My fate, a coarse thread woven into the Imperium’s grand loom, snagged a different path in the Veridian Guard’s selections.
That day, after the second trial, Matron Elara’s calloused hand, smelling of stale bread and weak ale, clapped my shoulder. Her eyes, usually clouded by coin, held a rare glint.
“You’ll be the finest thing to crawl from the Ash Quarter, Jarik.”
Despite her perpetual greed, Matron Elara possessed a certain eye for the desperate. Three years later, turning fifteen, I marched into the Citadel of Ashlar, a newly minted cadet. Her words, against all odds, proved true.
Leaving the grimy lanes of the Ash Quarter, I faced a baptism of ash and steel. No artificers carved my flesh, no scribes whispered enchantments of augmentation. Instead, relentless training stripped away everything but my raw grit.
My sinews hardened. My bones, battered and bruised, knit back stronger than any augmented plate. I learned to leap higher than any city hovel, to strike with force that could splinter seasoned oak. They called it ‘Aetheric Conditioning’ for others, a slow, meticulous shaping of their Spark.
For me, it was just survival. My body, unadorned, simply *endured*.
“The Cinder-Born of Ash Quarter Seventy-Two.”
People whispered that. Few from the double-digit slum quarters ever climbed to the Veridian Guard. Most cadets hailed from noble houses or the prized single-digit training annexes, their Aetheric Sparks already burning bright.
Certainly, no rigid laws barred lowborn from the Guard. Talent was talent, they said.
Truth was, superior genes, richer diets, and early Aetheric tutelage naturally yielded superior abilities. That was the norm.
Sometimes, a fluke like me—a ‘Cinder-Born’—would rise, defying the grain. But against the tide of noble lineage, one irregular amounted to little more than a flicker.
“High officials might call you ‘Cinder-Born,’ Jarik,” Lord Commander Valerius said, his voice a low rumble. We stood in his sparse office, the air heavy with ozone from his own potent Aetheric Spark. He leaned forward, eyes like chipped granite.
“But know this: they truly call people like you… a genius. Someone who shatters natural limitations, defies wretched conditions, and carves out outcomes that shouldn’t exist.”
No smile touched my lips at the praise. Praise tasted like poison for my kind.
“I am merely a loyal blade, Commander. For the Imperium. For His Majesty.”
My hand pressed to my heart, a practiced gesture.
“A textbook answer, Cinder-Born.” A faint, icy blue glow traced the edges of Valerius’s eyes. His name was spoken in hushed tones across the Imperium, a titan of the Guard.
“Thank you, Lord Commander,” I murmured, a faint shyness, a rare, unwelcome visitor, trying to take root. His gaze was hard to meet.
“Exceptional is fine, Jarik. But don’t be *different*. Not if you wish for a long life.”
His words, a cold warning, ended the interview.
---
Four years were etched into my bones within the Citadel of Ashlar. The first bled by in a haze of relentless training. Each dawn, I forced my eyes open on the barracks cot, muscles screaming. Each dusk, I fell into exhausted oblivion. Morning arrived too soon.
Veridian Guard members mastered every combat form. Bladesmanship, spear-drills, pulse-caster proficiency—these were baseline. We pushed limits, learning to operate siege engines, skirmish armor, any war-tool the Imperium deployed.
Every quarter, my limits were tested. Not for prosthetic upgrades, but to see how much more my *natural* body could endure. How much faster my instincts sharpened. How much deeper my resilience ran. Aetheric Healers prodded, whispered, baffled by the sheer raw tenacity.
My body itself adapted. My senses grew acute. Reflexes quickened. It was a gradual, brutal process. A forging of flesh and will.
“Today marks a critical juncture for you all. A first-year assessment.”
Lord Commander Valerius addressed us on the final day of our first year. Forty cadets, including me, stood rigid within the Obsidian Ring, a vast underground arena rumored to be a relic from the First Age.
Valerius’s gaze swept over us. “His Imperial Majesty…” He gestured towards the opaque, shielded gallery above. Emperor Theron, the reigning sovereign, and his Imperial family watched from behind the dark glass.
A few cadets murmured prayers to Emperor Aethel, the Imperium’s founder. The First Emperor, the Nation’s Father, revered despite centuries of dust. Whispers of awe rippled through the ranks.
“…Under their august gaze, you will display your readiness.”
Across the coliseum, a different door hissed open. A chain gang of condemned prisoners shuffled in, their faces pallid, their hands gripping crude, scavenged weapons.
“Choose your implements,” Valerius commanded, waving towards a weapon-rack lining the wall. Swords, spears, and a handful of pulse-casters lay waiting. Only one cadet moved for a ranged weapon.
I spared a flicker of a glance at the odd choice, then looked away.
*Zing!* I drew a longsword. Its polished blade, a single layer of hardened Veridian steel, hummed with a subtle, dangerous edge.
Azure Guard members trained with every weapon, yes. But melee weapons—especially the sword and spear—held a sacred place. A soldier could waste a pulse-caster’s charge. A blade, however, demanded the ultimate skill.
For regular troops, a pulse-caster was efficient. For the Azure Guard, melee mastery defined them. They prided themselves on closing the gap, on felling projectile-armed foes with cold steel alone.
*Creeeak!* Five armed convicts shambled onto the coarse sand of the arena floor, their fear a palpable stench.
Cadet after cadet stepped forward, facing the condemned. None died, but many bore fresh wounds, their skill proving insufficient.
Soon, my turn neared. The cadet before me, the one who chose the pulse-caster, stepped forward.
“A projectile weapon, then? If you have faith in your aim, Cadet Lyra,” Valerius observed, a dry note in his voice. Cadet Lyra, from the prominent House Lyra, moved with an almost arrogant grace.
I knew Lyra’s abilities. A year of shared hell in the barracks had shown his uncanny knack. He wasn’t a coward for picking the pulse-caster. He was deadly.
Lyra entered the arena. *Bang!* The sharp crack of an aether-shot echoed. His chosen weapon, not a crude firearm, but an ornate, noble-forged pulse-caster. He moved like a dancer, a blur of motion, firing with impossible precision.
*Clang!* Without even looking, Lyra fired. His shot intersected a convict’s wildly aimed projectile mid-air, deflecting it. Not luck, but absolute calculation. A bullet deflecting a bullet.
“Ah, as expected…”
“House Lyra’s finest, truly.”
Cadets murmured, admiration in their tones.
Lyra closed the distance. The convicts, demoralized, pulled their triggers fruitlessly. Their aether-cells were depleted.
Impressive. He’d displayed absolute command, a subduing of the condemned with ease.
*Bang!* Lyra pressed his pulse-caster directly to a convict’s forehead. A point-blank execution, challenging in its proximity, forcing him into a melee range with a ranged weapon.
*Clap, clap, clap.* Applause from the high gallery. Lyra bowed, a deep, sweeping genuflection. He’d made an impression.
To wield a pulse-caster like that—it demanded that level of skill. No one doubted his prowess.
“Unfortunate, Jarik. Comparisons are bound to be made,” Lord Commander Valerius said, a smirk playing on his lips. A hot defiance flared in my gut. My temper, never mild, strained.
“We’ll see who’s truly unfortunate, Commander,” I retorted, perhaps overstepping. I glanced at Valerius. He merely shrugged, a low chuckle escaping him.
*Click.* I entered the arena. The heavy gate clanged shut behind me, sealing my fate. Two outcomes: the condemned died, or I did.
*Zing.* I lifted my sword, its hum a low, unsettling whisper against the arena’s silence. The blade felt like an extension of my arm, forged in the same crucible of pain.
*‘Projectiles are manageable. Dodge, deflect, close.’*
This was basic doctrine for the Veridian Guard. Yet for cadets, it was a gamble. A comrade, pulled from the arena bleeding from a lucky shot, had proven that.
What I needed was utter, absolute focus. No artificial stimulants or Aetheric procedures for me. Just the raw, animal instinct honed by endless training. My mind shifted, a silent, internal click, into a state of heightened awareness. Thoughts accelerated, time stretched.
*‘In live-fire simulations, I’ve evaded pulse-bolts countless times. My instincts are sufficient.’*
But nine out of ten wasn’t enough here. One misstep meant death. Only perfect execution made it dependable.
“Huff… huff…”
Five convicts emerged, breathing heavy. Terror etched their faces, eyes darting from my lowborn uniform to the polished steel in my hand.
It was the pressure of the Guard’s name. Even a cadet’s uniform weighed them down.
*Click, click.* Their crude projectile weapons, salvaged and ill-maintained, were raised. For a tense moment, silence. A stalemate.
I scanned them. Their bodies, a patchwork of cheap augments, hummed with faulty Aetheric energy. Illegally modified limbs, asymmetrical and clunky, made them awkward, off-balance.
Barely functional. Unarmed, I could cut through them blind. But they held weapons. One lucky bolt, to the head or heart, would end me. Complacency was a death sentence.
*Swish.* I braced, focus narrow as a spear-tip. My mind, a whirlwind of calculated chaos, mapped their potential fire patterns. Overlaying these trajectories, a path, thin as a hair, materialized.
Just a prediction. I knew the cost of failure. My own flesh would pay.
*‘Trust the instinct. Move.’*
Decision made. In a fraction of a second, I kicked the ground. As if on cue, a volley of shots erupted.
My legs, raw muscle and hardened bone, carried me faster than any mount over short bursts. A blur.
*Bang!* I ducked. A pulse-bolt hissed past, hot wind brushing my cheek. So close. Death’s cold breath.
But a thrill, sharper than fear, surged. I knew, in that heart-pounding moment, a savage grin stretched my lips.
*Bang!* More shots. I twisted, abruptly shifting my charge. My left ankle creaked. A faint jolt. Components grinding, shifting. My natural resilience, pushed to its absolute edge.
*‘No time for trivialities.’*
Just ten more heartbeats. That’s all I needed.
*Thud!* Sliding, using the momentum, I pushed off with my fingertips, springing forward, barely losing pace. I closed on the furthest convict to the right. My domain. Within steel’s reach.
My arm moved, a fluid arc. The blade sang.
*Slice!* No scream escaped. His head, severed clean, tumbled. His mouth opened, closed, a dying fish gasping for air.
One down. The guilt of killing was a distant echo, drowned by the roaring hormones of combat. My gaze swept the arena. Using the convict’s body as a shield would make short work of the rest.
*‘But this isn’t just about survival. This is about skill.’*
Survival was for the weak. I needed to catch the Emperor’s eye, to etch my Cinder-Born name into his memory. I recalled Lyra’s showy deflection, his arrogant flair.
*‘Something similar? Possible.’*
Never tried it. Not like this. But now, amidst the blood and sand, it felt achievable. More than that, it felt necessary.