The herald raised his staff once more, its crystal tip catching the sun and scattering it across the arena like shattered stars.
"The selections are complete."
The words fell not as an announcement, but as a closing seal.
A hush swept the coliseum—tens of thousands of breaths caught at once—before Saint Rennardo Salles ascended the dais. The holy representative of the Astral Temple moved with unhurried certainty, his long cloak unfurling behind him like gathering storm clouds. Gold-threaded sigils traced its edges, each symbol ancient enough to have outlived dynasties. His presence alone pressed upon the air, and even the captains stilled.
When he spoke, his voice carried without effort.
"You who stand tall—hear this."
His gaze settled first upon the chosen. Not sweeping. Not vague. He looked at them one by one, as if committing their faces to memory.
"You were tested. You bled and you endured. You did not stumble away." His voice softened, just enough. "Be proud of that. Wear this moment in your bones. You have earned a place among the pillars of Astraelis—the sentinels. Let this pride stiffen your spine and temper your will."
A murmur rippled through the ranks. Shoulders straightened. Chins lifted.
For one slow heartbeat, Saint Rennardo allowed something close to a smile. It passed like a benediction—felt more than seen.
Then his eyes moved.
They found the rest.
"And to those whose names were not spoken today," he continued, his tone shifting—not to pity, but to resolve. "Know this is not an ending. The path of a Sentinel is carved in years, not moments. You came. You fought. You learned. That courage is not wasted. Train. Return. Let today be the coal that forges a brighter flame."
The response was quieter than the cheer before—but deeper. Heads bowed, not in shame, but in promise.
Saint Rennardo's expression hardened once more. The warmth receded, replaced by the weight of duty.
"Understand this," he said, raising his hand. "To stand among the sentinels is to accept a life greater than oneself. You will kneel before crown and Imperion. You will swear loyalty to the King and his kingdom. You will be honored—yes—but you will also be bound. Tested. Called. This is the price of guarding a realm."
The crowd answered him with thunder.
Not joy alone—but assent.
Midarion felt it differently.
To him, the roar sounded like iron gates sliding shut.
Still, he could not deny the pull. Captain Aelyss had claimed him. Whatever waited beyond this moment—chains or wings—it was already set in motion.
And thus, the Ashborns stepped into history.
They moved at the herald's command, each new Sentinel walking toward the gate marked with the emblem of their chosen Bastion. Bronze fire. White sky. Deep tide. Living stone. Each path led forward—away from the arena, away from the trials—and toward the capital itself.
The city of Astraelis blazed like a crown forged in flame.
Marble avenues stretched wide beneath the sun, their pale stone etched with constellations that shimmered faintly as caravans passed. Banners snapped overhead, their blues and golds catching the light. The people filled the streets in endless waves—merchants, pilgrims, nobles, children perched on shoulders—voices rising like a living tide.
Petals fell. Cheers thundered.
Today was no day of mourning. No day of war.
Today was the Oath of Astraelis.
Midarion walked as if inside a dream.
He had known cities before—ruined ones, lawless ones, places where survival was negotiated in shadows—but nothing like this. Everything here was deliberate. Polished. Alive with purpose. Even the air seemed cleaner, humming faintly with ordered Kosmo.
Reikika walked beside him, her eyes sharp despite the spectacle. She took it all in without awe, but even she could not fully mask her wonder.
"This place…" Midarion murmured. "It doesn't feel real."
Reikika didn't answer at first. Then, quietly, "Real things are often the ones that hurt the most."
At the heart of the capital rose the palace.
White stone veined with gold, its spires pierced the sky like spears aimed at the heavens. Blue banners streamed from every tower, each embroidered with the golden Octagram—the eight-pointed star said to govern fate itself.
Before the gates, the procession halted.
Five hundred figures stood in perfect formation.
The King's Guard of Ignis.
Crimson plate gleamed beneath the sun, each armor marked with miniature golden stars. Halberds crossed in flawless unison as the recruits approached, the sound of steel echoing like a warning toll. Their discipline was absolute. Their presence—overwhelming.
These were no ceremonial soldiers.
They were battle-forged. Handpicked from the Citadel of Fire. Guardians of bloodlines and crowns. To breach their line was to invite annihilation.
Midarion swallowed.
Though none of them turned their heads, he felt measured. Weighed. Found… something.
So this is what stands between the King and the world.
The gates responded to their presence, constellation-carved stone glimmering as they opened. Beyond lay the Hall of Oaths.
Inside, celestial windows bathed the marble floor in sapphire and gold. Light moved as if alive, tracing sigils older than the kingdom itself. The four Bastions stood assembled, captains and vice-captains at their head, veterans flanking them in silent pride.
The Citadel of Fire burned brightest—crimson armor dusted with gold, confidence rolling off them like heat. Among them stood Rozelda Tali, her presence unmistakable even in stillness.
The Tower of the Sky recruits gleamed in white and gold, rigid as carved marble, their discipline cold and immaculate.
The Fortress of Gaia loomed in deep brown and gold, armor heavy as mountain stone, stances immovable.
And then there was the Sanctuary of Tides.
Midarion felt the shift as he joined their ranks with Reikika and even Lior.
Their armor shimmered in deep ocean-blue, lighter than it looked, etched with flowing patterns that caught the light like ripples. Golden stars were scattered across their cuirasses—not rigid, but drifting, as if guided by unseen currents. Their banners stirred though no wind touched them, moving like waves drawn by the moon.
They stood differently too.
Less rigid. More… aware.
Some watched the room. Some closed their eyes, feeling the Kosmo currents beneath the hall. Others stood with hands loosely at their sides, balanced rather than braced.
Captain Aelyss was not present—but her influence was undeniable.
Whispers moved among the recruits as they settled. Quiet introductions. Casual exchanges.
"Which academy trained you?"
"I trained at the Blazing Sun Academy, Ignis," one said proudly.
"Skyreach Academy, in Aeros."
"Stonewake Hall Academy. In Terrenos."
Each name carried weight. Prestige. Proof.
When the circle reached Midarion, the attention sharpened.
"How did you enter the trials?" a young recruit asked, voice polite but curious.
"Recommendation letter," Midarion answered simply.
A pause.
"From which academy?"
"I didn't attend one."
Brows furrowed.
"Then who wrote it?"
Midarion hesitated. "I… don't know."
That landed harder than expected.
A low murmur spread.
"That's not possible."
"Only powerful sponsors—"
"So where are you from, exactly?"
Midarion met their eyes. "Arechi."
The word fell like rot into water.
Faces twisted—not in shock, but in recognition.
"Arechi?"
"That slum?"
"So they let trash through now?"
Laughter—sharp, cruel.
Someone stepped back from him. Then another.
Reikika moved instantly. "Watch your mouth."
A Fire recruit sneered. "Of course you'd defend him. Same name. Same filth."
Her eyes flashed. "Say it again."
"She's from the gutter too," another muttered. "Only rats stick together."
The tension snapped tight.
Hands shifted. Feet braced.
Then—
"Enough."
The captains stepped forward as one.
Captain Kael Isander gaze cut through the space like a drawn blade. It was calm—but not forgiving. A few officers looked away as he passed, expressions shuttered. Not approval. Not defiance. Calculation.
He gathered her recruits with a single gesture. The other captains did the same, order snapping back into place.
"The King approaches," the Saint Rennardo announced.
Silence fell.
Cold. Absolute.
Midarion stood still. His pulse slowed—not from relief, but from understanding. The warmth he had felt in the streets was gone now, replaced by something narrower, conditional. A door that could close as easily as it had opened.
The oath had not yet been spoken.
And already, the chains were visible.