Ivor stayed crouched, forcing himself to breathe slowly. He remembered the spikes rushing toward him and then, without warning, being pulled into shadow. Everything had gone dark at once. He couldn't see, couldn't hear, and when he tried to inhale, there was no air.
His chest had locked up as panic surged. He had tried to breathe again and again, but nothing came in. His lungs burned, his head spinning as his body fought for oxygen.
If it had lasted a few seconds longer, he would have passed out.
He pushed himself upright. Two small wounds marked his body, one on his shoulder, another on his bicep, dark punctures where the shadow spikes had pierced him before he'd been dragged away. His leg still bled from the wolf's claws, the cloth tied around it soaked through again.
The man's gaze swept over him quickly.
"You're injured," he said flatly. "But we don't have time."
Before Ivor could respond, the man stepped in and lifted him in a single motion, swinging him up and over his shoulder. Ivor's stomach dropped as his feet left the ground, the sudden shift stealing what little balance he had left.
Then the man moved.
Ivor felt the first step like a jolt through his ribs, followed by another and another in rapid succession. The ground vanished beneath him as the pace increased, stone and shadow smearing together at the edges of his vision. Wind tore past his face. His grip tightened instinctively as nausea surged, his body lagging behind the speed his senses couldn't track at all.
He shut his eyes, jaw clenched, fighting the urge to retch as the city rushed past in broken flashes. The speed was overwhelming. Terrifying. He had never moved this fast in his life, and the realization sent a cold knot of fear through his stomach.
A few seconds later, the motion stopped.
Ivor was dropped onto the ground, his knees buckling immediately. He barely had time to brace himself before his stomach convulsed. He leaned forward and vomited violently, his head spinning as the world struggled to settle back into place.
"All right," the man muttered. "Get yourself together, kid. This is life and death."
Ivor wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, teeth clenched as he forced himself upright. His body protested, but he stood anyway and turned toward the man.
The man's hood was down now.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, with black hair streaked heavily with white. A neatly trimmed beard framed a sharp face. His eyes were steady, watchful, and completely unamused.
Before Ivor could study him further, a prickling sensation crawled up his spine.
He turned back instantly.
Space itself seemed torn open a short distance away. A jagged rift hovered above the ground, crimson and uneven, like a doorway cut straight through the air.
"A Scar," Ivor said before he could stop himself.
"Yes. A Scar," the man replied, stepping up beside him. "I paid a lot to make sure this place was empty when we arrived. Guards are usually stationed here at all times."
He glanced around once, then continued. "We don't have long."
The man set a small black bag on the ground near Ivor. It was worn but sturdy, a shoulder strap tied tight with rope.
"For the next year," he said calmly, "you cannot return to the city. You can but you shouldn't. If you do, you'll die."
Ivor blinked.
"The people who came after you today want you dead," the man continued. "The ones who tried to protect you aren't strong enough to keep doing it. Not yet. Not for at least a year."
He nudged the bag closer with his boot. "There's food for a few days inside. Introductory books you would've received if a handler had been assigned to you. It explains mana basics, ranks, and how this world works."
Ivor listened without interrupting.
"Stay inside this Scar," the man said. "Train. Survive. Don't come out early. They'll be waiting outside the Scar for you. I can't suppress the news for long, and they're capable enough to track even me if given time."
Ivor frowned. "If they can find you," he asked carefully, "why won't they hunt me inside?"
The man nodded once. "Good question. This is an F-rank Scar. Used by newly awakened children before they advance to Initiate. Anyone at Initiate rank or higher cannot enter."
He paused. "That's why you're safe. Mostly."
Ivor stiffened.
"If they decide to send newly awakened hunters after you," the man added, "then you're on your own. Prepare for that."
Ivor absorbed the words in silence. His mother had taught him about Scars, but this was new information to him. He looked from the crimson rift to the bag, then picked it up, strapping it over his aching shoulder with effort.
"Why are you helping me?" he asked.
"Helping you helps us," the man replied. "Nothing personal."
He hesitated, then added, "Don't waste your time inside. Train. Before reaching Initiate, there's The Rite of First Armament. You know of it."
Ivor nodded.
"Good. Prepare for it. I've said enough. Now go ahead."
Ivor with the dagger clenched in his hand stepped closer to the Scar. It didn't hum or pulse like he had imagined. There was no wind. No visible mana flow. Just a torn doorway hanging in space.
He stopped and turned back once.
"What's your name?"
"Bach," the man said.
Ivor nodded, stepped forward and vanished into the Scar.