All eyes in the shrine were on Grant. He stood in place, his knees threatening to buckle beneath him, the skin on his face hot and prickling. The man behind him in line didn’t push. Readers remained frozen with their palms hovering above recruits’ heads, their mouths hanging open. Nobody told him to return to his seat. There were no heckles, taunts, or jeers. They just watched in disbelief, which almost made it worse.

  487 Points was so low that even his Reader assumed she must have made a mistake.

  Eventually, he broke out of his stupor. “Thank you.” The words were more choked out than spoken, but he meant them. He cleared his throat. “Thank you,” he repeated to make sure she’d heard him.

  Nobody else had thanked their Reader. Not that he’d seen, at least. She’d been working long hours, casting Read thousands of times. Delivering life-changing news all day. She deserved recognition.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered as he sulked away.

  Grant trudged down the platform stairs. He knew he was being stared at, but he was completely numb to it all. All those hours spent Identifying his dagger, all those yard sessions, the bruised ribs, the sore muscles, and the burst blisters and fantasies of casting Magic, the times he bit his lip to smother a chuckle when Doctor Holt said they’d never have the Attributes for Spells.

  They were all for nothing.

  A Campaigner’s Attributes were only one piece of the puzzle. They could be trained, and they could be increased. Nobles spent a fortune increasing theirs from the day they were born, just in case a Campaign arrived early or they Inherited a Class. Belal and Raella would have had unimaginable resources available, and his father had left him a way to increase his Wisdom more in a month than they had in decades.

  Also for nothing.

  Attributes weren’t everything. They made Spells, Skills, and Classes better. High Points with low Attributes could be worked with due to the sheer number of Store options. Low Points was a death sentence no matter how high a recruit’s Attributes. Doctor Holt had even said so—nobody with under 10,000 had ever returned.

  As certain as the sun was to come up in the morning, he was going to be as helpless as a newborn fawn past the Portal.

  Could I be excused from duty? There was a guilty thrill accompanying the idea—his low Points saving him. And it was only logical, too. Sending a recruit to certain death seemed nonsensical. He would happily serve in the military, protecting Iori’s border from the Gracian Empire. It was an honorable position, which would give more to Evenon than dying ten feet from the exit Portal would. How could he even contribute to the Campaign? He wasn’t even worth killing for a third of his points.

  He cast away the thought. Making an exception for him would set a bad precedent.

  The other recruits looked at him with sympathy as he reached his row.

  At least I won’t be a target, he bitterly thought to himself.

  As he lowered himself into his chair, a strong hand gripped his arm like a vice. He turned his head, almost expecting to see Roland, but he found Captain Nickel’s face scowling at him. “Come with me. Now.”

  ***

  Grant was in a white room like the one in Iori. He had been shoved in without explanation, then sat there for two hours in an unbreakable daze. In the agonizing silence, he finally had time to properly analyze his situation, searching for options.

  His conclusion was it was hopeless. 487 Points wasn’t even enough to buy a pot to relieve himself in beyond the Portal, let alone a proper Spell or Class.

  The door swung open. Captain Nickel, Grant’s Reader, a man in a black trench coat worn over black pants, and a woman in Priestess robes entered. They crowded the wall farthest from Grant, as if they were afraid of catching whatever was wrong with him.

  He felt a stab of sudden hope. His head jerked up at his Reader, eyes pleading with her. Could she have made a mistake? Was his actual point total so high that it had to be kept secret, lest the Emperor’s family lose face? He prayed to the Goddess, begging for forgiveness for however he had wronged her, holding his breath.

  She Read him again.

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  “It is as I said.”

  Grant blew out his nose. Of course it was.

  Captain Nickel nodded. “You may leave the room.”

  She excused herself, and Captain Nickel sat down. He looked towards the Priestess, who after scanning Grant from head to toe, shook her head. “He is not Cursed.”

  The captain propped his elbows on the table, clasping his hands in front of his mouth. “Private Leeman, would you like to explain to me why your Wisdom is 18?”

  Oh. Readers can see your Attributes.

  Grant fumbled for words. He knew that the truth could put Mr. Nerelot in harm’s way, and lacking a convincing lie to tell, he settled for an unconvincing one.

  “I don’t know. It started at three in Iori but gradually ticked up.”

  Captain Nickel looked over his shoulder, and the man in black shook his head.

  “Yeah, I didn’t think so,” said the captain. He leaned forward, his sharp eyes boring into Grant, his palms on the table. “Private Leeman, I would be happy to let you bury yourself deep in this hole you insist on digging, but seeing as my commanding officer is the type to demand answers fast, I’ll let you in on a little secret.” He jerked his thumb backwards. “This man is a Mind Mage. Untruthful phrases to him are like a lighthouse is to a ship. Now, he could extract the information from your head by force, but I assure you he would not be gentle.”

  The man was clean-shaven, with neatly trimmed black hair and some gray on the sides. He stood motionlessly, his arms crossed over his chest, staring at the far wall behind Grant, as one might avoid eye contact with a man in a pillory.

  Grant swallowed. He couldn’t lie, but he could omit details. He put his head down. “I learned that casting Identify as many times as possible could increase my Wisdom. I have spent every waking minute casting it.”

  “Truth,” the Royal Inquisitor uttered.

  “I see,” said Captain Nickel. “Tell me what you Identified.”

  “I Identified many things,” he said, rubbing his chin. He counted the items off on his fingers. “I used it on my bed at the inn where I worked. I used it on the horses pulling the cart behind mine on the way to the capital. I used it on a dagger. Oh, and I used it on a woman in my cart too. And then—”

  Captain Nickel’s fists crashed into the table. It shattered with a spray of wood, launching splinters out like shrapnel and deep into Grant’s thighs. He cried out in shock and pain, but his voice was cut off by a hand around his neck. Before he could even raise his arms, his body was pushed against the wall, his feet dangling above the ground.

  “Stop. Omitting. Details. Full story. Now.”

  The captain held the pressure for a few long seconds, long enough that Grant began seeing spots, and just as the corners of his vision began to go black, he released his grip.

  Grant coughed, pretending he couldn’t yet speak while he gave himself time to consider. Captain Nickel laughed incredulously, and the man in black laughed with him. “Can you believe this recruit?” Grant’s hacking fit continued. The Priestess gave no sign of being amused.

  The captain’s expression turned to rage—the kind of indignation that only a noble could produce. He took another step toward Grant. “Last chance.”

  Grant saw no way out. With cold acceptance, he opened his mouth and began talking. He told them about Mr. Nerelot, the Epic-grade Siphoning Fang, the Identify loophole, and his father. At the Inquisitor’s command, Grant Resummoned his blade. The officers whistled, impressed at its quality and grade.

  Tears of frustration, anger, and shame of his betrayal of Mr. Nerelot flowed freely as he spoke, and he didn’t care. They listened, and when Grant was finished, the Royal Inquisitor grunted.

  “He’s telling the truth. Don’t think he’s hiding anything else.”

  Captain Nickel put a hand on Grant’s jaw and squeezed until his gums ached. “Do you even realize what you have done? Your 18 base Wisdom has broken our fundamental understanding of how the Attribute works. Even if we taught all our nobility with Identify how to abuse that loophole—which we will, by the way—they’ll be lucky to get a point or two before the Campaign begins.” The man shook his head.

  “No.” Grant forced the word out of his mouth before he could think. It was his inheritance. It was his birthright. His father had left his mother and him copperless, except for that one piece of information to be passed down over a decade later.

  It didn’t belong to them. It was the one advantage he had. Without it, he was nothing.

  Captain Nickel dropped Grant, and he crumpled to the floor.

  “You can’t have it,” he repeated.

  The men ignored him, talking between themselves about the possibilities, until the Priestess interjected.

  “Apologies for the interruption. But I have reason to suspect that this young man’s Points are a direct result of his defying the will of the Goddess.”

  Captain Nickel paused, stroking his chin and nodding. “Please elaborate, High Priestess.”

  She clasped her hands behind her back. “487 is the lowest Point total we have ever seen. The Goddess bestowed upon us the capacity to carve our own fate by purifying our souls with labor. Even a… commoner like him,” she said, nodding in Grant’s direction, expression bursting with contempt, “can fortify his Strength, Dexterity, and Agility, given enough time and effort.”

  The captain and the man in black both nodded along.

  “However, 15 points in Wisdom in under 30 days is clearly not what the Goddess intended. Some would say blasphemous,” she said with an ominous look towards Grant. “I believe the young man sitting in front of us has provoked Her ire. She smiles favorably upon the true and just, and casts out abominations who abuse her compassion.” She gestured at Grant one more time.

  We all got it, lady. I’m an abomination.

  Captain Nickel blinked. “I see. But once Points have been Read, no harm can come of using an underhanded tactic like the Identify loophole, can it?”

  The Priestess hesitated, deep in thought. “This is uncharted territory. I suggest exercising caution.”

  “Yes, caution. We will consult with our experts before deciding. Thank you for your guidance, High Priestess. Allow us to take up no more of your precious time.”

  The men escorted the Priestess from the room, leaving Grant to stew alone, sore, exhausted, fearful and furious.