Stone dust, incense, and nervous sweat cling to the plaza, thick enough to taste. Awakening Day always brings crowds. Even in Virellion, where entire districts float in the sky, people still press together like being close might somehow change what the Pillar decides.
At the back of the plaza, just behind the iron line set into the stone, Kael stands in the labor section. The line barely rises off the ground, no real barrier at all, but it doesn't need to be. Blue runes glow inside the metal, humming softly with a steady warning meant for people like him.
Labor-born stay behind this line.
Nobody says it out loud. Nobody has to.
Without crossing, he toes the edge, hands clasped behind his back, shoulders squared. His face stays calm the way his mother taught him, the way you learn to hold yourself when eyes are always waiting for an excuse.
Taller than most of the laborers around him, Kael is built lean instead of broad. His arms and shoulders are shaped by carrying weight, not by training for display. His hands are rough, his forearms marked by old, light scars from cuts and burns that healed without care.
Deep brown skin, the color of dark soil after rain, sets him apart from the plaza's pale stone and the nobles' bright clothes. His hair is kept short, tight curls trimmed close so nobody can grab it or use it against him. Near the corner of his mouth sits a thin scar. He barely remembers how he got it, only the lesson it left behind.
Do not give anyone a reason to think you are weak.
Most of the work is done by his eyes. Dark. Steady. Always moving. They stay low when nobles pass, careful not to linger. In Virellion, staring from the wrong side of the line counts as disrespect.
The plaza opens wide ahead. At its center rises the Awakening Pillar, a tall column of white stone wrapped in spiral runes that glow and shift like slow-moving light. Beneath everything else, the Pillar hums low and steady, like a machine that has been running for centuries without stopping.
Beside it waits an evaluator in ceremonial blue, stationed next to a crystal display that shows each person's result after contact. Closer to the front, noble families occupy raised stands, their children lined up first. Parents smile and whisper like this is a celebration they already paid for.
A noble girl steps forward. Silver-threaded hair. Clean hands. When her palm touches the Pillar, the runes brighten instantly, light flaring around her wrist. The crystal displays an A-rank, and applause breaks out as she steps back like she expected nothing else.
Another noble child follows. A B-rank.Another. An A-rank again.
Each time, the Pillar responds fast, like it recognizes them already.
When a labor-born boy is called, the mood shifts. The crowd grows quieter, not in a respectful way, but with the anticipation reserved for embarrassment. With shaky hands, the boy presses his palm to the stone. The light flickers. For half a second, the hum stutters.
The crystal displays a D-rank.
No applause follows. A few people in the stands laugh under their breath. The boy retreats quickly, cheeks burning, eyes fixed on the ground. By the time he crosses back behind the iron line, he looks smaller than before.
Comfort can get you noticed. So Kael says nothing.
From the noble stands, a voice drifts out.
Maybe the Pillar does not like dirty hands.
Laughter follows. Light. Careless.
Pressure builds in his jaw until his teeth ache, the tension syncing with the Pillar's low rhythm before he forces it down. His mother's voice cuts through the moment, steady and tired, the memory of cedar oil clinging to the air because she believed it made the room feel cleaner than it was.
Stand straight, even when they look down.
He straightens.
Names continue to be called as the line moves. Rank after rank. Mostly high. Mostly clean. Time passes in neat, cruel pieces anyway.
Then his name echoes across the plaza.
Kael Ashari.
Heads turn. In the labor section, bodies shift as whispers ripple outward. Hollow-born. Why is he here. Does he think—
Before the thought can settle, he steps forward and crosses the iron line.
The runes hum louder as he passes. Not an alarm. A warning with teeth. A faint crawling sensation runs up his legs, like static under his skin, but he keeps walking.
The evaluator frowns and says he is out of sequence.
"I was called," Kal replies, stopping in front of him.
Eyes travel over patched clothes worn thin by work. The gaze lingers a moment too long before lifting, as if finished with something disposable. The hesitation that follows spreads through the crowd.
Without waiting for permission, he moves past the evaluator.
Up close, the Pillar's stone feels cold and clean beneath his palm. The runes glow softly, shifting like slow water, and the hum is stronger here, vibrating faintly in his chest. Every eye in the plaza seems to settle on him, most of them waiting for him to fail publicly.
His hand rests against the stone.
Nothing happens.
No glow. No flare. Just stone.
The silence stretches longer than it should. Clearing his throat, the evaluator tells him to remove his hand. He doesn't. He isn't trying to make a point. Something feels wrong.
Not from the crowd.Not from the surface.
Deeper.
Like something behind the stone has noticed him and paused.
The hum drops lower. A sharp crack echoes through the plaza, enough to make people flinch. The runes flicker, then dim, darkness spreading through the spiral lines like ink. Nearby, the crystal display flickers as well.
A cold numbness creeps through his wrist, hollow and draining, like blood pulling away from the skin. The evaluator's face goes pale. He starts to speak again, but another crack cuts him off as the Pillar falls completely silent.
Across the plaza, everything goes still.
Then the crystal display flashes a result.
Unbound.
For a moment, nobody reacts because nobody knows what to do with it. Then the noise rushes back in, louder and messier than before.
His hand pulls away from the stone. The wrist is bare. No mark. No glow. No crest. No contract. Just skin.
Too quickly and too loudly, the evaluator speaks, trying to control the moment before it grows teeth. Unbound indicates failure to contract. The subject is unable to form a stable binding.
Failure.
The word settles like a stamp.
Near the front, a tall noble boy leans forward. Silver hair. Pale eyes. A clean smile. Loud congratulations follow, paired with the word free. Laughter breaks out. Not everyone laughs, but enough do that it doesn't matter.
Turning away from the Pillar, Kael does not run. He walks back across the plaza at the same steady pace he came in with. As he crosses the iron line, the runes hum again, satisfied.
Behind him, the Pillar's runes slowly relight, like the system is trying to pretend nothing happened.
Back in the labor section, space forms around him without anyone stepping back. No one moves closer either. Being near him feels dangerous now, like the word unbound might spread.
His expression stays neutral.
Inside, something feels out of place. Not broken. Just noticed.
Once, his gaze lifts toward the sky districts, the floating stone towers where words are decided for people like him. Then it returns to the Pillar, its runes glowing normally again.
But he knows what he felt.
For a moment, the system hesitated.
For a moment, something behind the stone turned its attention toward the empty place where a contract should have been.
A slow breath steadies him as he turns away from the plaza. No applause follows. No guards intervene. Still, the air feels heavier than it did before, like the city is quietly counting him now.
And deep beneath Virellion, far under the stone and the runes and the floating pride, something shifts in the dark. It does not rush or attack, but wakes just enough to listen, patient and aware, waiting to see what an unbound boy becomes when the world refuses to give him a place.