Despite living as an inhabitant of Atera for three uninterrupted months, she could never have her fill of the city’s brilliant localities. Runic Mead, the hosting site of the Initiation, was no stranger to the rule.

Its walls were an assembly of reflecting shards, and stripes of greenery flourished along its sides. Alabaster statues lined the curved two-lane road, appearing vigilant of the hovercars floating past its gates. Perched on the edge of its curbside, Val soaked in the magnificent sight, examining the features of the multi-story sculptures.

Shivering as a draft swept by, Caro’s sneeze shooed the awe-inspiring imagery away. “That’s a sign to be inside, V. Not outside.”

Val’s scribal mantle draped off her shoulders, the elegant clothing complementing the navy hairpin slipped inside her messy bun. She straightened the apparel, and the extra length grazed her feet. “Couldn’t we stay for five more minutes?”

“Any more time over here and we’ll miss the entire thing. I don’t think you can blame it on the crowded entrance anymore.” She gestured to the entrance, the trickle of sharply-dressed guests negligible in contrast to the torrent of arrivals an hour beforehand. “You gotta tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing is wrong.”

Caro snorted, stretching her arms to the sky and rising to her feet. Deciding to straighten her curls, a stream of crimson strands reached the small of her black. “I think I’ve heard that one before, Val.”

The slit of her sleek, midnight dress peeled open on occasion as she began the walk to Runic Mead. “Assuming that nothing’s wrong, I suggest we—more specifically, you—get going.”

Following her friend’s motion, Val stood. “It’s just…” she sighed, scratching her arm through the silken sleeves of her robe. “People in there wasted their whole childhood away sitting behind a table, and I’ve spent, what, a few months?”

“Look.” Caro swiveled on her high heels. “I was there when you sat at your desk for hours, so I’ll be the first one to let everyone know how great you are.” She jabbed a finger at her shoulder. “To prove that, you have to be inside the room first, alright? We’ll take it from there.”

Val breathed through her nose. “If you say so.”

Filtering out her negative thoughts, she fell into an attitude befitting of her classy garments. Her frame straightened, her chin raised, and her jittering knee ceased its movement.

“There she is.” Caro’s grin split her reddened lips. “Miss Confidence makes her return.”

“Shut up,” Val shoved her friend and the pair gave into tinkling laughter. Under the cover of the statues, they stalked into the spacious lobby. Out of the thirty attendants awaiting incoming visitors, one man broke their ranks and intercepted the girls.

“Miss Efron, I’ll gladly guide you to the primary ceremony.” Showcasing a well-practiced smile, he handed her a pamphlet and turned to the magma mage. “Miss Hayes, a reception for the invited guests is available. Jeffery here will take you.”

“Yes!”

“Damn it.”

“It was my turn.”

“Could you be any more obvious, Jeffery.”

Ignorant of the muttering in his wake, the attendant scurried out of his position and lingered by the distant doorway. As the girls were about to split, Caro latched onto Val's forearm. “You worked as hard as any other in there. Remember that.”

She could only nod to the encouraging comment, her friend already en route to meet her attendant. “So Jeff, does this reception have drinks?”

“We’re called Runic Mead for a reason.”

“True, true. Recommendations?”

“Amber stone never disappoints.”

“Your taste’s not bad! The drink…”

The conversation dwindled as the two walked out of earshot, and Val huffed a handful of amused air through her nose. One of a kind.

“Shall we?” the employee beside her asked.

“Lead the way.”

The two’s footfalls made a cacophony of offbeat applause within the vacant hallways. Hemmed by dark glass at either side, the bordering structures were a reflection that endlessly fed into yet another mirror. It played tricks with her mind, and she grew dizzy inside the twisting pathways.

Boredom burrowed its way into her unsteady senses, and she leafed through the pamphlet to alleviate it. The pages took turns to report trivial information, from the colours assigned to every order, to the population chart of artificers. Flipping the brochure over to the backside, her body leaned forward at the last bullet point decorating the page.

* apprenticeship begins in adulthood

“Lies,” she whispered. The detail was as dumbfounding as it was relieving. No one needed to be told how important time was, and its significance scaled for cultivators of varying types. To think that people simply waited until sixteen to enchant seemed almost… silly.

Nevertheless, it signified an opportunity to close in on those ahead. Who would say no to that?

The attendant looked at his guest. “Did you say something?”

“I’m curious.” Val dangled the pamphlet. “How factual are these?”

“I sense a reason behind that question,” he appraised. “Go on, ask. Disclosing details is part of the job.”

“Well, it says here that enchanters don’t create an inscription until adulthood,” she replied. “I find that hard to believe.”

“Training starts as early as three, except it’s all theoretical,” he supplied. “The actual enchanting is illegal to learn before sixteen.”

“Still sounds a bit random.”

“Anything but, dear guest. It is anything but.”

“That’s because…?”

“I would explain; however, we’ve arrived.”

The panels of the reflective corridor faded out of the physical plane, like a slide in a digital presentation. An array of colourful regalia twirled to the opening. Those inside came from all walks of life, and she even spotted what looked to be a mixed sapient—half-human, half-dwarven.

Soft glows raced across the crowd as they sought out her magical attributes, gauging the artificer late to the party. Sitting at an ASC of twenty-two, she’d long since shaken off the aura of a borderline typic. She summoned her inner Caro and met the drawn-out gazes of the few forgetting to look away.

People steered clear of her stare. Wow. Confidence worked. Besides the two or three tiny smirks, the rest acknowledged her with a polite dip of the head and returned to their business. Her first task was checked off—she’d established her standing. Now I gotta find somebody to stick to.

From the day Master Winsford prompted her about the Initiation, a whirlwind of studies ensued. Not an analysis of enchantments and their part in her future, but a review of individuals of interest, as he put it. Networking was as dicey as the gnarliest rifts when played wrong, and she barely understood how to throw the right cards.

“I’ll be reassured with a tick above adequate,” he had mentioned. “Memorize their names, statuses, significant events. Most importantly, be aware of the dynamics. Else this affair will leave you a social outcast in minutes.”

“Nothing new there,” she replied, handing the enchanter her set of completed homework. “My old ASC left me shunned in seconds.”

As her easy gait approached a pair of talking artificers, she screened her thoughts and tapered them down to a couple of names. Arm outstretched, she put on her best smile. “Hillary of the Fore House and Primus of the Wray Family, right?”

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

The greys and purples of their robes flared as they spun her way. “I’ve heard about that custom E-shield you two worked on,” she said. “Water for defence, lightning for an offensive edge, and a light crystal to finish it off.” Val blew her best whistle. “Awesome work.”

“Appreciate it.” Primus tied his auburn hair into a taut tail at the base of his skull, his angular frame a wonder in his field as a mechanic. “I don’t believe we caught your name.”

“Valory,” she said. “Valory Efron.”

Hillary’s razor-sharp nails rang the alarm bells loudly in Val’s mind, and she watched the placement of her fingers during the handshake. “It’s always nice to encounter new competitors.”

“Competitors, you say,” Val let a nervous chuckle out, attention flitting to her precarious digits. “I’m not sure I follow.”

“She’s talking about the Rookie Competition,” he supplied. “This ceremony is like a magnifying glass for who to keep an eye on. Though comps allow entrance to any rando, these events require a prominent backing behind you.”

Val’s sights panned the multitude of upcoming talent in the crafting world. It was like a small-scale version of the Tripartite Trial, an ocean of young adults clad in various shades. She wasn’t alone in surveying the enclosure, several taking the time to measure their weight against the artificers close by. Factions hoarded separate corners of the space, and it split the room into different hues, like a mismatched quilt.

The Jin Clan, a commerce giant with its tendrils spread throughout the continent, gave off an unapproachable air. The guys styled their raven-black hair in a short manner, an inch longer than the military buzz cut. Ladies possessed variety, designing their hair with elaborate gimmicks, or simply letting it flow as glossy waterfalls. No one dared to approach the Pivotal Clan, and Val wouldn’t be the one to change the status quo.

Another clique scratched at her curiosity, the uniformity spread between the cluster a tinge odd. In a place teeming with colour, the congregation of white in the center was downright conspicuous. Dark accessories decorated their extremities—obsidian beads, black rings, and sable hoops. A head taller than everyone in the ceremony, their mahogany complexions shone against the headlights. They have to be the Nightingale House.

Sipping at the wine offered by a waiter, she coughed and forced herself to swallow the putrid liquid. Hillary passed a napkin, mirth exuding off her lopsided grin. “Not a drinker?”

“More of a—cough—coffee kind of gal.”

The artisan accosted the waiter to bring bottled water, and Val used it to drown out the lingering taste. Thanking the artificer, she continued scrutinizing the assembly of affluent Kidraans. Their shadows carried a profound depth to them, like she would tumble into a dimension of pure darkness if she were to tread on it.

Primus trailed her line of sight. “What’s got you so interested?”

“Trying to wrap my head on why the Nightingales have so many alchemists.”

“I make an effort not to speak of them in their presence,” Hillary whispered. “They’ve sharp ears, the lot. All I’m willing to say is that their fighting styles rely on outside help. Potions, talismans, equipment and the like. Darkness may be rare, but it’s not the best in most situations.”

A haze of small talk settled over the three, swiftly hitting the checkpoints Winsford anticipated. Order, rank, and affiliations were traded and dissected, upcoming plans snuck in here or there. Val knew she should be making the rounds, spreading her name to the wealthy company at hand.

There would come a time to sell her enchanted goods, and it’d be worth nil if her shop peaked at zero customers. Unfortunately, comfort was often a crippling crutch, and its grasp left her happy to observe the crowd from afar. The majority mirrored her thoughts, content to mingle among familiar faces.

A trilling sound sliced through the low chatter—someone was tapping their utensil on a cup. The artificers turned to the noise, toward a stage at the chamber’s forefront. Val endeavoured to tiptoe over the numerous bodies obscuring the view, but the towering set of Kidrans sealed that possibility.

IBR screens crackled into power above the crowd, and a middle-aged man filled the squares’ space. Val found it difficult to discern his ethnicity—his sunburnt skin classified him as anything from a tanned Auricean to a regular denizen of the Glass Dunes.

The dense red of his ceremonious attire marked him as a metalsmith, his broad shoulders alluding to the fact. A black stole rested on his torso, five unpigmented chevrons embroidered on the satin garment.

A Grandmaster.

“It warms my heart each time I lay eyes on new faces during the Initiation.” He set aside his cup on a table nearby. “First, give yourselves a round of applause.”

Deafening clapping arose and seconds went on before it simmered down to a level of normalcy.

“You made it. A reputable artificer or crafting hall chose to stand behind you, to invest in your growth.” He paced down the length of the raised platform, body perpendicular to the audience. “Atera’s not one to brush it over. We won’t just mail your hallmarks—we’ll hand them to you personally, because there’s a responsibility linked to the items received tonight.”

His head jutted upwards and a wave of luminous air billowed overhead, a river of transparent energy. “I like to imagine the elemental society as a stream. Many only see the colour alabaster. You may ask, what is the alabaster?

A piece of the ivory substance split off, and an abstract picture took its place. Is that… an athlete? The model of the perfect Aether Zone player formed, cleats at his feet and a headband surrounding his hairline. “It could be the players in a sports leagues.”

Another part fluttered away to create a guildhall with its members rallied outside its doors clothed in combat wear. “Perhaps the adventurers that are praised in the media.”

Waves of surprise passed through the sea of crafters as the third illustration glided into shape. Tight curls, hardened gaze, a name etched into a metal dog tag—there was no mistaking it. They were looking at Fiona, Captain of the armed forces, daughter of the Rhodes Family.

“Capable mages, executing the highest degree of talented magic use,” the Grandmaster added.

High praise for the Spatial Soldier.

“No one witnesses the fine work behind it all, however.” A flux of grey mixed into the athlete’s activewear. “What about the magitech hardwiring at work in the stadiums?”

Crimson seeped into the weaponry of the adventurers in the second portrayal. “How about the metal tools forged?” Their armour transitioned to a lilac, a sign of an artisan’s hand. “Or the intricately-crafted leathers they wear?”

The Spatial Soldier’s countenance disassembled into myriad hues, and heads swerved to trail the mystifying substance’s flow. “We can’t forget the healing scrolls used after a spar, nor the aether potions drunk in the meanwhile.”

An otherworldly rainbow raced through the air, dispersing into sparkling motes of light. “You are about to become a part of the backbone on which the elemental society depends.”

Like a pack of migrating birds, the particle sailed to the Grandmaster's palms and condensed into an orb. “Take on the responsibility—” he squeezed the energy and it submerged into his skin “—and make it yours.”

Val’s fingers began to feel a tad heavier. Her enchantments might do more than amplify her living conditions. It could save a person's life in the months to come. She pinched her arm, a little surprised she didn’t startle awake from a dream. I’m here.

“Please allow me, Grandmaster Reign, to hand over your artificer’s ring and sealed degree.” Attendants hastened to unlink the restraints guarding the stairs, forming a line that led up to the metalsmith. “Organize yourselves in an orderly fashion, as directed by the staff.”

The artificers streamlined into a narrow flood, the Jin Clan first and foremost. Grandmaster Reign announced their names as if he’d known them for decades, and she guessed a device similar to Aster in action. Things fell into a rhythm—you gained your items, you thanked the guy, and you got out. And in what seemed like a few seconds, it was her turn.

“Valory Efron.”

Val steeled her emotions as she climbed the steps, embodying the responsibility her title sustained. “Greetings, Grandmaster Reign.” Conducting a mage’s bow, she cupped her hands to receive a band of stainless steel and a laminated document. In silence, she slipped the ring on her pinky finger, and a blue sigil burned into the material.

“Thank you, Grandmaster Reign,” she enunciated, her speech clear and her words crisp. A breath of relief escaped her lips as she walked off. As drilled in by Master Winsford, she heeded the unspoken protocols of the ceremony. No mess-ups, no hiccups.

The Grandmaster seemed to think differently. “Miss Efron.”

Heavens. Gulping, she flipped around and watched in fear as the man strolled to her position.

“Allow me to offer an invitation into Runic Mead.”

Val’s grimace froze half-formed. Huh? She glimpsed at Hillary to ensure her ears heard correctly. Eyebrows scrunched together, she grasped the artisan’s message. What are you still doing there?

She didn’t hear a thing.

“Are you certain that you want me?” Val stabbed a finger to the chest. “Runic Mead’s not among the top—it is the top Crafting Hall in the country.”

“Winsford isn’t among the keen. He is the sharpest Master I’ve met, and he’s been whispering positive tidings about a student he picked up.” the Grandmaster answered. “Although I’m an advocate for sharing in the elemental society, I’m all for hoarding talent. Hypocritical, I realize.”

“I-I’m honoured, Grandmaster.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Of course!”

“I’ll contact you after the upcoming competition.” His fingers made peculiar shapes, dismantling the glimmering film of light confining their discussion. “It’s not a good look to abandon a ship you represent.”

“Right, right.”

Chuckling, he waved a hand as he moved for his spot by the stairs. “Don’t prove Winsford wrong, or my faith in him.”

~

Stationed five meters off the stage, the chatter from the abundant crowd pierced the solemnity of the ongoing bestowment ceremony. Standing on elevated ground, the noise hardly obstructed Grandmaster Reign from draping a crafter’s stole on the last artificer.

To the distant side of the curtains, an announcer paused for dramatic effect, letting the boy file in. “Ladies and gents!” he roared, spittle showering the unlucky guests in his vicinity. “Runic Mead introduces you to Atera’s newest artificers!”

The statement solicited a standing ovation—people veered their eyes upward to glance at them. Val rubbed her thumb on the smooth texture of her garment, absorbing the surreal occasion.

Spotting her friends and family among the masses brightened her face, but her smile dimmed as she glimpsed the two empty seats amid her siblings. One of her parents wouldn’t ever fill those chairs.

I’d better make sure that Mom will.