The Hall of Selection was built of white stone and light—each pillar etched with glowing glyphs that pulsed with magic, as if the building itself held its breath.
Today was the Ceremony. The day every magic-born youth waited for.
Ashen stood near the back of the line, as far from the dais as he could manage without being accused of hiding. He tugged at the collar of the ceremonial white robe issued to every participant. It itched, and it didn't feel like it belonged to him. None of this did.
The crowd of parents and nobles watched from ascending tiers, dressed in fine silks and adorned in spell-inscribed jewelry that hummed faintly with protective enchantments. They weren't here for the nobodies. They were here to see legacy children get matched with heirloom relics. They were here for Alric Faen.
Ashen shifted, eyes tracking Alric as he stepped forward. Alric's white hair shimmered under the Hall's light; his movements smooth, sure. Ashen remembered those same hands tying up his sleeves when they were younger. He remembered a time when they were friends.
But that was before magic.
Alric raised a hand. One of the relics—a radiant sword floating mid-air—glowed brighter, then descended with a soft chiming tone. The Celestial Shard. Gasps echoed through the hall. Alric smiled as the blade touched his hand, sending a pulse of golden light outward that left the nearest glyphs shining even more brightly.
The applause nearly shook the walls.
One by one, other children were called. Some cried when chosen. Some fainted. A few were skipped, but were quietly ushered aside and offered mundane training or minor enchantment tokens.
Then the herald's voice echoed again.
"Ashen."
Silence fell. Some tried to look supportive. Most didn't.
Ashen walked the long path to the platform, every step sounding far louder than it should have. He stood beneath the ring of relics. He raised his chin.
Nothing.
No flicker. No pulse. Not even a spark.
The silence twisted. Whispers slithered through the crowd like smoke. Someone snickered. A noblewoman shook her head and turned away.
Ashen's stomach dropped. He stood there, hoping—just one twitch. One glow.
Then it happened.
A low hum. Faint at first. Not from the relics.
From above.
Something shot from the ceiling shadows like a lightning strike. It crashed into the floor, throwing up shards of marble. Dust choked the platform.
A black object, rough-edged and jagged, pulsed once. Then again.
A chain whipped out and snapped around Ashen's throat. He didn't scream. He couldn't.
The pendant. Cold. Heavy. Alive.
Gasps turned to shrieks. Several of the relics dimmed. Candles flickered and died. A wave of null swept outward from Ashen's body like a storm wind, snuffing enchantments and rattling the shielded gallery.
Ashen dropped to his knees.
Then the pendant settled. Still. Quiet.
"A cursed object—get it off him!" someone shouted.
Guards surged forward, wands drawn.
From the high balcony, the Wizard King rose slightly in his seat. Light caught the edges of his robes—woven from alternating strands of pure light and shadow.
But he did not speak. He simply observed.
Ashen looked up. Right at him.
And the Wizard King, Varric Solendar, narrowed his eyes.
---
Ashen was hauled away in chains laced with runes, down into the depths of the palace.
The cell they threw him into was small, round, and seamless—no corners, no cracks, only stone infused with sealing magic. Ashen sat still, the cold pendant still tight around his neck. He touched it once, then yanked his hand back as if burned.
Three interrogators entered the chamber. A woman in black robes flicked her fingers and illusions surrounded them—layers of silence, shielding, and truth magic.
"Name?" she asked.
"Ashen."
"Where did you get the pendant?"
"It chose me."
The woman's mouth flattened.
"It's an ancient magical artifact. A corrupted one. It should not exist."
"I didn't summon it."
"Magic doesn't choose those without it."
Ashen didn't answer. The pendant pulsed once, faintly. One of the guards flinched.
After hours of questioning and magical prodding that yielded no useful reaction from the pendant, they left. Ashen was alone again.
---
He dreamed.
Of a field of ash. A sky without stars. Whispers like claws.
When he woke, a man stood at the doorway.
Tall. Pale. Dressed in layered black with silver stitching, his presence felt like cooled embers. His voice was quiet, but not soft.
"I'm Drael Veyne. Captain of the Halloween Banner."
Ashen sat up. "I thought they were disbanded."
Drael raised a brow. "Not yet. You're being assigned to us."
Ashen blinked. "You want me in a squad?"
Drael walked forward and stopped just short of the warded circle.
"I don't want anything," Drael said. "But the kingdom has decided to push you into the shadows. That happens to be where we live."
Ashen stood slowly. "Am I a prisoner?"
"You're something far more useful," Drael said. "A weapon they don't understand. And we're the only squad that doesn't throw weapons away just because they're dangerous."
He turned.
"Gather your things. We leave at dawn."
Ashen had nothing to gather. Only the pendant. Only the silence it brought.
As he stepped out of the cell and into the hallway that led to a future no one had prepared for, Ashen realized something:
He had never belonged. Not to the world. Not to magic.
But the pendant did not ask for belonging. It demanded purpose.
And it had found his.
---