Inside the cracked stone ring of the Taming Circle, Korrin Slate could be seen standing barefoot, clutching the crystal in his hand.

  His patched nightshirt fluttered faintly in the stale Ashenhold breeze.

  The elder's raspy voice sounded through the murmurs of the crowd. "Korrin Slate, son of Torin and Lira, present your crystal and call forth your bond."

  Korrin lifted the crystal, its dull surface catching the weak light.

  He was calm, steady—nothing like the trembling boy he'd been in his first life. Back then, he'd stumbled through the ritual, desperate for something grand to save his family. This time, he knew better. Fate could throw what it wanted at him; he'd take it and make it his own.

  He closed his eyes and spoke, his voice low but firm. "Come out. Whatever you are, I'm ready."

  The crystal flared hot in his grip, then shattered with a sharp crack. Dust swirled above the runes, and the crowd leaned in, their whispers buzzing like flies. Korrin's heart thudded, but he didn't flinch. The dust took shape—small, round, familiar. His stomach tightened, but his face stayed hard.

  When the creature landed on the stone with a soft click, the crowd erupted. A dung beetle. Its tiny, glossy shell gleamed under the haze, and its spindly legs twitched as it rolled a speck of dirt. Laughter exploded from the onlookers—harsh, biting, a wave of scorn crashing over him.

  "Look at that! A shit-roller!" someone shouted, and the taunts spread like wildfire. "Slum trash gets a dung beetle—perfect!"

  Korrin didn't blink. He crouched down, staring at the beetle as it scuttled toward him. In his past life, this moment had crushed him—sent him spiraling into shame and ruin.

  The elder raised his staff, his patchy beard trembling as he spoke. "Korrin Slate, your bond is forged. Step forward and claim your place."

  Korrin stood, the beetle skittering to his side. He glanced at the noble tamers on their high seats—wyverns flexing their wings, hawks screeching impatiently. The wiry man with the sneer, the one who'd killed him in that other life, smirked down at him. Korrin's jaw tightened, but he shoved the rage down. He'd deal with that bastard later. For now, he had what he needed.

  Torin clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder as he stepped out of the circle. "Good enough, boy," he rumbled, his scarred face unreadable but his grip firm.

  Lira smiled softly, brushing a strand of gray hair from her eyes. "It's yours, Kor. That's what matters."

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  At the corner of his vision, Vira hovered, her freckled face scrunched in a mix of confusion and defiance. "It's just a stupid beetle," she muttered, kicking at the dirt. "Why's everyone laughing?"

  Korrin smiled, ruffling her tangled hair. "Let 'em laugh. Won't change a thing."

  As they turned to leave the Taming Circle, Korrin's mind was running, piecing together the world he'd been thrown back into. Ashenhold sprawled around them, a rotting heap of a city on the empire's edge.

  He knew it too well—had lived its cruelty twice now. The slums stretched out like a festering scar, shacks of scavenged wood and tin leaning against each other, sinking into the mud. The air stank of garbage and coal smoke, a haze that never lifted, choking the life out of anyone who couldn't climb above it. This was where the empire dumped its unwanted—thieves, laborers, dreamers too poor to matter.

  Up on the hills, the nobles sat in their stone manors, their bonded beasts guarding their wealth. Down here, you fought for scraps or died trying.

  The Taming Circle was the heart of it all, a relic of old magic carved into the slums' center.

  Korrin's thoughts drifted as he walked, the beetle clicking at his heels. The crystals—like the one he'd just shattered—were the key.

  No one knew where they came from, not really. Some said they were mined from the empire's northern wastes, others that they fell from the sky in ancient times.

  What mattered was what they did: summon a beast, bind it to your soul. A tamer's bond was their worth in this world. Get a wyvern or a bear, and you might rise—join the nobles, enforce their laws, live soft.

  Get a rat or a beetle, and you stayed in the muck, a joke to everyone but yourself.

  He'd seen it play out in his first life. The nobles' tamers strutted through Ashenhold, their beasts snarling and snapping, keeping the slums in line.

  A wyvern could burn a shack to ash in seconds; a hawk could pluck a thief from a crowd before he knew what hit him. The empire didn't care about justice—it cared about control. Down here, the only law was survival, and the only power was what you could claim.

  Korrin's beetle wasn't much, but it was his. He remembered a tamer from his past life—a scrawny kid with a lizard that grew into a spiked drake after years of blood and sweat. Bonds could evolve, if you pushed them. He'd push this one too.

  The crowd's laughter faded behind them as they trudged through the muddy paths, Torin's heavy steps leading the way. Korrin's parents didn't flinch at the beetle, and that steadied him. Torin had hauled stone for the nobles' walls since before Korrin was born, his hands rough as the quarry rock.

  Lira stitched clothes from rags, her fingers nimble despite the calluses. They'd sold everything for that crystal—their last pot, their only blanket—and they didn't care what it brought. To them, it was a chance, not a shame.

  Inside their shack, the air was damp and close, the roof leaking into a dented bucket. Korrin sat on a wobbly stool, the beetle rolling its tiny ball near his feet. Lira set out a thin stew—roots and gristle boiled into something edible—and Torin tore into a hunk of stale bread.

  "What's it do?" Torin asked, his voice gruff but curious.

  Korrin shrugged, sipping the watery broth. "Rolls dirt. Keeps moving. That's it for now."

  "Beasts grow," Torin said, chewing slowly. "Work it, and it'll be more."

  Lira nodded, her eyes soft. "It's strong in its own way, Kor. Like us."

  Vira lingered by the door, her patched dress muddy at the hem. "Still looks dumb," she muttered, then darted out before Korrin could flick a crumb at her.

  Torin stood, stretching his scarred arms. "Quarry tomorrow. You're with me, Kor."

  "Yeah," Korrin said, meeting his father's gaze.

  Lira frowned. "Rest tonight, at least."