Two years later, I was six.
Though, if you looked at me, "six" was the last number that would cross your mind. I was built like a twelve year old who had been fed exclusively on steak and milk. My shoulders were broad enough to block a doorway, and my limbs had filled with the kind of dense muscle that usually took a decade of farm work to build.
I was a biological marvel. Or a freak. The camp hadn't quite decided yet.
"Left side, Aaron! Watch your left!"
The shout came from Brian. At fifteen, he was lanky, terrified of acne, and currently trying to take my head off with a wooden training sword.
I didn't watch my left. I didn't need to.
To the recruits watching from the sidelines, Brian was a blur of motion. To me, he was a telegraph office sending messages a week in advance.
I saw the white particles in his should brunch up- Intent: Horizontal slash. I saw his weight shift to his back foot- Intent: Feint.
The "Understanding" didn't just show me the magic anymore; it showed me the physics. It showed me the future.
Brian lunged, feinting high. I didn't bite. I stood perfectly still, waiting for the real strike. When he pivoted to sweep at my legs, I simply stepped over the blade like I was stepping over a puddle.
"Gah!" Brian tripped, his momentum carrying him past me.
I pivoted on my heel, bringing my own wooden sword down in a controlled hit against the back of his neck.
Thud.
"Dead," I said cheerfully.
Brian groaned, dropping his sword and rubbing his neck. "I hate sparring with you. It's like fighting an abnormally large fortune-teller."
"You're sending me too many messages." I said, offering him a hand. "Your aura screams before you swing. It's rude, really."
I pulled him up. Brian was one of the few people I could really talk to. I could beat the new recruits-ten nervous eighteen year olds the Captain had picked up from the nothern villages- without breaking a sweat. Brian was the only one who actually made me try.
But lately, even sparring felt heavy.
The camp was anxious. I could feel it in the air, a static electricity that made everyone's particles vibrate with a jagged, nervous rhythm.
For the past few months, the Captain and the Squad Leaders had been pushing us hard. We were moving camp every three days, heading deeper south. I'd picked up enough geography from the command tent to know we were in the Verbium Kingdom, drifting towards the bottom edge of the Belgica Region.
"The Magistrate is getting closer," Brian whispered, wiping sweat from his forehead. "I heard Marcus say the Governor's Hounds were spotted in the valley."
I shrugged, wiping my own brow. "Let them come. We have the Captain. We have the Squad Leaders. If they can't handle it, what are we supposed to do?"
"You're too calm," Brian muttered.
"I'm not calm," I corrected. "I'm thirsty."
I looked toward the edge of the camp, where familiar, muddy-brown aura sat hunched over a table.
Old Henry. And more importantly, the barrel sitting next to him.
***
Night fell, bringing with it a cold wind that smelt of pine and impending trouble. The camp slept, but the anxiety kept the sentries alert.
"This is a bad idea," Brian hissed.
We were crouched in the shadow of the supply wagons. Brian was vibrating so hard he looked like a blur of white noise.
"It's a tactical insertion," I whispered back. "Stop shaking. You're loud."
"I'm not making a sound!"
"Your aura is loud. You feel like a panic attack wrapped in leather."
I grabbed his wrist and pulled him low. "Move."
Stealth was where my 'sight' truly shined. I didn't need to see the guards to know where they were. I could see their signatures through the tents.
Two guards by the fire. Rank 1 bodies. Bored. Particles drifting lazily. One patrol circling the perimeter. Rank 2. Alert. Particles sharp.
"Wait," I whispered, freezing mid-step.
Brian bumped into my back. "What?"
"Patrol coming. Three...two... one."
A guard rounded the corner of the tent ten feet ahead of us. We were pressed flat against the canvas in the deep shadow. He walked right past us, his gaze sweeping over the darkness, seeing nothing.
I watched his heart-a dense knot of white light-pass by. He paused, sniffed the air, and moved on.
Brian let out a breath that sounded like a deflating tire. "How do you do that?"
"Magic," I said, deadpan. "Let's go."
We wove through the camp like smoke. I navigated us over tent pegs, and through the blind spots of the sentries until we reach the Holy Land.
Old Henry's tent.
It sat on the outskirts, isolated from the rest. The barrel was there, resting on a wooden stand. Beside it, on a rough-hewn table, were two wooden mugs left over from Henry's evening session.
"Jackpot," I whispered.
"We're going to die," Brian whimpered. "Henry broke a man's arm for touching his whetstone last week."
"That was a whetstone. This is ale. It's meant to be shared."
I crept forward. I could see Henry's aura inside the tent-that massive, terrifying Blue Sun wrapped in mud. It was pulsing slowly. Sleep, I interpreted. Deep, rhythmic sleep.
I grabbed the mugs. I positioned the first one under the tap. I turned the spigot.
Glug. Glug. Glug.
The sound was the most beautiful melody I had heard in six years. The smell hit me instantly-yeast, hops, and the sweet, rotting scent of fermentation. It smelled like freedom. It smelled like Astra's distant cousin.
I filled both mugs. I handed one to a trembling Brian.
"To survival," I whispered.
I lifted the mug to my lips.
I took a sip.
It wasn't top-shelf vodka. It wasn't even mid-shelf whiskey. It was rough, thick ale that tasted slightly of oak and dirt.
It was the best thing I had ever tasted.
The warmth spread through my chest, loosening the knot of tension I'd been carrying since I woke up in this world. My shoulders dropped. The white particles of the world seemed to soften, losing their sharp edges.
"Oh," I sighed, wiping froth from my lip. "Oh, that is heavenly."
Brian took a hesitant sip, grimaced, and then took another. "It's... bitter."
"It's complex," I corrected. "Drink up. We need a refill."
I turned back to the barrel, reaching for the spigot.
The air pressure changed.
It wasn't a sound. It was a sudden, crushing weight. the particles around me didn't just vibrate; it was like they were submerged.
I froze.
Slowly, I turned my head.
Standing at the entrance of the tent was a silhouette. To Brian, it was Old Henry in his long johns. To me, it was a towering colossus of Blue Light that had burned away its muddy camouflage. The Blue Sun in his chest was flaring with an intensity that made my eyes water.
"Uh," Brian squeaked.
Smack! Smack!
Two open-handed slaps rang out in the night. One for me, one for Brian.
"Ow!" I rubbed the back of my head.
"Thieves," Henry grumbled. His voice was gravel and sleep. "Stealing a man's medicine while he rests. Disgraceful."
He loomed over us, his blue aura pressing down, threatening to crush us into paste. Brian looked ready to faint.
Then, the Blue Sun shifted. The crushing pressure vanished, replaced by motes bouncing around his body.
Amusement.
Henry sighed, scratching his beard. He pointed a calloused finger at the barrel.
"One more mug," he grunted. "Then you scramble."
He pulled up a stool and sat down, grabbing a third mug from the table.
Brian stared at him, slack-jawed. "You... you're not going to kill us?"
"Night's cold," Henry muttered, pouring himself a drink. "And drinking alone is for miserable bastards. I'm just a bastard." He looked at me, his blue eyes glinting. "Well? You got arms like a gorilla, boy. Pour."
I grinned. I poured.
We sat there for an hour. The washed up-terrifying old man, the anxious teenager, and the six-year-old blind alcohol.
We talked about nothing. Henry told stories of the northern snows that sounded fake but felt true. Brian complained about Marcus's training. I mostly just drank and listened, feeling the buzz finally, finally settle into my brain.
Henry watched me over the rim of his mug. He didn't treat me like a child. He didn't treat me like a blind charity case. He treated me like a drinking buddy.
"You got a thirst, Aaron," Henry murmured, his voice low.
"Runs in the family," I slurred slight.
Henry chuckled, a low rumble that shook his chest. "Aye, it usually does."
***
An hour later, we stumbled back to the recruits' tent.
Well, Brian stumbled. I walked with the practiced, steady gait of a man who had spent thirty years mastering the art of walking hammered.
I still stumbled.
The night air was crisp, but the ale kept us warm.
"You know," Brian mumbled, dragging a heavy arm over my shoulder. He smelled of cheap hops and teenage sweat. "Sometimes... sometimes I feel like you're the older one. Like I'm the kid and you're just... waiting for us to catch up."
I stopped in my tracks. The gravel crunched beneath my boots.
I turned my head toward him. Even through the haze of the ale, my "sight" picked up the honest, confused swirl of his aura. He wasn't joking. He was drunk enough to be perceptive.
I chuckled, a dry sound in the quiet night. "You're drunk, Brian."
"Maybe," he hiccupped. "But am I wrong?
"Go to sleep," I said, shoving him gently toward the tent flap. "Before Marcus wakes up and makes you run laps until you puke.
Brian groaned at the thought and vanished inside. I stayed outside for a moment longer, staring into the darkness, letting the silence wash over me.
Then, I followed him inside.
***
Twenty minutes later, the camp was silent. But at the edge of the clearing, inside the solitary tent that smelled of rust and old iron, two men were still awake.
Valen ducked under the flap, his massive frame filling the small space. The Green Star in his chest was spinning with a restless, agitated energy.
" You're spoiling him," Valen grunted, looking at the empty mugs on the table.
"I'm educating him," Henry corrected, not looking up from his blade. " There's a difference. Besides, the boy holds liquor better than you did at twenty."
Valen sighed, dropping his guard. The sharp, "Captain" persona melted away, leaving a tired man with too much weight on his shoulders. He grabbed a stool and sat down heavily.
"The Hounds are two days out," Valen said, his voice low. "And the Magistrate... he's brought the heavy cavalry. They aren't just hunting bandits, Henry. They're hunting me."
"He always was a paranoid little shite," Henry muttered.
"I'm going to take a strike team," Valen said, leaning forward. The wind mana around him tightened. "We hit the Governor's forward camp in a month."
Henry finally looked up. "A month? You're waiting?"
"The Governor's forces will be passing through the narrow valley then. They'll be sluggish. Complacent." Valen's eyes hardened. "I'm not going to kill them. I'm going to snatch one. A mage. We capture him, we break him, and we find out exactly what forces they're bringing to my doorstep."
Henry paused, his aura pulsing thoughtfully. "You need a mage hunter."
"I have Marcus."
"Marcus is a hammer. You need a scalpel." Henry looked at the empty mug Aaron had used. "Take the boy."
Valen blinked. He looked at Henry as if the old man had suggested taking a goat. "Aaron? He's six."
"He's a freak," Henry corrected. "A blind freak who just snuck past your entire perimeter, stole a drink from my barrel, and walked out without waking a single sentry. Marcus didn't catch him. You didn't catch him. I just managed to catch him.
Valen stared at the empty mugs again. "He... he was here?"
"Sat right where you're sitting. Drank half my reserve."
Valen rubbed his temples. "I knew he was talented. I didn't know he was a ghost."
"He may be blessed, Valen. You want to capture a mage in a camp of soldiers? That boy will spot the target from a mile away."
Valen stood up, pacing the small tent. "I can't risk him. Elara would skin me alive. And... he's my son."
"He's a weapon," Henry said softly, but there was no malice in it. "And weapons rust if you leave them on the shelf. Give him a month. Let Marcus sharpen. him. Then take him."
Valen shook his head, but the denial was weaker this time. "I'll think about it. Get some sleep, old man."
He turned to leave, pushing the tent flap aside. But as he stepped out, his boot caught on a root he should have seen.
Stumble
The Captain of the Bandits, the Rank 4 Wind Swordsman, tripped over his own feet like a novice.
"Damn it," Valen cursed.
He stopped, embarrassed. The Green mana in his chest flared, spinning rapidly. A gust of wind whipped around him, purging the alcohol from his blood in a second. He straightened up, sober and sharp once more, though his ears were burning red.
He didn't look back as he marched toward the command tent.
Inside, Henry watched him go. A low, raspy chuckle escaped his throat as he picked up Aaron's empty mug.
"Definitely runs in the family," he whispered.