The cathedral erupted again. Recruiters—usually stone-faced academy faculty in silk or steel—vaulted the railings like street urchins. One mage's cape snagged on a pew; he ripped it free and kept running. A silver-haired mage from the Arcane Conclave actually shoved a knight aside to reach the dais first.
"Kayla Cyndel!" the half caped mage bellowed, voice cracking with desperation. "Veyl Academy offers full scholarship, personal tutor, and a tower in the capital!"
"Tower?" the Conclave mage sneered. "We'll give her the moon if she signs today!"
Heralds blew trumpets that squealed like dying geese. The bishop raised both palms; blue light flared, shoving the mob back three paces. "ORDER!" His amplified voice rattled stained glass. "There are still names to call!"
Kayla stood frozen at the black glass, cheeks flushed, eyes wide as the storm she'd summoned. The inclusions in the glass—ice, wind, earth—still glowed like trapped comets.
The last Halver stragglers shuffled through their attunements in near-silence: fourth-rank aura, second-rank mana, nothing that could follow that. The crowd barely clapped.
A boy beside me—freckled, and wide eyed—leaned in, breath sour with nerves. "Think anyone tops an eighth-rank triple?"
I shot him a look sharp enough to cut glass. He swallowed and faced forward.
Ranfren descended now, crimson sashes snapping like battle flags. Cael led the line, rapier scar glinting under the sphere's light. She paused at the bottom step, glanced up at Kayla—still swarmed by recruiters—and smirked like she'd already won.
After the heralds almost dragged the recruiters back to their designated seats and the Ranfren students were in position, the bishop once again started calling names.
"Cael Veydris."
I leaned forward in my seat as I watched her walk to the glass orb. This was someone whose ranks I needed to beat, and while I didn't enjoy it I was genuinely praying for her downfall.
Though it seemed that Mirathil wasn't going to listen because after the Attunement sphere began picking up the pace and launching sparks large enough to leave smoke trails, I knew I was fucked. The large golden bolt striking her hand was just the icing on the cake.
KRA-KOOOM!
The bolt hit with the sound of thunder shattering the sky. A blinding violet-gold lance punched through her hand, crackling with indigo arcs that snapped and hissed. The glass beneath her fingers screamed—a high, metallic shriek—as jagged amethyst inclusions erupted in a spiderweb, each vein pulsing with trapped lightning. The air itself buzzed, raising the hair on my arms.
The cathedral went dead silent for one heartbeat.
Then the glass shattered—not the orb, but the inclusions inside it, fracturing into a thousand glowing shards that hung in the air like frozen thunder. Only seeming to fade after it made sure everyone saw.
The bishop's voice trembled, but the magic carried it clear:
"Cael Veydris—ninth-rank aura. Ninth-rank lightning affinity."
The silence broke. The crowd roared. Recruiters surged again, this time tearing at the railings. One knight actually leapt the barrier, sword clattering.
Cael didn't flinch. She lifted her hand. A single violet spark danced on her fingertip, then vanished with a pop.
She turned, found my eyes across the nave, and smiled like a storm about to break.
I was so fucked.
A ninth rank attunement was unicorn-rare. The amount that would appear on the continent of Eldrath could be counted on both hands on a good year. In a standard year she might be the only one on Eldrath who claimed that title. Let alone with a rare affinity like lightning which might see fifty new users a year.
The last person known to have that set of abilities and rank was Torak Stormrend. He took that family name after he became known for shattering entire fortresses and leveling cities in a single strike during the first Vaelen Kingdom war against the Iron Dominion. Tearing through battlements like they were wet paper, leaving charged and scorched earth wherever he went.
And Cael inherited his future.
I slumped back, staring at Mirathil's painted smirk on the ceiling. Dragged both hands down my face, tasting third place again. Then Mom's stare hit me like a cold blade between the ribs. I scanned the crowd—hundreds surging, screaming Cael's name—but couldn't find her. Although oddly one recruiter seemed to be in their seat still, staring up at our balcony.
Another war machine born.
And I was still in line.
The rest of Ranfren went quickly once things calmed down, I could still feel Cael's ridiculing gaze on me. Like she was challenging me to even hope to beat the future she just secured for herself.
"Itrinilum, come down." The bishop called and I felt my legs go a little weak as I stood. Ranfren was already back to their seats and like usual, Cael's condescending stare and smirk combo was still on me. I followed behind my old classmates down to the floor of the nave and waited.
After a few classmates came and went, the bishop turned to us again and called, "Thomas Ironcrag."
Thomas rolled his shoulder and stood up, adjusting his coat and swaggering forward. The crowd murmured—Itrinilum's musclehead—but the noise died when he planted his palm on the black glass.
The sphere groaned. A low, metallic rumble rolled through the floorboards. Then—
CLANG.
A molten gold bolt slammed his hand. The glass rippled like a hammer on an anvil. The air smelled of hot forges. Grey inclusions began appearing inside the glass orb along the familiar gold aura inclusions..
The bishop's voice carried calm authority:
"Thomas Ironcrag. Seventh-rank aura. Seventh-rank steel affinity."
A solid roar—respect, not worship. Recruiters nodded and barely remained in their seats; a few knights clapped gauntlets. Thomas flexed, veins bulging like cables. He shot me a smirk and I knew he was insulting me in his head.
I clenched my jaw. 'Beat him. Just beat him.'
"Lira Galesong."
She didn't walk—she glided, robes whispering. The nave's air shifted, like a storm front rolling in. She pressed her palm to the glass without ceremony.
The sphere screamed. A high, keening whistle—like a hawk diving from the stratosphere. Then—
SHRRREEEEEEEEK.
A razor-thin blue lance stabbed her hand. The glass exploded into spiraling inclusions of pale green, each one whirling counterclockwise. Tiny cyclones carved the surface, flinging dust into the air. The temperature dropped ten degrees.
The bishop's voice cut through the wind:
"Sixth-rank mana. Eighth-rank wind affinity."
The cathedral gasped. Wind at eighth? She'd outrun arrows, shred siege engines, maybe even fly. Recruiters almost surged again, but Lira didn't flinch. She lifted her hand. A single green glyph hovered above her palm, spun once, then vanished with a snap.
She turned, eyes locking on me. No smile. Just a promise.
I was too busy in my head to bother thinking about what that promise was. I now had a lightning god reborn, a walking battering ram and a storm in human skin with grudges against me. I was beginning to think I wouldn't see my eighteenth birthday.
The bishop waited for the room to quiet down again.
"Kardin–"
The sphere groaned, a single black spark flickered at its core.
"–Dremskir."