Klarion stepped through the towering archway into the Amphitheater of Induction. As he did so he was startled to find his greatsword was suddenly no longer with him. With no obvious explanation, he could do nothing but continue ahead, hoping that it would be returned somehow later. The low murmur of hundreds of voices washed over him like a tide. The sheer size of the chamber was staggering. Above, a colossal dome of shimmering glass allowed sunlight or starlight to flood in, depending on the time of day. Around the periphery of the chamber were pillars of gold and obsidian, in which were carved yet more of the bas-reliefs Klarion had seen near the Waystation. Young nobility filled rows upon rows of seats, which were crafted from the same marble that had been used in some of the buildings he had passed on the way here, and all spiraled down toward a central stage. The stage itself was a monumental slab of stone, inlaid sigils that even Klarion could sense humming with latent energy, but for what purpose, he was not sure.
Looking around, he began to feel a bit nervous. All the rows near the entrance from which he had entered were already full. Everywhere he looked, he tried to spot an open seat.
Nothing.
He began to feel nervous. The thought of standing out — or worse, being forced to sit in the aisle — started gnawing at him.
A voice cut through the chatter, calling out softly nearby.
Klarion turned to see a young noble boy with striking blue hair and round glasses. The boy was gesturing toward Klarion and then to the front of the Amphitheater of Induction. Following where he was pointing, Klarion could see a cluster of unoccupied seats near the floor-level section. The boy met his gaze when Klarion turned back, then mouthed clearly, “There.”
Klarion blinked, then nodded, mouthing back, “Thank you.” Maybe not all nobles here would be like those he had already encountered. Perhaps there were some who could possibly become trustworthy allies and friends.
The boy smiled faintly before returning his attention to those sitting near him who had animatedly started an argument of some sort.
Klarion walked forward down the gently sloping aisle. As he moved, Klarion began to notice how all the nobles around him — many around his own age, though some were noticeably younger — sat in clusters. The bodyguards, escorts, and attendants had all been left outside, likely due to what the Sentinel, J-65, had said about this space being meant only for those members of the nobility who would be enrolling in the Imperial Academy. Without the entourages they had arrived with, the nobles appeared smaller somehow to Klarion.
As Klarion continued moving in the direction of the floor seating, his eyes caught on an empty section near the front that had the Blacksword crest plainly visible. Four other sections that spread out to the right of the Blacksword seating had the crests to what Klarion assumed to be the other four Archducal houses that had scions enrolling this year.
As Klarion moved closer to the front, the murmurs around him grew louder. Students sitting in the upper and middle rows turned to stare as he passed. Whispers floated through the air, some hushed, others less so.
“Who is that?”
“Isn’t that the Blacksword crest?”
“I didn’t know anyone from House Blacksword was coming this year, what with—”
“—those scars. What happened to him?”
Klarion ignored the comments as best he could, keeping his steps measured and his expression neutral as he made his way down to the floor seating. He was used to the whispers right now. He had made his peace with the fact that the scars that marked his face were not easily ignored, but he was still curious as to why he continued to attract so much attention.
He finally reached the floor level, where the five distinct sections he had seen radiated outward from the central stone platform like the spokes of a wheel. Closer to them, he could now clearly see how each set of two rows was marked by banners representing the five Archducal Houses he had been told about. The Blacksword banner hung over the seating to the left, but unlike the other sections at this level, it made him nervous.
The section was entirely empty, its rows of seats pristine and untouched.
Klarion’s jaw tightened as he stepped into the space. The silence in the immediate vicinity was deafening compared to the growing buzz in the rest of the Amphitheatre of Induction. Sliding into the first row of seats, Klarion sat upright, shoulders square, trying his hardest to ignore the weight of countless eyes on him.
Across the floor, Klarion could see out of the corner of his eye students in the seating of the other four Archducal sections craning their necks to get a better look at him. Much like those he had already passed, a few of the nobles whispered amongst themselves.
“—he alone? No one else from Blacksword?”
“Look at his face. It’s covered in—”
“—surprised they sent anyone, given everything that has been happening to House Blacksword, especially—”
“I can’t wait to put him where he truly belongs.”
That last voice dripped hostility, but even shifting slightly in his seat to get a better glimpse of the other nearby scions was not enough to help him identify who had spoken. Turning more fully, he met their gazes briefly, forcing his expression to remain calm. Whatever expectations they had of him — whether because of his scars, his isolation, or his House — he would do whatever he could to make sure he would meet them on his own terms. No more would he just react to whatever came his way.
The muttering grew louder despite occasional attempts to hush it. Klarion continued to struggle to make out most of what was being said, but the tone was clear enough. He continued to force his back straight and clenched his knees with his hands. Trying to ignore what was being said as much as possible, Klarion forced himself to focus on the central platform rather than the sea of nobility around him. Even then he could still hear some of those not bothering to keep their voices down.
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Klarion exhaled slowly, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. His scars might invite speculation, but he was finding it hard to find their ignorance at their cause anything but amusing. What even was a Dusselgras? Whatever, it did not matter. He was there for a reason, and as soon as this induction ceremony, whatever it was, finished, he would be able to move on to what actually mattered: getting stronger.
Though the central stage remained empty, the faint hum of what he assumed to be magic of some sort was beginning to pick up. Something significant was likely about to begin. As he settled deeper into his seat, the energy in the air seemed to swell again. The murmurs grew into a hum of activity.
Then, the air shifted.
From an archway at the rear of the stage, a figure strode forward, and the remaining whispers died away like a flame smothered by wind. The figure had an intangible presence about him. He moved with a deliberate, ominous grace, clad in heavy black armor that gleamed with a faint metallic sheen under the light. Strapped across his back was a massive, wickedly serrated two-handed sword, the very sight of which caused a ripple in the nobility behind Klarion as a chill swept through the assembled students.
The man’s face was fully obscured by a white mask streaked with crimson lines, as though painted with blood. The red streaks radiated from the mask’s eye slits and mouth, accentuating the air of menace that hovered around him like a cloak. Every step he took echoed in the vast Amphitheater of Induction.
He stopped at the center of the stage, his halt commanding absolute silence. His gaze — or what Klarion could feel of it beneath the mask — swept over the gathered ranks of nobility, lingering on each of the Archducal sections as if weighing them. When he finally spoke, his voice was deep and resonant, amplified by the stage itself to carry effortlessly throughout every corner.
“I am the Lord Sentinel,” he began, his tone grave. “Leader of the Sentinels of this branch of the Imperial Academy. My duty is simple: to ensure the balance of power within these hallowed grounds and to punish those who violate the sacred rules of the Empire.”
He shifted, his sword clinking faintly against his armor. “You are here because you are scions of the Empire’s nobility. Whether your bloodlines are ancient or newly risen, your presence in this Amphitheater of Induction is no accident. Each of you carries the weight of the Empire’s future upon your shoulders. As future lords and ladies, your duty is not merely to yourselves or your families by the Empire as a whole.”
Klarion sat straighter, the gravity of the Lord Sentinel’s words sinking in. Around him, students glanced at one another, some nodding, others visibly nervous under the intensity of the speech.
“The Empire is vast,” the Lord Sentinel continued, “stretching across worlds, bound by laws older than your grandfather’s grandfathers and maintained only by the strength of the noble houses. It is not enough to inherit your titles or lands. You must earn them. Prove that you are worthy to lead. Prove that you have the strength, the intelligence, and the resolve to guide those who will one day call you lord or lady.”
The Lord Sentinel paused, letting the weight of his words settle. Then, with a faint incline of his head, he added, “How far you rise, how much you achieve, will depend entirely on you. The Imperial Academy offers unparalleled opportunities. Here, you will learn, grow, and forge bonds — or rivalries — that will shape your futures. But know this: nothing will be given to you. Everything must be earned.”
Klarion’s heart thudded in his chest. He knew that the Imperial Academy would be challenging, but the sheer expectations laid out by the Lord Sentinel ratcheted up the pressure still further. He would need to focus extra hard in the days and weeks ahead to figure out his best options to get ahead.
The Lord Sentinel’s gaze swept the Amphitheater of Induction again, lingering once more on the scions seated at the front. Klarion could feel the weight of his attention, even if the man’s face remained hidden. “To ensure that you are worthy of this place, the first task before you will be to unlock your birthrights.”
A murmur of sound rippled through the gathered nobility, but it was quickly silenced by the Lord Sentinel raising a gauntleted hand.
“Each of you, if truly nobility, carries within your blood the latent potential of your lineage,” he said. “This potential is both a privilege and a responsibility. Unlocking it is not merely a ceremonial act; it is the foundation upon which your education will be built. Some of you may even experience changes — physical, mental, or otherwise. Do not fear them. They are simply a part of the ceremony to unlock your truest self.”
Klarion frowned slightly, his mind spinning with questions. Changes? While he had expected to go through something here, he had not expected any changes like the Lord Sentinel was hinting at. Whatever was about to happen, it was clear that this would not be a quick recitation of words.
“That being said, the process is not without risk,” the Lord Sentinel continued, his voice once more unyielding. “Some of you may find this more difficult than others. But rest assured, the Imperial Academy is prepared to guide you through it.”
The Lord Sentinel stepped forward, his sword once more shifting slightly on his back. “This ceremony is only the beginning. Here at the Imperial Academy, you will need what you gain today in order to survive challenges that will push you to your limits and beyond. But for those of you who seek power without regard for the laws of the Empire…” His voice dropped, cold and sharp as the blade on his back. “You will answer to me.”
As the Lord Sentinel finished his speech, he took one final sweeping look across the gathered nobility. “Remember this moment,” he said. “Today marks the beginning of your journey in service to the Empire. How it ends is entirely up to you.”
The heavy black armor he wore shifted with a metallic groan as the Lord Sentinel lifted his left hand high. A tense, anticipatory energy surged through the air. Then, with a sudden, violent gesture, he thrust his arm downward.
A shockwave of silent sound and cold heat rippled through the Amphitheater of Induction, rattling the very stones beneath their feet. From the center of the stage, the ground seemed to crack apart, revealing a massive crystalline alter that erupted upward with an ear-splitting screech of grinding stone and metal. The altar was unlike anything Klarion had ever seen. Its facets shimmered with an otherwordly brilliance, and as it settled into place, green flames sparked and roared to life at its apex. The eerie light cast flickering shadows across all the gathered nobles.
The sight was both mesmerizing and terrifying for Klarion. The green flames seemed alive, pulsing with a rhythm that felt almost sentient, as though it was the alter itself watching the gathered nobles now.
Attention shifted again as the Lord Sentinel stepped forward, his towering frame casting a long shadow. “This,” he said, his voice now low and reverberating with an almost unnatural weight, “is an Altar of the Foresworn. It is here that your noble heritage will be laid bare. Your bloodline’s power, your potential, and your right to stand among the elite of the Empire will be revealed. And you will be bound to both the Emperor and the Empire.”
A murmur spread through the students, but not about being bound to the Emperor and the Empire. Except for Klarion, they had all grown up being told about the expectations made for their futures. Klarion’s hands clenched at the armrests of the chair, his scars itching under his new uniform. He wasn’t sure if it was nerves or something deeper, but he felt a strange pull toward the altar, as though it was calling to him personally.
The Lord Sentinel raised his sword high, the wickedly jagged blade glinting in the green light. “The flames of the Empire are eternal,” he said, his tone both reverent and commanding. “They will burn away weakness, forge strength, and reveal the truth about yourselves. Beginning with the Knights, step forward and prove that you are worthy by reaching into the flames.”
The gathered nobles sat frozen, the weight of the moment pressing down on them all. Klarion felt his breath quicken as he heard those near the entrance climbing to their feet to obey the command that still rang throughout the Amphitheater of Induction.
The Lord Sentinel gestured violently toward the Altar of the Foresworn once more. The green flames flared higher, frantically picking up the pace at which they danced over the stage.
“Let the ceremony begin.”