The halls of the house Veylan were quiet, but not in a peaceful way. Silence here was the expectation, like the air before a sword strike. Sunlight spilled through the stained glass, painting the marble floor in the image of the family's crest: a black flame.
The trial began at dawn.
Not with fanfare. Not with horns or proclamations. Just the low toll of the iron bell, echoing across the mist-draped spires of House Veylan. It rang once for each chosen bloodline—twelve in all this year.
He had not truly slept, only drifted in and out of a shallow haze where the world pulsed like a held breath. Lira was already in his room, setting out his ceremonial garb: black silver edging, simple but immaculate. No armor, no weapons.
"You're not eating?" She asked gently as he stood near the hearth, hands braced on the stone.
He shook his head.
She didn't push. Just walked over and helped him fasten the clasps of his robe. Her fingers were steady and warm.
"Look at me," she said softly.
He did. Her eyes were clear, unwavering. "Whatever happens—just stand your ground."
Alaric tried to smile. "Even if I fall?"
"Especially if you fall," she replied.
The Hall of the Myth was carved directly into the mountain behind Veylan Keep. It was said that the first of their line had struck the stone with a blade of fire, and the mountain had opened in submission. A story, most likely. But the hall felt old enough to believe it.
Alaric walked the path to it in silence, flanked by attendants and high-blood cousins dressed like ghosts in finery. Mist clung low along the flagstones. The rest of the household would follow later—only the chosen twelve walked this path alone.
He was fourth in line. Lyra was third.
They did not speak.
The doors loomed ahead, iron-veined obsidian, marked with the emblem of the black flame. Before them stood the flame warden, dressed in a soul-sucking black.
The flame warden was a position that managed the myth. It was usually held by ranks of seniority.
He raised his hand. The line of twelve stopped.
"You stand trial before the myth," the Flame warden intoned, voice deep as the mountain itself. "You are born of Veylan blood. Today, we test your compatibility with the myth."
Every heir knew there were levels to how compatible you were with a myth. If you had no compatibility with a myth, it would be rejection, and you would gain no boons. Those rejected by the myth were often exiled, and their names faded from the family line.
If you had some compatibility, it would be partial, and you would gain access to mythic energy and some physical enhancements. Those of Veylan blood in the estate usually have partial compatibility.
Finally, if you were compatible with a myth, you would gain access to mythic energy, physical enhancements, and a manifestation. A manifestation is the way a person expresses their myth to the world. Even if two people were compatible with the same myth, their manifestations would be different. It is a person's unique signature.
The doors opened with a groan, revealing pure soul-sucking darkness within.
Suddenly, an aura seemingly fuelled by pure destruction erupted from the pure darkness. Surrounded by such an aura, Alaric had an urge to kneel, and he knew if he didn't, he would be destroyed.
Just then, the flame warden drew a knife, slashed at his palm, and muttered a few words. The aura then receded like the morning tide.
Alaric's chest tightened, but his eyes remained focused.
The first heir stepped inside. The doors closed, and minutes later, they opened again, and he emerged pale, trembling, but with a faint glow in his eyes. Partial compatibility. Whispers rippled through the gathered family.
The second heir followed. This one returned with a crimson shimmer dancing faintly around his hands. A manifestation, full compatibility. The crowd's reaction was warmer.
Then it was Lyra's turn.
When she walked, it seemed like she glided. It was unnaturally natural.
For a long moment there was nothing. Then the darkness flared, and through the open doors, they saw her standing inside, black fire swirling around her in graceful arcs. It wrapped her like a living crown.
She stepped out to hushed awe, her eyes alight with flame and her father's smile, the smallest curve of the lips. That said more than words.
Now it was Alaric's turn.
The moment he crossed the threshold, the air thickened, pressing against his lungs. The Hall's interior was vast, lit only by the molten glow of runes carved deep into the stone. At its center burned the Flame itself—not fire as mortals knew it, but something older. It twisted in colors the eye couldn't name, pulling heat from the marrow and thought from the mind.
The Myth looked at him.
It had no eyes, no shape, but the weight of its presence fixed him in place. Every part of him screamed to kneel, to submit, to let it burn through him until nothing remained.
Stand your ground.
Lira's voice in his head steadied him. He took a step forward.
The flame reached.
Agony. It was not heat, but memory—his, his father's, and those of long-dead ancestors, each one judging. Images flashed: victories he had not earned, battles he had not fought, failures he had yet to make.
Then the pain deepened, becoming hunger. The Myth searched him, tearing through will and bone, seeking… something.
It found nothing.
The flame recoiled. Then, with a final, searing pulse, it cast him away.
Alaric staggered back, gasping, as the molten runes dimmed. His hands were empty. He thought he would be angry; he thought he would be sad. But instead, he felt hollow. He felt empty; he felt as if he couldn't feel.
The doors opened.
Silence fell in the outer hall as he stepped out. No shimmer of power followed him. No aura. Nothing.
The whispers began immediately.
"Rejection."
"Impossible…"
"Feren's son?"
His father's face was a mask of iron, unreadable. Lyra's expression was not. There was no gloating in her smile, only the quiet, satisfied certainty of victory.
The Flame Warden's voice rang out, formal and merciless.
"The Myth has rejected you, Alaric Veylan. By the laws of the bloodline, you are stripped of claim and title. You will serve your exile at the Njothren Frontier until such time as the House releases you—or death takes you."
Alaric's throat was dry. The world seemed both too loud and impossibly far away.
That night, the bells did not ring for him.
By morning, he would be gone.