The Church of Ascension rose like a polished fang on the edge of Arcton's inner wall—gleaming, silent, and far too clean to belong to this city.
Its towering spires shimmered in the pale morning sun, sharp enough to pierce the sky. Across its flawless stone façade, Magic Script crawled like a living current—faint, golden lines pulsing in steady rhythm, as if the entire cathedral had a heartbeat.
The wagons groaned to a stop just beyond its open gates.
Donte stepped down with the rest of the orphans, boots landing softly on the cobbled path. Dozens of other teens had already gathered—sixteen-year-olds from across Arcton, dressed in whatever passed for their best. Some had family beside them. Mothers whispering encouragement. Fathers gripping shoulders too tightly. Siblings clinging to sleeves. All of it blurred in Donte's mind, distant and colorless.
It felt like watching a life that didn't belong to him.
He scanned the crowd—no nobles.
That, at least, made sense.
These weren't the elite. These were factory workers' children, merchants' wards, alley survivors like him. The true highborn held their Awakenings elsewhere—cleaner halls, quieter sanctuaries, far from the prayers of the desperate.
A priest in white and gold stepped forward, voice clear and practiced.
"Candidates only. Families, remain in the square. The Ceremony will begin shortly."
Vespera appeared at Donte's side as they were ushered toward the stairs.
"You holding together?" she asked under her breath.
Donte gave a small nod. "More or less."
She smirked. "Try not to trip. It'd be a hell of a first impression."
He gave a soft grunt of amusement. No more needed to be said.
They parted without goodbyes.
The interior of the Church was overwhelming.
Massive arches loomed overhead like ancient ribs, each column carved with old symbols and unfamiliar deities. Stained glass windows cast fractured light across the stone floor—images abstract and complex, as if the gods themselves had tried to leave behind a message in pictures no one alive could understand.
Everything radiated warmth, but not comfort. It was the kind of heat that came from power, not welcome.
Magic Script was everywhere—glowing softly beneath their feet, etched along walls, spiraling up columns. Not like the runes from Donte's fragmented memories. These glyphs were rigid, geometric. A mechanical language pretending to be divine.
They shifted subtly as the candidates walked by.
Flickered.
Brightened.
Donte felt them brush against him—acknowledging him.
None of the others reacted. Either they couldn't sense it, or they were too afraid to notice.
But Donte noticed.
And the Script noticed him.
At the far end of the cathedral, a circular platform waited.
It rose slightly from the ground, ringed with layered circles of script like clockwork gears set into stone. A single raised dais stood in the center, beneath a cone of soft golden light. Five priests stood around it, their robes threaded with gold and white, their faces unreadable.
One of them stepped forward. A woman. Older, with silver hair bound behind her shoulders.
"Step forward," she called, her voice echoing through the vast chamber. "Stand within the circle. Let the gods witness you."
The candidates obeyed, some eagerly, others hesitating.
Donte stepped into formation near the edge, close enough to see Vespera across the circle. She met his gaze briefly—steady, strong—then looked forward again.
Beneath his boots, the platform hummed. A sound too deep to hear. A vibration he felt in his teeth.
The priest raised her arms.
"Today, you stand at the threshold," she said. "Your potential will take shape. Your class will bind to your spirit. This is not just choice—it is burden. The path ahead is yours, but it will shape who you become."
She lowered her arms slowly.
"The Awakening begins. Be still. Let the current take you."
The Magic Script flared.
Lines of gold shot outward across the circle, then upward, crawling along their legs like living threads. Donte's breath caught as the symbols reached his skin—hot, not burning, but full of pressure.
Then the floor dropped out from under him.
Not literally.
It felt like falling—only there was no wind, no motion. Just displacement. A wrenching sensation, like being unhooked from gravity. From flesh. From self.
He fell into himself.
Through memories that weren't his. Through dreams half-forgotten. Through pressure.
It wasn't a void. It was a forge.
Something pressed in from every angle, like plates sliding into place. Circuits sparked in the air around him. He heard gears turning, distant and slow, and something pulsing with violet light.
His breath—if he still had one—hitched.
Light bloomed in his mind's eye. Purple, edged in white.
It moved through him, curling around unseen bones, running across phantom skin. Symbols danced behind his vision—shapes he didn't know, yet recognized. Runes. Not Magic Script. Older. Wilder. Deeper.
They didn't instruct the world.
They rewrote it.
His form reassembled itself in pieces—each joint clicking into place, each breath forged anew. Something ancient had been awakened in him. Not gifted by gods. Just… uncovered.
A truth that had always been waiting.
And then, just as suddenly as it began—
Stillness.
Donte stood in a place that defied explanation.
Dark metal underfoot, like polished steel rippling with soft waves of motion. The air shimmered, thin and heavy, filled with quiet power. Above him, threads of purple and white stretched across the ceilingless space, pulsing gently like the breath of a sleeping giant.
He didn't feel like he was in a dream.
He felt like he was standing inside a machine older than the world.
Ahead, three glowing domains stood at the edge of the platform—massive, distant, yet visible.
Each one radiated something different.
One crackled with electricity—alive with sparks and fire.
Another loomed dark and silent, heavy as stone and shadow.
The third pulsed gently, quiet but intricate. It wasn't loud. It didn't demand. But it called to him.
Not louder.
Truer.
He stepped forward.
And then—
A voice.
Flat. Hollow. Unmistakably mechanical.
"Class selection protocol initiated."
"Unaligned source detected… assessing."
"Classification pending."
Donte froze.
The voice was emotionless. Not divine. Not priestly. It sounded like something from inside a machine—cold, distant, and impossibly old.
He didn't recognize it.
And yet, it felt like it had been waiting for him.
Waiting a long, long time.