One year had passed since Silas first summoned the Elemental Familiars, a year marked by relentless training and tireless study. Each day had edged him closer to the man he was destined to become, though not without its trials. Tomorrow marked the day of his coming-of-age ceremony, the final step in his journey to becoming a fully-fledged Soul Weaver. It was a day he had both eagerly anticipated and feared, knowing that his performance would determine his future and the path of his entire life.
In the year since that first ritual, Silas had devoted himself to mastering the arts that would define him. Mornings in the training yard with Rowan and Kael were gruelling. Under Kael's measured guidance, Silas honed his swordsmanship, while Rowan's brutal, relentless style with a broadsword pushed him to the limits of his strength and agility.
Kael, on the other hand, was a master of the longsword. His approach was measured and deliberate, focusing on strength, timing, and precision. Silas often replayed Kael’s words: ‘Control is everything. A wild blade is a dead man’s sword.’ He had learned to temper his strikes, each movement deliberate, every decision weighed. Together, Kael had shaped Silas and Rowan into versatile swordsmen capable of adjusting their style to suit any opponent or situation.
Afternoons were dedicated to archery with Kaede. What had started as a frustrating exercise in patience and precision became one of Silas’s most cherished practices. Kaede’s calm demeanour and sharp eye taught him to focus, breathe with the rhythm of the bowstring, and see the world in a series of calculated movements. Silas learned to hit his mark without hesitation, his arrows flying true even in the most challenging conditions.
But it was in the evenings that Silas felt most alive. As the sun dipped below the horizon, he would retreat to the secluded grove behind the manor, where Dust, Breeze, and Spark awaited him. Their bond had grown stronger with each passing day, and they had taught him to wield the elemental forces with increasing confidence and creativity. Silas learned to weave intricate runes, combining the threads of his own magic with the elemental powers of his familiars and the ambient magic of the world around him.
Silas delved into the mysteries of fire with Spark, learning to summon flames that could burn with precision or erupt in devastating bursts of power. Breeze guided him through the intricacies of air magic, teaching him to manipulate winds, create protective barriers, and even lift himself from the ground for brief moments of flight. Dust grounded him, both literally and figuratively, teaching him to summon earth from the ground, form solid barriers, and harness the strength of stone.
The year of training had been gruelling yet fulfilling. Silas had grown more robust, disciplined, and aware of the vast potential within him. His connection to his familiars had deepened into a profound friendship; these spirits were now integral to his very being. Together, they crafted innovative techniques and pushed the boundaries of what a young human and a bunch of spirits could achieve.
But despite all his progress, the weight of tomorrow’s ceremony hung heavy on Silas’s shoulders. The coming-of-age ceremony was a rite of passage for every aspiring Soul Weaver, a test of their strength, skill, and control. It was the moment when a child became an adult in the eyes of their community. For Silas, it was the final step toward proving himself worthy of his chosen path.
If successful, he would become a fully-fledged Soul Weaver, capable of harnessing the spiritual forces with mastery and precision. It would also mark the beginning of a new chapter in his life—a journey with Rowan to complete their trials, a series of challenges that would test their abilities, deepen their bond, and prepare them for the roles they would play in the world beyond Amberheart.
As Silas sat by the window in his room that evening, gazing out at the stars, his mind wandered to the year that had passed. The boy nervously attempting his first summoning ritual seemed like a distant memory. In his place stood a young man, ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead, armed with the skills, knowledge, and determination he had worked so hard to acquire.
With a final glance at the stars, Silas rose from his seat and prepared for bed. The day of the ceremony was almost upon him, and he needed to be at his best. As he drifted off to sleep, his thoughts were filled with visions of the future, the power he would wield, and the adventures that lay just beyond the horizon.
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The day of Silas’s coming-of-age ceremony dawned with a muted sky, the clouds heavy with the promise of rain. Despite the sombre weather, the Remington Clan’s ceremonial grounds were active. Banners fluttered in the cool breeze, and the scent of incense filled the air, mixing with the fresh earth of the surrounding fields. For centuries, this was where young aspirants took their first step toward becoming Soul Weavers, and today, it was Silas’s turn.
Across the kingdom, altars had been erected for the month, offering aspirants a rare chance to prove their worth and claim the title of Soul Weaver. These smaller altars, scattered across the land, were part of a longstanding tradition that allowed anyone who had come of age to attempt the ceremony. However, the reality was that less than one in ten thousand had the potential to succeed. The number of those who could become Soul Weavers was minuscule, making those who succeeded all the more revered.
There was only one reason the ceremony failed, and that was a lack of Soul Affinity. Many aspirants struggled due to a lack of Soul Affinity, finding themselves unable to connect with the Aether despite their best efforts. A weak Souls Affinity had much to do with the individual's basic constitution and Bloodline. However, there have been instances where children with good constitutions and bloodlines have failed. This was attributed to various reasons, like weak willpower or an emotional imbalance, as those overwhelmed by their own inner turmoil found it challenging to harness the delicate energies required.
The ceremony itself came with a steep price. Each aspirant had to give up ten years of their life force to begin the process and summon a Minor Soulbound Spirit. The sacrifice was not taken lightly; it was a testament to the commitment required to walk the path of a Soul Weaver. Moreover, Soul Affinity couldn’t be judged without a proper contractual ceremony. So, many who lacked confidence in their constitution or bloodline or feared the cost would avoid the ceremony altogether. The risk of losing a decade of their lifespan without gaining anything in return was too significant for them.
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In the Remington Clan, noble children were given priority to attempt the ceremony, and those of common birth had to wait their turn. Today, Silas was granted an early chance due to his father’s esteemed position as the Guest War Counselor. Silas made his way through the crowd, his heart pounding with a mix of excitement and dread. His father, Sullivan, walked beside him, his expression calm but unreadable. Behind them followed Uncle Chen, Kaede, Kael, and Rowan, their presence comforting and nerve-wracking. Silas could feel their support but also the weight of their expectations. They believed in him, and that belief was both a burden and a source of strength.
Before Silas’s turn, a young noble named Alistair stepped up to the ancient stone. Alistair had the confidence of someone who knew he was destined for greatness, and his family’s prestige only bolstered his arrogance. He approached the stone with a smirk, placing his hand upon its weathered surface and chanting the incantation with practised ease. The crowd watched with bated breath as the stone began to hum with power.
A spirit emerged, a faint, shimmering form that hovered above the stone. It was a minor spirit, offering Alistair a contract with a specific limitation: it would serve him for thirteen hours each month. Alistair didn’t hesitate, accepting the terms with a satisfied grin. The elders nodded in approval, and the crowd murmured with admiration. Even a minor spirit was a valuable ally, and Alistair’s success only increased the anticipation for Silas’s turn.
The focal point of the ritual was the same ancient stone that had been used for centuries, weathered and cracked, standing in the centre of the grounds. This unassuming stone was said to be imbued with the remnants of countless spirits, one of the relics from when the Remington Clan had first established their dominion over this land. Similar stones were used in the altars across the kingdom. The other kingdoms and the Raet Empire had the same ceremony procedure as the Remingtons.
Silas could feel its power as he approached the stone, a faint hum that resonated deep within his bones. The stone was not merely a relic but a bridge between the physical world and the Aether. Every Soul Weaver in the Remington Clan had touched it, or other stones like it, summoning their first Soulbound Spirits and forging the contract to begin their journey.
The ceremony was simple in execution but profound in its implications. The aspirant placed their hand on the stone, calling upon the spirits that dwelled within. A minor Soulbound Spirit would appear if successful, and a contract would be formed, binding the spirit to the Soul Weaver for the rest of their lives. It was the first and most crucial step in becoming a Soul Weaver, and failure meant a life without the power that defined the clan.
Silas took his place before the stone, his heart beating like a drum in his chest. The clan elders watched him with keen eyes, their faces inscrutable. Sullivan stood off to the side, his gaze fixed on Silas, his expression as calm as ever. Uncle Chen was beside him, his face a mask of impassivity. Kaede, Kael, and Rowan stood a little farther back, their faces a mixture of anticipation and anxiety.
Silas took a deep breath and placed his hand on the stone. The surface was cold and rough under his palm, and he could feel a faint vibration as if the stone itself was alive. Closing his eyes, he began to chant the incantation he had learned by heart, calling upon the spirits to answer his plea. He focused on his bond with Dust, Breeze, and Spark, hoping to draw strength from their connection.
For a moment, there was nothing. The stone remained cold and unresponsive, the air around him still and silent. But then, a flicker of warmth spread from the stone into his hand, a sign that something was happening. Silas’s heart leapt with hope as he concentrated harder, willing the spirits to come forth and form the contract.
But the warmth faded as quickly as it had come, leaving behind a cold, empty void. Silas frowned, pushing harder with his will, but the stone remained unyielding. Panic began to creep into his mind, but he forced it down, focusing all his energy on the task. He had to succeed; he couldn’t fail now, not after all the training, the sacrifices, the dreams.
Minutes passed, and the silence around him grew oppressive. Silas’s hand began to tremble, the weight of the stone’s cold indifference pressing down on him. He tried repeatedly, but no spirit came forth, and no contract was formed. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he withdrew his hand, his heart sinking with the realisation of what had just happened.
He had failed. His physical appearance did not change, but he could feel his life force being stripped away. Just like this, a decade of his lifespan was gone.
The elders exchanged glances, their expressions neutral, but the disappointment was evident. The crowd began to murmur, their voices hushed but filled with disbelief. Sullivan let out a long, quiet sigh, his face unreadable. At the same time, Uncle Chen remained as impassive as ever, but no one noticed his clenched fists under his sleeves. Kaede and Kael looked stunned, their faces pale, while Rowan’s eyes were wide with shock and sadness.
Silas felt numb, the weight of his failure pressing down on him like a physical force. He had let everyone down—his father, his friends, himself. The crowd’s whispers stung like nettles, their scorn and pity wrapping around him in a suffocating shroud.
“How could the son of the Great Soul Weaver Sullivan fail so miserably?”
“What a disgrace… the Guest War Counselor’s own blood, and he can’t even summon a minor spirit?”
“Now now, don’t be too harsh, maybe the boy is just not meant to be a Soul Weaver… perhaps a footsoldier or something would be a fine job as well.”
Silas wanted to disappear, to be anywhere but here, under the scrutiny of so many disappointed eyes. He could see Rowan clenching his fists, anger flashing in his eyes as he listened to the cruel words being whispered around them. But there was nothing Silas could do to change what had happened. He had failed, and that was all there was to it.
As Silas walked back lifelessly to the seating area, the elders quickly moved on to the next candidate, trying to salvage the ceremony. Another young man stepped forward, determination on his face, but Silas couldn’t bear to watch. The world around him had become a blur, the sounds of the ritual continuing without him as if he no longer existed.
“Silas, let’s get out of here,” Rowan said quietly, his voice strained. His frustration was palpable. Silas nodded numbly, too drained to argue, and they slipped away from the ceremonial grounds, leaving the others to their trials.
As they walked, the sound of someone else’s summoning attempt echoed in the distance, but it felt irrelevant, like a distant dream. Silas’s heart was heavy with despair; his dreams shattered in a matter of moments. The weight of his failure pressed down on him, and the crowd’s voices faded into a dull roar as he and Rowan disappeared into the shadows, away from the eyes of the world.