The day Roland turned four, the palace stirred with rare ceremony.
He was dressed in miniature ceremonial armor—polished steel plates over crimson silk, far too heavy for his small frame. Servants carried him most of the way to the Grand Temple, perched high on the capital's central hill, its black marble columns carved with scenes of endless conquest. A temple reserved for royals and nobility only; commoners and slaves had their own smaller shrines in the lower districts.
Inside, the air was thick with incense and the metallic tang of old blood. Twenty towering statues lined the circular hall, each representing one of the pantheon. But only two stood proud and pristine.
Jupiter, King of Gods, his stone beard fierce, lightning bolt raised eternally.
Beside him, his favored son March—god of war, strategy, and righteous bloodshed—armored and helmeted, sword planted victoriously.
The other eighteen statues gathered dust. Paint flaked from Venus, Goddess of Love's robes. The Goddess of Harvest's sheaf of wheat had broken off centuries ago. Minerva's owl perched with one wing missing. Cracks spider-webbed across Mercury, the Merchant God's scales.
They honor only gods of conquest, Roland thought, surveying the neglected pantheon. Everything else is forgotten. Even the divine.
Valkoria's creed was simple: if a god did not grant victory, their blessings were unnecessary. Why pray for fertile soil when you could conquer fields already blessed? Why beg for plentiful ore when you could seize mines from weaker nations?
The priests—all devoted solely to Jupiter and March—wore armor beneath their robes. Their chants were battle hymns.
Today was the Awakening Ceremony.
Every child—noble, commoner, or slave—underwent it at age four. It was their divine right. All received a magic attribute—fire, wind, earth, water, and the rarer ones like ice or metal, even unusual ones like poison and illusion. A fortunate few manifested a divine object. Rarer still was direct divine favor—a visible blessing from a god.
Roland was carried to the central altar, a slab of dark stone stained by generations of ritual blood. The High Priest—Varen, an old warrior whose left eye was covered by a patch engraved with March's rune—lifted him and laid him down.
King Harald and Queen Isolde stood at the front of the gathered court. Nobles in formal armor lined the hall—Duke Aldric, grey-bearded and scarred from forty campaigns, stood closest to the throne. Behind him, Count Veyron watched with weathered patience. Dozens more nobles filled the temple in their ceremonial armor and weapons.
The king's face was stern granite. The queen's eyes burned with expectation.
The priests began the rite.
Chants in the old tongue. Offerings of oil and iron shavings burned in braziers. A circle of runes flared to life around the altar, their light pulsing in time with the chanting.
Then the ceiling dome—painted with storm clouds and charging legions—began to glow.
A low rumble echoed through the temple, growing louder with each heartbeat.
Lightning cracked downward.
For an instant, Roland's world became pure electricity.
Not pain—though his muscles locked rigid, every nerve firing at once. Not heat—though his skin tingled like touching winter metal. It was recognition. His mind grasped what was happening on a level deeper than instinct: potential difference, current flow, resistance through flesh and bone.
I know you, he thought, and impossibly, the lightning responded.
The raw chaos organized itself. Instead of wild arcs burning through him, the energy flowed in patterns—circuits forming in his nervous system, capacitance building in his core. He could feel individual electrons dancing through his bloodstream, could sense the electromagnetic field his body now generated.
In his old life, he'd studied electricity as an external force to be harnessed.
Now he was electricity.
The energy sang through him like a symphony only he could hear—voltage, amperage, resistance, all perfectly balanced. The destructive bolt that should have killed him instead settled into his bones like coming home.
The light faded, but the humming power remained, coiled inside him like a sleeping serpent waiting to strike.
High Priest Varen raised his staff, his voice booming across the hall:
"This child bears dominion over Lightning! A mighty element—swift, unstoppable, the weapon of kings!"
Cheers erupted. Nobles clashed gauntlets against breastplates, the metallic thunder echoing through the temple.
"Jupiter's own element!" Duke Aldric's voice carried over the noise. "The boy is marked for greatness!"
Behind him, Count Veyron's jaw tightened. His own son had awakened to earth two years ago—solid, reliable, the foundation of any defense. But this was Valkoria, where songs celebrated lightning strikes, not stone walls. The boy would serve well, fight bravely. But lead armies? The gods had their favorites.
"Worthy element for the royal family!" someone shouted.
Queen Isolde's smile was fierce, predatory.
"Unstoppable on the battlefield," she declared, voice ringing with pride. "None shall stand before him."
King Harald nodded, arms folded across his chest. "A fitting gift from Lord Jupiter. My son will carve his name in thunder."
They see a weapon, Roland thought, still feeling the electricity humming through his veins. I see potential energy waiting to be engineered.
Then, silence fell.
From thin air above the altar, something materialized—drifting down like a falling leaf, impossibly slow.
A flat rectangle of dark stone, edges framed in faint silver runes. No blade, no shield, no glowing gem—just a smooth, unadorned slate the size of a large book.
It settled gently into Roland's small hands, warm to the touch.
The crowd murmured, confused.
High Priest Varen leaned closer, his one good eye narrowing. "A… divine object?"
The murmurs grew louder. Divine objects were legendary—the Sword of March wielded by the founding king hung in the throne room. House Draven possessed a spearhead that never dulled. House Trell owned cloth that accelerated healing.
But this? A smooth stone rectangle?
King Harald stepped forward, frowning. "It's a strange thing. What even is it? A shield too small to block a dagger?"
"A stone tablet?" someone suggested from the crowd.
"For what purpose? To smash into enemy heads?"
A few nervous laughs rippled through the hall.
Queen Isolde placed a hand on Harald's arm, her voice calm but firm. "Divine objects are rare beyond measure, my love. Many great warriors never receive one. Even if its purpose is unclear, the lightning alone marks him for greatness."
"Perhaps it's decorative?" Count Veyron offered, though his tone suggested he found that unlikely.
Harald grunted, clearly unconvinced, but nodded slowly. "The lightning is enough."
Let them underestimate it, Roland thought, clutching the warm stone against his chest. Let them think it's useless.
Then every torch in the temple guttered.
For three heartbeats, darkness swallowed the hall.
Gasps. A woman's startled cry. The scrape of steel as hands found sword hilts by instinct.
Light exploded from the far end of the hall.
Not the gold of Jupiter or the red of March, but pure silver—so bright men threw arms over their faces, crying out. Minerva's neglected statue blazed like a second sun, light pouring from the stone as if the goddess herself burned within.
Dust cascaded from her cracked pedestal in thick sheets. The broken owl wing—missing for centuries—reconstructed itself before their eyes, stone flowing like water, cracks sealing with light. For those few heartbeats, she stood whole and radiant, eyes seeming to fix directly on the child at the altar.
Then the light faded.
The owl wing crumbled again, pieces clattering to the floor. But everyone had seen. Everyone knew.
High Priest Varen staggered, his staff clattering against stone. He dropped to one knee, face pale.
"The Wisdom Goddess..." His voice cracked. "Why did she...."
Several nobles fell to their knees, uncertain whether to pray or flee. Others stood frozen, staring at the now-dim statue with expressions ranging from awe to horror.
Duke Aldric remained standing, but his weathered face had gone thoughtful. "A divine blessing. Direct favor from a god." He looked at the small prince on the altar with newfound respect.
Count Veyron's expression was carefully neutral, though his eyes betrayed his thoughts—another advantage the prince bore that his own son never would even if it's from a useless goddess.
King Harald's expression had darkened like storm clouds. "Her?" He glanced at the shining statue with clear displeasure, then forced his voice level. "I had hoped for Lord March's mark."
Queen Isolde squeezed his arm, speaking quietly but quickly. "Think, Harald. Knowledge and wisdom—the boy will master any weapon, any formation, any tactic faster than any foe. He will outthink as well as outfight." Her voice dropped further. "And he is the only one with a divine blessing currently living in our kingdom. That alone makes him invaluable."
Harald's jaw worked. His hands flexed. But slowly, glacially, he nodded.
"True enough." The words came reluctantly. "Lightning to strike, wisdom to aim it. He will be... formidable."
You have no idea, Roland thought.
He lay quietly on the altar, clutching the warm slate against his chest. Around him, priests and nobles whispered urgently—debating, speculating, positioning themselves for whatever this unprecedented event might mean.
No one noticed the faint runes glowing softly across the slate's surface, visible only to the boy who held it.
Or the single line of text that appeared, written in a script only he could read:
Welcome, my chosen. The library is open.
Roland blinked innocently up at the crowd, his expression appropriately confused for a four-year-old who didn't understand what was happening.
They'll watch me now. Expect things.
Inside, where Rahul's consciousness dwelled beneath Roland's infant features, satisfaction bloomed.
They see a mystery. A blessing from a forgotten goddess. A useless stone.
I see the sum of human knowledge, waiting in my hands.
The temple echoed with urgent debate. Priests conferred in hushed tones. Nobles whispered among themselves. The king and queen stood rigid, absorbing the implications.
But the prince on the altar—small, innocent, blessed by lightning and wisdom—was already working.
His fingers traced the slate's surface, feeling the runes respond to his touch.