The lecture hall smells of chalk, damp wool, and bodies packed too close together.

  Eric sits on a hard bench with Emil on one side and Cathryn on the other, knees pressed forward, hands folded to keep warm. At the front of the room, a raised dais holds three figures: a clerk with ink-stained fingers, a guard in polished armor, and an elderly man in gray robes whose presence quiets the room without effort.

  “Listen carefully,” the clerk says, tapping a rod against the stone. “This knowledge governs the rest of your lives.”

  A murmur ripples through the supplicants.

  The robed man steps forward. His voice is calm, practiced. “All classes fall into categories recognized and sanctioned by the System.”

  A few heads tilt. Eric’s attention sharpens at the word.

  “Common classes,” the man continues, “are the foundation of the kingdom. Fighter. Rogue. Healer. Mage.”

  He gestures, and faint symbols flare in the air, simple, clean, almost mundane.

  “Uncommon classes,” he says, “are refinements. Ranger. Spell-blade. And a very few earn the Restorer class.”

  There is a stir at that. Marrius Jr. straightens visibly.

  “And those with rare classes,” the man finishes, letting the pause stretch, “are exceedingly few. Warden.”

  Someone whispers, “That’s it?”

  The clerk snaps his rod. “Silence.”

  The robed man nods. “What is needed to obtain these classes varies. Aptitude. Training. Discipline. Loyalty. But understand this, what you want is irrelevant. What you are suited for is what the System will grant.”

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Cathryn leans closer to Eric. “That’s not how the stories…”

  Eric shakes his head slightly.

  “There are very few epic classes in the kingdom,” the man says. “You know their names. His Majesty the King. The Archmagus. The Grand General.”

  A hush falls.

  “They are level ninety-nine,” the clerk adds sharply. “Each over two hundred years old. Their rare classes evolved once they reached level fifty. That is the highest confirmed progression.”

  A hand rises timidly in the back. “What about… other classes? Legendary ones?”

  The guard laughs. “Fairytales.”

  The robed man’s eyes harden. “Ignore stories that speak of other paths. They distract from discipline and lead to disappointment. Concentrate on what we teach you, and you will do well.”

  Eric feels something twist in his chest.

  “For the first time,” the man continues, “you are being formally introduced to the System.”

  A faint hum fills the room, felt more than heard.

  “The System governs advancement, class progression, levels, and skill manifestation. It is impartial. It is fair. It is the reason civilization endures.”

  “Does it choose?” someone asks.

  “It evaluates,” the clerk says. “Then assigns.”

  Eric’s thoughts drift, unbidden, to the old book. To onion-skin pages and broken ink. To a line he has carried like a talisman since childhood.

  Classes are as the stars set in the firmament, countless to the eye…

  His fingers curl against his knee.

  A soul is not bound by the stone it kneels before…

  He looks around the hall. At the rigid faces. The eager ones. The resigned ones.

  One becomes only what one dares to desire…

  “That’s everything?” Emil whispers.

  Eric exhales softly. “That’s what they’re telling us.”

  Training follows the lecture, but something has shifted.

  Fighters drill the same forms, again and again, with no correction beyond “adequate.” Rogues are watched more than taught. Every exercise feels like a box checked rather than a skill honed.

  Healers are different. They move constantly, called from one infirmary to another, hands glowing blue or white until their shoulders sag.

  Cathryn corners Eric after a week. “They keep stalling us,” she says. “I asked about advanced techniques. They said, ‘In time.’”

  Emil snorts. “Time for who?”

  Eric watches Marrius Jr. laugh with an instructor across the yard. “Not us.”

  At night, Eric lies awake, restless.

  “This can’t be all,” he murmurs into the dark.

  Emil rolls over. “It’s all they want us to be.”

  The thought settles heavy.

  Lessons continue. Progress does not.

  And Eric feels himself pulling away, from the path laid before him, and toward something older, quieter, waiting beyond the edges of what they are allowed to believe.