Chapter 2: The Names Etched in Blood
The classroom sat in a hushed stillness, a rare silence amidst the usual clamor of students. Eirian leaned back against his chair, tapping the edge of his desk with faint impatience. Around him, his classmates were busy deciphering texts on divine pathways, but his attention was fixed on the edges of his notebook, where faint, curling letters shimmered—an ancestral name, half-formed yet relentless in its presence.
"Eirian, can you answer the question?" Professor Kael's voice pierced the room, drawing gazes towards him.
Eirian blinked. His flaw kicked in before his thoughts could catch up. "I was just meditating on the subject. Divine bindings don't usually reflect such inconsistencies."
Kael raised an eyebrow but let it slide. "Good. But remember, ancestral names are not to be trifled with. Especially not yours."
A few snickers echoed from the back. Whispers passed among students who had heard rumors—Eirian's flaw was notorious, but few understood the weight it carried. He shifted in his seat, aware of the ancestral glyph flickering brighter with every second.
Ancestral names, as Kael had reminded them, were etched into the very fabric of one's existence. When a student of Væstren Kall reached Rank C, they were given the chance to earn their ancestral name by defeating a rank beast alone. Those names were power. The higher the rank, the stronger the name's influence.
But Eirian's name had been given to him at birth, a rarity that came with consequences. His flaw twisted around it, an endless reminder of the lies he spun to shield his existence.
Across the room, one of the Azhmarak students—Idrien, the sharp-eyed descendant of the Vorhka family—glanced his way. Unlike the Væstren Kall, the Azhmarak carved their names from the shards of the monsters they slew, forging their identities through battle and blood. Idrien's gaze lingered on the mark dancing along Eirian's notebook, curiosity glinting in his eyes.
Kael's lecture resumed, shifting into the breakdown of the sub-ranks: Intermediate, Advanced, Peak. The tiers that separated power within each rank were hard-earned, and for Væstren Kall, they signified the gradual tightening of divine chains.
"Intermediate practitioners can channel divine pathways for brief moments," Kael continued, his voice echoing through the hall. "Advanced practitioners are capable of manipulating those pathways into sustained blessings. But only those at the peak can manifest divine favor without invoking their names."
Eirian sighed and let his gaze drift to the window. In the distance, the training fields loomed, where upperclassmen sparred to prepare for their trials. Somewhere among them, he knew there were others like him—those who straddled the lines between the factions, unbound by rules that defined the masses.
"Hey, Eirian." A voice called from his left. Jack, his closest friend, leaned in with a mischievous grin. "You're staring into the void again. Planning on unlocking a second ancestral name by sheer willpower?"
Eirian chuckled, shaking his head. "I doubt the gods would allow that."
Jack's expression shifted subtly. "About the gods... You know they've been watching closely. That new rank beast emerged near the northern boundary. There's talk some of the seniors might try to claim its name."
The weight in Eirian's chest tightened. A rank beast strong enough to tempt senior students was dangerous. And if its ancestral name fell into the wrong hands, it could shift the delicate balance of power.
"Let them try," Eirian said, masking his concern. "I'm not in the habit of chasing names that aren't mine."
Jack studied him for a moment but nodded. The conversation faded as Kael wrapped up the class. Students filed out, but Eirian lingered behind, his hand brushing over the shimmering glyph once more. The symbols morphed, coalescing into letters of the old tongue:
"Saen-Lorrin."
The name bound to his soul.
As he rose to leave, Idrien appeared by the door, blocking his path. "That name... It's not one you earned in this life, is it?"
Eirian met his gaze, the words slipping past his lips before he could stop them. "I don't need to earn what was already mine."
Idrien's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing more. The air between them bristled with tension, and as Eirian stepped past him, he couldn't shake the feeling that his secret had grown just a little more fragile.
Beyond the school grounds, twilight settled over the horizon, and somewhere in the shadows, a rank beast stirred, its ancestral name waiting to be claimed.
The training grounds hummed with life as Eirian approached later that evening. Distant echoes of sparring rang across the fields, punctuated by bursts of energy from those attempting to harness divine favor.
A familiar voice greeted him. "Late-night training? That's not like you."
Eirian turned to see Ardyn, one of the upperclassmen whose talents in divine manipulation had made him a rising star. Ardyn's ancestral name, Veltharion, was a whispered legend—etched from the corpse of a rank beast few dared to face.
"I just needed some air," Eirian replied. The lie rolled off his tongue with practiced ease.
Ardyn tilted his head. "You're not the only one. Some of the seniors are already preparing to face the new beast. It carries the name 'Vorrak-Ethrin.' You might want to stay away from the northern boundary."
Eirian's hand instinctively brushed over his notebook. "Thanks for the warning."
Training Scenes:
Beneath the dim light of the moon, Eirian stepped into the sparring circle. His opponents were illusions forged by arcane projection, but their attacks were no less dangerous. He shifted his stance, raising his hands as the spectral warriors advanced.
A faint pulse of light traced along his forearm, signaling the activation of his flawed abilities. His audience flaw activated quietly—he couldn't show too much power, or risk unraveling the guise of mediocrity he maintained.
The first opponent lunged, and Eirian sidestepped gracefully. His movements were fluid, shaped by countless nights of hidden practice. With a flick of his wrist, he sent a burst of energy forward, dissipating the illusion in one strike.
More followed. As the final enemy faded into mist, Eirian stood breathless but steady. His abilities were growing, but the flaw that defined him felt heavier each day.
Satisfied but restless, Eirian knelt at the center of the field, drawing ancestral symbols into the dirt with his finger. The glyphs responded faintly, whispering names long buried by time. If he couldn't train openly, he would master the secrets quietly—carving power from shadows that no god could trace.