The journey to the provincial capital took ten days on horseback, following the old Imperial roads that cut through forest and farmland like veins of stone through living flesh. Grimwald led the party, flanked by six of his most trusted retainers—veterans all, men who had fought beside him in the border wars and knew how to kill efficiently if killing became necessary. Behind them rode Thorwald and Kami, and bringing up the rear was Bera, who had insisted on accompanying her sons despite Grimwald's protests.
"If the Academy takes them," she had said, her voice brooking no argument, "I will know the men who hold my children's fate. I will look them in the eyes and let them see what manner of mother they answer to."
The autumn roads were thick with travelers. Tax collectors returning to the capital with their tribute wagons. Merchant caravans hauling goods from the northern forests—furs and amber, honey and iron. Soldiers marching in disciplined columns, their armor gleaming, their Pneuma-enhanced standards snapping in the wind. The Empire was preparing for something, though what exactly, the common folk could only whisper and wonder.
On the third day, they passed a crucifixion.
Three men hung from crosses at a crossroads, their bodies already bloating in the sun, ravens picking at their eyes. A sign hung beneath them, written in the formal script of Imperial law: "PNEUMA THIEVES—JUSTICE SERVED."
Kami reined in his horse to study the scene with clinical interest. The bodies still held traces of Pneuma, faint wisps of life-force clinging to the cooling flesh like morning mist. He could feel the pull, the hunger rising in him, whispering that such waste was obscene, that he could draw that remaining essence into himself and at least give it purpose rather than letting it dissipate into nothing.
"Kami." Thorwald's voice was quiet but firm. "Do not."
The younger brother turned to look at Thorwald, and for a moment his eyes were utterly inhuman—flat, calculating, predatory. Then he blinked, and the mask of humanity slid back into place. "I was merely observing, brother. Seeking to understand the Empire's justice."
"The Empire crucifies those who drain others of Pneuma without sanction," Grimwald said, riding up beside his sons. "Those who use their gifts to prey upon the weak. Remember that, Kami. The difference between a hero and a criminal is not ability but choice."
One of the corpses twitched—a final nervous spasm—and a raven took flight with a harsh cry. Kami watched it go, his expression unreadable.
They rode on.
By the fifth day, they had left the forests behind and entered the cultivated heartlands of the province. Here, the land had been tamed for centuries—neat fields divided by stone walls, villages clustered around temples to the Sovereign's approved gods, aqueducts carrying water from the distant mountains. The Pneuma here felt different to those who could sense such things, organized and controlled, flowing along channels carved by human will rather than natural formation.
"The Academy's work," Bera observed, feeling the structured energy. "They have been shaping the Pneuma flows here for generations, making the land more productive, the weather more predictable. Some say it is humanity's greatest achievement—the domestication of the world's life-force."
"And some say it is humanity's greatest hubris," replied an old voice.
They turned to find a wanderer standing by the roadside, seemingly materialized from nowhere. He was ancient, his skin like weathered leather, his beard long and stained with wine and food. He wore the tattered robes of a mendicant philosopher, and his eyes—sharp despite their rheumy appearance—fixed on Kami with disturbing intensity.
"A Devourer," the old man said, not as a question but a statement. "I have not seen one of your kind in forty years. I thought the Empire had finally succeeded in breeding you out of existence."
Grimwald's hand went to his sword, and his retainers moved to surround the wagon, but the old man laughed—a sound like crackling leaves.
"Peace, Cohort Commander. I mean no harm. I am Archimedes of the Broken Circle, and I was teaching Pneuma theory when your grandfather was still pissing his swaddling clothes." He hobbled closer, ignoring the naked steel now pointed at his chest, his attention fixed entirely on Kami. "May I?"
Kami, fascinated, nodded.
The old philosopher reached out with one gnarled hand and placed it against Kami's chest. For a long moment, nothing happened. Then Archimedes' eyes widened, and he snatched his hand back as though burned.
"Extraordinary," he breathed. "Your Pneuma does not merely flow—it spirals inward, creating a vacuum, a hunger that can never be satisfied. You are a walking violation of the Third Law of Pneumatic Equilibrium. The Academy will either try to weaponize you or kill you. Probably both."
"Who are you?" Bera demanded. "How do you know these things?"
"I told you—I am Archimedes of the Broken Circle. I was once the Academy's Master of Theoretical Pneumatics, until I suggested that perhaps the Empire's approach to Pneuma manipulation was fundamentally flawed, that we were trying to impose rigid order on something that thrived in chaos." He grinned, showing surprisingly good teeth for a man his age. "They did not appreciate my theories. So I left, and I have wandered these roads for three decades, observing what the Empire has become."
"And what has it become?" Thorwald asked, genuinely curious. His brother might be strange, but Thorwald had inherited his mother's hunger for knowledge.
Archimedes' smile faded. "Afraid. The Empire is afraid, young golden one. Afraid of the barbarians pressing at the borders. Afraid of the old powers stirring in the forgotten places. Afraid of its own citizens developing Pneuma abilities it cannot control. That is why the Academy summons all gifted children now, why the testing has become mandatory rather than voluntary. They seek to identify threats before those threats can mature."
He looked back at Kami. "And you, little Devourer, are a threat of the highest order. Not because of what you are, but because of what you represent—proof that the Empire's neat theories and careful breeding programs and regulated training cannot account for everything. You are chaos given flesh, the return of the old ways the Empire thought it had buried."
"Should I kill him?" one of Grimwald's retainers asked quietly, his blade already rising.
"No," Kami said, his voice carrying an authority strange in a ten-year-old. "He speaks truth, and truth should not be murdered for being inconvenient."
Archimedes barked a laugh. "Oh, they will hate you at the Academy. But they will not be able to resist studying you either. My advice, young Devourer? Learn everything they can teach you. Master their techniques, their theories, their disciplines. And then forget all of it and listen instead to the hunger. It knows things the Academy has forgotten."
"You counsel him to become a monster," Bera said coldly.
"I counsel him to become himself," Archimedes replied. "The monster is what the Empire will make of him if he tries to be something he is not." He turned back to the road, preparing to shamble away, then paused. "One more thing. In Aurelius, there is a boy named Cassius Tiberion, heir to the Tiberion Senatorial line. He will be your enemy, Kami Van Hellsin. Not because of anything you do, but because he senses what you are, and it terrifies him. The terrified are the most dangerous, for they strike at shadows."
"How do you know this?" Grimwald demanded.
"Because I taught his father twenty years ago, and I saw the same fear in him. The Tiberions have been hunting Devourers for three generations, ever since one killed Cassius's great-grandfather and drained him so thoroughly that his corpse crumbled to dust." Archimedes met Kami's eyes one final time. "They will try to destroy you, boy. The question is: what will you become in response to their hatred?"
And with that, the old philosopher wandered away, humming a tune that predated the Empire itself.
They reached the capital city of Aurelius on the evening of the ninth day, as the sun painted the marble walls the color of blood.
Aurelius was a monument to Imperial power and ambition. The city sprawled across seven hills, its walls built from stone quarried three hundred miles away and hauled here by armies of Pneuma-enhanced laborers. Towers rose like spears thrust at the heavens, their peaks crowned with Aetheric Lanterns—devices that captured raw Pneuma and converted it to pure light, blazing even in darkness. Aqueducts arched over the lower districts, carrying water from mountain springs. The streets were paved with fitted stone, maintained so perfectly that not a single weed grew between them.
And at the city's heart stood the Academy.
It dominated the tallest of the seven hills, a complex of white marble buildings arranged in precise geometric patterns. Each structure served a specific purpose: the Hall of Theory for academic study, the Arena of Practice for combat training, the Tower of Observation where the Masters monitored Pneuma flows across the entire province, the Library of Forms where every known Pneuma technique was catalogued and preserved.
Surrounding the Academy were the estates of the great houses—senators and generals, merchants and scholars, all those who had clawed their way to power and clung to it with Pneuma-enhanced grip. Their villas sprawled across acres of manicured gardens, their walls topped with guard towers, their gates watched by private armies of Pneuma-warriors sworn to eternal service.
Grimwald had rented a modest villa in the Fourth District, respectable but not ostentatious, suitable for a retired Cohort Commander of good reputation but no particular political power. The villa's owner, a wine merchant named Fabius, greeted them personally, his eyes widening when he sensed the Pneuma potential radiating from both brothers.
"The Academy testing begins in three days," Fabius informed them over dinner that night, his servants laying out dishes of roasted pheasant and honeyed figs, wine from his own vineyards. "All the great houses will have their children there. The Tiberions, the Corvinus clan, the Septian twins, young Marcia of House Aurelius—yes, even the Sovereign's distant cousin will be tested. It is said this year's class will be the most talented in a generation."
"What do they test for?" Thorwald asked, genuinely curious.
"Pneuma capacity, of course—the raw amount of life-force you can channel without burning yourself out. Control—can you direct your power precisely or does it spray everywhere like water from a broken fountain? Versatility—how many different applications can you manage? And most importantly, Resonance."
"Resonance?" Bera leaned forward.
Fabius nodded gravely. "The ability to sync your Pneuma with others, to combine your life-force into something greater than the sum of its parts. It is the foundation of the Legion's power—a hundred men with perfect Resonance can channel their Pneuma through a single Centurion, making him as powerful as a god for a brief time. Those who show strong Resonance are marked for military leadership. Those who cannot achieve it at all..."
"Are considered defective," Kami finished softly.
"Unsuited for service, yes," Fabius said diplomatically. "Though there are other paths. Scholars, administrators, crafters of Pneuma-devices. Not everyone must be a warrior."
That night, unable to sleep, Kami stood at the villa's window looking out over the city. Aurelius at night was a thing of terrible beauty—ten thousand Aetheric Lanterns burning, their light reflecting off marble and glass, making the city glow like a constellation fallen to earth. And above it all, the Academy blazed brightest, a declaration in light and stone that humanity had conquered the chaos of the ancient world and imposed order upon it.
Thorwald found him there, drawn by some instinct that his brother needed him.
"Are you afraid?" the older boy asked, joining Kami at the window.
"No," Kami replied. Then, more honestly: "Yes. But not of the testing itself. I know I will perform adequately."
"Then what?"
Kami was silent for a long moment, his dark eyes reflecting the city's glow. "I am afraid of what I will learn about myself. The old philosopher was right—the hunger knows things I do not. And when I am among all those other Pneuma-wielders, all that concentrated life-force... Thorwald, I am afraid I will want to feed. Not because I need to, but because I want to. Because some part of me wants to know what it would feel like to drain them all, to consume every drop of Pneuma in this shining city and become... something else. Something terrible and magnificent."
Thorwald put his hand on his brother's shoulder, and Kami felt the warm pulse of his brother's Pneuma—clean, pure, steady as a heartbeat.
"Then I will stand beside you," Thorwald said simply. "And when the hunger rises, you will look at me and remember why you choose not to feed. You are not a monster, Kami. You are my brother. And brothers protect each other from their demons."
Kami turned away from the window, away from the tempting blaze of all that life-force, and looked at Thorwald. And in that moment, he made a decision. He would go to the Academy. He would face whatever tests they devised. He would stand among the Empire's finest young Pneuma-wielders.
And he would prove that a Devourer could be more than a predator.
Or he would die trying.
Three days later, at dawn, the brothers Van Hellsin walked through the Academy gates and into their destiny.