Date: 662.M30
Location: The Himalazia Mountains, Imperial Palace Construction Site, Terra
The air at the roof of the world was thin enough to kill a normal man, but for the initiates of the Legio Custodes, it was merely the first test. Above, the sky was a bruised purple, scarred by the contrails of atmospheric lifters bringing in the millions of tons of stone required to build the Emperor's dream. Below, the mountain peaks were being leveled by atomic fire and the tireless labor of a hundred thousand serfs.
Aurelian Gaius Trajan stood in the center of a sparring circle etched into the frost-covered stone. He was twelve years old by the Terran calendar, though the genetic alchemy already weaving through his bone marrow and the aggressive hormonal therapy of the Legio made him look like a young man fully grown.
His hair was cropped short, his skin the color of marble, but he lacked the healthy, golden glow of his peers.
Around him, the other candidates, sons of defeated warlords, the high-born scions of the Pan-Pacific Empire and the Nordyc tribes, stood with the arrogant grace of the chosen. They were the "Golden Batch," the children who would become the Emperor's shadow.
Aurelian, however, felt as though he were made of lead and ash.
Since the day he had been taken from the nursery-crypts of his father's defeated kingdom, he had known a hunger that was not of the stomach. It was a cold, hollow ache at the base of his spine, a constant "pull" that felt as if his very life-force was being dragged through a needle's eye toward the dark, hungry stars of the galactic east.
Every calorie he consumed, every ounce of strength the Emperor's apothecaries pumped into his veins, seemed to vanish into a bottomless pit.
"Trajan," a voice boomed, cutting through the thin mountain air.
Aurelian looked up. Standing before him was a Master of the Trials, a giant clad in the early, unpainted ceramite of the Legio. His face was a map of scars earned during the final battles of the Unification.
"You are flagging again," the Master observed, his voice like grinding stone. "I watch the others grow into their new flesh. I see them faster, stronger, more vibrant with every passing moon. But you... you look like a ghost being haunted by its own body. You eat more than any three initiates, yet the meat does not stay on your bones. Is your spirit weak, boy? Is the Emperor's blood being wasted on a vessel that cannot hold it?"
Aurelian didn't answer. He couldn't. He couldn't explain that he wasn't weak, he was being siphoned. Somewhere, deep in the back of his mind, he knew where it came from. It was not something he could articulate, but he knew.
The body of a baby born, yet without his first meal, suffered so much but somehow lived, and is still living.
"Pick up the practice spear," the Master commanded, gesturing to a rack of weighted polearms.
Aurelian reached out. His hand trembled. His hunger was particularly heavy today, a pulsing thrum in his marrow that made his vision swim with static. His muscles screamed for rest. But the moment his fingers closed around the cold, textured grip of the weapon, the world shifted.
The exhaustion didn't vanish, but it was forced into a secondary layer of his consciousness. A flood of understanding that didn't belong to a twelve-year-old boy surged through his nervous system.
It was an instinctual, terrifyingly complete understanding of geometry and lethality. He didn't just "know" the spear, he recognized it. He knew the exact weight of the blunted head. He knew the balance point to the millimeter. He knew how the wood would flex if he drove it into a gap in plate armor.
It is something that he has known for too long, it may be from Caspian, but he is not certain.
"Begin," the Master barked.
Aurelian's opponent was a boy named Hektor, the son of a Uralian warlord whose clan had specialized in high-altitude shock warfare. Hektor was faster, better fed, and bursting with the raw, aggressive vitality that Aurelian lacked.
Hektor lunged, his movements a blur of youthful speed and practiced form. It was a brutal, overhand strike meant to end the bout instantly and humiliate the "Ghost-Prince."
Aurelian didn't think. He didn't have the energy for thought. He simply moved.
It was a micro-movement, a half-inch pivot on his left heel that allowed the heavy spear-head to hiss past his ear, missing him by a hair's breadth. In the same motion, Aurelian's spear-butt whipped upward in a short, vicious arc. It was a strike of perfect economy, utilizing Hektor's own momentum against him.
Crack.
The sound of the blunted wood hitting Hektor's jaw echoed off the mountain walls. The larger boy stumbled back, blood spraying from a jagged tear in his lip. The circle went silent. The moves had been too perfect, too devoid of the wasted energy typical of an initiate.
Aurelian stood still, the spear held loosely in his right hand. The "memory" of the weapon felt as natural as breathing. For a moment, he felt a weight on the back of his neck, a golden, crushing attention. He looked up toward the high observation balcony of the rising palace.
There, silhouetted against the harsh Terran sun, stood a figure in gold. The Emperor.
Aurelian didn't feel the religious awe that was already beginning to infect the serf-castes. He didn't feel the desperate need for approval that drove Hektor. Instead, he felt the need to allow the Master of Mankind a chance to complete the task.
He knew Caspian's perspective, the view of a man who knew the future in fragments. He knew the Emperor was not a god, but a gardener pruning a dying species with bloody shears. If Aurelian believed that he would strive to ensure that the plan is completed. If only to know what if.
"Again," the Master of Trials said, his eyes narrowing with a new, sharp interest. "Hektor, get up. Trajan... show me that wasn't a fluke."
Hektor rose, his face twisted in a snarl of shame. He attacked again, more cautiously this time, but it made no difference. Every time Hektor moved, Aurelian "remembered" the counter. It was as if the spear in his hand was a part of his own skeleton. He parried, thrust, and pivoted with a ghost's grace, his movements a stark contrast to his pale, sickly appearance.
But as the bout ended and the Master finally signaled for them to stand down, the adrenaline receded. The hunger returned with the force of a tidal wave. Aurelian's knees buckled. His vision went black at the edges as his heart hammered a frantic, uneven rhythm, struggling to support a body that was being siphoned of its soul-fire across the lightyears.
He tasted copper in his mouth. He was dying, in a way. Every second of his existence was a battle against a spiritual hemorrhage.
12 years, the thought echoed in the hollows of his mind. He had endured this for 12 years already.
Aurelian gripped the training spear tighter, using the weapon as a crutch to force himself back to his feet before the Master could see him fall. He was a part of a whole, and even a starving lion was still a lion.