The first thing Blaze Carter felt was heat. Not the gentle warmth of sunlight, but a furnace blast that licked at his skin, as if the ground itself had turned molten.
A ring of light flared under his feet, searing against his boots, and a deafening whoomph of displaced air stole his breath. White swallowed the world—white so bright it pressed against the back of his eyes and scalded his thoughts into silence.
Somewhere in that light, muffled voices surged, too many and too fast to follow.
"…It's working—!"
"…heroes from another world—"
The light collapsed without warning, ripping the veil away.
Blaze staggered, blinking furiously. His boots scraped on polished stone. The glare faded into a vast, vaulted hall lit by sunlight spilling through stained-glass windows. Reds, blues, and golds painted shifting mosaics across the marble floor. Above, chandeliers heavy with crystal swayed in some unseen breeze.
He wasn't alone. Twenty or so figures stood around him—classmates, every one of them in their school uniforms, some gaping, some clutching their heads, some muttering to each other in disbelief.
What the hell—? Blaze's heart was a drum in his chest. His brain scrambled to connect the last thing he remembered—Mr. Lawson droning on about trigonometric functions—to… this.
A cough like a sword being unsheathed drew his attention forward.
At the far end of the hall sat a man draped in imperial finery, robes of crimson and gold pooling around him like molten metal. His crown glittered with gems the size of Blaze's thumb. Flanking him were armored guards with halberds, and further still, an arc of robed priests who clutched ornate staves topped with glowing gems.
One of the priests stepped forward, voice booming unnaturally in the echoing hall. "Heroes of the Goddess, summoned from a distant realm! We welcome you to the Holy Throne of Eldvaris. By divine decree, you are chosen to stand against the encroaching darkness."
Blaze's breath hitched. Chosen? Heroes? His gaze darted to his classmates. Most looked equally stunned, but a few… well, a few had a gleam in their eyes. One or two already stood taller, shoulders squared as if they'd been waiting for this moment.
A second priest approached, bearing a pedestal with a crystal the size of a watermelon, its heart pulsing faintly like a living thing. "Step forward, one by one," he intoned. "The Crystal of Benediction shall awaken the blessings granted to you by the Goddess."
Blessings. Blaze tried to wrap his head around the word.
The first volunteer—Lucas Jansen, track star and class golden boy—strode forward with an athlete's confidence. He laid a palm on the crystal. Immediately, it blazed into radiant gold, throwing sparks into the air. Glyphs spun in the light, symbols Blaze had never seen before, yet they hummed with power.
Gasps rippled through the nobles who lined the sides of the hall. The priest proclaimed, "The Flameblade of the Dawn! A hero of fire and light!"
Lucas grinned, and in his hand, a sword of pure flame erupted. Nobles clapped, priests bowed their heads, and even the emperor's lips twitched in satisfaction.
One by one, Blaze's classmates stepped forward. Each touch to the crystal brought forth some spectacular display—bolts of lightning arcing between fingertips, spectral wings unfurling, shimmering barriers blooming into existence. The hall filled with light, noise, and the smug glow of newly-minted champions.
And then it was Blaze's turn.
He swallowed, palms damp, and stepped up to the pedestal. The crystal's surface was cool under his skin.
Nothing happened.
He frowned, pressing harder. Still nothing. No glow, no warmth, not even a flicker.
The priest's brows drew together. "Strange… try again."
Blaze did. The crystal remained dull, inert as a lump of dead stone.
A ripple of whispers surged through the hall.
"Is it broken?" someone murmured.
"No," another voice said, tinged with smug certainty. "The gods have rejected him."
The words hit Blaze like a punch. His chest tightened, but before he could respond, one of the younger priests leaned in to the elder, his voice carrying despite the attempt to whisper.
"…He's not on the summoning list."
Blaze froze.
"It must be a magical misfire," the younger priest continued, "dragged in by mistake. A useless bystander."
The elder priest's lips pressed into a thin line, but he said nothing. The emperor's gaze settled on Blaze, cool and disinterested. "Remove him. The court has no time for rejects."
Blaze's throat went dry. Around him, the classmates he'd known for years avoided his gaze—some with pity, most with relief that it wasn't them. A few smirked outright.
Hands clamped down on his shoulders. The guards' gauntlets bit into muscle as they turned him sharply and began marching him toward the great doors. His footsteps echoed in the cavernous space, chased by faint chuckles and the rustle of robes.
At the threshold, Blaze risked a glance back.
Lucas was already laughing with a pair of nobles, his flame-sword flickering in the air. The emperor had turned his attention to the next hero. No one was looking at Blaze anymore.
The heavy doors slammed shut behind him, sealing away the light and grandeur. Blaze found himself in a cold corridor lit only by guttering torches. The laughter from the throne room still clung to his ears like a phantom itch.
And for the first time since arriving, the truth settled in, sharp as broken glass:
He wasn't chosen.
He wasn't wanted.
He wasn't even supposed to be here.