Lux did not know what time it was when Geltry came for him.
There were no bells, no horns, no shouted orders cutting through sleep. Just a soft knock and her voice—pleasant, alert, already moving forward in the day.
"Good morning, Young Master. Your first lesson is prepared."
He followed her through corridors that were quieter than the ones he'd seen before, the stone beneath his feet warm enough that he barely noticed it anymore. That realization unsettled him more than the cold ever had.
The room they entered was plain in a deliberate way.
A long wooden table sat at the center, its surface unmarked. Shelves lined the walls, filled with books of varying size and thickness—some thin enough to be pamphlets, others heavy enough to bow the shelf beneath them. A tall window let in pale daylight, muted by the snow outside.
A man sat at the table, already writing.
He was thin, older than Lux had expected, with deep lines carved into his face that suggested years of squinting at fine print. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing forearms marked by faint ink stains and old burns. He didn't look up immediately.
"Sit," he said, not necessarily rudely but not with any friendliness either.
Lux sat.
The man finished his sentence, dotted something with finality, and set his pen aside. Only then did he look at Lux fully.
"Name," he said.
"Lux."
The man nodded once. "Instructor Halven. I teach what most people think they already know."
Lix taised an eyebrow.
"You can read?" Halven asked.
Lux hesitated. "I think I can."
"Good," Halven replied. "That means we won't waste time pretending."
He slid a page across the table. It wasn't long—just a few short paragraphs.
"Read it. Out loud."
Lux obeyed.
His voice was quiet at first, then steadier as he found rhythm. He stumbled on longer words, paused to sound them out, guessed wrong once and corrected himself. He reached the end with a faint flush creeping up his neck.
Halven said nothing.
Instead, he slid a second page forward.
Same text.
Different spacing.
"Again."
Lux frowned but complied.
Halfway through, he slowed.
"You're guessing," Halven said mildly.
"I—no, I—"
"You are," Halven interrupted. "Your pace changes when you stop understanding. Don't be ashamed. Everyone starts somewhere and your mistakes tell me where to start."
He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his stomach.
"People think reading is about words," he continued. "It isn't. It's about structure. Meaning. Why one sentence follows another. If you don't understand why something is written, you don't understand it at all."
He tapped the paper once.
"Read until it makes sense. Then stop."
They worked like that for hours.
Not just reading—writing. Copying sentences until Lux's hand cramped. By the end of the session Lux was convinced he could see the words leave his instructors mouth.
"That should be enough words for today," he continued, "You adapt quickly to new information but you have problem in putting it into practice. It will probably take maybe a year for you to be up to standard."
"A year of this?"
Lux shivered at the thought. The session wasnt that bad at first but when he had create whole sentences with words he had only just learnt and memorize so many definitions it began to slowly pile one after another in Lux's mind.
Soon after, the numbers followed followed: counting, grouping, division explained not as symbols but as decisions. Halven spoke while Lux worked, sometimes rambling, sometimes circling back to correct himself.
Lux found this session much more straightforward. Knowing how to ration and the distance from each settlement was key to surviving in the slums afterall. Unlike words which have so many different meanings and connotations, numbers were as they are and Lux like that simplicity.
Though very soon Lux would realize that numbers might not truly be all that straightforward as he thought. As the lessons continue and values increased more rules were added which Lux had no trouble understanding at first, but struggled with putting into practice on his own.
"When you add," he said, "you're not combining numbers. You're accounting for absence. When you subtract, you're acknowledging loss. Keep these two fundamental laws in mind and all else will come naturally."
When Lux made a mistake, Halven didn't scold him. He simply asked why Lux thought the answer was correct, then dismantled the reasoning piece by piece until Lux could see the flaw himself.
By the time Geltry returned to escort him to his next lesson, Lux's head ached—not from confusion, but from effort.
As he stood, Halven spoke again.
"I'll leave work for you to do during your free time." he said. "That is it for this session."
Lux was moved to another room.
The history room felt colder, though Lux suspected that was intentional.
The walls were darker stone here, the light subdued. A single long desk faced the front of the room, where a woman stood with her hands clasped behind her back.
She turned as Lux entered.
She was older—her hair pulled back tightly, streaked with silver—but her posture was straight, her gaze sharp and unwavering. She looked at Lux not like a child, but like a variable.
"You must be Lux," she said. "I am Instructor Maelin."
She gestured for him to sit, then did so herself, folding her hands atop the desk.
"Before I begin," she said, "tell me what you believe history is."
Lux hesitated then he spoke.
"It's what happened the past right?"
The stony woman replied, "You're not wrong but that wasn't the answer I was looking for." She continued , " History is a guide for the future, it is proof of humanity's ability to learn from the mistakes of our predecessors and adapt. But history is also written by the victors. By the few who truly peer into the knowledge of the past and use it to revolutionize the future. They then become the one who make history."
Lux stared at his teacher with eyes that said he had no idea what she was talking about but he felt a bit moved either way.
She then asked another question, "Now, what do you think Acrem Futri is."
Lux spoke carefully, choosing words he knew wouldn't get him corrected immediately.
"A city," he said. "One built so people could survive the winter."
Maelin nodded slowly. "That is the version most people carry."
She leaned back slightly.
"Acrem Futri is not a city," she continued. "It is an answer. And like most answers born of desperation, it is deeply flawed."
She spoke for a long time.
Not rushed.
She explained the end of the old world not as catastrophe, but as consequence—how humanity had advanced too quickly, how systems collapsed under their own weight, how the winter was not really punishment but a result. She spoke of the decision to build Acrem Futri not as unity, but as containment.
"We gathered ourselves into one place," Maelin said, "because spreading out meant extinction. So we stacked ourselves instead. Vertically. Socially. Economically."
She described how the city was divided not by morality, but by logistics. Who lived closer to warmth. Who lived closer to resources. Who lived close enough to matter.
"The outter sectors," she said plainly, "exist because not everyone can be saved at once."
Lux's fingers curled in his lap.
"Does that make it right?" he asked quietly.
Maelin studied him.
"No," she said. "But right doesn't always mean perfect."
"History," she said, leaning forward, "this city's history, is not about heroes. It is about decisions made by frightened people who believed they had no better options."
Lux listened, silent.
For the first time, the world he'd grown up in felt… intentional. That frightened him more than randomness ever had.
Quickly after that his session ended and it was time give onto his final class of the day.
The final lesson of the day was held in a smaller room.
No desks. Just a wide, open floor.
The man waiting there was older, but not frail. His movements were unhurried, economical, as if he conserved energy by instinct rather than discipline.
"Lux," he said. "I am Instructor Caelis."
He did not ask Lux to sit.
Instead, he gestured for him to stand.
"You have felt it," Caelis said, not as a question.
Lux stiffened.
"Hlyr," the man continued. "The heat. The thing in your chest that reacts when you are frightened or angry."
Lux swallowed.
"So that's what it's called," he murmured.
Caelis smiled faintly.
"Hlyr," he said. "Not magic. Not divinity. A function of the human body that most people never develop the capacity to perceive. Your case is rather special considering the raw amount you emit and its concentration."
He spoke at length.
About Hlyr's role in the city. How it powered systems people relied on without understanding them. How it shaped warfare, exploration, survival beyond the city's borders.
"How dangerous it is," he added, "depends entirely on how honest you are with yourself."
He did not demonstrate anything.
Instead, he made Lux breathe.
Stand.
Focus.
Again and again.
"Power without discipline burns outward," Caelis said. "Discipline without power collapses inward. You will begin with neither."
Lux's legs trembled by the end.
Not from exhaustion.
From awareness.
When the lesson ended, Caelis placed a hand lightly on Lux's shoulder.
"You are not being trained yet," he said. "You are being prepared to survive training."
Lux nodded.
That night, when he returned to his room, his body ached in ways hunger never caused.
It was a bit ironic to him. Today was probably his least physically taxing day of his life but he still felt so exhausted. Too exhausted to even laugh. And so his consciousness faded and he slowly drifted into sleep all while having one thing in mind.
"Today wasn't all that bad."