Thaddeus woke to harsh, sterile light that stabbed through his eyelids, forcing him upright. His lungs burned as they filled with the cold, dry air of reality, a relief compared to the smoke and fire of his trial. His body ached in unfamiliar ways, every muscle and joint screaming reminders that he had survived something brutal, something that had changed him.
A shadow moved across the doorway.
She stepped in with quiet confidence.
Tall, lean, dressed entirely in black, a cap pulled low, blue-lensed glasses catching the light. Between gloved fingers, she held a cigar. The smoke curled and twisted unnaturally in the air, moving like it had a life of its own, blotting and refracting shapes in the room.
"You look… different." Her voice was low, smooth, and amused. She scrutinized him like a puzzle she already knew the answer to.
Thaddeus instinctively turned toward the mirror.
The reflection that stared back was not the boy who had climbed out of the slums.
He was six-foot-four, broad and solidly built. Muscles ran along his arms, chest, and legs like they had been forged, not grown. His hair was stark white, a vivid contrast to his dark skin. His eyes glowed red, sharp and predatory. Along his forearm, an intricate black tattoo curled, twisting into symbols that seemed to pulse faintly, as though alive.
He remembered himself before the trial — five-foot-ten, scrawny, black hair, hazel eyes. A boy who had crawled through alleys, hiding from life, hiding from death.
"I… I changed," he whispered, voice catching.
"Some people do," she said casually, smoke curling around her like a living cloak. "They come back different. That's normal after what you went through."
She stepped closer, studying him carefully. "Name's Veyra Kael," she said, extending a gloved hand. "You are?"
"Thaddeus," he replied, shaking her hand cautiously.
Her gaze flicked back to the mirror and then to him again. "Height, build, white hair, red eyes, tattoo… you're nothing like the profile I have on you." She exhaled smoke, and it twisted in front of them, almost like a veil. "Looks like your trial left more than scars."
Thaddeus swallowed. "Yeah…"
She circled him, the smoke tangling around him like a living shroud. "How was your trial?" she asked. The words were casual, but they carried the weight of someone who had seen much, and demanded honesty.
He hesitated. How could he explain the mountain, the slaver, the fire, the blood, the screams of the village? Finally, he said, "I… survived."
Her blue lenses reflected him, unblinking. "Rank?"
Thaddeus opened his mouth, then closed it. She smirked knowingly.
"Don't tell anyone. Not even people you think you can trust. There are powerful people in this world — people who will make you submit. If you resist, they'll kill you. Or use you until you're strong enough to make your own rules."
"Lie about it," she added softly. "Say what's safe. Keep your real rank hidden."
He nodded, swallowing hard. "Understood."
Outside, the city air bit at him. Veyra didn't walk. She led him to a sleek black vehicle, unmarked, tinted windows. The engine thrummed quietly, vibrating through his chest like a heartbeat.
Inside, the smoke thickened. It felt alive, twisting and bending around them, making the edges of the interior shimmer. He didn't question it — he didn't need to.
"Where are we going?" he asked.
"The Berates Government Center," she said, voice calm. "You'll register your Aspect, rank, and abilities. Mostly procedural. At your stage — Awakened — you're considered combat-ready. At most, they'll put you on the front lines unless you show exceptional skill."
The building rose before them — steel and glass, imposing, guarded. Personnel moved with military precision, scanning everyone entering. Inside, scanners checked them, but none dared impede Veyra's stride.
At the registration desk, a woman scanned him with a device that made him feel transparent, as if she could read the layers beneath his skin.
"Name?"
"Thaddeus," he said.
"Aspect?"
"Blood Prince," he replied.
"Aspect Rank?"
"Awakened," he added carefully, keeping it simple.
The registrar typed silently, then looked at him. "Abilities?"
"Blood Manipulation, Weapon Mastery, weapon manifestation " he said slowly. The lady nodded, entering the data.
Veyra exhaled smoke behind him, leaning against the wall like a shadow. "Good. Keep your numbers off the radar. Don't draw attention. Not here, not anywhere. Understand?"
"Understood," he said.
After registration, he sat down and entered his soul sea it was something veyra taught him in the car how to check his status. Only you can check your status and no one else well unless that have a aspect tailored to that. The screen flickered, displaying his current profile:
[Name: Thaddeus]
[Aspect rank: Divine
[Aspect: Blood Prince]
[Rank: Dormant]
[Title: Lost to Flame]
[Flaw: Wrath Unchained.]
Abilities: Blood Manipulation, Weapon Mastery,Weapon manifestation.
Memories: Crimson Requiem
Below it, another line drew his attention:
[Blood Cores: 3 /2000]
Thaddeus's chest tightened. 3, he had survived the trial, killed the slaver, endured everything — and yet the system measured him as though he had just begun. Four thousand cores of potential waiting to be claimed.
He stared at the screen, the number haunting him. 3/2000".
"3…I'm guessing I got it from that slaver I killed?" he muttered.
Thaddeus leaned back, letting the weight of it settle. His reflection in the terminal screen stared back — white hair, red eyes, dark skin, the black tattoo twisting along his forearm. He flexed his fingers and felt the hum of latent power beneath his skin.
"You survived your trial," Veyra said softly.
"Now it's time to survive everything else."
He swallowed, gripping the edge of the terminal.
Three to two thousand.
The number felt like a challenge.