The journey from the Shadow Quarter to the Upper Ward was like ascending from a tomb into a different world. Kael walked the muddy, crowded lanes that were his home, the air thick with the smell of humanity and desperation. But as he passed through the Grimegate—the unofficial border policed by bored, contemptuous guards—the very stone beneath his feet changed. The rough, uneven cobblestones gave way to smooth, white marble that seemed to hum with a latent power. The air grew clean, scented with the perfume of manicured gardens and the crisp, ozone tang of ambient magic.
Here, the buildings didn't huddle together for warmth but soared, their spires and towers decorated with the proud banners of the great houses: the golden hawk of House Draemhold, the iron wolf of House Valcarin, the silver quill of the Arcanist Guild. It was a world of effortless beauty and crushing authority, and Kael hated it with a ferocity that was a constant, cold fire in his chest.
He was not alone. A straggling line of other eighteen-year-olds from the lower districts shuffled along with him, their faces a mixture of terror and a faint, lottery-winner's hope. Today was the day of the Aptitude Test, a mandatory rite for all citizens of Emberfall upon their eighteenth year. It was the kingdom's way of identifying any sparks of magical talent among the commoners—sparks that could be taxed, controlled, or extinguished as the Guild saw fit. For most, it was a formality, a public confirmation of their powerlessness. For a few, it was a chance at a life beyond the smog and the struggle. For Kael, it was a threat. The faint, secret light he had summoned in his room was a terrifying variable in a life that depended on predictability. His plan was simple: get in, be declared a dud, and get out.
The line snaked into the grand courtyard of the Royal Academy. It was a breathtaking, intimidating space. Marble statues of former kings and Archmagisters stared down with cold, lifeless eyes. Banners of the noble houses fluttered from every archway, and in the center of the courtyard stood a dais. Upon it rested a single object: a flawless sphere of polished obsidian, the Aptitude Orb, humming with a power that made the hairs on Kael's arms stand up.
The nobles were already there, segregated from the commoners. They stood in relaxed, confident clusters, their silks and velvets a vibrant insult to the drab browns and greys of the lower-ward youths. At the center of the most prominent group was Aric Draemhold. He was exactly as Kael remembered from fleeting market glimpses—tall, golden-haired, with an easy, predatory grace. His smile was a weapon, and his icy blue eyes swept over the commoner line with bored disdain.
"Look at what the Grimegate coughed up today," Aric said, his voice carrying easily across the courtyard. His companions laughed, a sound like shattering crystal. "Do they truly believe any of them have the blood? Magic is a birthright, not a peasant's fantasy."
His gaze locked onto Kael. He tilted his head, a slow, deliberate inspection that made Kael's skin crawl. "You," Aric said, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. "I remember you. The street brawler from the market. I trust you'll show the Orb the same... unrefined vigor?"
Kael met his gaze, his face a mask of indifference, but inside, the cold fire burned hotter. Draemhold. The name was a curse. His father's journals had been clear: House Draemhold had been one of the key players in the conspiracy against the Veynars. This wasn't just a noble mocking a commoner; this was the heir of the jackal sneering at the son of the lion he'd helped kill. Kael's hands clenched into fists at his sides. He said nothing, giving Aric the one thing he didn't expect: silence.
The trials began. One by one, the noble youths stepped forward, placing their hands on the orb. For them, it was a performance. A bright blue light for a Valcarin boy, a swirling crimson for a Tareth girl. Aric's turn came, and he approached the dais with theatrical confidence. He placed his palm on the obsidian sphere, and it erupted in a column of brilliant golden flame that shot ten feet into the air, a display of raw, undisciplined power that drew gasps from the commoners and polite applause from the nobles. He bowed mockingly in Kael's direction before rejoining his friends.
Then came the commoners. Most elicited no reaction from the orb. A few managed to make it flicker with a weak, apologetic light before being dismissed with a curt nod from the Guild officials overseeing the test.
"Varenholt, Kael," an official called out, his voice flat with boredom.
A hush fell over the courtyard. All eyes were on him, the boy who had dared to challenge the Enforcers, the boy Aric Draemhold had singled out. Kael walked toward the dais, his steps even, his heart a steady, cold drum in his chest. Expect nothing. Show nothing. Be nothing.
He reached the dais and placed his hand on the orb. The obsidian was cold, unnervingly so, and it seemed to drink the warmth from his skin. He closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable silence, the mockery, the dismissal.
And silence is what he got. The orb remained inert, a black, dead sphere. Aric's laughter, sharp and triumphant, echoed across the marble.
"As expected," Aric declared. "The gutter produces only mud. No spark. No power. Nothing."
The official grunted, ready to wave him away. But then, something happened that only the Guild officials, standing closest to the dais, could see. Deep within the heart of the obsidian, for less than a second, a light did flicker. It wasn't the bright, raw power of the nobles. It was a faint, intricate lattice of silvery-blue lines, an ancient and complex glyph that seemed to absorb the very light around it before vanishing as if it had never been.
The lead Guild official, a stern woman with the Guild's sigil on her robes, stiffened. Her eyes widened fractionally, and she shot a sharp, questioning look at her colleagues. They mirrored her shock and confusion.
Kael, unaware of the silent drama, pulled his hand back. He had been so focused on the expected humiliation that he hadn't noticed the faint, thrumming sensation in his veins, the barest whisper of a connection to the stone in his pocket. He turned to leave, the laughter of the nobles ringing in his ears.
"Dismissed," the official said, but her voice had lost its boredom. It was now sharp, edged with a new, unsettling curiosity.
As Kael walked away, trying to blend back into the line of failed hopefuls, he chanced a look back at the dais. The Guild officials were gathered in a tight, hushed circle, their heads bent over the silent orb. The lead official glanced up, her cold, calculating eyes finding Kael in the crowd. She said something to an aide, who nodded and scribbled a note on a scroll.
Kael felt a chill that had nothing to do with the morning air. He had come here to be forgotten, to be dismissed as nothing. But in the cold, analytical gaze of the Guild, he felt something far more dangerous. He felt seen.
He slipped away as the last of the tests concluded, his mind a whirlwind. He had failed, just as he had planned. He was officially powerless, a non-entity. But the look in that Guild official's eyes, and a faint, residual warmth from the rune-stone in his pocket, told him a different story. He had tried to remain invisible, but he might have just lit a beacon in the dark.
Chapter 2 is now complete.
Continuing with Chapter 3: Broken Promises.