The Voss estate's grand dining hall is too large for one person, but Kairen prefers it that way. He claims the head of the table and lets the emptiness swallow the rest—twelve high-backed chairs, each carved with a different beast from the family crest, all staring at him like a jury. Sunlight pours through the clerestory windows, igniting dust motes and the ever-shifting illusions in the tapestries lining the stone walls.
Each tapestry is a living chronicle, spellwoven to depict a Voss ancestor in a moment of triumph. One minute, the leftmost tapestry shows a silver-armored matron slaying a lizard the size of a carriage. Blink, and she's fencing a rival through the thigh at a royal banquet, the blood blooming in slow, exaggerated crimson. Today, Kairen can't bring himself to meet the tapestry's gaze, not when his own triumphs are limited to besting Tali in chess and stealing breakfast before the cook catches him.
Instead, he focuses on the envelope in his hands, thick as a ledger and sealed with the wax sigil of the Adventurer's Guild. It's addressed to Kairen Voss, Heir," in his mother's slanted script. He runs his thumb along the edge, worrying at the seal. He's memorized the emblem: crossed sword and staff, encircled by a chain of stars. He tries to imagine his parents pressing the stamp into hot wax, somewhere in the chaos of a distant quest.
His pulse is a rabbit in a snare.
He breaks the seal, careful not to tear the parchment. The scent hits him first—cinders and pine resin, his father's favorite brand of pipe smoke. He inhales, eyes stinging. The letter unfolds crisp and deliberate, each line of ink a slice of his parents' world, so much larger and sharper than his own.
"Kairen, darling—"
He skims, searching for the news. The usual pleasantries—hope the estate isn't falling apart, mind the staff, stay out of the eastern wing—then the meat of it:
"We are delayed in the Northern Territories. A rogue Thunderbird has been sighted near the old imperial border, and the Guild's request is urgent. Do not worry: we travel with a full complement, including two healers and a tactical mage from the academy. Your father is insufferably pleased to be hunting with old friends again. We'll return as soon as the beast is subdued and the contract fulfilled. Look after your sister, and remember to practice restraint with the warding spells. Love, Mother (and Father, who is currently sparring with a hallucinated version of himself in the courtyard)."
Kairen reads the paragraph again, slower this time, letting the words settle like silt. A rogue Thunderbird. Not some petty bandit or village pest, but a legendary storm-bringer—feathers sharp as blades, talons that could shred plate armor, a scream that could fracture glass. And they'd left him here, with only tutors and a patchwork of old stories for company.
He wants to be proud. He is proud. But pride is a thin shell over something else, something that gnaws at him when the house is quiet and the wind claws at the shutters. He tries to picture his parents, heroic and unflinching, stalking the Thunderbird through black pine and snowdrift. Instead he sees them caught in a flash of lightning, bones picked clean in a field of white.
He folds the letter in half, then quarters, pressing the creases flat. He closes his eyes and listens for Tali's footsteps, but hears nothing except the soft, static crackle of the enchanted tapestries.
He wonders if the ancestors ever felt lonely, or if they were too busy making history to notice the emptiness.
The door creaks, and Tali bursts in, trailing the smell of wet earth and the triumphant smile of someone who has just won a bet against gravity. She's clutching a book—probably pilfered from the restricted shelf—and her boots leave a trail of mud across the flagstones.
"What's that?" she demands, zeroing in on the letter before Kairen can hide it. "Is it from them?"
He hesitates, then nods. "They're delayed. Something about a contract in the North."
Tali's eyes spark. "Monster, or artifact?"
"Monster. Thunderbird."
She lets out a whistle. "Lucky. Last time they got to fight a Thunderbird, Dad lost half an eyebrow and Mom made him wear that hat for weeks."
Kairen tries to smile, but it doesn't fit. He tucks the letter into his lap. "They'll be back soon."
Tali flops into the chair beside him, drops the book onto the table, and swings her legs over the armrest. She's already bored with the conversation. "Did you get the bread this morning? Cook says you snuck in before sunup."
He shrugs. "I was hungry."
"Liar. You just didn't want to see her face when you asked for thirds." She grins, a streak of mud on her cheek. "You should come outside. There's a new fox in the orchard. Bet I can catch it before lunch."
Kairen shakes his head. "I have to finish my readings. And the wards—"
"Wards are fine," she interrupts. "They're always fine. You just like having an excuse." She leans in, voice dropping to a mock-whisper. "You know, you can be boring now and then. It's allowed."
He snorts, grateful for the distraction. "And you can be quiet, but you never are."
Tali beams, unoffended. She scoops up her book and pushes off from the table, boots thudding as she heads for the door. "Suit yourself, Lord Heir. But if the fox gets away, it's your fault."
When she's gone, Kairen sits alone with the letter, letting the sunlight creep across the table and warm the backs of his hands. He traces the Guild seal again, wishing it meant something more. Wishing he could follow it north, into the teeth of the storm, instead of rotting here with his ghosts and his dreams.
He looks up at the tapestries. The ancestral matron has, in the interim, traded her sword for a goblet, toasting some invisible victory. Kairen raises his hand in silent salute, then stands and pockets the letter.
There's a tremor in his chest—fear, excitement, or both—but he doesn't let it show. He smooths his tunic, squares his shoulders, and strides from the hall as if he, too, is about to make history.
Near sunset, the estate boundary shimmers with the color of unspilled blood.
Kairen crouches in the shadow of a garden wall, knees damp from the evening dew, watching as the perimeter guards scramble to their posts. He's not supposed to be out here—his mother's standing order, repeated so often he dreams it in her voice—but curiosity always trumps obedience. Especially now, with the rumor of a kobold incursion running wild through the staff.
He spots them first: small, hunched figures scuttling along the treeline, pale scales glinting in the last rays of sunlight. The kobolds are faster than he imagined, more organized, weaving between the pines in a loose wedge. Their weapons are laughable—rusted sickles, broken spearheads lashed to broom handles—but their numbers are not. He counts at least two dozen, maybe more, and each one yips and cackles as if the raid is the best joke they've ever heard.
The guards move with practiced efficiency. Kairen recognizes most by silhouette: old Harlan, with his limping gait and the way he favors his left arm, the twins from the town garrison, indistinguishable until they split to flank a target. He sees them draw on the estate's magical grid, hands flaring with conjured light. The first volley is a wall of fire—short, controlled, designed to corral rather than kill. The kobolds scatter, howling, but a few break through, leaping over the charred grass toward the main gate.
Kairen's heart pounds in his ears, a wild staccato. He knows he should run, or at least hide better, but the spectacle pins him in place.
He watches as the lead kobold slams into the outer barrier a shield of blue-white energy that ripples like pond water—then explodes backward in a shower of sparks. The others hesitate, then regroup, hurling stones and curses. The guards respond with a second volley, this one a pulse of icy air that freezes the ground and sends the kobolds skidding helplessly.
One guard, a young woman with a streak of white in her hair, barks a command. The estate's alarm system a network of enchanted chimes—activates in a shriek of discordant bells. The kobolds flinch, claws over their ears, and a few drop their weapons entirely.
It's over in minutes. The survivors limp back to the forest, some dragging their fallen, others cursing in a language Kairen can almost, but not quite, understand. The guards sweep the grounds, checking for breaches, but the wards have held. No casualties, just a few scorched patches and the smell of singed fur.
Kairen lets out the breath he's been holding. His legs are numb, but he doesn't care. He wants—no, needs—to know what it felt like, wielding that kind of power. The guards make it look effortless, but he's seen the way their hands tremble after a big spell, the way their eyes flicker with adrenaline and fear.
When the last of the cleanup patrol vanishes into the dusk, Kairen slips from his hiding place. He heads for the far end of the orchard, where the estate's magic is thinner and the risk of detection lower. He remembers the guards' hand motions, the way they shaped the air before the fire burst out. He practices the gesture, slow at first, then faster, mimicking the rhythm he observed.
He closes his eyes, draws in a breath, and tries to feel the current of magic in his chest. For a long moment, nothing happens. He's just a boy, alone in the cold, waving his arms like an idiot.
Then, at the edge of his perception, something clicks. A prickling heat flares in his palm, sharp and sudden. He snaps his eyes open to see a tiny flame, no bigger than a candle, dancing above his outstretched hand. It wobbles, gutters, and nearly goes out, but he grits his teeth and wills it steady.
He laughs, giddy and terrified all at once. The flame sputters in sympathy.
A twig snaps nearby. Kairen yelps, the flame vanishing as he jerks his hand behind his back. He spins, expecting a kobold, but finds himself face-to-face with one of the guards—the young woman with the white streak. She squints at him, expression unreadable.
"Shouldn't you be inside?" she asks, not unkindly.
Kairen swallows, fists clenched behind him. "I wanted to see the wards. Mother says they're the best in the county."
The guard snorts, then glances at his hands. "Keep practicing. But do it where the kobolds can't use you as bait, yeah?"
He nods, cheeks burning.
She pats him on the shoulder—an awkward, heavy gesture—then heads off toward the manor, boots crunching in the frosted grass.
Kairen waits until she's gone, then looks at his palm. It's pink, a little singed, but alive with possibility.
He flexes his fingers and grins.
The study smells of old parchment and regret. Most evenings, it's Kairen's sanctuary, a place to lose himself in the labyrinth of stacked tomes and battered maps, each colored pin a silent testament to some Voss ancestor's triumph or defeat. Tonight, though, he's here to hunt answers.
His prey sits hunched at the writing desk, skin the color of sun-bleached parchment and scars mapping the back of his neck like a river delta. The man is known as "Master Fell," a moniker that seems more curse than name. He reads with his head low, squinting through half-moon spectacles, lips moving silently as he parses a letter from the city.
Kairen approaches, careful not to startle. "Master Fell?"
The man grunts, not looking up. "If this is about the kobolds, your sister already debriefed me. In detail."
Kairen ignores the dig. "It's not that. I wanted to ask about the Adventurer's Guild. The ranking system."
Fell pauses, pen hovering over the paper. "You've had the primer since you could walk. If you haven't memorized it by now, I'm wasting my time."
"I know the primer," Kairen says, "but the primer doesn't explain why it matters. Or what happens after S."
Fell's mouth twitches, the closest he ever comes to a smile. He sets the pen down and swivels to face Kairen fully. The man's left eye is a milky ruin, courtesy of a wyvern's tail swipe—family lore says he kept fighting for three days before anyone noticed.
"You want the real answer?" Fell asks.
Kairen nods, pulse a drumbeat in his ears.
Fell gestures to the far wall, where a tapestry of the old Guild hall hangs in faded blue and gold. "Every child wants to be an S-rank. It's the pinnacle—fame, coin, your pick of contracts. But the ladder is longer than most realize. You know the letters?"
"F through S," Kairen recites. "F is fodder, E is errand-runner, D is militia, C is command, B is elite, A is master, S is legend."
Fell snorts. "That's the marketing. But there's more. SS, SSS—most think it's a myth, a recruitment ploy. I've seen the files. After S, you don't get parades. You get a choice: disappear, or become a pawn in the old wars. The ones no one talks about."
Kairen frowns. "No one's reached SSS in centuries. Why?"
Fell shrugs, a motion that tugs at the pale scar across his collarbone. "Maybe no one's strong enough. Maybe no one's desperate enough. Or maybe the Guild culls the ones who get too close."
He leans forward, fixing Kairen with his good eye. "Why do you care, kid? You're barely old enough to sign your own contracts."
Kairen hesitates, then decides to risk honesty. "I think it matters. Not just for me—for everyone. If there's a higher level, there must be a reason they keep it secret."
Fell studies him for a long moment. "You're not like your father," he says at last. "He played the game. You want to rewrite the rules."
Kairen flushes, unsure if it's a compliment or an insult.
Fell turns back to his desk. "If you want to survive, learn to hide your ambitions. The Guild rewards loyalty, not curiosity."
Kairen nods, but inside he's burning with new questions.
As he leaves, his right palm begins to itch, a sharp, persistent tickle just below the skin. He glances at it, half-expecting to see a rash or a splinter, but the flesh is smooth, unmarred. Still, the sensation lingers, as if something inside him is waking up.
He rubs his hand absently, eyes scanning the dim corridor for Tali or any of the night staff. The itch won't let go. By the time he reaches his room, it's a throbbing pulse, in sync with his heartbeat.
He shuts the door and presses his hand to the cool stone of the windowsill. The itch recedes, just enough to let him breathe.
He flexes his fingers, and this time, there's a faint blue spark at the base of his thumb.
He stares, then grins.
Tomorrow, he decides, he'll start asking the dangerous questions.
That night, sleep comes in fits and starts.
He tosses, arm folded under his head, palm pressed to the pillow. The itch returns, sharper than before, and soon it's the only sensation left—hot, urgent, impossible to ignore. When he finally slips under, the dream is waiting.
He's flying again, but this time there's no fear. Only hunger. He eats the wind, devours the sun, spirals upward until the world is a spinning coin below him. The clouds part for him, golden and hot and humming with possibility. His body is weightless, but his mind is a furnace, devouring every new sensation.
Then: a flash, a jolt, a moment of static so real it tastes like copper. The sky fractures, and a shimmering screen unfurls before him, floating in the aether.
Words assemble themselves from stardust:
[Celestial Bond System]
Status: Dormant
The text pulses, each letter humming with the energy of a struck bell. He reaches for it, and the world contracts—the sky, the clouds, even the dream itself folding in on his outstretched hand. The script grows brighter, then bursts into a shower of sparks that sting his palm.
He wakes, gasping, heart a runaway drum. His hand throbs with heat, but the itch is gone. In its place, something new: a mark, faint but unmistakable, etched in lines of blue-white just below the skin. It looks like a tiny constellation, a scatter of dots connected by invisible threads.
He traces the shape with his finger. It tingles, electric, and when he focuses—a trick he learned from the dragon books—the mark shimmers, glowing faintly even in the predawn dark.
Awe swamps him, chased quickly by dread. What does it mean? What will his parents say, or Master Fell, or the Guild? He could be famous. Or he could be dead by morning.
He tugs the covers over his hand, heart pounding as he listens for footsteps. None yet, but the house is waking. He hears the distant clang of breakfast pans, the low murmur of staff in the corridor.
He sits up, eyes fixed on the glowing mark. His skin crawls with the knowledge that he is different—dangerous, maybe, or just a freak. But he can't stop staring.
A shadow falls across the doorway. Tali, half-awake, hair sticking up like feathers, stares at him with her wild green-gold eyes.
"What's wrong with your hand?" she asks.
Kairen shoves it under the blanket, too slow by half. "Nothing."
She yawns, unconvinced. "Liar. You're glowing."
He shrugs, tries to play it off. "Bad dream."
She nods, as if this explains everything. "I have those too." She stands there a moment longer, watching, then turns and disappears down the hall, barefoot and humming under her breath.
Kairen relaxes by degrees. He glances at his palm, watching the mark fade as the sun rises. He wonders if it will vanish completely, or if it's there for good.
He hopes it's both. He hopes it's neither.
He decides, for now, to keep it secret.
He closes his fist around the new constellation and feels the energy pulse in time with his heart.
Today, he thinks, is the start of everything.