The iron stove ticked as the wood settled inside. Heat radiated outward, pressing against the room's damp chill, but the air retained a heavy, suffocating quality.
Kael sat on the edge of his bunk, staring at his hands. The snow outside had scoured them clean of dirt and blood.
In the corner, Tom hugged his knees to his chest, eyes locked on the orange glow behind the grate. The shivering had stopped. The heat had reached him, but he remained rigid, vibrating with the silent shock of the last hour.
The wind scratched against the timber slats. Neither spoke.
Kael turned to the leather sack on the stump serving as a table. He tipped it over.
Coins spilled out. Dull gold and pale silver clattered against the wood, the sound alarmingly loud in the quiet room. In the Varentis Empire, a laborer survived on two copper pennies a day. The pile before him represented a lifetime of broken backs.
Enough to change a life. Or end one.
Kael separated the pile. He selected a small handful of silver and walked to the corner.
Tom didn't react until Kael's shadow eclipsed the firelight. He flinched, shrinking against the rough wall.
Kael crouched, leveling his eyes with the boy.
"Listen." Kael kept his voice low, yet it seemed to fill the room.
Tom swallowed. "I won't say anything. I swear."
"I know. But fear wears off. Hunger doesn't."
Tom blinked, the panic giving way to confusion.
Kael leaned in, his tone shifting to clinical observation. "I've seen you at dinner, Tom. You pocket bread scraps. You don't eat them. You run to the Lower District on your rest days."
Tom went still. His breath hitched.
"Someone is waiting for that bread," Kael said. "Someone sick. Or too old to work."
Tom's eyes widened, shimmering with moisture. "My mother. She needs me."
"Exactly. Focus on that. If you talk, the guards won't just hang you. They will leave her to starve in the cold. If you die, she dies."
Tom let out a choked sound, a sharp intake of air. The abstract terror of execution had just become a concrete threat to his family.
"Do you understand? You aren't just protecting your neck. You're protecting hers."
Tom nodded frantically. The logic anchored him.
Kael watched the realization settle. "This is how things hold together here. No one looks for the truth. They look for a resolved case." He paused. "As long as nothing draws attention, nothing moves."
Kael opened his hand. The silver coins caught the firelight.
"This isn't a bribe. It's a margin."
He took Tom's hand and pressed the cold metal into the palm, closing the boy's fingers one by one.
"Medicine. Coal. A few weeks where nothing gets worse. Don't spend it all at once. Buy in small batches."
Tom stared at his fist. "It's… it's his."
"It was. Now it's time."
Tom looked from the silver to Kael. The terror softened into desperate gratitude.
"I didn't see anything," Tom whispered, clutching the coins. "I don't know anything."
"That's enough." Kael stood. "Sleep. Do your work tomorrow. Keep your habits."
Tom remained curled on his pallet, the coins pressed tight against his chest. After a long moment, he turned his back to the room.
Kael returned to the table.
The gold possessed a dangerous weight. Carrying it openly invited questions. He pried loose a stone near the woodshed foundation and concealed the bulk of the coin there, along with the inert amulet, both wrapped in a rag.
He kept only a few silver pieces in his pocket. Seed capital, he thought, sliding the stone back into place. Enough to move, but not enough to be noticed.
[ The Next Morning ]
Recruitment drums thudded across the courtyard, a dull, rhythmic headache.
The Baron needed bodies. Rumors of the Black Rain suggested the Guard was dying faster than they could be replaced.
Kael stood in a line of shivering men.
"Name?" The Scribe didn't look up. His quill scratched violently, ink-stained fingers trembling in the cold.
"Kael. Laborer."
The Scribe paused. He raised his head, face pinched with the specific disdain a bureaucrat reserves for livestock. "Laborers are Estate property. You need your Master's written permission. Step out of line."
"I have a permit."
Kael leaned over the table. Under the cover of his frayed sleeve, he slid a single Silver Stag across the parchment.
The Scribe's eyes narrowed. He scrutinized the metal, then the gaunt serf. A silver stag equaled a month's wage for a clerk—but for a serf, possession usually meant a hanging.
"Stolen?" the Scribe whispered, glancing toward the Overseer.
"Found," Kael lied. His face betrayed nothing. He held the Scribe's gaze, offering a silent bargain.
The Scribe licked chapped lips. He looked at the coin, then the risk. The hand moved, sweeping the coin into his sleeve with practiced speed. He didn't offer a favor; he simply calculated the profit.
"Kael," the Scribe announced, voice flat. "Status: Volunteer. Proceed."
Kael walked past. Coin remained the only universal administrative privilege.
He entered the training yard. In the center stood the test: The Atlas Stone. A rough-hewn granite sphere, nearly a hundred kilos of dead weight.
"Next!" barked Garric, the scarred Overseer.
A hulking figure stepped up. Bronn, the water-carrier.
Bronn spat on massive hands, gripped the granite, and muscled it to his chest. With a roar, he pressed it overhead.
"Pass!" Garric grunted.
Bronn dropped the boulder. The ground shook. He didn't step away, looking eagerly at Garric for praise that never came.
Disappointed by the Overseer's indifference, Bronn turned to the crowd to salvage his ego. His eyes landed on Kael.
"Run back to the kitchen, twig," Bronn sneered, checking Kael's shoulder hard enough to stagger him. "Don't break your little arms."
The recruits laughed. Bronn smirked, satisfied with the audience, and swaggered off.
Kael stepped into the circle.
He gripped the frigid rock. He heaved.
The stone remained fixed to the earth.
"Pathetic," Garric sighed, checking his list. "Get out of my sight."
System, Kael thought. Activate.
[ --- SYSTEM INTERFACE --- ]
[ TARGET: STRENGTH TEST ]
[ SOLUTION: TECHNIQUE OPTIMIZATION ]
[ COST: 1 AETHER POINT ]
Execute.
[ WARNING: CALORIC RESERVES CRITICAL ]
[ INITIATING: EMERGENCY CATABOLISM ]
The response was immediate.
An invisible force seized his nervous system. His hips dropped. His spine straightened into a rigid structural column.
Then came the hunger.
Nausea washed over him as the System began the harvest. His blood sugar crashed. His muscles spasmed, strip-mined for energy. It felt as though his marrow was dissolving.
Lift!
Kael's body moved without his input. He drove with his legs. The stone flew off the ground. He caught it at his chest, locking his joints so his skeletal frame acted as a strut, channeling mass through bone to earth.
He pressed.
The load rose. Not with Bronn's brute force, but with the terrifying, mechanical precision of a hydraulic press.
He held it overhead. His arms remained steady, but his face turned the color of ash. He shivered violently, body temperature plummeting.
Silence fell over the yard.
Garric raised an eyebrow. He looked at the shaking, skeletal boy, then at the perfect technique.
"Hmph," Garric grunted. "Leverage. Smart. Pass."
Kael dropped the load.
CRASH.
The strings were cut. Kael collapsed against the fence, vision swimming with dark spots. He clutched his midsection, fingers digging into ribs that felt sharper than they had a moment ago.
Bronn stared, mouth open.
Kael ignored the victory.
Fuel, Kael realized, the thought primal. I need meat.
Survival had a tax. The System did not generate energy; it extracted it.