"Lucien... my sunshine..."

A routine greeting, soft yet unyielding—a quiet echo from a place impossible to forget.

A slow exhale. The body shifts, rising gradually as the cool air brushes against the bare skin. Warmth lingers at the wrists. A glance at the faint circular marks—then away.

"No time for that now."

The streets outside buzzed with life as Lucien dressed quickly. Cold water splashes across the face—avoiding the reflection in the cracked mirror. The room was sparse—books on a shelf, a chipped basin in the corner—sufficed.

Door hinges creaks—

Stepping outside, Lucien's gaze darts across the crowd, cataloging details instinctively. Vendors holler their wares—their eyes scanning for hesitation in potential buyers. Children weave through the throng—their steps erratic but purposeful, likely on errands. Workers move with mechanical precision—their postures betraying the weight of routine. Beneath it all, the subtle glow of energy flickers, threading through their motions as naturally as breathing—a reminder of how deeply it has rooted itself into everyday life.

Lucien adjusts his bag and glances up into the lively, bright blue sky—For a moment, the vibrant expanse seems to mirror an inner resolve.

"Let's do this," murmurs softly.

With that, steps carry toward the Riven district, where people toil from dawn till dusk—their determination, a quiet reflection of his own, to become stronger. Thoughts churn in rhythm with each stride.

"Strength meant change, action."

Each day reminds him how far there is to go. But today isn't just another day of reflection—steps are aimed toward the local training outpost. An order from the capital decrees that all those without awakened abilities are required to undergo training—a preparation for an approaching storm, The Wanderer.

Reports from allies claim the first signs of The Wanderer have been sighted. With its arrival expected in less than two years.

The South, where Lucien lives, lies on the kingdom's far edge, distant from The Proximity—the farthest point from direct confrontation. Yet even here the kingdom demands readiness as The Wanderer's approach is said to invite strange creatures and calamity in its wake.

Basic provisions will be offered to those attending the training, with more upon completion.

Lucien's thoughts narrows, cutting through the kingdom's pretense of graciousness for providing training with cold clarity—it was never about protection; it was a numbers game. Newly awakened recruits would be thrown onto the front lines to hold back chaos, their lives traded for fleeting stability. This isn't strategy; this is attrition. Farmers and laborers by trade, these people weren't soldiers, yet the kingdom demanded their sacrifices as if they were.

To the rulers, they are nothing more than expendable resources in a war already deemed inevitable.

He clenches his fist unconsciously—the sudden tension snapping him back to the present.

Lucien halts where the path splits, his eyes scanning each option—one way winds past his old home, a place that stirs faint unease. Yet further along, there is her. The thought of seeing her steadies him in ways he can't explain, a fragile comfort he isn't sure he deserves.

The other route leads through the market, alive with motion and sound. Traders call out, haggling over prices with aroma of fresh bread and roasted spices linger in the air. It's a path of distractions to escape heavier thoughts. Neither choice feels entirely right, each carrying its own weight.

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Without hesitation, the first step moves forward—

"Please!"

A sharp and coarse cry fracture his thoughts. Instinct takes over, and his gaze snaps toward a collecting point ahead.

A man, frail and exhausted, his sunken eyes and hunched posture—revealing years of toil. Before him, a group of uniformed officers waits. His hands tremble, clutching a bundle of crumpled receipts—

"Please," the man says in desperation—his voice cracking.

"I... I'm... getting older," the man stammers.

"The fields are getting harder to manage. If you could just lower it a little for the next collection—just a little—I can still meet the quota."—

"Lower the offerings? You're lucky we don't raise them. The kingdom needs every grain you can pull from that dirt. If you can't manage, then perhaps it's time to find someone who can!" The officer at the front sneers, his voice loud enough for everyone to hear.

The officer steps forward, hurling his shield that narrowly misses the farmer. The man flinches, shrinking back, muttering an apology, but the officer wasn't finished.

"Next year's quota will remain, and you'll meet it. Unless..."

As the crowd gathers, Lucien steps in closer for a better view, locking his eyes onto the scene as the air around the collecting point grows heavy—the officers move with precision, their pacing deliberate as they circle the older man. It feels rehearsed—boots striking the ground in steady rhythm, their postures tightening like coiled springs.

The officer leading the exchange shifts subtly, his right hand drifting toward the hilt of his sword. The motion is subtle, but carries weight—a calculated show of dominance. This isn't just about holding the line; it feels like a staged assertion of power, a performance meant to crush resistance before it can even begin.

A sharp swoosh—

Lucien freezes as a spear tears through the air in front of him, lodging into the farmer's chest with a sickening thud. The man staggers, eyes wide in shock as his hands fly unconsciously toward the shaft, grasping at the weapon buried just below his heart. Blood seeps through his tunic, pooling in uneven patterns as he fall to his knees, gasping for air that refuses to come.

The scene sears itself into Lucien's mind—a calculated strike, deliberate but not immediately fatal. It's a message.

The crunch of boots against gravel trickles in, slowly breaking the stunned silence. From the shade of the tent, a high ranking officer emerges, his pristine uniform unblemished by the chaos outside. He moves with deliberate calm, hands clasped behind his back, eyes sweeping over the onlookers like a strategist surveying pawns on a board.

When he speaks, his tone is slow and measured, each word heavy with authority.

"The decree is clear," he says, his gaze cold and unwavering.

"Those who do not adhere is an act of treason."

Murmurs spread like wildfire through the gathered crowd. "The Impaler," someone whispers, their voice trembling. "Why is he here?" Another voice joins, hushed and frantic.

"The Impaler is here."

The name ripples through the onlookers, each repetition laced with deeper fear, as more people shrink back into the shadows, to avoid his gaze.

"Display this one," The Impaler orders, his voice cold and sharp.

The officers move without hesitation, lifting the dying man up like a crude pillar with practiced efficiency. To them, he is nothing more than a tool for demonstration—an object, disposable and soon forgotten.

Lucien catches a shift in The Impaler's gaze, now fixed on an older woman standing frozen near the edge of the crowd—just a few steps away.

The Impaler's finger lifts, pointing at her—as if sealing her fate in silence.

"The cure for treason is..."

His voice pauses deliberately—as if savoring the weight of the moment.

"...purging."

The word, heavy and precise—crafted to crush any remaining defiance.

Lucien's wrists burn faintly, the circular marks etched into his skin glowing steadily—responding, it seems, to the rising tension in the air.

He closes his eyes for a moment, thoughts racing as he visualizes The Impaler's next move. A shovel rests strapped at his side. A single swing—with intent to kill—aimed directly at The Impaler's commanding stance. It likely wouldn't land, but maybe—just maybe—the force alone is enough to disorient, creating a brief window to act.

The sand beneath his feet—if kicked up at the right moment—could catch the incoming draft, swirling into a makeshift screen—should be enough to dash for the old woman. Rocks and debris—hurled in quick succession—could create further chaos, buying precious moments.

There will be a counterattack—a spear, inevitable, aimed straight—likely on the fourth step. Based on earlier observations—the precision in The Impaler's movements when slaughtering the dying man—it would take at least three seconds for The Impaler to ready a stance and throw. Just enough to raise the shield that had missed the farmer moments ago, to brace the impact.

As two escape routes crystallize, Lucien's wrists glow with intensity. Doubt finds no foothold.

With his eyes still closed, he whispers,

"Ignite".

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> AN: Thank you for reading my first post. Your thoughts and feedback will be greatly appreciated and helpful in writing subsequent chapters!