The air in the Temple of Ascendants is thick with incense, swirling around like a veil of ancient mystery. I can almost taste the sacredness of the place, an oppressive weight pressing down on my chest. The stone walls seem to hum with energy, Mold too, the symbols carved into them glowing faintly, as if the temple itself is alive, breathing.
The priest in front of me is tall and stern full of dry wrinkles, his robes flowing around him like the winds outside. He gestures for me to kneel. His hands are cold, but the moment they touch my shoulders, the world seems to fall silent. I can't hear anything, not the murmur of the chanting monks, not the faint clink of armor from those waiting outside. Just a ringing silence that's almost… suffocating.
The ceremony is about to begin. This is the moment where I either become someone… or remain no one.
I try not to shake, but I can feel my knees wobbling beneath me. My hands, hidden in the folds of my robe, are clenched into tight fists. I'm so scared—scared of failing. Scared of being ordinary. Of being sent back home to live the life of a nobody, with nothing but the title of "unworthy" stamped onto my name. My mind drifts with uncomfortable thoughts. "What would my parents think" I mumble softly under my breath barely audible
At seventeen, this ritual is supposed to be the moment. It's when we all get our powers, the mark of adulthood. All my life, I've heard the stories—the warriors, the mages, the heroes who came to this temple and emerged with divine gifts, stronger than the strongest. Chosen.
And yet here I am, just a kid who's spent most of his days working in the fields with my father, sweating beneath the sun like everyone else. Not one of the legendary few. Not even close. I walk to the middle of the room a stone with rune's glowing softly in the middle just like the tens of other stone's the other children are at
The priest's voice breaks through my thoughts. "Place your hands on the stone, child."
I swallow hard, my throat dry, and do as instructed, trying to hide the trembling in my fingers. The stone beneath my palms is cold and rough, ancient and unyielding, it's covered in mold just like the rest of the rundown unkept temple light shining down from the hole in the stone roof. It's supposed to channel my essence, to let the gods see me, see what I'm meant to be. If I am meant to be anything at all.
The air around me thickens, the sound of the monks chanting growing louder, louder. Their voices rise in perfect unison, and for a brief moment, I wonder if they're all just going through the motions, or if they actually believe in this, in the power of the gods. Do I?
The stone beneath my hands begins to hum. My heart skips a beat. Something is happening. This is it.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to steady my breath. My pulse is pounding in my ears. I can feel my essence being pulled out of me, my energy drawn into the stone, into whatever force the gods have for me. The room seems to grow colder, then suddenly hot, then cold again, like the very elements themselves are watching, waiting.
Nothing.
I open my eyes, but everything is blurry, as if the world around me is fading. The hum in the stone is gone, and all that remains is silence. Dead silence. No light. No power.
The priest's hands fall from my shoulders, and he steps back. I feel the weight of his gaze on me, heavy and judgmental. The room feels even colder now.
"It's... not working," I think to myself.
I feel a hand on my shoulder—gentle, reassuring. It's one of the other initiates, a boy about my age. He whispers, trying to reassure me, but his words come out in muffled sounds, like they're too distant to matter. I want to thank him, to smile and say it's fine, but I can't. My throat tightens, and I feel like I might drown in my own fear. Why hasn't anything happened?
The moment is supposed to be grand. Everyone's eyes are on me, waiting for a flash of light, a surge of energy, something—anything to prove that I'm worthy. But the air around me is still.
I glance around the room. Others have already begun to glow, their powers manifesting, one by one. One boy's fire burns bright and wild. Another summons a shield of light, bright and impenetrable. My heart sinks lower with each display. They're… perfect. They've manifested, they've been chosen, they have their power.
And I… I have nothing.
I don't want to look at them. I can already feel the whispers behind my back, the way their eyes seem to slide off me like I don't matter. I want to run. I want to get out of here and just disappear. What's the point of trying? I'm nothing.
A long, deep breath. I try to calm myself, to clear the dizziness in my mind. But the more I try, the heavier the weight feels, like I'm being crushed under the pressure to succeed.
Then, just when I think I can't take it anymore, a soft, faint hum begins again, but this time it's inside me, deep in my chest. It's not the gods, not the stone, not the temple. It's my own essence stirring—weak, but there. It flickers like a dying ember.
The priest's eyes widen. A gasp ripples through the monks.
I feel it—the smallest spark of something—my power. It's weak. It's unformed. But it's there. For the first time in my life, I realize that maybe I can be something. I can be chosen. But it's not the fiery explosion I expected. It's… a whisper, a flicker in my chest, just waiting to be fed. I don't know what it is yet. It's not like the others' powers, and maybe that's okay.
But the next moment, it fades again. Just like that.
I stare at my hands, at the empty space where my power should be. Was that it? Did I fail? I want to scream. I want to hit something. Why can't I just be like everyone else?
The priest's voice cuts through the silence, a quiet murmur now. "It seems... you have not manifested yet, child. You may return to your Village."
Return to my Village. Return to nothing.
The room is spinning again. I force myself to stand, trying not to stumble as the weight of the ceremony presses down on me. I can feel the eyes of the others on me. Their disappointment is palpable.
But I'll prove them wrong, I think. I'll prove myself wrong. This isn't the end. It can't be...