The day of the Selection Ceremony dawned over the Royal Concourse of Ashenstone, and with it came a silence heavier than any crowd.
The open grounds stretched wide beneath a pale sky, stone platforms rising in careful tiers around the center. Officials moved along the edges with practiced efficiency, their robes plain and functional. Knights stood at regular intervals, armor dulled by use rather than polish—present to maintain order, not spectacle.
People had gathered since before sunrise.
Parents stood close to their children. Some whispered reassurances. Others said nothing at all. Laughter surfaced now and then, too loud and too sudden, breaking under its own weight. Excitement hung in the air, but it was restrained, tempered by the understanding that this place did not promise answers—only judgment.
At the center of the Royal Concourse lay the Ember Witness.
A square pit carved into the stone, sunken into the earth. It was empty. Cold. Silent. No flame burned within it, yet no one lingered too close. The space around it felt wrong—quiet in a way that made sound hesitate, as if the ground itself was waiting.
Above the concourse, on a raised dais of dark stone, sat the King.
He did not speak.
He did not gesture.
He simply watched.
I arrived with my parents walking beside me.
My father, Cassian Lai, stood tall and rigid, every inch the King's Knight even without his armor. His gaze remained fixed forward, unwavering, as if discipline alone could shape the outcome.
My mother, Lyra Lai, stayed close at my side. Her hands were folded neatly, her expression calm, but I could feel the tension beneath it—subtle, restrained, and unmistakable. She glanced at me once, then away, as if afraid of what she might see in my face.
A few steps behind us walked Eren Holt, my closest friend.
His father, Marcus Holt, stood among the other knights, posture firm and unmoving. Beside Eren, his mother Elise Holt lingered for a moment, straightening his collar before stepping back. She smiled, gentle and practiced, but it didn't quite reach her eyes.
The concourse filled with quiet noise.
Parents murmured prayers under their breath.
Children laughed, then fell silent.
Some faces shone with excitement.
Others were stiff with anticipation.
And some already looked pale.
I told myself I wasn't nervous.
That was a lie.
My heartbeat was faster than it should have been, and my fingers felt strangely light, as if they didn't quite belong to me. The Ember Witness sat there in silence, and somehow that made it worse than if flames were already rising from it.
Still—
The nervousness was buried beneath something stronger.
Excitement.
This was the moment I had imagined countless times. Every early morning training session, every aching muscle, every lecture about discipline and duty had led here. Standing before the Ember Witness felt like standing before the future itself.
I didn't know what kind of flame would rise.
I didn't know how bright it would be.
But the thought that it would rise at all sent a thrill through me.
Fear twisted in my chest—but it was sharp, alive, almost welcome.
Because fear meant this mattered.
And excitement meant I was ready to see what the fire would show.
At the time, I believed I was standing before my future.
I didn't realize I was standing at the beginning of my journey.