Two weeks. That was all it took for the Ember to fundamentally change human biology.
In a normal world, building the dense, functional muscle of a veteran soldier took years of grueling discipline. But once the Dormant Bud inside our chests had sprouted during that dark meditation session, the magic began to actively fortify its vessel. My muscles recovered from microscopic tears in hours instead of days. My stamina doubled. Even Elara and Myra, who had started as frail commoners, now moved with the grounded, dangerous grace of trained fighters. We wore the boiled leather armor of 7th Legion initiates, our daggers strapped to our thighs.
As part of our urban conditioning, Miklas had assigned us daily patrols in the lower rings of Shepfold.
"The Empire is not just built on battlefields," he had told us. "It is built on the mud, the merchants, and the misery of the streets. Learn to read them."
The Spiced Market in the third ring was a chaotic assault on the senses. Merchants screamed prices over the bleating of livestock, and the air was thick with the smell of roasted cumin, wet dog, and unwashed bodies. Elara walked slightly ahead, her hand resting aggressively on her dagger’s pommel to part the crowd, while Myra stuck close behind me, her eyes darting nervously at every sudden movement.
I was scanning the rooftops for snipers—an old habit from a past life—when a distinct, metallic scent cut through the heavy aroma of the spices.
Copper, my brain registered instantly. Fresh blood. And a lot of it.
"Stop," I ordered, holding up a fist.
Elara halted, throwing an annoyed glance over her shoulder. "What now, noble? Scared of the fishmongers?"
"Shut up and draw your blade," I said, my voice dropping to a low, commanding register. I didn’t wait for her to argue. I drew my own Veriti knife and pushed my way through the thick crowd, following the scent toward a narrow, shadowed alley between two stone granaries.
The sounds of the market instantly muffled as we stepped into the gloom. Swarms of black flies were already gathering near a pile of discarded wooden crates.
"By Jute..." Myra gasped, pressing a hand over her mouth. Elara’s eyes went wide, her hostile bravado vanishing in a second.
Slumped against the stone wall was a young man, probably a beggar or a runaway. His skin was the color of chalk, completely devoid of life. What chilled me wasn’t just that he was dead; it was the precision of it. His throat and his wrists had been deeply slashed, but the blood hadn’t just pooled on the ground. It looked as if he had been hung upside down and drained like a slaughtered pig.
"Stay alert. Guard the entrance," I told Elara, who was frozen in place. "Myra, blow your legion whistle. Get the city guards here now."
Ten minutes later, the alley was cordoned off. Three city guards were inspecting the scene, looking pale and nauseated.
"This is the third one this month," a veteran guardsman muttered, shaking his head. "Same method. Drained entirely dry. No signs of struggle."
"Clear the perimeter!" a booming voice echoed from the market.
Miklas strode into the alley, fully armored, followed closely by two other Knight-Mages. The guards immediately stood at attention and backed away. Miklas took one look at the chalk-white corpse and cursed under his breath. The relaxed, fatherly demeanor he usually showed me was gone.
"Captain?" I asked quietly, stepping to his side. "This wasn’t a robbery."
"No, it wasn’t," Miklas said, his amber eyes narrowing as he crouched next to the body. He looked at the three of us. "You girls are going to learn a very ugly truth about the enemy today. Have you ever wondered how the barbarians of the Mud and Blood Coalition match our Ember on the battlefield without proper training?"
Elara shook her head, still staring at the corpse.
"Rituals of affinity," Miklas explained grimly. "The tribes bathe in the blood of the beasts they revere. The Bear Tribe slaughters dire bears and soaks in their life force to gain unnatural strength. The Wolf Tribe does the same for speed. It is a foul, primitive magic that forces the Ember to temporarily flare up by consuming foreign life."
I looked at the drained beggar, the pieces clicking together in my mind with horrifying clarity. "But this is human blood."
Miklas stood up, his jaw set in a hard line. "Exactly. Human blood isn’t used by the tribes. But there are forbidden texts—heresies—that suggest human blood can be used to artificially awaken or boost a dormant Ember in someone whose vessel is defective. The Commander suspects someone inside Shepfold has gotten their hands on Coalition magic. Someone is trying to force their way into power."
A defective vessel. Desperation for power, my mind raced, processing the variables.
Who in this heavily fortified city was desperate enough, angry enough, and educated enough to use forbidden military magic on homeless commoners? The image of Valerius and Livia—their faces twisted in humiliated rage as they slipped out of the temple shadows two weeks ago—flashed in my memory. They had been stripped of their status. They had been declared defective.
It has to be them, I realized, a cold shiver running down my spine.
I looked at Miklas, opening my mouth to share my theory. But I stopped myself. I had absolutely zero proof. Valerius and Livia were still the children of high-born military bloodlines. If a fourteen-year-old ’bastard’ accused the Commander’s former protégés of heresy and murder without hard evidence, I wouldn’t just be ignored; I would be executed for treason.
I need proof, I decided silently, slipping my Veriti knife back into its sheath. And I need to hunt them down before they gain enough power to come after us.