THE BOY IN THE ATTIC

The tolling bell warned Tyron that he didn't have much time left. With a sigh, he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his tired eyes, smudging ink across his cheek as he did so. With any luck, this would be the last time he would have to pull an all-nighter keeping his uncle's books. As much as he appreciated the income, the hours he was forced to keep put a lot of pressure on his sleep schedule.

Sitting up straight, he closed the ledger in front of him, cleaned his brush, and capped the ink before storing it away. The pot found its place atop a row of volumes neatly arranged on the desk, the spines facing outward. Behind the books, on the wall itself, page after page of handwritten notes covered the surface, each neatly pinned into place. Each was filled with sigils, strange iconography, and diagrams.

The sun had already begun to rise, the weak morning light streaming through the upstairs window and into the attic that had become his home away from home and makeshift office. As much you could call a bedroll in the corner a home, or a worn-down table covered in battered books and rune-filled paper an office.

As Tyron stood, he stumbled, his muscles more stiff than he anticipated. He cursed and paused for a moment to stretch before he gathered his ledger and walked toward the ladder. It may not have been glamorous, or even comfortable, but he felt at home here. Everything in the room was where it was because he had put it there.

The dust was starting to gather in the corners again, he observed with a critical eye. It also appeared the spiders were beginning to think he'd declared a truce and had begun to creep back in, industriously weaving while he worked. When he returned in the evening, he'd need to disabuse them of that particular notion. The war on arachnids never ended, and Tyron was ever ready to rejoin the front lines.

The young man creaked as he walked, his eyes feeling dry as sawdust after a full night of work. He needed to freshen up. Careful not to slip—breaking a foot was not something he cared to repeat—he climbed down the wooden ladder and was greeted by his uncle, Worthy, the moment he reached the bottom.

"There you are, lad!" came an enthused cry before a heavy arm slammed down on the youth's shoulders the moment he reached the floor. "I'd begun to think you'd already headed out for the day!"

Tyron staggered under the weight of the former Hammerman's enthusiastic greeting before holding up the ledger and waving it in his uncle's face. "I've been doing your accounting, remember? You aren't going to forget to pay me, are you? Again?"

Worthy Steelarm's bright blue eyes darted away for a second before coming back to rest on his nephew's face, once more bright with mirth. "That was only once, lad! No need to keep bringing it up! Anyway, forget those damned books, don't you know what day it is?"

The older man snatched the book away with ease and tossed it carelessly onto a nearby table, his shorter nephew still trapped under the weight of his arm. "I'm hardly likely to forget my own Awakening, Uncle," he squeezed out, "it's all anyone's wanted to talk to me about for days. You included!"

"Is that why you've been hiding in my attic?" his uncle laughed. "You only go through the Awakening ceremony once, after all! I've been waiting a long time for this day. A long time. Can't believe that little screaming pile of cloth is all grown up! It's a damn shame your parents weren't able to make it back in time."

Emotion billowed up in his chest, but Tyron reflexively shoved it down. "They tried," he shrugged. "You know as well as I do that they go where the wind takes them."

"Aye, I do know that. Born to adventure, those two. I've always said it." Worthy's eyes softened as he looked down at his nephew. He withdrew his arm and ruffled the boy's hair with one hand. When the lad looked up at him, indignant, Worthy just chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Born to it they were, lad. Like nothing I ever seen. But that don't mean they shouldn't be here for this. They'll be right ashamed of themselves the next time they roll into town. As they should be! I'll be givin' 'em hell about it for the next twenty years! At least! As for you, make it fifty years! Hound them into the damn grave with it! Just promise me you'll forgive them. Alright?"

Tyron felt a surge of affection for the gruff old man and awkwardly hugged him with one arm. "It's not like I can hold a grudge against them. You know what they're like."

"Aye, I do. That's why I forgive them their lapses, but it doesn't mean they get a free pass. Now you go and wash up. I can't have a member of my family showing up at their Awakening looking like they haven't slept for three days!" He paused and his eyes narrowed. "When was the last time you slept?"

"Uhhh."

"I knew it! Get the hell out of here and into a cold shower, you daft boy!" With a playful shove, his uncle sent him staggering toward the kitchens before turning to greet the staff walking in the door.

Tyron chuckled to himself as he stumbled out of the common room and into the inn's kitchen, where he was greeted by his aunt Megan. The older woman looked up from the porridge she was making, no doubt the breakfast for this morning, and smiled.

"Hello there, Tyron. Heard the grouch giving you a hard time. As if you weren't up doing his own work for him," she sniffed. "Well, I won't have you thinking we don't appreciate it. Come in here and sit. Let me know how the porridge tastes. I leveled up my Cooking skill last night and I'm excited to find out the difference."

Never one to turn down his aunt's cooking, Tyron was all too happy to take a seat and partake of the morning's offering. That Megan was the finest Cook in Foxbridge was beyond debate, and a large part of the reason the Steelarm Inn drew the customers it did. That she'd managed another level just meant her already formidable advantage would be stretched even further.

Soon a steaming hot bowl of porridge was placed on the bench in front of him, and he pulled up a stool to settle in. After he blew on it, he took a sample from the edge to test the dish.

"Sensational, Aunt Meg. Even better than before," he said sincerely.

"What a nice boy you are," she beamed, proud of her achievement. "Now eat up. You're so thin people will start saying we don't feed you, and we can't have that!"

"Yes, ma'am." He grinned and started to eat while his aunt nattered on behind him.

After getting a dose of the town gossip and what the old birds around town thought each person would get for their Class today (apparently he was a shoo-in for Clerk), Tyron excused himself and made his way out behind the inn to wash up. Cold water from the barrel and soap worked its magic as it always did, and he felt much better as he made his way back inside to find the inn already clicking into gear.

The kitchen hands had arrived, as well as Lauren and Gwen, the two maids, who'd begun to make the rounds of the common room, serving the morning clientele. Uncle Worthy did what he did best—pulled drinks and wowed the audience with tales of his adventures. You'd think the man had been a Bard before he retired, given his easy charm. He was already deep into the Mountain Drake story when Tyron snuck past him and out of the inn, the bell over the door his only witness.

He sighed with relief as he ducked his head and made his way back down Leaven Street to his own house, just a few doors down. Foxbridge was coming awake by this time, but today there was a particular nervous frisson in the air. It was Awakening day. Yet another year's worth of children would transition into adults and receive their Class. A big day for any child and a proud day for any parent. If they were here.

He shook thoughts of his parents out of his head and choked back the coiling excitement in his belly until it had fully receded. What would be, would be. No need to get nervous or excited, he warned himself. As he walked toward his own familiar door, he couldn't help but recall the advice his father had given him regarding his first Class.

"Now, this isn't something you'll hear about in your lessons," he'd said in his charismatic drawl, "but it's something a lot of us Monster Slayers and Delvers know."

He'd leaned back and taken a long draw from his pipe, a habit he'd developed during a recent expedition visiting the mountain folk, much to his mother's disgust.

"They say the Primary Class you're given is chosen by the Gods themselves. That they use the stone to peer into your heart and look at the person you are before they give you the power to realize your dreams. I don't know if that's true, but what I do know is that the Primary Class is tailored to the person. It can't be just random chance. But here's the thing..."

He'd leaned in at this point, his bright eyes dazzling to the young Tyron.

"Nobody who renounces their first Class has risen to the top. Not one. Sub-Classes will never make up the loss, even for a human. That's why I'm telling you, keep your Class. I don't care what it is—Robber, Thief, Prostitute, heck, even a filthy Merchant." He spat for emphasis. "That's the Class that fits you, and your mother and I don't care what it is. We'll accept it just as we accept you. Okay? Stick to the path laid out before you. There's no such thing as shame between us."

It was impossible for Tyron to hate Magnin and Beory Steelarm. They were terrible parents. He could admit that, and so would they. But what they did do was love him unconditionally, and for that, he was grateful. They accepted him for who he was, much like they accepted themselves. Rather than bottle up their wanderlust and grow resentful and bitter until they hated each other, they indulged it. Once he'd turned fourteen, they'd offered to bring him along on their travels, but he never felt comfortable accepting the offer. That was their world and he suspected he would feel like an intruder, even if he was their son. He wasn't sure he wanted to be a Slayer in the first place. Who knows? Maybe he would wind up a Clerk.

As he pulled his heavy iron key out of his pocket, he chuckled at the thought of his father's face if he found out his son had earned a Bookkeeping Class. He turned the lock and walked into the still house. The dust had accumulated over the last few days, or maybe it was closer to a week now? When he thought about it, he wasn't sure how long it had been since he'd been home. As always, the air felt heavy here. So much space with nobody to fill it made the house feel uncomfortable. That was why he hesitated to stay here by himself even after his uncle had decided he was old enough.

Not wanting to dwell on negative thoughts, he walked to his room and found a clean set of clothing to pull on. A minute later and he was done. Although he owned bright colored clothes, most of them gifts from his mother, he only wore them on sufferance. Today he would wear his usual neutral greys and dark colors which helped hide the ink stains. Not like his parents could complain since they weren't here.

Once he was dressed and found his good boots, he took a little time to tidy around the house. He didn't need to get to the town square for a few hours yet, although some of the other eighteen-year-old townsfolk were sure to be there already. He couldn't blame them. Some of them had been waiting for this day their whole lives, as if everything up to this point had been a waste of time. Eighteen years of life, all in preparation for this day.

After an hour of futile wiping and rinsing, Tyron gave up and collected his documentation from the kitchen table where he'd last left it. The Mayor was a stickler for the rules, and those rules required that a Status reading performed within a fortnight of Awakening be presented on the day before the ceremony. Not wanting to get caught in the late rush, he'd gotten his reading from Mrs. Barbury, the town Scribe, thirteen days in advance. He glanced down at the page, noting the clean hand it was written in.

Status Report Dated 14/6/5447

Name: Tyron Steelarm Age: 18 Race: Human (Level 10) Racial Feats: Level 5: Steady Hand Level 10: Night Owl Attributes: Strength: 12 Dexterity: 11 Constitution: 15 Intelligence: 19 Wisdom: 18 Willpower: 15 Charisma: 13 Manipulation: 10 Poise: 13 General Skills: Arithmetic (Level 5) Handwriting (Level 4) Concentration (Level 2) Cooking (Level 1) Sling (Level 3) Swordsmanship (Level 1) Skill Selections Available: 3 General Spells: Globe of Light (Level 5) (Max) Sleep (Level 4) Magick Bolt (Level 1) Mysteries: Spell Shaping (Initial) : INT +3, WIS +3

It was short and to the point, but it communicated the entirety of Tyron's eighteen years. Strange, how so much of a person could be contained within such a short list. Yet, he had to admit it painted a rather complete picture.

Almost everyone leveled up their Race to ten by the time they turned eighteen, and many were able to push it higher than that. Since leveling up was gained through what they were taught to call "human experiences," like socializing, forming emotional connections, and engaging in community activities, it was a small

His attributes were fairly normal for his age. Higher mental attributes as opposed to physical made perfect sense, considering his build and lifestyle. Sorry, Dad, it looks like your child has taken after his mother in this regard. Hopefully Magnin had given up hope his son would inherit his Swordsman Class years ago, as Tyron was certain it wouldn't happen. Higher-than-usual constitution was nice—he was rarely sick and could handle all-nighters like a champion. His charisma managed to hold at barely above average thanks more to his inherited appearance than his own personal charm. His father's piercing blue eyes and mother's silky dark hair were surely worth a few points, which no doubt compensated for his generally awkward demeanor and soft-spoken voice.

He'd followed the wisdom of his elders in not using all his skill choices. These were rare, and he might need those selections to shore up his weaknesses or push harder at his strengths depending on his eventual Class. The skills he had were a testament to his hard work. Alright, he hadn't earned Arithmetic or Handwriting the hard way—he'd bought them using his skill selections—however, the rest were all him. His father had insisted he train until he earned Swordsmanship, and Tyron had almost cried with relief two years ago when it finally appeared. The endless drills had been far more draining than the hunts his mother took him on where he'd learned the Sling.

His crowning achievement was the Spell Shaping mystery alongside his small selection of Magicks. That wasn't easy to earn outside of a Class and without any of the bonus attributes Mages had access to, but Tyron had persisted until the endless theory grinding had paid off. Mother would be so proud when she found out; the last time she'd seen his full status had been a year ago, and he hadn't possessed a mystery at that time. The spells he'd learned were fairly basic. He used Light rather than candles to work at night since it was cheaper and helped him train. The Sleep spell had been tricky to learn, and so far had been exclusively used on himself to fight off insomnia. Mana Bolt was the basic offensive spell anyone could cast.

Spending his time wrestling with books rather than monsters meant he hadn't had much chance to level it up.

With everything he needed in hand, he might as well head out. Destiny awaited.