December 12, 217, broke over Crimsonhold's outskirts with a frost that clung to the forest like a second skin. The air bit at Alden's knuckles as he adjusted his pack, its leather straps groaning under the weight of essentials: a change of clothes, a pouch of copper coins, a tightly bound parcel of dried venison and flatbread, and a single tome on Aether theory, its pages dog-eared from months of study. Beneath his tunic, the obsidian amulet from his father pulsed faintly, a cold weight against his chest, its swirling core whispering of the Eidolon's untamed power. Today, Alden would travel alone to Bloodridge for the Ironhands Royal Academy entrance exams—a crucible that could forge his destiny or shatter it.
Rowan stood on the porch, his tall frame hunched against the dawn's chill. His gray hair, tangled like ash, framed a face etched with scars and worry. His brown eyes, sharp as flint, held Alden's gaze. "You're ready," he said, voice rough as gravel but steady with conviction. "Bloodridge is a viper's nest—nobles, prodigies, schemers. Keep your wits sharp and your powers hidden. The Eidolon…" He paused, glancing at the amulet's faint glow beneath Alden's tunic. "No one must know."
Alden's throat tightened, the weight of solitude pressing in. He was a First-Circle Warrior, bearer of the Eidolon's First Star, yet the thought of facing Bloodridge without Rowan's guidance stirred a flicker of doubt. He smothered it, squaring his shoulders. "I won't fail you," he said, his voice a vow.
Rowan's hand lingered on Alden's shoulder, a rare gesture of warmth. "It's not me you need to prove yourself to. Go."
The journey stretched across hours, the forest's labyrinthine paths yielding to roads of polished obsidian that gleamed like frozen rivers. Hoofbeats and the hum of magic-fueled carts echoed in the distance, their Aether engines casting faint blue sparks. By late afternoon, Bloodridge's skyline pierced the horizon—baroque spires of black stone, their tips wreathed in mist, shimmering with runes that pulsed like heartbeats. The city was a marvel, its streets alive with citizens whose Aether Bands projected holographic screens or whisked parcels into enchanted voids. Alden's rural life, bound by wood and shadow, felt like a half-remembered dream.
He headed for the familiar inn from his awakening visit, its weathered sign swaying in the breeze: The Iron Hearth. The common room buzzed with a motley crowd—merchants haggling over glowing gems, soldiers boasting of demon hunts, and nervous youths clutching exam papers. The innkeeper, a burly man named Torren with a salt-and-pepper beard and a missing front tooth, leaned over a ledger, his eyes narrowing as Alden approached.
"Room for one?" Torren grunted. "Eight coppers a night. City's bursting with exam brats—every inn's packed, and prices reflect that. Pay up or sleep in the gutters. Got plenty waiting."
Alden's fingers brushed his coin pouch, its meager contents a stark reminder of his limits. Eight coppers was robbery, but the streets were no safer, and exhaustion loomed. He slid the coins across the counter, earning a curt nod. "Top floor, room seven. Don't break nothing."
The room was a closet, its cot sagging under a threadbare blanket, its single window smeared with grime. Alden stowed his pack, the amulet's pulse quickening as he brushed it. A whisper—not his own—flickered in his mind: Beware the crowned shadow. He froze, heart pounding, but the voice faded, leaving only questions. Was it the Eidolon? The amulet? He shook it off, locking the door and heading into the city to clear his mind before the exams consumed him.
Bloodridge blazed under the evening sky, its streets transformed for the Solstice Festival—a Bloodridge tradition honoring the demon-slaying ancestors who forged Ironhold's unbreakable spirit. Lanterns of enchanted glass hung from wires, casting prisms of crimson, sapphire, and gold that danced on the cobblestones. Stalls overflowed with delicacies: sugar-dusted buns that glowed faintly, skewers of charred boar laced with Aether-infused spices, and vials of sparkling mead that warmed the throat with a flicker of magic. Performers juggled orbs of flame, their movements synchronized to the thrum of drums and lyres. The air crackled with ozone and laughter, a fleeting reprieve before the exams' grind.
Alden wove through the throng, his remaining coppers buying a honeyed bun that melted on his tongue and a skewer of spiced meat that burned pleasantly. His First Star sharpened his senses—the drums pulsed in his chest, the lanterns' hues vivid as stained glass. He noticed clusters of youths his age, their faces alight with festival joy or shadowed by exam nerves. Some wore Aether Bands, their screens displaying study notes; others clutched talismans, whispering prayers to ancestors. They were his rivals, yet tonight, they were simply teenagers caught in Bloodridge's spell.
A commotion drew him to a central plaza, where a crowd encircled a raised platform. Torches flared, casting stark shadows. At the center stood Veydan Bloodridge, son of the region's duke, his presence commanding the square like a storm. He was taller than Alden, broad-shouldered, with jet-black hair swept back from a chiseled face. His small blue eyes glinted like ice, set above a thick jawline that spoke of noble breeding. His Aether Band gleamed, its runes shifting with data only he could read. Whispers swirled: Veydan was a Second-Circle Warrior at sixteen, trained by the kingdom's finest, a prodigy destined for the Royal Academy. Some said his father's influence guaranteed his spot; others claimed his skill needed no such crutch.
Alden edged closer, his First Star analyzing Veydan's aura. It was disciplined, a coiled serpent of Aether, far stronger than Alden's First Circle. Veydan's stance was deceptively casual, his hands loose but ready, a swordsman's poise. As Veydan addressed the crowd—something about honoring Bloodridge's legacy—his gaze swept over them, landing on Alden. Their eyes locked: Alden's dark, burning with life and curiosity; Veydan's cold, lifeless, as if carved from stone. The amulet flared against Alden's chest, and a vision flashed in his mind: a crowned figure wreathed in shadow, its hand dripping blood. The Eidolon stirred, a low hum of warning.
Alden broke eye contact, his pulse racing. Veydan's lips twitched, a smirk or a challenge, before he turned back to the crowd. Alden slipped away, the festival's joy dimmed by the encounter. Veydan was no mere rival—he was a predator, and Alden was in his sights. Back at the inn, he collapsed onto the cot, the amulet's weight anchoring him. Excitement for the exams warred with unease, but sleep claimed him, haunted by visions of blood and shadow.