Chapter 18 — The Weight of Iron
(Kaelen POV)
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Portscab had a way of reminding you where you stood.
Not who you were — where.
Stone docks soaked in brine and blood didn't care about ambition. Rusted chains didn't care about destiny. They only responded to weight, force, and repetition.
That was why Selia brought me here.
"The eastern yards," she had said earlier that morning, walking two steps ahead of me like she'd already decided I'd follow. "If you want someone who doesn't lie with words, that's where he'll be."
I didn't ask who he was.
I already knew.
Bran "Ironhand" Korrick.
A Tier-3 Ascendant — a Path-Bearer.
Someone who had already carved his way past being merely Tempered and walked a path so deeply ingrained that his body moved before thought.
Someone far above me.
The docks opened into a wide training yard framed by old cranes and hanging chains. No guards. No banners. Just iron, stone, and scars carved into the ground.
He stood at the center.
Bran was massive — not tall in a heroic sense, but dense, like he'd been compacted by years of violence. His arms were bare, wrapped in old cloth and iron bands that bit into skin. Every scar on him told a story of survival rather than triumph.
He wasn't sparring.
He wasn't showing off.
He was punching a suspended anchor chain.
Each strike landed with a dull clang that vibrated through the yard, the aura around his fist compressed, not flared. That alone told me everything.
Tier-3 Ascendants didn't waste aura.
They settled it.
"See that?" Selia whispered beside me. "That's the difference between a Tempered fighter and a Path-Bearer. You use strength. He uses inevitability."
I swallowed.
As if sensing us, Bran stopped.
Didn't turn immediately.
Didn't react sharply.
Just… stopped.
Then he turned slowly, eyes locking onto me with the weight of iron doors closing.
"You're hurt," he said.
Not a question.
I stiffened. "It's healing."
"Poorly."
Selia leaned on a crate. "Morning to you too, Ironheart."
"Whisper," he acknowledged. His gaze never left me. "You brought a Touched here."
Tier-1.
The word stung more than the injury Selia had helped patch earlier.
"I'm working toward being Tempered," I said.
Bran stepped closer.
Every step felt like pressure increasing — not killing intent, but presence. A Tier-3 Ascendant's aura didn't threaten; it informed.
"You don't get to 'work toward' being Tempered," he said. "You survive enough to earn it."
Silence stretched.
Dockworkers nearby pretended not to listen.
"I'm forming a crew," I said finally. "Selia joined."
"That was a mistake," he replied calmly.
She snorted. "Rude."
"You're weak," he continued, turning his eyes back to me. "And weakness spreads."
I didn't argue.
Instead, I bowed my head slightly.
"I know."
That made him pause.
Not surprise.
Interest.
"Then why are you here?"
"To learn why people stronger than me stay alive longer."
Bran stared at me.
Then he stepped back.
"Hit me."
Selia choked. "Oh, this is going to be hilarious."
I hesitated.
Bran frowned. "That was your first failure."
I drew my blade.
Aura surged — uneven, raw, unmistakably Tier-1 Awakened. I struck with everything I had.
He caught my wrist.
Not fast.
Not aggressive.
Just… there.
The difference between Tier-1: The Touched and Tier-3: Path-Bearer became brutally clear.
He twisted.
Pain exploded up my arm, and I was slammed into the dirt before I even understood what happened. The impact knocked the air from my lungs, vision blurring.
"Again," Bran said.
I forced myself up, shaking.
This time, I focused on stance. Breath. What little control I had learned trying to reach Tier-2: The Tempered.
I attacked again.
He struck my chest with an open palm.
The blow didn't feel heavy.
It felt final.
I flew backward, skidding across stone, ribs screaming.
I lay there, gasping.
Tier-3 Ascendants didn't overpower.
They ended exchanges.
"Get up," Bran said.
My body screamed no.
My will said yes.
I rose — slowly, painfully.
"You see now?" he said. "Why Tier names matter?"
I nodded, breath ragged.
"You are Touched," he continued. "Barely stepping toward Tempered. Selia walks the Path of Silence. I walk the Path of Endurance. If you stand between us in a real fight—"
"I die," I finished.
"Yes."
Selia crouched beside me. "On the bright side, you lasted longer than I expected."
I managed a weak laugh. "Comforting."
Bran studied me for a long moment.
Then he turned away.
"I don't follow weak leaders," he said. "But I respect those who don't lie about their place."
He faced me again.
"I won't protect you."
"That's fine."
"I won't slow myself for you."
"I wouldn't ask."
"And if you collapse—"
"I'll crawl."
Silence.
Then Bran extended his hand.
Heavy. Scarred. Honest.
"I'll join," he said. "Until you break."
I took his hand.
His grip nearly crushed my fingers.
Selia grinned widely. "Welcome to the bad decisions club."
As we left the yard, pain screaming through every muscle, one truth settled deeply into me:
I was surrounded by Ascendants.
And if I wanted to lead them…
I would have to suffer far more than this.