The afternoon drills shifted from swords to theory. Kaelen sat on a wooden bench in the lecture hall, surrounded by thirty students, while Master Elowen—a retired mage of Tier 3, her hair white with age—droned about the Thirteen Tiers of Ascension. The hall was cold despite the spring, sunlight streaming through narrow slit windows.
"Tier 1 is the Fledgling," she said, tapping a chalkboard with a gnarled stick. "Fifteen times stronger than a mortal. You can shatter a brick, outrun a horse over short distances, and survive wounds that would kill an ordinary man. Most soldiers never leave Tier 1. Your average knight-captain might reach Tier 2—thirty times a Tier 1—which we call the Aspirant. At that level, you can punch through stone walls and heal from a broken leg in three days."
She paused, scanning the room. Her eyes lingered on Gerold Hayworth, then moved to Kaelen, who met her gaze with blank attentiveness.
"Tier 3 is the Knight-Errant. Sixty times a Tier 2. There are perhaps a dozen Tier 3 individuals in all of Thornwick. Ser Godfrey, the king's champion, is Tier 4—one hundred and twenty times a Tier 3. He can level a building with a single blow, leap across the city walls, and survive a fall from the highest tower." Her voice dropped. "There is no one in this kingdom above Tier 4. The Veridian Emperor is said to be Tier 6. The Oracle of the Sunken Temple, Tier 7. And the last Tier 13—the Ascendant, just below true divinity—died three thousand years ago."
A murmur passed through the students. Kaelen kept his face neutral, but his mind raced. The Shard showed me visions of Tier 13. They did not die. They were chained. He nodded along as if hearing this for the first time.
Elowen continued, explaining that each tier was not merely additive but multiplicative. The gap between Tier 3 and Tier 4 was so vast that a dozen Tier 3 knights could not defeat a single Tier 4. The gap between Tier 4 and Tier 5 was even worse—hundreds of Tier 4s would be slaughtered. This was why kingdoms trembled when an empire revealed a high-tier champion.
After the lecture, Kaelen ate alone in the stables, as always. He observed the hierarchy: noble-born squires dining in the hall with silverware; commoner knights eating at wooden tables; servants and stable hands taking scraps in the yard. The mages ate in a separate hall, attended by their own servants. Classism was not accidental in Thornwick—it was engineered. The king kept nobles and mages and knights at each other's throats so they would never unite against the crown.
A shadow fell over his bowl. He looked up to see a girl—perhaps fourteen, with dirt-smudged cheeks—a kitchen drudge. "The stablemaster says you left the curry brush by the well again. He says next time, no dinner."
Kaelen blinked. He had not touched the curry brush. But he understood immediately: someone was probing. "Tell Hob I'll scrub the entire stable tomorrow morning. I've been forgetful lately."
The girl scurried away. Kaelen's mind spun. Someone is watching me. Not closely—a routine check. But still. He reviewed his recent behavior. He had appeared as a weak Tier 1, clumsy and unremarkable. But he ate alone. He did not gamble or drink with the others. That was his cover's weakness.
I need to be more visible, he thought. That evening, he forced himself to sit in the main hall, to laugh at a noble's stupid joke, to clap when the bard sang. It was exhausting. But survival demanded it.
The bard sang of the Duke of Thornwick, Alaric Vane, who had crushed a rebellion twenty years ago. Kaelen listened carefully. The duke was Tier 3—the same as Kaelen's hidden level—and controlled the northern silver mines. He had three children: two daughters married off, and a son—the heir, Caspian Vane, said to be a knight-captain in the border patrol, probably Tier 2.
The heir, Kaelen thought. A potential patron. Or a puppet.
The next three days passed in a blur. Kaelen rose before dawn, performed physical drills with deliberate mediocrity, then retreated to the sewers beneath the city to cultivate. His hidden chamber was a collapsed cistern, accessible through a submerged tunnel. Inside, the walls were carved with ancient symbols that glowed faintly when he activated the Shard. The Path of the Devouring Eclipse was his method—it absorbed ambient essence from the ley lines, but also the refined essence of other cultivators. He had never killed for essence, but the Shard whispered that the time would come.
On the third day, during the midday meal, Kaelen overheard a conversation that changed everything.
Two noble squires sat behind him, speaking in low voices. "…father says the duke's son is leading a patrol into the Thornwood tomorrow. Something about bandits attacking the silver shipments."
"Caspian Vane? That arrogant prick. He's Tier 2, you know. Thinks he's better than us."
"The patrol is going through the Old Pass. Near the Bone Hollow."
A pause. "Isn't that haunted?"
"There's a cult there. Worshipers of something old. Father says the duke is sending the patrol to flush them out."
Kaelen's spoon stopped. A cult. An old god. The Bone Hollow. The Shard pulsed in his chest—a warning, or an invitation. He finished his stew, walked to the stables, and found Hob the stablemaster.
"I need to be excused from drills tomorrow," Kaelen said, holding out a silver coin. "I have a fever."
Hob looked at the coin, then at Kaelen's face. "Why should I lie for you?"
"Because if you don't, I'll tell Ser Aldric about the extra rations you've been selling."
Hob paled and snatched the coin. "You're sick. Stay in your bunk."
That night, Kaelen prepared. He wrapped his black blade—forged in the sewers, hungry for essence—in oilcloth and strapped it to his back. He veiled his aura, making himself forgettable. And before dawn, he slipped out of the college and into the Thornwood.