"UNIVERSE IMPACT!"
Devon's roar filled the cramped, wooden interior of the traveling cart. He lunged forward, his small fist descending toward Orion with all the theatrical fury a ten-year-old could muster.
Orion didn't panic. He shifted his weight. He slid to the left, the "Universe Impact" whistling harmlessly past his ear. Noting the opening at Devon's hip, Orion struck.
"CLAWS OF JUSTICE!" Orion yelled, his palm connecting firmly with Devon's side.
The impact sent a dull thud through the cart. Orion pulled back, a smug smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I win. That's a killing blow, Devon."
"What? No, it wasn't!" Devon said puffing out his chest. "My body is indestructible. I've reached the Diamond Skin stage of my secret technique. That hit didn't even tickle."
Orion rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. "You say that every time you lose. Yesterday you were 'Ethereal Ghost,' and the day before you were 'The Mountain.' Just admit it, I caught you."
Devon sighed, the bravado leaking out of him like air from a punctured balloon. "Whatever," he muttered, retreating to the back of the cart to sit on a lumpy sack of grain.
Orion turned away, leaning his chin on the wooden frame of the window. The scenery was a monotonous blur of grey-brown road and skeletal trees. They had been traveling for two weeks now, the rhythmic clack-clack of the wheels acting as a constant, numbing metronome.
Their next show was in Iron City. It was going to be massive—the biggest festival in a decade.
He looked back at Devon. His friend was already back on his feet, punching the air with silent, focused intensity.
Devon's Aegis hadn't awakened yet. To the world, he was just a commoner with no weight. But he lived in his own fantasy world.
Orion's Aegis had awakened when he was four, but the result had been... underwhelming. His field was "Average." A three-meter bubble on a compressed state.
Devon, however, didn't care about averages. He believes that he would be the one to dwarf the world, that he was the protagonist of a story that hadn't started yet.
Orion looked back out at the horizon, where the jagged, metallic spires of Iron City were beginning to pierce the clouds.
The front door of the cart slammed open, the heavy wood rattling on its hinges as Oswaldo stepped in.
"Iron City is upon us, children!" he announced, his voice booming with the practiced authority of a ringmaster. "Look alive."
Devon and Orion scrambled toward the middle row of the cart to join the rest of the troupe. Devon practically bolted past Orion, his eyes wide and shimmering with an almost manic intensity.
"We're finally here!" he shouted. "I can feel it. This is where it happens. My Aegis is going to awake right here, surrounded by the energy of the great heroes. I'm going to make a name for myself that they'll never forget!"
From the shadows of the corner, a low, gravelly rasp cut through Devon's enthusiasm. "The only name you'll be making is the one they carve on your headstone in a pauper's graveyard," Old Ron muttered. The dwarf didn't even look up, his thick, calloused fingers moving with nimble precision as he sewed a tear in a heavy canvas tarp.
"Ron," Oswaldo warned, his tone a low rumble.
"What? I'm just being honest, Os," Ron answered, finally biting off a thread and spitting it onto the floorboards. "You're letting the kid's expectations run wild again. You're setting him up for a harder slap than Orion took. Look at the lad—he used to be a firecracker. Now? Since his awakening, he's like a damp wick. He hasn't been the same since."
Orion stiffened, his jaw tightening. "I'm fine," he protested. "I'm over it. Besides, even if I'm 'average,' I still have a bigger field than you."
The cart went silent.
The dwarf's face turned a mottled shade of purple. "WHAT DID YOU SAY, YOU LITTLE BRAT?" Ron roared, dropping his needle and lunging toward Orion.
Oswaldo's massive hand caught Ron by the collar of his tunic, holding the thrashing dwarf in mid-air. Ron's short legs kicked uselessly at the empty space between him and the boy.
Orion didn't flinch. Instead, a cold, practiced smirk touched his lips. "I guess I wasn't the only one struck hard by reality," he added.
"Stop it, both of you," a calm, melodic voice commanded.
Vivian stepped out from the shadows behind Orion. She was taller than Ron and carried herself with a quiet, weary grace that commanded immediate silence. She placed a steadying hand on Orion's shoulder before looking toward Devon.
"Just because you two were unlucky doesn't mean Devon will be," she said softly. "The world has enough cynics, Ron. Let the boy have his hope for one more day."
Devon beamed at her, his chest swelling again. "That's right. Thank you, Viv."
Orion looked away, staring back out at the approaching iron spires. "Whatever—"
The cart hit a deep rut, jarring the wooden frame. Oswaldo eased himself down onto the bench beside Orion, the worn leather creaking under his bulk.
"Don't tell me that old goat's rambling is still bothering you," Os said, his voice dropping to a more intimate volume.
Orion didn't answer. He kept his eyes fixed on the blurring landscape outside.
Os chuckled, a low, dry sound. "I'll never understand it. Why do you kids even want to be like those heroes anyway? They mostly end up dying a horrible death in some gods-forsaken trench, and for what? A statue that'll be covered in bird droppings in a week."
He leaned back, resting his head against the wooden slats. "Besides, you're more talented than half of them already. You've mastered Cloaking at ten years old. Most people waste their entire lives without ever learning how to dampen their presence."
Orion finally turned his gaze toward the older man, his expression flat and unconvinced. "Well, I had the best Cloaking master in the world to teach me, didn't I?" He sighed, his shoulders slumping. "But it's useless, Os. It's for stage shows and hiding. It's a parlor trick."
"Then you clearly don't know how those heroes actually fight," Os countered, his eyes suddenly sharp and serious. "Raw power is just noise. Strategy matters more than how much force you can throw. If you can control your opponent's perception, you control the entire rhythm of the engagement."
Before Orion could respond, a soft, thin whimper drifted from the front row of the cart.
Os's expression softened instantly. "Ah," he whispered. "She's awake."
The skeletal trees of the road finally gave way to the soaring majesty of Iron City. As the cart rolled through the massive arched gates, Orion leaned out the window, his eyes wide.
The city was a gleaming paradox of marble and metal. The streets were impossibly clean, paved in white stone that shimmered under the afternoon sun. The people moved with a refined, hurried grace, dressed in tunics of fine linen and silk.
The houses were bizarrely tall and slender, rising like long, silver nails driven deep into the earth. Shops were packed tightly together at the base of these "nail-houses," their colorful awnings creating a cramped, bustling labyrinth of commerce.
The troupe didn't head for the marble center. Instead, they steered their carts toward a designated commoner's lot on the edge of the district.
Once the horses were settled, Oswaldo, Ron, Orion, and Devon headed into the "Skirts"—the narrow ring of slums and markets that served as the only place their kind was permitted to walk freely.
They stepped into a cramped general store, the air thick with the smell of dried herbs and old parchment. The shopkeeper, a man with skin like weathered leather, looked up from a ledger as they entered.
"Os, it's been awhile. Coming for the festival I suppose?" the owner asked, leaning over the counter. "You got a hell of a competition. There's a grand tournament tonight in the central coliseum. High-tier celebration for the returning heroes. Word is, some real big shots are going to be in the bracket."
"No way!" Devon's eyes practically caught fire. "We have to go! We have to see them."
Orion nodded, his pulse quickening. "I want to see how they fight up close," he added, his mind racing back to what Os had said about perception and strategy. Seeing high-level Aegis users in action was a rare opportunity.
"Absolutely not," Os interrupted, his voice firm as he checked the price on a bag of flour. "We have a show tonight too, remember? Besides, a crowd like that is no place for two ten-year-olds to be wandering alone."
The shopkeeper let out a dry, hacking laugh. "I don't mean to burst your bubbles, kids, but you couldn't get into the stands even if he said yes. Commoners aren't allowed in there."
Devon's face fell, his shoulders slumping. "What?"
The owner leaned in closer, a glint of irony in his eyes. "The only way a commoner gets into that arena is if they're in the ring itself."
Orion pushed through the shop's narrow door, the bell chiming weakly behind him. Oswaldo's voice trailed after them, warning them not to wander far, but Orion simply waved a hand back. "We'll be right in front of the shop, Os," he called out, settling himself onto a stone step worn smooth by centuries of footsteps.
Devon followed, his energy completely drained. He slumped down beside Orion, staring gloomily at the dirt of the Skirts. "Man, what a bust," Devon sighed. "I really hope Mighty Varik might show up to our show."
"You haven't heard?" a deep, gravelly voice answered from behind them. "Varik isn't coming anywhere near Iron City. He's already halfway to the capital."
The boys jumped. Standing in the shadow of the shop's awning was a mountain of a man, his frame thick with muscle that strained against a stained leather vest. A half-chewed cigar was clamped between his teeth, sending up a lazy coil of blue smoke.
"What?" Devon's shoulders dropped even further as he practically laid down on the dusty ground. "Are you serious? Why are we always so unlucky?"
The man took a long drag of his cigar, his eyes narrowing. "Uhh... but Sinco Salvatore is here. He's actually participating in the tournament tonight."
Devon sat up instantly, his eyes wide as dinner plates. "Sinco Salvatore? The fastest Strategoi in the world? I heard he took down a whole flock of wyverns in seconds without even breaking a sweat!"
"Yeah, he's good," the man said, striking a match against his thumb to relight his cigar. "Flashy. But personally? I think Kaelyn Dravik could take him."
Devon scoffed, his fan-boy instincts kicking in. "Are you serious? That traitor swordmaster? He isn't even a Strategoi! He won't do anything remotely close to Sinco."
The man sighed, a plume of smoke escaping his nostrils. "Well, I'll judge when I see the fight tonight."
Orion, who had been listening intently, finally looked up. "You can see it?"
"Of course I can see it," the man answered with a lopsided grin. "You just have to go there to clean. They need people to scrub the blood and debris off the sands after the matches. You get a spot right by the entrance tunnels—closest view you can get without being in the dirt yourself."
Devon scrambled to his feet, his disappointment vanishing. "Can you get us in? Could we go with you?"
The man looked them over, his gaze lingering on their small frames. "I don't know. Would your father even agree to that?"
"He's not really our father," Devon blurted out. "He's just—"
"Devon!" Orion snapped, standing up and shooting his friend a warning look. They weren't supposed to be giving out details about the troupe to strangers.
The man chuckled, seemingly unfazed by the tension. "Well, if you seriously want to come, you can meet me right here tonight. Just before the sun dips behind the spires."
"Wait!" Devon called out as the man began to turn away. "What's your name?"
The man paused, looking back over his shoulder through a cloud of smoke. "You may call me Sekar," he answered. Without another word, he turned and disappeared into the shadows of the cramped alleyway.
The shop bell ringed as Oswaldo and Ron stepped back out onto the street. They were loaded down with supplies.
"Alright, enough daydreaming," Oswaldo grunted, nodding toward the direction of the carts. "The sun is dropping fast. We need to get the stage set if we're going to catch the festival crowd before they all head for the arena."
Back at the commoner's lot, the troupe exploded into a flurry of activity. Ron began hammering at the stage supports with a deafening thud-thud-thud, while Oswaldo barked orders to the other performers.
As the light finally failed, bleeding a bruised purple and orange across the metallic horizon, Orion climbed into the back of the cart to find Devon. He expected to see his friend sulking or, more likely, shadow-boxing in the dark.
Orion stopped. The silence in the back of the cart was heavy.
The last row was empty. The small, square window at the rear of the carriage was swung wide, its latch broken, banging rhythmically against the wooden frame in the evening breeze. A single, muddy footprint marked the ledge.
"Seriously?" Orion whispered, a cold spike of dread nailing his stomach.
He didn't need to guess. He knew exactly where that idiot was going.
Without a second thought, Orion snatched a knife from the bench, vaulted through the open window, and hit the ground running.
He disappeared into the deepening shadows of the Skirts, racing toward the shop.