James found the old mill burned down three days after leaving home.
Someone, Crown investigators, most likely, had it torched, probably to send a message or just an act of frustration for not finding who they were looking for.
He stood in the ruins at midnight with Frank beside him, and felt nothing.
"They're thorough," Frank observed, poking at charred wood with a vine. "Gotta respect the commitment to destroying a kid's life."
"Ever heard of Ragnarök?" James crouched, examining burn patterns. "The gods learned of Loki's monstrous children. Fenrir, the wolf, Jörmungandr, the Midgard serpent, and Hel, queen of the dead. Odin tried to deal with them by casting Hel into the underworld, throwing Jörmungandr into the sea, and binding Fenrir.
Despite these efforts, all three survived and return at Ragnarök. Fenrir devoured Odin, Jörmungandr poisoned Thor, and Hel commanded the dead in battle."
"So what that gotta do with you?" Frank asked.
"I am Ragnarök."
"Someone cue the thunder and the smoke machine." Frank rustled disapprovingly.
---
James had spent a few days in Blüthaven's underground. The network of forgotten tunnels beneath the old city that housed those who'd fallen through society's cracks. Vagrants. Criminals. People fleeing Crown attention for various reasons.
He'd found shelter in a collapsed section that no one else wanted. And by focusing, used earth magic to hollow out a proper room and hid the Soul Splitter in a cavity behind the wall that was sealed with stone that looked natural.
"If only I had the resources to make this smaller," he muttered, examining the device. It was impossible to carry discreetly so for now it had to be buried.
"Add it to the list," Frank said from his corner. The plant had claimed a patch of good soil near an underground stream, rooting itself while maintaining mobility. "Right after 'don't get caught.'"
James added it to his mental list anyway. The Soul Splitter needed to be portable. He'd have to redesign it eventually, but for now, it was hidden and safe.
---
He'd been living underground for a week now. Stealing food from market stalls. With teleportation and telepathy to avoid attention, it was easy. He also practiced magic in the deepest tunnels where no one ventured. Avoiding the ward placement officers who were definitely looking for him.
But he couldn't just hide forever. He needed purpose. Needed to gather any and every skill he came across.
The thought had come to him the second night, sitting alone in his stone room with Frank complaining about the lack of sunlight. If he was going to survive, to succeed, to make his parents' deaths mean something, he couldn't afford weaknesses, so he started with physical combat.
The underground had fighting rings that were illegal and brutal. The kind of places where people settled disputes or earned money through violence. James was small and untrained, but it still felt like the perfect place to start.
He found the rings in a warehouse basement, lit by torches, smelling of sweat and blood. Mostly men and some women, fighting with bare knuckles or crude weapons. Bets being placed. Money changing hands.
James approached the organizer, a scarred man counting coins. "I want to fight."
The man looked at him and laughed. "Go home, kid."
"I have money. Ten silver to enter."
That got his attention. Ten silver was more than most fighters earned in a week.
"You'll die," the organizer said, but he was already pocketing the coins. "But it ain't my problem. Next match, you're against Crow. Try not to bleed on the good part of the floor."
Crow was a lean man with knife scars and the relaxed confidence of someone who'd survived many fights. He looked at James with something like pity.
"Kid, you sure about this?"
"Yes."
The match started and in less than five seconds, Crow put him on the ground with a casual punch that knocked his lights out and the crowd laughed as coins changed hands.
James struggled to stand as he spat out blood. "Again," he said to Crow.
He repeated this again and again, losing everytime of course. However, the goal was not to win but to learn something from each loss.
Crow's punch came from his shoulder, not his arm. His weight shifted left before striking right. His eyes tracked his target half a second before commitment.
James placed that information in his memory palace, adjusted and tried again.
By the third night, he lasted longer than a minute, and by the second week, he won.
"You're a quick learner," Crow admitted, helping James up after their fifteenth match. "But you're learning wrong."
"What?"
"You're memorizing patterns. That's good for fighting me. Useless for fighting anyone else." Crow gestured around the ring. "Every fighter's different. You need principles, not patterns kid."
"Teach me," James said, wiping blood from his swollen lip.
Crow studied him. "Why? What's a kid your age doing down here learning to hurt people?"
"Does it matter?"
Something in James's eyes must have convinced him and Crow sighed. "Fine. But proper training costs. You got money?"
James had money. His parents' savings, carefully hidden. Blood money now. Might as well use it for blood lessons, and if he ever ran out, he could always steal more.
Crow taught him properly over the following months. Footwork, balance, leverage. How to read body language, predict movement, exploit weaknesses that were applicable to any opponent and any situation.
James practiced until his knuckles bled, until muscles screamed, until his young body adapted to violence it shouldn't know.
And he learned something else: he was good at this. Not naturally talented, his body was still a child's, small and weak. But his mind could process combat like math. Angles and forces and optimal responses. Violence as problem-solving.
By month two, he'd won enough fights to earn a reputation. "The Kid," they called him. Undefeated in his weight class. Smart fighter with a scary focus.
James added combat to his list of competencies, but fighting was never going to be enough. James needed more.
He found a musician in the tunnels, an old man who played violin for coins, fingers arthritic but still skilled and James offered money for lessons.
"Why?" the old man asked. "Music doesn't help you survive down here."
"Music is pattern recognition and fine motor control. Both useful skills."
"You're a strange kid."
"And you're going to teach me everything you know."
The old man taught him and little of it had to do with the money. He didn't just master the violin but music as a discipline, the composition, the principles underlying harmony, everything.
Months went by and he kept gathering skills obsessively. He learned cooking from a former chef hiding from gambling debts. Learned the chemistry of flavor, the precision of technique. Practiced until he could make decent meals from scraps, because surviving on stolen bread was sustaining but not thriving.
Learned fencing from a disgraced duelist who taught for alcohol money. Learned the geometry of bladework, the psychology of single combat. Practiced with a crude sword until the movements became automatic.
Learned languages from a traveling merchant who spoke five and needed help moving contraband. Learned the patterns underlying linguistics, how to parse new vocabularies, how accent and grammar revealed thinking patterns.
Each skill building on the others. Each competency making him more complete, more capable, more perfect.
His magic developed alongside. His Elemental magic growing stronger. Nature responding to his will with increasing precision. And his Eldritch abilities also sharpening.
He practiced in the deep tunnels, where no one could sense the mana fluctuations. Integration, he thought to himself and Frank watched it all with something like concern.
"You know you're eleven, right?" the plant said one night, watching James practice sword forms while mentally composing a musical piece and using earth magic to reshape his practice dummy.
"Age is just the measurement of one's time."
"Damn, James, are you tryin' to photosynthesize yourself into an early grave?"
"I can't afford to die."
"You're obsessed." Frank's leaves rustled with agitation. "You think this is the life your parents wanted for you?"
"Hmmm," James grunted and Frank went back to being silent, murmuring inaudibly under his breath.
---
That night, alone in his stone room, he pulled out the remains of his torn journal and tried to write.
Four months underground.
Frank thinks I'm coping poorly. He's wrong.
He stopped writing because the words felt hollow and performative. James closed the partial journal and returned to practice, pushing his body past its limits, ignoring pain and ignoring exhaustion.
---
Five months had passed in total now. James turned eleven and a half. His skills grew. His magic strengthened. His reputation in the underground became something people spoke of in careful voices.
The Kid. Who fought like he was proving something. Who practiced like perfection was possible. Who was clearly running from something but no one knew what.
And then the recruiter who would change everything came.