….. everything.
From that point on, power, might, the stuff of legends sung by the bards… they were all within one's view.
But view, and reach were separate concepts. The nobles had long since kept a tight leash on all means of even gaining this sort of power talk-less developing it. And to make things even more unfair they had elixirs, secret methods, family techniques passed down for generations. They had even taken a step further and actively criminalized the possession or passing down of tomes of knowledge containing such except held by a noble family of any class, the Imperial Legion or the Academy. Then best thing commoners could do was to know their nature if they even had the resources to cultivate their vitalis.
There was no route, and so Michael had taken the Hard road. The risky one.
The process was simple; you meditate until you could feel the thread.
The results, however, were brutal. It was a technique that worked only for those with strong mental discipline and natural aptitude. Many failed. Most never even began. But Michael had no other option. The difficulty of this method didn't take away from the fact that if he was ever found with it, he would be summarily executed.
Hours passed and his sense of time dilated until there existed no sound or sensation except the rhythm of his breath and the occasional chirp of a distant bird or the snap of a twig. Then at long last, something finally changed.
It was faint.
Subtle.
A flicker of movement within him. Not muscular, not skeletal. it was deeper, ethereal, flowing.
His heartbeat stifled for an instant, slowing and synchronizing with something else entirely. And then he felt it — a strand of something warm, something alive, coursing slowly through his body.
Not blood. Not air.
Something else, a foreign pressure which seemed to have always been there.
He didn't open his eyes. He knew better now. Breaking focus too early would scatter it. So he stayed still, riding the sensation as it circled again… and again.
Each rotation made it clearer. Stronger.
To most, it would be imperceptible. But to someone who had chased this feeling every morning for months, it was unmistakable.
He'd found it.
It wasn't much — a single wisp, a thread no thicker than a hair. But it was real. And it was his.
His breathing quickened with excitement, and he nearly broke focus. He steadied himself, then reached over slowly, carefully, to his bag.
Inside, wrapped in cloth, was a gnarled, ugly root. It looked like a twisted finger dipped in ash. He unwrapped it and bit into the tip.
The bitterness was instant, sharp enough to make his face twist.
He chewed.
Swallowed.
Then fought the nausea rising in his chest.
He had learned about this root during one of runs for old Mernan. It wasn't a true panacea, not like the ones the nobles used. But it was a stimulant, an amplifier so to say. Dangerous if used wrongly due to its raw potency. He'd resolved to only use it when he felt close.
And now he was.
He exhaled and sank back into the rhythm, chasing the thread again.
Minutes passed. Then more.
The thread was steady now. Not brighter, not bolder — but consistent. Like a second pulse running beneath his own.
He didn't know what it meant. He wasn't sure if this counted as progress or if he was still in the woods. Then again, any progress is progress.
That was enough.
A bell rang faintly in the distance — sharp and distant.
His eyes snapped open.
Morning call.
He was late.
Michael shot to his feet, threw everything back into his bag, and bolted out of the cave. His feet pounded the familiar trail, whipping up dead leaves in his tracks. His lungs burned from the cold air. He splashed through the shallow stream that marked the orphanage border and slowed just before the back yard.
Aamon was there, crouched with a second bucket in hand.
"You're late again," he said, tossing Michael a knowing look. "Lucky for you, I told them you went to piss, what i don't know is how to explain you always waking up to do that before dawn."
Michael caught his breath and took the bucket. "You're a lifesaver."
Aamon grinned. "You'll owe me breakfast."
They joined the others by the well, washing up and preparing for what everyone had been talking about for weeks now, The Aptitude test.
Billy was there too, helping scrub one of the younger boys who'd fallen asleep in his own drool.
"You think they'll test us with real magic items?" Aamon asked as he splashed water on his face.
Michael shrugged. "Don't know, Doesn't matter, Just don't shit yourself."
Aamon snorted. "You're just scared I'll test higher than you."
Billy cut in, shaking his head. "Focus, idiots. No indecency, no smart-ass remarks, or embarrassing miss Sarah, she has enough to worry about. and definitely no fighting today."
They all nodded. Most of them.
By the time they returned to the orphanage yard, A procession had already arrived.
The procession that arrived at the orphanage near dusk wasn't anything like Michael had imagined. Three large carriages, each dark and polished to a mirror sheen, rolled into the clearing like gliding shadows. Their wheels, covered in dust and dried mud from their journey, still moved with the precision of finely-tuned gears, barely making a sound.
The horses pulling them were unlike the sturdy, worn creatures they used in the village, these were tall, jet-black beasts with glowing eyes, flaming nostrils and golden harnesses that jingled like ceremonial bells. Soldiers in dark blue cloaks flanked them, their crests of a hawk beneath a sun glinting faintly in the light of the torches.
The nobles that emerged looked like they had stepped out of another world. Their clothes were lined with silks and tiny gemstones, even the "low-class" ones Miss Sarah had whispered about. Their accents were sharp, clipped, full of nasal arrogance, as though every syllable was beneath them. They looked around the crumbling walls and weathered windows of the orphanage with thinly veiled disdain.
Michael saw one of the young nobles wrinkle her nose as she stepped from the carriage. "This is the place?" she muttered. "I thought it would at least have... a gate."
Another, older one with sunken cheeks and a walking cane chuckled dryly. "Royal pity spreads thin, dear. Like butter on burnt bread."
Miss Sarah, dressed in her cleanest old gown, curtsied as low as she could, her joints straining. She had pulled out all the stops to welcome the guests. There were faded drapes now hanging where bare stone had been, the floors scrubbed until the wood grain showed, and even a makeshift banner of welcome fluttering limply in the breeze. She had spent hours with the children rehearsing how to greet and bow, and every word she now spoke was polished with practiced grace.
Skipping to dinner, it was nothing like the usual watery broth. In honor of their guests, Miss Sarah had dipped deep into her stores. The meal that night had actual meat; rabbit, most likely, but spiced and tender along with mashed tatoes and fancy vegetables. The children ate like kings, whispering and laughing behind cupped hands as they watched the nobles on their elevated-platform table try not to show their distaste for the rustic setting.
But the night didn't stay light-hearted for long.
One of the guards, a tall man with a crooked smirk and roving eyes, had taken to lingering too close to Miss Sarah. His hands found excuses to brush her waist as she moved past, and his voice slurred slightly from the spiced corn liquor they'd been served.
"Why don't you show me the guest quarters yourself, madam?" he said loudly, his hand grabbing her wrist with far too much familiarity.