The transition from a recruit to a recognized soldier in the Baron's army was not marked by a ceremony or a badge of honor. It was marked by the weight of the steel they placed in your hands. After the incident with Kael, the atmosphere in Tent Seven had shifted from one of wary competition to a strange, cult-like devotion centered around me. I had become their unofficial tether to sanity. In the chaos of Raven's Crag, where men were treated as disposable cogs, I was the only one who looked them in the eye and spoke to them as if they still had names.
We were no longer just training; we were being refined. The drills grew longer, the sleep grew shorter, and the "hum" in my chest became a constant companion, a low-frequency vibration that seemed to harmonize with the rhythmic hammering of the mountain's forges. I spent my few hours of rest not sleeping, but practicing the subtle art of the Crimson Reverie. I discovered that if I didn't try to force the magic, but instead let it flow like water into the cracks of my fatigue, the "tax" was lighter. My nose still bled, but the fogginess in my mind began to take on a strange, sharp clarity.
Then came the day of the inspection.
A hush had fallen over the Crag that morning—a silence so heavy it felt like a physical pressure against the eardrums. There were no barked orders, no clashing blades. Even the blacksmiths had stilled their hammers. We were marched out to the Great Plaza, a vast expanse of obsidian stone that sat in the shadow of the central spire. Thousands of us stood in perfect, silent blocks, a sea of gray and black steel.
"He's coming," Kael whispered beside me. His breath hitched, and I could feel the tremor in his shoulder. Kael was a man who could break a horse's back with his bare hands, yet he was vibrating with a primal, animalistic fear.
"Steady," I murmured, projecting a sliver of the Reverie into my voice. It wasn't a command; it was a reassurance. I felt Kael's breathing level out, the thread of my influence tightening between us.
At the far end of the plaza, the heavy iron doors of the central spire groaned open. A small group of figures emerged, their silhouettes sharp against the pale morning light. They moved with a deliberate, haunting grace that stood in stark contrast to the rough movements of the soldiers. At their center was a man who seemed to pull the very light from the air around him.
Baron von Heisenburg.
In my past life, the historical records described him as a man of average height and unremarkable features—a bureaucrat who had lucked into a position of power. The records had been wrong. Or perhaps, in this world, the man had become something else entirely.
As he walked down the ranks, the silence deepened. He didn't wear the ornate armor of a king or the flamboyant robes of a high mage. He wore a simple, high-collared coat of dark wool and a breastplate of matte-black steel. His hair was a stark, wintry silver, though his face held the sharp, frozen lines of a man in his prime. But it was his eyes that caught me. Even from a hundred yards away, I could feel them—cold, blue, and utterly devoid of the warmth of human emotion. They were the eyes of a man who had looked into the abyss and found it wanting.
He stopped every few ranks, his gaze flicking over the soldiers like a jeweler inspecting raw stones for flaws. He didn't speak, but his presence left men gasping as he passed, as if he were sucking the oxygen out of the air.
As he drew closer to Tent Seven, I felt the Crimson Reverie within me begin to react. It wasn't the usual uncoiling; it was a frantic, defensive thrumming. The magic recognized him. It recognized the sheer density of the power he radiated. It felt like standing on the edge of a cliff during a lightning storm—the air was thick with the scent of ozone and the weight of impending destruction.
The Baron stopped directly in front of our block. He didn't look at Kael, whose head was bowed so low his chin touched his chest. He didn't look at the sergeant, who was standing so stiffly he looked like he might shatter.
He looked at me.
The world seemed to tilt. For a second, the Great Plaza, the thousands of soldiers, and the obsidian spires vanished. There was only the Baron and the icy piercing of his stare. I felt his gaze move through me, not just looking at my face, but peeling back the layers of my skin, my muscles, and my very thoughts.
He was looking for the sixteen-year-old boy. He found the forty-year-old strategist.
I didn't look down. In my past life, I had stood before kings and emperors, men who held the power of life and death in a single gesture. I knew that the moment you broke eye contact with a predator, you became prey. I met his gaze with a coldness of my own, my heart rate slowing to a steady, defiant beat. I let the Crimson Reverie settle in my eyes, a faint, subterranean glow that I knew he could see.
The Baron's eyebrows twitched—the smallest, most infinitesimal sign of surprise.
"You," he said. His voice was a low, melodic rasp, like a cello played with a bow of rusted wire. It wasn't loud, but it carried to the ends of the plaza.
"My Lord," I replied. My voice was steady, lacking the tremor of the common soldier.
He stepped closer, invading my personal space until I could smell the faint scent of old parchment and cold iron that clung to him. He was a head taller than me, his shadow swallowing me whole.
"You have a strange weight to you, Adam Hilt," he said. The fact that he knew my name sent a chill down my spine. His network of informants was even more efficient than I had imagined. "You stand in a sea of fear, yet you remain dry. Why is that?"
"Fear is a reaction to the unknown, My Lord," I answered, my mind racing through a thousand possible outcomes. I had to play this perfectly. If I was too arrogant, he would kill me as a threat. If I was too submissive, he would discard me as a tool. "I have made it my business to understand the world. There is very little left that is unknown to me."
A thin, razor-sharp smile touched the Baron's lips. It was a terrifying sight. "A scholar in a soldier's skin. Or perhaps a ghost in a boy's body."
He reached out, his gloved hand moving toward my face. Every instinct I had screamed at me to flinch, to strike, to run. I remained motionless. He caught my chin, tilting my head back so the morning sun hit my eyes. He stared into them for a long, agonizing minute, searching for the crack in my armor.
"The magic you carry... it is unrefined," the Baron whispered, his voice so low only I could hear. "It is a blunt instrument. A hammer trying to do the work of a needle. It will consume you before you reach your twentieth year if you continue to wield it like a peasant."
"Then teach me to be a tailor, My Lord," I countered.
The Baron let go of my chin, his eyes flashing with a dark, appreciative light. He turned to the sergeant, who looked like he was about to have a heart attack.
"This one," the Baron said, gesturing to me. "He is no longer a recruit. Move him to the Black Spire. He will begin the Trials of the Inner Circle."
The sergeant stammered, "B-but My Lord, the Trials are for those who have served three years! He hasn't even finished basic—"
The Baron didn't look back. He was already walking toward the next block, his presence leaving a trail of frost on the obsidian stones. "If he survives the first night, he will have served enough. If he does not, he was of no use anyway."
The Great Plaza exploded into a dull roar of whispers as the Baron moved away. Kael grabbed my arm, his face pale. "Adam... the Black Spire? Nobody comes back from there. They say the mages there... they turn you inside out."
I looked up at the obsidian spire, its jagged peak lost in the swirling gray mists of the mountain. I felt the Crimson Reverie in my chest, no longer frantic, but cold and sharp. The Baron hadn't just noticed me; he had challenged me. He had seen the strategist behind the boy's mask, and he was inviting me into his world of shadows and blood.
"I'll come back, Kael," I said, though I wasn't entirely sure if I was lying. "Someone has to make sure you don't get yourself killed in the mud."
As the guards came to lead me away, I looked back one last time at the Baron's retreating figure. He was everything I had died to avoid becoming—a man of absolute, soul-crushing power. And yet, as I felt the cold stone of the spire beneath my boots, I realized with a sickening jolt of excitement that he was also exactly what I wanted to be.
The Rise of Adam Hilt was no longer a dream of survival. It was a march toward the throne.