Aisara: "They think I forgot,
but I remember what they hid from me—how to burn, how to become."
The sky was still ink-black when Aisara
stepped out of the small wooden house she and Elira had called home for years.
The cold bit at her skin, creeping beneath the worn edges of her cloak as if
the world itself had turned against her.
Elira trailed behind, arms wrapped around
herself, watching in silence. She always had too much to say, yet now, when it
mattered most, words had abandoned her.
Aisara should have been grateful for
that. A clean break. No pleading. No goodbyes that would only splinter her
resolve.
She wasn't grateful.
The streets were empty, save for the
recruits making their way to the Veilgate at the edge of town. They walked with
purpose, heads high, eyes shining with excitement for what awaited them in
Dominion. Power. Glory. A future shaped by their stones.
She envied them.
Aisara had wanted none of this. She
wanted to stay. To wake up tomorrow in this tiny home, with Elira forcing tea
into her hands and chattering about the baker's newest disaster. She wanted
warmth, and familiarity, and the quiet life that meant something.
Instead, she was being forced to leave
the only person who had ever been like family to her.
Her boots dragged over the uneven stone
as they neared the gate. It loomed ahead, a shimmering, iridescent tear in the
water—unnatural, pulsing, waiting.
She sensed it drawing her in, an unseen
power tugging against her skin.
A horn sounded in the distance, signaling
the last call. The recruits ahead of her stepped forward one by one,
disappearing into the veil. Each time, the light flared brighter, swallowing
them whole.
A horn sounded across the bay. One by
one, those chosen began walking toward the stone archway that shimmered at the
edge of the water. The Veilgate pulsed with a magic that made Aisara's skin
crawl. It was beautiful, yes. But it didn't seem like an invitation.
It appeared to be a summons.
A sentence.
"You know what the Matron used to say,"
Elira murmured. "The King approves of pain. He approves of order."
Aisara's stomach twisted. "We should've
run."
"And gone where? They said it in the
letter. If you run, they will find you. And the punishment is death."
They stood in silence. Somewhere in the
distance, Nox cried out—a long, sharp screech that made Elira's hand slip into
Aisara's.
"You're afraid of heights."
"That's why I've been practicing. There's
a spot on the cliffs, remember? Nox will find me there. We can still write. We
can still try."
Elira nodded, biting her lip. "I know
we've been working on it. But… you haven't made it to the top yet. Not even
once. Not at home. What if—"
Aisara responded. "I will. I have to."
Elira's eyes softened with worry, but she
didn't argue.
"Rheyn never wrote. Not since he went
in."
"They don't allow contact. Not until
graduation."
"Four years without a word." Her voice
cracked. "I don't even know if he's alive. And now you're leaving too."
The words they didn't say hung heavier
than the ocean mist.
Aisara glanced at the others walking,
glowing, smiling. "They think it's glory. Dominion. Power."
Elira swallowed hard. They lack
experience with being caged.
The sisters stood forehead to forehead,
hearts thudding in sync. Aisara's voice dropped to a whisper.
"They didn't ask if I wanted this."
Elira gripped her wrist. "They never do."
Nox shrieked again, circling high above.
The moment cracked.
"Go," Elira said, voice breaking now.
"Before I beg you to stay."
Aisara stepped back.
She was next.
Aisara turned, fingers curling into
Elira's sleeve, the fabric soft and worn beneath her touch. "If I—" Her voice
hitched. "If I ever get the chance, I'll find a way back."
Elira's lips pressed into a thin line.
She didn't believe her.
Aisara didn't believe herself either.
A shadow in the nearby alley disrupted
the moment.
A man stepped forward, wrapped in a heavy
cloak, his face hidden beneath the hood. The recruits ahead of her didn't
notice him. He was nowhere to be seen.
He reached into his cloak and pulled out
a folded slip of paper.
"This is for my son," he said.
Aisara frowned. "I think you have the
wrong—"
He pressed it into her palm. Cool. Dry.
Deliberate.
"Keep it safe."
Before turning away, he leaned closer.
His breath was warm against the cold.
"Vel tharn su kael. En'solth thar
vren."
(We kneel to no crown. Only to truth.)
The words curled against her skin like
they belonged there.
Foreign, but… familiar. Like she'd heard
them once in a dream.
Afterward, he left.
Swallowed by shadow.
Ahead, recruits remained unobservant.
She looked down at the note.
Folded precisely. No name. No seal. No
insignia she could recognize.
Along one edge, a line of curling
script—sharp and elegant.
Not the common tongue. Not anything she
understood.
Beneath the writing, faint but clear, was
a mark etched in black ink:
A broken crown, jagged and split in two.
And beneath it, a tree with tangled roots
anchoring the shattered metal.
She did not know what it meant.
But something deep in her bones whispered,
don't forget this.
A horn blared again, sharp and final.
Aisara shoved the note into her pocket
and took a step forward.
The pull of the Veilgate grew stronger.
Her pulse thrummed in her ears, drowning out everything else.
She turned back one last time.
Elira was still there, arms wrapped
around herself, but her gaze was on the Veil now, not Aisara.
As if she couldn't bear to watch her
disappear.
As if she already knew she wasn't coming
back.
Aisara stepped into the light.
She felt weightless, as if she had left
her stomach behind. The veil took her whole—a rush of water roaring around her,
though she did not drown. She was moving.
An unseen force propelled her forward,
not through the open sea, but through a tunnel carved from it. The walls were
thick, pulsing with energy. Aisara's breath steadied as she faded, her body
cradled by the storm jets guiding her into the unknown.
A flicker of movement. A fish darting
outside the tunnel, golden scales catching the dim glow. Then another—larger,
darker, a shadow that rippled through the water.
A shark.
It moved beside her, effortless in the
current, its great black eye seeming to catch hers before veering into the
void. Her pulse remained steady. Predators recognized their own.
She let the tunnel take her, let the sea
cradle her, until the blackness lifted. A faint light shimmered ahead, brighter
with each passing second.
The storm jets released her onto wet
sand, the shock stealing her breath as she stumbled forward. Others arrived
beside her, gasping, collapsing onto their hands and knees. She straightened,
taking in the island before her.
The world was still half-asleep. The wind
bit through her tunic, the salt of the ocean thick in her lungs as she pulled
herself onto the stone path, feet slipping against the wet rock.
The sky bruised with the first streaks of
dawn, painting the horizon in strokes of violet and ember.
Dominion did not greet.
It warned.
The wind wasn't kind. The scent of burnt
wood and stone clung to it, laced with something stranger—ozone and old magic,
thrumming beneath the surface.
Aisara's fingers clenched. The note was
still in her pocket, slightly damp now, its presence like a stone pressed to
her ribs.
She didn't take it out again.
Beyond the landing platform, a wide stone
path led toward the cliffs. At the top, the gates of Dominion stood open. And
beyond them, the figures waited.
The others were already walking,
following the carved steps without hesitation. Awed by the sheer size of the
island. Others kept their eyes fixed forward, drinking in the castle's sight
beyond the gates.
She kept her gaze low.
The path was ancient, carved with symbols
too worn to read, but something about them made her them itched, as if
she'd seen them before.
The tattoo on her shoulder pulsed.
This place gave a terrible impression.
The stone steps stretched before them,
carved into the mountainside with impossible precision. At their peak, Dominion
awaited—shrouded in mist, its towering spires piercing the sky like the ribs of
some magnificent beast.
Aisara's legs burned with each step, but
she wasn't the only one struggling. The recruits ahead of her slowed, breaths
coming in ragged gasps. Some whispered among themselves, awed by the sight.
Not her.
She remained unmesmerized. She wasn't in
awe.
She was walking toward her own undoing.
Each step higher brought a strange
tension, like the world was holding its breath. Something unseen crept along
her spine, subtle at first, an instinct, prickling and persistent. A warning.
The steps led to a massive landing of
polished obsidian, stretching wide enough to fit an entire legion.
At the center stood the King and queen.
The recruits stilled, their whispers
fading into silence.
Aisara's gaze locked onto the man at the
front of the dais, standing beneath a massive crest of gold and onyx.
The King of Dominion.
Even from a distance, his presence owned
the surrounding space. He was tall, draped in black and crimson, his power
radiating. His severe jaw and simple golden crown complemented a face carved
with regal precision.
But it was his eyes that were the most
startling. Bright blue–like ice water. Cold. Calculating.
A man who did not rule. A man who owned.
Beside him, the Queen stood like a
phantom—draped in shimmering silk, her silver hair falling in perfect waves,
expression unreadable.
To their right stood the Head of
Dominion, a sharp-featured man with ruthless control. And beside him—the Deputy
Head, Lysara Bateman.
The woman's smile was all delicate
poison.
Aisara stiffened. She sensed someone
observing her.
Her gaze flickered to the shadows along
the side of the dais, where a figure stood apart from the others.
A sharp sound rang through the courtyard
as the King lifted a golden staff and struck it once against the obsidian.
The recruits flinched.
Power rippled outward, pressing against
her skin like a second heartbeat.
"Drav'skath ven tornai. Virelya shai
den'marak."
A few of the recruits glanced at each
other in confusion.
At the edge of the platform, Lysara
stepped forward.
"Your Majesty," she said, "most of them
do not speak Virien."
The King's eyes flicked to her,
unreadable. Next, back to the recruits.
"Of course," he said, switching into the
common tongue.
His smile didn't reach his eyes.
"Welcome to Dominion. The strong will
rise. Dominion does not kneel. Only those surviving the first month can
speak.
His voice was deep, smooth—too smooth. A
practiced sound. A voice meant to soothe before the knife slid in.
"You have left your old lives behind. You
are no longer children of the mainland. Now you belong to us."
A flicker of unease ran through the
recruits.
"Power is your birthright," he continued.
"But you won't receive it. You must earn it. And those who are unworthy—"
He turned, gesturing toward the towering
black doors behind him.
The Hall of Ascension.
Aisara's fingers twitched at her sides.
This was not an invitation. It was a
test. A warning.
"Let Dominion shape you," the King
finished. "Or let it break you."
A hush fell. And then the massive doors
creaked open, revealing the path forward.
The recruits moved as one, stepping into
the unknown.
Aisara hesitated, then glanced back at
the shadowy man.
He hadn't moved.
But she swore for a second—his grip had
tightened.
Like he already knew she would break.
Like he was waiting for it.
A chill curled along the back of her
neck.
Her body reacted before her mind caught
up—shoulders stiff, pulse stuttering, fingers twitching at her sides like she
should reach for a weapon.
Afterward, the shadows near the edge of
the dais shifted.
And he stepped forward.
Ciaran Emmerson, Head of Security.
He didn't wear a crown, didn't stand with
the ceremony's grandeur, didn't need golden staffs or titles to announce his authority.
He existed, and the surrounding
space bent to accommodate that fact.
Everything about him was sharp, cut from
something unyielding.
The black leathers he wore should have
blended into the dim light, but they only made him stand out more—the contrast
of dark ink curling up his forearms, the gleam of steel buckles against muscle,
the slow coil of shadows that flickered at his feet.
And then—his eyes.
Cold. Gray like a sky before a storm,
metallic, unreadable.
Fixed on her.
Unblinking.
Aisara's breath thinned.
There was no curiosity in his expression.
No intrigue. Calm, dispassionate study.
He was already sorting her into a
category of threat or problem. A body waiting to be buried.
She forced herself to hold his stare.
The corner of his mouth twitched. Not a
smirk. Something colder.
Recognition.
He expected her to break.
And he was waiting for it.
The recruits shuffled forward, eager to
enter the Hall.
Aisara should have moved.
But Ciaran tilted his head, and her feet
locked in place.
The slight movement shouldn't have been a
threat.
And yet, every instinct in her screamed
to run.
Her fingers curled into fists.
No.
She took a breath, forced herself
forward.
She didn't look back.
But she was still aware of his presence.
Watching.
Waiting.
And a dreadful sense washed over her she
had attracted the notice of Dominion's most dangerous man.
As the crowd moved, a bubbly voice broke
through Aisara's thoughts. "Isn't this incredible?"
A girl with golden curls—one Aisara
didn't recognize—looped her arm through Aisara's, pulling her forward. "Did you
hear Prince Azric is also here? I heard he's already the strongest, that he
even trains anymore!"
Aisara time to process her words before
they turned a corner, and she slammed into something unmovable, the force
rattling through her bones. A hand snapped out, gripping her upper arm before
she could recover—strong, unyielding.
She stiffened. Whoever he was, he wasn't
letting go.
Aisara ripped her arm back, stepping away
fast, gaze ping up.
And stopped.
Tall. Too tall.
He stood like he owned the ground beneath
his feet, broad-shouldered, built for battle rather than diplomacy. Golden
hair, sunlit and wild, fell past his shoulders, loose strands shifting in the
breeze. The deep navy and black of his coat—stitched with gold
embroidery—marked him as one important.
His eyes were the real problem.
Striking blue. Sharp. Not looking at
her—assessing, cataloging, stripping her bare.
Aisara squared her shoulders. She didn't
like the way he looked at her.
"You should watch where you're going."
"You were in my way."
He lifted a brow. "Was I?"
He next turned, without another word,
dismissing her, two girls clinging to his arms, their laughter trailing after
him.
There was something in the way he smiled,
like he knew she was beneath him, worthless that made her want to slap the
smile clean off his face. Her tattoo itched. It had never done that
before.
The golden-haired girl smiled, eyes wide
with awe. "That was him! Prince Azric! He's even more beautiful in person!"
Aisara burned with embarrassment, unable
to respond. Relief flushed through her as a familiar voice called her name.
Rhyen. Elira's brother and her 'adopted
brother' strode toward her, a grin breaking across his face. His expression
shifted the instant he spotted her—relief, disbelief, and something protective
flashing across his face before he pulled her into a bone-deep hug. It was
slipping into the most able sweater she been missing for too long. It was like
returning home.
"You're here," he whispered. "You made
it."
"Elira. Is she going to be okay?"
Aisara's throat tightened. "She'll try to
be. But she's alone now."
Rheyn nodded slowly. "I've only got two
years left before I can find her again."
They both paused, with the same
realization settling in.
Two years.
It meant Aisara would be alone, too.
Neither said it aloud. But the silence
between them understood.
"Come on, let me show you around."
Rhyen led Aisara and Lina through the
winding paths of the Academy grounds, his pace easy and familiar. The Academy
was a fortress of stone and glass, built into the heart of the island, its
spires reaching toward the sky through jagged peaks. The structure blended into
the landscape, sprawling across the cliffs and down toward the dense jungle
below.
Training courtyards stretched along the
eastern side, where recruits sparred beneath the watchful eyes of seasoned
instructors. A massive stone amphitheater, carved into the cliff side,
overlooked the sea—a place for lectures, combat demonstrations, and ceremonies.
"Most of the combat training happens over
there," Rhyen explained, nodding toward an open-air coliseum where figures
clashed. "That's where you'll either prove yourself… or get your ass handed to
you."
Lina grinned, practically vibrating with
excitement. "That's where I'm going to learn to summon lightning!"
Rhyen indicated the western wing, which
housed the Academy's grand halls, libraries, and dormitories. Glass-paneled
towers reflected the morning sun, their interiors lined with books, artifacts,
and relics of divine power.
"This is where they teach you how not to
destroy yourself with whatever power you end up with," he said. "At the
Awakening Ceremony, they will evaluate everyone to determine their placement."
As they walked, he grabbed Aisara's
wrist, flipping it over, pretending to inspect it. "Hmm… what do you? Fire?
Ice? thing sinister?"
Lina laughed, bouncing in place. "I hope
I get thing grand! thing powerful! What if I can summon storms or control
time?"
Aisara snorted. "There's nothing magical
about me. I'm plain Jane."
Rhyen threw an arm around her shoulders,
his warmth familiar and steady. "You always say that, and yet, here you are."
His voice softened. "You'll see."
A call from across the courtyard startled
them. Rhyen turned, ruffling Aisara's hair before jogging off. Lina, distracted
by another student, found one new to latch onto.
Aisara, free from the constant noise,
turned away, letting her feet guide her elsewhere.
She weaved through the shifting groups of
people, keeping her head down through the hum of conversation around her. The
Academy seemed too large, too imposing, its history overwhelming.
She needed to be alone.
With careful steps, she moved away from
the main walkways, slipping down a narrow corridor that curved one of the
towering buildings. Time wore the stone walls smooth, ivy creeping along their
edges, smelling of salt and damp earth clinging to it.
At the end of the path, she found a
staircase, half-hidden by the shadow of an archway. thing pulled her forward,
an unspoken instinct to climb, to escape.
Step by step, she ascended, the muffled
sounds of the Academy fading behind her. The stairwell opened onto a small
rooftop terrace—isolated, untouched.
The view stole her breath.
From here, she could see everything.
The Academy sprawled below, its pathways
winding between buildings of glass and stone. Beyond the edges of the island,
the ocean stretched a dark, restless mirror. it was the t of the mainland in
the distance that held her captive.
So close. Yet so far.
A lump formed in her throat. Did she make
a mistake? She wasn't like the others—those who stood straighter, eager,
unafraid. She wasn't powerful, had no grand destiny, no name to carry forward.
Aisara. She was a lost girl with brown hair, brown eyes, with no past and
nothing extraordinary to offer.
The night they finally left the
orphanage, she and Elira been sixteen. Rheyn turned eighteen only a few days
before — old enough to take guardianship of them.
That night marked the first time she ever
experienced freedom in her life.
"Do you think we can bake?"
Elira's voice sounded bright with
mischief, already digging through the cupboards of their tiny new home.
"We should try."
Rheyn been the closest thing they had to
family, and he spent every coin he to take them in, to give them thing that
weren't dormitories and rationed meals.
So they baked him a cake, because that
was what families did.
The first one been a disaster.
"Why is it smoking?"
"I don't know, Elira, because you put
the entire pan over direct flame?"
"Well, it didn't know not to."
The second been worse. A pile of charred
sugar and regret.
The third scorched — if Rheyn hadn't been
too busy laughing to actually eat it.
"It tastes of ash and disappointment," he choked, eyes shining as he tried and failed to force down a
bite.
Elira smacked him.
"You're ungrateful. Consider the work
involved."
"Not enough."
"You're lucky I didn't set you on
fire."
"You set everything else on fire."
They laughed—loud, the laughter that
comes when you are young and free and nothing but each other.
They burned the cake. Burned the whole
pan.
That night was a blissful one for them.
And Rheyn, wiping soot off his cheek,
pulled them both in "We made it."
She exhaled, gripping the stone ledge as
the wind bit at her skin.
A part of her wanted to stay here
forever, to let the world below fade into nothing.
The bell tolled in the distance, a low,
resonant chime.
Reality called her back.
She took one last look at the taking
view—the island stretched scattered jewel across the ocean, the faint glow of
the mainland teasing her in the distance.
She turned and slammed straight into
another wall of muscle. Aisara craned her neck upward; recognition followed.
The dark figure from the island's
entrance.
The one who watched them all arrive with
calculating eyes.
She bit her lip. Ciaran… something. She
hadn't caught the full name. She saw him off to one side.
His eyes were the same. Grey. Unreadable.
"Shit, that's twice in one day."
A flicker of a question in his gaze.
Then, nothing.
Aisara froze, aware of how moody and
brooding he looked up close.
His dark uniform absorbed the dim light,
and the storm and stone caught the sharp angles of his face, shadowing him. His
presence loomed weighty, relentless.
He didn't speak right away. Did he ever
blink?
Finally, in that same controlled,
steel-edged voice, he said, "This roof is off-limits to recruits."
Aisara hesitated, and crossed her arms, a
sudden flicker of defiance surfacing before she could quell it.
"Why?"
His stare sharpened, dark, predatory.
Like a wolf watching thing small and foolish wander too close.
"This is a security checkpoint and you
don't belong here."
Aisara's fingers curling into her palms.
She spent her whole life hearing those words.
The surrounding space darkened, a shadow
stretching out from beneath his feet.
Aisara took a step back. It wasn't the
dimming of the light—it was the way the wind stilled, the way everything around
them paused.
This was his power.
And she was standing too close to it.
Ciaran tilted his head, his voice
dropping low and quiet.
"You trip alarms every time you come
here."
Aisara stepped back again.
The shadows recoiled as if they waited
for her to move.
She turned to leave, focused on getting
away, and miscalculated.
Her boot caught against the uneven stone,
and before she could steady herself, the ground tilted beneath her.
She would have fallen, but he moved fast.
Faster than she could track.
Fingers pressing against her waist,
steadying her before she could so much as react.
For a moment, the world narrowed to the
heat of his hands, the effortless way he caught her — it took him no more
effort than breathing.
She jerked away, regaining her footing.
Ciaran stepped back, arms crossing once
more, his expression as cold and impassive as before.
"Go."
Aisara hurried down from the rooftop,
still processing the encounter. Ciaran's gaze lingered on her head, dark and
unreadable. She shook it off. She couldn't let him get to her.
The courtyard buzzed with nervous
excitement as recruits clustered in small groups. She first heard Lina "…and
what about Shadow? That would be incredible, right? Or Air? Imagine being able
to lift off the ground—"
"Lina." Rhyen's voice was strained. He'd
been enduring this interrogation for a while.
Aisara found them near the training
barracks. Lina bounced in place while Rhyen rubbed the bridge of his nose. He
caught t of Aisara and relief flickered across his face.
"There you are," he said. "Where you—"
"What happens if you fail?"
The words left her before she could stop
them.
The excitement drained from Lina's face.
Rhyen's jaw tensed.
"You will not fail," he said after a
pause.
Aisara folded her arms. "That's not what
I asked."
Rhyen glanced around before lowering his
voice. "No one knows," he admitted. "It's… not good. There are rumors. People
disappeared, but no one ever confirmed anything.
Intending to press him for more, a voice
cut her short.
They had walked the entire eastern
quadrant by the time the summons echoed across the courtyard—a sharp chime that
made every head turn.
Rheyn stilled beside her. His eyes,
steady, flickered with something unreadable.
"That's the call for preparation," he
said. "Time to report."
Aisara's steps faltered. The warmth of
the walk, of being near someone familiar, cracked under the weight of that
word. Report. Like they weren't people—mere pieces being moved.
She stared across the stone courtyard
where others were already turning toward the preparation hall.
Their movements were precise. Choreographed. Obedient.
And all she registered was the echo of
cold tile under her bare feet at the orphanage, the matron's barked orders, the
bite of conformity in every thread of fabric.
"Someone will give you black clothes, and
you'll receive new robes and attire once your power is activated," Rheyn said.
"Standard for the ceremony. Hair's to be tied back."
He saw her chin lift.
"I know. I hated it too."
"It's not about hate."
"What comes next?"
"It's the sameness. The way it strips you until you cannot recognize
your own skin."
He didn't respond right away. But he
stepped closer.
"You don't have to lose yourself, Sari.
Get through the next few hours. You're stronger than they think."
She did not agree.
But she nodded, one minor act of rebellion still pulsing in her fingers.
The uniform was waiting for them in the
preparation hall. Folded on a chair, the black tank top and fitted jeans looked
as unremarkable as the recruits who had already put them on. Identical.
Stripped of anything personal. Aisara didn't reach for them.
Lina, already dressed, pulled her braid
tighter and turned toward her, frowning. "Don't start."
Aisara dragged her gaze away from the
clothes. "Start what?"
Lina sighed, exasperated. "This. The
overthinking, the brooding—whatever it is you do when you look at things like
they offended you."
Aisara ignored her, running a finger over
the fabric.
"Is this mandatory attire" she asked, even
though she already knew the answer.
Lina gave her a flat, unamused look. "No,
Aisara, it's optional. You can wear whatever you want. A nice little dress,
perhaps."
Aisara rolled her eyes. "I mean, does it
have to be this?"
Lina exhaled. "What is wrong with you?
It's tradition. Everyone wears the same thing until they awaken. It's
symbolic."
Aisara lifted a brow. "Symbolic of what?
That we're nothing until we prove ourselves?"
Lina froze for half a second before
forcing a scoff. "It's not about that."
Aisara stared at her. "So what is it
about?"
Lina turned back toward the mirror,
smoothing her braid. "It's about unity. Discipline. We don't get to wear colors
until our stones activate—until we earn it."
Aisara the bitterness rising in her
throat.
Not this again.
For years, she wore the same boring
fabric, trapped in a system that saw her as an anonymous figure in a busy
space.
The orphanage had stripped them of
identity. Now, this place was doing the same.
Not worthy. Not enough. Waiting for
something outside of herself to make her matter.
Lina tossed a ribbon toward her. "And tie
your hair back. It's the rule."
Aisara caught it, her fingers curling
around the fabric.
Restrained. Controlled. Leashed.
She let the ribbon fall to the floor.
Lina's mouth pressed into a thin line.
"You're going to make this difficult, aren't you?"
Aisara slipped on the tank top, tugged up
the jeans, and pulled on her boots. But she left her hair loose.
She glanced at Lina, lips twitching.
"Looks like it."
Night crept in, blotting out the horizon
until only shadows remained. Aisara stood at ceremony's edge; sounds muted,
movements stilled—the world held its breath, awaiting the unknown.
The recruits moved in clusters, whispers
threading between them, rippling like waves against the shore. Excitement
hummed in their veins—for most, this was the moment they had waited for their
entire lives. A chance to awaken. To claim power. To become more.
Aisara experienced none of it.
Her fingers curved inward, nails pressing
into her palms. The black fabric clung to her skin, weightless and yet
suffocating, as if it were pressing into her, molding her into something she
refused to be.
A sharp elbow nudged her side. "At least
pretend you're excited," Lina said.
Aisara didn't answer.
Lina sighed, rocking on her heels. "I
don't get you. This is a gift. And you're acting like you'd rather be anywhere
else."
That wasn't untrue.
She lifted her gaze to the torches lining
the ceremony grounds, their flames flickering against the polished stone. The
platform ahead gleamed under the firelight, casting long shadows over the
polished marble steps. At the top, figures stood in waiting—the King, the
Queen, the Head of Dominion, the new Deputy Head.
Aisara's pulse quickened.
Not because of the royalty before her.
Because of him.
Ciaran standing behind them, wrapped in
shadow, his presence heavier than the night itself.
He was watching.
She knew it before she saw him—before her
eyes locked onto his, before the pull of something dark and frigid curled at
the edges of her awareness.
He had crossed his arms, his expression
was unreadable, but she sensed it. That unusual, restrained energy emanating
from him, sharp and jagged, like a blade pressed to her throat.
Something flickered in his
eyes—recognition. A silent acknowledgment that she had done it.
Her hair was loose.
She had not tied it back.
Aisara lifted her chin, her own silent
reply.
Ciaran said nothing. But something in the
way his jaw tightened, the way his fingers twitched at his sides, told her he
had heard it loud and clear.
The King stepped forward, lifting a hand,
and the surrounding murmurs ceased.
The King and Queen of Dominion, draped in
regalia of midnight and gold, their crowns catching the moonlight.
Unmoving. Regal. Untouchable.
And beside them—the Prince.
Azric stood at his father's right hand,
arms crossed, expression unreadable.
Tall, broad, his golden hair pulled into
a loose tie at the nape of his neck. His tailored uniform, black and edged with
crimson, appeared regal and fit for battle.
His blue eyes flicked over the gathered
recruits with the unbothered disinterest of one who already decided none of
them mattered.
"This night marks the start of something
greater than yourselves," he announced, voice low, cutting through the silence
like a blade. His presence was towering, commanding. A man who had never known
weakness, never known defiance without crushing it beneath his heel.
Aisara's stomach coiled.
"For centuries, power has been the
foundation upon which Dominion has thrived. Tonight, you stand on the
threshold. Awakening reveals purpose, your rightful place amongst those
deserving.
The surrounding recruits stood
straighter, anticipation burning in their eyes.
Aisara was conscious only of the lie's
heavy impact.
Worthy. As if power determined that and
strength could erase cruelty. This man—who stood before them, revered and
untouchable, with blood on his hands and ice in his veins—could determine what
made someone worthy.
Her skin prickled.
The King's gaze swept over the recruits,
lingering on her only a moment longer than the others before moving on.
Calculating. Cold. He saw it all, missed nothing.
Aisara turned her attention away.
The Head of the Isle stood before them,
his posture straight, his gaze sharp as he surveyed the recruits.
When he spoke, his voice was calm,
unwavering, filling the space with a command carved into stone.
"Tonight, you are no longer children.
Tonight, you take your place in the hierarchy of power."
A pause.
"Your stone will awaken, revealing
your path. It will dictate where you stand. What you become."
They all knew the rules. Been raised on
them.
Upon turning twenty-one, every recruit's
stone would awaken, unlocking a single power.
One. Only one.
Unless you were royalty.
Monarchy uniquely wields multiple powers,
inherited via bloodline and divine mandate.
Which was why this ceremony existed. To
see where they all belonged.
Aisara flexed her fingers, trying to
steady her.
A chill slid down her spine, slow,
deliberate, a blade being dragged above skin.
She hard, forcing herself to keep her
focus on the ceremony.
She scanned the gathered upper years, the
watching guards, the shadowed spaces between the torches.
Nothing.
No one. The unease wouldn't leave her.
Aisara stood at the end of the line, her
arms folded, pressing against the dull nausea twisting inside her. The black
tank top clung to her skin, exposing a sliver of the mark on her shoulder—thing
she never fully understood, hidden.
A row of final-year recruits stood before
them, each one a representation of powers given upon by the gods.
Elemental Gifts (Bestowed by the
Elemental Gods)
•
Gift of Inferno–Wield fire,
create flames, summon heat.
•
Gift of the Tides–Control
water, summon storms, e underwater.
•
Gift of Storms–Summon
lightning, command the winds.
•
Gift of the
Earthborn–Manipulate plants, stone, and earth.
•
Gift of the Frozen Veil–Control
ice and lower temperatures.
Combat & Physical Gifts (Bestowed
by the War Gods)
•
Gift of the Hunt–Perfect aim,
enhanced tracking, heightened instincts.
•
Gift of the Titan–Super
strength, enhanced endurance, nearly unkillable.
•
Gift of the–Blood Born.
Heightened combat ability which allows user to fight beyond human limits.
•
Gift of the Guardian–Create
divine shields/barriers against attacks.
•
Gift of Shadows–Enhanced
reflexes, dark vision, near-invisibility in darkness.
Celestial & Spiritual Gifts
(Bestowed by the Gods of Light & Fate)
•
Gift of the Fait–Future
visions, glimpses of fate.
•
Gift of the Moon bound–Walk
between the mortal and spirit worlds, speak with the dead.
•
Gift of Radiance–Healing
ability, aura that inspires loyalty.
•
Gift of the Timeless–Slow time
for a few seconds in battle.
Royal & Forbidden Gifts (Linked to
the Monarchy)
•
Gift of Authority–A voice that
commands obedience.
Next, the forbidden powers:
Gift of the Void–Control over shadows and death energy.
•
Gift of the Forsaken–Steal,
another person's divine gift.
Aisara's own year—the newest
recruits—stood in a line, waiting their turn.
The King stood and his robes cascaded
blood red, his face a masterpiece of calm authority.
The hush settled over them like a
slow-moving tide, creeping into the spaces between bodies, into the breath held
too long, into the silence stretched tight enough to suffocate.
Someone forced a young man, bound at the
wrists and gagged, into the clearing. Sweat glistened along his brow, his chest
rising and falling in frantic bursts, his muscles tight with fear.
Aisara's stomach turned.
Terror bled off him.
She had seen fear before; it resonated
deeply within her. This was different.
This was the end.
The King stood in the center of the
circle, his hands clasped behind his back, gaze unreadable. Such power, honed
through practice, rendered amusement and cruelty identical.
"Before we start," he said smoothly, his
voice slicing through the courtyard like silk, "we must set an example."
Aisara breathed.
The boy whimpered, rocking his head,
muffled protests by the gag.
He fell to his knees.
"He stands before you—a traitor. A rebel. A
reminder."
The boy shook his head violently,
shoulders rising with labored. Though his mouth was gagged, his terror spoke
volumes.
Aisara's own pulse hammered against her
ribs, but no one else disturbed. They stood, silent and watching, as if this
were merely part of the tradition.
She had seen her fair share of hurt and
harm of monsters. Here, beneath the grandeur of this hall, bathed in golden
firelight, surrounded by those dressed in finery, it could not be more real.
The King turned.
"Prince Azric," he said smoothly,
"deliver judgment."
The crowd parted; she saw Prince Azric
move forward.
He moved slowly, unhurried. Controlled.
Expression blank.
But her eyes caught the smallest twitch
in his fingers.
His shoulders didn't shift. His fingers
didn't twitch. The only sign that he even heard was the flicker in his eyes.
It was gone before anyone could name it.
He took a step forward.
The boy jerked, a muffled cry clawing
past the gag, twisting into something raw, pleading.
Aisara couldn't look away.
The boy convulsed. Tried to yank free.
Tried to speak.
Aisara surged forward, her body reacting
before her mind could stop it.
The boy's muffled screams, the raw terror
in his eyes—it didn't matter what they said he'd done. His fate was sealed
regardless of his actions.
She couldn't stand here.
A hand snapped around her wrist. Cold.
Unforgiving.
She whirled, about to shove him off, but
Ciaran didn't even blink. He didn't budge. His fingers tightened, enough for
her to sense the heat of his skin, the power coiling beneath.
"Let me go."
His grip didn't loosen. Didn't even
shift.
His voice was quiet. Deadly. "You're
going to get yourself executed for someone who'd slit your throat the second he
was free. Is that what you want?"
Aisara's breath came sharp and ragged,
her pulse pounding against his hold. "He doesn't deserve this."
Ciaran's expression didn't change, but
there was something in his gaze, something cold and unmovable.
"Neither did I."
The words hit like a punch, knocking the
breath from her lungs.
Aisara flinched, the sound sinking into
her bones.
Ciaran didn't let her turn away.
His fingers curled. Its firmness, though
gentle, secured her attention.
"Watch."
Aisara couldn't look away. Her entire
body trembled, shaking like a struck chord, tension rippling through every
limb. Tears streamed down her cheeks, silent and relentless. A rage to
blistering it scorched her from the inside out, her chest burned. The small
tattoo on her back burned she thought she might scream. Instead, her lips
moved, and she uttered a single word "Remenai."
The sword cut through the air in a single
fluid motion, so quick, so precise, that the boy's body had yet to react. He
remained standing, breathing, his wide eyes reflecting fading life.
Then his knees buckled. His weight
collapsed into the dirt, lifeless, a heap of discarded flesh and blood pooling
beneath him.
Azric stood over him, unmoving. Empty.
Aisara trembled. The fire inside her
pulled back, but it didn't leave.
Ciaran leaned in just enough. So only she
could hear.
"You think you can survive here without
seeing this? Without understanding it?"
Her throat was too tight to speak.
Ciaran tilted his head, studying her.
Then—softer, quieter, like he was letting her in on a secret — "You should be
grateful."
She winced.
"You are hurting me."
Ciaran stilled.
His gaze flicked down to where his
fingers still wrapped around her wrist. He hadn't meant to hold her that tight.
He hadn't even realized—
He loosened his grip.
Her hands curled into fists. "Grateful?"
He stepped back, finally releasing her.
"That it wasn't you."
She ripped herself from his grip, swiping
at her face, but the tears wouldn't stop.
She didn't look at Azric. She couldn't.
The King clapped Azric on the shoulder.
"As clean as always, my son. No hesitation—well, almost none."
The gesture, though nearly affectionate,
lacked kindness. Approval. Possession. The father was pleased that his son had
done exactly what he was bred to do.
Azric didn't react. Didn't flinch.
The King exhaled as if nothing happened
at all. "Let the ceremony begin."
Aisara, fighting the sick twist in her
gut.
This was worse than the orphanage. Worse
than the hunger, the pain, the nights she spent wondering why the stars burned
so brightly while she had nothing.
Because now she knew one thing; monsters
surrounded her.