The carriage slowed to a steady stop before Wysteria's central hall, its polished dark wood gleaming under the sharp rays of the midday sun. The wheels crunched over the gravel path and stilled with a faint creak of axles. For a moment, the only sound was the faint hiss of cooling metal and the rustle of leaves stirred by the summer breeze.
Orion stepped down from the carriage, boots sinking slightly into the dew-softened earth. The air smelled faintly of wet grass and the faint tang of oiled wood. He squinted against the glare, raising a hand to shade his eyes.
The hall loomed ahead—an imposing structure of pale-gray stone, its towering facade carved with runes that shimmered with a faint, otherworldly light. They pulsed slowly, almost like the steady rhythm of breathing, as if the building itself was alive. Orion's brow furrowed. Something about it was… sharper than in his memories. The edges of the walls seemed newly cut, the runes unmarred by time's erosion.
Renovated, he guessed. Perhaps for the ceremony.
The thought brought a small, involuntary shiver.
A modest crowd had gathered in the wide courtyard before the hall. Townsfolk in their everyday linen tunics stood shoulder-to-shoulder with merchants in better fabrics, their voices a low, buzzing hum. Children clung to their parents' sleeves, some craning their necks to get a better view, others hiding shyly behind their mothers. They were here for one reason: the rare presence of the Silverdale Mage Guild in their quiet town.
Whispers spread through the crowd like wind through tall grass. Orion could feel eyes on him—long, measuring glances that weighed him with a mixture of curiosity and something heavier. But whenever those eyes shifted to his grandfather or his mother, the tone of the murmurs changed. There was respect there. Even reverence.
Orion's stomach tightened. Being a Veyr meant more than just a family name. It meant a legacy heavy enough to crush a person if they weren't strong enough to bear it.
Kaelum, his grandfather, strode forward with the ease of a man who had faced storms greater than any ceremony could offer. A white raptor perched on his left shoulder, its talons gripping the leather pad stitched into his cloak. The bird's golden eyes, which had been fixed on Orion moments ago, now swept lazily over the crowd, cold and sharp, as if judging every soul before it.
"Stay focused," Kaelum murmured without looking at him. His voice was low, rough, like gravel ground beneath a boot. "This isn't a game. And…" his gaze flicked briefly toward Orion, "good luck, child."
The warmth in those last words was so rare it hit Orion harder than he expected. He could only nod in reply, his throat too tight for speech.
The massive doors of the hall groaned open, spilling a shaft of dim light onto the courtyard stones. A robed figure emerged—a mage clad in a silver cloak that shimmered faintly with shifting glyphs, their shapes writhing in and out of sight. She stopped at the threshold, her gaze moving over the Veyr family before dipping into a respectful bow.
"Welcome, House Veyr," she said, her voice formal but not without curiosity. "The circle is prepared, and Master Lysander awaits to begin the ceremony."
Beside Orion, Cecily—his mother—squeezed his hand briefly. "You'll be fine," she whispered, though her eyes flicked toward her father with a trace of worry. Orion caught it and wondered—not for the first time—what old shadows stood between them. But there was no time to ask. The mage was already gesturing for them to enter.
Inside, the air shifted at once—cooler, denser, carrying the mingled scents of burning incense and freshly hewn wood. The high-vaulted ceiling was supported by beams carved with intricate warding patterns.
The chamber's center was dominated by a wide, circular dais. Its surface was inlaid with a starburst of gleaming crystal lines that converged toward a single, fist-sized gem in its center. Even at a distance, the crystal seemed to hum faintly, a sound more felt than heard.
Wooden steps encircled the platform, and on them stood the other participants—most of them teenagers around Orion's age. Their faces were masks of anticipation, nervousness, or thinly veiled dread.
Orion's eyes went at once to the gem. The awakening crystal. He knew what it was for. Not everyone in Wysteria did. It was a conduit—one that would lay bare the truth of a person's potential. To touch it was to reveal whether you carried mana in your veins… and if you did, how brightly your gift burned.
The mage in the silver cloak motioned toward the central circle. Orion took a step forward—
"Kaelum! How gracious of you to arrive so early."
The voice cut through the chamber like a blade dipped in mockery.
Orion froze and glanced at his grandfather. The raptor tilted its head, golden eyes narrowing.
"Hah!" Kaelum barked out a laugh. "Lysander, I see you're in fine health." The words were cordial. The tone was not.
Following his gaze, Orion found the source—a man standing on an elevated altar beyond the dais. He was clad in robes of deep gold, the threads catching the dim light like sunlight on water. The emblem of the Magic Association was embroidered over his chest, its design sharp and unmistakable. His hair was silver, his beard neatly kept, but his eyes—sharp, pale gray—were heavy with the kind of grumpiness that came from years of tolerating what one considered beneath them.
Lysander, head of the Silverdale Mage Guild.
It was clear from the twitch of his mouth that he was less than delighted to be holding a ceremony in a place as small as Wysteria.
The man waved a hand toward Orion, his expression flat. "Come, boy. Don't keep us waiting."
"Yes," Orion murmured. The word barely made it past his lips.
As he stepped onto the circle, the other participants instinctively shifted away from him, leaving a pocket of empty space at his side. Some didn't meet his eyes, their avoidance edged with the kind of respect that came from fear of offending a name like Veyr. Others looked away with the quiet disdain that nobles reserved for anyone they envied. Orion wasn't sure which cut deeper.
Lysander mounted the dais, his mere presence quieting the low murmur of the crowd. Two assistant mages stepped forward, pushing the heavy wooden doors closed. They shut with a deep, resonant thud that seemed to seal the room in a bubble of tense stillness.
"When you're ready," the silver-cloaked mage announced from the steps, "step forward, state your name and family, and approach the crystal."
For several long minutes, no one moved. The silence pressed down, heavy and expectant.
Then a tall boy with light skin and black hair stepped forward. His clothes were plain, the kind worn by commoners, but he held himself with a kind of quiet resolve. His shoulders were square, though Orion noticed the faint tremor in his hands.
"I'm Elric," the boy said, voice loud enough to carry but unsteady.
Lysander motioned him forward. Eric climbed the steps, placed his palms against the crystal. Lysander rested his own hand lightly over the boy's.
A pulse of light flared from the gem—steady, bright enough to be seen but not dazzling.
"Three-star, medium mana affinity," the silver-cloaked mage declared without particular enthusiasm.
The hall broke into polite applause, though to Wysteria's folk it was clearly impressive enough. Orion caught the whispers that rippled among the participants.
"Told you it's easy," a boy from the commoner group muttered to his friend. "That nonsense about needing mage parents is rubbish. Even someone like Elric awakened."
"But my pa said—"
"Your pa's full of it. Look, I'm going next."
The second boy—bolder, brash in both posture and tone—pushed forward before his friend could reply. He ascended the steps in three long strides.
"Silas," he said, his voice brimming with confidence.
He gripped the crystal. Seconds passed. No light came.
Lysander's voice, flat as cold iron, cut the silence: "Null."
The crowd's noise died instantly. Silas descended the steps with his head lowered, his earlier bravado gone, replaced by the heavy slump of failure.
One after another, sixteen more stepped forward. Most left the dais empty-handed, faces pale, shoulders sagging. The tension built with each attempt, the air thick with it.
Then, from the noble group, a boy with dirty-blond hair stepped forward. His gait was stiff, controlled, as though each step was deliberate. His eyes were fixed on the crystal, and for a moment Orion felt his own heartbeat quicken. His turn was drawing closer.