Considering the outfit Mr. Braum had arranged for me, I already knew our destination was a world apart from the grit of the lower levels. I hadn't been wearing rags for a couple of weeks now, but this was different. The shirt was white—a blinding, pristine white that felt like it had never known a speck of dust, made of a cotton so fine it felt like a second skin rather than a burden. The pants were sturdy and belted, fitting me with a precision that made me feel less like a ghost and more like a person with a defined silhouette.

  Then there were the shoes. Real, solid shoes without a single hole. I had grown so used to going barefoot—the soles of my old pair having rotted away so long ago they only served to trip me up and trap the freezing slush of the gutters—that the feeling of leather protecting my feet was almost alien. Every step I took felt deliberate, grounded. I felt clean. Cleaner, even, than I had during the rest of my two-week recovery, which was saying a lot considering the first thing they’d done was find a specialist to give me a douse of a magical bath and a scrubbing so thorough I thought I’d lose a layer of skin to the abrasive salts they used.

  But all that preparation didn’t compare to the estate looming before us.

  The house was massive, a sprawling monument of marble and dark iron. It wasn't quite large enough to swallow the horizon, but big enough that the manicured grounds could have housed an entire block of the cramped, leaning hovels like the one my mother kept. It was incredible. Flanking the entrance were two statues, carved with such staggering detail they seemed ready to breathe: two great cats, frozen in a silent, watchful prowl, their eyes made of polished obsidian that seemed to track my every move as I walked up the drive.

  As we approached, the heavy front doors—carved from heartwood and reinforced with brass—swung open without a sound. A maid stood there, her uniform crisp and her smile so wide and genuine it was easily the most inviting thing I had seen in my thirteen years of life.

  “The Earls will be with you in the study shortly,” she said, her voice as light as a chime. She stepped aside, ushering us into a cool, polished interior that smelled faintly of beeswax, expensive tobacco, and old paper. “Please follow me, if you would, Mr. Braum. Master Wren.”

  Master Wren. The title hit me harder than any physical blow I’d taken in the alleys. It implied a level of respect and standing I hadn’t earned, a weight of expectation that felt like a collar around my neck.

  “That would be Mister Wren, Abigail,” Mr. Braum corrected her, his voice carrying a playful but firm edge. “While we may not be using his last name, and he may appear young, he is an officially awakened individual. In the eyes of the Empire, he is an adult.”

  “Ah, forgive me, Mr. Braum. My apologies, Mr. Wren,” Abigail replied, offering a quick, graceful curtsy that made me blush furiously. She led us deeper into the house, past hallways lined with paintings of landscapes I didn't recognize and rifts that looked far more beautiful than the terrifying stories usually suggested.

  The study was a sanctuary of dark wood and floor-to-ceiling shelves. Thousands of books stood in silent rows, a literal mountain of knowledge that made my heart ache with a strange sort of greed. She gestured toward a pair of high-backed velvet chairs that looked soft enough to swallow me whole. “Ring the bell if you require any refreshments, or I could see about something now?”

  “Two caramel apple teas, please,” Mr. Braum requested, sinking into his chair with the ease of a man who had been here a hundred times. “And a slice of cake to go with it for Mr. Wren, if you would.”

  “Certainly. As I mentioned, the Earls will be with you the moment they are able. Please, make yourself comfortable and enjoy your stay.”

  She bowed out, the heavy doors clicking shut with a soft, expensive-sounding thump. I remained standing for a moment, staring at the tea service bell. I’d spent thirteen years hoping for a crust of bread, and now I was being served caramel apple tea and cake while waiting for an audience with the rulers of the planet. It felt like a dream I’d eventually wake up from, cold and wet back in the alley.

  “Sit down, Wren,” Braum said, his eyes twinkling. “You’re an adult now. Start acting like the furniture doesn't scare you. You’re here because you belong here, at least for today.”

  I sat, the velvet plushness feeling like a cloud beneath me. I looked at my hands—clean, nails trimmed, no longer shaking from a lack of blood sugar.

  “Can I…” I trailed off, my eyes wandering toward the walls of leather-bound spines that reached all the way to the vaulted ceiling.

  Mr. Braum rolled his eyes, though a small smile played at the corner of his mouth. “Yes. You’re free to read anything in here, aside from the locked bookcase in the corner. That one contains personal ledgers and family secrets that would get us both executed if we glanced at them. It’s partly why the Earls choose to host guests in the study; it keeps the mind occupied. However, considering they aren’t already waiting for us, it means they’re likely bogged down in a council meeting. I expect their mood won’t be pleasant when they finally arrive. Be prepared, Wren. Men like them don't like having their time stolen by bureaucracy.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  I nodded, feeling a familiar itch in my fingertips. I didn't head for the histories or the grand legends of the Ascenders. Instead, I pulled a thick, practical volume titled Useful Magic of the Empire.

  I slumped into the velvet chair and began to leaf through the pages. Most people dreamed of destructive fireballs or grand illusions, but this book focused on the invisible gears that kept the Empire from starving or collapsing under its own weight. I found a section on Agrarian Weaving, detailing how plant mages used a combination of [Grow] and [Farm] to sustain the massive population. It was fascinating—[Grow] wasn't just making a plant bigger; it was a delicate infusion of mana that accelerated the cellular cycle without depleting the soil's nutrients. [Farm] was even more complex, acting as a passive field effect that harmonized the mana of an entire acre, protecting crops from blight and ensuring every stalk matured at the exact same second.

  It was efficient. It was calculated. It was a world where every drop of mana was a credit earned and a stomach filled.

  I looked at my own hands. If my talent was [Imprint], could I eventually take a talent like [Grow]? Could a "Dangerous" talent be used to feed people, or was I destined to only harvest things in times of conflict? Was I a parasite on the world's power, or a mirror that could reflect whatever was needed?

  The thought was interrupted by a light knock at the door. Abigail returned, carrying a silver tray with two steaming porcelain cups and a plate holding a generous slice of golden sponge cake drizzled in honey. The scent of cinnamon and tart apples filled the room, making my mouth water instantly.

  “Your tea and cake, Mr. Wren,” she said softly, placing the tray on the low table between us.

  I took a bite of the cake. It was light, airy, and sweet—entirely unlike the dense, gritty "energy bars" Braum had given me on the street. As I chewed, I kept my eyes on the door, my mind still stuck on the mechanics of [Grow]. I took a cautious sip of the tea. It was thick, warm, and sweet, but it carried a sharp, grounding scent that smelled strongly of birch wood. The flavor was deep, lingering on my tongue with a richness I didn't know a liquid could possess.

  “The Earls keep a fine garden with every variety of apple you can imagine,” Mr. Braum said, watching the steam curl from his own cup. “Partly to appease Her Majesty, Queen Turs'tal—she has a noted fondness for the fruit—and partly because when you acquire enough power, you realize that all work and no play makes for a very bitter life. I always order the apple tea from Abby; they always have a new batch in season. They juice the fruit, brew the leaves in for tannins, and mix it with cinnamon and caramel. For me, she adds a dash of bitters.”

  He leaned back, a distant look softening his rugged features. “Memories,” he murmured, more to himself than to me.

  I nodded, but my focus drifted back to the open pages of Useful Magic of the Empire. The section on Plant Mages was intoxicating in its own way. It described how a dedicated mage could use [Farm] to not only harmonize the soil but to trigger an instantaneous harvest—thousands of stalks of grain bowing and shedding their husks in a single, synchronized wave of mana. It was the ultimate efficiency: hyper-charging growth and collecting the yield all in one breath.

  I couldn't help but wonder about the limits. If a mage could force a plant to yield its fruit in seconds, what could a "Dangerous" Talent force a person to yield? I pushed the thought away; it tasted like the copper of old blood.

  “Don’t get too caught up in the romanticism of the text, Wren,” Braum said, snapping me back to the present. “Most of the food here on Evern is grown inside stabilized rifts using automated harvesting golems. It’s cleaner, faster, and doesn't require a mage to spend twelve hours a day staring at dirt. The golems don't get tired, and they don't demand a higher wage when the harvest is good.”

  He gestured to the book. “The Earls don’t even keep a local Plant Mage on retainer. They don't need to; they already have a massive surplus. Not to say you shouldn't consider that path if it interests you, but that book is designed to embellish. It paints a picture of day-to-day mages being the 'fuel' of the Empire to make the common folk feel like every Talent has a grand purpose. It’s propaganda as much as it is a textbook.”

  He took a slow sip of his tea, his eyes narrowing. “In reality, the Empire runs on efficiency. If a golem can do it, a mage isn't needed. Which brings us back to you. A 'Dangerous' Talent isn't something a golem can replicate. It’s a variable. And the Earls... they have a very complicated relationship with variables. They either own them, or they eliminate them.”

  I looked at the golden cake on my plate, then at the book. My Talent, [Imprint], was the ultimate variable. I wasn't the one growing the food; I was the one who could potentially walk into a rift and become the golem, the mage, or the monster, depending on what I took. I was a blank slate in a world where everyone else was already written.

  The heavy thud of footsteps echoed in the hallway outside—deliberate, powerful strides that spoke of authority and a lack of patience. The playful atmosphere in the room evaporated instantly. Mr. Braum set his tea down with a soft clack and stood up, straightening his coat and smoothing out any imaginary wrinkles.

  “Here they come,” he whispered, his voice losing its warmth and becoming the voice of an agent. “Remember: be respectful, but don't be a doormat. They like the bird, Wren, but they’ll only invest in the hawk. If you act like a beggar, they'll treat you like one.”

  The double doors of the study swept open. Two men entered. One was tall and lean with hair the color of steel, his eyes scanning the room like a predator's. The other was broader, with a face that might have been kind if it weren't for the deep lines of stress etched around his mouth. They didn't look like the gods I had imagined; they looked like men burdened by the weight of a world that refused to stay still.

  I stood up, the half-eaten cake suddenly seeming like an insult. My heart hammered against my ribs, but I kept my chin up. The well was gone. The sky was here. And it was time to see if I could fly.