He should've felt relief. The pod hissed open like steam escaping a prison. The trial was over, at least for now.
Ryvak stumbled out beside him, bent over, clutching his stomach like something inside was still trying to claw its way out.
"That rat cooked my intestines in a soup pot," he groaned. "How'd yours go?"
Asher didn't answer. His eyes were locked down the hallway. Wide. Distant.
The boy stood there.
Same as before. Black robes. Barefoot. Skin pale as if it had never known sun. Eyes too still—like they'd already seen the end of this scene and didn't care for the retelling. The boy didn't speak. Just raised a hand, slow, deliberate.
Follow me.
Asher didn't move right away.
The others were still dragging themselves out of their pods, dazed and stumbling like newborn foals. No blood, no wounds—just the kind of tired that etched itself deep behind the eyes, a weariness that lingered.
But he stayed. Watching. Thinking.
Then he stepped forward.
Down the empty hall. Cold air kissed the back of his neck. The lights hummed above like they were breathing too.
Past the base of the tower. Past the mural that no longer blinked. That had once shimmered with light, once carried meaning. Now it was just… blank. Like it was waiting to forget.
The boy returned in the stairwell—still as breath caught in stone. Unmoving.
Asher followed. Slowly.
No footsteps. No words. The boy moved like a ghost—weightless, gliding just above the floor, as if the world had forgotten he was supposed to make sound.
Two levels down.
They passed the glyph archives, shelves of texts too old for ink. Past the vent shaft that exhaled wrong—like it breathed from somewhere it shouldn't.
The hallway ended.
Same chamber as before.
Tight stonework. Corners crusted with black dust. The spiral glyph still etched deep into the brick wall—like a scar from a war no one remembered. It pulsed again. Steady. Alive.
The tower was colder down here. Dead quiet. Too quiet.
His boots echoed along the corridor like they didn't belong.
He passed a wall of polished Void-blacksteel armor, mounted for display. Meant to reflect light across the hall. But what it reflected felt… wrong.
That's when he saw him slow.
Shaved head. Blank eyes. No House crest. A thin frame wrapped in silence.
The boy stepped in front of the armor.
But his reflection didn't follow.
The stone rippled—not like water, but like memory trying to hold form and failing.
The boy raised his hand. Tapped the wall.
Gone.
No ripple. No sound. No goodbye.
Just… gone.
Asher rushed forward. Palms slammed against the stone.
Nothing.
The spiral glyph behind him pulsed harder.
Then a voice crackled from hidden speakers—flat, cold, detached:
"Final Trial: Physical Combat. First-Year Initiates. Report to the Main Armory at dawn."
Asher blinked.
His thoughts spiraled. Who was that boy? Why did the Academy feel like it was changing—like the walls were listening?
Like they were remembering.
He turned back.
No answers.
Just silence.
He climbed the stairs alone. Back through crooked halls. Back to his bunk.
His mind burned with questions he couldn't voice.
The next morning.
Warden Malvek Durn waited outside the Processing Tower like rust forged into a man. Unyielding.
He didn't speak. Just turned.
They followed.
Through the spine of Vireon Academy.
Down past the Main Hall—an ancient artery where every hallway split like veins from a heart. They passed under stone arches shaped like watching eyes.
They felt small.
Like insects beneath a sleeping god.
Then the Forge Tower loomed.
Half-buried into the mountain's bones. Jagged. Silent. Breathing fire under its skin.
Voidsteel columns framed its gate. Each carved deeper than the last. Each line of metal told a story—obsessive, precise, cruel. These weren't just built. They were remembered.
A Fourth-Year Initiate guarded the entrance. Didn't salute. Just nodded. Slow. Like he knew.
Warden Durn led them through the main hall first.
Just long enough to feel the heat.
To hear the hammers.
To see what real creation looked like.
The Void didn't like machines. So everything here was made by hand. Always by hand.
Then they turned.
A smaller arch. Words carved into the stone:
First-Year Armory Access Only
Inside, the Tier 1 Vault.
It bled heat and rust. Glyphlight buzzed above like insects mating. Smoke draped the beams like something afraid to fall.
The walls were lined with racks. Nothing fancy. Just wood and steel. Dust-covered blades. Simple spears. No gilded glyphs. No armor singing with power.
But Asher saw more.
Void strands curled off the weapons like thread unraveling from old cloth.
Most were loose. Dead.
But one…
Taut. Sharp. A katana.
It hung near the corner.
Its thread stretched so tight it looked like it might slice the very air.
He stepped toward it. Felt his breath hitch. Not excitement. Something else.
Recognition.
This was his weapon.
Nearby, Cain scoffed. "They expect nobles to swing this charity-bin scrap? Might as well hand me a spoon."
Most nobles didn't bother. Their weapons were legacy-bound. Glyph-sealed. Carried names.
Morgan Kell ran his fingers down a row of blades like choosing between lives. He stopped at a Void-threaded scythe.
"This one screams nicely," he said.
And smiled.
Asher's hand hovered over a lone kunai. Small. Clean. Almost no threads. But steady.
He pocketed it.
Backup.
Across the room, Ryvak held a knight's longsword in one hand, round shield in the other.
"Big swing," he muttered. "Big win."
They circled the bonding table.
Forge Master Inverion stepped forward. Arms folded like he was bracing for disappointment.
"Palm to steel," he said. "The Void will decide if it wants you."
They obeyed.
One by one, hands met weapon.
Glyphs ignited. Runes slithered. Blades shimmered, then vanished—drawn into their wielders.
Not just tools. Not just gear.
Memory sealed to steel.
Cain didn't move. "I've got steel forged by five generations of Virells," he said. "I don't need rust with training wheels."
No one stopped him.
Then they were led back—to the yard where it all began.
Same cracked stone. Same sun-faded scars. The ghosts of drills past etched into the ground.
Familiar. Honest.
Waiting.
A figure stepped into view.
Blade Master Varek Korran.
Twin blades. Voidsteel greaves. Eyes like drawn knives.
He didn't speak.
He walked through them. Adjusted a foot. Nodded. Silent.
"Form up."
Two-Handed. Sword and Shield. Dual Wielders. Spears. Exotic.
They moved.
Asher stood among the Two-Handed. Outskirt-born. Callused. Real.
Varek passed him. Paused.
"Katana," he muttered. "Precision over chaos."
Then walked on.
No drills.
No speeches.
Just silence.
Until—
"Tomorrow," he said, "is your final trial. The Trial of the Body."
He let it linger.
"This is not about Void. Not about grades. It's what's left when you're out of breath, out of time, and out of options."
Above them, through windows blackened with judgment, Oryn Vireon watched.
Still.
Sober as a judge.
Waiting.