When I opened my eyes, I sucked in a sharp breath.

  The night sky was gone, scoured away by a brutal midday sun. Jerald had warned me it would be bright. I had braced for that.

  I hadn’t been ready for the weight of it.

  Heat and light pressed down like a physical force, thick, unrelenting. Colours cut too clean, edges too sharp, as if the world had been overexposed. My vision lagged no matter how hard I blinked, refusing to soften.

  Movement crowded in from every direction. Voices overlapped. Footsteps scraped and shuffled. People passed too quickly to focus on, my gaze sliding off them like water.

  Jerald stepped into my line of sight, his broad frame blocking some of the glare. The pressure eased, just a little.

  “Head down,” he murmured. “Give your eyes time.”

  I did as he said, breathing slow, letting the brightness wash over me instead of fighting it. The stories had mentioned this part. The way this world pressed itself onto newcomers until they learned how to exist inside it.

  As we walked, Jerald’s pace never faltered. His voice dropped lower.

  “I can’t stay with you after this.”

  The words hit harder than the light.

  “There’s a limit to how long I can linger without drawing notice,” he continued. “You’ll be handed off. The little guy knows the ground rules here. Trust him. He’s kept others safe.”

  I didn’t ask questions. If Jerald was saying this now, the decision had already been made.

  He glanced back, meeting my eyes just long enough to be sure I was listening. “Follow instructions. Even when they sound strange.”

  Then, quieter, “You’ll adjust.”

  He slowed just enough for me to catch the faint smile in his voice. “So. Ready?”

  I exhaled through my nose. “As I’ll ever be.”

  If I were anyone else, this might have felt like a beginning.

  People around us were smiling. Laughing. Stretching stiff limbs after the crossing, eyes bright with expectation. Some looked relieved. Others excited. A few stood frozen, overwhelmed but hopeful.

  I felt none of it.

  For me, this was assessment. Distance. Survival. A careful insertion into a place where the wrong look, the wrong question, could turn mild interest into a quiet execution.

  I pushed the thought down and focused on movement.

  One step at a time.

  One rule at a time.

  Panic would get me noticed. Control would keep me breathing.

  I forced my eyes open wider and let the world settle instead of fighting it. Everything looked wrong in subtle ways. Too sharp. Colours carried weight, edges cutting through the air like they had intention. Jerald’s coat looked unnaturally vivid, the fabric catching the light as if the world had been tuned a fraction too high.

  It wasn’t just my vision.

  Something thrummed beneath it all. A low, constant pressure that made the air feel dense, like standing too close to a storm that hadn’t decided whether to break yet.

  I didn’t want to name it.

  The word felt childish. Dramatic.

  But the hum didn’t care what I called it.

  Magic.

  “My contact will meet us soon,” Jerald said quietly. “Until then, head down.”

  I nodded and copied his posture, shoulders relaxed, gaze unfocused. We stood in the middle of a wide field ringed by rows of bright red tents. Armed guards moved between them in loose patterns, checking papers, directing arrivals, waving people through.

  They didn’t move like soldiers.

  Too casual. Too bored. Jerald had been right. These weren’t the ones meant to scare anyone. Just bodies to enforce order. The real threats were deeper in the city, where blessings stacked and mistakes carried permanent consequences.

  No one looked at us.

  That mattered.

  The landing grounds were busy enough to swallow individuals whole. Too many people arriving. Too many leaving. Stone gates dotted the plaza, massive doorways humming softly as they spat travellers into the open air. Some stepped through in armour, weapons already in hand. Others arrived bent and dirty, clothes stiff with old sweat and labour.

  No single story stood out.

  Neither did we.

  Jerald’s earlier words surfaced unbidden. The cover of obscurity.

  Out here, it worked.

  Beyond the outer wall, the city rose.

  Caerwyn.

  Even from a distance, it carried weight. Not size. Authority. The kind that pressed rules into the stone itself. A place where attention was currency and the wrong kind of notice could end you without anyone ever raising their voice.

  Out here, on the edge, people cared about crops, contracts, food, and getting through the day.

  Not about hunting down things that didn’t fit cleanly into their idea of acceptable.

  I kept my head down.

  The city was different.

  Jerald had made that clear more than once.

  Still, I couldn’t stop myself from staring. I had read enough stories that the name alone carried weight. Tournaments fought for honour. Feuds that lasted generations. Heroes who were real enough to bleed. Villains who sometimes won.

  Seeing it now, the stories rearranged themselves.

  Towers crowded the skyline, rising like a forest of stone. Each was crowned with a different banner, colours snapping faintly in the distance. Guilds. Houses. Orders. Their reputations seemed to press outward, heavier than the walls meant to contain them.

  Jerald stepped sideways, cutting off my view.

  A hooded man threaded through the crowd toward us, a pack slung over one shoulder, a sword at his hip. He stopped just short of Jerald and gave a quick, low salute before passing the pack over.

  “Sir,” he murmured, just loud enough for us to hear, “you’re right on time. First batch of aspirants won’t be here for hours.”

  He nodded toward a group in the distance arranging what looked like a welcoming display.

  “Good,” Jerald said, already digging through the pack. “Did you get it?”

  The hooded man nodded once.

  “Sean,” Jerald said, without looking up, “this is Brent. Brent, Sean.”

  Brent stared at my face a second too long. Then he blinked, glanced around, and seemed to remember himself.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  “Nice to meet you, kid.”

  “Same,” I said.

  Jerald slipped on a pair of gloves before continuing his search. A quiet sound of satisfaction escaped him. “There we are. Brent, cover him.”

  Brent stepped closer. Between them, they moved with practiced ease, pulling a hood up over my shoulders and head. It felt unnecessary. No one nearby spared us a glance.

  “Better safe than sorry,” Jerald muttered, scanning the crowd anyway.

  Then he was in my space.

  Before I could react, he fastened a small medallion around my neck. Warmth crawled across my skin, sharp and itching, like pins dragged just beneath the surface. Jerald caught my chin in his gloved hand and studied my face closely.

  The sensation intensified.

  “Hold still.”

  I swallowed.

  He nodded once. “Good. It’s working.”

  I looked down at my arms.

  The scars were fading. Not vanishing, but retreating, their angry red softening until freckles bloomed in their place. Another warm pulse rolled over my face. My nose felt heavier. My lips tingled.

  “This feels… wrong,” I muttered.

  Brent grinned. “There you go, Red. Fresh as new. Not as good-looking as me, but you’ll pass.”

  Red?

  I caught a glimpse of hair at the edge of my vision. Red hair. I ran a hand over my head beneath the hood, then over my face. Everything felt unfamiliar, like I was wearing someone else’s skin.

  “Medallions are charms,” Jerald said quietly. “Usually for small things. Hide blemishes. Soften features. Nothing unusual.” His voice hardened. “Yours is not that kind.”

  He tucked the medallion deeper beneath my shirt.

  Brent cleared his throat. “Yours is very illegal.”

  “Exactly,” Jerald said. “And it took me…”

  Brent cleared his throat again.

  “…It took Brent considerable effort to acquire.”

  Brent smirked. “Effort? I wasn’t the one who bled.”

  A chill crept up my spine.

  Jerald shot him a look sharp enough to cut.

  “Sorry, sir,” Brent said quickly, his grin snapping back into place like nothing had happened.

  Jerald leaned closer to me. “Keep it hidden. At all times.” His voice dropped lower. “If anyone finds it, they won’t ask questions.”

  He straightened.

  “And neither will the city.”

  “Okay, note to self,” I muttered, then looked down at my arms. It was as if all my scars had healed. When I touched my face, I could still feel the bumps, but the marks themselves were invisible.

  “Good,” Jerald said. “Now never take it off.”

  He turned to Brent. “Your gloves.”

  Brent didn’t ask why. He stripped them off and passed them over without a word.

  Jerald pressed them into my hands. “Put them on. Keep them on.”

  I did.

  Only then did he look back to Brent. “How much time do we have?”

  “Only a few minutes,” Brent said, his expression tightening. “The round table talks start in about an hour.”

  Jerald hissed quietly through his teeth. “Right. Then we move.”

  He pulled a pair of armoured bracers from the pack and strapped them to his wrists. The metal clicked into place as faint runes flared, then dimmed, settling like restrained breath. He buckled on a thick belt next, the glow along its edge fading once it locked.

  Brent passed him the sword and scabbard. Jerald clipped it to his hip without looking. The scabbard was dyed red, silver filigree catching the light as it shifted.

  “Good.”

  Jerald turned to me. “Sean, we need to be quick. We register your soul card.”

  “You don’t have time, Jerald,” Brent warned.

  Jerald shot him a look sharp enough to stop the conversation cold. “We have time for this.”

  He dug back into the pack and pulled out a thin block of wood. He turned it over in his hands, studying the markings carved into it, then frowned.

  “Two minor blessings,” he said. “That complicates things.”

  Brent shrugged. “An aspirant’s soul card is harder to forge than a medallion. You said you wanted something ordinary.”

  “I said ordinary aspirant.”

  Brent winced. “Turns out that’s rarer than we thought.”

  Jerald exhaled slowly. “Then we adapt.” He pressed the card into my palm. “Plans can change.”

  The weight surprised me. The card was slightly larger than my hand, thick and solid, closer to a slab than paper. Two ash-burned runes branched across its surface like the limbs of a tree. At the top was a name.

  Sean Mitcheles.

  “Mitcheles,” I said. “That’s supposed to be my last name.”

  Brent nodded.

  I turned the card over once. “So, this is my new identity.”

  “A fake one,” Brent whispered.

  A flicker of excitement sparked in my chest, sharp and dangerous. I crushed it down immediately. The last thing I needed was the curse reacting now.

  Jerald leaned in close, barely moving his mouth.

  “In this city,” he murmured, “magic is licensed. Blessings. Charms. Anything that touches the spirit side. If something shows up that isn’t on the books, they don’t treat it as a mistake.”

  “Pocket it,” he said quietly. “For now. When they issue the official card, you swap it out.”

  He glanced past me, eyes skimming the tent entrance and the slow drift of bodies outside.

  “Why?” I asked.

  Jerald leaned closer, his voice dropping. “Because we don’t know what your curse might register.”

  My throat tightened.

  “And if the wrong people see that written down,” he finished quietly, “it won’t stay a secret.”

  I closed my fingers around the card and nodded.

  Jerald tapped me once between the shoulders. “Come on, kid. Move.”

  I broke into a jog to keep up as he cut through the crowd toward the largest of the red tents.

  Workers were already hauling banners and tables into place, laughing as they set up what would soon pass for a celebration. Jerald tore aside the tent flap and ushered me inside, leaving Brent waiting outside to watch the flow of traffic.

  Five men sat behind heavy desks arranged in a line, quills scratching steadily across parchment. Their posture alone told me this wasn’t their first long day of paperwork.

  There was no line.

  Jerald had timed it perfectly.

  “Go,” he said under his breath. “Far left. And mind your manners.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I crossed the tent and stopped at the indicated desk. The scribe didn’t look up. A monocle perched against one eye as his quill moved with relentless precision. His nose twitched with every stroke, as if the act itself irritated him.

  I waited.

  Nothing.

  “Um. Hello,” I said.

  He finally glanced up, peering at me through thick white brows and skin folded like ancient stone. “Yes.” Flat. Uninterested.

  “I’m here to register for a soul card, sir.”

  His eyebrow twitched. The quill paused.

  “This early,” he said. “The festival hasn’t even started.”

  A few of the other scribes glanced over, then immediately lost interest. An early aspirant was not worth distraction.

  “Yes, sir.”

  He sighed and drew a small wooden block from a silk-lined pouch, setting it on the desk with obvious displeasure. I picked it up carefully. Another irritated breath escaped him as he turned back to the massive sheet of parchment before him.

  “Name,” he said, eyes already back on the page.

  The instant his attention dropped, I moved.

  I let my gloves catch on the edge of the desk, fingers clumsy on purpose. The card slipped, my hands dipping out of his line of sight for half a breath. Long enough.

  I set the card down again, heart thudding.

  “…Name,” he repeated, sharper this time.

  “Sean,” I said.

  “Sean what.”

  “Mitcheles, sir.”

  He exhaled slowly, as though I’d personally inconvenienced him. “Hold the card properly,” he said without looking up. “Without the gloves… And state your name.”

  I adjusted my grip, pulse ticking louder in my ears.

  “Sean Mitcheles,” I said.

  The quill scratched.

  And I prayed nothing answered back.

  The old man looked like he already regretted coming to work. First aspirant of the morning, and I clearly wasn’t helping his mood.

  I risked a glance at Jerald. He gave a small nod. Encouraging. Firm.

  “Place your thumbs at the base of the card,” the scribe said without looking up. “State your name.”

  I did as instructed. My gloves felt too thick, my pulse too loud.

  “Sean Mitcheles.”

  “Yes. Like that.” His quill scratched once. “Have the runes appeared.”

  I nodded. They had been there from the start.

  “Place the card on the table.”

  The moment it touched the wood, he snatched it up and leaned closer, squinting through his monocle.

  A quiet hiss escaped him.

  Cold crept down my spine.

  He didn’t shout. Didn’t accuse. He just stared, long and unreadable, as if the card were something mildly unpleasant he’d found stuck to his boot. I forced myself to stay still, waiting for the moment everything collapsed.

  “Hm.”

  The sound landed heavier than any shout.

  “Well,” he said at last, tone flat, “looks like you’re in for a long life of hard work.”

  I didn’t react.

  “At least you won’t be in danger,” he added absently. “Folk like you make good servants.”

  My jaw tightened. I kept my expression neutral. “Yes, sir.”

  He blinked at me. “I thought you were an aspirant.” His gaze dropped back to the card. “But with blessings like these, you’ll be better suited to the fields.”

  I nodded slowly. I didn’t fully understand what the false runes showed, but I understood the outcome.

  I was small. Useful. Beneath notice.

  “Two minor blessings,” he continued, reading aloud. “Green Fingers. Earthen Stamina.”

  The quill scratched again.

  And just like that, I no longer mattered.

  The scribe finished his notes and offered a thin, tired smile. I nodded back, unsure what expression someone like me was supposed to wear.

  “Good luck, young man.” His tone had shifted. Warmer. Seeing me as future labour earned more courtesy than a reckless aspirant ever would.

  Near the entrance, Jerald watched without expression. When our eyes met, his shoulders eased a fraction. He tilted his head toward the exit.

  I took the wooden block and left.

  The moment we were clear of the tent, Jerald spoke quietly. “Time’s up. I have to go.”

  “What?”

  “We can’t draw attention.” His eyes swept the area. “The good news is they don’t know your face. Your real one. Right now, you’re just another worker in the crowd.” He tapped his own chest. “Keep the necklace on. Always.”

  I nodded. “Where do I go?”

  He dug into the pack and pulled out an old key threaded on a worn cord. He pressed it into my hand.

  “There’s a house tied to your father’s line.”

  My breath caught. “You’re serious?”

  He nodded, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “It’s yours by right. Follow the key.”

  A home. A place that wasn’t borrowed or temporary. The thought hit harder than anything so far.

  Jerald watched my reaction and exhaled slowly. “There’s a lot I want to tell you,” he said. “And none of it can be said out loud.”

  I looked up. The pain in his eyes was real. So was the resolve.

  “The reason I made you read stories instead of handing you a list of facts,” he continued, lowering his voice, “is because information behaves differently here. Words linger. Written ones even more so. A book of instructions would light you up like a signal fire.”

  I swallowed.

  “If you want to get stronger,” he said, “you’ll have to do it the hard way. From nothing.”

  “Stronger,” I repeated.

  He nodded once. “You want to get rid of it. The curse.”

  I nodded.

  “Then keep your head down and your back strong,” he said. “Play the part. Live as an aspirant.” His eyes held mine. “One day, you might actually become one.”

  I didn’t understand everything he meant. I understood enough.

  “Thank you,” I said quietly.

  Brent drifted up beside us, glancing at his wrist. “That’s it. Time’s up.” He clapped my shoulder once. “Good luck, kid. I’ll find you when I can.”

  Before I could ask another question, they were already moving away, swallowed by the flow of people heading toward the city.

  Straight into the lion’s den.

  And just like that, I was alone.