Chapter 6: What He Could Not Ignore

  The capital did not panic. That was the first thing Laurent noticed. Markets stayed open. Carts still rolled over stone streets. People complained about prices, about weather, about delays that ultimately meant nothing. Life continued with the stubborn momentum of routine.

  The news did not arrive with alarms or shouting. It came in fragments—whispers between cleaners scrubbing public steps, a sharp exchange between guards near a gate, a notice posted and quietly replaced the next morning with a shorter one. Border villages burned. Not all of them. Not yet. The enemy empire had moved—tested, some said—a probe, a pressure point, fires along the edge of the map, just enough to see how the empire would react.

  Laurent felt the word burned in his stomach, tightening it almost instinctively. He kept working, sweeping the walkways he already knew by heart, scrubbing stone darkened by age and foot traffic. The uniform itched when he moved too much, the tool handle fitting into his palm without thought. That part scared him more than the news.

  At night, in his small rented room, the quiet pressed closer than it used to. He lay on the narrow bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying images he had tried not to see. Bodies on dirt. Blood soaking into soil. A village that had been alive only hours before. Again, his mind whispered that it was happening again. He pressed a hand against his abdomen, breathed slowly until the tightness eased. He had learned how to do that—how to stop shaking without anyone noticing. He hated that he had learned it.

  On the third day after the news spread, refugees arrived. Not many. A few carts, people who looked wrong against the city—too thin, too quiet, eyes fixed forward as if the ground itself might betray them. Laurent froze with his broom in hand as they passed. A child stumbled. Someone caught her. No one cried. The sound—the absence of sound—hit him harder than screaming would.

  He remembered games he used to play back home. Always the same role: the shield, the one who stood in front, the one who died so others could keep moving. It had felt noble then. Clean. Meaningful.

  This wasn’t a game. Here, if he stood in front of anything like that, he would die. Not dramatically. Not heroically. Just… end.

  This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

  And yet—the thought wouldn’t leave him.

  That night, he didn’t sleep. He sat on the edge of the bed until dawn bled weak light through the window, admitting what he had been avoiding since the village. He was afraid because he was weak. He was alive because he had been lucky. And luck ran out. Orien was strong. That was undeniable. He had raised fire with a motion, stood against killers who moved like shadows, and buried the dead with care, not haste. Is it possible, Laurent wondered, to become like that? The question terrified him more than the answer.

  He worked through the day in a haze and left early, hands still smelling faintly of stone dust and soap. The prestigious school sat higher in the city, its walls clean, its guards bored and watchful. Laurent stopped at the gate. Children passed him in fine clothes, laughing, complaining about lessons. For a moment, it hurt in a way he hadn’t expected.

  He missed university, he realized suddenly.

  He missed— Leona’s face rose uninvited, followed by his parents, John, Aly. How were they?

  Had the slit taken only him?

  Please—just him. He closed his eyes. There was no answer waiting there.

  Airae came out two hours later, tablet tucked under one arm, expression tired but calm. She paused when she saw him.

  “Laurent,” she said. “You waited.”

  “Me… yes.” His words were rough but usable now. “I want… ask.”

  She studied him for a moment, then gestured away from the entrance. “Walk.”

  They stopped near a quiet terrace overlooking the city.

  “I hear news,” Laurent said. “People die. Village… burn.” His hands clenched at his sides. “I hate… this,” he said. “I do nothing.”

  Airae didn’t interrupt.

  “I see Orien,” Laurent continued. “He strong. Very strong. I want… not like hero.” He searched for words. “I want not useless.”

  That made her smile—not mockery, but surprise.

  “You think very far ahead,” she said gently. “That is… rare.” She leaned against the railing.

  “Orien is a Scholar,” she explained. “Very high. Few exist. Three in the capital. That is all.”

  Laurent swallowed. “Scholar… hard?”

  “Yes.” She nodded. “Extremely. Authority, power, trust. Even the emperor does not command them easily.” That deflated something in him, fast and sharp.

  “I see,” he said quietly.

  “But,” Airae added, turning toward him, “it is not impossible to start.” He looked up.

  “There is the academy,” she said. “They test affinity. Body or law. Law Bearer. Law Bound.” She raised a hand before he could ask. “Not today. Only surface explanation.”

  Laurent nodded. Fear curled in his chest, familiar and heavy. But beneath it—uneasy, fragile—was something else.

  Not courage.

  Just refusal.

  “I think,” he said slowly, carefully shaping each word, “I try.”

  Airae smiled this time, warm and approving. “Good. Then think for three days. Fear does not mean stop. It means prepare.”

  That night, Laurent lay awake again. But this time, when the images came, he did not look away. He held them steady. And for the first time since the sky had torn open, he did not feel braver.

  He did not feel ready.

  But he was tired of folding.

  That was enough for now.