The Awakening Stone glowed with ancient light as another student stepped forward.
"Garrett Webb," the officiating elder announced. "Class: [Iron Sentinel]. Warrior branch, defense specialization."
Golden light erupted from the crystal.
Applause filled the grand hall at once. Strong, confident, and approving. Iron Sentinel was a respected class. It offered solid defense and high survivability, valued in armies and noble retinues. Garrett grinned and raised a fist, soaking in the cheers from the observation balcony where his family stood proudly.
I swallowed hard.
Two thousand students filled the Awakening Hall, organized in neat rows beneath vaulted ceilings etched with runes of fate and destiny. Professors watched from elevated platforms. Nobles peered in from behind enchanted glass, already deciding which students might be worth their money.
And I stood near the end of the line.
Three students remained.
"Marcus Webb," the elder called next. "Class: [Blade Dancer]. Warrior branch, agility specialization."
Silver-blue light burst forth, sharp and fluid. Marcus whooped joyfully, spun on his heel, and jogged off the platform. As he passed me, he flashed a grin and mouthed, Good luck.
Lucky guy.
Blade Dancer was flashy and popular. It was the kind of class that created legends.
I wiped my palms on my academy uniform and forced myself to breathe.
Theo Ashford.
No notable family name. No noble blood. I was raised in a temple orphanage after my parents died in a border conflict I barely remembered. I had studied hard, trained even harder, and earned my place at Rosevale Academy based on my efforts alone.
But effort didn't determine your class.
The Stone did.
"Theo Ashford," the elder announced. "Step forward."
Every footstep echoed as I walked toward the Awakening Stone. Whispers began immediately—soft speculations and idle curiosity. No one expected much from the temple-raised orphan.
I placed my hand on the crystal.
It felt cold.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then warmth surged up my arm.
Not the radiant gold of warriors. Not the cool blue of mages. Not the white glow of traditional healers.
Pink.
Soft, unmistakable pink light bloomed beneath my palm, spreading through the crystal like a living blush.
The hall fell silent.
The Stone's voice rang out—ancient, emotionless, and absolute.
"Theo Ashford. Class: [Euphoric Restoration]. Classification: Unique. Branch: Healer. Activation Method: Pleasure."
For half a second, all was quiet.
Then the whispers erupted.
"Pleasure?"
"Did it really say pleasure?"
"That's disgusting."
"What kind of healer is that?"
A sharp voice cut through the noise.
"PERVERT!"
Laughter followed. Nervous at first, then cruel.
My hand fell from the stone as if burned.
The officiating elder grabbed my wrist, his face pale with anger and something like fear. He pulled me several steps away and lowered his voice to a furious hiss.
"Do you understand what that class means, boy?"
"I… no," I replied honestly. My ears were ringing.
"Your healing magic activates through physical pleasure," he snapped. "Your patient must reach release for restoration to happen."
The words crashed over me.
"That— that can't be right."
"The Stone does not make mistakes," he said coldly. "And neither does the academy tolerate indecency."
Before I could say anything more, guards were already moving.
They escorted me out through a side door while the Awakening Ceremony continued behind me, everyone pretending nothing had happened.
As if my future hadn't just shattered.
The waiting chamber outside the Headmistress's office smelled of old parchment and judgment.
I sat on a narrow bench for hours.
Long enough to hear snippets of the argument through the thick oak door.
"—this is a violation of academy ethics—"
"—a unique class does not excuse degeneracy—"
"—the Church will demand jurisdiction—"
"—expulsion is insufficient—"
"—execution would set a precedent—"
Execution.
My hands clenched in my lap.
Eventually, the door opened.
Elder council members filed out one by one, their robes whispering against the floor. None met my eyes. One spat near my feet and walked away.
"Enter," the secretary said flatly.
The office beyond was vast. Shelves of artifacts hummed with restrained power. Enchanted windows overlooked the academy grounds, students moving below like pieces on a board.
Behind the desk sat Headmistress Valentina Cross.
Silver-streaked black hair. Violet eyes sharp enough to peel secrets from bone. The most powerful mage in the kingdom—and the only one in this room who hadn't looked at me with disgust.
"Sit, Mr. Ashford," she said.
I obeyed.
"The council has voted for your expulsion," she said calmly. "Several members argued for execution under moral corruption statutes. I vetoed both motions."
"Vetoed?" My voice cracked. "Why?"
"Because unique classes are never accidents," she replied. "And because killing you would be… wasteful."
That didn't ease my worry.
"Your class is politically inconvenient," she continued. "But it could be invaluable. Noble families will want access. The Church will want you gone."
"What happens to me?" I asked.
"That depends on whether your magic proves useful," she said. "If you save someone important enough, your utility will outweigh their outrage."
"And if I can't?"
Her gaze hardened. "Then the Church will take you. They prefer fire."
My throat went dry.
"Return to your quarters," she said. "You are confined until further notice."
I stood to leave but then hesitated. "Headmistress… why are you really helping me?"
A faint smile appeared on her lips.
"Because I dislike the Church deciding who deserves to live," she said. "And because I know what your class truly represents."
My assigned quarters were barely bigger than a storage closet.
Marcus smuggled me food and gossip.
"They're calling you The Pleasure Healer," he said, trying unsuccessfully to hide his grin. "Half the academy wants you expelled. The other half wants to meet you."
"Great," I muttered. "Tell them I'm booked until my execution."
Night descended.
Sleep wouldn't come.
My hands felt… different. Sensitive. Warm. When I brushed my arm, a strange awareness rippled through me—like I could feel potential waiting to be unlocked.
A knock came at midnight.
Urgent. Sharp.
I opened the door to the Headmistress's secretary, her face pale.
"You need to come. Now."
"What happened?"
"Professor Miriam Thorne collapsed during late research. Parasitic magical infection. The healers can't stop it."
My heart raced.
"She's dying," the secretary whispered. "And you're the only option left."
We ran.
The medical wing smelled of magic gone wrong. Healers stood helplessly around a bed where a woman lay pale and barely breathing, her veins tinged sickly green.
Headmistress Cross stood at the door.
"Can you save her?" she asked quietly.
I looked at the woman on the bed. A professor. A teacher. A stranger.
Then at my hands.
"Yes," I said. "But everyone leaves."
The Headmistress nodded once.
The door closed behind me.
And for the first time, my magic stirred—hungry, waiting, and completely unapologetic.