Beads of sweat pattered onto the wooden floor. Hope’s smile crept in anyway, pale face and all. His hands shook a little; vision fuzzed at the edges, but—

  Stellar Hat

  Rank 1 Gear (Grade: D, Type: Head)

  Requirements: Spacetime Handling (Level 5), Magia 240

  Effect: +30 Magia, +2 Spacetime Handling

  A +2 on a D-grade.

  He huffed a laugh and let himself drop back with a soft thud. Headache like a nail through the temple; gods, a nap would be heaven, however—

  He flicked a glance at the wall-clock. Thirty minutes ’til Veleth’s feed. Then Alchemy straight after.

  “Damn...”

  Pushing too hard? …Nah. He’d pushed harder to get a rat to stop chewing his boot. Now he had a room, a bed, steady meals, people who actually gave a damn—and real progress, his progress.

  If he wanted payback for the souls ground under, for the lives the sky-fuckers toyed with, he needed strength. And if he wanted to change more than that—he needed even more.

  Slacking? Taking it easy? That’d be an insult to the lives he’d taken to keep breathing. Blood on his hands was weight on his back; he’d carry it. He’d already chosen.

  He eyed the last Starwake Tonic, snatched it, and drained it cold.

  Then he lay flat, arms spread, letting the deck’s hum roll through him. A real nap would make him late, so he rode the edge—eyes open, breath slow—cool clarity sliding in as the tonic bit.

  He flicked his focus to the backlog of prompts he’d been ignoring.

  ??Enchanting (Level 6?7 + 5)

  Level 83?84

  “Huh?”

  A level up? Why?

  He frowned. So… killing wasn’t the only way to climb? Or was he missing a piece?

  Save it for Selera. Or Gob, if he crossed paths.

  Whatever.

  He breathed steady and let his mind wander—through the last days, the ship’s living ribs, Veleth’s tide, the weird, good fortune of it all. To the little shadow that used to tail him without a word, a presence he suddenly missed like hell.

  He snorted, a grin tugging. “Maybe I should really show up on a dragon one day,” he muttered to the ceiling. “Right in front of her. That’d be a blast.”

  The clock ticked on. He rolled to his side, pushed up on shaky elbows, and set the hat gently with the others.

  “Up,” he told himself, rubbing his eyes. “Work’s waiting.”

  He hauled himself to his feet and slipped out, heading for Locker C-3. Another round with the Numen—he felt a fizz of nerves. With the Magia boost, would the lines be clearer? He hoped so.

  Tired as he was, a grin crept back while he hummed through the odd, tempting corridors of the great wooden vessel. One day he’d badger Gob to let him topside—the deck, the sails—the ship’s skin with the void for a view. That’d be damn cool.

  Meanwhile, as Hope’s steps faded in the distance, a shadow in Storage D6 stretched and curled. Smoke coiled, then thickened into an ashen-green goblin with a carved pipe hooked in his teeth.

  Gob’s gaze moved over the scene: sweat specks drying on the mat, three drained cyan bottles, a tidy stack of fresh-enchanted gear. He walked in, slow and quiet, and lifted a long leather coat with a flick of his fingers, letting it hover. Then he picked up the newest hat, feeling the hum under the hide.

  A dozen seconds breathed past.

  He drew on the pipe and let a thin thread of smoke unspool. It curled into a small face—messy hair, goofy grin—hung there, then frayed away.

  Gob’s mouth tightened, ears angling back. Disbelief, admiration, worry, pride—knotted together.

  It wasn’t in him to spy on the kid, not proper. But that “free time” block had been a test of sorts, and he’d wanted to see which way the lad leaned. Still…

  “Too much,” he muttered.

  He tapped ash into his palm and blew it off his fingers.

  “Most folk swing when they’re told,” he grumbled, voice all grit and gravel. “It’s the swing you take when no one’s watchin’ that shows what you’re worth.”

  He tucked the coat back, set the hat down just so, and drew once more—smoke tasting of resin and spice.

  As the smoke curled over him, a small smile tugged his lips. “Lookin’ forward to your story, kiddo.”

  ***

  Selera’s chamber breathed quiet—lamplight warm on pale wood, steam curling from a small brass kettle. She set a slate between them, chalk ready, her mismatched eyes—one amber, one blue—steady on his.

  Hope frowned. “Back at camp, nobody ever talked about the System. Then—boom—everything changed. Why didn’t anyone mention it? Why was no one part of it? Or… were the Citizens in on it?”

  “Begin at edge, then step within—

  the System is a woven skin.

  Most stars lie out, still wild, unclaimed;

  few threads are bound, few worlds are named.”

  Her chalk tapped twice.

  “Most folk you knew stood beyond the seam;

  no prompts, no tiers—no counting dream.

  To enter, one must be brought through—

  an induction marked by one who’s true.”

  He squinted. “Induction… by who?”

  “By those already bound inside;

  Tier Two may name ten to guide.

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  Tier Three may grant a hundred rites;

  their reach runs far through starry nights.

  At Tier Four, the right takes root—

  they wake a world, from loam to shoot.”

  She drew a circle for a planet, ringed it with four tiny moons, then dotted little stars around it.

  “When worlds are named, new currents run—

  strange seeds appear beneath the sun.

  Treasures bloom and creatures rise;

  moons change face to meet new skies.

  Each world has grade: G up to A—

  the higher ranks bring richer sway.

  Yet years must turn for roots to set;

  a newborn weave grows slow, not yet.”

  Hope leaned back, thinking. “So my planet was not part of the System? No wonder nobody had prompts.”

  Selera inclined her head, then added:

  “Lest you ask of blood and line:

  kinship grants no right to sign.

  Blood does not open gilded gate;

  a child must be induced, not fate.

  No matter parents’ tier or name,

  all start at Tier One, start the same.

  Yet tempered flesh may raise the floor—

  old training grants a touch of more:

  up to five hundred Physis laid,

  and hundred Magia, pre-inlaid.”

  His eyes widened. “Hold up. I started with zero Magia. Zero! How’s that fair?”

  Tea hissed softly as she refreshed his cup.

  “Untutored minds begin at none;

  no channels primed, no practice done.

  But fret not, child—the race is long;

  early crumbs don’t make you strong.”

  He snorted, but some of the sting left his shoulders. “So it’s not rigged—it’s just a slow start if you grew up in the cracks.”

  He pointed at her slate. “And the Citizens back home?”

  She drew a tiny figure outside the planet-circle, then a line leading inward.

  “Few rare souls may slip inside—

  a traveler’s gift, a patron’s pride.

  But such ten names are hoarded tight;

  they seldom waste them out of sight.

  Your camp—your world—was left untied;

  so none were bound on that far side.”

  Hope nodded slowly. “’Kay. So what we called Citizens and their wicked powers were probably just System blokes passing through, while the planet itself wasn’t in. Interesting. Hell—when I hit Tier 2, I get ten picks, yeah? Nice.”

  Selera turned the slate and, in neat columns, wrote while she spoke—each line paired to the chalk:

  “Core you keep:

  — Induction needed to join the System.

  — T2: 10 entities. T3: 100 entities.

  — T4: 5 planets (moons follow).

  — Worlds have grades G→A; better grade, better yield.

  — Worlds mature over years; changes are gradual.

  — Children of System-inducted parents are not auto-inducted.

  — Everyone starts Tier 1; pre-System tempering may grant up to 500 Physis / 100 Magia.”

  Selera set the chalk down, eyes kind.

  “Now breathe that in; let worry pass—

  we’ll build your strength with book and class.

  Slow steps, sure steps; no need to race—

  we set the spine, then learn the pace.”

  Hope read the slate twice, then smirked. “Yeah, yeah. Spine straight, tongue neat, brain on.” He paused, a thought snagging. “Oh—one thing. I leveled while enchanting earlier. How’s that work?”

  Her mouth curved, light and sure.

  “Not only blood and blades ascend;

  the System weighs the means you spend.

  Two roads are common, child: you see—

  Combat and Creation tally free.

  Creation walks the crafts of four:

  Cooking, Crafting, Enchanting, more—

  Alchemy binds the fourth of these;

  make well, make true, and totals rise.”

  She turned the slate and sketched four icons—flame, hammer, sigil, phial.

  “Your rise today was from your weave:

  a clean design the threads believe.

  The count grows more when marks align—

  I’ll list the points that feed the line:

  Firsts of a kind—new forms you try;

  Higher grades you fix and tie;

  Sets completed, tuned as one;

  Mastery chains—ten clean, then done;

  Novel work—a pattern new;

  Teaching craft to one or two.”

  Hope blinked. “So you can really level up just by making things, eh?”

  She nodded, poured his tea.

  “At Tier Two, the paths grow wide—

  more ways to rise without a tide:

  Quests of craft and service rites,

  maps and finds from far-off nights,

  oaths fulfilled and works maintained,

  shops and crews well-led, well-trained.

  Not every step needs ash and scream;

  some ladders build the longer dream.”

  He rubbed his jaw, thinking. “Well… got it, I guess?”

  Selera watched him a heartbeat longer. Her blue eye softened as she let the surface fall away and read the set of his shoulders, the quickness in his breath, the stubborn light that would not dim. A very strong soul, bright and untidy—the kind that makes promises to the world before it knows the price. She had seen its like only once, and the memory still rang in her mind with the echo of a child’s voice and a light that had nearly ended her certainty—and then hadn’t.

  Warmth rose first, then caution. Pride for the boy he was, worry for the pull he would follow, and that quiet, private vow she kept because she could not do otherwise. She could not speak of the day that vow was laid on her. She would not lie, and he was not ready to hold the weight of it. What she could give him now was a shape for his days and a tether for that restless mind.

  She widened her smile, reached under the table, and set a small book before him, its leather plain and well stitched. Beside it she laid a vial of ink and a trimmed feather, tested true against her thumb. When she spoke, her voice was gentle and exact.

  “A diary—keep your working head;

  date what you try and where it led.

  Note what broke and how you mended,

  sketch the rig and paths you tended.

  Tally favours, costs, supplies,

  lessons kept, not boasts or lies.

  Use it daily; when memory strays,

  ink will hold your craft and days.”

  He turned the book in his hands and let the leather warm under his fingers. The neat compass press caught the light just enough to make him think it belonged on some rich kid’s shelf, yet the heft felt honest in his palm, and the thought of trapping a day before it slipped off into fog sat right with him in a strange way.

  He slid the feather behind his ear, worked the cork on the ink until it gave clean, and tucked both with the book against his ribs before he dipped his head, voice steady as he met her gaze. “Thanks, Senior.”

  Selera kept her eyes on him a moment longer, wondering what drove the boy in front of her. How could someone so talented come from nowhere? It tugged against beliefs set in stone and a reality both harsh and heedless, yet adamant in its ways. Was this child an exception to those rules? And if so, would he follow the tide… or would he stand against it?

  She smiled softly, then added:

  “Each night, before you take your rest,

  set down your work—its aim, its test.

  Bring me today’s neat notes tomorrow,

  so craft may sharpen hope and sorrow.

  Make it habit, keep it true;

  this diary’s yours—belongs to you.

  Guard these pages; keep them your own;

  a private ledger, yours alone.”

  Hope weighed that, thumb on the spine. It sounded like bother—homework dressed nice—yet the idea of the day not slipping clean off the edge had a pull. He huffed, half a laugh, half a sigh, and nodded.

  He could give it a shot.

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