Chapter 5: The Day of Judgment
Dawn did not bring birdsong, but shouting.
Marta's voice cracked like a whip through the stone halls.
"Polish the candelabra until I see my face in it, Thom! And you don't you dare set chipped plates on the high table! Do you want the Marquis's dogs laughing at us?"
Servants scurried like ants under boiling water. Hearths blazed to life. Rushes were scattered to mask mildew. Banners of faded crimson, each stitched with our falcon crest, were hoisted with trembling hands.
The manor, usually sluggish at dawn, now bustled like a disturbed hive.
I stood at the railing of the upper corridor, small hands gripping cold wood, watching the storm below. It fascinated me the way desperation animated every servant, every gesture. This was not celebration. It was war in disguise.
Sir Cedric limped across the courtyard, barking at guards to straighten. His armor had been polished, though the dents were too deep to hide.
"Chins up!" he growled. "If your spears are bent, at least look like you know how to hold them."
Marta's wrath was no gentler. She inspected goblets, sniffed barrels, ran her fingers over the seams of tablecloths. "Thin swill," she muttered at a cask. "Pray the nobles are too proud to drink deep."
The manor was a dying man dressed for a wedding. Cracks in plaster were hidden under paint, frayed rugs flipped to reveal their less-worn sides, faded banners unfurled to cover bare stone. Even I, seven years old in body but not in mind, could see the disguise.
And I knew the truth. Our guests would see it too.
Family at the Table
Breakfast was unusually silent.
Father sat at the head, shoulders squared like a soldier before battle. Shadows bruised the skin beneath his eyes, yet his voice was steady.
"Today," Julian Alistair said, "we receive guests as Alistairs. Whatever they whisper, whatever they think remember who we are."
His doublet was mended at every seam, his dignity the only armor he had left.
Mother sat beside him, dressed in a gown of deep blue silk dulled by age. She adjusted my collar with trembling fingers. "Stand tall, Ren," she whispered. "They will look at you more than anyone today."
Lorien, broad-shouldered at thirteen, tore his bread with restless energy. "If they laugh, let them. I'd like to see Carroway's pups take a blow from my sword."
Orion, sharp-eyed and quieter, stirred his porridge. "Bluster won't matter. Affinity will." His gaze flicked toward me brief, but heavy.
Their futures, their pride, perhaps even their inheritance all of it now tangled with mine.
Father's hand struck the table softly. "Enough. Today we present a united house."
"Yes, my lord," they chorused. But Lorien smirked, and Orion's glare dropped to his bowl.
The servants moved around us with exaggerated deference "my lord," "madam," "young master" but their hands shook as they poured tea. They, too, knew what today meant.
The Awakening Ceremony was not merely my test. It was House Alistair's verdict.
The Manor Waits
By midmorning, the frantic energy shifted into tense stillness. The ceremonial hall stood transformed long tables gleamed with borrowed silver, banners drooped from rafters, a dais gleamed under beeswax polish where the priest would soon stand, orb in hand.
But the illusion was fragile. I smelled mildew beneath beeswax, heard drafts whispering through cracks in the shutters. Even sunlight seemed hesitant, catching dust motes that drifted like falling stars.
I drifted along the edges, recording every detail.
Marta approached Father with her ledger. "My lord, this feast will cost us dearly. The wine alone "
Julian raised a hand. "They must see we still stand, Marta."
Her lips thinned, but she bowed. "As you say."
At the doors, Cedric drilled the guards. "Bows at the waist, not the head. Titles clear. Remember we are Alistairs."
I slipped near two servants polishing goblets.
"Do you think the boy will awaken?" one whispered.
"Unblessed, more like," hissed the other. "This house is cursed. First the old betrayal, now this."
The words slid like ice down my spine. I kept my face still. Shadows listened better when they were silent.
Horns at the Gate
Near midday, the first horn sounded.
The hall stilled. Servants froze mid-step. Guards adjusted their spears.
"House Carroway arrives!" the herald cried.
Through the tall doors I saw them: horses in gleaming tack, banners of green embroidered with serpents, men-at-arms in matching surcoats marching with cruel precision. Their armor gleamed unmarred, their discipline sharp a contrast as brutal as a blade to the neck.
At their center came a carriage of dark wood and bronze. From it descended Lord Carroway, tall, lean, his cloak shimmering with silver embroidery. His son followed, a boy of ten with sharp eyes and sharper smirk.
"Tier 2 Water Affinity," someone whispered. "A prodigy."
The boy's medallion bore rippling waves. He caught me staring, smirked wider, lifted his chin.
I did not look away.
The second horn blew.
"House Theron approaches!"
Their banners were blue and white, hawks in flight. Their guard rode with spears aligned in perfect symmetry.
Lord Theron dismounted with ease, cloak embroidered with hawk's wings. At his side walked a girl of twelve, ribbons of silver in her hair, gaze cool as ice.
"Tier 1 Wind Affinity," the whispers said.
Her eyes passed over me as though I were cracked pottery set out for display.
And more came.
Minor vassals. Cousins. Old rivals. Each with banners bright and children in their finest living symbols of magic awakened, blessings received. Each family boasted of affinities already proven.
And always, the whispers circled back.
Would the Alistair boy awaken at all?
The Shadow of Judgment
By afternoon, the hall swelled with voices. Nobles clustered like crows, trading polite words with talons hidden beneath. Servants darted through the press, trays trembling in their hands.
I sat beside Father on the dais, back straight, hands folded, face calm. But inside, my mind raced.
Every glance pressed against me. Every whisper was a weight. Every noble child, bearing gifts of water, wind, flame, was another reminder of what I was not.
Father's hand, steady on my shoulder, felt heavier than steel. Mother's smile, fixed and fragile, was a mask that threatened to crack. Lorien's restless glare, Orion's cold silence together they formed a noose around my throat.
House Alistair was a falcon with broken wings.
And I the frail, unblessed third son was expected to prove it could still fly.
The storm had gathered.
Soon, it would break.
End of Chapter 5