The Astra Hall smelled of cold stone and old incense—clean, sharp, unforgiving. Raien Vale stood barefoot at its center, palms sweating, heart hammering so loud he was sure the judges could hear it.
Nine elders sat in a half-circle, their cloaks stitched with sigils of their respective Realms. Behind them, dozens of candidates watched in silence. Some whispered. Most stared.
Raien inhaled.
"Begin," said Elder Karesh, his voice thin as a blade.
Raien drew Astra the only way he knew how—by clenching his teeth and remembering hunger, cold nights, and the way people looked through him like he was smoke. Heat answered. Too much heat.
The sigil circle beneath his feet flared crimson.
Gasps rippled through the hall.
"No—control it!" someone shouted.
Raien tried. Gods, he tried. But the Astra didn't flow—it surged. Fire veined up his arms, pain lancing through muscle and bone. He screamed as the circle cracked, molten lines spider‑webbing outward.
Then—
Something else stirred.
A presence. Vast. Ancient.
Again? it rumbled inside him, amused.
Raien collapsed.
The world went white.
He woke to chains.
Runic restraints bound his wrists and ankles, dampening Astra. His head throbbed. The hall was empty now—except for the elders.
"You failed the trial," Elder Karesh said flatly. "And survived an Astra backlash that should have killed you."
Another elder leaned forward. "That was not human output."
Raien swallowed. "I didn't mean to—"
"Intent is irrelevant," snapped a third. "You are dangerous."
A murmur of agreement.
"Exile," someone suggested.
"Execution," said another.
Raien's breath hitched.
Before the decision could settle, the hall doors groaned open.
A man limped in, cloak torn, sword hilt cracked and useless at his side.
"Still arguing while the boy bleeds?" he said.
The elders stiffened.
"Oruin," Karesh said. "You have no authority here."
Master Oruin smiled—a tired, broken thing. "I have enough."
He looked at Raien. Really looked.
"Release him," Oruin said. "I'll take responsibility."
Silence fell like ash.
That night, Raien sat on the training grounds steps, staring at his shaking hands.
"You didn't burn them," Oruin said, lowering himself beside him with a wince.
Raien laughed weakly. "Low bar."
Oruin's gaze turned serious. "What you carry isn't a curse. It's a contract."
Raien's chest tightened. "With what?"
The old man didn't answer immediately.
"Something the world tried to forget," he said at last. "And something that hasn't forgiven it."
Far beneath Raien's ribs, the presence stirred again.
They fear you, it whispered.
Raien clenched his fists.
For the first time, he wondered if the elders were right.