The winds of Mount Ilhyr whispered against the rocks. Beneath the crimson dawn, youths from various Olkhar tribes ascended the black stone steps to the Circle of Awakening, where seven dark crystal obelisks formed an imposing hexagram. It was the day they turned eighteen—the moment they would finally be initiated.
Karel walked in silence, his heart pounding. Behind him, dozens of companions murmured among themselves, filled with anticipation and unease. The abilities revealed in the ritual would determine their prestige and role within Olkhar society. The more gifts awakened, the greater their significance. Yet, with each generation, the results became more alarming. The last awakening had produced only individuals with a single gift. If this pattern repeated, the decline of the Olkhar race would no longer be a whisper among the elders but an undeniable reality.
Karel bore the added weight of expectations imposed by his lineage. His mother was of common origin, a bearer of three gifts. However, his father — brother to the current ruler of the race — had awakened five gifts, as had his uncle. Both were seen as the future leaders of the Olkhar. His father's disappearance—whose name was barely mentioned—had been a severe blow to the race and especially to his family. His mother never recovered from the absence, and little was said about the event. Karel knew only that much had been concealed from him. Raised by his uncle, his impeccable grades and exemplary demeanor were his shield. But today, the outcome was entirely beyond his control.
What if he awakened only one gift? The elders' gazes already betrayed their expectations: his lineage should produce another bearer of five gifts. Amidst his reverie, Karel realized he had already reached the center of the circle. After brief words of encouragement, all the elders withdrew, leaving only the young initiates.
At the center of the circle, Elder Tharolis raised the ancestral staff. His voice reverberated among the stones:
"Close your eyes... and feel the vibration!"
As he touched the staff to the ground, the obelisks began to resonate. A soft hum gradually intensified. The gathered youths felt a profound calling. Something whispered in their ears—a faint yet constant whistle. Slowly, their bodies began to react. Each experienced a unique awakening, closely observed by the elders.
The obelisks' vibrations synchronized with that of the Dome. When both unified, the youths' minds and bodies were sculpted like living statues, polished by an invisible force. The Olkhar were the only race capable of awakening multiple gifts—thus, each experience was singular.
Some felt their eyes burn and perceptions expand: the awakening of the Verithil's arcane vision. Others experienced their blood boiling, vibrating with its own rhythm: the mark of the Sangor. Some trembled from head to toe, muscles dilating and reconfiguring like ruptured and regenerated vessels: a sign of the Arenya's physical abilities. Others lost themselves in the labyrinths of a mind blooming with ethereal words, molded in pure energy—the gift of the Sylarei. There were also those whose consciousness dissolved, merging with the pulse of the elements: the call of the Zhyren. And finally, some heard an ancestral call, as if a brother awaited them—the awakening of the Naruun's animal bond.
The elders' eyes moved from one youth to another, attentive. The constant appearance of initiates with only one ability caused apprehension. What defined the Olkhar was precisely the balance among multiple gifts. Typically, individuals had three abilities; the most powerful reached five—true legends among the people. Six gifts were only theorized. Seven gifts, in turn, belonged to legends. Accounts of a long-lost power.
Tharolis, one of the rare pentagifted still alive, knew well the weight of this burden. Each gift was a blessing but also a challenge. The energies, sometimes antagonistic, required constant balance. The more gifts, the greater the burden—yet, this was the core of the Olkhar identity. When a youth awakened only one gift, they became closer to other races than their own. Many, therefore, chose to migrate. Even if not fully accepted by other races, who saw them as diluted versions of their lineages. Still, many preferred this reality to silent dishonor.
At the height of tension, a tremor shook the mountain. A deep, grave sound echoed throughout the sealed world.
The ensuing roar was deafening.
From the slopes and crevices rose stone creatures — Children of Silence. They took various forms: wolves, bears, falcons, rats, etc. Their eyes burned red, bodies lacerated, a grotesque mix of stone, flesh, and twisted vines.
"How is this possible?"Tharolis shouted. "These abominations dwell only in the Dead Zones! How did they reach here undetected?"
He pointed the staff at the elders:
"Protect the youths! The Awakening cannot be interrupted!"
Elders of the words of power stepped forward, eyes closed, breathing rhythmic. Their mouths began to move in unison, chanting verbal runes that reverberated in the air like ancient bells. The words appeared as living embers before their foreheads, drawing symbols in space with the liquid glow of magic. These glyphs danced among themselves, intertwining in an ethereal web that enveloped the initiates with a shimmering shield, firm as crystal yet vibrant like living skin.
Behind the shield, the youths who had already awakened instinctively retreated. Some pressed their arms to their chests, trying to contain the tremor. Others looked at the elders as if expecting salvation. They knew what was approaching: the Children of Silence were not just beasts—they were horrors molded by stone, decayed magic, and chaos. And they came in waves.
Outside, the other elders divided. Some formed a new containment line, while others had already launched into combat.
Tharolis raised the ancestral staff and closed his eyes for a brief moment. When he opened them, they were completely golden—no irises, no pupils, just pure light. He simultaneously channeled the gifts of three races: the perception of the Verithil, the elemental control of the Zhyren, and the verbal power of the Sylarei. His body merged with the environment. He felt the electricity in the rock, the heat of blood, the flow of the breeze among the broken stones.
Tharolis's mind shaped the word: "Lightning."
The golden rune appeared on his forehead and exploded in a flash. Electric currents slithered across his body like serpents of light, then leaped toward the battlefield. The air crackled with each discharge. Sparks opened craters among the Children of Silence, pushing them back—but only for moments.
To the left, a Sangor elder cut his own arm with a ceremonial dagger. The blood spurted in arcs and transformed into liquid silver spikes that shot straight, piercing three creatures with a single gesture. His skin glowed with crimson runes pulsing to the rhythm of his heart.
A group of Zhyren chanted deep songs, evoking stone walls that emerged from the ground. The rocks fused with fire whirlwinds and jets of steam, creating elemental serpents that engulfed the creatures with roars of living lava.
On the flanks, Naruun elders appeared mounted on griffins and enchanted wolves. They charged like living shadows. Curved blades gleamed in their hands, guided by the howls of the Anirû echoing among the peaks.