Aaron.
That was the name I'd learned to answer to when it suited me, and curse under my breath when it didn't.
By the time I was four, the camp had settled into a strange, baffled respect regarding my existence. Physically, I was an anomaly: a toddler by paper, but I was built like a solid 8 year old who'd been stealing extra growth hormones from the sun. Broad shoulders, long limbs, the kind of frame that made the other mothers whisper and the quartermaster weep over the cost of fabric.
But the murmurs weren't just about my size. They were about my eyes.
Everyone eventually came to know I was blind. The news travelled faster than gossip and twice as loud- probably because I tripped over something important during the second week and almost dumped the captain's maps into a stew pot.
The cure for that was subtle: the youngest recruit, a thirteen-year-old- named Brian, was assigned the high stakes mission of "make sure the Captain's kid doesn't fall into boiling thing." Brian was all nervous knees and eager mouth, and he took to the job like a man volunteering for the gallows.
"You okay today, Aaron?" Brian asked on my third morning as a proper walker. He looped one arm under mine and let me guide my weight against him.
"We do the grass first, then the path. Don't step on the nettles."
He sounded like a schoolteacher who'd been told he was also a shepherd and a watchman.
"I'm fine," I lied. "I'm four, remember? Big boy." I kicked out to prove it. My legs cooperated like well trained drunks.
Brian snorted. "You say that now, wait till old Marcus see you swing a stick. He'll teach you how to bruise properly."
Nobody else knew the private trick that helped me keep from being a walking calamity. It had started as a stupid accident involving a tent peg. As I lay on the ground, face pressed against the earth, I realized the white speckles-the "magic dust" that made up my world- stuck differently to inanimate objects.
By studying the peg then proceeding to actually look all around me, I unlocked the map.
The particles piled up along ropes, giving me a tight sensation in my mind. On grass, they hugged the ground like a soft carpet. Dirt made a low, even halo. Even the nettles Brian warned me about were visible; they were clusters of aggressive, spiked particles that gave of a feeling of itchiness.
I told no one. Who would believe me? "Hi, Brian, I can see magic dust," He'd laugh. So I kept my mouth shut and let the particles guide me.
Everyone loved my size. What surprised them more was the way my head worked. I solved the "knot problem"-untying and retying a complex knot - before most recruits had finished breakfast and someone actually clapped. I felt better for that clapped than almost anything I remembered from Earth.
Well, almost anything. Nothing beat the sound of a beer on a countertop.
Speaking of which...
As I grew, training followed. Bandit life demanded bodies that worked like clocks and blades that moved like thought. Too young to participate, I spectated how, I sat on the sidelines and watched the camp turned into a gym.
It was while I was watching the drills that I noticed the difference between the men.
Most of the bandits were just loose clouds of white dust, their outlines shifting and hazy like smoke. But the Six... the Six were different.
Four of them were obvious once you were looking: Ben, Elias, Marcus, and Edgar. They were the Squad Leaders. To the naked eye, they were just fast men with swords. But to me?
They looked solid.
Ben, Elias, and Edgar were dense, their particles woven tight like chainmail. But Marcus? Marcus was different. He wasn't just woven; he was a solid, seamless slab of white light. No gaps. No weakness.
When Marcus moved, he didn't trail dust. He cut through the air like a solid block of energy. There were no colors in them, just a terrifying, overwhelming density. It seemed like physical perfection, refined until it glowed.
Then, there were the other two. The ones who didn't just have solid bodies, but something else.
The Captain-my father- sat on a crate, watching the drills. His body had that same, dense, hard-light quality as Marcus, but right on his chest, there was a star.
A swirling Green sphere.
It spun slowly, sending out pulses that felt like a breeze on a hot day. It was mesmerizing. Unlike the white static of the physical world, this green light felt... alive. It felt like the wind.
But he wasn't the strangest thing in the camp.
My attention drifted to the edge of the ring, to a figure slumped over a whetstone, polishing as rusted blade and humming off-key.
Old Henry.
To the camp, Henry was a charity case. A drunk the Captain had dragged out of a pub years ago. He didn't raid. He didn't scout. He just drank ale and fixed weapons.
But my eyes didn't see a drunk.
Henry's body was wrapped in a layer of muddy, dirt-brown deception. It was a thick camouflage that made him look like a tired, hazy old man. But thanks to my strange eyes, I could see through the cracks in the mud.
And underneath the mud was a sun.
A blinding, deep Blue sphere rotated slowly in his chest.
It was massive compared to my father's green star. It was heavy. It felt like standing at the edge of a deep ocean that had decided to pause. The density of his body was terrifying - brighter and harder than even Marcus.
"You talk to him?" I asked Brian one evening.
Brian grimaced. "Don't. He's... rough. The Captain saved him from a gutter, they say. He's not not a man you put on a hearth to warm your toes."
I just shrugged.
One night, bored of the usual stew and hungering for something more, I navigated the camp until I reached Henry's table.
"You want a drink, child?" Henry barked without looking up, motes around him sparking with amusement.
"Please," I lied, because politeness was a tool and I wanted to use it. "Just a sip. For research."
"It's called ale," he corrected, looking at me with bloodshot eyes that masked a predator's gaze. "and you don't get it until you're at least ten. Now bugger off before you break something."
He was all bluster, but the particles told another story. He was lonely. And he was bored. So, I just sat down and conversed with what seemed to be the most dangerous man in the camp.
Over the months, the camp started saying things in quieter tones: "He's learning," "The boy is a beast." My size made me hard to ignore.
That was why Marcus' decision to let me train wasn't as shocking to the camp as it should have been.
I was watching the usual drills when Marcus-the man made of solid white light-walked out of the ring. He paused, looked at my oversized frame, and then walked over.
"Kid," he said, voice like a folded sheet of metal. "You swing."
The murmurs started.
"Marcus can't be serious..."
"He'll break the boy...."
"He's only four"
Brian went pale enough to blanch his freckles. "Marcus-" he started.
"He's big enough," Marcus grunted. "Push him. Don't kill him. Just give him a target." Then he handed me something made of wood that had the outline of a sword.
"Why me?" I asked, half-grin, half-dare.
Marcus shrugged once. "You have a strong friend." He nodded toward the edge of the ring. Old Henry was watching. He wasn't polishing his blade anymore. He was looking right at me. His aura radiating curiosity and what seemed like encouragement.
Marcus turned back to Brian. "Go."
Brian swallowed hard. "Sir." He stepped into the ring, holding up a padded blocking shield. He looked terrified of hurting me.
"Ready, Aaron?"
I gripped the wood. I couldn't see Brian's face. I couldn't see his fear. But i could see the dense white light of his arm muscles tightening, and I could see the nervous, jerky way the particles shifted before he moved.
I didn't need eyes. I had the map.
"Always."