The air shimmered when Gareth and Kael stepped out of the portal. What greeted them was no ordinary land—it was a realm cut from the breath of legends.
The road before them stretched like a silver ribbon, winding across meadows that glowed faintly under the sun, as if dew itself held light. Ancient bridges of white stone arched over rivers clear as crystal, their waters singing with voices too old for men to understand. On the far horizon rose the mountain, and upon its slope, the colossal manor of Highwarden National School.
Its towers pierced the clouds, its banners draped like rivers of gold and crimson. Even from afar, one could feel the weight of history pressing from its walls, as though kings, scholars, and heroes all whispered from its stones. Beside it, tucked humbly at the base of the mountain, stood a second hall: wooden, weathered, unadorned. Upon its post hung a plain sign, carved with a single word—Commoners.
The two boys walked side by side, yet each step deepened the silence between them. Students from across the realm streamed forward—daughters of noble houses dressed in silks, heirs of merchant dynasties, foreign youths with strange sigils glowing on their skin. Some looked at Gareth and Kael with curiosity, others with open disdain.
The closer they drew to Highgarden's gates, the louder the whispers became.
"Look—those are the gates of division." "They test the soul. Nobles walk through. Common-born are turned aside." "Even some royals have been denied…"
The gates themselves towered like giants, wrought of black steel and shimmering wards of light. Strange runes pulsed along their frame, each one alive, each one judging.
One by one, students approached. For some, the gates opened soundlessly, a flood of light parting before them. For others, the runes flared red, forcing them away.
At last, it was Kael's turn.
He stepped forward, jaw tight, fists clenched. The nobles nearby smirked, already certain of his failure. But as Kael walked, the runes blazed—not red, but white. The gates rumbled open.
A hush fell. Even the noble heirs stared.
Kael turned back, half in shock, half in triumph, his grin breaking through despite himself. "Gareth—we're in!"
But Gareth had not yet moved.
When he finally stepped forward, the gates stirred once more. The runes flared—but not with light. They flared with rejection. A violent hum filled the air, and the gates did not open.
A robed instructor, face hidden beneath a hood, spoke without emotion: "Your place is not here. Walk the lesser path."
Kael froze. "Wait, what? That's impossible—"
Gareth only stood there, silent. The words of the man in the black hat echoed faintly in his memory: Do not shine too brightly.
Kael's fists clenched. He wanted to argue, to fight, to demand the gates open for his brother. But Gareth turned, his voice calm, almost gentle.
"Go, Kael. This is your chance."
Kael's protest died in his throat. The gatekeepers were watching, the nobles whispering. Slowly, reluctantly, Kael nodded and stepped through the light.
The gates closed behind him.
And Gareth was left alone.
The hooded instructor gestured to the mountain's base, where the wooden manor stood waiting. "Commoners' Hall. That is where you belong."
Gareth looked up once more at the towers of Highwarden, their banners blazing in the sunlight. For a moment, his chest ached with something sharp and wordless. Then he turned away, his boots carrying him down the path of grass and stone, toward the hall the world had chosen for him.
Behind him, laughter and triumph echoed from the grand gates. Before him stretched silence, humble and unadorned.
The tale of two brothers had entered Highwarden. But already, the world had begun to divide them.
The instructor's hand pointed toward the base of the mountain, where the wooden hall waited in shadow. "Commoners' Hall. That is where you belong."
For a moment, Gareth stood still, gazing at the towers gleaming in sunlight. A sharp, wordless ache pressed against his chest. Then he turned, his boots carrying him down the grass and stone path. Behind him, laughter rang from the grand gates. Before him stretched quiet and silence.
The path wound downward until it ended not in halls or dormitories, but upon a cliff's edge. The wind tore at his cloak, carrying the salt of distant seas and the chill of unseen heights. Valleys unfurled beneath him like painted strokes, villages no larger than candle-flames. Above, the sky was vast and endless, as though it had been made only for him.
Below, the valleys stretched endless—fields and rivers like painted strokes, distant villages no larger than candle-flames. Above, the sky was vast, unbroken, as if it had been made only for him to stand beneath.
And then—he was no longer alone.
A boy sat upon the rock beside him, legs dangling into the abyss, hair dark as raven feathers. His eyes glimmered faint silver, mischievous and knowing, far too old for the youth his form suggested.
"Too quiet, isn't it?" the boy said, voice light, almost teasing. "The world divides you, yet here you stand… higher than them all."
Gareth turned his head slowly. He did not ask the boy's name; some truths announce themselves without speech.
"…Umbrael."
The boy grinned, showing teeth too sharp for comfort. "You recognize me. Good." He leaned closer, and with the casual ease of a friend, reached out and patted Gareth's head. "You've grown, master."
The word lingered, strange and heavy. Gareth let it pass, his voice low. "What of the cult?"
Umbrael's expression brightened like a child showing off a secret toy. "I wore your shadow, walked in your absence. They thought me you." He snapped his fingers, and the wind shifted around them. "The flock is no longer a rabble. I split them into three: researchers, fighters, and veilbinders. Order from chaos, teeth from whisper. All under your name."
He tilted his head, eyes gleaming. "I serve. And I will work harder still, if you will it."
Gareth's gaze returned to the horizon, where the sunlight touched the peaks in gold. His hand curled loosely on the stone beside him. "Then work… but I need more than loyalty. I want knowledge. The mark—its meaning, its power. Tell me what it truly is."
For once, Umbrael's grin faltered. His silver eyes dipped, shadow stretching long against the cliff's edge. "The mark…" His voice thinned into a whisper. "Even I do not know all its roots. But I know this: it is not a gift freely given. It is a seed. And seeds… grow best in blood and sorrow."
The silence that followed was colder than the wind.
Gareth stood, rising slowly from the cliff's edge. His cloak whipped behind him, his figure cutting against the endless sky. He turned—not toward Umbrael, not toward the cult, but toward the path ahead, where the wooden manor waited in its quiet shadow.
Umbrael still sat there, smiling faintly, his boyish form flickering at the edges, as though reality could not quite hold him.
"Walk your path, master," he murmured. "I will keep the shadows in line."
Gareth gave no reply. His boots struck the stone once, twice, before carrying him away from the cliff's edge.
The wind howled after him, as if reluctant to let him go.
The path of silver stones ended at the wooden hall. Its walls were plain, its beams weathered, and yet it stood proud at the mountain's base like a stubborn tree refusing to bow. Upon its threshold hung a single word, carved in simple strokes:
Commoners.
Gareth stepped inside.
The hall was no palace. The floor creaked, the ceiling leaked faint light through uneven planks, and the scent of ink and smoke lingered in the air. Yet within these walls were faces that had not been polished by noble courts—faces scarred, strange, and sharp with quiet hunger.
A boy with tangled hair and ink-stained fingers muttered to himself as invisible hands shifted his books for him. A girl with pale eyes sat barefoot on the bench, whispering to the air, and the air whispered back. In the corner, a hulking youth sat hunched, iron chains bound around his wrists—not to hold him, but to hold back the strength that trembled inside him.
The rejected. The overlooked. The forgotten.
And Gareth among them.
He said nothing, only let the silence fold around him as though it had always been his cloak.
Far above, across the courtyard of banners, Kael entered a different world.
The gates of Highwarden had embraced him, and within lay towers of ivory, spires gilded in sunlight, courtyards where fountains sang, and students robed in silks threaded with silver. The air itself seemed rarer, thinner, as though only the chosen were permitted to breathe it.
Yet Kael felt every eye upon him.
Noble sons sneered behind jeweled hands. Daughters of old blood whispered as they passed.
"He is no heir." "A stray who slipped through." "The gates made a mistake."
And when the instructors called his name, it was not to welcome him, but to test him. A duel, on the first day. Before an audience of sneering peers, Kael was handed a blade. His opponent smirked—an heir of a knightly line, his sword gleaming with ancestral runes.
Kael's heart thundered. For Gareth. For himself. He lifted his blade.
The clash began.
The path of silver stones ended at the wooden hall. Its walls were plain, its beams weathered, and yet it stood proud at the mountain's base like a stubborn tree refusing to bow. Upon its threshold hung a single word, carved in simple strokes:
Commoners.
Gareth stepped inside.
The hall was no palace. The floor creaked, the ceiling leaked faint light through uneven planks, and the scent of ink and smoke lingered in the air. Yet within these walls were faces that had not been polished by noble courts—faces scarred, strange, and sharp with quiet hunger.
A boy with tangled hair and ink-stained fingers muttered to himself as invisible hands shifted his books for him. A girl with pale eyes sat barefoot on the bench, whispering to the air, and the air whispered back. In the corner, a hulking youth sat hunched, iron chains bound around his wrists—not to hold him, but to hold back the strength that trembled inside him.
The rejected. The overlooked. The forgotten.
And Gareth among them.
He said nothing, only let the silence fold around him as though it had always been his cloak.
Far above, across the courtyard of banners, Kael entered a different world.
The gates of Highwarden had embraced him, and within lay towers of ivory, spires gilded in sunlight, courtyards where fountains sang, and students robed in silks threaded with silver. The air itself seemed rarer, thinner, as though only the chosen were permitted to breathe it.
Yet Kael felt every eye upon him.
Noble sons sneered behind jeweled hands. Daughters of old blood whispered as they passed.
"He is no heir." "A stray who slipped through." "The gates made a mistake."
And when the instructors called his name, it was not to welcome him, but to test him. A duel, on the first day. Before an audience of sneering peers, Kael was handed a blade. His opponent smirked—an heir of a knightly line, his sword gleaming with ancestral runes.
Kael's heart thundered. For Gareth. For himself. He lifted his blade.
The clash began.
That night, Gareth did not sleep. Or rather, when his eyes closed, the Mark upon his skin burned, and sleep became something else.
He stood in a dreamscape beneath a sky split by black and gold. The sun and moon hung together, neither yielding, locked in eternal eclipse. From the horizon, voices rose—not one voice, but many, layered like a choir of shadows.
"The sun hides…""The world forgets…""Only the eclipse remembers…"
Gareth reached out, but the voices scattered like ash in the wind, leaving only silence. His chest tightened with the weight of meaning half-seen, half-hidden.
When he woke, the Mark was still warm against his skin.
But in the places where Gareth could not walk, another moved.
Umbrael.
He no longer wore the form of a boy, but of smoke and shadow, shifting through halls unseen. Where nobles boasted, he listened. Where scholars stored forbidden scrolls, he slipped past locks like a whisper.
The cult he had gathered under Gareth's shadow had become teeth in the dark: researchers prying into lost lore, fighters honing blades in hidden pits, veilbinders bending secrets to silence.
And now Umbrael turned those teeth outward, toward Highwarden itself.
A scroll stolen here. A sigil copied there. A whispered deal struck in the dark.
All for one purpose: to lay the path for the master who walked the commoner's road.
The bell tolled, deep and hollow, echoing across the cobbled courtyard of the Commoners' Hall. Students shuffled in with slouched shoulders, their clothes plain, their faces shadowed by nerves and half-formed dreams.
Then the air shifted.
It was as if the sun itself had bent a little lower to watch. A boy stepped through the gate — Cassiel Draemond. His stride was unhurried, yet it demanded the world's attention. Not tall, not cloaked in riches, not draped in silks like the noble brats above — and yet he carried himself like a crowned sovereign forced to walk among beggars.
His hair was pale-gold, catching the light like a blade's edge; his eyes, glacial blue, cut through the crowd with the same merciless sharpness. Where others hunched, he stood straight. Where others whispered, he smirked.
"Pathetic," he said, not loudly, but with enough scorn to stain the air. "If this is the rabble they've gathered, then I'll have no trouble reigning here."
The commoners shrank back, some bristling, others lowering their gaze. But Cassiel didn't look at them — not really. His gaze was fixed higher, somewhere beyond the roof of the Hall, as if even the sky was too small a stage.
And yet… when his eyes finally lowered, they stopped on one boy seated alone near the courtyard wall.
Gareth Valven.
Cassiel studied him with a smile that wasn't a smile. A silent declaration hung between them: You. you look interesting.
He walked past, cloakless and plain-clothed like the rest, but his presence weighed heavier than any noble's silks. Even the teachers paused mid-step, their words faltering as though history itself had just taken note.
In the whisper of wind that followed him, the Commoners' Hall was no longer the same.
Cassiel Draemond had arrived.