Lucien moved with a silence that no eleven-year-old should possess. His small body was an advantage now; he was a shadow among shadows. He kept his distance, watching the back of Sebas’s head.

  If I don't stop this, Lucien thought, his heart hammering against his ribs, then I will be forced back into slavery. And I am NOT doing the slave pits again. It was already bad the first time; I don't want to relive it the second.

  He reached into his tunic, feeling for any weapon. He had nothing but a small paring knife he’d swiped from the kitchen.

  His mind flickered back to the alternative. Well, it might start off bad, he thought, looking down at the oblivious Sebas. But that’s how I met Teacher. He considered it—really considered it. He could just let this one go. Let Sebas die right here and now. He could grab his parents, hide them, and let the rest of the family scatter into the wind. It would be easier. Lucien had seven siblings already, and with the way his parents humped like rabbits, there would be three more in the future. They were all currently living quiet, unremarkable lives in a nearby village, but in his previous life, they had all died. That was one reason he was still sticking around; he had to see what this deal was actually about.

  Then, a violent shiver traced the length of his spine as he thought of his Teacher’s unrealistic training and expectations.

  No way am I relearning all of that, he thought. In his previous life, he was supposed to go to the Academy, but he ended up a slave instead. This time, he was going to get there. He was going to find his opportunity to assassinate Ray Melborne the moment a window opened. Now that was a second reason to see things through.

  Light began to dance between the trees ahead. Sebas came to a halt as two cloaked figures rose from a campfire like specters. The "deal" had arrived.

  Lucien scanned the area and spotted a sturdy oak with a wide-angle view. He scooped several heavy stones into his sack and scaled the trunk with practiced ease. Balancing a rock in his palm, he gauged the distance. All those grueling chores and "assignments" Elaine and Teacher had piled on him were finally paying off; his muscles felt tuned, responsive, and coiled like a spring.

  The damp wood of the oak limb pressed into Lucien’s small frame as he strained to listen. The fire below hissed, a spark jumping into the air like a tiny, dying star. The two figures stood with a rigid, unnatural patience. They were murmuring, their voices lost in the crackle of the wood.

  Dammit, Lucien thought. If I get closer, I’m dead. If I stay here, I’m blind.

  Lucien’s weight shifted on the oak limb as he squeezed his eyes shut. He needed to hear—really hear—but his eleven-year-old body was failing him, his heart hammering against his ribs like a panicked bird. He forced himself to listen as much as he could. He had to know what they where talking about.

  Slowly, the world began to tilt.

  It wasn't a sudden snap, but a slow, deliberate slide of the internal scales. The balance of his body started to skew, shifting the weight of his existence away from everything else to feed a single point. He felt the other senses beginning to drain away into a void; the smell of the pine needles vanished, and the feeling of the rough bark beneath his thighs went numb. Even the temperature started to fail—the sharp bite of the night air didn't feel cold anymore, and the frantic heat in his chest didn't feel hot.

  He was losing himself, becoming a hollow shell as the balance of his reality tipped entirely toward his ears.

  In that lopsided silence, the muffled buzzing of the strangers' voices suddenly sharpened, the words becoming jagged and recognizable.

  “...so then why did you bring us here?” one of the cloaked strangers demanded, his voice thin and impatient.

  Lucien listened from above as Sebas ignored the tone. The butler looked at both of them with a steady gaze before moving toward a cluster of heavy, lichen-covered boulders at the edge of the clearing. With a grunt of effort, Sebas began to heave the rocks aside, revealing a dark, jagged slit in the earth—a hidden cave entrance Lucien never knew existed on their land.

  Sebas vanished into the darkness of the cave, leaving the two strangers standing by the fire.

  “Do you think he is telling the truth?” one whispered, the firelight catching the greedy glint of his eyes.

  “I hope so,” the other replied, a low, wet chuckle vibrating in his chest. “If it's true, then we will be rich beyond imagination.”

  The first one adjusted his cloak, the steel of a hidden blade glinting. “Once he comes out with proof, kill him.”

  The other nodded in silent agreement.

  Well, there it is, Lucien thought, a cold, weary realization settling in. The downfall of our barony. He didn't care about the prestige of the title, but the "rich beyond imagination" part piqued his interest. What could a backwater bumpkin like his father be sitting on?

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  They all waited in bated breath. Moments later, Sebas emerged from the hole, his face pale but illuminated by the object he held in his hands. It was a raw, jagged cluster of Aether-Stone.

  Lucien’s breath hitched. That was no ordinary ore; it was the primary conductor used by high-level engravers to forge the very same instruments they use to create their engraving tools and totems, and whatever other things engravers use that medal for. He wasn't sure all the uses for it, but he knew In its raw form, even a fist-sized chunk was worth a small fortune.

  "And there’s more inside," Sebas said, his voice brimming with a naive, prideful excitement.

  Lucien mentally smacked himself in the forehead. What are you doing, Sebas? Why are you revealing your hand? Stupid, idealistic fool.

  The two men lowered their hoods as they leaned in to examine the stone. They looked like twins—one bald with a simple mustache, the other balding with a matching one. They were mesmerized, the iridescent, rainbow glow of the Aether-Stone reflecting in their widening pupils. They didn't even bother to hide their greed anymore.

  The realization hit Lucien like a physical blow. This was it. This was why the land was stolen. This was why his family had been slaughtered, and he had been sold into the pits. They weren't just living on a farm; they were sitting on something better than gold. A mine of the most sought-after material in the Empire.

  Through the tilted focus of his hearing, Lucien caught the shift. Their breathing changed—shallowing, sharpening, the tell-tale cadence of a predator preparing to strike. He heard the faint, abrasive rustle of fabric as their hands moved toward concealed steel. Sebas noticed none of it; his mind was clearly already in the clouds.

  This isn't good.

  Lucien tried to snap out of the trance, but when his eyes flew open, the world was a void of absolute black. Panic flared—What is going on? He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head with everything he had. The feeling of things being off balance was disappearing, and it felt like things were returning to normal.

  He reached into his sack and pulled out a jagged, heavy rock. He wasn't aiming for a kill—he was aiming for the temple. Even an eleven-year-old could disorient a man if the hit was precise enough. It would snap Sebas out of his daydream and force him onto alert.

  Lucien focused everything he had into the throw. He visualized the course, the trajectory, and the speed. He poured his absolute desperation for a quiet life into that mental image.

  Then, it happened again. That weird, sickening tilt where the world went off-balance. The weight of his own arm seemed to vanish, and the resistance of the air simply ceased to exist.

  He threw.

  The rock didn't just fly; it practically teleported. There was no whistle of wind, just a sudden, violent CRACK as it found its mark.

  The balding man’s head didn't just snap to the side—it was driven into his shoulder with a sickening crunch of bone. The impact was thunderous, far beyond the physical capability of an eleven-year-old boy. The man was leveled instantly, his body hitting the dirt like a sack of lead.

  Lucien stared from his branch, his hand still extended, frozen in shock. His palm was stinging, and his small arm felt unnaturally cold.

  What the hell was that?

  The clearing turned into a vacuum of panicked silence, broken only by the wet, rhythmic thumping of the man convulsing in the dirt.

  "What the hell was that!" the bald man roared, his voice cracking as he scrambled backward, his blade hissing out of its sheath. He didn't look at the trees; he looked at Sebas, his eyes blown wide with a mixture of terror and fury. "What are you up to? What is your deal?"

  Sebas was paralyzed, his hands still clutching the Aether-Stone as if it were a shield. "This... this isn't you?" he stammered, his mind unable to bridge the gap between the diplomatic "deal" and the sudden, violent impact that had leveled the other man.

  "Why would I do that to my brother, you fool!" the bald man screamed.

  The man on the ground was bleeding and twitching, but his breathing was steady—the impact hadn't been fatal. Things became immediately tense. The bald man, still standing, roared in a grief-stricken rage. A sigil on his forearm flared with a muddy brown light, and a layer of hard, jagged earth began to crust over his skin like a suit of stone armor.

  Sebas, sensing the shift in the air, reacted instinctively. His own sigil ignited with a cool, crystalline blue, and water came bursting forth from the humid forest air, swirling around his arms in a defensive spiral.

  Lucien watched from the shadows of the leaves, his eyes cold and analytical. Sebas is only on the Second Vein, the Foundation. The bald man is on the Third, the Vein of Insight. It explained how the man on the ground survived; he must also possess the third vein, but it also meant Sebas was hopelessly outclassed. If this man escaped, the rumor of the Aether-Stone would spread like a plague, and the D’Roselles would be hunted to extinction.

  What a drag, Lucien thought, then he dropped from the tree. He stepped into the firelight, his small frame looking entirely out of place between two mana-wielders.

  "Good work, Sebas," Lucien announced, his voice carrying a calm, chilling authority.

  "Who are you!" the bald man yelled, his sword arm shaking as he leveled the blade at the child.

  "Young Master?" Sebas whispered, his face a mask of total confusion.

  "These crooks fell excellently into our trap," Lucien continued, walking toward the unconscious man on the ground. He didn't look at the sword pointed at him. He didn't look at Sebas. "Now, no one will know the treasures that lie beneath this land."

  Before anyone could move, Lucien knelt. His small hand gripped the wooden handle of the paring knife. With a clinical, detached motion, he plunged the blade into the unconscious man’s throat and glided the steel across the neck in one clean, wet stroke.

  The man bled out in seconds. Seeing a body twitching in its final, unconscious throes was enough to turn Sebas’s face a ghostly, translucent white. For Lucien, the sight was routine; he had seen it before, and he would see it again. Across from them, the bald man stood paralyzed, his blade heavy and forgotten in his hand.

  Lucien stood, the small knife dripping crimson, and fixed his gaze on the survivor. He needed the man to be irrational. He needed him blinded by a fever of revenge—anything to keep him from running to spread word of the mine.

  "Your turn," Lucien said, his eyes empty of any childhood innocence.