The laughter following Kaelen's failure didn't stop until the High Priest cleared his throat. The sound echoed like a gavel.
"Next," the Priest called out, his voice noticeably brighter. "Magnus of the Iron-Blood. Son of Torben."
From the right side of the hall, a boy stepped forward.
If Kaelen was a shadow, Magnus was a spotlight. He was tall, broad-shouldered for his age, with hair like spun gold. He didn't walk; he strutted. Beside him, his father—Kaelen's uncle, Torben—grinned like a wolf who had just spotted a limping deer.
As Magnus passed Kaelen, he didn't sneer. He didn't even look at him. Kaelen was already invisible to him.
Magnus placed his hand on the Wyrd-Stone.
There was no hesitation. No delay.
BOOM.
The reaction was instant. The moment Magnus made contact, the hall temperature spiked. The frost on the windows melted into steam. The blue runes on the stone flared a violent, blinding orange.
A roar ripped through the air—not the sound of metal, but the phantom cry of a beast.
From the light, a weapon materialized. It was a massive greatsword, its blade jagged like a dragon's tooth, glowing with an internal heat.
"The Drake-Fang Claymore!" a warrior shouted, falling to his knees. "A Weapon Spirit! And it carries the Element of Fire!"
The High Priest's hands were shaking, not from cold, but from excitement. He looked at the mana measurement.
"Rank... Rank 8!" the Priest screamed. "An innate Level 8 Spirit Power! A prodigy! A genius seen once in fifty years!"
The silence that had greeted Kaelen was replaced by a deafening roar. The clan went mad. Men banged their mugs on the tables. Women cheered. Uncle Torben threw his head back and laughed, a sound that grated against Kaelen's ears.
"Behold!" Torben shouted, raising his son's hand. "The future of the North! The true heir to the Iron-Blood legacy!"
The implication hung in the air, heavy and sharp.
The True Heir.
The crowd looked at Magnus, bathing in the red glow of his sword. Then, they glanced at Kaelen, standing in the shadows with his Rank 1 weed.
The comparison was brutal.
"It's over for the main branch," a whisper drifted through the crowd.
"The Jarl can't keep Kaelen as the heir. Not with a flower. We'd be the laughingstock of the Empire."
"Magnus is the Sun. Kaelen is... dirt."
All eyes turned to the high throne.
Jarl Eirik, the Clan Head and Kaelen's father, sat like a statue carved from ice. His face was unreadable. He looked at Magnus, the nephew who had just proved he was a genius. Then, his gaze slid to Kaelen, his own son.
Everyone waited for the Jarl to speak. They waited for him to announce the switch. To declare Magnus the new successor right then and there.
But Jarl Eirik remained silent.
He didn't smile at Magnus. He didn't frown at Kaelen. He simply stared, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the armrest of his throne. Tap. Tap. Tap.
The silence stretched, becoming uncomfortable. Even Uncle Torben's smile faltered slightly. Why wasn't the Jarl celebrating?
"Father?" Magnus asked, looking up at the throne, expecting praise.
Jarl Eirik stood up slowly. The hall went quiet.
"The ceremony is over," the Jarl said, his voice flat. "Magnus. Good work. Kaelen... come to my study."
With a swirl of his fur cloak, the Clan Head turned and walked away, leaving the crowd confused and the tension unresolved.
Kaelen watched his father leave. He felt the sting of the crowd's pity, but his expression didn't change. He looked down at his own hand, remembering the weight of the Eclipse Parasol he had suppressed.
Magnus was a Rank 8 Sun. But Kaelen knew something Magnus didn't.
'The sun is bright,' Kaelen thought, turning to follow his father. 'But an umbrella is the only thing that can look the sun in the eye and not blink.'