The altar room was silent.
It was hewn of obsidian and bone, and smoldered with a slight warmth which was not of fire... but of something older and more ancient. The runes writhing over the stone wriggeld like lifeblood; flickering to the blood that dripped on them.
It was a decade of years since Nclai Azrael was born.
Ten years of silence, of watching... of being watched.
He was the only one still standing in the middle of the ritual chamber. Naked torso, half-closed eyes, steady hands braving the coldness that is in the air. About him were placed four elders, in crimson vestments. They did not say anything. They did not have to. This is a rate that had been hibernating more than a millennium.
A dark shard of crystal floated above a stone pedestal. The Awakening Stone.
For hybrids and impures, the crystal would flash a single projected skill, a predicted affinity, a barely useful tier. Most left disappointed, their path already sealed by diluted blood.
Nclai stepped forward.
His bare feet met the carved sigils on the floor. The stone pulsed in response... too quickly. It wasn't supposed to respond yet.
One of the elders shifted. Another took a single step back.
The moment Nclai placed his hand on the crystal, it cracked.
A hairline fracture ran through the center, followed by a pulse so strong it knocked one of the priests off balance. The chamber dimmed. The torches burned lower, as if suffocated. No skill name appeared. No tier. No projected path.
Instead, the crystal bled.
A thick droplet of black blood slid down its face and hissed as it hit the stone.
Nclai didn't flinch.
Inside him, something stirred. Something that had always been there, but sleeping. A quiet presence now opening its eyes... slowly, with hunger.
His heart beat once. Then again. Louder. Slower.
He exhaled, and the air in the room turned cold.
From somewhere deep within his mind, a whisper echoed. Not in words. In instinct.
Sync initialized.
Crimson Sovereign Protocol waking.
Current Sync: 2%
He blinked once.
The voices around him returned, hushed and shaken.
"It responded to him. It bled for him..."
"This... this isn't a projection. It's a system..."
"The throne... it's watching again."
One of the elders moved forward. Nclai turned his head, just slightly.
The man stopped. Not from fear... but something older than fear.
The boy's eyes no longer looked young.
They looked sovereign.
.........
Nclai left the chamber in silence.
No blessing. No applause. No celebration.
The others waited outside... students, aspirants, half-blood nobles. They laughed and mocked one another, boasting of C-tiers, rare skills, and inherited weapons.
None of them saw what had just happened.
None of them would survive it.
.........
The courtyard buzzed with noise.
Dozens of students milled about, some still dressed in ritual garb, others freshly awakened and boasting loudly to anyone who would listen. Most were hybrids–pale-skinned half-bloods, diluted descendants of clans that once held true lineage. Their laughter echoed against the marble pillars, brittle and hollow.
Above them, floating near the old tower, a black screen shimmered in the air.
Public Awakening Results.
A ranked projection of all awakened youth from the northern provinces.
Tiered by skill, class potential, bloodline strength.
The top names flashed brightly. One by one, cheers erupted as noble-born names appeared near the top.
"Rael of House Therin, Tier A! Combat-type skill, Moonflame Edge!"
"Another A-rank? That makes five this season!"
"Still nothing from the cryptborn group. Figures…"
The crowd surged, hungry for validation. Eyes tracked every flicker of the board.
But Nclai Azrael's name never appeared.
Not at the bottom. Not at the top. Not at all.
......
He stood beneath one of the archways, cloaked now in a simple black coat, the collar upturned to hide his throat. His hair had grown long over the years, swept back and tied loosely. The scar on his palm burned, still as red on the dark skin.
He watched the rankings... silent.
Watched them cheer over letters that meant nothing.
He could feel them. The ones who had just awakened. Their blood thinned with weakness, their energy loud and unfocused. He could hear their hearts pumping too fast. Smell the fear they hid behind arrogance.
No one looked at him. He liked it that way.
......
"Azrael."
The voice was light, familiar.
Nclai turned his head slightly.
Lyra stood a few paces away, watching him. Her long gray hair was braided neatly, her violet eyes bright despite the cold. She wasn't like the others. Not fully. A hybrid, yes, but raised among the quiet stone like him. They'd shared tutors. Shared silence. Shared winters.
"You didn't register," she said.
"I did."
Her brows drew together.
"But your name... it's not up there."
Nclai said nothing.
Lyra shifted. "Did the stone reject you?"
"No."
"Then what did it–"
"The crystal bled."
She stared at him, confused, then smiled awkwardly. "That's not funny."
"I wasn't trying to be."
A silence passed. The kind that didn't ask to be filled.
Lyra looked at the screen again, then back at him.
"They're all going to think you failed."
"I know."
"Do you care?"
Nclai looked at her for a moment. The wind pulled at her cloak. Somewhere in the distance, someone shouted about a duel. Steel clashed against marble.
"No," he said finally.
......
Far above the courtyard, behind a black window at the highest tower, two figures watched the boy from the shadows. One held a silver lens to their eye, studying the way the runes flickered faintly in Nclai's wake as he moved.
"No reading... nothing shows."
"That's impossible."
"I watched the ceremony myself. He cracked the stone before it could project anything."
"Cracked it... or killed it?"
They went quiet.
"Should we report it?"
"Not yet. Let the other races show their hands first."
......
Back in the courtyard, Nclai turned away from the rankings and walked toward the training fields. Behind him, Lyra hesitated... then followed.
None of the students noticed.
Not yet.
But the blood of a true sovereign had already begun to stain the wind.
.........