At dawn, the Royal Academy made its preparations for the Celestial Aptitude Ceremony.
Once a decade, offspring of the noble lines congregated beneath the Obsidian Dome to stir their Essentia Veins in the sight of the Seer's Circle. Most would fail. Some would excel. Just one would be worthy of the Empire's Eye.
All eyes were on Kael Thorne this year.
Not because he was to succeed.
But because he was supposed to fail spectacularly.
The gossip was relentless.
He's the second son. No foundation in cultivation. Why bother bringing him at all?
Isn't he the quiet one? Cold little kid. I heard he studies corpse scripture.
Legend has it that the heavens rejected his soul when he was born.
Kael overheard them all. And he smiled behind his ceremonial mask.
Let them gossip.
Let them sleep while he burned the sky.
The Obsidian Dome was a monument hewn from a fallen star. No torches illuminated its interior—only ambient light from the Vein Pool, a churning sphere of crystallized Essentia at its core. The dome magnified truth, brought illusions into being, and stripped pretense from the soul.
Children stepped into the circle one by one, laid their hands on the pool, and waited.
Some cried as nothing occurred.
Some glowed with a faint light, evidence of lesser talent.
One boy shivered as one law rune materialized above his palm, winning applause.
Then it was Kael's turn.
Silence descended like a sword.
The Emperor himself occupied the upper balcony. At his side, First Prince Darius wore the calm mask of a beloved heir. And behind them both, shrouded in shadow, stood Seer Maldris, his third eye open and unwinking.
Kael advanced.
His boots rang out across the marble.
He came to the pool.
Pressed his hand against its surface.
And waited.
Seconds ticked by.
The Dome shattered.
A harsh, splintering noise ripped through the air, as if the Vein Pool itself was screaming.
A flash of light burst from Kael's hand, not upwards—but outwards, coursing across the whole circle. The walls trembled. The pillars creaked.
And then the runes.
Hundreds of them.
Unraveling from Kael's hand across the air around him like a whirlwind of golden equations. They weren't borrowed. They weren't random.
They were his.
Brought to life from his born-again memories. Constructed from the outlawed theories of a man once bold enough to challenge gods.
And they were answered by him alone.
The crowd gasped in waves.
The Seers stood, faces pale.
Darius's aplomb broke.
The Emperor edged forward, conferring with a nearby official in a hushed tone.
But Kael?
He remained silent.
He merely withdrew his hand, bowed with mechanical elegance, and departed.
As if nothing had ever occurred.
That evening, the palace descended into chaos.
Seers wrangled behind closed doors. Ministers held emergency meetings. Rumors spread like wildfire.
A prodigy. A sage reborn. An omen. A vessel. A threat.
Kael was at his window in the Moonlight Tower, looking out as lights burst across the city like fireflies in a jar. The citizens were rejoicing. They didn't know why they were celebrating—only that something remarkable had occurred.
But Kael just felt an aching peace.
As though the storm hadn't yet passed.
Only delayed.
"Good job," Seris said, emerging out of the darkness next to his desk. "Subtlety enough to raise eyebrows, but not so much that you'll attract divine notice. You even shook the Pool. I'm impressed."
Kael didn't move. "They'll come after me now."
"They already are," Seris said. "Three members of the Seer's Circle have started scrying in your bloodline. Two of them are part of the same one who betrayed you previously."
He turned to look at her, eyes cold. "Then they should be acquainted with what follows."
Seris's eyes grew sharp. "Are you prepared for that?"
He didn't respond. Instead, he crossed to his desk, opened a hidden drawer, and took out a sealed letter with a symbol of entwined flames and frost.
He gave it to her.
"What is this?" she asked.
"A request," Kael replied. "Send it to the Ashborn Enclave."
Seris froze.
"…That name hasn't been spoken in the Empire in decades."
"They owe me," he said flatly. "They just don't remember why."
Seris opened the seal and read the initial lines. Her brow was creased.
"This is written in Pre-Sundering script."
"Of course," Kael said. "It was the last language I learned before I died."
She regarded him with a long, hard stare. "You really think they'll come?"
Kael's voice fell to a whisper.
"They have to. I'm the last Ashborn soul alive."
Ten Years Ago—The Night of Flamefall
Smoke choked the sky. Screams tore through the jungle canopy.
Kael remembered fire raining from the heavens, summoned by Imperial war priests. His people—the Ashborn—were healers, soulbinders, and guardians of memory. Not warriors.
They never stood a chance.
Kael remembered kneeling beside the dying high priestess. Her name was Mira. She had raised him. Taught him law weaving before he could even walk.
She smiled as she handed him a crystal shard.
"You'll remember, Kael," she said. "Even if they erase your name. You'll come back."
Then the purge took her.
And everything burned.
Seris placed the letter against her heart.
"I'll go," she said.
Kael nodded.
"But Seris," he continued, voice steady, "don't let them distort the truth. If the Ashborn won't stand with me—then they'll fall with the Empire."
Her smile was inscrutable.
"You truly were born to bring down heavens."
Two days passed, and Kael was called to the Emperor's private garden.
The sky was blue. Lotus trees swayed in the wind.
The Emperor stood in silence, gazing into the pond.
He stood tall. Stoic. Statue-like rather than man. Obsidian-black eyes. He didn't turn as Kael reached him.
"Do you know what I see when I look at you, Kael?"
Kael remained silent.
"A mistake," the Emperor went on. "A second son born under a cursed star. You should've died in infancy. And yet, here you are… making me contemplate the impossible."
Kael spoke at last. "I didn't ask to be born.
No," said the Emperor, "but you did request attention."
He turned, and for an instant Kael saw something different in his father's face.
Fear.
"You'll be tested again," said the Emperor. "Soon. In public. The people adore a miracle—particularly one they can claim. Ensure that they continue to think you're part of the Empire."
Kael stood his ground.
"And if I don't?"
The Emperor smiled faintly.
"Then I'll bury you again.
That evening, Kael sat under the obsidian moonlight, re-reading his ancient formulas by fire.
And he spoke a promise.
"To those who took my name, I am coming."
"To the gods who attempted to mark me, I will burn your thrones."
"To the world that forgot who I am…"
He raised a crystal, infused with his original soul signature.
"…Let me remind you."