The plaza had settled a bit.
Thousands of eyes watched as the first boy—Alaric—stood alone at the center of the stage. His trembling hands were pressed firmly to the glowing surface of the Liberation Tome, which now pulsed in synchrony with his heartbeat.
A faint breeze rustled his clothes. The glyphs on the tome flared.
Then, without warning, a vibrant aura of pale blue burst from his body.
Gasps echoed through the crowd.
The blue shimmer wrapped around him like a cocoon, flickering and surging with arcs of unseen force. His body tensed, floating slightly above the tome, suspended in that energy. A distant chime, like the tolling of glass bells, rang out with every pulse of the aura.
People leaned forward in anticipation. The stage lights dimmed in deference to the spectacle.
And then—slowly—the aura began to fade, dissolving into soft sparks that drifted upwards into the air like fading fireflies. Alaric collapsed forward, barely catching himself with shaky knees.
Mayor Donvar, who had been intently peering into the open tome's pages, suddenly grinned widely, his mustache twitching with excitement.
"Ah! What a wonderful omen to begin with!" he bellowed.
The crowd erupted in cautious applause.
"Young Alaric Bryne has awakened an Uncommon Physical Talent—strength, endurance, and reflexes well above the norm. He is destined to rise swiftly through the ranks of the Empire's Army."
A mixed reaction rippled through the plaza. Some clapped louder. Others murmured amongst themselves, clearly hoping for a more… fantastical destiny.
Still, the mayor held up a hand for attention, his smile unwavering.
"A blue aura, dear friends. That alone tells us that young Alaric's path is blessed. Not everyone can—or needs to—awaken a world-shattering gift to make their mark. The Empire needs its champions. And champions he shall stand among!"
That seemed to excite the crowd.
Alaric stood taller now, his face flushed not with embarrassment but with pride. He turned and bowed deeply to the mayor and then to the audience, who returned his gesture with claps, whistles, and a few shouted congratulations.
"Thank you, Mayor," he said with reverent joy.
He stepped off the stage to rejoin his family, his mother sobbing into her husband's arms with pride.
Behind him, the ceremonial attendant stepped forward once again, holding his crystal microphone with ceremony.
"Next candidate: Aminah."
Another round of polite applause.
But somewhere in the shadows beneath the giant statue at the edge of the plaza, Xayne barely twitched.
He'd watched the whole thing, expression unreadable.
The display was flashy.
Emotional.
A little too clean.
The blue aura had been brilliant, yes—but the crowd's reaction said everything.
A blue destiny was good,
Nice, even...
But not great. Not worthy of songs or tales.
At least to these people.
He leaned back again, rubbing his temple as his headache throbbed harder. Behind his dull gaze, he quietly recalled the ranks of destiny.
Yellow – Commonplace. The color of laborers, merchants, and those fated for quiet, forgettable lives.
Green – Slightly better. Perhaps a skilled artisan, a minor mage, a low-tier Unchained if lucky.
Blue – Strong. Soldiers, captains, minor nobility. The kind of destiny that could be called "promising."
Purple – Rare. The elite. The gifted. The blessed. Those who would be above others and have tales sung about their achievements. It was a one in ten million kind occurrence.
White – Legendary. Only a handful had ever awakened with it. Heroes-in-making. World-changers. The Chosen Ones. They were so rare that it was not even quantifiable the chances of one appearing.
Everyone waited for the colors. It was more than just a ceremony—it was prophecy made flesh. Validation that you mattered. That you could be useful.
Xayne didn't want any of it.
He didn't care if the book declared him green, purple, or even glowing damn white. None of those things would make him any less hated.
Any less despised.
It would probably be worse for him if he had a good destiny.
He pulled his collar higher against the breeze and shifted his foot over a loose pebble, crushing it slowly beneath his boot.
Let's just get this farce over with.
The ceremony continued.
More names. More hopefuls stepping up, each bringing their own brand of nerves, grace, or arrogance. Some glowed yellow and shuffled off with disappointment. Others managed green, earning soft nods and family cheers.
But through it all, Xayne remained motionless in the shadows, the outcast wrapped in yesterday's coat and tomorrow's headache.
The crowd had forgotten him already. But not for long.
Then the next name was called.
"Victor Darnath."
The name echoed through the sunlit square, carried by the clear projection of the mage's enchanted microphone.
Standing alone in the shadows, Xayne tilted his head slightly, squinting against the sun.
Darnath.
The name struck something faint in his memory—a headline maybe, or someone important from a conversation from long ago—but the persistent ache behind his eyes made it impossible to focus on anything for long.
Shit, he muttered to himself, massaging his temples. I hate this place!
He didn't have long to dwell on it, because the air turned... still.
Several seconds passed.
But no one stepped forward.
A ripple of confusion moved through the crowd like a shifting wind.
Children whispered. Elders frowned. Even the mayor leaned in slightly, one thick eyebrow rising over his sweat-slicked forehead.
Not far from the stage,
Behind a polished row of merchant tents, a young boy with blonde, wavy hair stood clutching the hem of his shirt. His eyes darted between the plaza and the woman at his side.
"Mother… Where's father? He said he'd be here," the boy asked quietly, worry pinching his features.
His mother, dressed in a flowing robe lined with silver thread, forced a smile and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"He… didn't come home last night, sweetheart. But you know how busy he can be. Maybe something urgent came up."
"But I can't—I can't go through it without him," the boy whispered. "What if I don't—what if it's blue? Or green? Or even yellow?"
The mother cupped his face, her voice soft but firm.
"He could be watching from somewhere, Victor. And no matter what, I will be right there. You carry not just your father's name—but your own worth. Go, reveal your destiny."
Victor bit his lip and hesitated a moment longer.
Then, gathering his breath and nerves, he turned and sprinted toward the stage.
The mayor's booming voice called out again just as Victor arrived, panting slightly and flushed from the dash.
"Young man! You do realize this is a formal event, yes? Not a gathering of friends?" the mayor chided, tone more playful than harsh, but still carrying weight.
"I—I'm sorry, Mayor," he bowed deeply. "I just needed to check something with my family."
The mayor gave a mock-huff and waved his hand.
"Very well. But let this be a lesson that even the sons of wealthy houses must respect the gods' time. Now… place your hand upon the Tome."
Victor nodded, swallowing hard.
He stepped forward.
The Liberation Tome gleamed in the sunlight, the runes along its now-organic surface pulsing faintly like a sleeping heart.
Victor placed his palm upon it.
And everything changed.
A blinding light erupted from the tome's center, far brighter than any that had come before. The people shielded their eyes, stunned by the raw radiance pouring from the book and enveloping the boy.
Then it struck—the aura.
Bright violet.
Glorious and commanding.
It surrounded Victor like a royal cloak made of light, twisting slowly with a pulse that carried undeniable power. The air around the plaza trembled as even the clouds above seemed to pause.
The crowd was silent. Awestruck.
Mayor Donvar's eyes sparkled.
Purple aura.
Rare.
Very rare.
The kind that only came once every few years in cities this size.
He leaned forward, checking the tome again—then froze.
"By the Eight…" he whispered.
The glyphs across the Tome had begun to shift. Flowing across the surface like they were… unlocking.
Suddenly, the purple aura surged, condensing into the boy's chest.
From the tome, a radiant stream of light extended and sank into his heart.
Clink—Clank—CRACK.
A distant sound. Metal on metal. Chains being broken.
The crowd's silence shattered with gasps and shocked voices.
"Was that…?"
"No, it can't be—"
"Did he just—?"
"The chains, I heard it!"
Victor stood wide-eyed, overwhelmed by the sensation coursing through him.
The mayor steadied himself, visibly shaking with excitement.
"Zerin Darnath… Tell me. Can you bring it forth?"
Zerin nodded, dazed, his hand moving instinctively over his chest.
A soft light flowed from his sternum, floating before him like a star being born.
Then it solidified.
A small tome appeared—bound in brown leather, gilded with gold. A symbol of a lion roared on the front, etched in perfect lines. It floated before him, humming with a low resonance that only those attuned to the world's magic could hear.
The mayor raised both hands high.
"The chains have broken! The gods have chosen! An Unchained has been born among us!"
Cheers erupted from every corner of the city.
Fireworks launched into the sky.
Families hugged. Children danced. Some fell to their knees in worship of the Eight Gods.
"Victor! Victor! Victor!"
"The Darnath family is blessed!"
"He's one of them—an Unchained!"
"The realm has gained a new light!"
Victor stood there, stunned and euphoric, as tears welled in his eyes. His gaze swept the crowd until he saw his mother—her hands clasped to her mouth in uncontainable joy.
She waved at him, crying openly.
The mayor, although nearly glowing with pride and excitement, finally gestured to settle the crowd.
"Truly, we are honored by the gods today. Let us thank the Darnath family for bringing such a miracle into the world. May your lineage forever walk in the light of Eight Realms!"
The boy was ushered offstage, still holding the floating tome before him. A line of official-looking figures had already gathered near the base of the platform, eager to record his details, offer gifts, and secure alliances.
Mayor Donvar turned back to the crowd, cheeks flushed.
"Let us continue this most sacred ceremony!"
But in the shadowed stands...
Xayne exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck.
Figures. All that for some rich brat with a lion on his book. Hope the kid knows how to roar.Now let's get this damn thing over with.
Because next up...Was him.
The last echoes of cheering were still trickling off the cobbled walls of the plaza when Mayor Donvar turned back toward the large sheet of parchment floating beside the podium. The magical ink glowed softly as the next name shimmered into view.
His eyes moved across the list, still basking in the glow of having declared an Unchained just moments ago.
Then they settled on the final name.
His face… shifted.
Not with fear. Not with anger. But with a faint tightness around the eyes. As if someone had just whispered something foul into his ear.
Without fanfare, without theatrics, and certainly without the booming joy he'd used for the others, the mayor simply said:
"Xayne Axiar."
And the world went silent.
The excited chatter about Victor's grand future stopped immediately. It was as if the name itself had snuffed out the sun. A tension fell over the crowd like thick ash.
Some gasped.
Others frowned.
Most just exchanged glances, their mouths tightening as the atmosphere turned sour.
At the far end of the stands, Xayne finally stirred.
He stretched lazily, groaning as though someone had just asked him to take out the trash.
"About damn time," he muttered aloud, his voice scratchy and disinterested.
No one laughed.
He pushed himself up from his corner, brushing dust from his ragged sleeves. The clothes were the same from the night before—stained, torn at the cuff, his shirt half tucked. His boots were scratched and old. He looked like he'd slept in a gutter.
But it was his face that drew the real stares.
A jagged scar ran from above his left brow down to his cheekbone. Faint discolorations hinted at long-faded bruises. His expression was one of eternal boredom, tinged with an edge sharp enough to cut steel.
As he walked toward the stage, whispers flew like blades.
"That's him… the Axiar wretch."
"I heard he bit a man's ear off during a trade fair…"
"He's a Zenith, right? Just like her. Should've drowned in the womb."
"Why did they even let him even be here? Look how he's dressed."
"Yes. And he looks hideous, too."
Even children, eyes wide and mimicking their parents, recoiled from him instinctively.
Xayne didn't flinch. He didn't even blink.
Idiots, he thought.
His eyes scanned the crowd once.
Looking for her.
Probably off playing babysitter again. She just doesn't know how to rest, he told himself.
He was happy she wasn't around.
If she were, she'd cause another commotion. And that was not what he wanted to deal with whilst having this headache.
He finally reached the stage and stood before the mayor, who regarded him with an expression like he was being asked to examine a particularly ugly rock.
Not hatred. Not even disdain.
Just… indifference.
Like Xayne didn't matter.
"Place your hand on the Tome," the mayor said flatly. "Let's be done with it."
Xayne almost smirked.
No flowery welcome? No 'may the gods bless your path'? Shame.
I would have cursed your shitty gods.
He stepped forward, turning to the Liberation Tome. Unlike Victor before him, there were no murmurs of anticipation, no gasps of wonder. The crowd was still, watching with a mixture of disgust, fear, and bitter amusement.
Only in the VIP box did someone shift forward.
The elderly woman from before, regal in posture and wrapped in layers of deep red robes, narrowed her eyes and whispered to herself.
"So this is the last of the Axiar… Their Zenith. His descendant"
Her fingers laced together as she took in the scene.