Chapter 8: The Initiation

Chapter 8: The Initiation

Forten woke before the sky did.

The cold greeted him like an old friend—sharp, rude, and clingy. His breath clouded the air as he swung his legs over the edge of the cot and slipped into half-frozen boots. The oil stove had gone out again. He didn’t bother relighting it. Not that he could. The remaining coin was used to pay off the interest for rent the previous day.

Sylvia was still asleep, her breathing thin but steady. He pulled the covers a little higher over her shoulders, then picked up the oil-paper bundle still sitting beside the stove.

Outside, Ferria blinked into another grey morning. Snow drifted in lazy spirals past skyrails and tramlines. Steam vents hissed rhythmically, like the city was breathing through clenched teeth. Forten ducked into his coat and scarf, tugged his hood low, and stepped out.

Today, Forten would finally be able to apply to the Ferrian Trailblazer’s Academy again.

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He was the first one there.

The gate wasn’t grand—just thick metal and a flickering sigil overhead. Behind it stood a low complex of grey stone and iron mesh, nestled right at the foot of the tower’s shadow. The building looked older than everything around it, like it had been grown from the bones of the city rather than built.

He waited. Snow collecting on his shoulders.

The seal flickered open after what felt like forever, and an instructor stepped out, draped in a thick fur-lined robe with glowing runes at the hem. His eyes narrowed at the sight of Forten.

“You’re early,” the man said, voice half-frozen. “We don’t open till sunstrike.”

“I know,” Forten replied. “Just figured I’d show I’m serious.”

The man studied him. Not unkindly. Not kindly, either. “Name?”

“Forten.”

The pause was immediate. Recognition flickered across the instructor’s face—like someone tasting something they’d forgotten they hated.

“Hm. What’s your father’s name?”

Forten stiffened. “I’m not from a noble house.”

“I didn’t ask your bloodline,” the instructor said, eyes narrowing. “I asked your father’s name.”

A beat. Then, quieter:

“Byrin.”

There was a shift in the instructor’s face—small, but sharp. The name settled like dust no one wanted to touch.

Forten kept his gaze steady. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t explain.

He never offered more than that. Not anymore.

“Hm. Crested Byrin?”

Forten nodded once. “Yes, sir.”

The instructor let out a breath that steamed in the air between them. “So it’s true. Olin sent for you. You know most people don’t line up for this job, right?”

“I’m not most people.”

“No. You’re definitely not.”

Another pause. This one heavier.

“We’ve had enough broken kids thinking this job’s about fame. Trailblazers don’t come back with medals – they come back with missing limbs. If they come back at all.”

“I know.”

“And you still want to do this? Even with what happened with your fath–”

“Yes.”

The instructor looked back over his shoulder, as if wondering whether he should even bother bringing this up the chain.

“Got any spell affinity?”

“None recorded.”

“Glyphwork?”

“Not yet.”

“You ever bonded with a beast?”

Forten hesitated, then muttered, “Yeah… I’ve got this guy.”

Walter popped his head out, button eyes glinting.

The man gave a soft, almost apologetic snort. “You know the survival rate for unbonded, unaffinitied Trailblazers in their first year?”

“No, sir.”

“Neither do we. None of them ever made it far enough to count.”

Forten stood his ground, though he could feel the sting behind his ribs.

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“I don’t need glyphs,” he said. “I just need a shot.”

The instructor looked him over again. Saw the bandaged arm, the weather-bitten coat, the eyes that hadn’t quite learned how to stop hoping.

“You don’t need a shot,” the man muttered. “You need a miracle.”

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By mid-morning, the courtyard had begun to fill with other applicants—some bright-eyed and bonded already, some older and grizzled, with scars that whispered of second chances. None of them talked to Forten. A few glanced his way, then quickly looked back.

Word got around fast in Ferria.

Especially when bad luck walked in wearing your face.

He sat on a bench, watching frost build up on the edge of his boots, and tried not to listen to the instructors murmuring behind the gate.

They didn’t even try to lower their voices.

“Is he Tundrean?”

“No, Byrin’s kid. Full Ferrian—just a pathetic one.”

“Poor thing. Thought he’d be stronger.”

“Legend says the father triggered a beast stampede on his first climb.”

“No wonder the bastard Hailstormers think highly of him. This one…?”

“No bonded, no talent, no luck.”

“He’ll die in the first week.”

Forten’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing.

He wasn’t here for them.

He was here for her.

And he’d sit through every muttered curse in the city if it got his foot one inch closer to that tower.

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The chamber was simply called the Initiation.

Not a trial. Not a test.

A passage.

No one really knew how old it was. Parts of it felt grown rather than built—curved walls of etched obsidian folding into steel arches, humming softly with power that predated Ferria’s skyline. What had been built looked like a half-buried vault—old-world stone pressed together with newer metal grafts and glowing mana conduits. Glyphs ran across the ceiling like veins, pulsing softly in a low heartbeat of violet light.

At the center: three concentric rings, each glowing faintly with glyphlight. The outermost pulsed with a soft violet hue. The middle shimmered silver-blue. The innermost ring was quiet—almost dull, as if it was waiting for something more than light.

Students were called into it one by one. Most whispered the names like superstitions:

Insight.

Instinct.

Intuition.

They weren’t just categories. They were filters.

Insight read the resonance of one’s spirit—their affinity with magic, their arcane depth, their capacity for bond or spell.

Instinct tested body and will—reflexes, adaptability, grit under pressure.

Intuition measured perception and spatial sense—how one responded to movement, flow, and hidden patterns in their environment.

Together, they formed the core of a Trailblazer’s survival. Not just how you fought, but how you thought, how you sensed, how you knew.

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At the edge of the chamber stood a tall man in a charcoal cloak, silver trim catching the arc-light. His arms were folded, his hair dusted with snow, and a half-mask rested on one temple—unworn, but always nearby.

He was watching everything.

They called him Thorne. Just Thorne. Like the thing you don’t want in your side.

Rumours followed him like his shadow: that he’d once reached the sixteenth floor of the tower alone. That he could bond with beasts just by looking at them. That he used to be someone else—something else—before the tower took everything from him.

But he never confirmed anything.

He simply ran the Initiation.

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“Begin,” Thorne said, voice clear, low, and edged with steel. The chamber complied—lights dimming to a muted glow, glyphs humming low beneath stone and steel.

The first to step forward was Veska Drein.

She moved like someone born to pass.

Her coat was cut from crimson stormcloth, cinched at the waist with silver hooks. Every step she took was sharp, deliberate, as if the floor should thank her for the privilege. The emberwing trailing at her heels clicked its talons in perfect rhythm, its thin wings trailing heat-shimmers in the cold air.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

When the core shard was placed in her hands, it didn’t just glow—it ignited.

Golden-orange runes spiraled outward from her palms, the slab’s core pulsing like a miniature sun. A phoenix sigil rose from the crystal in flickers of firelight, casting her face in red-gold.

A few students gasped. Even the evaluators exchanged glances.

“Elemental affinity confirmed. High resonance,” one of them murmured, scribbling notes.

“She’s from House Drein,” someone whispered behind Forten. “One of the high houses.”

“Figures. Probably pre-bonded too.”

The emberwing gave a low trill, like it understood everything being said and agreed with all of it.

Thorne didn’t react. He never did.

Veska left the ring without a word, not even glancing at the others.

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The second student to step forward was Jerrin, no surname offered or needed. His kind didn’t announce themselves.

He was thick through the shoulders, with arms like coiled cables and a jagged scar running from his left eyebrow to his temple. A fur-lined cloak hung off one side, the other torn loose and knotted around his waist.

He gave the dummy a look like it owed him money.

The manasteel construct rose with a hiss, rune-core glowing faintly blue. Jerrin didn’t wait for the command.

Three steps in—pivot, strike, elbow, back-kick. His movements weren’t elegant, but they were brutal and efficient. The dummy stuttered, glitched, and spun wildly as it reset itself mid-beat.

The floor lit yellow-gold. Combat glyphs flashed approval.

“Instinct: high. Aggression channelled. Good timing.”

“Wastes movement,” another said. “But he’s got the power.”

“He’s district-bred,” someone muttered. “No pre-Academy, but they train dirty.”

Jerrin gave the nearest student a smug look as he exited the ring, cracking his knuckles one by one.

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Then came Myla. No surname, no beast, no expression.

She moved like snow—quiet and certain.

Her robes were pale grey, wrapped tight at the wrists, with silver stitching along the edges. Her eyes were dark and unreadable, framed by a hood that didn’t quite shadow her features. If Veska was heat, and Jerrin was thunder, Myla was mist.

She stepped into the third ring. Intuition.

The pipe maze shifted silently into place—panels floating mid-air, runes crawling like spiders across cold glass. A mirrored orb hovered at the start point.

“Track it,” said the instructor.

Myla nodded once and closed her eyes.

The orb dropped. The maze responded instantly—twisting, rotating, flashing misdirection glyphs. Forten couldn’t even follow it with his eyes open.

Myla didn’t move. She didn’t even twitch.

After a long pause, the room dimmed.

“Final location?” the evaluator prompted.

“Second layer. Obscured quadrant. Beneath glyph seventy-two.”

The orb reappeared a breath later—exactly where she said.

The maze folded down. Silence reigned.

“Intuition: acute.”

“She’s pre-academy,” someone said. “One of the special tracks.”

“No bonded?”

“She doesn’t need one.”

Myla opened her eyes, offered no smile, and left the circle like she hadn’t just bent the rules of observation.

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Then the name no one expected to hear:

“Forten,” a voice called, sharp as ice.

“Step forward.”

He stood. A few heads turned. Most didn’t bother.

No surname. No bonded beast. No spellmark.

Just Forten. That was enough for most to write him off.

He followed the instructor into the chamber, boots echoing against stone.

A few students chuckled. One snorted without hiding it. Another muttered, “Why even bother?”

Forten stepped forward, jaw tight, coat frayed at the hem.

The ring glowed under his feet—but not evenly. One rune flickered like it couldn’t decide whether to light up or short out.

He took a breath.

And stepped into Insight.