Cold stone greeted Kaelen Vance’s hand as he pushed open the classroom door. He stepped inside, the chill of the Citadel Academy’s ancient walls a familiar bite. Sunlight, filtered through grimy, arched windows, painted thin lines across worn desks. Dust motes danced in the muted light. Master Thorne stood at the front, a stoic figure with a neatly trimmed iron-grey beard and eyes that held the weight of many winters. A thick tome, bound in scarred leather, rested on the oak lectern before him. He surveyed the room, his gaze resting briefly on Kaelen before sweeping over the other faces. “Morning, Master Thorne.” A quiet chorus rose from the clustered students. “Good morning, aspirants,” Thorne rumbled, his voice like stones grinding. “We welcome two new faces to this year’s cohort. Your path through the Crucible Spires will undoubtedly prove…more challenging with their presence.” Kaelen felt a prickle beneath his skin. He shifted his weight. Across the room, a slender figure with hair like spun moon-silver stepped forward. She moved with an effortless grace, her emerald eyes calm and observant, settling on Thorne. “Lyra Astre,” Thorne announced, a rare, almost imperceptible softening in his tone. “From House Astre, a lineage older than many bastions. Few can match their bond with the Aetherial Weave.” Whispers rippled through the classroom, hushed and reverent. Lyra Astre. Her name alone carried the weight of a thousand spirit-oaths, of Manifestors who had called forth beings of elemental fury and ancient, whispering insight. Kaelen watched her, a distant, unreadable expression on his face. Lyra offered a small, elegant nod. “Greetings, fellow aspirants. I am Lyra Astre.” Her voice was clear, resonant, like a chime in the cold air. Thorne’s gaze found Kaelen again. “And this is Kaelen Vance.” Kaelen stepped forward, his boots quiet on the stone floor. He kept his spine straight, hands clasped loosely behind his back. “Kaelen Vance,” he stated, his voice even, devoid of inflection. Silence. Not reverent, like Lyra’s. This silence felt like a held breath, a collective pause before a storm. Then, a sharp, cutting voice pierced the quiet. “The Scion of Ash!” Joric, a thick-necked boy with a sneer etched onto his face, barked from the third row. His hands clenched on the edge of his desk. Another voice, thin and reedy. “Vance’s Void-Heart! Heard he can only summon…rust.” A snicker followed. Kaelen’s jaw tightened. He didn’t flinch. He fixed his eyes on a point just beyond Thorne’s shoulder, a stubborn refusal to meet their gazes. His father, Sir Gideon Vance, had been a legend. A Manifestor whose spectral leviathan had turned the tide at the Whispering Pass, buying Aethelgard precious decades. Sir Gideon’s final stand against the Blight-Hordes was sung in every bastion. Kaelen had not manifested a spectral leviathan. He had not summoned an elemental titan, nor bound a spirit of ancient forest or storm. His ‘legion’ were constructs, arcane-mechanical soldiers forged of cinder and forgotten lore. Crude. Unnatural. A stain on his father’s glorious name. A void where a hero’s son should stand tall. “Enough,” Thorne’s voice, though firm, lacked its usual bite. “Asp. Vance is an initiate, like any other. Respect is owed.” Yet, respect felt like a foreign concept here. Kaelen understood. This was the Citadel Academy. Heirs of old power, scions of formidable Manifestor lineages, they were the future. And he, in their eyes, was a mockery. “Take a seat, Vance,” Thorne instructed, his eyes softening slightly. “The lesson awaits.” Kaelen chose a desk near the back, by an arched window overlooking the desolate plains. Lyra Astre, predictably, settled by the opposing window, her back straight, a quiet majesty about her. Draven, a lean boy with calculating eyes and hair the color of frost, occupied the desk in front of her. “Vance,” Thorne called out, just as Kaelen began to settle. “You will join the younger aspirants tomorrow for their preliminary initiation rites. Dawn.” A muffled snort erupted from Joric’s corner. Suppressed giggles rustled through the class. Kaelen gave a quiet nod. He was used to this. The early awakening ceremony, the one meant to prove latent potential, had yielded nothing for him. Now, he would attend with children barely old enough to wield a practice blade. Another humiliation. Once, Kaelen had dreamed of it. A glorious manifestation, a roaring beast, the admiration of his peers. He had imagined loyalty, a bond with an elemental fury, beautiful smiles following his path. Now, those dreams felt like distant, faded echoes. Almost laughable. “Now then,” Thorne’s voice pulled Kaelen from his thoughts, lifting with a scholar’s passion. He tapped his worn tome. “We begin with the Silent Architect, the First Forger. His legends tell of the very first Manifestation, not of spirit or beast, but pure, raw creation.” Thorne paused, letting the words hang. “And the First Forger’s true magnum opus? Not a living being, but a machine. A being of brass and tempered will, said to be capable of reshaping stone and bending the very land. But it vanished…into a Rift-Spike. Which brings us to today’s topic: Rift-Spikes, their origins, their Blight-signatures, and why these gaping wounds bleed into Aethelgard over a century later.” Several hands shot up. Aspirants eager to display their knowledge, their understanding of the Blight’s creeping corruption. Kaelen tuned out. His gaze drifted to the world beyond the window. Scars of the Blight, like dark veins, stretched across the distant plains. Grey clouds bruised the horizon. It was enough for him. --- Break bell shrilled, a jarring sound in the ancient hall. Kaelen rose, pushing his chair back. He aimed for the archway, hoping to slip out unnoticed. Joric, however, moved with surprising speed. He intercepted Kaelen’s path, but then veered, a practiced, predatory smile plastered on his face. He lumbered toward Lyra Astre, Bryn trailing in his wake, a shadow of Joric’s bullish frame. “Lyra,” Joric began, extending a large hand. “I’m Joric. We should discuss tactics for the next field exercise.” Lyra walked past him without a glance, her head held high. Her silver hair swayed once. Silence followed her exit, thick and awkward. Joric’s forced smile faltered, then snapped into a sharp, humorless laugh. He pivoted, his eyes locking onto Kaelen. “Don’t you feel it, Vance?” Joric sneered. “The stink of failure? Your father died a hero, carving a path through the Blight-hordes for…what? For *you*? He bought our future with his blood, and we got a heap of ash and broken cogs in return.” *Keep believing that*, Kaelen thought. He kept his hands in his pockets, his stride even. He wouldn’t take the bait. Not from Joric, whose Manifestor-bound earthen spirit made him one of the academy’s strongest. And certainly not after being so thoroughly dismissed by Lyra Astre. But as Kaelen moved down the hallway, an arm hooked around his neck. He turned his head slightly. Draven, the frost-haired boy, stood close. His eyes, the colour of glacial ice, held a chilling amusement. Draven’s lean build gave him a wolf-like grace, far more dangerous than Joric’s brute force. “Heh. Look at him, already backing down,” a plainer boy, one of Draven’s silent followers, jeered. Another stood beside him, shoulders bunched. Kaelen’s irritation soured into cold caution. Draven’s presence often meant trouble, subtly executed. His reputation for petty cruelty ran deep. “Heard your father’s coffers were deep, Vance,” Draven said, a false friendliness in his tone. “All that wartime profit. How about buying us some of those roasted k’tharr skewers after school? A hero’s son should be generous.” “Leave him,” Draven’s voice cut through like ice. His two followers stiffened, surprised. Draven then stretched a leg forward, drawing attention to a loosened lace on his boot. “The son of a war hero, tying the shoes of his betters,” Draven’s companion snickered, shoving Kaelen a step closer. “Fitting, isn’t it? A reminder of where you stand.” “You possess hands, don’t you?” Kaelen’s voice was flat, devoid of heat. “Or do you simply want to ensure the entire academy learns you can’t manage a simple knot?” Draven’s eyes narrowed. A faint, eerie shimmer kindled within his glacial irises, almost imperceptible. Kaelen felt a sudden pressure, a sickening lurch in his gut. In the next heartbeat, Kaelen found himself teetering over the balcony rail of the cafeteria, three stories above the bustling ground floor. A frigid gust of wind tore at his tunic, trying to pluck him from the precarious ledge. The stone-paved courtyard below yawned, a dizzying chasm. Someone’s frantic grip on his jacket was the only thing preventing a headlong plunge! “He—he just leaped?!” “What in the realm?! Did you witness that?” “The fool climbed the rail on his own!” A cacophony of voices washed over Kaelen. Confusion. Accusation. No one understood. His fingers clenched reflexively on the cold stone. Draven. His ability. A kinetic force, a push unseen, crafted to look like an accident. A cruel, subtle demonstration of power. Kaelen clung to the railing, his knuckles white, the wind a hungry mouth against his face. ---

Ash and Echoes