Chapter 48
Welcome Ceremony I
Mavani strode ahead, his long legs cutting through the bustling throng of students streaming into the coliseum. The coliseum loomed over them like a giant bloodstone crown, casting red-hued shadows over the nervous and eager students, stretching out towards the adjacent training fields.
Mags struggled to keep pace, her polished boots still unfamiliar and stiff. The grand entrance came into view ahead, a towering archway carved with the intricate murals of the Crown Coalition’s many victories. Beyond it, the sound of excitement swelled—a cacophony of voices, laughter, and anticipation that threatened to swallow her whole. She had to remind herself that all of these other students were willing participants to the cruel lie of the Empire. Most of them will be meat fodder for the Maldrath on the frontline, she thought. If only they knew.
But Mavani veered left, away from the main procession, and gestured for her to follow. They entered a quieter passage, the noise of the crowd dimming as the hall narrowed. Ornate sconces lined the walls, glowing with soft aetheric light the color of dying sunsets casting the entire corridor in false twilight.
“This way,” Mavani said over his shoulder, his voice low and steady. “The recruits admitted on Special Recommendation are expected to wait for the commencement of the Ceremony in a separate holding area while the other First Year students take their seats in the stands.”
They descended a series of ramps, the polished stone underfoot giving way to rougher, older masonry. The air grew cooler, tinged with a faint metallic tang. It reminded Mags of descending into the Deep with Sabo and Bidelia. She wondered if what waited for her this time would be worse than an endless sea of Maldrath, or a gigantic goblin fat on aether.
“What’s below the arena?” Mags asked, her voice echoing faintly in the silence.
“A network of corridors and chambers used for storage mostly, and for transporting items or people to various parts of the coliseum without needing to traverse heavy crowds of people. Directly below the arena proper? Well, you’ll see…”
“And the other recommended students?”
“They should already be there, waiting for the ceremony to begin.”
They reached a heavy, iron-bound door at the end of the final ramp. Mavani placed a hand against it, his tusked face inscrutable as he muttered something too soft for her to hear. The door groaned open, revealing a dimly lit chamber.
“Go,” Mavani said, stepping aside. “I’ll see you after the ceremony when I deliver your curriculum and weekly schedule.”
Mags hesitated for the briefest moment before squaring her shoulders and stepping inside.
The chamber was vast, the walls curving slightly inward as if embracing the space. Aetheric constructs, set into the stone at regular intervals, cast a ghostly, bluish light. Their glow illuminated the room but left the corners steeped in shadow, creating an almost otherworldly ambiance.
Five figures stood waiting, their uniforms as crisp and immaculate as her own—though theirs seemed to fit with a precise elegance she felt she lacked in her hand-me-down uniform.
The first was a young man, a Laanian, judging by his citrine-colored skin and the bronze sheen of his narrow eyes. He was short—two heads shorter than Mags—but his presence was anything but small. His pitch-black hair, streaked with gold dye and threaded with trinkets and golden lace, framed his face in sharp lines. His bangs hung straight across his brow, contrasting with the intricate designs worked into his hair.
Next was a tall, lithe girl with dark skin and silvery grey hair braided into an intricate crown that shimmered in the low light. Her face was all sharp angles, her expression a mask of calm detachment. Her eyes, dark and fathomless, seemed to drink in the light, as if Mithra had been melted down and cast into two pools of pitch.
A tawny-skinned boy stood off to one side, blending almost unnaturally into the background. His dark hair and green eyes were plain, unremarkable—but something in the way he held himself suggested he was used to being overlooked.
The fourth was a towering young man, his fair skin flushed faintly with color under the glow of the constructs. His red hair was cropped close to his skull, neat and precise. His eyes, a pale orange tinged with cream, were locked on Mags with a scowl so deep it seemed etched into his face. Mags met his glare with one of her own, jutting her chin out in defiance.
And then her eyes landed on the last figure.
She was breathtaking. Her pale skin seemed almost translucent, her green eyes glowing faintly like the aetheric constructs lining the walls. Her long hair, a soft cascade of pink champagne, fell around her shoulders in shimmering waves. She stood among the others with an air of effortless grace, her weight casually shifted to one leg, arms crossed over her chest.
Mags froze. Her breath caught in her throat as memories surged forward unbidden: pale heels flicking across dark, wet grass; children racing beneath the cold, unfeeling gaze of Soulgrave House.
It can’t be, she thought, her heart pounding in her chest. But the resemblance was unmistakable.
The girl turned her head slightly, her glowing green eyes locking with Mags’. She didn’t betray anything that would pass for recognition.
Mags clenched her fists, her mind racing. What is she doing here? Am I imagining things? She forced the painful memories of Soulgrave House down, smothering them as best she could.
The red-haired young man broke the silence with a sharp, disdainful sniff. His orange-cream eyes locked onto Mags like she was some sort of intruder.
“I don’t recognize you,” he said, his voice cutting through the tension in the room. His words carried the judgmental weight of scrutiny, his tone making it clear he wasn’t just being curious. “Who are you?”
Mags drew herself up, meeting his gaze with as much steel as she could muster. “Magdalena,” she said, her voice firm. “Of Solstice.”
“Solstice?” The boy’s scowl deepened, his brows drawing together. “That’s in the Far Country, isn’t it? Olendar?”
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She nodded. “Yes.”
“Did you get separated from the rest of the students or something?”
“No,” Mags replied, resisting the urge to bristle at the implication. “I was led here. I’m here on Special Recommendation.”
That gave him pause, though not the kind Mags had hoped for. Instead of respect, his face twisted into incredulity. “You’re here on Special Recommendation?” His eyes narrowed, and he glanced around the room as if expecting someone to jump out and yell that it was all a joke. “What, are you from one of the Guilds? Like Chandrakant?” He jerked his head toward the unremarkable boy, who barely glanced up from the corner where he stood.
“No.”
“Then maybe you’re here on behalf of some noble family? Like . . . ?” He gestured at the short Laanian boy, whose golden trinkets jingled softly as he turned to give Mags a cursory glance. The red-haired young man snapped his fingers. “Now, what was it again?”
“Szed,” the Laanian boy said flatly.
“Szed! Right!”
“I’m not,” Mags replied.
The boy threw up his hands in exasperation. “This is ridiculous! Three out of six aren’t descendants of noble houses? And there are six of us this year—six! The most in history! And half of us aren’t even from proper bloodlines? It’s . . . embarrassing.”
A sharp, exasperated sigh cut through his rant. “Oh, shut up, Dermot.”
The pink-haired girl turned to him, her green eyes glowing faintly with disdain. She uncrossed her arms, shifting her weight with a casual elegance that somehow made her seem taller. She had a personal gravity that demanded Mags’ attention. From the reaction of the others in the room—even if barely perceptible—she didn’t seem to be the only one. “You’re so unbearably tedious. Do you ever stop talking? You’re making all of us look bad.”
Dermot’s face turned crimson, his jaw tightening. He opened his mouth, then shut it again, clearly biting back whatever retort had sprung to mind. Instead, he settled for glaring daggers at the girl before crossing his own arms and pouting like a child denied a treat.
The girl didn’t seem to care. She turned to Mags, her expression softening into something resembling friendliness—or at least, indifference. “Welcome, Magdalena of Solstice,” she said, her voice smooth, almost musical. “Pay no attention to Dermot. He’s just mad that the world doesn’t revolve around him. If you’re here, then it’s for good reason. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I am Isolde Ovetha.”
Mags blinked, caught off guard. Her heart pounded as she searched the girl’s face for any sign of recognition. But there was none. Her calm, welcoming expression remained fixed, giving no indication that she remembered Soulgrave House, racing through wet grass under a blazing sun.
Not that Mags expected her to. It had been years ago, and children change. And yet, the resemblance was too striking to ignore. Isolde Ovetha. Had that been the girl’s name? Mags couldn’t remember. It’s probably not her.
Mags forced a smile, inclining her head in thanks. “It’s good to be here.”
The pink-haired girl offered her a faint smile before turning her attention elsewhere, leaving Mags to her thoughts.
The dark-skinned girl shifted, her arms uncrossing as she glanced toward the ceiling above them. Her voice was low and melodic, yet filled with a certainty and confidence that spoke of a high station.
“I think we’re about to be brought up to the main stage.”
Before anyone could respond, the floor beneath them shuddered. A faint rumble coursed through the platform, followed by a mechanical groan. Mags’s stomach clenched as the realization struck her—they were standing on some kind of lift.
“Line up,” the red-haired boy, Dermot, snapped. The recruits moved quickly, shoulder to shoulder, falling into an uneven row. Mags hesitated, unsure where to stand, until Isolde gave her a subtle nod, indicating the spot beside her.
The platform jolted again, and then, with a smooth hiss, began to rise. The ceiling above them parted in segments, sunlight spilling in and painting the recruits in a golden glow. Mags squinted against the brightness, her eyes struggling to adjust as the sounds of the coliseum surged to life—a cacophony of whispers, shuffling, and the low murmur of anticipation.
The platform came to a stop, and Mags blinked as her vision cleared. They stood on the arena floor of a massive coliseum, its stands packed with rows of crimson-uniformed students. Thousands of eyes bore down on them, a sea of faces tinted with equal measures of curiosity and awe. Around the stadium, mounted high above the crowd’s heads on the various red stone pillars were giant circular mirrors of bronze-tinted glass. Mags immediately identified them as large scrying mirrors. A moment later, the mirrors flashed white hot, and their smooth surfaces filled with magnified images of the stage. Mags could feel her cheeks darken as she appeared on the mirrors as their vision passed over the students who had just taken the stage.
At the center of the stage, a woman stood, her presence commanding and regal. She wore a navy and gold military uniform, its sharp lines accentuated by the gold braiding along her shoulders. Her dark skin gleamed in the sunlight, her hair—so much like Mags’s own—streaked with silver at the temples. She had to be Olenish, towering well over six feet in height.
Mags was familiar with this woman from her training and lessons. Headmistress Eleftheria. Her military accolades could fill entire books. They did fill entire books (much to Mags’ chagrin).
Mags and her fellow recommended recruits stood just behind and to the side of the Headmistress, a place of honor but also of scrutiny. The other five immediately straightened, clasping their hands behind their backs in a disciplined pose. Mags scrambled to mirror them, her movements a fraction too late.
The crowd fell silent. Not a whisper or rustle broke the stillness as the Headmistress stepped forward. A thin stand before her held a polished stone, etched with glowing veins of aetheric circuitry. Mags focused on her [Aura Vision]. The Headmistress extended her hand, her fingers dancing with power, and a sharp zap activated the stone.
When Eleftheria spoke, her voice thundered through the arena, amplified to a near-immortal resonance.
“Cadets. . .! Today, you cross a threshold into a realm that will change you forever. You have left behind the world of comfort, certainties, and mediocrity. Now, you have passed through the gates of Brightwash, a place you will soon find out in unlike any you have known. This is not simply an academy. It is a crucible. A forge, where raw ambition is tempered into unwavering purpose. Where weakness is burned away, and where only the strongest spirits rise, not only unbroken but re-forged.”
She paused. Letting the crowd drink in her words. The entire stadium fell into an intense silence. The tension filling the arena could balance on the point of a knife. The Headmistress continued. “Look around you. To your left, to your right—these faces . . . Remember them! They will be your comrades. Your rivals. Your measures of success, and of failure. Understand this: the world does not need more soldiers. Any one of the Thirteen Crowns can take a portion of their population, give them blades, and call them soldiers. Here, we craft weapons. Living weapons of unparalleled precision, destructive power, and unbreakable resolve. That is what you must become to leave these halls at the end of three years: an instrument of power and change.”
The Headmistress paused again, her gaze briefly falling on the six students on stage. “That is not a challenge that I present to you lightly. Brightwash has produced minds and souls that have led armies, toppled tyrants, and destroyed civilizations. The Soulsingers who emerge from our depths have stood as defenders of the fragile bastion of humanity against the abyss that lurks just beyond the veil. The Maldrath threat continues to pose an existential threat to all peoples. Let that purpose your guiding star, as the fires of this crucible transform you . . . or consume you.”
Mags clenched her fists, pushing them into small of her back so hard it hurt. It took all of her willpower not to react. The Crown Coalition weren’t the last protectors of humanity. She knew it was all a ruse. The very people they swore to protect were so easily expendable, so long as the façade of power and infallibility could persevere.
“And for those of you who can endure, these flames will not destroy you—they will set you ablaze. And you will burn brighter than the stars. The first thing to do is to embrace the challenge that your fellow recruits pose. Embrace the struggle and demand everything from your fellow cadets. The strongest blades are forged in the hottest of flames. This year, our Academy has seen some of the most talented prospects enter our ranks, hoping to make their mark here.”
The Headmistress’ deep, red lips quirked into a smile. She once again turned her attention to Mags and the other students on the stage. She extended her arm out, as if she were a merchant presenting wares to potential customers. “I think I have done enough speaking . . . Actions, after all, speak louder than words. How about a demonstration of what it means to embrace the flames?”