Chapter 2: Awakening Ceremony
Chapter 2
Ciaran "Power is taken by those men who know exactly who they are beneath the
silence, beneath the skin."
She could not breathe. There remained
blood in the dirt and yet the trainees giggled; smiled. Tapped their stones
against each other like this was another tradition.
As though nothing had occurred; as if a
young man hadn't died screaming.
She wanted to scream. To shake them. To
question what the hell was wrong with them. But a nightmare held her frozen in
place, refusing to end.
The line progressed.
One by one, trainees stepped up. Tapped
their stones against the wrists of final-year students. Their magic
ignited—bright, beautiful. Their futures secured.
Aisara's pulse hammered.
She was next. She clenched her fists to
keep her hands from shaking. The stone at her wrist was impossibly tight, the
band digging into her skin, too small, too foreign.
Aisara's experienced a tightness in the
base of her throat. The moment before been sharp-edged, a blade poised to carve
through the thin veil of decorum. Now it was smothered, pressed deep into the
silence that followed.
The recruits ahead of her were already
stepping forward, pressing their wrists to the Power stones of the upper-year
initiates.
Each recruit stepped forward, tapping
their stone against another. Sparks flickered—glowing silver, deep crimson,
brilliant blue.
Power crackled through the air, weaving
between them, linking them.
One after another, until it was her turn.
Aisara touched her stone to his palm.
Nothing.
No light. No flicker, just emptiness.
The kind that shouldn't exist.
She sensed it before she heard it—the
quiet.
The absence where there should have been
a cheer, a ripple of energy, a satisfied exhale. Instead, there was stillness.
A beat.
Another.
It wasn't quiet. It was worse than that.
A hole had opened in the moment,
stretching wide enough to swallow her whole.
The recruit in front of her frowned.
"Again."
Her fingers curled.
She pressed harder, forcing the stone
against his palm, skin-to-skin contact, as if that would be enough.
The hole stretched wider.
Still nothing.
The first murmur.
It slid through the chamber like a
thread, soft but sharp, unraveling something inside her.
Not yet.
Not yet.
Aisara yanked her hand back. Another
recruit stepped forward, offering theirs. A second chance.
She seized it. Tapped her stone against
theirs.
The hole became a chasm.
The recruit stepped back, shaking their
head.
"It's dead."
The laughter cut through the room like a blade.
It was sharp. Amused. Effortless.
She didn't turn. She didn't have to.
Azric moved, the sound of his boots deliberate, slow, soaking in the moment.
"Dominion must be slipping," he mused.
"This one's broken."
A laugh rippled through the room, quick
and cruel.
The chasm widened.
Aisara's pulse beat like a drum in her
ears. The torches burned brightly. The faces blurred.
Her stone was not broken.
But no one believed that.
Azric exhaled, a soft tsk of
disappointment.
Perhaps the issue isn't the stone.
The words landed like a strike to the
ribs.
A test. A sentence. A nail in the coffin.
A recruit with a dead stone was nothing.
The instructors said nothing. They were
letting him do this. He turned the blade within the injury, causing it to
bleed.
Aisara's fingers twitched. The fight
clawed at her throat. The burn was already there.
Azric stepped forward, casual,
unbothered, dangerous. He wore arrogance like a crown. Beautiful, cruel,
untouchable–and each word from his mouth was like a blade she couldn't deflect
quickly enough.
He lifted his wrist, the deep red glow of
his stone pulsing beneath his skin.
"One last try."
"Don't embarrass yourself."
Her hand flew out, grabbing his wrist,
forcing her stone against his.
The world detonated.
A prismatic explosion burst from her
wrist, shattering the shadows clinging to the chamber walls. Light cascaded in
every direction—not gold, not blue, not fire, but everything.
The torches shook.
The floor trembled.
The first-year recruits staggered
backward.
Azric's hand tore away. He took a step
back, a flicker of something dangerous in his gaze.
His fingers curled over the place where
she had touched him.
The pain came first — deep and burning,
like something ancient stirring beneath her skin., her tattoo, her wrist. Aisara
gritted her teeth, eyes snapping at the wrist she had worn her whole life like
everyone else.
But this… this wasn't normal.
Her stone, once dull and muted like all
the others, flared violently to life.
Light burst from beneath the skin — not
the steady glow of a trained element, but a chaotic storm of silver, violet,
and something darker. Black, maybe. Or a shadow.
The smooth edges fractured before their
eyes, warping into a jagged starburst. It looked less like a birthmark of
power, and more like an explosion that had frozen time.
Gasps rippled across the ceremony
grounds.
The runes on its surface had always been
dormant, faded etchings. Now, they twisted — shifted — as if trying to
rewrite themselves.
The stone wasn't channeling her magic.
It was daring the world to try to
control it.
She met his stare.
"What—"
This wasn't supposed to happen.
The final-year recruits exchanged looks.
The Head's lips parted, the calm control in his expression fracturing.
Professor Lysara stepped forward, face
unreadable.
Azric's eyes snapped back to hers, a
flicker of danger beneath the arrogance. His hands curled into fists, shock
flickering across his perfect features. Loathing followed, sharp and raw.
Rhyen tried to reach her, stepping
forward until their eyes met, and Aisara shook her head, a desperate, silent
plea.
Her pulse thundered.
She dared a glance up—to the King.
For the first time that night—they looked
interested.
And then she looked at Azric. His
expression smoothed, his blue eyes burned as he studied her.
Aisara was truly afraid; she turned and
ran. She heard Rhyen call her. She ignored him and increased her pace.
The King stood. One sharp movement. No
hesitation.
"Ciaran."
The guards shifted, Ciaran was already
stepping forward. Silent. Unreadable.
The King didn't glance at the courtyard
entrance, where Aisara disappeared into the dark.
"Watch her."
A beat.
"If she becomes a threat—kill her."
Ciaran nodded once. Nothing more.
"Understood."
Lysara approached, her smile smooth,
expectant.
"Bring her to my office."
Ciaran didn't look at her. He was already
leaving. Already moving.
Her panicked escape was a beacon. Her
fear, her power uncontrolled. She was leaving footprints in the night, though
she didn't know it. The shadows bent toward him, displaying her direction.
And, of course, he wasn't surprised when
he saw where she was heading.
The rooftop.
He exhaled through his nose. Of course.
The wind howled as Aisara reached the
rooftop, her hands scraped raw from gripping the stone. She pressed her palms
to the surface beneath her, trying to steady herself.
She had nowhere to go.
The island stretched out in front of her,
a fortress of stone and shadows, and beyond that, nothing but the endless sea.
She moved on instinct, in desperation, pushing herself higher, farther, until
there was nothing left but sky and endless water. It had been foolish. She knew
that now.
Because he was already here.
She was aware of him before she saw him.
Aisara turned, heart slamming against her
ribs as Ciaran stepped through the archway. He wasn't out of. Wasn't hurried.
He moved a man who never once needed to rush, his gaze locking onto hers with
calculating precision.
She backed up a step, her boot scuffing
against the stone. There was nowhere to. The railing pressed into her spine,
the drop below steep enough to make her dizzy.
"Do it." Her voice was raw, less. "Kill
me, damn you."
Ciaran didn't react.
Not a flicker of amusement. Not even
surprised.
He took another step forward. Slow.
Measured.
"Do you hear me?" she said, voice rising
like a desperate, thing wild. "Get it over with."
She watched them kill a boy.
She saw how a life could be snuffed out.
She knew what happened to threats.
And that was exactly what she was now. A
threat.
So she didn't fight.
She stood there, watching him, waiting
for him to decide.
Because she already had.
Ciaran exhaled.
"You're not afraid."
It wasn't a question.
She let out a soft, bitter laugh. "Would
it change anything if I was?"
A flicker of something crossed his face.
Too fast to catch, gone before she could name it.
A muscle in his jaw twitched. "It
should."
But it didn't.
He was staring at her like he didn't
understand.
Like he had expected her to beg. To cry.
To plead for her life.
She didn't.
Because what was there to beg for?
"Do it, then," she whispered.
Ciaran tensed.
And that—that was the moment he realized.
She wasn't afraid of him.
She was afraid of what she was.
And gods help him—he didn't know what to
do with that.
Only another step.
The ground tilted beneath her, a wave of
queasiness rising in her stomach. "I never wanted to be here," she said, eyes
burning. "If I could give them my power, I would. I'd walk away."
Ciaran kept moving, the distance between
them shrinking with every slow, inevitable step.
Her fingers dug into the stone. "I don't
even know if I'd go easily. I might fight. I will try not to if I can choose
the method. Something quick, please. "
Ciaran stopped in front of her.
Close enough that she could see the shift
of light against his face, the hard lines of his jaw, the unreadable look in
his grey eyes.
"Just don't throw me off the roof."
She tensed as his hands lifted, bracing
for a strike, a restraint thing that would finally end this moment.
Instead, his fingers tangled in her hair.
Aisara stiffened, a sharp inhale caught in her throat. He didn't pull. Didn't
yank. His touch was deliberate, thoughtful, as if testing a theory.
"You were ready to fight for him. Did you
know him?"
She didn't need to ask who.
The boy. The one Prince Azric killed.
Ciaran's fingers were still in her hair,
but his eyes burned into hers.
"You would've fought for him."
Not a question. A statement. A truth
neither of them could deny.
His grip on her hair tightened. enough to
make her focus. To keep her from looking away.
She turned slowly, eyes locking onto
Ciaran's. Storm-gray, unreadable, waiting.
She should lie.
Say yes.
Say he was a friend, a brother, someone
she loved.
Because how else could she explain it?
But she didn't lie.
"No."
Ciaran's head tilted, considering. "Then
why did you care?"
"He was innocent."
Ciaran laughed. A hollow, bitter sound.
"No one's innocent."
"He didn't deserve to die."
"And you do?"
The question sliced through her.
She had no answer.
Ciaran stepped closer. "Because that's
what you're telling me."
His voice dipped, lethal, knowing. "You
didn't fight for him. You tried."
But for yourself?
Ciaran exhaled sharply. "You fight for
them. But you won't fight for yourself?"
She had no answer.
Not one she was willing to say aloud.
But he saw the way her fingers twitched.
The way her throat bobbed with a swallow that wasn't from nerves.
The way she hadn't fought him.
His expression didn't change. But
something flickered behind his eyes.
"You should."
Her breath shuddered. "What?"
Ciaran stepped closer. His lips were at
her ear now, his voice lower, softer.
"Fight for yourself."
His fingers slid from her hair. From her.
"Your hair changed."
Her heart pounded, coming too shallow,
too uneven.
"What?"
He shifted slightly, and the surrounding
shadows moved, bending to his will. A subtle shift, enough to let the moonlight
cut through, catching the strands of her hair.
Silver glinted against the dark.
Aisara faltered.
She lifted a shaking hand, her fingers
threading through the unfamiliar color.
"No!" as if denying it would change what
was in front of her.
"Your eyes too."
She hard. Her fingers dropped, her arms
hanging uselessly at her sides as she met his gaze.
Ciaran's gaze was where else entirely.
Her wrist.
The stone embedded in her skin. The one
that did not obey the natural order. The one that shouldn't exist.
Aisara hardly had time to react before he
lifted a hand and flicked his finger over it.
Heat shot through her, wild and
uncontained.
The stone flared to life, a pulse of
iridescent color racing up her arm, lighting up the tattoos that curled across
her skin. It burned.
Her knees nearly gave out.
Ciaran saw it. Sensed it.
And he did it again.
Another flick of his fingers. Another
pulse of light.
Aisara sucked in a sharp, biting the
inside of her cheek to keep from making a sound.
Ciaran watched in fascination, his gaze
tracking the glow as it ebbed and surged, as if he were testing a theory,
measuring her reaction.
"Interesting."
She willed herself to ignore the
sensation tearing through her veins.
They heard voices, distant somewhere
below.
Ciaran's hand shot out, his fingers
wrapped around her waist, yanking her against him as he turned them, pulling
her into the shadows of the rooftop.
Aisara yelled, but the sound never made
it past his hand.
His palm pressed over her mouth, his body
pinning hers to the stone, the full heat of him caging her in.
"Quiet."
His breath was warm against her ear, his
voice lower, darker.
"This is a forbidden place. You'll be in
even more trouble than you already are."
She tried to shift, to push against him.
It only brought her closer, his scent—leather, salt coiling around her.
Ciaran stilled.
His gaze flicked down.
Her wrist was still glowing.
She tried to turn it, to press it against
her own body. The light cut through the dark, impossible to hide.
Ciaran made a sound—thing low, amused.
Then he took her hand and shoved it
beneath his shirt.
Aisara stiffened, her fingers against
bare skin, against the solid warmth of muscle.
The glow snuffed out instantly.
Her pulse slammed into her ribs, wild and
erratic, a contrast to his steady heartbeat.
Ciaran kept his hand wrapped around her
wrist, pressing it against him as his other hand lowered from her mouth.
He didn't step back, didn't give her
space, or stopped looking at her.
Grey eyes trapped hers in the dark,
searching, burning.
Aisara couldn't move.
Couldn't breathe.
He tilted his head, studying her as if he
had all the time in the world.
And then his eyes flickered lower.
She hard, her throat tight, her skin
feverish.
And still his heartbeat didn't change.
Aisara shoved; Ciaran didn't move.
Not even an inch.
His grip stayed firm, his heart beat
still maddeningly even, his body caging her in as if the moment belonged to
him, not her.
Her heart was hammering, her skin burning
where his hand still pressed her wrist against his. The glow from her stone
long since faded from the shadows.
She shoved harder.
Nothing.
He was too solid, too unmoving, too
entertained.
A slow smile tugged at the corner of his
mouth.
She shoved harder and this time he let
her go.
He stepped back enough to allow the
space, mocking her with the ease of it.
Aisara's fury roared to the surface, a
storm crashing against the restraint she had been holding onto by a thread. She
pushed past him, her shoulder knocking into his side as she stormed toward the
stairwell.
She had not taken a step before his hand
ped out, catching her wrist.
The world pulled tight.
"There is no place you can run that I
cannot find you," he murmured. "Anytime. Anyplace."
Aisara yanked her arm. She struggled,
twisting her body, planting her feet. His grip was effortless.
He started walking, pulling her with him,
and her rage flared.
She fought.
Planting her heels into the stone,
twisting against his hold.
He didn't even glance at her.
Her frustration burned, sharp and
desperate.
With a raised foot, she kicked
him—hard—right in the shin.
Ciaran stopped.
A flicker of thing sharpened in his
expression.
Aisara had a moment to enjoy satisfaction
before he moved, and her world turned upside down.
"Put me down," she snarled, twisting
against him.
"You two choices," he said, tone
infuriatingly casual. "You can walk with me in the shadows. Or you can scream
and while everyone watches."
She went still.
Furious. Humiliated.
Her muscles relaxed.
He knew.
The bastard slid her down the length of
him, painfully slow, deliberate.
When her feet finally hit the ground, his
hand remained on her wrist.
His voice dropped lower.
"Good girl. No one is going to kill
you tonight."
Heat and rage flashed through her in
equal measure.
Ciaran was already pulling her with him,
guiding her into the shadows, his grip firm, inescapable.
She smoothed her shirt, fists at her
sides.
Without a word, she stepped beside him.
Ciaran's expression remained unreadable.
Aisara had no time to process what
happened before Ciaran was leading her down the halls of the Academy.
He said nothing, his grip firm. quiet,
controlled steps as he guided her through the maze of corridors.
At last, they reached a set of high,
carved doors.
Ciaran didn't knock. Didn't even
hesitate.
Instead, he released her arm, giving her
a single nod before disappearing into the shadows.
Coward.
Aisara hard, raising a hand to knock—
The doors swung open before she could.
Professor Lysara stood there, her
expression one of pure warmth.
"Oh, my dear."
Before Aisara could react, Lysara took
her hands, squeezing, as if she knew Aisara her entire life.
"Come in, come in. You must be
overwhelmed."
Aisara hesitated. Waiting for the sharp
words. The punishment. The cruelty.
None came. Instead, Lysara smiled,
guiding her inside a mother, leading a lost child home.
The study was richly decorated—plush
seating, golden light flickering off polished wood.
"You must be so confused. You are safe
here. No one will harm you."
Aisara frowned slightly. No one ever told
her that before.
"We will figure this out together."
Aisara's throat tightened. She wanted to
believe her.
"You've been thrown into thing you never
asked for."
Aisara nodded, swallowing past the lump
in her throat.
Lysara smiled again, pressing a hand to
Aisara's back as she guided her toward the door. "Come, let's get you settled."
They stepped outside into the night.
"You'll stay with Lina for now," Lysara said. "A familiar face might help."
"And," Lysara added with careful ease,
"we'd you to train in all elements. To see which fits you best."
Aisara stopped walking.
"All the elements?"
Lysara laughed, linking arms with her as
she led her forward again. "Don't look so shocked. We simply want to help you
find where you belong."
Lysara led Aisara through the twisting
corridors of the Academy, lights lining the walls. The halls were eerily
silent, the echo of their footsteps by the heavy stone beneath them.
Aisara's wrist still throbbed, the
aftershocks of the awakening ceremony pulsing beneath her skin. She wanted to
look at it again, to see if the swirling colors settled, but not in front of
Lysara.
"Most recruits rest after the Awakening."
It creaked open at the barest flick of her wrist.
"Sleep, Aisara." She gave her a pointed
look. "You'll need it."
Aisara hesitated before stepping inside.
The room was dimly lit, a small bed, a wooden, and a simple desk filling the
space. It was bare, unfamiliar, nothing except the small, messy room she shared
with Elira back home.
Lysara lingered in the doorway, watching.
"Tomorrow, you train."
Lysara's lips curled at the edges,
amused.
"Welcome to the Island of Dominion."
The door clicked shut.
She crossed to the bed—everything inside the dorm was too neat, too
symmetrical. No clutter, no softness. Just clean lines and cold edges.
She pulled her notepad from her satchel and dropped onto the mattress. For a
while, she sat in silence, the weight of the evening pressing against her ribs.
The pen hovered over the page.
She didn't sketch power or stone or fire. She sketched a garden. A bench. A
path. Something small. Safe. Quiet.
Something she might never have.
The door burst open.
"You're not asleep, are you?"
A blur of braids and breathlessness flew in—Lina, eyes wide, voice full of awe.
"Gods above, did you see him?" "Azric. I mean… Azric. The Prince." She
collapsed on her bed like she'd survived a battlefield. "He's… unreal. I mean,
they all are, but him? He looked at me for like… a full second."
Aisara blinked. "They killed a boy, Lina."
Lina stilled for a beat. Then shrugged, flopping onto her stomach.
"He was a rebel. Doesn't that mean he wanted to blow up a gate or something?"
"It's different. They're dangerous. They'd kill us without blinking."
Aisara set the pen down. Her jaw tensed. "So that makes it right? A
performance, an execution for show?"
Lina rolled over, frowning like Aisara had missed something obvious.
"It wasn't for show. It was a warning. We're safer because of it." Then, like
nothing had happened: "Anyway—we're going to be best friends, you and me." She
grinned. "Unless you go stupid and start falling for Azric."
Aisara raised an eyebrow.
"Seriously," Lina added, half teasing, half dagger. "He is mine."
"You can have him, Lina. I just want to survive this place and go home."
She looked down at her sketch and wondered what kind of place this really was.