Haraan, the capital, was a city that didn't just exist; it declared itself. Its spires clawed at the sky, its markets teemed with a vibrancy that pulsed at the heart of the Astran Empire, and an undeniable aura of power and purpose permeated its very stone.
For the teenagers gathered here for Selection Day, the air was thick with significance. But for Wyva of El Sharaab, standing amidst the nervous throng outside the colossal Temple Hall, the feeling wasn't dread – it was destiny arriving precisely on schedule.
Wyva was an Alven, a fact punctuated by his pointed ears and lengthy frame. This only highlighted further by his bright blue hair a startling splash of color against the more muted tones of the crowd, his eyes the same vivid hue, scanning his surroundings with an easy, almost casual confidence.
He was tall, handsome in the way that drew glances without effort, and he moved with the self-assured grace of someone who had rarely met an obstacle he couldn't charm or navigate around. He saw the trembling hands, the downcast eyes, the forced bravado of the others, and felt a quiet sympathy, but no shared anxiety.
His childhood had been spent among the orderly rows of grapevines in the El Sharaab township.
Raised by the gentle, steady hands of his adopted parents. They had taught him the land's secrets, the patience required for growth, the simple beauty of a life dedicated to nurturing. He loved them for it. But the legacy that resonated deepest within him was that of his blood parent. His mother Keeva, a guardian, charged with protecting his hometown.
A woman that marched against titans, her name spoken with reverence in El Sharaab. Her service and sacrifice a proud, if painful, part of the township's history. Wyva had grown up knowing her path was his inheritance, a future he was not just expected but destined to fulfill.
"Next!" a voice boomed, cutting through the low murmur of the crowd.
Wyva threw a soft latch for his earrings and offered a quick prayer to the Astras.
A genuine, eager smile touching his lips. This was the moment the gods would affirm what he already knew. Offering a brief, bright smile to a startled-looking girl behind him, he stepped forward with a confident stride.
The doors to the Selection Hall were magnificent, vast panels of dark wood intricately carved with the pantheon of the Astran Empire and the symbols of their bestowed roles. Stepping across the threshold felt less like entering a building and more like stepping onto a stage.
The interior was breathtaking – an immense auditorium with tiers of seating sweeping upwards and backwards, filled with a silent, expectant assembly of figures.
These were the Empire's elite: the employers, priests and guild leaders alike, the powerful observers who would witness and claim the newly chosen. The air here wasn't just anxious; Wyva could feel it crackle with latent energy, the focused attention of so many influential eyes.
A proctor, her robes a deep, regal purple befitting the capital's authority, gestured him towards the center of the vast stage.
Wyva walked towards the raised platform with an unhurried, purposeful gait, his gaze meeting the assessing eyes in the front rows directly. He saw recognition, interest, even a flicker of admiration in some faces. This was his audience, and he felt ready to meet their gaze
He reached the platform and the crystal ball resting upon it. It was a sphere of polished stone, surprisingly small, yet it seemed to draw the light into itself.
His family were not shy in their description so he was fully prepared for the out of body experience.
He placed his hand upon its cool, smooth surface, palm flat, fingers spread. A warmth spread from the stone, tingling up his arm, a sensation of connection, of omnipotence.
Time slowed to a halt before slowly regressing.
He watched on as he left the building and retook his place in line, before it started to blur past at incomprehensible speed.
Wyva felt himself being nursed being reverse birthed and then fading from existence. Only to regain semblance once more with the ball in hand.
He motioned to put it down, but his body saw joy in disobedience.
He swallowed and the world started moving again but in an accelerated pace towards the future.
The auditorium dissolved, replaced by a vibrant, dynamic surge of light and sensation. Images flooded his awareness – not a slow, confusing passage of time, but sharp, potent snapshots of action and purpose.
He saw himself throwing bolts of light, deflecting threats with effortless grace. He saw himself standing firm against towering shadows and vast armies of monsters and hybrid men.
He saw a persistent symbol of a stylized flame atop a twisted spiral emblazoned on his arm.
He saw the symbol on a flag flown into battle. Surrounded by a group who bore the same mark. There was no fear in these visions, only power, skill, and the undeniable rightness of his place within them.
Burning Tempest. A voice whistled.
My son your arrows are lightning that will aid in a new era. The path is set. Walk it with honor.
A voice resonated with finality, a clear, unmistakable pronouncement. He had heard the Astras himself and this was not them.
The vision snapped shut.
Wyva felt every muscle in his body contract at once almost throwing himself off the platform. The hum of the auditorium rushing back into his ears.
He felt invigorated, alive with a sense of purpose that settled deep within him. He met the proctor's gaze, his face alight with a confident, knowing smile.
"Wyva of the El Sharaab township," the proctor announced, her voice echoing through the hall. "Selected for the path of Guardianship."
A collective exhale seemed to sweep through the assembly. Wyva heard the low murmur of conversation resume, the sound different now – less anticipation, more reaction. He saw heads nodding, fingers pointing subtly in his direction. He saw the keen, assessing looks intensify in the front rows.
"May the bid begin," the proctor stated, the formal words that would initiate the claiming process.
"Black Sands."
Someone had bid immediately instigating murmurs amongst the crowd.
Wyva stood tall, his shoulders back, his blue eyes scanning the front rows. He knew they were eager. He was a Guardian, son of a Guardian, selected in the heart of the capital with a clear, powerful vision.
He was not just chosen; he was a prize. He waited, confident and ready, to see which of the capital's esteemed factions would step forward to claim their newest, most promising recruit.
"Frozen Ash."
"Long Cauldron."
"The Alven Hand."
So it went on for a stretch of time. Every guild waiting patiently to announce their interest.
After all this was the expectation.
"It seems that you have garnered the attention of all but one guild," the proctor looked out at the audience.
Wyva's eyes narrowed itself.
Who found it fitting that they reject him so publicly.
"I know they should have a representative today. Haraan is a mandatory seat for all guilds."
As the proctor searched the crowd a woman's voice sounded of at the furthest row back. A wonder that they could even hear her up front.
"What's the kid's name again?"
A few chuckles went off and Wyva couldn't help but furrow at the question.
"Uh… Wyva…"
"Of?" the woman asked.
"El Sharaab."
"Oh shit for real," the woman jumped to her feet and slammed her hands on the desk, "how the hell did I miss that."
She laughed at herself to the background of silent judgement.
"Official bid being made by the Burning Tempest."