The Cradle didn't wake up gently with the sunrise. It woke up angry with a bell.
A deep, bone-rattling chime crashed through the stone hallways like a giant's hammer, shaking dust from the ceiling and yanking Ares out of his dreams like someone had dumped ice water on his head.
He shot up in bed instantly, his breath coming steady and controlled, eyes already darting around the strange room like a hawk searching for prey.
Everything was still wrapped in gray morning shadows. The torch burning in the hallway outside cast dancing ribbons of golden light through the tiny barred window in their door, painting the plain stone walls with moving patterns. The other bed across from his sat empty, its rough blankets thrown back in a messy heap.
His roommate had vanished like smoke.
Ares slipped out of bed without making a sound, his bare feet meeting the icy stone floor with a sharp little shock that made him hiss through his teeth. He dressed quickly in the uniform they'd left folded by the door the night before – a sleeveless gray tunic that felt scratchy against his skin, black training pants that were a little too loose, and a bright red cloth band that wrapped around his waist like a target.
The mark of a first-year initiate. Basically a sign that said "fresh meat" in big, bold letters.
He stepped out into the corridor just as another kid came running past, gasping for air with his dark hair sticking up in every direction like he'd been struck by lightning. More doors creaked and groaned open along the hallway, spilling out more sleepy children who stumbled and shuffled toward the dining hall like a parade of zombies.
But Ares didn't rush to join the crowd. He walked at the very back of the group, moving slow and quiet as a cat stalking through tall grass.
He wasn't scared – he was studying. Today, he would be a watcher. A shadow among all the bright, noisy sparks.
---
The dining hall exploded with sound the moment you stepped inside. Voices shouting over each other, sharp laughter that cut through the air like broken glass, and threats whispered low between clenched teeth. The room was already splitting into clear battle lines – tables full of eight and nine-year-olds who sat straight and barked orders like tiny generals, while the younger kids huddled together in tight little groups that looked like scared sheep.
Ares grabbed a wooden tray and loaded it with breakfast: a chunk of bread so dense it could probably stop an arrow, gray porridge that looked like wet cement, and tea so cold it might have been brewed yesterday. Or last week.
He slid onto a bench at a half-empty table, trying to look invisible.
Across from him sat a pale, skinny boy with dirt-blonde hair that hung in his eyes and a nasty burn scar that crawled down his left arm like a red snake. The boy glanced up when Ares sat down, gave him one quick nod of greeting, then went back to methodically eating his terrible breakfast.
They ate in perfect silence, like two ghosts sharing a meal.
When the second bell clanged through the hall, every single child stood up at exactly the same time, like puppets being pulled by the same string. Time to move to the shrines.
---
The elemental shrines stuck out from the main fortress like the spokes of a giant wheel, each one a tall tower covered in ancient Eisenklinge writing that seemed to squirm and shift when you tried to read it.
According to the schedule carved into a stone tablet by the door, today would dump Ares into the Wind shrine – a chamber that howled and screamed with invisible currents of air that made every breath feel like trying to suck air through a wet towel.
The moment his foot crossed the threshold, a chill ran down his spine that had nothing to do with the temperature.
'This isn't training,' he realized, watching the way the instructors perched on raised platforms like vultures. 'This is testing. They're watching us like bugs under a magnifying glass.'
The grown-ups scribbled notes on wooden tablets, measured something with glowing crystal instruments, and sorted children into different groups. One by one, kids were placed on strange circular pads carved with symbols, then told to sit, breathe, focus their mana, and meditate.
When Ares' turn came, he obeyed without question. He didn't try to show off or push his magic harder than necessary.
He just sat cross-legged on the cold stone pad and let the wind currents wrap around him like invisible ribbons. They tickled his skin, made his hair dance, and stirred the warm glow of his mana core ever so gently.
'I see you,' he thought, speaking to the magic in the air around him. *Now you see me too.*
Above him, he could hear the scratch of styluses on tablets as the instructors wrote down whatever they saw. But Ares kept his face calm and blank, giving them nothing extra to write about.
Not yet, anyway.
---
Evening crept into the Cradle like a tired cat, bringing with it sore muscles and the kind of deep quiet that made your ears ring.
His roommate – Roul de Eisenklinge, according to the name scratched into the wooden bed frame – was still the strong, silent type. He didn't ask nosy questions or try to make small talk. He just lay on his narrow bed, casually tossing a practice knife back and forth between his hands like it weighed nothing at all.
Ares sat hunched over the small wooden desk by the window, scratching notes onto a wax tablet they'd been given for homework. The stylus felt clumsy in his small fingers, but he forced himself to write neatly.
It was here, in the peaceful quiet of their stone cell, that a thought slithered into his mind like a snake:
'Everyone here gets called Eisenklinge... but not all Eisenklinge are created equal.'
He paused, the stylus hovering over the wax surface like a bee deciding where to land.
His brain, still stuffed with memories from the story he'd read in his previous life, started organizing the information like puzzle pieces clicking into place.
Children of the main family patriarch, like himself, carried no middle name at all. Their blood was considered the purest, the most valuable, the closest to the original founding bloodline.
The others wore their status like name tags:
De' meant pureblood children from the five founding families – the only ones besides the patriarch's direct children who were allowed into the Cradle's halls.
Du' meant branch family children, but those kids were trained somewhere else entirely and would never see the inside of this fortress.**
Le' meant rare female purebloods, who were occasionally allowed in if someone important gave special permission.**
He would never see a 'Du' here in these stone corridors – but 'De' and 'Le' names were scattered all over the place, like seeds in a garden.
The realization hit him like a slap to the face: This wasn't just a school where kids learned magic and sword fighting.
This was inheritance warfare. A battle royale where the prize was power, position, and the right to carry on the family name.
And just like everything else in this place – names weren't just labels. They were weapons.
Ares leaned back against the cold stone wall, watching the single candle on his desk flicker and dance in the draft that snuck through the tiny window. The flame cast jumping shadows on the walls that looked like they were alive.
He would stay quiet for now, keeping his mouth shut and his ears open. But inside his head, he was already keeping score, making mental lists of who was who and what they might be worth.
In the bed across the room, Roul continued his knife-tossing practice, the blade catching tiny flashes of candlelight as it spun through the air.
Flip, catch, flip, catch.
The rhythm was almost soothing.
"Hey," Ares said quietly, breaking the silence.
Roul caught the knife and turned his head slightly. "Yeah?"
"You ever wonder if they put us together on purpose? different... levels?"
Roul was quiet for a long moment, then gave a short laugh that sounded more tired than amused. "Kid, everything they do here is on purpose. Even the stuff that looks like accidents."
He went back to his knife practice, but Ares caught the tiny smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Flip, catch, flip, catch.
Outside their small window, the Cradle settled into its nighttime rhythm – a fortress full of children learning to be weapons, all of them carrying the same proud name but knowing deep down that some names carried more weight than others.
Ares blew out the candle and lay down on his hard bed, but his mind stayed wide awake, spinning with plans and possibilities.
Tomorrow, he would keep watching. Keep learning. Keep score.
And when the time was right, he would stop being a shadow and start being a blade.