"Lucien... my sunshine..."The words greeted him like they always did, soft but unyielding. He exhaled, sitting up slowly as the cool air brushed his skin. His wrists felt warm. A glance at the faint circular marks, then away. No time for that now.The streets outside buzzed with life. Lucien dressed quickly, splashed cold water on his face, and avoided his reflection in the cracked mirror. The room was sparse—books on a shelf, a chipped basin in the corner—but it sufficed.Stepping outside, Lucien's gaze darted across the crowd, cataloging details instinctively. Vendors hollered their wares, their eyes scanning for hesitation in potential buyers. Children wove through the throng, their steps erratic but purposeful—likely on errands. Workers moved with mechanical precision, their postures betraying the weight of routine. Beneath it all, the subtle glow of energy flickered, threading through their motions as naturally as breathing, a reminder of how deeply it had rooted itself into everyday life.Lucien adjusted his bag and glanced up into the lively, bright blue sky. For a moment, the vibrant expanse seemed to echo his own resolve."Let's do this," he murmured softly.With that, he stepped forward toward the Riven district, where people toiled from dawn till dusk. Their determination mirrored his own to become stronger. Thoughts churned quietly as he walked.Strength meant change, action. Each day reminded him how far he had to go. But today wasn't just another day of reflection—he was heading to the local training outpost. An order from the capital decreed that all those without awakened abilities were required to undergo trainings to prepare for an approaching storm, The Wanderer.Reports from allies claimed the first signs of the Wanderer had been sighted. The arrival was expected in less than two years.The South, where Lucien lived, lay on the kingdom's far edge, distant from The Proximity—the farthest distance from direct confrontation. Yet even here the kingdom demanded readiness as the Wanderer's approach was said to invite strange creatures and calamity in it's wake.Basic provisions will be offered to those attending the training, with more upon completion.Lucien's thoughts narrowed, cutting through the kingdom's graciousness for providing training with cold clarity.It was never about protection; it was a numbers game. Newly awakened recruits would be thrown into the front lines to hold back chaos, their lives traded for fleeting stability. It wasn't strategy—it was attrition. Farmers and laborers by trade, these people weren't soldiers, yet the kingdom demanded their sacrifices as if they were.To the rulers, they were nothing but expendable resources in a war already deemed inevitable.He clenched his fist unconsciously, the sudden tension pulled him back to the present. Lucien stopped where the path split, his eyes scanning each option.One way wound past his old home, a place that stirred faint unease. Yet further along, there was her. The thought of seeing her steadied him in ways he couldn't explain, a fragile comfort he wasn't sure he deserved.The other route led through the market, alive with motion and sound. Traders called out, haggling over prices with aroma of fresh bread and roasted spices linger. It was a path of distractions to escape heavier thoughts in the vibrant chaos. Neither choice felt entirely right, each carrying its own weight.Without hesitation, he took the first step forward—"Please!" A sharp and coarse cry fractured Lucien's thoughts. He turned instinctively, his eyes drawn to a collecting point ahead.A man, frail and exhausted—his sunken eyes and hunched posture revealing years of toil—stood before a group of uniformed officers, his hands trembling as he clutched a bundle of receipts. "Please," the man said, his voice cracking. "I'm getting older. The fields are harder to manage. If you could just lower it a little for the next collection—just a little—I can still meet the quota."The officer at the front sneered, his voice loud enough to carry. "Lower the offerings? You're lucky we don't raise them. The kingdom needs every grain you can pull from that dirt. If you can't manage, then perhaps it's time to find someone who can." The officer stepped forward, throwing his shield, narrowly missing the farmer. The man shrank back, muttering an apology, but the officer wasn't finished. "Next year's quota will remain, and you'll meet it. Unless..."As the crowd gathered, Lucien stepped in closer for a better view, locking his eyes onto the scene as the air around the collecting point grew heavy.The officers moved with precision, their pacing deliberate as they circled the older man. It felt rehearsed—boots striking the ground in steady rhythm, their postures tightening like coiled springs. The officer leading the exchange shifted subtly, his right hand drifting toward his sword hilt. The motion was subtle, yet it carried weight, a calculated show of dominance. They weren't just holding the line; maybe they were staging an assertion of power, a performance meant to crush resistance before it could begin.A sharp swoosh—Lucien froze as a spear tore through the air in front of him, lodging into the farmer's chest with a sickening thud. The man staggered, his eyes wide in shock as his hands flew unconsciously toward the shaft, grasping at the weapon buried just below his heart. Blood seeped through his tunic, pooling in uneven patterns as he fell to his knees, gasping for air that wouldn't come. The scene started burning into Lucien's mind—a calculated strike, deliberate but not immediately fatal. It was a message.The sound of boots crunching against gravel trickled in, slowly breaking the stunned silence. From the shade of the tent, a high ranking officer emerged, his pristine uniform unblemished by the chaos outside. He moved with deliberate calm, his hands clasped behind his back, eyes scanning the onlookers as if surveying pawns on a board. When he spoke, his tone was slow and measured, each word heavy with authority. "The decree is clear," he said, his gaze cold and unwavering. "Those who do not adhere is an act of treason."The murmurs spread like wildfire through the gathered crowd. "The Impaler," someone whispered, their voice trembling. "Why is he here?" Another joined, hushed but frantic. "The Impaler is here." The name rippled across the onlookers, each repetition laced with fear, as more people shrank back into the shadows, avoiding his gaze."Display this one," The Impaler ordered, his voice cold and sharp. The officers moved without hesitation, lifting the dying man up like a crude pillar with practiced efficiency. The man was nothing more than a tool for demonstration—an object, disposable and forgotten.Lucien tracked The Impaler's gaze as it shifted to an older woman standing frozen near the edge of the crowd, just a few steps away.
The Impaler's finger rose, pointing at her—as if sealing her fate in silence.
"The cure for treason is..."
His voice paused deliberately, as if savoring the weight of the moment.
"...purging."
The words, heavy and precise, meant to crush any remaining defiance.
Lucien's wrists burned faintly. The circular marks etched into his skin began to glow steadily, as if responding to the rising tension in the air.He closed his eyes for a moment, thoughts racing as he visualized The Impaler's next move. There was a shovel strapped at his side. A single swing—with intent to kill—aimed directly at The Impaler's commanding stance. It wouldn't land, but hopeful that the force alone is enough to disorient for a brief window to act.The sand beneath his feet could be kicked up, carried by the incoming draft to form a makeshift screen, masking his movements as he dashed toward the old woman. Rocks and debris, thrown in quick succession, would create further chaos, buying precious moments.He anticipated the counterattack: an inevitable spear flying toward him. Based on his earlier observations—the precision of The Impaler's movements when slaughtering the dying man—Lucien calculated, it would take at least three seconds for The Impaler to ready a stance and throw. Just enough to raise the shield that had missed the farmer moments ago, to brace the impact.As two escape routes crystallized. Lucien's wrists glows with intensity. Doubt couldn't find a foothold.With his eyes still closed, he whispered,"Ignite".