That foolish instructor… what does he know about talent?"
Hay's boots splashed through the puddles as he muttered, his cloak drawn against the cold drizzle. "Bloodline, bloodline, bloodline — that's all they ever care about."
His temper simmered. Recruiters were meant to scout potential, not pedigrees. And yet the academy's upper staff dismissed anyone not born under a House sigil.
Then something brushed past him — fast.
A small shadow darted through the crowd.
Hay's pouch—gone.
"You've got to be joking." He sighed and turned sharply, eyes narrowing. The boy was fast — unnaturally fast — leaping over crates and weaving through bodies like mist.
Hay followed. Not out of anger anymore, but curiosity.
The chase ended in the ruins of a collapsed bridge. The boy froze, cornered between Hay and a drop of thirty feet.
"You can give it back," Hay said calmly.
The boy said nothing. He looked about nine, maybe younger. Dirt on his face. Thin. Bones sharp under skin. But his eyes — gray like stormclouds, glowing faintly at the edges.
Hay stepped forward. "What's your name?"
"…Zerathos."
"Zerathos," Hay repeated, as if tasting the sound. "You're fast. Faster than a kid your size should be."
Silence.
Then, as Hay reached to take back his pouch, the air shifted. The shadow behind Zerathos rippled — alive, breathing, mimicking him.
Hay froze. His skin tingled.
"Well," he muttered. "I'll be damned."
The boy flinched, expecting a blow. Instead, Hay laughed softly.
"You just made my year, kid."
He knelt, met the boy's eyes.
"How do you feel about getting out of this place?"
Zerathos blinked. "…Out?"
"Yeah. The Obsidian Nexus is taking new blood today."
The boy hesitated. He didn't understand why this stranger was smiling.
Hay extended a hand. "Come on. You're wasting that speed in the dirt."
After a long pause, Zerathos took it.
The shadow behind him shifted again — not following, but watching.