Rodrigo stepped through the Blissford Guildhall's towering gates, boots echoing on polished stone. The air shifted as he crossed the threshold, heavy with the scent of jasmine and molten steel.
Avange was gone, whisked off by the guards to a bath and spa, leaving Rodrigo alone in this gleaming maze. His machete hung at his side, its warmth a faint pulse against his thigh, and the token in his pocket pressed beside Franca's locket.
The absence of his friend lingered at him, but he squared his shoulders and pressed forward.
The interior outshone even the Guildhall's grand facade. Murals stretched across the walls, vivid scenes of ancient Infusers wielding primal Essence. There was fire spiraling from their hands, water bending into blades, earth rising in jagged shields.
Fountains flanked the hall, their basins spilling liquid that glowed soft blue, rippling with a life of its own. Above, magical holograms flickered, replaying battles of old: a warrior cloaked in lightning clashing with a beast of shadow, a woman weaving vines to crush stone. The space thrummed with power, a testament to Blissford's legacy that dwarfed Havenport's rough simplicity.
Rodrigo's chest tightened, heat stirring beneath his ribs. This was no dusty courtyard or ember-strewn forest. Blissford wore its might like a crown, and he felt small beneath it, a soldier out of place.
He brushed the locket with his fingertips, grounding himself. "Keep me steady, Ma," he muttered under his breath.
A crowd of recruits milled near the entrance, their voices a low buzz. Some clutched tokens, others adjusted weapons that shimmered with Essence. Rodrigo moved toward a sleek desk at the hall's center, where an elegant woman stood, her auburn hair pinned in a tight coil.
His glasses scanned the woman automatically, reading: 7300 Candellas.
What?! The receptionist's Essence is that high?!
She wore a fitted robe of silver and blue, her hands gliding over a crystalline tablet that pulsed with runes. Her eyes flicked up as he approached, cool and assessing.
"Token, please," she said, voice smooth as polished glass.
Rodrigo pulled it from his pocket, the silver crest catching the light. He set it on the desk, watching her closely. She lifted it with delicate fingers, turning it over, and her gaze sharpened.
A flicker crossed her face. There was surprise, unease, before she masked it by pressing her lips into a thin line. She tapped the tablet, and a soft chime sounded as the token's details appeared in glowing script.
"Class Four," she murmured, almost to herself. Her eyes darted back to him, then away. "Rare. Haven't seen one of these since…" She stopped, clearing her throat, and logged it with a swift swipe. "Ahem… Rodrigo Mundragon, correct?"
"Yeah," he said, voice steady but curious. "That a problem?"
She smiled, tight and practiced. "Not at all, sir. A privilege, rather. Welcome to Blissford." Her courtesy was flawless, but the unease lingered in her posture, a subtle stiffness that set his instincts humming.
The tablet chimed again, and she straightened. "You're exempt from the standard trials. Class Four tokens grant immediate entry. Orientation awaits!" Her words carried a weight, a shift that rippled through the room.
Murmurs rose from the recruits nearby, sharp and edged. Rodrigo turned, catching their stares. Some were curious, but others were cold.
A young man stepped forward from the crowd, his posture rigid with disdain. Tall and lean, he wore a tailored coat of deep green, and a rapier at his hip glowing faintly. His dark hair fell in a neat sweep over piercing gray eyes, and a breeze tugged at his cloak, unprompted by the still air. Air Essence, subtle but deliberate.
"Token trash skips the line?" he said, voice loud enough to carry. His sneer twisted his handsome face, and he crossed his arms, the rapier's glow flaring briefly. "Huh. Some of us earned our place."
Rodrigo met his gaze, unflinching. Heat prickled in his chest, but he kept it leashed. "I didn't ask for it. Take it up with them, sir." He nodded toward the desk, keeping his tone even.
The man—Monti Fortuno, judging by the crest on his coat—scoffed, his lip curling. "Psh. Privilege without proof. Typical." The air around him shimmered faintly, a flex of power that stirred the dust at his feet.
Rodrigo's hand twitched toward his machete, but a new voice cut through the tension. "Enough, Sir Fortuno." It was calm, measured, and carried an authority that silenced the room.
A figure approached from a side corridor, his steps deliberate. Master Juno was older than Rodrigo expected, his hair a silver-streaked brown pulled into a loose braid, his robe a muted gray that stood out against the hall's splendor.
His eyes, a pale green, locked onto Rodrigo with quiet interest, lingering on the machete before meeting his gaze. Essence pulsed faintly around him, a restrained hum that spoke of control.
Again, Rodrigo's glasses observed the master's presence. The numbers were taking longer than usual.
Scanning…
Scanning…
10…
107…
107500 Candellas!
Six whole digits. Rodrigo gulped. Even as a commander of legions, there was no chance he'd fight this man.
"You're the new recruit," Juno said, stopping a few paces away. "Rodrigo, yes?"
His dumbfoundedness snapped. "Oh, oh yeah. That's me," Rodrigo replied, sizing him up. The man's calm felt distant, a wall he couldn't read past.
Juno tilted his head, studying the machete again. "Where did you find that blade?"
Rodrigo's grip tightened on the hilt, heat flaring briefly in his chest. "It came with me. It's a long story."
Juno nodded, a faint smile tugging his lips. "One worth hearing, I'd wager. Come. I'd like a private evaluation." He turned, gesturing toward a corridor branching off the hall.
Monti's glare followed them, his rapier's glow pulsing with his irritation, but he stayed silent. The other recruits parted, their whispers trailing Rodrigo like a shadow. He felt their eyes, a mix of envy and resentment, and the theme of his solitude settled heavier.
Power had opened this door, but it marked him, set him apart. Avange's absence stung sharper now, a reminder of the one tether he'd left behind.
The corridor gleamed, its walls lined with steel panels etched with runes that glowed a soft amber. Juno walked ahead, his robe swaying with each step, and Rodrigo followed, boots loud against the silence. The air here was cooler, tinged with a metallic bite, and the hum of Essence grew stronger, vibrating faintly through the floor.
Juno glanced back. "You know, Sir Mundragon, Class Four tokens are uncommon. They signal potential, but also scrutiny. You'll find Blissford rewards strength, yet watches it closely."
Rodrigo grunted, keeping pace. "Noted. So… What's this evaluation?"
"A measure," Juno said, his tone cryptic. "Your Essence intrigues me. Raw, unpolished. We'll see what it holds."
They passed a cluster of instructors in hushed conversation, their voices dropping as Rodrigo neared.
He caught fragments—"…machete could unlock Light…" and "…if he's pushed right…"—before they fell silent as their eyes tracked him with guarded curiosity.
His pulse quickened, the heat in his chest stirring at the words. Unlocking Light. Light?! Was that even possible?!
The corridor stretched on, its gleam both beautiful and cold. Rodrigo's hand brushed the locket, Franca's presence a steadying weight.
Blissford's welcome was lavish, its doors flung wide by the token's rank, but doubts crept in. The receptionist's unease, Monti's resentment, Juno's quiet probing—they hinted at motives beneath the polish. Power had lifted him here, but it left him standing alone, a stranger in a city of ambition.
Juno stopped at a steel door, its surface rippling with Essence. "Through here," he said, his gaze steady. "Let's see what you bring to Blissford."