Orin gave a slight nod, the weight of Vael's decision settling into the silence.
"You've made the right choice," he said. Then, after a pause, "But you'll need more than power to survive what's coming. Much more."
Vael exhaled slowly, still tense. "So… what happens now?"
Orin stepped down from the dais, boots echoing across the stone as he approached. He moved with quiet authority, each step deliberate.
"You'll be assigned quarters in the inner quarter. Fully provisioned. You'll have access to meals, equipment, and whatever resources you need." He studied Vael's expression. "You won't be a guest anymore. From now on, you live among us."
Vael nodded slowly. "And what else?"
"You'll begin training in the Academy of the Inner Order," Orin said.
Vael's brow furrowed. "Training? Like… more combat?"
Orin shook his head. "Not just combat. This place teaches more than war. Magic, history, ancient theory, alchemy, philosophy, languages, warcraft. Power isn't just about force—it's about knowing when not to use it."
There was a beat of silence before Orin added, "And you have a power even the Archives can't define. That makes you dangerous. Not because of intent, but because of ignorance."
Vael's jaw tightened. "If this is what it takes to control it… then I'll learn whatever you put in front of me."
Orin's tone remained calm, but firm. "I want you to survive. And not destroy everything around you in the process. We've seen strength like yours before—flashes of it. But never this scale. If you can't understand what you are, then one day, someone else will try to decide it for you."
Vael looked away, silent.
"There are others at the Academy," Orin continued. "Some gifted. Some arrogant. Some who would give anything to have what you do. They'll see you as competition—or worse. That's why, from this moment forward, we hide what you are."
Vael met his gaze, eyes narrowing. "Hide it?"
Orin nodded. "To everyone outside the Sigils and a select few within the Inner Order, you are simply a promising new initiate. Talented, yes, but nothing extraordinary."
Vael stepped closer. "And if someone finds out?"
"They won't," Orin said. "Not unless you give them reason. Your powers stay buried unless absolutely necessary. No demonstrations. No bravado. You'll learn to wear restraint like armor."
Vael's fists clenched at his sides. "So I'm supposed to play weak?"
"No," Orin replied. "You're supposed to be smart. There's a difference."
The words hung in the air between them. Orin continued after a beat.
"Power draws attention. Attention breeds questions. Questions bring enemies—and right now, you are not ready for enemies who understand what you might be."
Vael exhaled slowly. "Fine. I'll hide it. For now."
"Good," Orin said. "Because if the wrong people knew what you were… they wouldn't train you. They'd try to break you."
He motioned to a nearby hallway, where the silver-haired woman from before stood waiting in silence, her eyes calm but observant.
"This is Selene," Orin said. "She'll escort you to your quarters. Settle in. Tomorrow, your training begins."
Vael followed his gaze, then looked back at the Master. "And when will I see you again?"
"Soon," Orin said. "I'll be watching your progress closely."
Then he added, his voice low and pointed, "And so will others."
Vael nodded, turned, and followed Selene into the hallway. As the doors closed behind him, the chamber was silent once more.
But far above them, something ancient stirred.
Vael woke just after sunrise, the soft gold light spilling through the high arched window of his quarters. The stone walls were warm with morning glow, and for a moment, it was quiet—no storm, no voices, no gods.
He sat up slowly, taking in the room again.
It was better than he expected.
The room was better than he expected—quiet, spacious, and clearly meant for someone being welcomed, not imprisoned. The bed looked firm but comfortable. A dark wood wardrobe stood in the corner beside a writing desk, a full-length mirror, and a small bookshelf lined with worn tomes. Even the floor had a thick woven rug—deep blue, trimmed with silver.
He stood, stretching the stiffness from his limbs, and walked to the desk. A folded letter sat neatly in the center.
He remembered the night before—after the doors to Orin's chamber closed, Selene had led him silently through the stone corridors. She hadn't said much, just pointed to the room and told him to rest.
"I'll leave instructions in the morning," she'd said before disappearing into the halls.
Vael picked up the letter, unfolding it.
"Report to the Academy of the Inner Order before the ninth bell. Uniform provided. Do not be late."
There was a second paragraph beneath the main instruction, written in the same sharp, deliberate script:
"I won't be there to escort you. My presence would draw attention—too much of it. As High Warden of the Chalice, I hold a position that requires visibility and influence. If I were seen guiding you, they would start asking questions. Questions you can't afford them to ask.
You're not ready for that yet. Walk in as one of them. Be just another initiate. Let them underestimate you.
Selene."
Vael stared at the words for a moment, then refolded the letter carefully. She wasn't abandoning him, she was protecting the illusion. If the others saw her treat him like something rare or important, they would start digging. And they'd find too much, too soon.
He turned toward the wardrobe. Hanging inside was the uniform.
It was charcoal black, tailored to his size, reinforced at the shoulders and joints. On the chest, stitched in silver thread, was a circular emblem—seven distinct weapons and symbols fanned outward from a central ring.
A sword. A spear. A staff. A bow. A pair of daggers. A heavy hammer. And a chalice.
Each one represented a branch of the Inner Order—five forged for battle, and two forged to support and sustain. It was more than a symbol—a warning shaped by skill.
Vael ran his fingers lightly across the embroidery, then began dressing.
The uniform fit perfectly. It was light, yet strong. Designed for movement, not ceremony. He looked at himself in the mirror, noting how the sigil caught the morning light.
For now, he was just another student.
He tied the belt, pulled on the boots, adjusted the collar—each motion steady, focused.
Whatever they meant to teach, he was ready to see it.
He glanced back at the room one last time, then stepped out into the corridor.
The corridor outside was still and cold, but sunlight spilled across the floor as Vael stepped into the open. Finding the main exit wasn't hard—the stone doors opened onto a wide courtyard ringed by ancient walls and distant towers. Beyond it, dozens of structures spread out like a small city: libraries, sparring grounds, meditation halls, dormitories, and things Vael couldn't yet name.
But there were no signs. No directions. No guide.
After several turns and wrong paths, Vael admitted to himself he was wandering. The ninth bell was drawing close. He kept his pace steady, eyes scanning archways with growing urgency.
"First day?" a voice said from behind him.
He turned quickly.
A young woman stood a few steps away, hands behind her back, her posture relaxed. She wore the same dark uniform as him, the sigil of the seven weapons stitched across her chest. Her black hair was short, her expression calm but amused.
"You've passed that fountain twice," she added, gesturing toward the stone basin behind him. "Unless you're practicing for the patrol unit, I'm guessing you're lost."
Vael exhaled through his nose. "Yeah. I am."
She smiled, stepping closer. "You're looking for the Academy building, right? The one with the main ceremony?"
He nodded. "Supposed to be there before the ninth bell."
"You're just in time then." She pointed to a long path veering left through a marble colonnade. "That leads straight to the Assembly Hall. They're doing the opening ceremony today. You're lucky—it's the last day of the welcome period. I got here a week ago."
"You've been here since the start?"
"Day one," she said. "The first seven days are orientation, prep classes, rituals, general chaos. Today's the formal start. They bring everyone together. Even the higher ranks show up."
Vael narrowed his eyes. "And Orin?"
She raised an eyebrow. "The Grandmaster himself? Yeah. He gives the opening address. Big tradition. Apparently his speeches are… intense."
He nodded slowly. "Right."
They walked together for a few steps before she looked over and added, "I'm Ryne, by the way. From Talem Province."
"Vael Eldorin," he replied.
She raised an eyebrow. "Proper name. Sounds noble."
"It's just a name."
Ryne gave a half-smile. "Sure. But people around here pay attention to names—especially when they don't recognize them."
At the far end of the path stood the entrance to a massive structure of pale stone and dark iron. Twin statues flanked the doors—each holding a different weapon from the Order's crest. Above the archway, etched in ancient script, were the words:
Through Discipline, Power. Through Power, Clarity. Through Clarity, Control.
"Looks like we made it," Ryne said, glancing toward the rising sun. "Barely."
A bell began to toll in the distance—deep, slow, and final.
Vael took a breath and stepped forward.
The doors to the Assembly Hall opened with a low groan, revealing a space far larger than Vael expected. The ceiling arched high above, held up by black stone pillars engraved with runes that shimmered faintly under the light of hundreds of floating lanterns. The air was cool, but carried the charged stillness of something important about to begin.
Rows of benches curved around a central stage made of obsidian tile. The seven sigils of the Order's sub-branches—Sword, Spear, Staff, Bow, Dagger, Hammer, Chalice—were carved into the floor in a circular pattern, each pulsing faintly with enchanted light. Together, they were known as the Seven Sigils.
Students were already gathering, dressed in identical uniforms, their whispered conversations rising and falling like shifting wind. Most were younger, some barely older than children, others closer to Vael's age. A few sat in groups, laughing quietly or trading predictions about the ceremony. Others sat alone, watching.
"Find a seat quick," Ryne said, nodding toward the side rows. "The instructors arrive first. Then the Sigils. Then him."
They moved along the edge of the crowd and found a pair of empty seats near the fourth row. Vael sat, scanning the room. Some of the older students glanced at him and Ryne as they passed, lingering just long enough to show they noticed—especially the unfamiliar face.
One whispered something behind a raised hand. Another simply nodded in their direction, as if making a mental note.
Ryne leaned over slightly. "Welcome to the spotlight. New blood always gets a little extra attention."
Vael didn't answer. His eyes had locked onto a raised dais across the hall. A long table stood behind it—empty for now. Seven high-backed chairs loomed behind the table, each carved with a different weapon matching the symbols of the Order.
"That's where the Sigils sits," Ryne whispered, following his gaze. "Masters of each sub-order. They run everything under Orin."
Vael's gaze lingered on the central chair. Taller. Broader. Its dark wood was wrapped in silver and obsidian, the carved hilt of a broken blade rising from its back.
No one sat there yet.
A new chime rang through the hall—clearer than the bell from earlier, higher and thinner, like the edge of steel scraping against glass.
The lanterns above flickered once, then steadied.
Across the hall, the large side doors began to open.
The ceremony was about to begin.