Riht emerged into a garden that should not exist.
A perfectly still pond lay at its center, its surface unmoved by wind or ripple. Rising from it was a massive tree, its bark a mix of black and white it was twisted, etched with faint patterns that shifted whenever he failed to look directly at them. Its leaves glowed gold—not warm, but intent, like focus given form.
The air resisted him.
Each step forward felt measured, permitted, as though the space itself were checking his outline before allowing him to pass. His skin prickled where invisible boundaries brushed against him and withdrew.
There were no shadows here.
The tree noticed him.
He felt it like a million eyes settling on him, a pressure recognizing a boundary that refused to weaken. The gold glow deepened by a fraction, in what felt like an uncomfortable acknowledgment.
A quiet murmur passed through the gathered figures.
A dozen youths stood in a wide arc around the pond, all close to Riht's age. Behind them were adults—parents, guardians, lineage holders—positioned carefully, hands ready where assistance or restraint might be required if a binding failed.
Once, sponsors had stood in that place.
Commanders. Patrons. Institutions willing to absorb the consequences of success or failure.
That practice had ended.
Now families carried the risk themselves.
Most of the youths had been prepared for this moment since childhood. Their Anchors inherited, negotiated, or approved long before this day—compliance encoded quietly into bloodlines and expectation.
Personal sponsorship still existed.
It was simply rare.
People did not give away pieces of themselves lightly. To sponsor someone was to bleed a piece of potential—irreversibly—into what they anchored. If the binding failed, the cost could be injury, Or worse.
Riht felt eyes slide toward him—and then away.
Some assessed him and dismissed him.
Some deliberately did not look at all.
They were here to be Anchored.
"You must be Riht."
The voice altered the garden.
A woman stepped forward. Most eyes turned toward her, attempting subtlety and failing.
She was tall, her skin pure white, her long platinum hair falling down her back in a smooth, uninterrupted sheet that caught the tree's gold light without reflecting it. Fine silver scales framed her face like a coronet and continued down her neck, disappearing beneath fitted steel-blue armor marked by white accents. The armor was polished—but scarred by use.
she held a spear of matching metal, its blade narrow and severe.
"I am Matria," she said. "Your sponsor."
The word settled with more weight than Riht expected.
Her expression shifted.
A faint, knowing smirk touched her mouth.
"And by rite," she added evenly, "your mother."
She ended it with a wink.
A tightening passed through the watching adults. Seemingly uncomfortable by her behavior. Still no one spoke.
A sponsor did not simply guide.
They bled potential—irreversibly—into what they anchored.
Matria reached into the space beside her and withdrew what appeared to be a simple polished ingot of steel.
When she pressed her thumb to its center, it unfolded.
Metal split and reconfigured, segments rotating and locking into place until a pair of rigid wings extended outward—angular, severe, unmistakably structural.
"Here is what I have chosen as your Anchor."
The air tightened.
Riht felt it immediately— alignment. Like the constant pressure he felt was finding a shape it could hold.
"All power manifests through Aeru," Matria said calmly. "Sometimes as energy. Sometimes as substance. Sometimes as intent."
As she spoke, the constraint in the garden moved inward, almost attentive.
"Aeru presses back when shaped," she continued. "What keeps that pressure survivable—maintained and comprehensible—is Rihn."
She tapped the metal wings once.
"Rihn is structure. Limits. Pathways."
Her eyes held Riht's.
"It does not suppress Aeru," she said. "It guides it."
She gestured subtly to the garden.
"This place is held by Rihn. That is why nothing intrudes. The tree itself is a special form of Anchor inverse from the kind used by the anchors, it suppresses Aeru by guiding it into its roots and when we initiate your anchoring I will guide its roots into you and place a piece of my own Aeru to ignite your potential. "
Riht understood then that the resistance he felt was not pushing inward.
It was holding everything else out.
"You have already noticed things others do not," Matria said.
Riht's shoulders tightened.
"The shadows," she clarified. "Demons."
Her tone was precise, not fearful.
"To a demon, being perceived is opposition. They do not tolerate it."
She glanced briefly around the garden.
"That is why they are not here."
Her attention returned to the Anchor.
"Knights focus on compressing Aeru inward—into body, armor, and will."
Her gaze sharpened.
"If you can see demons now, you will see them more clearly later."
A pause.
"Spirits are different," she said. "Less hostile. Less consistent."
Her eyes flicked back to him.
"Demons drive them away from those who can see. Such natural sight isolates you—metaphysically."
She studied Riht.
"You lean toward this path so completely that any other choice would be a lie," Matria said. "But if you insist, I can offer another."
One of the avian adults shifted, feathers rustling softly. Its eyes flicked to Matria.
Silence stretched.
Riht searched himself for doubt.
Found none.
"A Knight is fine," he said.
Matria regarded him for a long moment.
"People like to pretend Anchoring is a rational decision," she said at last.
She gestured to the tree, the pond, the witnesses held at a careful distance.
"It rarely is."
She rested the butt of her spear against the stone.
"Some Anchor to survive. Some to be noticed. Some because silence terrifies them."
Her eyes did not leave Riht.
"And some do not feel like they are choosing at all."
She straightened.
"In a universe shaped by pressure, anchoring is never clean."
She stepped aside, clearing the path to the tree.
"for some, Aeru will not stop pressing. Regardless of being anchored"
Her gaze sharpened.
"For them, the Anchor is not ambition."
"It is how they remain intact."
She inclined her head.
"Come."
"You will go first."