The transition from a bloodied, mud-caked soldier-in-training to a high-born lady of the Empire took exactly three hours and an army of maids.
I stood stiffly in front of a tall mirror inside my room while Hunti’s staff tightened the laces of my dress. It was a beautiful garment made of deep blue silk, embroidered with silver threads along the cuffs and the high collar. It hid the dark bruises on my shoulders and the bandages on my hands perfectly. My pitch-black hair, usually a tangled mess, was brushed until it gleamed and pinned up in an intricate, elegant style.
Looking at my reflection, I barely recognized myself. I looked exactly like the pampered aristocratic daughter Miklas claimed I was. But underneath the expensive silk, my muscles still ached from the brutal physical conditioning of the past few days.
"You clean up well, little girl," Miklas said, stepping into the room.
He was dressed in his full formal attire: the heavy blackened plate armor meticulously polished, the white mantle of the Knight-Mage draped over his broad shoulders, and the silver emblem of the 7th Legion gleaming on his chest.
"I feel like a stuffed goose ready for the oven," I muttered, carefully adjusting the stiff collar.
Miklas chuckled, offering me his arm. "Come. It is time to see what Jute has planned for you."
When we stepped out of the mansion and into the cool morning air, the sheer scale of the event became apparent. The noble district, usually quiet and serene, was buzzing with activity. Toward the edge of the hill, where the great elevating stones connected the lower city to the summit, a massive crowd had formed. Merchants in colorful tunics, commoners in clean but patched clothes, and their nervous fifteen-year-old children were being corralled by city guards. They had either walked the long outer stairs or crammed into the public elevators at dawn just for this.
But the real spectacle was happening around us. Outside three of the largest mansions, elaborate processions were forming. Dozens of servants carried banners and threw flower petals, escorting groups of arrogant, finely dressed teenagers.
As we walked along the paved path toward the center of the summit, I caught a glimpse of a familiar, chilling sight. Walking slightly ahead of one of the most opulent retinues was Commander Erula. Her unnatural snow-white skin and blazing red hair stood out like a beacon. Flanking her were a boy and a girl, both looking around my age, carrying themselves with a terrifying, cold perfection.
"Are those her children?" I whispered to Miklas.
"Protégés," he corrected quietly, his jaw tightening. "Chosen from the finest military bloodlines. Do not stare, Elvit."
We followed the main avenue until it opened into a vast, circular plaza. At the center of it stood the High Court of Jute.
My breath hitched in my throat. The Magister’s court in Oakhaven had been a large stone building, but this... this was an imposing structure like few. It was a colossal structure of pale, sun-bleached stone that seemed to defy gravity entirely. The building was crowned by a massive, sweeping central dome that dominated the sky. It didn’t look like it rested on walls; instead, it seemed to float, supported by a cascading series of smaller half-domes that gracefully rolled down toward the ground like a waterfall of stone.
Framing this architectural behemoth were four towering, needle-like spires, standing like silent sentinels piercing the clouds.
As we stepped through the massive bronze doors and entered the temple, the sheer volume of the interior made me dizzy. The cavernous space was vast enough to house an entire village. A ring of narrow, arched windows wrapped around the base of the great central dome, allowing thick beams of golden morning light to pour inside. The light caught the millions of tiny gold and glass tiles that covered the curved ceilings, depicting abstract, geometric patterns and the blazing eyes of the goddess Jute.
The floor was made of polished marble, and hundreds of fifteen-year-olds were already being organised into rows by the temple guards. The adults—parents, masters, and sponsors—were directed to the raised balconies lining the walls. Miklas gave my shoulder a firm, reassuring squeeze before leaving me to join the other nobles on the viewing platform.
Left alone in the crowd of teenagers. The social divide was heartbreakingly obvious.
On one side stood the children of the lower districts. They kept their heads down, their shoulders slumped in a posture of ingrained submission. Some of them looked frightfully thin, their cheekbones jutting out, their growth stunted by malnutrition and harsh winters. They fidgeted nervously with their cheap, worn-out tunics.
On the other side stood the nobility and the wealthy merchants’ children. They stood tall, chests puffed out, whispering to each other with casual arrogance. They were well-fed, muscular, and draped in velvet and silk. I stood somewhere in the middle: dressed like the elite, but carrying the quiet, unimistaken upbringing of a low-born.
A heavy, resonant gong echoed through the cavernous space, instantly silencing the murmurs.
From behind the grand altar, a priest emerged. He was a grossly overweight man, his multiple chins wobbling as he walked. He was draped in layers of the finest white and gold silk, heavily embroidered with the Church’s sigils. Rings studded with precious gemstones adorned his fat, sausage-like fingers.
A holy man of the people, I thought, my lip curling in a cynical sneer. Preaching about sacrifice while eating enough pork to feed half of the starving kids in this room.
The fat priest stepped up to a raised podium. Behind him, two silent, armored inquisitors brought forth a pedestal draped in black velvet. Resting on top of it was a crystal. It was the size of a human skull, completely and flawlessly transparent, looking like a drop of frozen water.
"Children of the Empire!" the priest bellowed, his voice magically amplified to reach every corner of the massive dome. "Today is the day of reckoning. Today, you stand before the eyes of Jute to discover the path laid out for you. The Ember is the divine spark that resides in all living things, but only a chosen few are blessed with the vessel to harness it for the glory of the Empire."
He gestured dramatically toward the pedestal.
"This is a Resonance Crystal, mined from the deepest roots of the Northern Mountains. It reacts to the raw potential of the soul. When called, you will approach and lay your hand upon it. If the crystal remains dark, Jute has destined you for a life of honest, humble labor. But if the crystal illuminates... if it captures the light of your Ember. You will be trained. You will be elevated."
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the anxious teenagers. For the poor kids, this wasn’t just a magical test; it was a lottery ticket out of poverty.
"We shall begin," the priest announced, unrolling a long parchment scroll. "Step forward when your name is called. Place your palm flat on the stone. Do not hesitate."
The priest cleared his throat and read the first name. "Aric of the Lower Mill!"
A scrawny boy with patched trousers stepped out of the crowd. He was shaking so violently I could see his knees knocking together. He walked up the marble steps, approached the velvet pedestal, and timidly placed his dirt-stained hand on the flawless, transparent crystal.
The entire temple held its breath.
Nothing happened. The crystal remained perfectly clear, a lifeless chunk of glass.
"Dormant," the priest declared coldly, barely looking up from his list. "Return to the crowd. Next!"