For the first time since he had escaped, Aurelian chose to stop running.
The city sat against a bend in the river, its stone walls old but well-maintained, banners snapping in the wind with the sigil of a falcon clutching a book—an academy city, though not the academy itself. Merchants passed through daily. Mercenaries lingered just long enough to be useful and forgotten. Refugees blended easily into the noise.
It was the kind of place where someone like him could disappear without vanishing.
That mattered.
Aurelian stood at the edge of a narrow street and stared at a building that leaned slightly to the left, as though tired of standing upright. The sign above the door read Elderwick Lodgings in chipped paint. It wasn't inviting. It wasn't impressive.
But it was quiet.
Inside, the woman at the desk barely looked up.
"Coin first," she said. "Questions never."
Aurelian placed the money on the counter—carefully counted, honestly earned.
"One room," he said. "Long stay."
She glanced at him then. Took in the scars he didn't bother hiding anymore, the pale hair tied back tightly, the eyes that didn't wander like a child's should.
"How long?" she asked.
"One year."
Her eyebrows rose, just slightly. "You plan ahead for someone your age."
Aurelian shrugged. "I get tired."
That earned him a short, humorless huff of amusement.
"Third floor," she said, sliding him a key. "No noise after dark. No trouble. If you bleed on the floor, clean it yourself."
"Yes, ma'am."
The room was small. A narrow bed. A single window. A table scarred with old knife marks and ink stains. But the door locked. The walls were solid. The window opened to the sound of life rather than screaming runes.
Aurelian sat on the bed and let himself breathe.
Not Still Blade breathing.
Just… breathing.
"This will do," he whispered.
Home.
The word felt strange. Fragile. But he didn't push it away.
He registered for the academy entrance exam three days later.
The building was large, clean, and far too official for his comfort. Stone pillars rose on either side of the entrance, etched with inscriptions promising merit and potential. Guards stood watch, but they were bored guards, not hunters.
That was important too.
Inside, a clerk slid a thin metal card across the counter.
"Name?" the clerk asked.
Aurelian hesitated.
Names had power.
Names were threads that could be pulled.
"…Ren," he said.
The clerk wrote it down without pause.
"Age?"
"Fourteen."
"Background?"
"Independent contractor," Aurelian said after a beat.
The clerk glanced up, unimpressed. "Mercenary?"
"Yes."
A grunt of acknowledgment. "You'll fit in."
The clerk pressed the card against a glowing slate. Runes flared briefly, then settled.
The card warmed in Aurelian's hand.
"Entrance exam is in six months," the clerk said. "Written aptitude, physical assessment, and mana compatibility."
Aurelian's fingers tightened around the card.
Mana compatibility.
"Do I need to demonstrate mana now?" he asked carefully.
The clerk shook his head. "No. Some awaken late. Some hide it. We test everyone equally."
Aurelian nodded and stepped away.
Outside, he leaned against the wall and closed his eyes.
Six months.
He had time.
And for the first time, a direction.
He broke the seal that night.
Not violently.
Not all at once.
He sat cross-legged on the floor of his rented room, candlelight flickering weakly against the walls. His scars caught the light in pale lines, reminders of what force had done to him.
"This is my choice," he said aloud.
The Soul Sword answered with quiet alignment.
The Soul Bow pulsed with calm calculation.
Aurelian reached inward—not pushing, not demanding. He found the seal the way one found a knot tied by a loving but desperate hand.
Carefully.
Reverently.
"I won't destroy you," he whispered, thinking of his mother. "I still need you."
He loosened it.
Just enough.
Mana rushed in.
Not violently—cleanly.
Warmth flooded his chest, spreading through limbs that had never been allowed to feel this sensation naturally. His breath caught as mana flowed through channels that had been dormant but never dead.
White hair flared brighter, shedding its dull grey completely.
His eyes burned.
Purple.
Deep. Royal. Alive.
Aurelian clenched his teeth and reasserted the seal—not closing it fully, but shaping it into something new.
A veil.
His hair dulled again to pale grey-white. His eyes softened back into something ordinary—grey with just a hint of depth.
The mana remained.
Contained.
Usable.
Aurelian laughed—quiet, disbelieving.
"I can breathe," he whispered.
He stood and raised his hand.
"Come," he said.
The Soul Sword answered.
Light gathered in the air before him, condensing into form. A blade emerged—long, elegant, impossibly clean. Its surface was white like polished bone or moonlit snow, unmarred by reflection. Along its length ran fine golden markings, etched not into the metal but within it, flowing like script caught mid-motion.
It did not gleam.
It waited.
Aurelian took the hilt.
The moment his fingers closed around it, understanding flooded him—not techniques, not memories, but certainty. Balance corrected. Stance aligned. The blade felt like an extension of his spine rather than his arm.
"This is you," he murmured.
He dismissed it, and the sword dissolved into light without resistance.
Then he raised his other hand.
The Soul Bow manifested more slowly.
Golden lines formed first, tracing the shape of a bow without substance. Then light solidified, creating a weapon that looked almost unreal—sleek, curved, formed of translucent energy threaded with alchemical sigils. Where a string should be, a faint band of condensed mana hummed softly.
When he drew it—without an arrow—mana coalesced naturally, forming a shaft of light shaped by intent alone.
Aurelian released it into the far wall.
The arrow vanished just before impact.
Controlled.
Perfectly controlled.
He exhaled shakily.
"No one can see you," he whispered to both weapons. "Not yet."
They obeyed.
The next months were the hardest—and the best—of his life.
He trained every morning before dawn. Sword forms practiced in silence, the Soul Sword correcting him with subtle resistance when his movements wasted energy. At night, he worked with the bow, learning how intent shaped trajectory, how emotion distorted aim.
Alchemy returned too—not with tools, but with understanding. Mana ratios. Reaction predictions. How the Soul Bow's construction mirrored principles his mother had once traced in dust.
He learned restraint.
He learned patience.
And most importantly—
He learned how to stop.
How to sit in a room and not expect pain.
How to sleep without counting exits.
How to let a place feel familiar.
By the time he turned fifteen, the woman downstairs greeted him by name.
"Ren," she said one morning. "Exam soon, isn't it?"
"Yes," he replied.
She nodded. "Good. You've got the look of someone who's done surviving."
Aurelian smiled faintly.
That night, he stood by the window and stared at the distant academy towers.
White hair tied back.
Seal steady.
Weapons silent but ready.
"I'm coming," he whispered—not as a promise, but as a fact.
The boy who had been nothing was finished.
The man he was becoming had exams to pass.