Chapter 14

“Before we begin,” Sister Halcyon said as she stepped in front of all of them, “I must remind you that contrary to what you may think and contrary to however long you have studied what happens when you pass or what the religious orders or scholars of your individual realms have said, Resonant Domains are not chosen. You may shape them in some way, and their discovery can change your Sigil after you’ve passed your Trial, but today’s results are a surprise even to us.”

Pyre felt an immediate sense of dread. Combat was something that had been part of his life for a very long time. From what he understood of the process so far, it would likely shape his Resonant Domain, but he still had little control over how Sister Halcyon and her attendants analyzed it.

In looking around, he got a sense that he wasn’t the only one that was feeling apprehensive.

The others stood straighter, quieter. No bravado. No quiet murmuring. Even Windscar had gone still, his confidence folding inward into something sharper and more watchful.

Sister Halcyon stepped aside. “I will now pass you all to Brother Franzes.”

A short, heavyset man approached, his gait measured, dark eyes sweeping over them. He grunted, his mustache bristling at the sound, its thick ends tied off in neat cords. “If I may say briefly: Sigils are singular manifestations,” he said, skipping any greeting. “They reflect the theme that has shaped your soul. Exposure and understanding will force alignment, and it is a good thing. A very good thing. Come forward, all of you.”

The eight Unclaimed stepped off their platforms together and approached him, the group standing in a loose line before Brother Franzes, Sister Halcyon, and several attendants.

“Balefor, the Leoline Knight.” Franzes gestured to a ring taking shape before him on the ground. “You will be first. Step into the ring, summon your Sigil, and hold it steady while we begin the process.”

Balefor stepped forward, shoulders rolling back as if bracing against an unseen tide as five attendants spread around him in a loose ring, hands joining then raising.

His greataxe took shape in his grip, the Sigil massive and translucent, its edges gleaming with a razor clarity. Balefor lifted his chin, posture shifting as he settled into himself, proud and unyielding.

At first, the pressure was almost imperceptible, a gentle inward pull. Then it deepened, weight pressing from all sides at once. Balefor bent at the waist, teeth grinding, his mane lifting and streaming as if caught in a wind no one else could feel. His armor shifted as muscle locked beneath it, yet the axe held true. It did not waver. It did not warp.

“Enough,” Brother Franzes said.

The attendants shifted back, and Balefor let out a deep breath as his Sigil faded.

“You performed remarkably well,” Franzes told Balefor. “The manifestation is stable, indicative of a high-potential soul, one ready for the frontlines. Your Resonant Domain is Conquest, which makes you an immediately attractive ascendant, Balefor. The factions will be eager to scout you. I expect good things.”

“Thank you.” Balefor stepped back into line, pride blazing across his face. “Just what I was hoping for,” he said quietly to Pyre as the attendants reset themselves.

Brother Franzes cleared his throat and spoke again. “Saejin of the Light Silence. Please, this way.”

Saejin moved into the circle of light.

The attendants closed ranks around him, palms turning inward as they joined hands. For a brief moment, nothing happened. Then they lifted their arms in unison, mirroring the formation they had used for Balefor.

Saejin’s eye-disc manifested with a soft shimmer, hovering before him in perfect stillness. The pressure increased, and his Sigil wobbled, its surface rippling faintly, light bending unevenly along its rim.

The only sign he gave was a slight crease in his brow, Saejin’s jaw setting as a fine tremor ran through his shoulders. His breathing slowed, measured and deliberate, as if retreating inward to brace against the strain. The eye-disc steadied, its edges quivering, yet it still held.

Brother Franzes watched for another heartbeat, then gave a small nod for the attendants to withdraw. He spoke briefly with Sister Halcyon, then turned back. “Your Resonant Domain is Perception. Strategically invaluable, yet itrequires an exceedingly powerful discipline, which you appear to have. You are an attractive find for the right faction, Saejin. A remarkable soul, really. You may join the others.”

Saejin bowed his head and stepped away.

“Good work,” Balefor said.

Saejin did not respond.

“I’ll take that as a thank you,” Balefor told him.

“Rinpoche Kesh, Speaker for the Drowned Chords,” Brother Franzes announced. “Please step forward.”

The bard moved ahead, his expression serene, the hint of a smile already in place. “I’ve been waiting for this for ages.”

The attendants shifted around him, forming their ring. They clasped hands and raised them, palms angling inward as the familiar geometry of the Domain test locked into place.

Kesh’s lute manifested, gleaming strings snapping into being. For a heartbeat, he looked delighted.

Then the pressure began to build.

It came unevenly this time, pulsing in slow waves that set the air vibrating. Kesh’s Sigil answered at once. Its strings hummed, a low, discordant resonance bleeding into the space between breaths.

His grin broke as the vibration sharpened, the sound climbing until a sharp crack split the air. One of the strings snapped near the bridge, the note dying in a brittle twang, the crack moving toward the body of his lute.

Kesh exhaled, shoulders dropping as he looked down at the fractured instrument, then back up again, his smile thinner but intact. “Always room for improvement,” he said as the attendants stepped back.

“Indeed,” Brother Franzes told him. “Rinpoche Kesh, your Resonant Domain is Harmony. This is less attractive to the factions, but those who know how to harness it correctly will find great value in its force-multiplying power. As you are most certainly aware, not all music is for everyone. But for those that understand the underlying language, and those who master it, it is a powerful force. This makes you a semi-attractive ascendant.”

Kesh rubbed the back of his neck. “Heh. I’ve been called worse—”

“Marrowsven,” Brother Franzes said, his voice flat.

She stepped past Kesh without comment.

The attendants swept forward, forming their ring around her. The pressure returned, gradual and intent.

Marrow’s Sigil manifested, the segmented bone blade unfolding into her grasp, locking together with soft, organic clicks. Thin joints flexed as the clear weapon finished assembling, adjusting its length and curve.

For a brief moment, her Sigil bent under the first rise of pressure, light warping along its length as the attendants tightened their hold.

But then the blade responded. Sections drew closer, joints compressing as the weapon stiffened, bone sliding against bone until it found a configuration that would not yield. The distortion steadied as the pressure climbed higher still, harder, pushing for fracture.

Marrowsven did not shift her stance. She did not blink. Her grip remained loose, precise, as if the strain belonged to the blade alone.

“Wonderful,” Brother Franzes finally said. The attendants released their hands, and her weapon vanished.

Marrowsven lifted her gaze to Brother Franzes, expression unchanged as she waited for the verdict.

“Executioner. Your Resonant Domain is Executioner. High lethality. Psychologically dangerous. The light factions will hesitate; the dark ones will welcome you once you have proven your worth. Immediately attractive.”

Marrowsven inclined her head once.

Executioner? Pyre thought as she stepped back into line.

“Urosh, Who Ate the Storm,” Brother Franzes announced.

Urosh lumbered into position, shoulders tight.

The attendants closed their circle, hands joined, then released. The pressure descended hard and fast.

His Sigil answered at once; a jagged hammer formed in his grip, its head uneven and fractured, lightning already crawling across its surface in erratic arcs.Lightning snapped outward in uncontrolled bursts, cracking against the testing space itself. Sparks tore free, skittering across the floor as fractures spidered along the weapon’s head.

Urosh grunted and leaned into it, teeth clenched. The lightning surged again, brighter this time, but without focus. The hammer bucked in his hands, the cracks widening instead of sealing, power bleeding away instead of finding form.

The attendants finally released their hold.

The lightning sputtered and faded, leaving the hammer dim and scarred. Urosh lowered his head, breath heavy, the failure plain in the slump of his shoulders.

“Tempest,” Brother Franzes said. “Your Resonant Domain is Tempest. Highly destructive if stabilized. Mixed historical outcomes. But factions may find a use.” His gaze lingered on Urosh. “Still, slightly attractive.”

The big man stepped back into line without a word, his hammer dissolving as the last sparks died against the floor.

Brother Franzes smiled faintly at the remaining Unclaimed. “Windscar, Ascended Bastard of Morthe.”

Windscar advanced with easy confidence.

The attendants closed their circle, and pressure descended.

His Sigil formed in his hand at once, a crescent blade of clear, glasslike light, edges precise, surface unblemished. It caught the ambient glow without reflecting it, present yet insubstantial.

Nothing changed.

The blade did not waver, and hardly any distortion touched its edge. The light around it remained smooth and even, as if the force pressing inward simply slid past without finding purchase.

Windscar did not tense.

He stood as though the pressure were an inconvenience at most until the attendants released their hold.

“Most excellent,” Brother Franzes said. “Your Resonant Domain is Dominion. Aggressively scalable, yet high volatility if mismanaged.” His gaze lingered a fraction longer than it had for the others. “The Light factions will champion your arrival. You are an immediately attractive ascendant, destined for the frontlines.”

Windscar inclined his head and stepped back, the translucent blade dissolving without a sound.

Brother Franzes looked at the remaining two Unclaimed. “Lyra, Grace Divine, please come forward.”

I’m last? Pyre thought as he swallowed a tinge of disappointment and apprehension.

Lyra stepped into the circle and reached up, drawing back her hood.

Ash-stained skin caught the light, her eyes steady and unreadable as the attendants formed their ring around her.

Lyra’s Sigil manifested above her head, as did her replicant, her crown soon giving way to the pressure, the Sigil fractured and uneven, its edges splitting and rejoining as though struggling to decide on a final form.

“Almost there,” Brother Franzes said, his sole focus on Lyra now as the pressure increased.

Hairline cracks raced through the crown. It wavered, segments slipping out of alignment and snapping back into place. A faint tremor ran through the ring of attendants as the distortion deepened, reflection folding in on itself.

Lyra exhaled sharply, and the crown held.

It did not stabilize so much as endure, maintaining its shape through stubborn persistence rather than anything that resembled harmony. When the attendants released their grip, the pressure fell away at once. The crown remained, cracked and imperfect, hovering ever-present as her duplicate faded in and out of existence.

Lyra’s expression tightened.

“You have performed adequately,” Brother Franzes told her. “Your Resonant Domain is Reflection, which has some historical significance in wars past. But be aware—those who walk this path rarely remain whole. This isn’t a bad thing; it can be the single most powerful gift you are able to give to the right faction. Still, there are risks. The factions may not know what to do with you, but with determination, you will find your place, and they will see you as a fairly attractive ascendant to sponsor. Good.”

Lyra joined the others, taking place beside Urosh.

“Now, Pyre of Farreach,” Brother Franzes announced.

My turn, Pyre thought, dreading the fact that he was about to be graded in front of everyone else, in front of people who had been prepared for this for several lifetimes.

As he stepped forward, he caught Windscar’s voice, low and amused. “This should be interesting…”

The attendants moved around Pyre, forming their ring.

He waited, watching their hands come together as they prepared their ritual. Only then did he lower his head and reach inward. Warmth flooded in his palm, and the broken black sword appeared, fire tracing its edge in slow, deliberate tongues.

The pressure came down all at once.

Pyre’s breath hitched as the air thickened, his boots scraping against the stone. He bore down, something flaring within him that he didn’t quite understand. The flames along the blade flared, their light sharpening as he tightened his grip.

The pressure held until it became manageable. Then, Brother Franzes broke the silence.

“More,” he said, surprising Pyre.

The attendants obeyed and increased the pressure.

Pyre soon felt it in his chest, in his teeth, in the bones of his hands as the force sought any weakness to exploit. His knees shook. Heat surged up his arm, the flames roaring brighter, louder, pushing back against the crushing weight as Pyre refused to yield, as anger bloomed in his chest at Brother Franzes’s request that they increase the pressure.

After another excruciating moment, with Pyre’s head pounding and the pressure on the verge of taking him under, Brother Franzes finally raised a hand. “That will do.”

The pressure vanished all at once.

Pyre remained standing, breathing hard, the sword burning in his grasp, fire clinging to the broken edge of the blade.

Brother Franzes studied him carefully for what felt like ages.

“Well?” Pyre finally asked, no longer concerned if he was being rude or not, especially after what they had just put him through.

“Your Resonant Domain is Defiance,” he said finally. “If I were to gauge the performance of your Sigil under pressure, I would say it is the best of the group. It is solid, powerful, and fully formed. But Defiance is less desirable by the factions. You, Pyre of Farreach, are not an immediately attractive ascendant. And that’s without getting into Anima drain.”

Pyre felt something twist in his chest as his Sigil faded. He stood there, waiting for more, but Brother Franzes merely stepped aside to allow Sister Halcyon to come forward.

Without another word, Pyre joined the others.

“Thank you, Brother Franzes,” Sister Halcyon said.

Balefor tried to buoy him with a pat on the back, yet Pyre kept his eyes on the floor. The heat was gone from his hand, replaced by a cold certainty that he had failed something he barely understood.