Legionnaire

I made it through maybe six pages of the children’s book before Vale returned.

That sounded more impressive than it was.

Six pages in a book meant for children still took me the better part of an hour, a dictionary, and enough quiet swearing that the candidate two bunks down finally rolled over and looked at me.

I ignored him.

Vale appeared at the end of the row carrying a narrow wooden case under one arm.

“Wade,” he said. “Come with me.”

I shut the book and stood.

Joryn was asleep across from me, or pretending well enough that it did not matter.

Vale glanced at him, then back to me.

“The core glass is available. We will test your pathways.”

My hand almost moved toward the hidden pocket where Tovan’s core sat.

Almost.

I stopped it.

Nobody knew about that core except Tovan and me. That was the point. I did not know what it was yet, not really, but I knew enough to know he had not slipped it to me in secret because it was common.

So I kept my hand away from it.

“Lead the way,” I said.

Vale studied me for half a second.

Then he turned.

I followed.

Rifthold in daylight had no interest in being quiet.

The yard was alive with movement. Candidates ran, climbed, dragged, struck, fell, got up, and did it again while instructors watched with the calm patience of people paid to be disappointed. A group crossed the yard carrying buckets of sand. Another knelt in a line beside the drill field, cleaning mud out of practice shields.

Nobody paid us much attention.

Vale led me through a side door into the central keep. The guards there saw him and stepped aside without a word.

Inside, the noise dropped behind us.

Stone halls. Oil lamps even in daylight. Old wood. Ink. Dust. The smell of records and authority.

We entered a small chamber with a heavy table in the center. Shelves lined two walls, packed with ledgers, thin books, glass plates, brass tools, and carved blocks of black stone.

Vale set the wooden case on the table.

“This will not hurt,” he said.

He opened the case.

Inside was a round lens set in a brass frame, about the size of a dinner plate. The glass was smoky instead of clear, threaded with fine silver lines that branched and circled through it. Beneath the lens sat a flat black stone fixed into the base.

“The core glass,” Vale said.

“I thought it read cores.”

“That is its most common use. Grade, stability, aspect, contamination, likely effect.” He lifted it carefully from the case and set it on the table. “But the same principles can be used to read a branded candidate’s talent impressions and core pathways.”

“So it reads what I can do.”

“It reads what your brand and pathways reveal. Interpretation still matters.”

He took a thin book from the shelf and laid it beside the device. The cover was dark and worn at the corners.

“Talent index?” I asked.

“Yes. One of many. Rifthold’s records go back centuries. Most known talents leave patterns that can be matched, if the reading is clear.”

“And if it is not clear?”

“Then we proceed carefully.”

That was ominous, but it sounded honest.

Vale gestured to the chair.

“Sit. Place your branded forearm on the stone.”

I sat and rolled up my sleeve.

The black numbers looked sharp in the daylight coming through the narrow window.

If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

51 | 52 | 36 | 46 | 84 | 7

Physical. Constitution. Endurance. Reflex. Mental Resistance. Mana.

I rested my arm on the black stone.

It was cool against my skin.

Vale lowered the brass frame until the smoky glass hovered above my forearm.

“Do not push mana,” he said. “Do not attempt Binding. Do not reach for anything. Simply breathe.”

I breathed.

For a few seconds, nothing happened.

Then thin lines appeared inside the glass.

At first, they looked like scratches. Then they spread outward from the shape of my arm in faint silver and black. Some ran clean. Some faded almost immediately. A few twisted back on themselves. Others reached farther, but not many.

Vale watched without speaking.

I had learned enough about him to know that meant he was reading, not guessing.

Finally, he turned a page in the index.

“The first talent is clear,” he said. “Binding.”

That one did not surprise me.

Still, hearing it confirmed by something official settled a little weight in my chest.

Vale touched one of the silver lines with a narrow black rod. The line brightened, then split into smaller branches around my hand.

“Item bond,” he said. “Claim. Denial. Command through contact. The pattern is undeveloped, but strong enough for structured training.”

“Undeveloped meaning I’m bad at it.”

“Undeveloped meaning you have not been trained.”

“That sounds nicer.”

“It is more accurate.”

Vale turned another page.

The silver lines faded slightly, and a different set of marks appeared near the edge of the glass. Gray. Thin. Uneven. They did not branch cleanly like the others. They shifted, broke, and reformed like smoke trying to become writing.

Vale’s eyes narrowed.

He turned several more pages before stopping.

“The second talent is Misfortune.”

I looked at him.

“That is the actual name?”

“The nearest useful translation.”

“Well, that’s just great. Of course it is.”

Vale’s expression stayed level.

He tapped the page.

“It is rare, but known. Misfortune does not create strength. It does not make fire, heal wounds, or move stone. It influences failure.”

“Failure.”

“Yes. Bad footing. Poor timing. Weak grip. Frayed rope. Cracked wood. A rushed sigil. A loose buckle. A tired muscle.” He looked from the book to the glass. “It does not make impossible things happen. It makes possible failures more likely.”

That was better than the name sounded.

A little.

“So it needs something real to work with.”

“Yes,” Vale said. “The more real the weakness, the less mana required. The less likely the failure, the more mana it costs. If there is nothing for the talent to use, the attempt may simply fail.”

“And directed use costs mana.”

“Always.”

I looked at the last number on my arm.

Seven.

“So I cannot throw it around.”

“No,” Vale said. “You cannot.”

“What about accidents?”

“Passive expressions can occur under stress, especially before training. They are unreliable. They are also dangerous because you do not choose where they land.”

That made sense immediately.

A man slipping in mud was funny.

A man slipping near a blade was dead.

“I do not practice it alone,” I said.

“You do not practice it at all until I arrange proper supervision.”

“Understood.”

Vale held my gaze a moment, then nodded.

He adjusted the lens again.

The gray marks faded. The reading shifted deeper, and the branching lines through my arm became clearer.

There were not many.

Vale’s face did not change much, but I saw enough.

“That bad?” I asked.

“Limited,” he said. “Not bad.”

“That sounded like a careful answer.”

“It was.”

He pointed to the glass.

“You have no broad magical affinity. You are not a mage.”

“That figured.”

“Now we know.”

Vale continued.

“You do have enough pathway structure to hold sigils, provided they are chosen carefully and learned properly. But your capacity is narrow.”

“How narrow?”

“Three or four sigils safely.”

I stared at him.

“That’s it?”

“For a non-mage, that is useful.”

“And if I push it?”

“Perhaps six, eventually. With training, improved control, and very careful choices. Perhaps less, depending on the sigils.”

“So every choice matters.”

“Yes,” Vale said. “Very much. You will not collect sigils. You will select them. Each one must earn its place.”

I looked back at the glass.

Binding.

Misfortune.

Limited pathways.

Low mana.

Not a mage.

Not a normal soldier either.

Something else.

A specialist, maybe.

Or just a problem with boots.

“What happens if I choose wrong?”

“Some sigils can be overwritten. Some cannot. Some leave damage if removed poorly. Some occupy pathways in ways that make other sigils harder to hold.” Vale closed the index halfway, one finger keeping his place. “That is why you will not touch sigil scrolls until you understand the cost.”

“Are scrolls expensive?”

“Very.”

“Of course they are.”

“Useful things often are.”

I chuckled to myself, remembering something I had heard in the Army once.

Cheap shit ain’t cool, and cool shit ain’t cheap.

Some things crossed worlds just fine.

The glass dimmed.

Vale lifted the frame away from my arm.

I rolled my sleeve down and sat back.

“So for now, Binding and language.”

“Yes,” he said. “Binding every evening. Language every day. Misfortune later, under controlled conditions. Sigils much later, when you have earned the right to make expensive mistakes. We will also work on expanding your mana pool.”

“How?”

“Use,” Vale said. “Careful use. Controlled depletion. Recovery. Repetition. In time, cores may help as well, if the proper ones can be acquired.”

I kept my face still.

“Like training a muscle.”

“Close enough for now.”

Vale closed the book and returned the black rod to the case.

“One more thing.”

I looked at him.

“Do not speak freely about Misfortune.”

“Because people dislike the name?”

“Because people dislike talents they cannot see coming.”

Binding sounded useful.

Misfortune sounded like standing too close to me might get someone killed because my bad mood leaked.

“Who knows?”

“Me. The records that must know. Whoever the instructors decide needs to know.”

I nodded.

“I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

“Good.” Vale latched the case, then paused with one hand still resting on the lid. “Wade, this talent has the potential to become extremely powerful. But it will also make people wary of you. If an enemy knows what you carry, every broken strap, every slipped step, every failed latch, every cracked blade may be blamed on you whether you caused it or not.”

“I understand,” I said. “I’ll keep it to myself.”

“See that you do.”

Vale lifted the case from the table.

“Your reading is difficult, Wade. Not poor.”

I did not answer.

“A man with one clear strength and discipline can go farther than a man with ten gifts and no judgment. Remember that.”

“I’ll try.”

“That is all training ever asks at the beginning.”

We left the chamber and stepped back into the hall.

Outside the keep, the daylight hit harder than expected. The yard was still moving. Still shouting. Still grinding people down one order at a time.

Nothing had changed out there.

But I walked back knowing more than I had when I entered.

Binding.

Misfortune.

Three or four sigils.

Maybe six.

Enough to matter.

Not enough to waste.