Wind clawed at Kaelen Vance, a biting chill against his face. He dangled, fingers raw, from the precarious ledge. Below, the courtyard’s flagstones blurred, a dizzying drop. Panic threatened to seize him, cold and sharp. His father’s face flashed in his mind, stern and disappointed. “Are you alright?” Isolde’s voice cut through the clamor, calm and clear despite the chaos below. Her expression, visible even from his perilous perch, remained unreadable. Joric’s laughter rang out, coarse and mocking. “Man, I expected him to break out of it eventually, but he would’ve really fallen. Tsk. Pathetic.” He pointed a thick finger at Kaelen, while Draven, a lean shadow at his side, casually carried his tray as if nearly ending Kaelen’s life was no more significant than swatting a bothersome insect. Fury, cold and hard, tightened Kaelen’s jaw. His ocean-blue eyes narrowed, locking onto Draven. He pushed through the knot of gawking students, adrenaline burning. His chest swelled with restrained rage. Draven had done this, a subtle whisper of Aether, a shove disguised as a clumsy bump. He reached the balcony, pulling himself up, muscles screaming. “You’re laughing? At nearly killing me?” Kaelen’s voice, rough with exertion, scraped against the sudden hush. Isolde moved with her usual unsettling grace, her golden-white hair catching the pale light filtering into the refectory. Sixteen, same age as Kaelen, her golden-orange eyes held an ancient, patient quality. Tension coiled around her like a living thing. Joric bristled. “Still running that mouth, Scion of Ash!” He lunged, a straight punch aimed at Kaelen’s face. It carried brute force, but it was reckless, riddled with clumsy openings. Instinct surged through Kaelen. He sidestepped, seizing Joric’s wrist. He twisted the elbow, pivoted with a desperate surge of strength, and flung Joric over his shoulder. The bully crashed into the polished stone floor with a bone-jarring thud. Joric roared, scrambling to his feet, eyes blazing with indignity. This time, his punch carried true strength, the kind that could crack ancient stones. A flicker of raw Aether pulsed around his fist, a sign of his nascent Manifestation. But to his shock, Kaelen raised his forearm, blocking the blow. Impact resonated through Kaelen’s arm. His muscles burned, but no bone snapped. A strange, resonant hum vibrated beneath his skin, a ghost of iron beneath flesh. The blow that should have shattered his arm barely made him flinch. Joric froze. His eyes widened, confusion clouding his face. The familiar thrum of his spirit-ally, the source of his augmented strength, had vanished. In that instant, he was no different from any powerless human. Kaelen’s fist connected, a sharp crack against Joric’s jaw. A second blow, an uppercut fueled by sudden, savage energy, lifted Joric off his feet. He sprawled across the refectory floor, motionless. Students gasped. Untouched trays were abandoned. One boy, halfway through shoveling stew into his mouth, stopped, fork suspended. “He beat Joric. That’s… impossible!” Lyra Astre, her perfect brows furrowed, murmured from her table. Beside her, a dark-haired student, Elara, stared, mouth agape. Lyra, however, only chuckled, arms crossed, eyes sliding toward Draven. For once, Draven’s composure seemed to crack, a fleeting flicker of disquiet in his usually placid gaze. Just then, a shadow detached itself from the crowd. Another of Joric’s lackeys, smaller but quicker, surged forward, too fast for Kaelen to track. Even with his guard instinctively raised, the boy’s fists broke through, hammering Kaelen with blow after blow. A final uppercut, a vicious echo of Kaelen’s earlier strike, launched him into the air. He slammed against the stone wall, then slumped to the ground, unmoving. Silence descended upon the refectory, thick and suffocating. Draven stood, his face a mask of disdain. Without a word, he turned and stalked out. Students followed, scattering like startled birds. Draven’s lost composure was unsettling. Had it been Joric, perhaps they would accept it. But Draven? That was alien. When the hall had emptied, Isolde remained. She stood before Kaelen’s crumpled form, her gaze cool. “Giving you an opportunity for a fair fight was stupid,” she said flatly. “You were doomed from the start.” “Even then…” Kaelen’s voice was low, but steady. He forced himself upright, meeting her eyes. Pain lanced through his side. “He got what he deserved.” Isolde’s golden eyes narrowed, but she said nothing. “Thank you,” Kaelen continued, his breath uneven. “He got to taste what it’s like, calling to your soul and hearing nothing in return. For a minute or two, he lived what I’ve lived for sixteen years.” He pressed a hand to his chest, wincing. “Something’s broken,” he muttered, staggering toward the exit. --- Minutes later, Kaelen lay on a cot in the Citadel Academy’s infirmary. The “sick bay” here was not for common illness; it was for the battered, the broken, the survivors of conflicts that pushed students to the brink. Growth was forged in conflict, they said. To maim or to kill was forbidden, on paper. Kaelen wondered if the rules truly mattered. Draven had nearly ended him. A Healer, dressed in a pristine white coat over pale blue attire, extended a hand. Behind her, a glowing magical circle bloomed, from which descended a radiant Aether-Moth. Its delicate wings shimmered with the light of a thousand distant stars, and its antennae pulsed with gentle, healing Aether. Its wingspan exceeded that of a great hawk, a creature of legend before the Blight’s creeping curse. With a single beat of its wings, warmth washed over Kaelen. His ribs knit together, bruises faded, and drowsiness tugged at his eyes. “You took quite the beating,” the Healer sighed, her gaze soft. It had not even been a day since he transferred, and already he had ended up here. This place was not for the ordinary. Citadel Academy was for Manifestors, for those who commanded power. Rule or serve; there was little middle ground. Kaelen, she seemed to decide, looked far too stubborn to serve, and far too untried to rule. Before Kaelen could respond, a soft knock sounded. Moments later, Isolde’s voice drifted in as she spoke to the Healer who went to open the door. “He didn’t get to eat his lunch. I gathered something for him. Please make sure he eats.” Hard lines creased Kaelen’s brow as a faint warmth stirred in his chest. Why… why was she being kind? His question was answered when the Healer returned with a tray. Tucked beneath the plate was a folded slip of white paper. On it, written in elegant script: *I just like your face. Don’t overthink it.* Kaelen stared, heat rising in his cheeks. “You tell a guy you like his face and expect him not to overthink it? How does that even work?” he muttered to himself. The Healer flipped through a data slate. “I suggest you rest. You’re Kaelen Vance, yes?” He nodded. “You have the Manifestation Rite tomorrow. Rest, or you may not be fit for it. Remember, if you miss this chance, you may never awaken anything beyond the Low Tier. So when I say rest, I mean it.” --- Next morning, the Academy grounds gleamed beneath the rising sun. Crowds of freshmen gathered, along with countless others, outsiders who had paid dearly for the right to use the Citadel’s legendary Manifestation Spire, famed for producing higher awakenings than anywhere else in Aethelgard. Kaelen stood among them, hands buried in his pockets, fists clenched tight. This was it. His only chance. He had failed to awaken naturally. If he failed here too, then the truth would be undeniable: there was no Manifestation within his soul. No Cinder-Forged Legion. Nothing. No Manifestation meant no future. In this fragmented realm, a Manifestor defined a person’s worth. To have nothing meant to be nothing, an insect in a kingdom of predators. Worse, the Citadel Academy’s acceptance had been conditional: he needed at least an Elite-tier Manifestation to stay. Five tiers existed: Low Tier (1.0–3.4), Elite Tier (3.5–5.4), High Tier (5.5–7.9), Lord Tier (8.0–10.0), and the fabled King/Queen Tier (10.1–12.9). Even the ancient Guardians of the realm, for all their majesty, rarely reached King-tier, even with potential. From the classrooms above, students leaned out of windows to watch. On the central stage, an elevated platform shimmered with glowing runes, powered by six immense Aetherium conduits. Arch-Provost Thorne stepped forward, slim and severe in his tailored uniform, his presence radiating an unwavering discipline. His eyes swept across the waiting crowd. “As you all know,” he began, his voice perfectly modulated, “today determines your lives. There will be no needless speeches. We begin immediately.” His gaze dropped to the data slate in his hand. He raised an eyebrow, clearing his throat, then lifted his gaze back to the crowd. His eyes locked onto the only teen wearing a fresh Citadel Academy jacket. “The first name is… Kaelen Vance.”

Chapter 3: Ash and Iron