Outside, a strange temple-like structure loomed—its towering spires cutting sharply against the grey sky, walls coated in frost that shimmered with an unnatural light.
A statue stood at the entrance, taller than any man, its form a grotesque mix of human and beast—eyes wide, frozen in perpetual horror, as if it had been carved by some god with a bitter sense of irony.
The other carts had already arrived, one by one, their wheels grinding against the snow as they slowly came to rest in front of the temple.
A dozen other youths, all about Aether's age, stepped out eagerly, shaking off the cold and the travel dust, their faces flushed with excitement.
Some whispered among themselves, others stood straighter, adjusting their gear, eyes glinting with the sharp hunger of those about to begin their trials.
Verminy had called them here. They were all ready.
Except for Aether.
He didn't feel the same pulse of energy, the flutter of hope. His heart didn't race. He simply stepped out of the carriage, boots crunching in the snow with the same mechanical certainty he'd known his whole life.
The crowd was a sea of bright faces, but to Aether, they were nothing more than a blur.
The coachman shouted something about cart numbers, but before anyone could move, a voice boomed from the front of the temple.
"Step forward, all of you!"
A man, tall and broad-shouldered, stepped from the temple's shadow. His dark cloak whipped in the wind, and his presence made the others pause, silence sweeping across the crowd like a wave.
His hair was dark, short, and neatly swept back, but it was his eyes that caught your attention first. They were pale, a cold grey—like a winter sky, flat and unfeeling.
He had the face of someone who didn't just command respect; he took it by force.
As he moved closer, the youths began to shift, stepping back, some even lowering their heads.
Flanking him were two guards—tall figures draped in similar dark cloaks, each with their own presence of calm, deadly focus. But it wasn't the guards that drew Aether's attention.
It was the tattoo.
On the man's right arm, the sleeve of his cloak rolled back just enough to reveal a series of intricate symbols—whorls and lines twisted together in a pattern that looked almost alive, shimmering like fire caught beneath ice.
The tattoo was in the shape of a coiled serpent, its mouth open wide as if it was ready to strike. At the center of the serpent's design was a single mark—an eye, but not just any eye. It had no iris. Just an endless black circle.
Aether's eyes narrowed as he recognized it.
It was the Mark of the Awakened.
It was no mere decoration. It was a symbol—no, a brand. A divine marking obtained only by those who had successfully awakened a talent through Verminy.
"You will receive your cart numbers from the coachmen," the man continued, his voice echoing across the gathering. "Then organize yourselves by your assigned number. Once you do, you will wait for further instructions. Move swiftly, or we will move you."
His voice was cold. Efficient. Every word calculated to settle in their bones and make them feel the weight of his presence.
There was no room for hesitation here. No softness. Only the raw command of authority.
The youths began to shuffle, the excitement faltering for just a moment as they processed his words. But not Aether. He stood still, eyes locked on the man's tattoo, his mind racing with questions.
The man turned, his gaze sweeping the crowd one last time, before he barked out a final command.
"The ceremony begins soon, so move now."
The youths filed one by one to receive their cart numbers. The cold wind whipped through the air, biting at their skin, but it didn't seem to matter now. They were on the cusp of something greater, something beyond the mundane life they'd known.
Aether, however, lagged behind, taking his time to walk to the coachman.
The others moved past him, eager to join the throng, but he didn't share their excitement.
His footsteps were heavy with something else, a weight only he seemed to feel.
Once the crowd had thinned out, the coachman, an older man with a gruff demeanor and worn hands, waved him over.
His weathered face softened when he saw Aether, as if acknowledging something unspoken.
"Aether," the coachman said quietly, his voice low and familiar. He'd known this boy for longer than he'd cared to admit. "You've grown since I last saw you. Guess saying that is strange since we've been riding together for the past couple weeks."
Aether stood stiffly, his gaze lowering beneath his mask.
The coachman paused, looking at Aether with a mixture of understanding and something else—perhaps regret.
"You don't have to do this, you know," the coachman murmured, his words careful.
"If you've been running, you could leave. The empire doesn't care much about people like us... but you're here, so you must have your reasons." His voice cracked slightly at the end, betraying a hint of old pains Aether knew too well.
Aether shifted slightly, his gaze lingering on the snow, his breath a visible puff in the cold air. The mask hid most of his expression, but it didn't stop the subtle tightening in his jaw.
His thoughts flickered to memories he'd rather forget—of his mother's death, and the promise he made to her. The burden of that promise had carried him this far.
Aether's gaze softened for a moment before he spoke. "You make it sound like there is somewhere else I could run to, the boarders are guarded after all. After that night, I swore to her that I would live to spite all those who wanted us dead. If the price of the path I've chosen is being forced into the jaws of my enemies, then so be it." His words were like the final step in a promise he had made to himself long ago.
The coachman's eyes flickered with something unreadable, and he chuckled weakly with a hint of sadness. "You sound like your elder brother," he muttered, his voice softening. "Good luck, Aether. Try not to die."
Aether's eyes, hidden beneath the mask, seemed to soften at the mention of his brother, the one who had gone down a path similar to his own, years before all this, he would most likely be in hiding.
But a part of him didn't want to accommodate such false hope after all he had seen... and yet… there was a part of him that still clung desperately to hope.
He took a slow step forward, reaching for the coachman before wrapping his arms around the older man. The embrace was brief, but it spoke volumes.
Without warning, Aether stepped forward, his arms wrapping around the older man in a brief but meaningful hug. "Thank you," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, though his face remained hidden behind the mask. "Thank you for everything."
The coachman hesitated for a moment, clearly surprised by the sudden embrace, but he patted Aether's back with a heavy sigh. "You're welcome, lad. Just... be careful out there."
He handed Aether his cart number, the small scrap of paper seeming to weigh far more than it actually did. With a final look, Aether gave the man a small nod, his eyes briefly meeting the coachman's before he turned to walk away, his heart as heavy as the snow crunching beneath his boots.
Aether moved into line, but before he could lose himself further in thought, a sharp
PAT!
sounded at his shoulder, snapping him from his reverie.
A hand had landed there. It was a guard—one of the towering figures flanking the man in the dark cloak from earlier. His fingers were thick, calloused, the kind of hands that had seen years of training and conflict.
The guard's intense gaze locked onto Aether's suspicious outfit, most of his physical traits hidden, his eyes sharp as an eagle's, daring him to flinch.
"Hey, kid. What's up with the hood and mask?"