Chapter 1

  The ceremony of Attaining

  It was a full moon night in the town of Rautor. The town lay on the shore of a restless sea, waves crashing against jagged cliffs. On one such cliff stood a solitary house, isolated from the rest of the town. Inside, a boy of almost seventeen slept in darkness. He was dreaming, speaking to a presence he could neither see nor name.

  “Who are you?” he asked, his voice calm but edged with frustration. “Why do you keep appearing in my dreams? I’ve told you I don’t want… any sort of godlike power.”

  His eyes, glowing like rubies, betrayed the tension in his words. Then, without warning, his white hair began to lift, as if caught in a phantom wind. The dream world trembled violently, and his red eyes slowly shifted to a piercing sapphire.

  “Soul,” the figure intoned, voice smooth and unyielding, “I am not here to convince you. I am here to guide you. And I know… you cannot refuse my guidance because…”

  The words hung in the dream air, heavy with inevitability. When Soul heard the next phrase, his breath caught in shock.

  Morning broke over Eldoria Arcanum, yet the bitter cold of 31 December showed no mercy. A pale winter sun hovered low in the sky, its light brittle, glinting off frost-covered towers and arcane sigils etched into stone. The courtyards lay silent, blanketed in snow so crisp it cracked sharply beneath every step.

  Hundreds of children gathered on the lawn for the Ceremony of Attaining. Among them, thirteen-year-old Soul stood slightly hunched, wrapped in a thick woolen cloak that fell to his knees. Though lined with simple enchantments meant to resist winter, the cold seeped through, gnawing at his arms and legs. Beneath, he wore a padded tunic and dark trousers tucked into stiff leather boots. His scarf was pulled high around his neck, but his bare fingers, red and trembling, were clasped together for warmth.

  Beside him, Mercy, a girl of the same age, exhaled into the freezing air, forming clouds of white that floated before her. She wore a long quilted coat in muted blues, fastened tightly with brass clasps, layered over a knitted dress and thick stockings. Woolen gloves struggled to shield her fingers from the icy wind. The hem of her coat fluttered weakly, as if even the fabric feared the unnatural chill that gripped the courtyard.

  The overcast sky hung heavy above, shrouding the gathering in gloom. The excitement of hundreds of children did little to dispel the weight of the cold or the tension that clung invisibly to the air. Authorities instructed candidates to form a line.

  “Soul, are you alright?” Mercy asked, her voice edged with concern.

  “I’m fine,” Soul replied quietly, distant. “I’m just not used to crowded places like this.”

  Mercy hesitated, worry flickering across her face. “We can leave if you want.”

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  “No,” Soul said firmly. “It’s important to stay here today.”

  Her voice dropped to a whisper, heavy with worry. “Is it… because of the dreams?”

  Soul nodded. Mercy went silent, her unease unspoken but palpable.

  Above the main building of Eldoria Arcanum, a young woman of nineteen stood, her eyes scanning the courtyard. Aurelia’s garments radiated both sanctity and strength: a long ceremonial mantle of ivory and deep silver draped her shoulders, its inner lining woven with runes that pulsed with quiet, warm light. Beneath, her battle-priest tunic and light enchanted armor allowed movement while shielding her from the biting wind. The polished armor was etched with sacred sigils that glimmered faintly against the snow. Her high boots, lined with fur and engraved with frost-ward enchantments, anchored her firmly to the icy stone beneath her feet.

  She muttered in frustration when an old man approached, his face etched with scars that told of countless battles survived. “The view is not bad from up here, Aurelia,” he said.

  She frowned, eyes clouded. “I don’t like these ceremonies, father,” she said softly. “We weaken the protectors of our planet before they even begin.”

  The old man’s gaze swept over the courtyard, calm yet resolute. “I understand, but desperate times demand desperate measures. The sun has not shone on our planet for over two centuries. We have survived… but barely. If we falter now, we risk everything.”

  Aurelia fell silent. Though she wanted to argue, she knew the truth in his words. Finally, she nodded. “The fortifications are complete. Fifty level-four, grade-five warriors, twelve level-six, grade-five commanders, and one level-nine, grade-five beast hunter have been deployed to guard this place. Your staff and I are present as well. The ceremony can begin.”

  Alaric Moonveil, head of Eldoria Arcanum, stepped onto the central platform. His voice carried calm authority, echoing across the courtyard. “Candidates, come forth one by one. Stand upon the altar and claim your power.”

  He placed a hand on his chest, eyes closed in solemn prayer. “May hope bless us.”

  The crowd repeated his words. The first child stepped onto the altar, which sat upon a platform of Sarsen. Three colossal obsidian pillars rose twelve meters high, forming a triangle around a circular pattern etched with ancient, glowing symbols.

  The child stood in the center. Aurelia, near the altar, opened a golden box, patterned like the altar itself and studded with white and red jewels. Inside, sparkling red-and-white ashes swirled with an otherworldly light, sending flickers across the courtyard. She began to chant:

  “O Eternal One, whose name is carved into creation,

  Hear the call of ash and memory.

  By the vow of silence, by the oath of blood,

  By the light that never died,

  I return unto you what once was you.

  By these ashes, sanctified and bound,

  By this vessel of gold and faith,

  I open the path between mortal breath

  And divine eternity.

  Give your power to this altar,

  And begin the ceremony.”

  As the last words fell from her lips, the altar’s symbols ignited in bright red light. The obsidian pillars extended, curving to form a dome, and a shaft of holy light descended from the sky into its center. After a tense moment, the altar returned to its ordinary state.

  The boy appeared unharmed—but on the back of his right hand glowed the number three in crimson. Aurelia, exhausted from channeling so much energy, sank beside a young man of similar age. “A level-three Assassin,” she whispered, barely audible.

  But as the boy turned to leave, horror erupted. He screamed in agony, his eyes blood-red as blood streamed from them, his mouth, and nose. The gathered crowd recoiled, unable to look away. Scarlet light burst from his eyes, his body disintegrating into ashes.

  A teacher raised a hand, chanting swiftly. A gust of wind swept across the courtyard, scattering the boy’s ashes harmlessly.

  Alaric Moonveil’s face hardened, shadowed eyes absorbing the remnants of the boy. In a voice low and chilling, he broke the silence:

  “Next.”