Beside the king stood five of the seven most celebrated figures in the entire empire—men whose names were etched into history and whispered with reverence across the realm.
Three of them were veterans of age, their weathered faces lined with both time and countless battles. Two bore physiques that defied their years, their frames still strong and commanding. These were the empire's famed heroes—Seigfried and Zen of the Fallen—warriors whose victories had shaped the very borders of Leonardace.
The third elder was far more eccentric in appearance. His beard, an unbroken cascade of silver, flowed all the way to his toes, each strand seeming to shimmer faintly under the palace light. His name, long and elaborate, always slipped from Ether's memory, yet the boy knew him well enough; the man had visited the Duchy of Sephera on more than one occasion.
Then Ether's gaze found the figure he knew best—his father.
Yohan of Sephera. Medium in build, with raven-black hair and eyes of muted gold, he carried an air of quiet, measured strength. Known as a prodigy of his generation, he was the youngest Archmage among the previous circle of power—a man whose mastery of the arcane arts was spoken of in both awe and envy.
Memories stirred in Ether's mind. He was five years old then, his younger sister barely three. That day, he had entered his father's chamber to find Yohan lying injured upon his bed. Before Ether could speak, a light began to seep from his father's skin, growing until it wrapped him in a radiant halo. Even now, years later, Ether could recall that sight—strangely beautiful, yet incomprehensible to his young mind.
Of the remaining two who stood beside the king, Ether knew only that they too were counted among the empire's elite, though their names and deeds were still a mystery to him.
A hush fell over the hall as King Charles stepped forward. His voice, deep and commanding, carried effortlessly through the vaulted chamber.
"Children of noble blood," he began, his gaze sweeping across the gathered heirs. "You are the future of this empire. But let not your lineage swell your pride into arrogance. For now, you are not jewels to be admired, but stones—rough, unshaped, and without luster. Only through trial, through discipline, and through service will you be carved into gems worthy of the crown's trust."
His words, heavy with both warning and promise, lingered in the air like the toll of a great bell.
After the king's brief yet weighty address, two of the seven figures at his side stepped forward.
The first was a priest, draped in flowing robes of pure white that shimmered faintly beneath the palace lights. His every movement carried a solemn grace, the air around him tinged with reverence. This was no ordinary clergyman—he was the royal priest entrusted with invoking the blessings of the Six Greater Powers, entities so mighty that each could lay waste to entire continents should they choose to act.
Every one of the three great kingdoms possessed its own Greater Power, a divine patron tied to its fate. For Leonardace, it was Icor, the Lord of Knowledge—keeper of secrets, shaper of wisdom, and arbiter of truth.
At the center of the dais stood a towering object veiled beneath an embroidered cloth. The priest approached it, grasped one corner of the covering, and with deliberate ceremony, pulled it away. Gasps echoed softly through the hall.
Beneath the cloth was a book so massive it dwarfed the tallest man—its height equal to that of five grown men standing one atop the other. Its cover was forged of some unknown material, neither metal nor stone, inscribed with symbols that seemed to shift when looked at too long. This was the Book of Icor, a sacred gift granted by the Lord himself to the people of Leonardace.
Its pages lay blank, untouched by ink or quill. In front of the colossal tome sat a small sphere, no larger than a child's head, its surface smooth and faintly glowing. The air around it pulsed with an unseen power.
King Charles stepped forward, his voice ringing across the chamber as he began to call the names of the noble children.
The first to be summoned was the son of a baron—a boy named Dame. His hair was a modest brown, his hands trembling slightly as he approached the dais. Nervousness clung to him like a shadow.
"Place your hand upon the sphere," the king commanded.
Dame hesitated only a heartbeat before obeying. The moment his skin touched the sphere, a soft hum filled the air. Light coursed through the object, and upon the Book of Icor, runes began to appear—flowing lines of alien script, their meaning unknown to all but the power that wrote them. Ether leaned forward, his golden eyes fixed on the shifting symbols, though he, like everyone else, could make no sense of them.
When the final rune settled into place, the sphere gave a faint glow. From the ranks of the seven stepped the last figure—a frail-looking old man with long black hair and a beard that obscured much of his face. His eyes, however, were sharp, carrying the weight of one who had seen countless lives measured and judged.
His voice, though quiet, carried across the hall."Young Dame," he said, "you shall walk the path of the sword for your body holds these measures:
Strength, B minus;
Agility, C;
Stamina, C-minus
. Your magic, F
, and magic control, F-plus
. Your innate talent—D+-minus."
A murmur swept through the audience. Dame's face lit up, relief and joy replacing his earlier fear. For a swordsman, such a ratio was more than promising.
One by one, more children stepped forward. Many received commendable talents and attributes, their results met with proud smiles from their families. A few, however, were less fortunate, their evaluations falling short of expectation. Yet, each time, the Emperor himself offered words of encouragement, assuring them that true worth was forged not in talent alone, but in perseverance and will.