The echo of applause from Lucas's awakening had not yet faded when the officiant raised his voice again.
"Westergarde, Elena."
The name cut the air like a drawn blade. Murmurs swept through the cathedral. Nobles leaned forward, commoners craned their necks, even priests whispered prayers. The Westergardes were not merely a knightly house—they were the White Rose, a dynasty rooted in legend, bound to Rosenlicht, the dragonfire sword that had once burned back abyssal hordes.
Elena stepped forward.
She wore the same gray ceremonial robe as every youth in the hall, but it fit her like regalia. Her hair, pale as moonlight, shimmered under the sun filtering through stained glass. A simple ribbon bound it back, emphasizing her calm profile. Her expression was composed, unflinching, as though she were walking not toward a test but toward inevitability.
Lucas Blackwell, standing among the freshly awakened, found his chest tightening. Sparks still flickered faintly across his fingertips from his own lightning awakening, but his relief felt small compared to the presence of the girl striding forward. His father's words echoed in his head—the storm has joined the shield. But compared to Elena Westergarde, he felt like a candle beside a rising dawn.
She ascended the dais, resting her hand upon the Awakening Obelisk.
At first, silence. Then—
The obelisk sang.
Not a hum, not a flicker of light, but a resonance that vibrated through stone and bone alike. A single, perfect note rang out, filling the cathedral like the voice of a choir. Then light erupted—searing white and molten gold, flooding the veins of the obelisk and blazing outward in radiant beams.
Gasps tore through the chamber.
"Light—!"
"No, look—her chest—"
From within Elena's body flared aura, Bronze rank but impossibly dense, surging out in a shimmering field. The air rippled, her hair lifted slightly in the force, and her robe snapped like a banner in the wind.
A hybrid awakening.
Lucas's throat dried. Hybrids were so rare that most never survived them. The body wasn't meant to bear both aura and elemental mana—yet she stood calm, steady, only the faint tightening of her jaw betraying the storm running through her veins.
Priests whispered prayers in awe. Nobles gripped their seats with white knuckles. Even the officiant's lips trembled as he struggled to keep composure.
Then the light condensed.
Above her palm, it folded inward, shimmering, reshaping itself into something sharper, longer. A blade took form—slender, elegant, its hilt curling into the shape of petals, its edge burning with a silver fire that radiated heat not of this world.
The crowd erupted.
"Rosenlicht…" a noble breathed, their fan falling from numb fingers.
The blade of the White Rose. Dormant for decades. Awakened only when a true heir worthy of its fire appeared.
Elena lifted her hand, and the sword flared brighter, heat rolling across the cathedral. For an instant, Lucas thought she might set the banners alight just by existing.
The officiant's voice broke, but he forced it steady:
"Elena Westergarde—blessed by Light, awakened with Aura, chosen by Rosenlicht. By decree, Sanctum Academy claims you at once."
The cathedral erupted into thunder. Nobles clapped and shouted her name, their voices echoing to the vaulted ceilings. Priests crossed themselves, whispering thanks to Solara, goddess of light. Commoners wept, for the White Rose had bloomed again.
And Elena?
She let go. The sword dissolved into white petals that drifted and vanished before touching the ground. Her chest rose and fell once in a steady breath. Her face remained calm, untouched by triumph. She turned and descended the dais as though nothing extraordinary had happened.
But when her eyes passed over Lucas, something shifted.
For the briefest moment, she looked at him. Not with scorn, not with warmth—simply with a level, assessing gaze, as though measuring his worth. Lucas's stomach twisted. He had lightning. Aura. Even that alone made him remarkable. But compared to this? Compared to a girl chosen by both light and Rosenlicht?
He forced his eyes away, swallowing hard.
The ceremony continued, but every awakening after Elena was muted. Fire, water, wind, earth—all pale shadows beside the brilliance that had filled the cathedral minutes before. No applause carried the same weight. No gasps had the same awe.
Lucas barely heard the officiant call other names. His thoughts churned with too many truths.
Lightning—rare, coveted.
Aura—Bronze, promising.
The Sigil—hidden, forbidden.
And Elena Westergarde—light, aura, Rosenlicht.
When the last youth stepped back from the obelisk, the officiant raised his hands high. His voice rang across the hushed chamber:
"This year's Awakening concludes! May the elements guide them, may aura shield them, may these children become the swords and shields of the realm!"
The final bells tolled overhead. The crowd erupted again—families cheering, nobles whispering, scribes scribbling frantic notes into genealogies.
Lucas stood motionless, lightning still crackling faintly along his skin. To the world, he was a prodigy. But inside his chest, the Chrono-Sigil pulsed, heavy as eternity.
No one else had seen it. No one else had felt the heavens shift when the sigil branded him. But he had.
Beyond the cathedral roof, far above the sky, something stirred.
Gods turned their gaze, unease whispering through the higher planes. Dragons shifted in their slumber, mountains trembling faintly. The Abyss stirred restlessly, sensing the disturbance.
Lucas clenched his fists. He was the son of the Ironwall and the Valkyrie, heir of the Empire's greatest sword family. Today, lightning and aura had been enough for the world to celebrate.
But his true path was already marked.
Elena Westergarde carried the destiny of the White Rose.
Lucas Blackwell carried the forbidden sigil of eternity.
And the heavens whispered with voices only he could feel:
The Threadbearer has awakened.