Night had fallen over the meadow.

  The sky was covered with a low veil of gray clouds, and only the flames of the fire still cast a golden light over the overlook.

  Kael lay stretched out in the grass, hands clasped behind his head, watching the stars pierce through the clouds in fleeting gaps.

  The wind carried the murmur of the spring and the steady crackle of the firewood.

  He savored the calm.

  A real respite.

  Lucanis and Althéa had gone hunting at nightfall, leaving him to enjoy what he called his due.

  He had earned that privilege by building the drying rack and hanging the Overdrawn’s hides—work neither of them wanted to do, or knew how to do.

  Time passed slowly, paced by the fire and the breath of the wind.

  Then, in the distance, footsteps came up the path.

  Kael lifted his head.

  Lucanis appeared first, an exhausted but victorious silhouette, holding a rabbit by its hind legs.

  Althéa followed a little behind, arms crossed, her expression closed off.

  Kael sat up and called out with an ironic smile:

  “Ah, the heroes return. And they even brought dinner.”

  Lucanis set the rabbit down near the fire and wiped his hands on his trousers.

  “Yeah. Well, it wasn’t easy. It made us run for it.”

  Kael stepped closer, took Lucanis’s knife, and began skinning the animal without another word.

  He had learned the motion the day before, simply by watching Lucanis.

  His movements weren’t very precise, but he applied himself carefully.

  Blood ran in dark streams over the flat stone he had placed beneath the carcass.

  Sitting a little farther away, Althéa turned her head aside, her face tightened in disgust.

  She pressed her lips together, but said nothing.

  Kael glanced up at her, amused.

  “Oh, come on, don’t make that face.”

  She hugged her arms tighter around herself.

  “It’s filthy.”

  “It’s life,” Kael corrected calmly.

  “Well… it was.”

  With a sharp pull, he tore the rabbit’s skin free in one motion.

  A wet sound followed.

  Althéa turned away again, sighing.

  Kael then said, in a triumphant tone:

  “See, Lucanis? First try!”

  Lucanis answered the way one humors a child:

  “Yeah, yeah, Kael. Very good.”

  Kael chuckled softly.

  “So? A good hunt, then?”

  Lucanis opened his mouth to answer, but Althéa cut him off sharply, her tone cold.

  “Fine.”

  Kael raised an eyebrow.

  “Fine, huh?”

  Lucanis shot him a look halfway between exasperation and caution.

  “Yes. Fine. If we ignore the fact that the princess tripped over a root, talked too loudly, and scared off two rabbits before that one.”

  Althéa turned toward Lucanis.

  “I’m learning.”

  Kael stifled a laugh and calmly went back to his work.

  “Oh, don’t worry, princess. We’re all learning.”

  “You’re learning how to hunt… and I’m learning how not to die laughing.”

  Althéa shot Kael a dark look.

  Lucanis sighed, sat down near the fire, and shook his head.

  “You’re not starting again, are you?”

  “Not my fault,” Kael replied without looking up.

  “She’s the one who’s too sensitive.”

  “I am not sensitive,” Althéa said coldly.

  “I just… didn’t grow up around people who tear the skin off living things for dinner.”

  Kael lifted his head. His gaze softened—almost imperceptibly.

  “Yeah… me neither, you know.”

  Silence fell again—awkward, heavy.

  Kael finished preparing the carcass and set it on a wooden spit, planting it above the fire.

  The first smells of roasting meat mingled with the smoke.

  Lucanis looked out over the meadow, peaceful in the night.

  “At least tonight, we’ll eat hot.”

  Kael nodded slowly, thoughtful.

  “And we’ll sleep alive. That’s already something.”

  They ate in silence.

  The fire cast a flickering light across their faces, mixing exhaustion with shadow.

  The smell of grilled meat hung in the cool air, blending with that of the damp hides hanging on the drying rack.

  Althéa, upright despite her fatigue, ate slowly—but with obvious hunger.

  She hadn’t had real food in two days.

  Even starving, she retained that strange grace—

  that of a girl who had never learned how to get dirty.

  Kael chewed without speaking, his gaze lost in the flames.

  Lucanis, more pensive, seemed to be counting the fire’s crackles

  the way one counts the seconds before a storm.

  He was the one who broke the silence.

  “Do you realize we killed a Class-Three?”

  His voice was deep, almost low.

  “We… Latents.”

  “And barely trained at that.”

  “One of whom, if I remember correctly, doesn’t even have the basics of blade handling.”

  Kael raised an eyebrow without lifting his head.

  Althéa answered before he could, her tone neutral.

  “That should be impossible.”

  She placed the bone she was holding near the fire, hands folded over her knees.

  “Even a group of Revealed would hesitate to approach a Class-Three Overdrawn without preparation.”

  “What we did… shouldn’t be doable.”

  Kael finally looked up, genuinely confused.

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  “Wait—‘Class-Three,’ ‘Class-Four,’ all that…”

  “What exactly are these class rankings?”

  Althéa slowly turned her head toward him.

  Her gaze had gone cold.

  “You’re joking.”

  Kael frowned.

  “Not at all.”

  Lucanis sighed, scratching at the dirt with the tip of a stick.

  “That’s strange you wouldn’t know this, Kael. Even in the Broken Crown, they must teach the basics, right?”

  Kael raised an eyebrow.

  “The Ombrevu don’t even know Overdrawn exist.”

  Althéa and Lucanis reacted at the same time.

  “Wait—what?” Lucanis blurted out, stunned.

  Althéa spoke again, her tone less cold than usual.

  “How can an entire part of Soléandre—and the world itself—be unaware of things like this?”

  She sounded genuinely unsettled.

  Kael shrugged.

  “I don’t know! The Dean had the same reaction when I told him.”

  Althéa stared at him for a long moment—truly surprised, both by his ignorance and by the realization that part of her kingdom lived unaware of such dangers.

  Then, in a calm, clear voice—the one she used when explaining things at a lecture hall board—she began:

  “Overdrawn, simply put, are distortions of the world.”

  “Matter—or people—that have lost their balance due to an excess of Elan.”

  “In fact, absolutely anything can become Overdrawn, because everything possesses Elan.”

  “The Institute classifies them from Class-Four to Class-One…”

  “—and above that, Class-S.”

  She picked up a small piece of wood and drew lines in the dirt in front of her.

  “Class-Four,” she said, sketching a small cross.

  “They’re the weakest.”

  “They include creatures, humans, and any form of matter whose Elan became so unstable that it corrupted its host. Usually, they retain their original shape, but certain physical traits can change. You saw an example this morning—the bird you killed.”

  “Class-Fours are generally unintelligent. They attack in groups, chaotically.”

  She drew another mark, larger this time.

  “Class-Three. This is the next stage—when a Class-Four survives long enough to evolve.”

  “They can imitate what they see, copy movements, initiate rudimentary plans. They are intelligent. And most often, they lead groups of Class-Fours.”

  Kael listened, arms crossed, intrigued despite himself.

  “So what we fought…”

  “That was a Class-Three?”

  Althéa nodded.

  “Yes. And a strong one, judging by its build.”

  “Things like that shouldn’t exist so close to a training zone.”

  Lucanis took over, his voice darker.

  “Above that, you have Class-Twos. They’re an evolution of Class Threes—but that evolution is extremely rare. Most of the time, they appear already at that level.”

  “Regional anomalies. At that point, we’re talking about a complete Elan breakdown across an entire territory. The Overdrawn can manipulate the whole area.”

  “When one appears in a populated zone, the entire territory is usually evacuated immediately.”

  “When that happens, they send in Primants. Not Revealed. Not Channelers.”

  Kael raised his eyebrows, an ironic glint in his eyes.

  “And Class-One? What is that—angry gods?”

  “Worse,” Althéa replied flatly.

  “They are incarnated cataclysms. Natural disasters.”

  “Fragments of the world that have come alive. Seas. Mountains. Deserts given will.”

  “They’re rare—but they harbor Overdrawn of every class within them. Armies, essentially.”

  “To bring one down, you must deploy a group of Singularities.”

  “No fewer.”

  Kael whistled softly.

  “Lovely. And Class-S?”

  Althéa hesitated. A brief shiver crept into her voice.

  “Class-S is… what we don’t understand.”

  “The inexplicable.”

  “They aren’t classified because of their power—but because of the incomprehension they inspire. They defy all logic.”

  “They can be anything. A human. A chicken. A tidal wave.”

  “They can be harmless—or extremely aggressive.”

  “No one understands how they function. Or why they behave the way they do.”

  “They don’t fit into any of the four classes we just discussed.”

  The fire crackled softly.

  Kael stayed silent for a moment, pensive.

  “So…” he said at last.

  “We killed an Overdrawn that’s supposed to be hunted by Channelers. And we did it with no training. No equipment.”

  Lucanis looked up at him, his expression serious.

  “Yes. And that’s exactly what worries me.”

  Althéa nodded slowly.

  “It isn’t normal.”

  “These creatures don’t just stumble onto a group of Latents by chance.”

  “Something is drawing them in… or guiding them.”

  Kael, a tired smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, stared into the fire.

  “Great.”

  “So we’re not just lost. We might be followed by something worse than a nightmare-shaped piece of shit.”

  No one answered.

  Only the wind whistled through the grass, and the rabbit finished roasting in a heavy silence.

  Kael, still leaning back against the stone, chewed on a piece of cold meat. The fire—now reduced to a ring of embers—cast amber reflections across his face.

  Althéa and Lucanis, meanwhile, still seemed lost in thought after their discussion about the Overdrawn.

  Then, in a weary tone, Kael went on:

  “Alright… and now you’re talking about Revealed, Primants, Channelers, and whatever else.”

  “Honestly, I don’t get any of it.”

  “Every time you explain one thing, ten more pile up behind it.”

  Visibly exasperated, Althéa straightened, brushed the dust from her skirt, and adopted that precise, mechanical, almost academic tone she used whenever she stepped onto familiar ground.

  “Fine. Then listen.”

  “Every Trame Bearer belongs to a specific stage, which evolves according to how they wield Elan.”

  She raised a hand, tracing an invisible upward line in the air—like a diagram drawn from memory.

  “Latent,” Althéa began.

  “That’s what we are.”

  “The Elan core is dormant. Inert. No direct interaction with the world’s energy.”

  “It takes the Trial to awaken it. Most people remain Latents their entire lives. The manifestation of a Trial is often tied to genetics—if none of your ancestors ever wielded Elan, your chances of a Trial manifesting are extremely low.”

  Kael nodded.

  “So… I’m a Latent. Alright. That, I get.”

  “Next comes the Revealed,” Althéa continued.

  “That’s when the Trame Bearer manifests their Elan for the first time, after the Trial.”

  “They gain access to their subconscious.”

  Kael raised a puzzled eyebrow at her words, but stayed quiet, letting her go on.

  “Your Elan translates your subconscious. You simply have to ask yourself a question, and it answers by giving you information—your Trame, your Dominant Trait, your Relics.”

  “From that point on, every bearer can read what they are.”

  Lucanis stepped in calmly:

  “The Revealed are the first to risk saturation. If they don’t learn how to regulate their Elan and circulate it properly, they can lose control—lose their mind—and eventually end up becoming an Overdrawn themselves.”

  Althéa nodded.

  “The next stage is the Channelers.”

  “Their Elan flow becomes stable. Directed.”

  “They can reinforce their bodies, project Elan, and learn how to manifest their Permanence.”

  “This is the stage where you truly learn what Elan is—and how it works.”

  Kael listened, clearly unsettled despite his focused expression.

  “And after that?”

  “After that come the Primant,” she said, her voice lower now—almost reverent.

  “Those who wield Elan like a language.”

  “They no longer merely channel it. They can perceive Elan in all forms of life and matter… infuse it into others… and much more.”

  “They are rare. Feared.”

  “And necessary.”

  Kael raised an eyebrow, impressed despite himself.

  “Charming picture. And we’re supposed to become that someday?”

  Lucanis let out a soft chuckle.

  “Not you, Kael.

  If you make it to the end of this course alive, that’ll already be a miracle.”

  Kael gave him a mock salute, a crooked smile on his lips.

  “Always so encouraging.”

  Althéa concluded in a calm voice, almost solemn:

  “There is one last category.

  Singularities.

  Exceptional beings.

  Anomalies… that defy the very rules of Elan.”

  The fire sank lower, slowly swallowed by the night.

  Kael remained still, watching the embers dance in the wind.

  A shadow crossed his gaze—something distant, secret.

  Then he smiled, as if to shake off the weight of the silence.

  “Well,” he added softly,

  “at least now I know which box I’m in.”

  “And I’ve still got a thousand questions to ask.”

  “And I’m not talking about small ones. I mean things like—why the world speaks, why we listen to it, and most of all, who had the brilliant idea to translate all of this into suffering.”

  Althéa stifled a faint smile without looking at him.

  “You’ll ask them tomorrow, Kael.

  For now, it’s better to sleep.”

  Lucanis stayed on his feet to take the first watch.

  Kael lingered a moment longer, sitting by the fire, watching the flames ripple across the suspended furs.

  Then he stood, went to retrieve his uniform—now dry—where it hung on the rack.

  The fabric, still a little stiff, smelled of ash and leather.

  He put it on without a word, adjusted the sleeves, then lay down directly on the grass, arms folded beneath his head.

  The wind drifted over the overlook, carrying the murmur of the spring and the soft rustle of drying hides.

  Kael stared up at the sky, eyelids heavy, mind in turmoil.

  “A thousand questions,” he murmured.

  “And not a single damn answer.”

  His words dissolved into the night.

  Above him, the stars remained silent.

  And Kael fell asleep, his head full of voices he did not yet understand.