"The Pantheon exists to uphold values and principles — all shall wait for His Majesty to return."
A blurred figure sat upon a throne carved from something that looked like bone. His legs were crossed. His fingers rested against the armrest. There was an air of absolute joy about him, The kind worn by a prisoner getting a long-awaited death sentence.
Beneath the smile lingered exhaustion. Ancient. Crushing. As if all of eternity pressed down on his shoulders.
A boy stood alone before him.
The throne room stretched endlessly in all directions, pillars fading into a horizon of silver mist. The air hummed with something violent and wrong.
The figure leaned forward slightly toward the boy
"Do you fear the gods above?"
The words static and nonsensical carved themselves into the boy's soul.
The figure's smile twisting, horribly uncanny. Now, His eyes… like a tortured artist whose soul had become trapped in his own masterpiece. Completely fixed on the boy.
The dream shattered.
Rom snapping awake, screaming at the top of his lungs.
"NAMES! AHHHHHHHHHH!"
He thrashed, tumbling hard onto the wooden floor. His heart pounding like a war drum. His ears still rang with that voice.
He scrambled to his feet and sprinted from his room. The smell of breakfast hit him before he reached the kitchen.
His mother stood at the stove petite, brunette, in her late twenties. There was warmth in her presence, but it carried steel beneath it. The kind of woman who loved fiercely but disciplined harder.
"Rom," she said without turning around, voice steady yet firm, "it is far too early for screaming."
He grabbed the doorway, breath shaking. "He said something this time."
A pause.
The crackle of oil in the pan.
His mother turned slowly, eyes narrowing just slightly.
"Enough," she said. "I will not have you worrying yourself with those king dreams again. Today is important."
Rom swallowed.
"It's your ceremony," she continued. "The Pantheon's Trial is not something children should take lightly. It is life-defining. You're choosing a path to a clan."
Rom winced.
"But—"
"Enough."
Her tone ended the argument.
"Wake your brother. You both need to hurry."
Rom hesitated, then nodded, retreating down the hallway. He scooped up his little brother, Reo, still half asleep and together they rushed toward the front door.
Outside, the morning sky burned a greenish-gold hue.
The market was already stirring to life, vendors passing out fresh loaves of bread marked with sacred sigils burned into the crust. Streams of silver-robed citizens common and royal-born alike flooded the streets, all moving toward what was known as the most blessed day of the year.
A grand carriage bearing the crest of the wealthiest public family thundered across the crowded, crumbling stone paths of the outer ring, racing toward the towering spires of the academy.
Rom stared upward as the carriage passed overhead.
"Th-that… that was the school's goddess, Reo. I can't believe we saw her in real life."
Reo immediately grabbed Rom's arm and pulled him into a narrow alley.
"Chill, would you?" Reo whispered sharply. "Do you want us killed? Her family doesn't like people hooting and hollering about the clan head's daughter."
Rom laughed. "Yeah, like they would even notice two commoners."
He turned back toward the street—
And stopped.
As if he had seen a ghost.
"Rom?"
Reo stepped beside him, following his brother's gaze.
Inside the carriage window sat a small, white-haired beauty. She was watching him
Their eyes locked. Four seconds.
Prolonged, quiet, unbearable.
Then slowly, almost thoughtfully, she lifted her hand and gave a small wave to her driver.
The carriage peeled away from the street.
"Rom… what just happened?" Reo asked.
Rom stood frozen.
"I just had four seconds of prolonged eye contact with the divine, Reo," he muttered. "Basically, I can die happy now."
Reo smacked his brother's head.
"Let's go, idiot. You're going to be late for your path."
"Yeah, yeah."
They continued walking.
After the long trek from the outer ring without the comfort of a carriage, Rom dropped Reo off at the youth hall before heading alone toward the center ring of the academy.
Seven massive spiral wooden towers rose unnaturally toward the heavens.
Each tower bore the carved image of a previous clan head, starting from the first at the base and ascending upward in grotesque, frozen detail, faces preserved as if they had been trapped inside the wood at the moment their authority ended. At the center of the towers stood a large ceremonial stage where the headmaster waited for the remaining silver-robed students.
Students began filtering into the courtyard in clusters, their silver robes shimmering beneath the strange green-gold sky.
They gathered in loose circles beneath the towering wooden spirals, voices overlapping in nervous excitement.
"I'm telling you, it's The Solar Path for me. My aunt aligned Solar. She says the inner ring is breathtaking."
"No way. The Iron Testament has the highest survival record. My father says strength always outlasts brilliance."
"My cousin made it into The Gilded Crown, They say if you rise high enough, you're practically royalty."
Laughter. Nervous shoves.
Hands adjusting ceremonial sashes.
They spoke as if choosing a festival banner, not a life.
"I just hope I don't end up in The Radiant Order. I heard they don't let you leave the southern district for years."
"Shut up, that's not true."
"It is! My brother said—"
A ripple of whispers shifted through the outer edge of the crowd. Heads began turning.
Footsteps echoed unevenly against the stone. Rom stumbled through the courtyard entrance, slightly out of breath. A few strands of dark hair had fallen loose across his forehead. His sash was crooked. He slowed as he felt it. The stares. The silence spreading in pockets around him.
"Oh great," someone muttered. "The crazy is here."
A soft snicker.
"I thought he wouldn't show."
"Why did he even bother?"
"They say he hasn't shown a single pre-sign."
"Maybe he'll align with dust."
More laughter.
Rom kept walking. Eyes forward. Jaw tight.
He passed through them like smoke through branches, pretending not to hear, pretending not to feel the weight pressing against his ribs.
Above them all, the wooden faces carved into the spiraling towers seemed to watch in still, frozen judgment. A bell tolled. Deep. Resonant. The murmurs quieted almost instantly. From the center stage, a tall figure stepped forward in robes far more intricate than the students'. Silver threaded with gold. Symbols stitched in precise geometric patterns that seemed almost too symmetrical to be natural. The Headmaster.
His presence alone drew the courtyard into rigid stillness. He surveyed the gathered students slowly. Then his gaze paused.
Just briefly. On Rom. Not anger. Not disappointment. Something unreadable.
The Headmaster turned to address them all.
"Children of the Pantheon," his voice carried without strain, as if the air itself delivered it for him. "Today, you stand at the threshold of becoming."
The towers loomed behind him.
"The Trial is not a game of ambition, nor a contest of pride. It is revelation. You will choose your path in this life."
A faint wind moved through the courtyard.
Rom felt the back of his neck grow cold.
And somewhere faintly, beneath the hum of ceremony… Laughter. Not from the crowd.
Not from the stage. From above. His eyes lifted toward the first carved clan head at the base of the grand spiral. For a fraction of a second. It was smiling. Wider than before.
Then the wood was still again. Only Rom seemed to have seen it…. Only Rom seemed to have heard it….
The Headmaster snapped his fingers.
A large translucent board materialized in the air above the stage, floating silently as lines of glowing text arranged themselves into ranked order. The overall academic standing of each student across their years in the youth hall was displayed for all to see.
The Headmaster gestured toward the board.
"You will approach in groups of ten," he said. "From the most divine ranked to the least."
Excited whispers spread through the courtyard. The top ten ranked students stepped forward first, silver robes shifting as they formed a neat line before the stage.
The Headmaster walked toward the girl who stood at number one. The white-haired girl.
The girl who had watched Rom from the carriage window.
The Headmaster turned to face the gathered students.
"The Trial is not violence," he said. "Nor is it judgment in the way your fearful imaginations may believe."
His voice carried easily across the silent courtyard.
"When you step onto the podium, you will not walk physically into the spiritual void. Instead, your consciousness will be guided inward."
He raised one hand slowly, pointing toward his own forehead.
"At the center of your awareness lies what the ancients called the third eye. It is not a physical organ, but the bridge between your waking mind and the Pantheon's domain."
A faint wind moved through the courtyard.
"The initiation will connect your consciousness to that bridge."
He paused.
"The void you enter will be uniquely yours."
"Seven paths will present themselves."
"The Pantheon will speak through form, through presence, or through silence itself."
His gaze shifted briefly. Toward the girl standing at rank number one. She lifted her hand politely, palm facing upward, like a student seeking permission to speak.
The Headmaster walked toward her. The courtyard remained completely still.
When he reached her, he spoke softly.
"It's about faith. You'll see, dear."
Then he extended two fingers and pressed them against the center of her forehead.
A soft golden light bloomed between them.
The girl's body went completely motionless.
As if the world itself had paused inside her.
Her eyes lost focus. Her breathing slowed.
The courtyard fell into absolute silence.