“Before we officially sign you in,” the soldier said, scratching at his stubble, “I need to take you to City Hall. To make sure you're not some criminal disguised as a starving child.”
I blinked. “Fair.”
He eyed me again. “You know how to read?”
Inside, I found a broad-shouldered man in a faded uniform, leaning over a desk cluttered with training rosters and duty logs. His sleeves were rolled up, arms thick with old scars. His gaze met mine the moment I stepped in.
“You’re the recruit Ben sent?” he asked, voice like gravel.
“Yes, sir. Edward,” I said, handing him my paperwork. “I’m joining the training program.”
He glanced over the document, grunted, and folded it.
“All right then. Ben explained the basics, I assume?”
“Yes. He said I’d be training with the city guard for six months, and then, depending on performance, I'd train in a specialization until I Awaken.”
Cole leaned back, arms crossed. “Mostly right. But there are exceptions.”
“Exceptions?”
“If you Awaken with elemental affinity, especially if it’s strong, you’ll be diverted from the standard path. Mages don’t train with infantry. They go to academies.”
That made me straighten. “Even army recruits?”
“Especially them,” he said. “With high enough potential, the military sponsors your mage education. Most go to local mage academies or, if they’re lucky, the military’s own mage institute.”
He paused, letting the weight of his next words settle.
“But if you Awaken a Perfect affinity, or a rare element, you could be recommended to the Royal Mage Academy. That’s where the Duke of Silverpeak studied, after enlisting like you.”
My breath caught. That duke again. The one who started as a no one, like me.
But I understood now why Ben hadn’t mentioned this. Mage potential wasn’t common. To even qualify, you needed a high affinity, and that was rare.
Affinity levels were ranked by percentile:
- Minute (0–30%)
- Lesser (30–50%)
- Minor (50–65%)
- Medium (65–80%)
- High (80–90%)
- Very High (90–98%)
- Perfect (98–100%)
My father had only a Minute Wind Affinity. Barely enough to knock over a candle, let alone cast a spell. Unless transmigration had somehow rewritten my soul and body…
I shook my head.
Probably not.
Sergeant Cole narrowed his eyes. “Enough daydreaming. You’re not in a tavern.”
“Yes, sir.”
He stood, the old bench creaking beneath him.
“Let’s get you some food and proper training clothes. I can’t have prospective recruits walking around in torn rags. You may be gutter-born, but you’re Avalon’s soldier now.”
I nodded, suddenly more aware of my appearance, the torn shirt, the bruises, the stink that lingered even after my wash.