Good. I'll give you a clean, fully polished final version of Chapter 1 that:
• Matches the tone of Chapter 2
• Keeps political undercurrent strong
• Maintains emotional restraint
• Flows smoothly into "The Heirs of Ashmere"
• Ends on a line that transitions naturally
No repetition. No stiffness. Natural rhythm.
Chapter 1 — Before the Mark
The bells woke Alaric before the servants did.
They rolled across the rooftops of Ashmere in slow, measured waves, sinking into the stone walls of his room. He lay beneath the ceiling beams and counted the spaces between the tolls, waiting for them to fade.
They didn't.
Three tolls.
A pause.
Three more.
He swallowed.
That pattern rang only on certain mornings—mornings when the Church opened the Triune Basilica to test the city's children.
Testing day.
Every child in Ashmere faced it at eight.
Some walked out chosen.
Others walked out ordinary.
And a few walked out different in ways no one explained clearly.
The door opened without a knock.
His father stood in the hallway, already dressed—light armor beneath a dark riding cloak, sword belt fastened tight at his waist.
Lord Darian Vaelor looked like a man shaped by war. Grey threaded his dark hair now, but nothing about him had softened. Years ago, he had broken a monster charge along the western border. Now he trained knights, guarded supply roads, and studied maps long after midnight.
Still dangerous.
"Dress," Darian said.
Alaric moved quickly.
Behind him, Darian reached to fasten his cloak.
The clasp slipped.
Metal tapped against metal.
He stopped.
For a moment, Alaric thought of his mother.
Of warm hands straightening crooked buttons. Of quiet humming while brushing his hair.
Slow down, she used to say.
You always rush.
Darian secured the clasp on the second try.
People talk about blessings," he said. "About glory."
He looked at Alaric.
"It's an assignment."
Alaric frowned.
"If you awaken, the Church will place you where you are useful. That's all"
Alaric hesitated. "But… if I don't awaken?"
Darian didn't answer at once. He pulled on his gloves instead, tugging each finger tight.
"Shoes."
They walked the corridor in silence. Servants bowed as they passed. Outside, a carriage waited at the gate dark wood, the Vaelor crest modest beside brighter noble sigils lining the street.
Darian climbed in first.
Alaric followed.
The carriage lurched forward.
Only then did Darian speak.
"If you awaken," he said, eyes fixed ahead, "the Church writes your name into its ledgers. They decide where you train. Who commands you. Where you bleed."
Alaric's hands curled in his lap.
"And if I don't?"
Darian's jaw tightened slightly.
"Then you stay mine. You learn steel, patrol routes, supply lines. You guard roads instead of relics."
Alaric glanced at him. "Like you."
The wheels rattled over stone.
"For a knight, that isn't failure," Darian said. "It's how you live long enough to grow old."
A pause.
"I did not raise you to vanish into Church vaults."
Alaric blinked.
"You will still come home."
The words weren't soft.
They were final.
Alaric studied his father's face.
There was no comfort there.
Only decision.
Darian met his eyes once.
And nodded.
Ashmere was already awake.
Stone streets climbed along the riverbanks in pale tiers. Banners fluttered from towers and balconies. Cathedral spires cut through the thinning mist.
Priests hurried past with crates of candles and bowls of salt. Soldiers stretched ropes across narrow alleys. Bakers sold sweet rolls to parents who kept glancing at their children instead of the bread.
The kingdom had been uneasy for weeks.
Caravans arriving late.
Patrols failing to return.
Old ruins stirring where they should have remained quiet.
Testing days often followed fear.
When worry spread, the Church began counting.
The square before the Basilica was divided long before anyone said a word.
Silk cloaks gathered near the front.
Merchants and guild families stood behind them.
At the edges waited the orphan halls grey coats, wooden name tags tapping softly against thin chests.
No one had assigned the places.
They simply formed.
Alaric took his position among the lesser noble houses.
Close enough to hear court whispers.
Far enough to feel them.
The bronze doors of the Basilica towered overhead, carved with three radiant figures standing above kneeling humans.
They opened without a sound.
Inside, the air smelled of wax and cold stone.
High above, three stained-glass circles glowed in the dim light.
Gold.
Red.
Smoke-dark.
Three ritual rings lay beneath them.
Chalk.
Ash.
Bone dust.
Priests moved between the circles, redrawing symbols with careful hands.
Alaric watched the nobles as much as the altar.
Who stepped forward first.
Who drifted subtly closer to the front.
Who pretended not to notice who stood ahead of them.
This wasn't only about gods.
It was about position.
Near the altar stood High Inquisitor Marcellon Pryde.
Scholar's face.
Judge's eyes.
"You were born in the eastern quarter," Pryde said mildly, glancing at a slate.
"Yes, sir."
"A quiet district," Pryde replied. "Easy to record."
Darian did not respond.
Alaric felt something tighten in his stomach.
Records.
Ledgers.
Names written carefully.
The Church did not forget.
Children were arranged into lines.
Noble heirs first.
Merchants next.
Orphans last.
No announcement was made.
It simply happened.
Alaric noticed the thin boy again.
Bare feet.
Borrowed coat.
A wooden tag hanging crooked against his chest.
Cassien.
The boy wasn't watching the nobles.
He was staring at the dark stained-glass window overhead.
Alaric followed his gaze.
Nothing seemed different.
When he looked back, Cassien had lowered his eyes.
A priest clapped once.
The sharp sound echoed through the Basilica.
"Prepare."
The murmuring died.
The Basilica did not empty when the bells fell silent.
It shifted.
And everyone inside it shifted with it.