Cinder awoke.
The lid of his sleeping pod hissed open, releasing a sharp breath of sterilized air. Cold light spilled over his face as he blinked against the weight behind his eyes. His chest throbbed—not with panic or fatigue, but with the phantom burn of the blade that had pierced him during Judgement.
He sat up slowly, wincing as the pain flared. Around him, other pods stood like steel coffins, some open, others still sealed tight. The room buzzed with low conversation and uneven footsteps. Some were already making their way to the waiting room, a step closer to answers.
Most of them bore the crests of the great families. They had expected this. Prepared for it. They had known their patrons, trained for their trials. Cinder hadn't even known what to hope for.
Was that… my patron?
The dome lights remained dim—likely to spare the newly-awakened from sensory overload. Even so, he felt exposed, like the burn on his chest was glowing.
The inheritance took many forms. Some woke to sharper senses, others to horns or fangs or wings. Even within the same patron lineage, no two inheritances were alike. What had changed in him?
He swung his legs over the edge and planted his boots on the ground. His knees wobbled slightly as he stood, pain lancing through his ribs. One hand trembled as he opened his shirt.
There, over his heart, was no wound—only a black flame-shaped mark. It wasn't tattooed; it looked smeared onto his skin like soot from something still smoldering.
He reached in and rubbed at it. His fingertip came away black, but the mark itself remained.
"What are you doing?" a voice asked behind him.
Cinder looked up, hand still against his chest.
Toma stood there, brows slightly raised. Despite being nearly a head shorter than him, her presence was like stone—grounded, quiet, and unwavering.
"Nothing," he muttered, then shifted. "Has your sister woken up?"
He didn't like talking. But Toma wasn't just anyone. She and Mirei were from outside the walls, like him. And he wasn't sure if Mirei had survived.
Toma shook her head and glanced at the pod beside his, lips thin.
"I'm sure she'll be alright," he said, a rare softness brushing the edges of his voice. "The trial… it was brutal. But she's strong."
"I'll wait for her," Toma said, her voice a low breath. "Until the announcement's made."
He gave a nod and stepped away. The crowd had thickened, and it was getting harder to think.
People hovered in small groups or stood frozen, their gazes distant as they stared at invisible system prompts. Cinder glanced at the text floating in the corner of his vision and immediately looked away.
I have a week to figure this out… he thought. Whatever I am now, I need to move.
He stepped through the archway into the waiting room. The crowd here was thinner—only about fifty people milling around, lost in their own status screens and speculations.
He moved to the far end, leaned against the cold wall, and let himself focus.
***
[SYSTEM MESSAGE]
He does not sleep.
He does not rest.
The smoke remembers every breath.
Your shadow walks where his once fell.
You are not the first.
You will not be the last.
***
[SYSTEM STATUS – SUBJECT: CINDER]
Heritage: Ashen Knight
Rank: Fledgling Inheritor (Unawakened)
Resonance Sync: 0%
Inheritance Path: The Hollow Flame
Fate Status: Judgement Passed
Origin Mark: "Heart of the Hollow Flame"
Medium: "What smolders long after the fire dies?"
[PASSIVE ABILITY – Emberbone] (Locked)
Ash is memory. Bone remembers what it was burned to protect.
[ACTIVE ABILITY – Ashsnap] (Locked)
'The sound of a spark. The weight of a breath.'
Items: [NULL]
***
"What the hell…" Cinder murmured.
The details made sense—until he read the line about his medium. Everyone received some kind of item or substance. Something specific. His hint felt like smoke: shapeless, unreachable.
'What smolders long after the fire dies?' What does that even mean…
He scratched lightly at the mark again, then looked up as voices drifted in.
Toma and Mirei stepped through the archway. Toma smiled and waved, throwing him a thumb up. Mirei gave a subtle nod and followed her sister off into a quieter corner.
Did they meet their patron too? he wondered, staring at the floor.
More and more students trickled in. Cinder barely noticed them.
At last, a tall woman entered the room—stern, striking, and utterly composed.
He stood as she reached the center.
"I am Eliya Remose," she said, her voice carrying easily. "Headmaster of this academy."
No one spoke. No one dared.
"You may not all understand what's happened—or what is about to. In one week, each of you will be drawn into Elothyn, where you will face your first crucible. To survive, you must find a Transfer Point and return. You will be placed randomly—likely near a great city—but this is not a promise of safety.
We estimate that only ten percent of the continent has been explored. Death zones cover much of what remains. The abyssals are relentless, and your success is not guaranteed.
You were brought here because you have potential. You will either become the next guardians of this world… or its downfall."
Silence.
"Each of you has received one hundred credits. Use them to purchase your equipment, investigate your medium, and prepare. We began today with 1,548 students.
Now, 496 of you remain."
Her eyes swept over the room.
"Return in one week. Dismissed."
She turned and left.
Cinder stood for a long moment, staring after her. Then he turned, slipping into the crowd, and walked silently toward the exit.
As the crowd began to disperse, voices swelled in the chamber—relieved laughter, whispered theories, the scraping of chairs and boots. But Cinder remained quiet, slipping out through a side corridor as if the whole place had grown too loud to bear.
The academy's sterile walls gave way to the forgotten veins of the city, where lights flickered and concrete cracked like tired skin. He moved without speaking, cutting through alleys and broken fences, past the places the surveillance drones never bothered to watch.
By the time the sun had dipped below the skyline, he reached it: the old station—half-swallowed by vines and rust, sitting beneath a collapsed overpass like a relic no one dared disturb.
Home.