The next day was brighter than usual. Sunlight sliced through the inn's grimy window, painting the damp room in harsh gold. Rodrigo Mundragon was wide awake, his body clock snapping him alert at four in the morning.
War had drilled that into him. Decades of dawn patrols, gunfire ripping him from sleep. He sat on the lumpy bed's edge, boots planted on creaky boards, staring at nothing. No dreams last night. Just darkness, then the harbor's quiet lapping seeping into his skull.
He had nothing but the clothes on his back—coarse tunic and pants, stiff with sweat and salt. The machete leaned against the bedframe, its broad blade glinting faintly, fiery etchings dull in the dimness. And then there was the card, pinched between his fingers. Black, smooth, with an orange rune pulsing like a heartbeat.
Guildhall Initiate, it read in sharp script. No name or frills. It was just an invitation tossed to him last night by that cloaked figure at the harbor. They'd seen his machete flare, called him out for the spark, and left him with this before melting into the shadows.
Rodrigo flipped the card. "What's your angle?" he muttered, half-expecting an answer, but well… Nothing.
He'd felt the machete jolt then, watched flames burst from it, and his flames at that. Curiosity tugged harder than his pride. A soldier didn't rot in stasis. He needed to know what this Fire meant, even if it meant humbling himself with kids.
He stood, stretching stiff limbs. The machete went over his shoulder, strapped with scavenged leather. The card slid into his pocket, pressing against the locket at his chest. "Might as well see, Ma," he whispered, thumb brushing the silver. Franca's face steadied him, a tether to his old self. He stepped out, the inn door groaning shut.
The Market Quarter had vendors shouting, and hammers rang from Hilda's forge as he passed by. The Gilded Anchor, which was a well-known tavern in Havenport, spilled laughter, drunks lingering from last night. Rodrigo's chest burned hotter as he neared the Guildhall Precinct, the gray tower just towering ahead.
He stopped at the gates, and two guards in patchy leather were eyeing him. One gripped a spear, while the other gripped a sword. "State your business," he began.
Rodrigo flashed the card, the rune pulsing bright. "This enough?" he asked, gruff.
The guard squinted, then nodded. "In you go." The gates creaked open, and Rodrigo stepped through, boots echoing on stone.
Inside, the hall stretched wide with a polished floor, patterned walls, and Essence lanterns glowing steady, like what that merchant mentioned. Shouts drifted from deep within, metal clanging faintly.
A wiry man sat at a desk, quill scratching parchment, ink staining his fingers. He looked up, sharp eyes narrowing behind cracked spectacles.
"New face," the man said, setting the quill down. "What's it?"
Rodrigo tossed the card onto the desk. It thudded soft, the rune catching light. "I got this last night," he said, arms crossed.
The man, Eldrin, as his plaque read, picked it up and turned it over. "Eclipse's mark. You're in." He scribbled on a ledger, ink smudging. "Name?"
"Rodrigo," he answered lowly.
Eldrin nodded. "Follow me. Initiates train together with all elements." He stood, bones creaking, and shuffled off, beckoning with a bony hand.
Rodrigo followed, machete swaying. The hall twisted past doors—fire sparks in one, water splashing in another. His chest tightened, memories of drilling soldiers flashing—Cheron's laugh, Pablo's nod. He shoved them down, focusing on Eldrin.
They stopped at a wide archway, and beyond, a chamber sprawled. A dozen kids milled about, and their ages varied from scrawny twelve-year-olds to lanky teens.
Eldrin clapped once. "New blood," he barked. "Sort him out." He turned to Rodrigo. "Your spot. Don't break anything." Then he shuffled off.
The kids turned, eyes locking on him.
Rodrigo stood tall, machete heavy, heat simmering. Kids. Barely fit to hold a rifle. But power sparked around them. Fire, Water, Earth, Air.
A boy tossed his flame higher. Around 15 years he'd estimate. "Old man thinks he's hot stuff?" he said, voice dripping with sass.
Rodrigo gripped the machete, heat flaring in his palm. "Killed more than you've seen, kid," he snapped, low and sharp. Tension spiked, the air thickening.
Then a girl about a year less of age compared to the boy stepped forward. "We're here to learn, not fight," she said, her voice firm.
Before Rodrigo could retort, a woman strode in, appearing middle-aged, sharp-eyed, and a staff in hand. Water glistened at its tip. Mistress Eclipse, Eldrin had called her earlier in passing.
"Enough," she said, her tone cutting through. "You're Initiates, not brawlers. Line up."
The kids shuffled into place, Rodrigo stepping to the side, sizing her up. Eclipse planted her staff, water pooling at her feet.
"Essence fuels your element and weapon," she said, crisp. "Intelligence Essence hones it. Strength Essence pumps it. Spirit Essence cuts deep, and it's for you to find your edge, to choose between the three." She swung the staff—water whipped out, precise, slicing a rune-target clean. Then forceful, slamming another with a splash. Then piercing, shattering a glowing shield.
The kids murmured, impressed.
Eclipse's eyes landed on Rodrigo. "You. Old man. Show us."
He stepped forward. The machete came up, and the heat surged. He swung, flames bursting clumsily. A target smoked, half-hit, and the kids whispered. The boy snorted.
Eclipse chuckled. "Strength Essence's your lean, but you're rough. Work it."
Rodrigo's jaw tightened. I'm sorry but… Rough? He'd led legions, not flailed like some rookie. But the flame's power hummed in his grip undeniably. He stepped back, pride stinging, curiosity itching.
Eclipse dismissed them. "Evening's yours. Rest up."
The kids drifted to a dorm hall with stone walls, bunks, Essence lanterns casting soft light. Rodrigo got a cot, sitting apart. He leaned back, machete across his lap. He was in, but out of place.
Kids or not, they had power he needed. He'd learn it, bend it, make it his.