The Obsidian Aegis Academy was divided into two distinct worlds: the Aurelian Force—composed of the wealthy "Heirs" who commanded the mana—and the Obsidian Force, the scholarship "Guardians" who manifested the physical and spiritual grit to keep them alive. Priscilla had been processed into the Third Obsidian Platoon, a unit known for taking the most difficult assignments.
The "Dormitory" for the Obsidian Force was a repurposed barracks in the damp, lower levels of the academy. Priscilla sat on a thin cot, the scent of wet stone and sage-root filling the air. Around her, the friends she had made in the forest—Noah, Liam, Ezra, and Jennie—were prepping their gear for the "Binding Ceremony."
"You got stuck with Lady Valentina Thorne," Liam said, his voice dropping to a sympathetic low as he sharpened a combat knife. "She's from the Southern Marches. Her family owns the mana-quarries. She treats her Guardians like disposable focus-crystals. Three have washed out this semester with shattered spiritual conduits."
"She won't shatter mine," Priscilla said, tightening the laces of her combat boots. She had hidden her Vane-Crest ring in a hollowed-out heel, her only tether to her true life.
The Aurelian Courtyard
The Binding Ceremony took place in the central courtyard, a stunning display of white marble that contrasted sharply with the black obsidian of the walls. The Heirs stood on a raised dais, draped in silks that cost more than a Northern village's annual yield.
Noah leaned in. "That's the core group you need to watch. Beside Valentina is Cassian, he's the top of the Aurelian Force. Next to him is Seraphina the Younger—no relation to the traitor you fought, hopefully—and Marcus, who's a telekinetic nightmare."
Priscilla's eyes locked onto Lady Valentina. The girl was twenty-four, sharp-featured, with hair like spun silver and eyes that looked at the world as if it were a poorly rendered simulation.
"Step forward, Guardian 742," a proctor barked.
Priscilla stepped into the circle. Valentina descended the stairs, her silk robes whispering against the stone. She didn't look at Priscilla's face; she looked at her hands, checking for calluses.
"You're older than the others," Valentina noted, her voice a cold, melodic bell. "And your mana-signature is… muffled. Like a candle behind a thick curtain."
"I'm a martial specialist, My Lady," Priscilla replied, bowing just low enough to be respectful but not enough to be submissive. "I focus on the internal flow."
"We'll see," Valentina smirked. "A Guardian who can't manifest a shield is just a meat-shield. Follow me. It's Combat Class."
The class was held in the Pendulum Arena, a massive hall where the floor was composed of shifting tectonic plates. The goal was simple: the Heir would stand in the center and cast high-level spells, while the Guardian had to parry physical projectiles and spiritual "Shadow-Whips" to protect them.
"Focus, 742!" Valentina commanded, her hands glowing with a harsh, emerald mana. She began to channel a Stoker-Class firestorm, but the spell was unstable—her technique was all raw power and zero psychology.
The arena's automated defense system launched a volley of heavy obsidian spheres at Valentina's blind spot.
"Protect me!" Valentina shrieked, her concentration breaking.
Priscilla moved. She didn't use mana. She used Spiritual Kinematics. She slid across the shifting floor, her body low. As the first sphere neared, she didn't block it; she touched it, redirected its momentum with a circular wrist motion, and sent it spinning into a second sphere.
CRACK.
The projectiles shattered. Priscilla spun, her hand catching a third sphere mid-air, absorbing the kinetic shock through her shoulder and grounding it into the floor.
The arena went silent. Noah and Liam, who were guarding Cassian and Marcus, exchanged wide-eyed looks.
"That was… efficient," Cassian noted, his eyes narrowing at Priscilla. "No mana? Just pure spiritual redirection? Where did you find this one, Valentina?"
"She's a drifter," Valentina said, though her face was flushed with embarrassment at her own loss of control. "A lucky strike. Nothing more."
Priscilla stood back, her breath even. She could feel the "Hollowed" presence here—a faint, sickly hum beneath the floorboards. Someone was feeding off the frustration of the Heirs.