The east road looked less civilized with every mile.
Silas approved.
Greyhaven had disappeared behind low hills shortly after sunrise. Stone paving gave way to packed gravel. Gravel narrowed to two wagon ruts with grass between them.
Farmhouses grew farther apart.
Fences changed from squared timber to split rails.
Then even the fences became occasional.
By midmorning, the road ran between oak woods on one side and open pasture on the other.
Gideon walked as though none of this interested him.
Silas knew better.
His teacher had checked the tree line seventeen times since leaving the city.
Eighteen.
Silas stopped counting.
“Why are we walking?”
Gideon did not slow.
“Because your legs work.”
“That isn't the whole reason.”
“No.”
Silas waited.
Gideon continued down the road.
The red cloth Mira had tied to Silas's pack moved in the morning wind.
Finally Gideon said, “There is a coach station six miles ahead.”
“So we aren't walking the whole way.”
“No.”
“How far is the preserve?”
“Too far for your legs.”
“That's not a distance.”
“Good.”
Silas frowned.
Gideon glanced at him.
“You spent yesterday asking for measurements.”
“Yes.”
“Today you are going somewhere measurements can kill you if you mistake them for certainty.”
Silas considered that.
“Still sounds like you know the distance.”
“Thirty-eight miles to the outer market.”
There.
Better.
Silas adjusted his pack.
“You could have started with that.”
“You could have enjoyed the road.”
“I am.”
“You have complained twice.”
“I asked one question twice.”
“That is your preferred form of complaint.”
Silas could not disprove this.
They continued.
The coach station was a low building beside a crossroads.
One stable.
One shed.
One room smelling of coffee, wet wool, horses, and bacon fat.
Three wagons waited outside.
Gideon bought two seats in the smallest.
Silas watched the exchange.
Money.
Stamped travel chit.
Driver's name entered in a ledger.
Again.
Everything beyond Briar Glen seemed to require paper.
Gideon noticed him watching.
“Do you disapprove?”
“No.”
“You look like you do.”
“I am deciding what the paper does.”
The driver, a broad woman with a gray braid, looked over.
“It lets him prove he paid me.”
Silas turned.
She pointed at Gideon.
“And lets me prove I carried him if some clerk says I didn't.”
Silas looked at the chit.
“So it protects both sides.”
“When everybody can read.”
That qualification mattered.
Gideon handed over the fare.
The driver tore off one half of the chit.
“Forest market?”
“Yes.”
“Hunting?”
“Yes.”
She glanced at Silas.
Her eyebrows rose.
“His first?”
“Yes.”
She looked at Gideon again.
Then at the boy.
“Good luck.”
Silas nodded.
“Thank you.”
The driver climbed onto the front bench.
As Silas followed Gideon into the covered wagon, she added:
“Don't pet anything.”
Silas paused.
“I wasn't planning to.”
“Good. Last boy who said that tried to feed a copperback squirrel.”
“What happened?”
“Learned why they're called copperbacks.”
Gideon stepped into the wagon.
“Silas.”
“Yes?”
“Inside.”
Silas obeyed.
He did, however, store away the squirrel.
Gideon waited until the wagon was moving before opening his pack.
The road became a steady wooden rhythm beneath them.
Two merchants occupied the rear bench.
One slept.
The other spent fifteen minutes peeling an apple with a knife small enough to disappoint Garrick.
Gideon removed a leather belt.
He placed it on Silas's knees.
Silas looked down.
Dark brown.
Old.
Good leather.
The buckle was plain steel.
Twenty-four small brass studs ran around its length in two rows.
No ornament that served no purpose.
Silas immediately liked it.
“What is it?”
“Put Aether into one stud.”
Silas looked at him.
“That is not an answer.”
“Correct.”
Silas touched the nearest brass stud.
He fed Aether into it.
The effect was subtle.
No light.
No noise.
Space changed.
Not around him.
Inside his awareness.
A dark, empty volume appeared where no volume should exist.
Silas's fingers went still.
He withdrew the Aether.
The sense vanished.
Again.
Returned.
A contained space.
Not large.
Perhaps enough for a loaf of bread.
One stud.
Silas looked at the other twenty-three.
“Each one?”
“Yes.”
“Separate?”
“Yes.”
“Same size?”
“No.”
Of course not.
Silas began testing them.
Gideon stopped him after the fourth.
“You will drain yourself before we arrive.”
“It barely costs anything.”
“That is what people say before repeating a cheap action two hundred times.”
Silas removed his hand.
“What is it?”
“An Aether Device.”
“I know the category.”
“Then your question was poorly formed.”
Silas stared.
Gideon showed no remorse.
“Storage type,” Gideon continued. “Old construction. No one currently knows how to manufacture that exact design.”
“Then why give it to me?”
“It has been sitting in a chest for eleven years.”
“That does not answer the value question.”
“No.”
Gideon looked out through the rear opening of the wagon.
Trees moved past.
“Someone gave it to me when I was young enough to imagine I would travel more than I did.”
Silas heard the part Gideon had not explained.
Family.
Stormwatch Keep.
Before the Mutation had made plans smaller.
Silas did not ask.
Some questions deserved to wait until the person could answer without bleeding.
He turned the belt over.
“Twenty-four compartments.”
“Yes.”
“Why twenty-four?”
“Because the maker had twenty-four storage cores.”
“That is disappointingly practical.”
“What answer did you expect?”
“A ritual number.”
Gideon looked offended.
“Why?”
“People enjoy making machinery unnecessarily symbolic.”
The apple merchant glanced over.
Gideon ignored him.
Silas tested the buckle.
Strong.
Heavier than ordinary leather because of the brass and whatever lay beneath it.
“What is it called?”
“It had a name.”
“Had?”
“I forgot it.”
Silas stared.
“You forgot the name of a rare Aether Device.”
“I remembered what it does.”
“That may be the worst scholarly defense you've made.”
“The name was sentimental.”
“That is not improving your case.”
Gideon folded his arms.
“Name it yourself.”
Silas looked at the belt.
Twenty-four compartments.
Food.
Tools.
Medicine.
Darts.
Spare springs.
Wire.
If its internal spaces preserved objects from weather, perhaps powders.
Potentially poison.
A workshop that could ride on his waist.
Not now.
Eventually.
“The Wayfarer's Belt.”
Gideon considered.
“Functional.”
“That sounded disappointed.”
“I expected worse.”
“Thank you.”
Silas fastened it around his waist.
Too large.
Gideon had already punched another hole in the leather.
Silas noticed.
Of course he had.
The belt fit.
“Put your pack inside.”
Silas looked down.
“Whole?”
“Choose one of the larger cells.”
He found one.
Fed Aether.
Touched the pack.
There was a strange instant in which weight stopped meaning what it should.
Then the pack vanished from his hand.
Silas stared at the empty air.
He felt its location.
Not physically.
As if the object occupied a remembered drawer.
He reached.
Aether.
The pack appeared.
Silas nearly dropped it.
The driver shouted from the front, “Everything still attached back there?”
“Yes,” Gideon called.
Silas looked at him.
“You knew I'd do that.”
“Yes.”
“You could have warned me.”
“I did tell you to practice.”
“That was not a warning.”
Gideon took the pack and pushed it back toward him.
“Again.”
Silas stored it.
Retrieved it.
Stored.
Retrieved.
The third time, he caught the weight correctly.
The fifth, he could call it into his palm without looking at the belt.
The tenth, Gideon took it away.
“Enough.”
“I was improving.”
“You are hunting this afternoon.”
“Possibly.”
“You need Aether.”
Silas stopped.
Right.
First threshold or not, reserve remained finite.
He left the pack stored.
The difference in movement was immediate.
No shoulder weight.
No straps.
His hidden launcher remained under his sleeve.
Knife at his belt.
Wayfarer's Belt around his waist.
Silas looked down at himself.
His equipment had become substantially more dangerous in one morning.
He approved.
The conversation turned to Crests after noon.
Gideon initiated it.
That made Silas suspicious.
“What is the oldest Aetherbeast you should attempt for your first Crest?”
Silas looked toward him.
“You haven't told me.”
“Then derive it.”
“From what?”
“Your current body.”
Silas waited.
Gideon waited.
The sleeping merchant snored.
Silas tried.
“Age is a proxy.”
Gideon's eyes sharpened.
“For?”
“Accumulated Aether.”
“Among other things.”
“Denser Crest. Stronger integration pressure.”
“Yes.”
“So the oldest possible beast would produce the strongest Crest.”
Gideon said nothing.
Trap.
Silas corrected.
“The strongest Crest I survive.”
“Better.”
“Which means the useful upper limit is below the fatal upper limit.”
“Much better.”
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
Silas thought of Garrick.
A blade hardened to the point of brittleness was not stronger.
It was merely waiting to fail.
“How is the limit measured?”
“Poorly.”
Silas smiled.
Gideon did not.
“Historical survival records,” the older man said. “Body size. Aether reserve. previous integration data. Beast type. Bearer lineage. Medical observation after failed attempts.”
“You studied deaths.”
“Yes.”
No hesitation.
That mattered.
“How many?”
“Enough.”
“That isn't a number.”
“It is when the records disagree about what counts as integration death.”
Silas frowned.
“What else would count?”
“Internal rupture within an hour.”
“Obviously.”
“Three days later after fever?”
“Probably.”
“Two weeks later after organ failure?”
Silas paused.
“Maybe.”
“A child who survives but loses use of an arm?”
Silas looked at him.
Gideon's face remained flat.
“Exactly,” he said.
A safe limit was not a line.
It was a field of ugly outcomes people had chosen to summarize with one number.
Silas trusted the number more because Gideon distrusted it.
“What is yours?”
“For a healthy first-threshold child with unusually strong reserve?”
Gideon considered.
“I begin treating four centuries as hazardous.”
Silas blinked.
“Centuries.”
“Yes.”
Aetherbeasts accumulated power slowly.
He knew that.
The number still changed the scale.
“What is the highest first Crest you've seen survive?”
“Above four hundred years.”
“How far above?”
“No.”
Silas stared.
Gideon continued.
“You do not need a record to chase.”
“I wanted the data.”
“You wanted the edge.”
Both.
Silas said nothing.
Gideon looked satisfied.
“My preferred ceiling for you is approximately four hundred twenty years.”
“Approximately.”
“Yes.”
“Why not four hundred?”
“Because my records suggest the survivable range extends farther.”
“Why not four fifty?”
“Because my records suggest the dead range begins appearing too often.”
Clear enough.
“And we're aiming near the ceiling.”
“If compatibility is good.”
Silas nodded.
“If a two-hundred-year beast fits perfectly and a four-hundred-year beast fits poorly?”
“The younger.”
Immediate.
“If both fit?”
“The older, assuming the risk difference remains acceptable.”
“Strength matters.”
“Of course.”
Gideon's voice sharpened.
“My objection has never been to strength. It is to idiots who use strength as the only variable.”
Silas smiled.
“That sounded personal.”
“It is.”
The apple merchant had stopped peeling.
He looked like he was listening.
Gideon glanced at him.
The merchant resumed peeling immediately.
Silas turned back.
“What determines an Aetherbeast's age in the field?”
“Species-specific markers.”
“Such as?”
“Growth rings in horn. scale count. tooth wear. coloration. body size. bone ridges. bark layering in botanical Aetherbeasts.”
“No universal method.”
“No.”
“So hunters can misjudge.”
“Constantly.”
“And if they kill the wrong one?”
“They have a Crest they may not be able to use.”
“Waste.”
“Yes.”
Silas thought of the permit forms.
The escort.
Travel.
Weapons.
Food.
Days of searching.
One wrong identification could waste all of it.
Now the market outside a hunting ground made sense before he had even seen it.
Risk attracted commerce.
Commerce attracted people.
People attracted paperwork.
Greyhaven again.
Only sharper.
The forest announced itself first by smoke.
Then roofs.
Then shouting.
Silas had expected trees.
He found a town.
Not officially.
Probably.
Buildings stood along both sides of the road for almost half a mile before the gate.
Livery barns.
Supply sheds.
Eating houses.
A cooper.
Two butchers.
Three armorers.
A physician advertising BITE, VENOM & INTEGRATION FEVER in black paint.
A taxidermist had hung the skull of something with four antlers above his door.
People crowded the road.
Hunters in leather.
Academy groups.
Noble retainers in matching coats.
Concord clerks.
Porters hauling boxes.
A man stood on a barrel shouting:
“Two openings! Thorn or constriction target! Permit included!”
Across from him:
“Tracker for hire! Twenty years eastern preserve! No kill, half fee!”
A woman sold sealed jars of scent paste beside iron bear traps.
Another shop displayed arrows labeled according to draw weight.
Silas watched everything.
Gideon watched him.
“Well?”
“It isn't a forest.”
“It is outside one.”
“It is a market.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Bearers bring money.”
Simple.
Silas looked at a board outside a provisioner.
Greyhaven bread cost one copper.
Here the same amount cost three.
He stopped.
Gideon followed his gaze.
“That is why we brought food.”
“You brought food.”
“You now have a belt containing food.”
“Fair.”
A shopkeeper called to them.
“Need venom tonic? Fresh batch!”
Gideon kept walking.
The man saw Silas.
“First Crest? Child dose half price!”
Silas looked at Gideon.
“Useful?”
“No.”
The shopkeeper shouted after them.
“That's what everybody says before they swell!”
Gideon did not turn.
Silas did.
“Does it work?”
The shopkeeper smiled.
“Sometimes.”
Gideon caught Silas by the back of his coat and redirected him.
“That was almost an honest advertisement.”
“No.”
“It included uncertainty.”
“Move.”
Silas moved.
They passed a row of hunting groups assembling near the outer square.
One team wore matching green sashes.
Another had no matching anything but carried enough steel to supply Briar Glen for a month.
A young man was arguing with a clerk over a permit.
“My brother signed the guarantee.”
“Your brother is not an approved sponsor.”
“He owns three mills.”
“He is still not an approved sponsor.”
“What does that even mean?”
“It means owning mills does not qualify him to certify Crest readiness.”
Silas slowed.
Gideon did not stop him.
The young man slapped a paper on the desk.
“I am Level Twenty.”
The clerk looked unimpressed.
“You were Level Twenty yesterday too. You still need authorization for the preserve.”
Power through permission.
Again.
Only here the failure point was not school.
It was the iron gate at the end of the road.
Silas looked past the square.
There.
The forest.
At last.
The first trees rose beyond a fence taller than any structure in Briar Glen except the mill.
Not a village fence.
Iron.
Heavy vertical bars mounted between stone pillars.
Spikes angled outward and inward.
The gate itself stood between two guardhouses.
Concord insignia marked both.
Nine points around an empty center.
Beyond the bars, the woods looked ordinary.
That somehow made the gate stranger.
Silas stopped.
“You fence Aetherbeasts in.”
“Some.”
Gideon joined him.
“Not all hunting grounds are controlled. The continent has wilderness where the strongest thing present decides who enters.”
“But this one is managed.”
“Yes.”
“By the Concord?”
“In cooperation with the Crown.”
Silas looked at him.
“That answer was careful.”
“Yes.”
“Who owns the forest?”
Gideon's face changed.
Not much.
Enough.
“Do not ask that loudly here.”
Silas lowered his voice.
“Why?”
“Because the legal answer and practical answer are not identical.”
More interesting.
“The land belongs to the Crown?”
“Nominally.”
“The Concord controls entry.”
“Yes.”
“Manages Aetherbeast populations.”
“In part.”
“Licenses kills.”
“Yes.”
“Patrols inside.”
“Yes.”
“Collects records.”
“Yes.”
Silas looked at the emblem above the gate.
“So ownership is not the only kind of control.”
Gideon studied him.
“No.”
That answer seemed to contain several future lessons.
Silas let it sit.
For now.
The permit inspection took six minutes.
Silas timed it.
Gideon produced three documents.
Academy supervision registration.
Concord hunting authorization.
A black metal token.
The guard captain stopped when he saw the token.
His posture changed.
Not dramatically.
Enough.
“Drakhar.”
“Captain.”
“You're taking a first-threshold student in?”
“Yes.”
The captain looked at Silas.
“Eidolon?”
“Wildvine.”
The captain looked back at Gideon.
Silas knew that expression now.
Gideon knew it too.
“Do you require a second answer?”
“No, sir.”
Sir.
Interesting.
The captain checked the permit again.
“Target class?”
“Plant-compatible restraint profile. Candidate species undeclared.”
The captain's eyebrow rose.
“Still doing it your way.”
“Yes.”
That implied history.
Silas stored it.
The captain stamped the document.
Then looked at the black token.
“You're still carrying that?”
Gideon held out his hand.
The guard returned it.
“It still opens the gate.”
“That is what tokens are for.”
The captain smiled without much humor.
“You never did understand symbols.”
Silas looked at Gideon.
Gideon ignored him.
They passed.
Silas waited until the guards were behind them.
“What is the token?”
“A permit credential.”
“That is what it does.”
“Yes.”
“What does it mean?”
Gideon sighed.
Silas recognized victory.
The token appeared in his teacher's hand.
Black alloy.
Heavy.
Three small emblems had been worked into the face.
A downward-pointing sword.
A war hammer.
And a winged beast Silas did not recognize.
He stared at the hammer.
Cold memory stirred in his left palm.
Not the same shape.
Maybe.
He forced himself not to look longer than natural.
Gideon noticed nothing.
Or gave no sign.
“Concord authority tokens exist in several grades,” Gideon said. “The emblems indicate which great lines recognize the bearer.”
“Recognize you.”
“The holder.”
“Not the same thing?”
“Sometimes.”
Silas looked again.
“Those families are powerful enough that the Concord changes access because of their names.”
“Yes.”
“Crownlords?”
Gideon tucked the token away.
“The highest tokens represent lineages established by Crownlords.”
Silas had heard the rank.
Not the scale.
“Nine Crests.”
“Yes.”
“The Crown.”
“Yes.”
“And six of those families matter enough to shape the token system.”
Gideon's gaze moved toward the forest.
“Some names become infrastructure.”
Silas liked the sentence.
He disliked what it implied.
“What is the strongest rank?”
“You are five.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is an attempt at mercy.”
“Unsuccessful.”
Gideon looked at him.
“Crownlord begins at ninety.”
Silas knew the level table.
Hearing it attached to living political power felt different.
“Ninety to ninety-four.”
“Yes.”
“Above?”
“High Crownlord. Supreme Crownlord.”
“And the strongest?”
“People who reach the edge of what the system permits.”
“How many?”
“Few.”
“Names?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because we are hunting your first Crest.”
Silas sighed.
Gideon pointed through the open gate.
“Walk.”
Silas walked.
The market vanished in less than a hundred yards.
Not faded.
Vanished.
The iron gate closed behind them with a sound that Silas felt in his ribs.
Metal.
Then silence.
Leaves.
Wind.
A distant bird.
Wet earth.
The change was violent in its own way.
Silas stopped instinctively.
The air smelled green.
Not like Briar Glen's woods.
Similar.
Denser.
Moss.
Rotting leaves.
Fungal sweetness.
Cold water somewhere nearby.
And underneath—
Something harder to name.
Aether.
Not visible.
Present.
The forest felt occupied before anything moved.
Gideon did not advance.
He scanned the ground.
Trees.
Canopy.
Brush.
Then Silas.
“From now on, you remain within three steps of me unless I tell you otherwise.”
“Yes.”
“If I say run, you run.”
“Yes.”
“If I say climb?”
“Climb.”
“If I say do not move?”
“Don't move.”
“No argument.”
Silas paused.
Gideon waited.
“Fine.”
“Say it.”
“No argument.”
“Good.”
Gideon set down his pack.
His posture changed.
The tired scholar from Greyhaven seemed to recede.
Not disappear.
Condense.
He removed his coat.
Rolled his sleeves once.
Aether stirred around him.
Silas felt it before seeing anything.
Then two Crests appeared.
Gold.
One after another.
They circled Gideon's body at different heights, translucent and bright against the dark woods.
Silas stared.
Ward's Crests had been visible during the Awakening.
He had been busy then.
Now he had time.
Each band contained internal patterning too intricate to follow, moving as if the light possessed depth.
Two Crests.
Tempered.
Level Twenty-Nine.
Gideon's limit made visible.
Not failure.
Not strength.
Both.
Silas looked at his teacher's face.
Gideon noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That was not nothing.”
“I was thinking.”
“Dangerous habit.”
Silas almost answered.
Then Gideon raised one hand.
“Puff.”
Aether gathered.
It did not cover Gideon's body.
That was the first surprise.
The second was what emerged.
A creature dropped onto the path with a soft thump.
Silas stared.
The Eidolon was—
Round.
That was the most accurate first description.
About the size of a large farm dog.
Four thick legs.
Short neck.
Heavy body.
Tail too small for the rest of it.
Its hide was pale gray-violet with darker scales along the back.
Two little horns curved above broad amber eyes.
Its muzzle suggested a dragon designed by someone who had run out of room.
The creature looked up at Silas.
Sniffed.
Then sneezed.
Silas looked at Gideon.
Gideon looked back.
“Do not.”
“I haven't said anything.”
“Your face has.”
Silas glanced at Puff.
The creature sat.
It was not majestic.
That was simply true.
“This is your Eidolon.”
“Yes.”
“Separate-body manifestation.”
“Yes.”
“Not Incarnation.”
Gideon's eyes sharpened.
“No. Entirely different phenomenon.”
Silas circled half a step.
Puff tracked him.
“What is it?”
“Puff.”
“I meant classification.”
“I know what you meant.”
Gideon's mouth hardened.
“Mutation.”
Silas stopped.
Storm Drake family.
Gideon's family.
Top Blood Legacy.
This—
He looked at Puff again.
Puff licked one foreleg.
Gideon's voice went flat.
“My family carries Storm Drake.”
There it was.
“Mine Awakened differently.”
Silas said nothing.
For once.
Gideon looked at him.
“I appreciate the restraint.”
“I am improving.”
“No.”
Silas returned his attention to Puff.
“What can he do?”
“Track.”
“Only?”
“No.”
Gideon sounded offended.
Puff looked up as if also offended.
Silas nodded.
“Good.”
The creature's nose lowered to the ground.
It moved off the path.
Gideon followed.
Silas stayed within three steps.
Puff found the first Aetherbeast in eleven minutes.
Silas did not.
That bothered him.
The creature stopped beside a fallen log and gave a soft throaty sound.
Gideon lifted one hand.
Silas froze.
At first he saw nothing.
Then the moss moved.
Not moss.
Six legs.
A broad shell patterned green and brown.
The creature clung to the side of the log, nearly indistinguishable from rot.
“Barkshield beetle,” Gideon said quietly.
“How old?”
“Estimate.”
Silas looked.
Body length perhaps eight inches.
Shell ridges.
One broken antenna.
No useful context.
“Twenty years?”
“Why?”
“Size.”
“Bad reason.”
Silas frowned.
“Thirty.”
“That was not improved.”
Gideon crouched without approaching.
“Count the raised plates along the outer shell.”
Silas did.
“Seven.”
“Each mature plate forms over roughly six to eight years after the juvenile shell hardens.”
“Forty-two to fifty-six.”
“Approximately.”
“So under sixty.”
“Yes.”
Silas looked at it.
“Tough.”
“Moderately.”
“Plant-compatible?”
“Potentially.”
“Why not use it?”
Gideon gave him a look.
Silas answered himself.
“Too young.”
“And?”
Silas watched the beetle.
It remained motionless.
“Defense through armor. Not flexible reinforcement.”
“Good.”
“Wildvine might gain rigidity instead of tensile strength.”
“Possibly.”
“Bad for restraint.”
“Potentially.”
Too many qualifications.
Accurate ones.
Silas liked it.
They moved on.
The second creature was a plant.
Silas nearly stepped on it.
Gideon caught his shoulder.
“Look.”
A cluster of thin green stalks grew between the roots of an oak.
At first, ordinary.
Then one stalk bent toward Silas without wind.
He stopped.
The others followed.
“Needlegrass.”
The tips sharpened.
Silas took one step back.
“Hostile?”
“If you bleed near it.”
Silas looked at Gideon.
“That is specific.”
“It feeds on iron-rich fluids.”
“Blood.”
“Yes.”
Puff avoided the patch by several feet.
“How old?”
Gideon pointed to the base.
Several dry rings of previous growth surrounded the central root crown.
Silas counted.
“Eleven seasonal cycles.”
“Approximately eleven years.”
“Too young.”
“Yes.”
“Trait?”
“Rapid extension.”
Useful.
Not enough.
They left it.
The third was a rabbit.
Silas thought of Mira.
Then immediately disliked the thought because the rabbit tried to bite Puff.
It was twice the size of an ordinary hare and had bark-colored fur with one white stripe along the spine.
Puff barked.
The hare launched itself sideways six feet.
Not ran.
Launched.
Silas stared.
“Springhare,” Gideon said.
“Mira would like it.”
“Who?”
“My dorm lead.”
Gideon looked at him.
“You acquired a dorm lead?”
“She acquired us.”
“That sounds more plausible.”
The Springhare vanished into brush.
Silas watched the leaves settle.
“How old?”
“Perhaps fifteen.”
“Too young.”
“Yes.”
“Useful trait.”
“Explosive leg strength.”
Silas thought of Mira throwing him.
“Yes.”
Gideon noticed.
“You fought again.”
Silas looked at him.
“How do you know?”
“Mud remained on the back of your coat.”
“That proves falling.”
“You do not fall for recreation.”
Silas considered Mira.
“Apparently I do now.”
Gideon closed his eyes briefly.
“Children.”
Silas decided not to remind him that this was technically accurate.
Hours passed.
Gideon turned the forest into a classroom without ever announcing a lesson.
He pointed out claw marks.
Droppings.
Bark damage.
Tracks.
Shed scales.
Burrows.
Feeding patterns.
Silas learned that age estimates changed by species.
That old Aetherbeasts were not always larger.
That territory size could reveal more than body size.
That scars sometimes meant survival ability and sometimes merely poor judgment.
That plants could be predators.
That fungus could carry Aether.
That harmless-looking animals sometimes possessed Crests valuable enough to start killings among Bearers.
Gideon rejected three possible targets.
A Thornback Boar.
Too physically oriented.
A Ropevine Creeper.
Excellent restraint pattern, too young.
A gray tree snake with mild paralytic saliva.
Good impairment, poor durability.
Silas watched it disappear between branches.
“That one was close.”
“Yes.”
“Would you take it if we found nothing better?”
“Possibly.”
Silas looked at him.
Gideon sighed.
“Yes. It is an acceptable alternate.”
Progress.
Near midafternoon, Puff found something larger.
The Eidolon stopped.
Body low.
Tail rigid.
Gideon immediately pulled Silas behind a tree.
No explanation.
Silas obeyed.
Across a small clearing stood what looked like a thin tree.
Fifteen feet tall.
No branches below head height.
Pale segmented trunk.
Leaves only at the top.
Then the trunk turned.
Silas's hand went to his knife.
The tree had a face.
Not human.
A vertical split in the bark opened, revealing rows of fibrous teeth.
“Walking cane,” Gideon whispered.
Silas looked at him.
“That name is terrible.”
“Botanists are not required to entertain you.”
The Aetherbeast shifted.
Roots lifted from the soil like narrow legs.
It moved three feet.
Stopped.
“Age?”
Gideon pointed to the joints.
“Count segments.”
Silas did.
Thirty-two visible.
“Each year?”
“Roughly ten.”
Silas's attention sharpened.
“Three hundred twenty.”
“Approximately.”
“Within range.”
“Yes.”
“Tough?”
“Yes.”
“Flexible?”
“Somewhat.”
“Restraining?”
“Poor.”
Silas watched its root-legs.
“They can wrap.”
“They crush.”
“Difference?”
“Intent and structure.”
Gideon spoke softly.
“The roots are built to anchor and pull. They do not maintain fine distributed restraint. You would gain strength without enough control.”
“Could be trained.”
“Perhaps.”
Silas knew that tone.
Possible.
Not preferred.
“Why are we leaving it?”
“Because acceptable is not the same as correct.”
They backed away.
Silas looked at the creature until trees blocked it.
Three hundred twenty years.
A Crest within range.
Useful traits.
Alive.
They had found something that could work and chosen not to kill it.
That decision taught more than another lecture would have.
A Crest was not treasure lying in the forest.
It was a permanent choice attached to a living target.
Gideon did not hunt numbers.
Good.
By late afternoon, Silas's legs hurt.
He did not mention it.
Gideon noticed anyway.
“We camp.”
“I can continue.”
“I know.”
“Then why stop?”
“Because exhaustion produces bad decisions.”
“I am not exhausted.”
“Your left foot has shortened stride for nine minutes.”
Silas looked down.
It had.
Annoying.
Gideon selected a shallow depression surrounded by three large oaks and one limestone outcrop.
Not the lowest point.
Not exposed.
No game trail through it.
Silas recognized some of the logic.
“Why here?”
“You tell me.”
Silas looked.
“Stone at our back.”
“Yes.”
“Trees break sight lines.”
“Yes.”
“Ground is dry.”
“Relatively.”
“No fresh tracks.”
“Good.”
“Water nearby?”
Gideon pointed downslope.
Silas heard it now.
Small stream.
“Not directly beside us.”
“Why?”
“Animals use water.”
“And?”
“So do things that eat animals.”
Gideon nodded.
They made camp without fire.
That bothered Silas less than expected.
Greyhaven had taught him to enjoy hot food.
The forest had already taught him not to advertise.
Gideon removed a glass jar from his own storage cuff.
Silas noticed the device.
Narrow brass-and-leather band around the wrist.
Different from the Wayfarer's Belt.
“You have another Aether Device.”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“Several.”
“You gave me the old one.”
“Yes.”
Silas looked at the cuff.
“Better?”
“For quick access.”
“Smaller capacity.”
“Yes.”
Silas approved of specialization.
Gideon handed him the jar.
Inside was yellow-gray powder.
Silas opened it.
Smelled once.
Sharp mineral.
Bitter herb.
Something sulfurous.
“Repellent.”
Gideon watched him.
“For?”
“You tell me.”
Silas smelled again.
Blackthorn had taught poisons for practical reasons.
Making antidotes required knowing what killed people.
This was not a poison.
At least not primarily.
“Snakes.”
“Yes.”
“Insects.”
“Most.”
“Covers our scent?”
“Partly.”
Silas looked around.
“No fire.”
“Correct.”
“Because smoke travels.”
“And light.”
“And some Aetherbeasts like heat.”
Gideon's eyebrow rose.
“Good.”
Silas poured the powder in a broad perimeter.
Not a tight circle.
Enough distance that anything investigating the edge would not already be standing over their bedrolls.
Gideon watched.
“Why so far?”
“Warning distance.”
A pause.
“Good.”
Silas continued.
When he finished, he returned the jar.
Then noticed a patch of small leaves near the limestone.
He crouched.
Gideon said, “Do not touch unknown plants.”
“I know this one.”
“Do you?”
Silas examined it.
Narrow leaves.
Red stem.
Tiny black dots underneath.
Not exactly the same as anything from his first life.
Similar.
He tore one leaf using the knife instead of his fingers.
Smelled it.
Gideon watched.
“What?”
“Mild irritant.”
“How do you know?”
“Smell.”
“That is not sufficient.”
Silas touched a trace of sap to the end of a twig.
Waited.
A small beetle crawled across.
Avoided the spot.
“Still not sufficient.”
Silas looked at him.
“You are difficult to impress.”
“That keeps students alive.”
Silas wrapped one leaf in cloth.
Stored it in a separate cell of the Wayfarer's Belt.
Gideon's eyes followed.
“You collect plants.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Useful compounds.”
“Medicine?”
“Sometimes.”
Gideon looked at him for a long moment.
Silas looked back.
“Other training.”
“Yes.”
Gideon did not ask.
Again.
They ate cold chicken, bread, hard cheese, and apples.
Silas retrieved each from the Wayfarer's Belt.
By the fifth attempt he could select the correct compartment without checking.
Gideon timed him.
“Slow.”
Silas glared.
“Compared to what?”
“Need.”
“If I need bread quickly, something else has gone wrong.”
“Knife.”
Silas reached.
Wrong compartment.
Apple.
Gideon stared at the fruit in his hand.
Silas put it back.
“Again.”
Knife.
This time correct.
Gideon nodded.
“Better.”
“You expect me to use storage in a fight.”
“I expect you to be capable of retrieving whatever you need without thinking about it.”
Silas thought of hidden weapons.
Exactly.
The belt was not merely luggage.
A mechanism multiplied by access speed.
“How fast can Aether Devices retrieve?”
“Depends on bearer, device, familiarity, and object.”
“Can something be launched directly?”
“No.”
Silas's disappointment must have shown.
Gideon looked suspicious.
“Do not modify it.”
“I didn't say anything.”
“You were thinking loudly.”
Silas took another bite of bread.
He made no promises.
Dark came early beneath the trees.
Puff patrolled the edge of camp.
The creature's ridiculous appearance became less ridiculous after Silas watched him work.
Nose low.
Ears moving independently.
Occasional soft sounds to Gideon.
Communication.
Not words.
Close enough.
“You can understand him.”
“Somewhat.”
“Because he's your Eidolon.”
“Yes.”
“Can other people?”
“Not reliably.”
Puff returned.
Gideon scratched beneath one horn.
The creature made a pleased rumbling sound.
Silas watched.
There was affection there.
Old.
Unembarrassed.
Gideon noticed.
“What?”
“You like him.”
The older man's hand stopped.
“That surprises you?”
“No.”
It did, slightly.
Gideon was not easy with people.
Puff apparently did not count.
Or counted differently.
Silas looked at the creature again.
“Mutation ruined your progression.”
“Yes.”
“You still like the Eidolon.”
Gideon looked toward the dark forest.
“Those are separate facts.”
Silas was quiet.
Gideon continued after a while.
“People made the first one into a judgment.”
Silas understood.
Puff had not failed Gideon.
A Blood Legacy had failed to become what a family expected.
People had decided that meant the bearer was wrong.
No Eidolon is worthless.
Silas had heard the principle.
Now he saw where it came from.
Not scholarship first.
Wound first.
Scholarship afterward.
That made it more dangerous.
And perhaps more honest.
“How did it stop you at Twenty-Nine?”
Gideon's face closed.
There.
Boundary.
Silas recognized it.
“Never mind.”
Gideon glanced at him.
“You withdraw questions now?”
“When the answer would be poor.”
A long pause.
“Good.”
Silas lay back against his rolled coat.
Above them, the canopy showed only fragments of sky.
No stars where he expected them.
Different world.
Different constellations.
Same darkness between branches.
His fingers touched the Wayfarer's Belt.
Then the hidden launcher beneath his sleeve.
Then stopped.
He had entered the forest with three systems around him.
Public Eidolon.
Private Blackthorn.
Tools made by other people.
None sufficient alone.
Together—
Possibilities.
Gideon spoke from across the camp.
“Silas.”
“Yes?”
“Tomorrow, if we find a better target, you may be the one who has to kill it.”
Silas did not answer immediately.
He had killed before.
Not in this body.
Not in this life.
Men.
Not animals.
The distinction did not make the act lighter.
Only different.
“You said the Crest belongs to the one who makes the kill.”
“Yes.”
“So you cannot kill it for me.”
“I can weaken it.”
“But the final act is mine.”
“Yes.”
Silas looked into the dark.
Permanent integration required ownership at the point of acquisition.
A rule with blood in it.
That sounded like this world.
“What if I refuse?”
Gideon's answer came immediately.
“We leave.”
Silas turned his head.
“No punishment?”
“For deciding not to kill?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Then why bring me?”
“To give you a choice with enough information to understand it.”
Silas considered that.
Good teacher.
Annoying man.
Good teacher.
“What if the target is intelligent?”
Gideon was silent.
Longer this time.
“Then the decision becomes more difficult.”
“Do low-tier Aetherbeasts understand us?”
“Some understand intention. territory. fear. threat. Pack structure.”
“Language?”
“Rare at this level.”
“Higher?”
“Yes.”
Silas remembered Mira asking him to bring back nothing dead.
He looked toward Puff.
A manifested Eidolon.
Not an Aetherbeast.
Still alive enough to prefer being scratched beneath one horn.
The categories were not simple.
Gideon said, “Do not make the mistake of thinking hunters must hate what they kill.”
Silas's gaze returned to him.
“What should they feel?”
“I am not qualified to regulate your conscience.”
“That sounded evasive.”
“It was.”
At least he admitted it.
The forest moved somewhere beyond camp.
Leaf.
Twig.
Then silence.
Puff lifted his head.
Gideon did too.
Silas's hand moved beneath his sleeve.
The launcher waited.
Puff listened.
A low sound came from his throat.
Not alarm.
Not yet.
Gideon relaxed slightly.
“Fieldmouse.”
Silas kept his hand where it was another second.
Then released.
“You can tell from that?”
“No.”
“Puff can.”
Silas looked at the squat dragon.
Puff sneezed.
Silas revised him upward again.
Gideon resumed instruction after dark.
Silas suspected the man did not know how to stop teaching once a student remained conscious.
“Crest color.”
Silas groaned quietly.
“I heard that.”
“Yes.”
Gideon ignored it.
“Lowest decade class manifests pale.”
“White.”
“Yes.”
“Century class gold.”
“Yes.”
“Thousand-year violet.”
“Yes.”
“Ten-thousand black.”
“Yes.”
“Hundred-thousand red.”
Gideon became still.
Silas noticed.
“That one matters.”
“All matter.”
“That answer was worse than usual.”
Gideon's eyes remained on the darkness beyond camp.
“Hundred-thousand-year Aetherbeasts are not subjects for children.”
“That wasn't my question.”
“No.”
Silas waited.
Nothing.
Another boundary.
Fine.
“Why do Crests have color classes broad enough that a hundred-year and nine-hundred-year one look similar?”
“The color is classification, not exact measurement.”
“Then visual rank hides quality.”
“Yes.”
“Two Marked Bearers can both have one gold Crest but be very different.”
“Extremely.”
“Same level too?”
“Same level, different Eidolon, different Crest, different body, different training.”
Gideon's voice had sharpened again.
“Never fight the number.”
Silas understood.
“Fight the person.”
“The Build.”
Better.
Gideon looked at him.
“A level tells you how much structure exists.”
“Not what it does.”
“Yes.”
“A Crest color tells me approximate acquisition class.”
“Not compatibility.”
“Yes.”
“A famous Blood Legacy tells me probable patterns.”
“Not certainty.”
“Yes.”
Silas smiled.
“You've built an entire field around saying 'it depends.'”
Gideon considered.
“That is what serious knowledge usually becomes.”
Silas laughed.
Quietly.
The sound surprised him.
Gideon looked equally surprised.
Neither commented.
Puff woke them sometime later.
Not with a bark.
With a low, continuous growl.
Silas's eyes opened.
Blackthorn training moved before thought.
Roll.
Knee under body.
Left hand near sleeve.
Right near knife.
No sudden noise.
Across camp, Gideon was already awake.
Two gold Crests glowed faintly around him.
Puff stood at the perimeter.
Facing north.
Silas listened.
Nothing.
Then—
A distant crack.
Another.
Brush moving.
Not one animal.
Several.
Gideon stood.
“Behind the stone.”
Silas moved.
No argument.
He crouched beside the limestone outcrop.
Gideon joined Puff.
Aether gathered around both.
The forest beyond the repellent line remained black.
Then two green points appeared between trees.
Eyes.
Another pair.
Another.
Silas counted.
Six.
No.
Eight.
They moved low to the ground.
Spread.
Not charging.
Testing.
Wolf shape.
Gray bodies between trunks.
A pack.
Gideon's voice remained calm.
“Feral dusk wolves.”
“Age?”
“Later.”
One wolf stepped closer.
Puff's growl deepened.
The animal stopped.
Its eyes remained fixed on the small dragon.
Silas watched formation.
Half-circle.
Flanking.
Pack intelligence.
Gideon had said low-tier did not mean stupid.
“Stay there,” Gideon said.
Silas stayed.
The nearest wolf crossed the powder line.
Sneezed.
Shook its head.
Did not retreat.
The others continued spreading.
Gideon's first Crest brightened.
Gold light moved through Puff's body.
The Snub Drake swelled slightly.
Not larger exactly.
Denser.
Aether compressed around his chest.
Silas felt pressure build.
Puff opened his mouth.
Gideon said one word.
“Now.”
The forest erupted.
Not flame.
Sound.
A thunderclap hit the clearing hard enough to shake leaves from branches.
Silas felt it through stone.
The lead wolf tumbled backward.
Two others broke formation.
The rest froze.
Puff remained planted, small body shaking from the release.
Silas stared.
The ridiculous dragon no longer looked ridiculous.
The wolves reconsidered.
Good instinct.
One turned.
Then another.
Within seconds the green eyes vanished into brush.
Silence returned.
Puff sat.
Then looked over his shoulder with unmistakable satisfaction.
Silas emerged from behind the stone.
“That was your first Crest Art.”
“Yes.”
“Shockwave.”
“Thunder pulse.”
“Range?”
“Variable.”
“Maximum?”
“Not now.”
“Cost?”
Gideon gave him a look.
Silas stopped.
“Tomorrow.”
“Good.”
Puff walked over.
Silas looked down at him.
The creature looked up.
“Can I touch him?”
Gideon blinked.
“You ask permission after carrying concealed weapons into my forest?”
“It isn't your forest.”
Gideon's expression sharpened.
Silas added, “You said not to ask that loudly.”
“We are inside.”
“Then who owns—”
“Touch the dragon.”
Silas smiled.
He crouched.
Puff sniffed his fingers.
Then pressed his broad head into Silas's palm.
Warm scales.
Rough near the horn.
Softer along the jaw.
Silas scratched where Gideon had.
Puff made the same pleased sound.
“Useful,” Silas said.
Gideon crossed his arms.
“I told you.”
“You said track.”
“I said more than track.”
“Eventually.”
Puff sneezed on Silas's sleeve.
Silas looked at the wet mark.
“Less useful.”
Gideon almost smiled.
Almost.
Then Puff's ears lifted.
The humor vanished.
He turned north again.
This time the sound he made was different.
Sharp.
Concerned.
Gideon's posture changed immediately.
“What?”
Silas whispered.
His teacher stared into the dark.
“Something moved the wolves.”
Silas looked toward the place where the green eyes had disappeared.
Dusk wolves had approached a camp protected by repellent and an unfamiliar Eidolon.
Then fled after one attack.
Reasonable.
But Gideon's words changed the pattern.
They had not been hunting.
They had been displaced.
From deeper north.
Puff backed one step toward Gideon.
A low hiss moved through the trees.
Long.
Soft.
Almost like wet rope dragged across leaves.
Silas's left thumb found the launcher release.
Gideon did not tell him to put it away.
That was worse.
“Behind me,” his teacher said.
Silas moved.
No argument.
Something in the forest breathed.
And kept coming.