CHRONOFOUDRE Book 1: The Awakening Chapter 4: Consequences
Three days of unconsciousness.
That's what the medic tells me when I finally surface. Three days since the raid, since my power exploded outward, since everything went white and then black.
My mouth tastes like copper and ash. Every muscle aches with the deep, bone-tired pain that comes from total exhaustion. When I try to sit up, the room tilts sideways and someone's hand presses me back down.
"Easy." A woman's voice, unfamiliar. "You've been through significant magical strain. Your body needs recovery time."
I blink, forcing my eyes to focus. The face hovering above me belongs to someone maybe forty, with streaks of gray in her dark hair and the no-nonsense expression of someone who's seen too much to be impressed by anything. She wears simple healer's robes, green with white trim.
"Where—" My voice cracks. I try again. "Where am I?"
"Your home. We set up a temporary infirmary in the village after the attack." She offers me water in a tin cup. "Small sips. Don't gulp."
The water is lukewarm and possibly the best thing I've ever tasted. I drain half the cup before she pulls it away.
"Your father and sister have been here constantly," she continues, checking my pulse with practiced efficiency. "I finally made them leave an hour ago to get some rest. They'll be devastated they missed your awakening."
Awakening. The word feels heavy with irony.
Memories surface in fragments. The orc with the axe. Father choking. Running through flames to reach Kira. And then—
Violet light. Everywhere. Inside me, around me, tearing out of my skin like I was a container too small to hold it. The orc that had been reaching for Kira... gone. Not dead. Erased. Twenty raiders around us, just... gone.
And I'd been at the center of it, screaming, unable to stop the power pouring out.
"How many?" I ask hoarsely.
The healer—Elsa, I remember her name now, old Elsa who's delivered half the babies in Ash-Borough—gives me a sharp look. "How many what?"
"How many did I kill?"
She's quiet for a long moment. Then: "The raiders you struck didn't survive. Maybe fifteen, twenty. Hard to say. There wasn't much left to count."
My stomach lurches. I twist to the side and vomit, bringing up water and bile. Elsa holds my hair back without comment, wiping my mouth afterward with a damp cloth.
"You saved over a hundred lives," she says firmly. "Including your sister. The raiders had broken through our defensive line. Without your intervention, we'd all be dead or worse."
"I didn't mean to—I couldn't control—"
"You're Awakened and untrained. Loss of control during first manifestation is normal." She sets down the cloth, meets my eyes directly. "You did nothing wrong, Kael Ardent. Remember that when guilt comes calling. And it will."
I want to believe her. Want to accept that vaporizing twenty living beings was justified, necessary, heroic even. But my hands are shaking and I can still feel the power ripping through me, destroying everything it touched.
"Your father will want to see you," Elsa announces, standing. "I'll send word you're conscious. But first, you need food. Real food, not just water. Think you can handle broth?"
I nod, though I'm not sure. She disappears through a curtain—my room has been sectioned off with hanging fabric—and I'm left alone with my thoughts.
The ceiling is familiar. I've stared at it a thousand times, counting the knots in the wood beams when sleep wouldn't come. Everything here is familiar. My childhood home, my room, my bed.
Except I'm not the same person who lived here before.
Three days. I've been unconscious for three days while my body recovered from channeling more power than it could safely handle. What happened in those three days? How many funerals did I miss? How many people looked at this house and wondered if the boy inside was a savior or a monster?
Footsteps on the stairs, rapid and light. The curtain whips aside and Kira barrels through, launching herself at me with complete disregard for my fragile state.
"You're awake!" She's crying and laughing simultaneously, squeezing me hard enough to hurt. "I thought—Father said you'd be fine but you weren't waking up and I thought—"
"Can't breathe," I wheeze.
She releases me, sitting back on her heels. Her face is thinner than I remember, dark circles under her eyes. She's aged years in three days.
"You look terrible," I tell her.
"You look worse." She scrubs at her tears with her sleeve. "There's burn marks on your arms. Like lightning scars. Elsa says they're permanent."
I examine my forearms. Sure enough, branching patterns like frozen lightning spread from my wrists to my elbows. The marks are faint, silvery against my skin, but unmistakable. Physical evidence of what I've become.
"Does it hurt?" Kira asks quietly.
"No. I can barely feel them." I trace one of the patterns with a finger. "They're actually kind of beautiful. In a strange way."
"Everything about you is strange now."
The words sting, though she doesn't mean them cruelly. Just stating facts. I am strange now. Different. Other.
Father appears in the doorway, moving slower than Kira but with the same relief written across his features. He doesn't tackle me—that's not his way—but the hand he rests on my shoulder trembles slightly.
"Welcome back, son."
"Sorry I worried you."
"Don't apologize for surviving." He pulls over a chair, lowers himself into it with a grunt. The bruises on his neck have faded to yellow-green, ugly but healing. "The testers want to see you as soon as you're mobile. They've been waiting."
My heart sinks. Right. The Empire. Conscription. My new life as property of the military.
"How soon is soon?"
"Tomorrow, ideally. But Elsa's already told them you need at least two more days to recover." A ghost of a smile crosses his face. "She can be quite fierce when defending her patients. The older tester looked genuinely frightened."
Despite everything, I laugh. Elsa versus Imperial bureaucracy. I know who I'd bet on.
"What else did I miss?"
Father and Kira exchange glances. Whatever communication passes between them, Father apparently loses because he's the one who speaks.
"Eighteen dead, like we thought. Buried three days ago. Most of the wounded are recovering—Elsa works miracles with minimal supplies. The cavalry that saved us stayed two days, then moved on. Raiders haven't returned, but Captain Erdan has doubled patrols anyway."
"And me? What are people saying about what I did?"
Another loaded silence.
"Mixed feelings," Father admits. "Some are grateful. You saved lives, ended the attack. Others are..." He struggles for the right word. "Unsettled. The power you displayed was significant. Frightening. People don't know what to make of it."
"They're scared of me."
"Some are. Others are scared for you. There's a difference."
Is there? Both end with the same result—isolation, distance, the slow transformation from person to weapon.
Kira grabs my hand. "I'm not scared. You saved me. Us. Everyone."
I squeeze back, grateful beyond words.
Elsa returns with a bowl of broth—chicken, judging by the smell—and a chunk of bread. She shoos Father and Kira out despite their protests, insisting I need to eat and rest, in that order.
The broth is salty and warm and exactly what my body needs. I eat slowly, savoring each spoonful, feeling strength seep back into my limbs. The bread follows, tough but filling.
When I'm done, Elsa takes the bowl and gives me a measured look.
"The testers will classify you when they examine you again. Probably rank D or C based on the destruction you caused. But Kael?" She leans in, voice dropping. "I've been a healer for thirty years. I've seen Awakened come through this village before. Never seen anything like what you did."
"Is that good or bad?"
"Depends on who's asking. The Empire will want to use you. Train you into a weapon. It's what they do." She straightens, professional mask sliding back into place. "Just remember—you're a person first. Don't let them convince you otherwise."
She leaves before I can respond.
I lie back, staring at the ceiling again, thinking about weapons and people and the space between them. Sleep creeps up gradually, pulling me under despite my desire to stay conscious, to think through everything that's happened.
My last thought before darkness claims me: I wonder what rank they'll assign.
I wonder if I'll survive the testing.
Two days pass in a blur of eating, sleeping, and short walks around the house to rebuild my strength. Elsa checks on me regularly, declaring me "adequately recovered" on the morning of the third day.
"Adequately?" I protest. "Not fully?"
"Full recovery from magical exhaustion can take weeks. You're functional. That's adequate." She packs up her medical supplies with brisk efficiency. "The testers are coming this afternoon. Try not to explode anything important."
"I'll do my best."
She pauses at the door, expression softening fractionally. "For what it's worth, I think you'll do well at the Academy. You've got spine. You'll need it."
Then she's gone, leaving me to contemplate what "doing well" might mean in a place designed to forge children into soldiers.
Father is at the forge when the testers arrive. I'm alone in the house, which is probably intentional on his part. Giving me space to face this without witnesses.
The knock on the door is precisely three raps, authoritative and impatient.
I open it to find the same two mages from before—Aldric with his silver hair and cold assessment, and Senna with her notebook and curious eyes. Between them stands a third figure I don't recognize: a woman in full military dress, medals decorating her chest, commander's insignia on her shoulders.
"Kael Ardent," the commander states. Not a question. "I am Commander Voss of the Imperial Testing Division. May we enter?"
What happens if I say no? Nothing good, probably.
"Of course." I step aside, gesturing them in.
They arrange themselves in our small sitting room with the ease of people accustomed to commandeering spaces. Aldric produces another measuring crystal—apparently, they brought backup after I shattered the previous ones.
"Before we begin," Commander Voss says, settling into Father's chair like it's a throne, "I want to clarify what happened during the raid. You manifested offensive magic that eliminated approximately twenty hostile combatants. Correct?"
"I... yes. I think so. It's fragmented in my memory."
"Fragmented how?"
I struggle to articulate it. "Like watching through someone else's eyes. I remember the power, the light, the destruction. But it doesn't feel like I did it. More like it happened through me."
Senna scribbles notes. Aldric frowns. Voss just nods, unsurprised.
"First manifestation is often dissociative," she explains. "The mind protects itself from trauma by creating distance. As you train and gain control, the dissociation will fade."
"What if I don't want control? What if I just want to never use it again?"
The room temperature seems to drop several degrees.
"That," Voss says slowly, "is not an option. You are Awakened. By Imperial law, you will be trained. You will serve. Refusing is treason, punishable by execution."
The words land like blows. I knew this, intellectually. But hearing it stated so baldly strips away any illusion of choice.
"I understand."
"Good. Now, let's establish your baseline capabilities." She gestures to Aldric. "Proceed with the measurement."
Aldric approaches, crystal extended. This one is larger than the previous versions, maybe a foot long, with intricate runes carved into its facets.
"This crystal is reinforced," he explains. "Designed to measure up to rank A without shattering. Touch it with your dominant hand."
I reach out, hesitate. What if it breaks again? What if I hurt someone?
"It's safe," Senna assures me. "The runes will contain any power surge."
I touch the crystal.
Immediately, it flares violet-silver. The light is less intense than before, more controlled, but it fills the room with an otherworldly glow. The crystal vibrates in Aldric's hand, humming a single pure note.
Numbers and symbols appear within the crystal, floating in the light. Aldric's eyes widen. Senna leans forward, squinting. Even Voss looks surprised.
The humming reaches a crescendo—
The crystal cracks. Not shattering completely, but a single fracture line running through its center. The light dies. The symbols fade.
Aldric stares at the damaged crystal with something approaching horror.
"Well?" Voss demands. "What rank?"
"The measurement topped out at rank B," Aldric says slowly. "But the crystal was still registering additional power when it failed. His true rank could be B, could be A, could be..." He trails off, unwilling to finish the sentence.
"Could be S," Voss completes. "Unlikely, but possible."
My stomach drops. S-rank. Those are the monsters, the living weapons, the individuals who can level cities if they lose control. There are maybe twenty in the entire Empire.
"We'll classify him as rank D for now," Voss decides. "Officially. For record-keeping and Academy placement."
"But he's clearly—" Senna starts.
"Officially rank D," Voss repeats, harder. "A boy from a border village manifesting as rank B or higher would attract too much attention. Unwanted attention. We'll reassess after he's had proper training."
Aldric nods reluctantly. Senna looks like she wants to argue but swallows it.
I don't understand the politics at play, but I'm grateful for the deception. Being classified as rank D sounds infinitely preferable to being labeled a potential S-rank threat.
"You'll depart for Arkan-Tor tomorrow morning," Voss continues. "A wagon will collect you at dawn. Bring minimal possessions—clothing, personal items. No weapons. The Academy will provide everything you need."
"Tomorrow?" The word comes out strangled. "That's not enough time—"
"It's more than most get. Consider yourself fortunate." She stands, the discussion clearly over. "Use the time wisely. Say your goodbyes."
They file out without further ceremony. I watch them go, then collapse onto the floor, back against the wall, trying to process everything.
Tomorrow. I leave tomorrow.
Rank D officially, but potentially much higher. What does that mean for my training? Will they push me harder? Watch me more closely?
And why the deception? What kind of "unwanted attention" is Voss trying to avoid?
Too many questions. Not enough answers.
Father finds me there an hour later, still sitting on the floor, staring at nothing. He doesn't ask what happened—he probably watched the testers leave and drew his own conclusions.
Instead, he sits beside me, shoulder to shoulder against the wall, and we exist in silence together.
Eventually, he speaks. "Your mother had a saying. 'The forge doesn't ask what you want to become. It just heats and hammers until you're what's needed.'"
"Cheerful."
"She wasn't a cheerful woman. Practical. Realistic." He nudges my shoulder gently. "But also hopeful. She believed that even in the hottest forge, the metal's core remains true. Heat and hammer shape the surface, but what's inside endures."
I turn to look at him. Really look at him. This man who raised me, taught me his trade, who's now losing me to forces beyond his control.
"I'll try to remember that," I promise.
"Good." He hauls himself to his feet, offers me a hand up. "Now, let's make you something to remember us by. One last project at the forge before you go."
We work through the afternoon and into the evening, side by side at the anvil. Father guides me through forging a small knife—nothing fancy, just a simple utility blade. But every strike of the hammer is deliberate, meaningful. Muscle memory and meditation combined.
When it's finished, he hands me the leather sheath he's prepared. "Every smith should carry a blade they made themselves. Reminder of where you came from."
I slide the knife into the sheath, tuck it into my belt. It fits perfectly, balanced and true. "Thank you."
Kira appears as we're banking the forge fire, carrying a wrapped bundle. "I made you something too," she announces, thrusting it at me.
Inside is a scarf—crooked, uneven, with dropped stitches in several places. Clearly her first attempt at knitting. It's possibly the ugliest scarf I've ever seen.
"It's perfect," I tell her sincerely.
"Liar. It's terrible." She grins through threatening tears. "But it's warm. And you'll need warm when winter comes to the capital."
I wrap it around my neck despite the autumn heat. "How do I look?"
"Ridiculous."
"Good. I'll fit right in."
We laugh, the sound fragile but genuine. For a moment, we're just a family again. Not smith and Awakened, not guardian and ward. Just father and children, making the most of the time we have left.
That night, I pack by candlelight. My trunk—borrowed from Father, well-worn from his own travels in younger days—holds pitifully little. Three changes of clothes. The knife. The scarf. My few books. The wooden hammer Kira carved, still in my pocket.
Tomorrow, this trunk will hold everything I own. Everything that defines Kael Ardent, condensed into a box three feet long.
I add Father's journal—he insisted I take it, despite my protests. "You'll need something to write in," he'd said. "Might as well use mine. Consider it continued education."
Sleep eludes me. I lie in bed watching moonlight creep across the floor, listening to the house settle, memorizing every creak and sigh. This room. These walls. This life.
Tomorrow it all becomes memory.
Kira creeps in sometime past midnight. Doesn't say anything, just climbs into bed beside me like she did when she was small and thunderstorms scared her. We lie there, awake but silent, taking comfort in proximity.
"I'll write every week," I whisper into the darkness.
"I know."
"And I'll come visit when I can."
"I know."
"And I'll—"
"Kael." She rolls over to face me. "You don't have to promise impossible things. Just... don't forget us. Don't let them turn you into someone who doesn't remember where he's from."
"Never. I swear it."
She nods, satisfied, and burrows closer. Eventually, she falls asleep, her breathing evening out into the soft rhythm of dreams.
I stay awake, watching her sleep, burning this image into memory. My little sister, brave and stubborn and so achingly young. If I could trade places with her, shield her from the world's cruelties, I would in a heartbeat.
But I can't. All I can do is leave and hope that the metal's core endures.
Dawn arrives gray and cold, autumn surrendering to winter's advance. The wagon is punctual, pulled by two horses and driven by a bored-looking soldier who's clearly made this route a hundred times before.
My trunk is loaded into the back alongside three other trunks. Three other conscripts from neighboring villages, apparently. I wonder if they're as terrified as I am.
The goodbyes are brief. We agreed the night before—no drawn-out farewells, no tearful scenes. Quick and clean, like ripping off a bandage.
Father grips my shoulders. "Remember what I taught you. About steel, about people, about staying true."
"I will."
Kira just hugs me, hard enough to bruise. "Come back," she whispers.
"I'll try."
Not a promise. Just honesty. It's all I can give.
I climb onto the wagon. The driver clicks his tongue. The horses move forward, hooves clopping against packed earth.
I don't look back. Can't look back. If I see them standing there, waving, growing smaller in the distance, I'll lose whatever composure I've managed to cobble together.
Eyes forward. Toward the capital. Toward the Academy. Toward whatever future awaits Kael Ardent, officially rank D, potentially something far more dangerous.
The village fades behind us, swallowed by morning mist and distance.
In my pocket, the wooden hammer presses against my leg.
In my chest, violet lightning waits.
And on the horizon, barely visible through the clouds, the Crystal Towers of Arkan-Tor gleam like promises or threats.
I'm not sure which.
End of Chapter 4