Outside, a strange, temple-like structure loomed—its towering spires cutting sharply against the grey sky. Frost clung to its walls, shimmering with an unnatural light.
A statue stood at the entrance, taller than any man. Its grotesque form blended human and beast, eyes wide with frozen horror, as if carved by a god with a cruel sense of irony.
The other carts had already arrived, their wheels grinding to a halt in the snow before the temple.
A dozen youths, all around Aether's age, stepped out eagerly. They shook off the cold and dust of travel, faces flushed with anticipation. Some whispered, others straightened their backs and adjusted their gear, eyes gleaming with hunger for the trials ahead.
Verminy had called them. They were ready.
Except for Aether.
He felt none of their excitement. No rush of adrenaline. No spark of hope. He stepped out with the same mechanical certainty that had carried him through life, his boots crunching dully in the snow.
Around him, the crowd was a blur of bright faces. To Aether, they meant nothing.
The coachman shouted something about cart numbers, but before anyone could react, a voice boomed from the temple's entrance.
"Step forward, all of you!"
A tall, broad-shouldered man emerged from the shadows. His dark cloak snapped in the wind, and his presence brought the crowd to stillness.
His hair was dark, short, neatly swept back—but it was his eyes that struck first: cold grey, like a winter sky—flat and unfeeling.
He had the face of someone who didn't just earn respect—he demanded it.
As he advanced, the youths shifted uncomfortably. Some stepped back. Others lowered their heads.
Two guards flanked him, draped in similar cloaks. Their silent composure radiated danger—but Aether's attention was elsewhere.
A tattoo.
The man's right sleeve had slipped just enough to reveal a series of intricate symbols: whorls and lines in a pattern that shimmered, as if fire swam beneath ice. It formed the shape of a coiled serpent, its mouth open mid-strike. At its center sat an eye—featureless and black. No iris. Just a void.
Aether's eyes narrowed.
The Mark of the Awakened.
Not mere ornamentation, but a divine brand earned only by those who had awakened a talent through Verminy.
"You will receive your cart numbers from the coachmen," the man said, his voice crisp, echoing over the gathered youths. "Organize yourselves accordingly. Await further instruction. Move swiftly, or we will move you."
Cold. Efficient. Every word carried weight, settling deep in their bones.
There was no room for hesitation. No comfort. Only command.
The excitement dimmed as the youths shuffled toward the coachmen. But Aether stood still, eyes fixed on the tattoo, mind racing.
The man gave one last sweeping look, then barked, "The ceremony begins soon. Move now."
They filed forward, the cold wind biting at their skin. Yet none seemed to notice. They were on the edge of something far greater than the lives they'd left behind.
All except Aether, who lagged behind.
His steps were slow, heavy—not from fatigue, but something deeper.
When the crowd thinned, the coachman, an older man with worn hands and a gruff demeanor, waved him over. His weathered face softened at the sight of Aether, a quiet recognition passing between them.
"Aether," he said, voice low and familiar. "You've grown. Strange to say, since we've been riding together for weeks."
Aether stood stiffly, gaze lowered beneath his mask.
The coachman paused, eyes thoughtful. "You don't have to do this," he murmured. "If you're running... you could still leave. The empire doesn't care about people like us. But you're here, so I guess you've made your choice."
His voice cracked slightly, betraying pain Aether recognized.
Aether's breath misted in the cold as he stared at the snow. His jaw tightened beneath the mask. Memories stirred—of his mother's death, and the promise he had made.
His voice was quiet but resolute. "You make it sound like there's anywhere left to run. The borders are sealed. Besides. After that night... I swore I'd live—to spite everyone who wanted us gone. If that means walking into the jaws of my enemies, so be it."
The coachman's eyes flickered. He chuckled, the sound laced with sorrow. "You sound like your brother," he said softly. "Good luck, Aether. Try not to die."
At the mention of his brother, Aether's expression softened behind the mask. He had followed a similar path once—vanished, perhaps still alive. Perhaps not.
Hope was dangerous. But some part of him still held on.
He stepped forward and embraced the coachman. Brief, but meaningful.
"Thank you... for everything."
Surprised, the older man hesitated before patting his back with a heavy sigh. "You're welcome, lad. Just be careful out there."
He handed over a small scrap of wood—Aether's cart number. It felt heavier than it looked.
With a final nod, Aether turned and walked away, boots crunching in the snow, heart just as heavy.
He moved into line, but before he could drift too deep into thought—
PAT!
A sharp smack landed on his shoulder.
A towering guard stood beside him—one of the men who had flanked the dark-cloaked speaker. His calloused hand lingered, gaze sharp and assessing.
"Hey, kid, what's with the hood and mask?"