Morning drifted softly into the Quarter, bringing a thin wash of light over cluttered alleys and crooked rooftops. Inside the Dented Flask—“the Dent” to those familiar with its dim interior—an aging lamp buzzed and flickered, illuminating a world that knew too many hungry days and bitter nights.

Mattius crouched near a wobbly table, fingers sifting through yesterday’s salvage: a few inches of copper wire, a half-functional data-chit, a cracked power cell that might still hold a weak charge. It wasn’t much, but “not much” was often the difference between gnawing hunger and a meager meal.

Old Karvel stood behind his makeshift bar, scowling at shriveled tubers as though he might glare them back into plumpness. A faint sigh escaped the older man’s lips as he tossed aside a blackened root. He sensed Mattius’s gaze and looked up, eyes narrowed, jaw set.

“Drafting Tests soon,” Karvel said, voice low and rough. “Every last one of you of age will be scanned. Don’t think anyone’s looking forward to it.”

Mattius nodded, slipping the data-chit into his pocket. He tried to ignore the hollow twist in his gut. “No one is,” he agreed. “The Watch has been crawling around like ants, setting up checkpoints.” He didn’t add that he’d seen them eyeing the alley kids more closely, as if measuring each for some hidden worth.

Karvel lifted another tuber, shook his head, and tossed it aside. “You know what it means if they find something in you, right? Warrior, Mage, Psionic—it won’t matter. They’ll drag you out of here. No questions, no bargaining.”

A knot tightened in Mattius’s throat. He forced a swallow. “I know the stories,” he managed. “Warriors… they pilot exosuits, link with machines. I’ve heard rumors, but never knew what was true.”

Karvel let out a humorless laugh. “True enough. A real Warrior doesn’t just pilot a suit; they fuse with it. I’ve heard of one who rerouted a whole fleet’s navigation systems mid-battle, turning enemy ships against each other. Warriors bring whole star-cruisers to heel. Picture that, boy—someone walking into a cockpit and bending it to their will like a musician playing strings.”

Mattius tried to imagine it: raw mechanical power at your fingertips, saving or destroying hundreds of lives with a glance. He shifted his weight. “And Mages?” he asked quietly. “They build and power reactors, right?”

Karvel grunted, rubbing a hand over his bald scalp. “Mages keep the Empire’s heart beating. They forge and fuel those FTL reactors so ships can hop across star systems in a blink. Once heard a tale about a Mage who stabilized an entire colony’s reactor grid on the brink of meltdown. Just did it and drifted off, no applause, no thanks. They’re too far above it all to bother with the likes of us.”

Mattius tried to picture that, too: holding the fate of entire worlds in your hands, folding and twisting energies as easily as smoothing cloth. He felt very small, standing in the Dent, with only a few wires and a busted power cell to his name.

He lowered his voice further. “And Psionics… they can read minds. Influence people, right?”

Karvel’s gaze drifted toward the curtain shielding the back room, where a few children slept. “They do more than rummage in heads,” he said softly. “A Psionic can end a war by making enemies understand each other’s nightmares and hopes. They calm riots, heal rifts, shift the balance of history just by nudging minds. One Psionic ended a decades-old feud simply by linking two warlords’ minds so they couldn’t ignore each other’s pain. No blood spilled that day—just understanding.”

The silence that followed weighed heavily. Mattius’s chest felt tight. Warriors, Mages, Psionics—mythic figures who shaped empires, while he struggled to feed a handful of hungry kids. If the Tests found something in him, would he leave the Quarter behind? Would he regret it?

Karvel broke the silence with a weary sigh. “These Tests aren’t about justice, boy. They’re about the Empire’s needs. If you’ve got Talent, they’ll make you their tool. If not, you stay here and scrape by for the rest of your days.”

Mattius set his jaw, heart fluttering. “Neither path sounds like freedom,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. He thought of the girl he’d brought here yesterday, how she’d looked at him like he was her lifeline. If Mattius was taken away, who would stand between her and the night?

Karvel grunted and jerked his chin toward the door. “If you’re heading out to trade, best do it now,” he said. “Crowds get thicker soon, and desperate folks get meaner.”

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Mattius rose and gathered his salvage into a threadbare pouch. He knew a few traders who might accept his junk for something edible. The Dent’s supplies were thin, and every scrap of nourishment could mean the difference between a child going hungry or getting a half-meal. He nodded at Karvel, pushing away the gnawing thoughts of the Tests. He needed to focus on today’s survival.

Outside, the Quarter’s streets were waking. Filtered sunlight caught on dangling metal strips and shredded banners. Vendors dragged carts into place, some coughing in the dust, others shouting half-hearted greetings to attract early customers. Mattius stepped into the lane, shoulders hunched. He recognized a few figures: Gral, who sold bitter greens from a cracked crate; Icen, a tinkerer with a face like old leather, who might want his data-chit; and Fenlo, a nervous man rumored to have weak connections with black-market smugglers.

Mattius weaved through the throng, mind churning. The Tests. Talent. These legends Karvel spoke of felt like distant stars—bright, unreachable. Meanwhile, hunger prowled these alleys, and no mythical warrior or serene mage cared to fix that. He reached Icen’s stall, a splintered table covered with old circuit boards and salvaged plating.

Icen eyed him. “Whatcha got today?” he asked, voice muffled by the cloth mask he wore against the dust.

Mattius produced the data-chit and wire. “This chit might still hold some encrypted schematics. The wire’s copper—decent quality if you strip it.” He tried to sound confident. Confidence made for better trades.

Icen grunted, holding the chit up to the light as if he could see through it. “I can give you some dried root chunks and a handful of salted kernels.” He tapped the wire. “Might be able to melt this down. Won’t give you more than that, though.”

Mattius weighed his options. Dried root wasn’t tasty, but it was filling. The kernels were a treat—if a bit stale. They’d keep Karvel’s wards from grumbling too hard before nightfall. “Deal,” he said quietly.

They exchanged goods with quick, practiced motions. Across the alley, Gral was trying to hawk vegetables. Most looked half-rotten. Fenlo stood at a corner, glancing around like he expected someone to grab him by the throat. The Quarter didn’t encourage trust.

Mattius turned back toward the Dent, clutching his trade. On the way, he heard whispers swirling among neighbors:

“…heard they’re bringing in extra scanners. Psionics too, to read anyone who tries to fake it.”

“…Warriors are short on recruits after that last front. They’ll be looking hard, real hard.”

“…Mages don’t care what’s down here. As long as they get their fresh minds to shape, right?”

Every snippet of gossip tightened the coil in Mattius’s chest. He passed a side street where two armed thugs argued, shoving each other over who had rights to a broken solar panel. Mattius kept his head down. No sense drawing attention. He already had enough worries.

Approaching the Dent, he remembered the silent watchers he’d glimpsed before—the mysterious figures perched atop roofs. He glanced up now, searching for silhouettes against the patchwork skyline. Nothing there. Maybe they were gone, or maybe they blended too well for him to notice. Had they been watching him for the Tests? For Talent? He tried not to dwell on it.

The tavern’s door creaked as he pushed it open. Inside, Karvel was still sorting his meager stores, muttering curses at the poor quality of available produce. The place smelled faintly of yeast and metal dust. Mattius set the dried root and kernels on the counter.

Karvel raised an eyebrow. “That all you got?”

Mattius shrugged. “It’ll hold us over. Better than nothing.” He didn’t mention that it was getting harder to find good salvage to trade. The city’s scavengers were many, and the scraps were few.

From behind the curtain, a child coughed softly. The new girl might be awake, or maybe one of the older boys stirring. Mattius wondered if they’d ask about the Tests soon. Rumors drifted easily. He’d have to reassure them, pretend he knew what he was doing. He was no parent, but he couldn’t leave them adrift in fear.

Karvel nodded grudgingly. “All right. Divide it up. A few pieces for the kids, one for you. I’ll take a bite if there’s spare.” He said it without meeting Mattius’s gaze, as if embarrassed to rely on a boy’s scavenging. Pride was a tricky thing in the Quarter.

Mattius unpacked the meager haul. The roots were hard and tasted like old bark, but they’d quiet empty bellies. The kernels might even coax a reluctant smile. He arranged them in small piles. Overhead, the lamp buzzed again, threatening to flicker out. Mattius made a mental note: try to find a spare filament someday.

As he worked, his mind drifted back to Karvel’s words. Warriors who command ships. Mages who stabilize worlds. Psionics who end wars with whispered empathy. Meanwhile, he knelt on a cracked floor, dividing scraps of food among children who might never know a world beyond this cramped tavern and its lean rations.

If the scanners found something in him—if he were whisked off to live among legends—would it be worth leaving this behind? Could he ever return, and if he did, would he even recognize himself?

He shook his head. Speculation wouldn’t fill their bellies. Today he had a few roots and kernels, and that was real enough. He laid a piece of root in front of Karvel. The old man grunted in acknowledgment, eyes distant.

The Dent settled into a quiet lull as the outside murmur rose and fell. Mattius realized how fragile the peace was. Soon the Tests would come, and with them, the question of his future. For now, he’d done what he set out to do: trade salvage for sustenance, buy another day in which to breathe and think. Talent or not, life went on.

He stepped back toward the door, stealing a glance at Karvel, who was rotating a shriveled tuber as though imagining it plump and fresh. Mattius said nothing, just let the silence speak. Tomorrow, or the next day, the Tests would loom larger. Until then, he had what he had, and that would have to be enough.

Outside, the Quarter was still there, grim and persistent. Inside the Dent, they might just endure a little longer.