Adlet opened his eyes to the familiar ceiling of his room, faint morning light slipping through the gaps above the shutter.
The memory came back before he was fully awake.
The river. The clearing. The voice.
He sat up so fast his ribs protested.
A dream?
The thought surfaced—and died almost instantly. Not because he was certain. Because the sensation left behind didn't feel like sleep. It felt like a door he had touched, and now couldn't stop thinking about.
He stayed still for a few breaths, forcing the rush in his chest to settle into something sharper.
Then he tried the simplest thing.
"Pami?" he called, voice low at first, as if speaking too loudly might break whatever had happened.
Nothing.
He swallowed and tried again, louder this time. "Pami."
Silence.
Any other child would have let doubt grow there. Adlet didn't. The way the conversation had ended—clean, abrupt, like a thread cut by an unseen hand—had carried its own logic. If there was a limit to that place, then this was simply outside it.
Which meant there was only one option.
Act.
He dressed too fast, missing a button, fixing it as he moved. When he stepped outside, he found his father already awake, already ready—hands busy with tools, posture steady in the quiet rhythm of someone who had never needed the world to surprise him.
His father glanced up. "You're up early."
Adlet hesitated. He couldn't say the truth. Not yet. Not with nothing to prove it.
But his face must have betrayed him, because his father's eyes narrowed slightly.
"What happened?" he asked. Not worried. Just… attentive.
Adlet exhaled once. "I need to go into the village."
"For what?"
"I… need to ask something." He hated how weak it sounded.
His father studied him, then spoke without raising his voice. "If you're lying, you're doing it badly."
Adlet's jaw tightened. "I'm not lying. I just don't know how to explain it yet."
A long second passed.
Then his father turned back to the tools. "Go, then. But don't run from your responsibilities. You'll still have them when you come back."
Adlet didn't answer. He was already moving.
By the time he reached Eos, his breath had steadied—but his thoughts hadn't. The square was quiet, the village not yet fully awake. A few merchants setting out carts. A dog weaving between barrels. Nothing here looked like the start of a life that could ever reach Darwin Academy.
Which only made the pull inside him feel more stubborn.
The teacher.
That was the only person in the village whose knowledge went beyond fields and fences.
Adlet crossed to the schoolhouse and knocked. A pause. Then the window above shifted, and the teacher's face appeared—sleep-worn, suspicious.
"Adlet?" he said. "What is it?"
"I need to talk to you," Adlet replied. "Please."
The man stared a moment longer, then disappeared. A minute later, the door opened with a slow creak.
"It's rare you show up when class is open," the teacher said, amusement dry in his voice. "Now you come when it isn't."
Adlet didn't smile. "I need guidance."
That softened the man—just slightly. He stepped aside. "Then come in."
The room smelled of old paper and ink. Books were stacked in careful disorder. A half-written lesson plan lay on the desk like a surrendered argument.
Adlet took a breath. "What does someone do," he asked, "if they want to become a Protector?"
The teacher's expression shifted from teasing to thought. "Most of them train through Darwin Academy. It's the simplest path."
"How do you get in?"
"By meeting requirements." The teacher spread one hand, honest in his uncertainty. "And paying the registration fee."
"How much?"
"Fifty gold coins."
Adlet didn't speak for a second. The number didn't just sound high. It sounded unreal.
"That's…" His voice caught. "That's impossible."
The teacher watched him carefully. "For most families, yes."
"There has to be another way."
"Sometimes," the man admitted, "recommendations can replace what money cannot. A Protector's endorsement. An Academy instructor. A noble's signature. But those things don't reach villages like ours."
Adlet's mind flashed—Florian. His mentor. Their house. The distance between "ask" and "be laughed out of the room."
He swallowed. "So the only real answer is: I need a Protector."
The teacher didn't contradict him.
Adlet nodded once, forcing himself to accept the shape of the problem even if he hated it. "Thank you."
The teacher hesitated. "Adlet—"
But the boy was already leaving.
Outside, he slowed near a vendor's cart, thoughts tightening into a knot.
No money. No mentor. No door.
Only that memory from the night before, still sitting in his chest like a spark that refused to die out.
And then—
A stranger's voice, calm and steady, cut through the morning.
"I need supplies for a few days."
Adlet turned.
An old man stood at the stall, posture slightly bent but not weak—like age had taken weight from him, not control. His clothes were patched, travel-worn, yet he carried himself with a quiet authority that didn't ask for respect.
The merchant hurried to fill a bag.
"I heard there were purple ores in the forest," the old man added, as if it was a casual question. "A few kilometers west."
The merchant shook his head. "No idea. Ask the hunters, maybe."
"Thank you," the man replied, and set down a tip generous enough to make the merchant blink.
Then he turned away.
Adlet's mind moved before hesitation could catch up.
Coins. A scholar. A reason to walk the forest again with purpose.
And… something about that man's presence.
Adlet fell into step beside him, keeping pace without looking like he was chasing.
"Excuse me, sir," he said. "I know the forest well. I can guide you to those stones."
The man stopped. His gaze cut to Adlet—sharp, assessing.
"It's thoughtful," he said, voice flat. "Where did you see them?"
"It's hard to explain," Adlet admitted. "But I can take you there."
The old man's eyes narrowed. "I'm not letting a child guide me into the woods."
Adlet didn't flinch. "Then don't think of it as guiding you. I was going to go there anyway. You're free to accompany me."
For the first time, the man's expression shifted—curiosity touching the edges of his restraint.
It wasn't admiration.
It was recognition of quick thinking.
"Very well," he said. "Lead."
They moved into the forest, and Adlet fell into a rhythm he knew by heart—paths that curved like memory, roots that tried to trip strangers, narrow stretches where the undergrowth swallowed sound. He pointed out landmarks without pausing, guiding with the quiet confidence of someone who had learned the woods without ever being taught.
After a while, the man spoke again, not looking at Adlet as he walked.
"Why help me?"
Adlet's answer came honestly, without drama. "I'm stuck. And I thought helping you might… move something."
"What kind of impasse could a boy your age have?"
Adlet exhaled once. "You won't believe it."
"Explain anyway," the man said. "What do you have to lose?"
So Adlet did.
He spoke of the previous night—careful at first, then faster as the memory took shape. The man listened without interrupting until Adlet reached the part that mattered.
The fish.
The disappearance.
The voice in his mind.
"You're saying," the old man repeated slowly, emotion breaking into his tone for the first time, "that you caught a fish, watched it vanish… and then spoke with it in your own head?"
"Yes," Adlet answered, as if stating a simple fact.
The man studied him, eyes weighing what couldn't be weighed.
"I don't sense any power in you," he said finally, and the disappointment in his voice was strange—almost personal.
Adlet frowned. "How can you tell?"
"I'm a scholar," the old man replied. "A researcher, if you prefer. Some things are easier to notice than people think."
A thin doubt slipped into Adlet's mind.
Not about Pami.
About the man.
The clearing came into view.
Small purple stones lay scattered across the ground, faintly shimmering in the star-glow filtering through leaves.
"There," Adlet said.
The old man crouched immediately, hands hovering, eyes intent. He inspected the site with meticulous care, as if the stones were less interesting than what they implied.
Then he reached into his coat and pressed a small leather pouch into Adlet's hand.
"Your guidance saved me time," he said. "You can go."
Adlet glanced down at the pouch—then back at the man.
That was it?
No further questions. No reward beyond coins. No hint of what the stones meant.
It should have satisfied him.
It didn't.
He left the clearing slowly, not wanting to seem ungrateful, then let his feet carry him deeper into the forest anyway, following the sound of water.
The stream narrowed, then widened again, winding through stone and roots until the forest opened into something vast.
A waterfall.
Thirty meters of white roar pouring down from the great rock face that marked the boundary of the world.
Adlet stood there longer than he meant to, letting the noise wash through him until his thoughts finally stopped racing.
He sat on a smooth stone near the spray, opened the pouch, and counted.
Silver.
Enough to matter. Not enough to change his life.
Yet.
He closed the pouch and stared at the falling water.
Behind the curtain of spray, the shadows shifted.
A tremor. A scrape. Something moving where it shouldn't.
Adlet's body tightened before his mind could.
He edged along the base, careful, listening.
And found it.
A dark opening behind the waterfall—half-hidden, breathing cold air.
His eyes adjusted.
A shape moved inside.
Then it lunged.
A beetle-like creature—horn arched, mandibles clicking like metal. It looked weakened, dragged by the current, but aggression still drove it forward like a reflex.
Adlet didn't have time to think.
He just moved.
Every solitary hour of training, every bruised knuckle and scraped knee, every stubborn refusal to stay ordinary—everything narrowed into one clean truth:
He wasn't a Protector.
Not yet.
But he would survive.