The soft blues and pale orange painted the sky above the border town, a quiet morning hue that made the streets feel more peaceful than they were. Birds chirped from rusted rooftops. A couple of food stalls were already unpacking steamers and crates. Somewhere farther down the main road, the tram’s magnetic hum rumbled into life. It was just another morning at the edge of the town. Far from the shielded district where wealth lived behind glimmering gates, the outskirts were quieter. Here, on a sloped patch of cracked stone and moss, sat a small general shop with a faded wooden sign and a roof that creaked in the wind. Sixteen-year-old Rowen blinked at the gray ceiling of his cramped room, tucked just above the shop. He had lived here for as long as he could remember. He didn’t know if he had a mother or father. No birth records, no family name. Just a handful of memories of the old man who raised him, his grandfather, who ran the shop like it was the last piece of order in the world. The old man had passed three years ago. Since then, Rowen had run the place alone. Rowen rolled out of bed, his bare feet meeting the chill of the creaky wooden floor. The air carried the usual scent of dust and old paper. Downstairs, sunlight filtered through grimy windows, casting long stripes of light across shelves stocked with everyday odds and ends. He didn’t have time to open the shop. School still mattered, at least until the Awakening. He grabbed a piece of stale bread from the counter, chewing with little thought, then slung his worn bag over one shoulder. He halted at the door, his eyes lingering on the space where his grandfather’s stool once was. The Potential Awakening was getting closer. Everyone talked about it, whispering hopes of becoming a mage, a knight, or a tamer. Of discovering something more. Rowen wasn’t sure what he felt, maybe nothing at all. Outside, the cracked stone path was cold beneath his feet. Another day had begun. Rowen stepped out into the narrow lane behind the shop, where morning mist still clung to the stones. The street was already waking, with a couple of neighbors sweeping their doorsteps and a deliveryman with their vehicle buzzing past overhead. His school was a twenty-minute walk, tucked between a warehouse district and a scrapyard. It didn’t have a name worth remembering; most just called it the Lower School, not unkindly, but honestly. The other one, the one on the hill with glass windows and floating gates, was Westlight Academy. That was where the children of merchant clans, city officials, and registered mages studied. Rowen didn’t envy them. Not much, anyway. At Lower School, they taught you how to read runes, identify basic crystal types, recognize mana crystals, and repair civilian tech—the kind of knowledge needed to survive, not shine. Enough to prepare students for life in the outer zones. Enough to be tested. The Potential Awakening was less than a week away. Held on common ground of school. A federal government team oversaw it. They brought special crystal-based devices to measure raw potential for all paths: mage, knight, tamer, etc. Your path didn’t matter as much as your potential. And if yours was high enough... one of the top universities might notice. That’s what most kids dreamed of. A ticket out. The walk to school passed in a blur of cobbled roads and familiar silence. By the time Rowen reached the narrow school gates with chipped paint and rusted hinges, most of the students were already inside. The Lower School didn’t have much in the way of grandeur. Just three long, low buildings arranged in an L-shape, their roofs patched with scrap metal and covered in old moss. A few students milled around the courtyard, tossing small crystal shards back and forth like dice; others gathered near the notice board talking about the Awakening. Rowen stepped through the classroom door just as the old wall clock clicked past eight. "Cutting it close again," a voice said from near the back. It was Calen, with short hair, a slightly crooked grin, and a mark of dirt always on his sleeve no matter how early it was. He raised a hand lazily in greeting, a half-eaten fruit bun in the other. Rowen gave him a tired look and dropped into the seat beside him. "Bread again?" Calen asked, not waiting for an answer. "You should’ve come over. Ma made mushroom stew last night. There was enough for two." Rowen shrugged. "Didn’t want to bother." "You’re not a bother. She worries about you, you know. Both of them do." Rowen didn’t respond. His fingers tugged at a frayed edge of his bag. Calen’s parents had offered help after his grandfather passed—food, supplies, even a place to stay. He’d accepted some of it, but not all. The shop was still his home. The little backyard garden still grew enough herbs and tubers to sell when the season was kind. And upstairs, on the second floor, in that creaky little room, it was quiet, but it was his. The classroom buzzed softly as more students filled the seats. Most were just like Rowen and Calen, sons and daughters of repairmen, cart-pullers, street hawkers, or laborers. Kids who knew how heavy a full water drum was and what it cost to get a chipped mana crystal replaced. From the corner of his eye, Rowen saw the teacher enter, a thin man in his forties with a long coat and tired eyes. He placed a rune tablet on the desk and cleared his throat. "Good morning. Before we begin, a reminder. The Potential Awakening is five days from now. Be punctual. Be calm. And no, I don’t know if you’re permitted to retake it. A few kids laughed. The teacher didn’t.