Lucien sat on the edge of his bed long after waking, hands resting on knees that still felt unfamiliar in their lightness. The room was small, plain, and warm with the smell of bread drifting up from below. Every detail pressed itself into him with quiet insistence. The grain of the wooden floor. The uneven plaster along the wall. The sound of footsteps and voices rising from the inn at street level. None of it hurt. Nothing pierced his skin when he moved. For the first time in longer than he could properly remember, his body belonged to him.
Sixteen. The thought surfaced slowly, carrying weight. He was sixteen again, old enough to choose, young enough that the world had not yet closed its doors. Memory came with clarity rather than shock. He remembered how this life unfolded if left alone. He remembered the small compromises that had seemed harmless, the patience that turned into hesitation, the people he trusted when he should not have. That path ended in bone and obedience and a name spoken with fear instead of respect.
He smiled, not out of joy but certainty. He would not make the same mistakes. Whatever shape this life took, it would be one he chose with open eyes.
A knock sounded, gentle but firm.
"Lucien," came the familiar voice. "You awake, or are you planning to sleep through half the morning again?"
"I'm up," Lucien called back, standing and stretching. The movement felt good in a way power never had.
Castion waited just outside the door, leaning on his cane with more habit than need. Age had bent his back and thinned his hair, but his eyes remained sharp, always assessing, always present. He had taken Lucien in when there had been no one else, first as a child barely old enough to speak, then as a boy learning the rhythms of work, and now as something close to a man. If Castion suspected anything strange about him, he gave no sign.
"Get dressed," Castion said. "The streets already loud, and the kitchen's short a pair of hands."
Lucien nodded and followed him down the narrow stairs into the inn. They lived above it, as most innkeepers did, close enough that the building felt less like a business and more like an extension of Castion himself. The capital of Aurum spread outward in wide concentric rings, each layer marking status, trade, and influence. Their inn sat on the second ring, far enough from the outer walls to avoid the worst traffic, close enough to the inner circles to catch merchants, officials, and soldiers alike.
Outside, the main avenue was already alive. Carts rolled past with iron-bound wheels. Hawkers called out prices for fruit and cured meat. Apprentices hurried with bundles under their arms while travelers scanned signs for lodging or drink. The city breathed around him, steady and unremarkable, and Lucien let himself take it in. This was Terra. Solid. Predictable. Still untouched by the things that waited beyond it.
He spent the morning carrying trays, wiping tables, and trading greetings with familiar faces. Many of the regulars had known him since he was small and treated him accordingly, with casual affection and unsolicited advice. Among them was Rovan, a broad-shouldered soldier with a scar cutting through his left eyebrow and the relaxed posture of someone who had survived enough battles to stop fearing them.
Rovan caught Lucien near the bar and tilted his head. "You've filled out," he said. "Sixteen soon, aren't you?"
Lucien nodded. "Will be as of tommorow."
"That's what I thought." Rovan took a drink, then lowered his voice slightly. "Ever thought about enlisting?"
Lucien met his gaze without answering immediately. "You've asked before."
"And you always dodge." Rovan smiled, though there was something intent behind it. "The imperial army isn't just steel and drills. You know that."
"I know enough," Lucien replied. "It's the only legal path to a trial unless you belong to a noble house or a sanctioned order."
Rovan's expression sharpened with approval. "Good. At least you listen. Power doesn't just happen in this world. It's earned, regulated, ranked. First Order, Second Order, all the way up. Each trial pushes you forward, but only if you survive it and only if you perform well."
Lucien wiped his hands on a cloth, feigning casual interest. "And the trials themselves?"
"Different every time," Rovan said. "Some test endurance. Some test judgment. Some break people who walk in too confident. What you face shapes what you become. Strength, speed, perception, affinities. It all traces back to the trial and how you handle it."
"And the army guards its trials," Lucien said.
"Tightly," Rovan confirmed. "Same as the major powers. They know what those trials are worth. You turn sixteen, you qualify. You enlist, you get access. Simple as that."
Lucien gave a noncommittal shrug. "Simple rarely means easy."
Rovan laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "Think on it. Power changes what's possible. Even for someone born without much."
Later in the afternoon, as the rush thinned, Lucien stepped outside to clear his head. The shoemaker's shop next door had its door open, leather and oil scents spilling into the street. Elira sat on the steps, threading a needle with practiced ease. She looked up when she saw him and smiled.
Elira was his childhood friend and a girl that was too often in over her head. She had vast aspirations of controlling empires and nations and Lucien would often humor her. He couldn't help but shudder at the thought of her future, but that was to be dealt with soon.
"You look distracted," she said. "Inn too loud, or thinking bigger thoughts than usual?"
"Something like that," Lucien replied, sitting a few steps down. "What's new on your side?"
Elira snorted softly. "Same rumors, different mouths. The northern nation closed another pass last week. No explanation, no warning. Merchants are angry. Officials pretend not to notice."
"And the south?" Lucien asked.
"Valenor's still friendly, still smiling," she said. "At least on paper. They need Aurum's grain as much as we need their metals."
Lucien nodded. "And the east?"
Her smile faded. "Still quiet, which makes everyone nervous. That coastal state across the sea, Karth, is tightening its grip. The dictator's name is Morvane, if the stories are true. Brutal even by eastern standards."
Lucien leaned back, eyes tracing the curve of the avenue as it disappeared toward the inner rings. Four nations, each moving carefully, each waiting for the other to slip. It was a fragile balance, one he remembered shattering in time.
He stood, brushing dust from his hands, and looked out over Aurum with a calm that came from foresight rather than innocence. The world seemed peaceful now. That peace would not last.
This time, he intended to be ready.