The holding platform was a wide circular disc suspended in the center of the amphitheater, surrounded by the same insufferable glow that came with every divine place Kael had seen so far. White marble, floating glyphs, air that smelled like thunder and roses. Even the goddamn light was smug.
Kael sat cross-legged on the edge, flipping the gear between his fingers while it muttered profanities at him.
"You treat me like some kind of novelty, but I'll have you know I was once part of a Class-4 airlift coil. Vital infrastructure, you hear me? Dignity!"
"I'll dip you in acid if you don't shut up."
"Rude!"
Kael sighed. This wasn't a power. It was a cosmic prank.
Across the platform, other newly drafted champions displayed their divine gifts. One conjured a dragon made of smoke and memory. Another summoned a bow that turned thoughts into arrows. One woman reshaped her body into a blade of living obsidian and sparred with an opponent made of lightning.
Kael? He had opinions from discarded junk.
A glowing priest-like figure hovered to his side. "Candidate Kael Riven," he intoned, holding a floating scroll. "In accordance with Ascension Protocol, you are required to demonstrate your Gift for evaluation."
Kael looked around. Every eye in the arena was on him.
"Oh, for the love of—fine," he muttered. He yanked his bag around and dumped it on the floor. Gears, bolts, bent glass lenses, half a sandwich wrapped in foil, and a cracked device that might once have been a communicator all spilled out.
He picked up the communicator.
"Why would you even carry me?" it said, voice staticky and bitter. "I haven't worked since the Sulfur Riots. I'm full of bees."
Kael dropped it fast.
The laughter came immediately. Thunderous. Unified. Not the kind you brush off. The kind that sticks.
Thorne cupped his mouth. "Maybe his power is social embarrassment!"
Someone else: "He's building a shame golem!"
Kael's eyes locked onto Thorne. He could feel something curling tight in his chest—not pain. Not fear.
It was something older. Something sharper.
The priest gestured. "Candidate, further demonstration—"
Kael stood abruptly.
"No."
The priest paused. "No?"
"I'm done dancing. You want to see what I can do?" Kael's voice rose as he stepped forward. "Give me a real relic. Not this scrap. Give me something you're afraid of. Let me whisper to that."
Murmurs.
The air shifted.
The gods stirred.
The orb of molten light flared brighter. "CANDIDATE KAEL RIVEN, CONDUCT UNBECOMING OF THE ASCENSION TRIAL. YOU WILL BE—"
But Kael was already moving. He snatched one of the arena's decorative weapons from its pedestal—a gilded spear meant purely for display—and held it high.
"What's your story?" he hissed at the spear.
There was silence.
Then—
"I was never meant to be touched."
A whisper, faint and ice-cold, bloomed in his mind. "They forged me to kill a god. But I failed. And now they pretend I'm art."
Kael froze.
That hadn't sounded like junk.
The light orb pulsed again. Faster.
Then everything exploded in white.
---
When Kael came to, he was on a cold stone floor. Chains, heavy and humming with restraint runes, pinned his arms behind him. His mouth tasted like copper.
Above him stood the war goddess, Veyra.
She looked down at him, unimpressed. "Next time you want to insult a relic, maybe choose one that didn't try to commit genocide."
Kael blinked at her. "You're welcome."
She gave a short, sharp laugh and turned away.
The cell door slammed shut behind her.