Stencil took a slow sip of tea, savoring the earthy bitterness that curled across his tongue before sliding down his throat. The taste lingered, a subtle reminder that he was still among the living. Heat blossomed in his chest, chasing away the stubborn chill left by the mountain morning.

  He exhaled, eyes tracking the faint swirl of steam as it drifted upward and vanished into the crisp air. At his side, Gilberto sat silent, folded into the easy silence of a companion who required no words. There was solace in that hush — time felt suspended, responsibilities a distant clamor far below the serene heights.

  They sat on a simple wooden bench near a pond reflecting the sky in lazy blues. Ripples skated across the surface, stirred by gentle breezes, warping the trembling image of clouds into shifting mosaics. Beyond the far edge of the pond, emerald grass faded into the thick embrace of a forest whose ancient shadows hinted at secrets older than the great peaks overhead.

  Those mountains loomed like pale guardians, their snowy crowns poised against a horizon so vast it felt eternal. There, the academy and all its burdens felt muffled, as though relegated to some distant dream. Stencil took another sip and let out a contented sigh.

  Gilberto finally broke the silence, his voice warm and unhurried. “Are you ready?”

  Stencil watched the wind skitter across the water, scattering reflections. “Does it matter?” he replied after a pause. “Ready or not, we both know the day won’t wait.”

  Gilberto let out a soft breath of amusement. “True. But I ask anyway.”

  With a gentle clink, Stencil lowered his cup onto the bench. “It’s not the Awakening itself I’m worried about,” he admitted. “It’s what comes after.”

  Gilberto turned slightly, his expression grave. “The Eruption?”

  Stencil nodded. “We both know it’s different this time.”

  Gilberto’s gaze settled on the pond as he swirled his tea. “The Wisest did say this year’s challenge would be… ‘special.’” He offered a half-smile. “Whatever that means.”

  A humorless chuckle escaped Stencil’s lips. “‘Special’ is a word for feasts and festivals, not for what’s about to come.” He stretched his fingers along the arms of the bench, tension rippling across his knuckles. “And the instructions left behind?”

  Gilberto sighed. “Vague as always.”

  “Hmph. Convenient,” Stencil muttered, though both men knew better than to dismiss the Wisest’s words. Still, the uncertainty sat like a small weight in Stencil’s gut. He stared out at the pond again, tracking the interplay of light and shadow as a breeze rattled the pond’s surface.

  Gilberto shifted in place, setting his tea aside. “And then there’s The Fool,” he said, quiet, as if speaking the name might invite trouble.

  Stencil tensed. Memories tugged at him — half-truths, illusions, riddles that led nowhere. “That bastard,” he muttered under his breath.

  Gilberto’s eyes glinted, and the faintest curve touched his lips. “He’d take that as a compliment.”

  Rolling his shoulders, Stencil tried to release the tightness gripping him. “Talking to him is like trying to hold sand. The harder you clutch, the faster it slips away. After an hour in his presence, you start wondering if you’re the fool for playing his game.”

  “Maybe both are true,” Gilberto offered gently.

  Stencil’s glare shifted to his companion, though Gilberto merely resumed sipping his now-lukewarm tea.

  “I’m sure he’s already making moves,” Stencil muttered.

  “Yes,” Gilberto said, placing his empty cup on the bench. “Moves we don’t like, but also can’t wholly counter.”

  Stencil flexed his right hand, as if imagining a sword hilt within his grasp. “We should have tried.”

  “Too late now,” Gilberto said with a note of resignation.

  A hush fell between them. They’d circled around this topic countless times, each conversation spiraling into frustration. The Fool seemed to wield influence that defied conventional logic, tiptoeing along the edge of fate as though fate itself were a game board. Dwelling on him only roused a sense of powerlessness. Stencil turned his attention to a different threat.

  “The West,” he said softly.

  Gilberto inclined his head, face grim. “King Corrupted Beast.”

  Stencil’s stare darkened. “It’s growing restless. Reports keep arriving — cities burning, fields decimated. Families broken. Even the bravest soldiers can barely hold its rampages in check.”

  Gilberto’s voice lowered. “If it ventures further south—”

  Stencil let out a resigned sigh. “We know where that road leads.”

  Gilberto rubbed at his temple. “The war. The chaos.”

  With a slow nod, Stencil rose from the bench. “We don’t have enough strength, not yet.”

  Gilberto observed his companion with a steady gaze. “We will. If they survive.”

  Stencil turned a critical eye at Gilberto. “You’re too hopeful.”

  “And you’re too pragmatic,” Gilberto countered with a wry smile.

  “Realistic,” Stencil corrected.

  A gentle chuckle escaped Gilberto’s mouth. “You dismiss them too soon. Some are promising.”

  That single word — “promising” — hung in the air. Stencil sighed. “Potential isn’t enough if they crumble under the Eruption.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. We’ll see,” Gilberto replied quietly, unwilling to argue further.

  In the hush that followed, Stencil felt the day pressing in on him again: the Awakening, the academy, the uncertain future that would shape them all. The tea in his cup had gone cold, so he set it aside. Gilberto stood, smoothing an invisible crease on his robe.

  “Are you ready?” Gilberto repeated.

  Stencil breathed in the scent of pine and damp earth. Far across the valley, the mountains loomed with silent strength — reminders that everything else in life could fall away, but those peaks would remain. “We need to go,” he said finally, letting the rest — the fear, the hesitation — drift away on the breeze.

  Gilberto allowed himself a faint smile. “That wasn’t an answer.”

  Stencil cast one last glance at the calm surface of the pond, then turned from the peaceful scene. “It’s the only answer that matters.”

  Gilberto reached into a hidden pocket of his robe and withdrew a tarnished iron key. He cradled it in his palm, a subtle tremor running along his fingers. With measured precision, he pressed the key between his thumb and forefinger, and a faint glow flickered at his touch, as if responding to an unspoken command.

  A gentle hum rippled through the air. The lines of reality trembled around the key, as if an invisible seam had been pulled taut. Rays of pale light emerged, spiraling outward from Gilberto’s hand. The grass flattened in expanding circles beneath that radiance, as though bowing to some immeasurable force. The pond’s surface trembled, and the reflection of the sky fractured into prismatic shapes. Soon, wisps of luminosity converged in front of them, sketching the outline of a doorway.

  Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

  With a soft hiss, the portal blinked into full form, an oval gateway that shimmered at the edges. Its interior churned like liquid glass, refracting onto the surrounding meadow and dyeing the ordinary green in swirls of pearly gray. A breeze spilled out from the portal, stirring Stencil’s collar and scattering fallen leaves around their ankles.

  Gilberto nodded to Stencil, and without further words, they stepped into the threshold. The moment they crossed, a hot, tingling sensation brushed across their faces, and the smell of burned ozone assaulted their noses. The glow intensified. For a single disorienting heartbeat, the entire world compressed into that swirling gateway. Then the meadow, the pond, and the mountains all vanished.

  They materialized atop one of the highest floors of the academy’s grand arena. The sudden shift was jarring — one moment, the meadow’s fragrance; the next, a heady wave of incense, sweat, and polished stone. A wide balcony stretched beneath them, its carved balustrade overlooking the massive circular pit below. Tall pillars encircled the arena like silent sentinels, etched with runes that seemed to peer at their surroundings with ancient vigilance.

  A figure was already waiting. She stood just off to the right, a short woman wearing formal robes that draped awkwardly over her small frame. Though the fabric threatened to swallow her entirely, the intensity in her eyes rooted Stencil’s attention. The quiet shape of her jaw, locked in stern resolve, made him avert his gaze — not out of fear, but out of respect. Her voice cut through the hushed corridor like flint struck against steel.

  “It’s about time to start,” she said.

  Stencil gave a single curt nod. That was all she needed before turning her attention to the empty pit below. The throbbing pulse of the academy’s heart lay there: rows of young initiates, restless with mingled excitement and dread, waited for the formal call to proceed.

  From behind him came his assistant’s voice, soft but insistent. The words carried the usual note of reproach: something about tardiness, something about irresponsibility. Stencil half-listened, letting the noise wash over him. He brushed the concerns aside with a dismissive lift of his hand.

  His motion was slow, deliberate. In that moment, the sound of the entire chamber seemed to mute — a hush so deep that those gathered felt the hairs on their arms lift. It was as if the very air obeyed him, drawing every whisper, every shuffle of feet, into a vacuum of quiet.

  Time stretched painfully thin under this enforced silence. Many realized, with a chill, that they could hear the drumbeat of their own hearts echoing in the hush. Then, with sudden finality, Stencil opened the fist he’d held clenched at his side. Energy erupted from his palm in a rolling wave — visible only as a slight distortion in the air, like heat shimmering above desert sands.

  Specks of dust floating around them suddenly sparked to life, shining like minuscule stars. Then they scurried across the ground as if guided by a hidden intelligence, aligning themselves with precise intervals throughout the vast arena floor.

  Stencil’s other hand lifted high, fingers stretching in a fanlike splay. Then, with a brisk snap, he clenched them again. The stone beneath his feet shuddered. Low vibrations rolled out in every direction, causing the tall pillars to resonate with an ominous hum. Before the startled crowd could muster coherent thought, the floor beneath Stencil, Gilberto, and the short woman measuredly rose, heaving them upward on a growing slab of rock. Soon, they stood atop a makeshift altar overlooking rows upon rows of students, instructors, and curious onlookers.

  A sly grin curled on Stencil’s lips. He could feel every gaze pinned on him, and for a moment, a familiar surge of pride flared in his chest. Folding his arms behind his back, he made his voice boom across the amphitheater. “Welcome, brave hearts and bright minds, to the North’s Academy. Tonight, we witness your journey — either forging future heroes…” He paused, letting tension coil in the silent expanse, “…Or shedding tears over those whose best wasn’t quite enough.”

  His expression quirked in a playful half-smile. “As your Headmaster, Stencil by name and stencil by nature, I declare this Awakening open!”

  A ripple of excitement wove through the assembled students. Whispers buzzed like hives of startled bees. Certain phrases — calls to heroism, challenges to rise above the mundane — struck like tinder in their hopes. Eager eyes peered up at him, hungry for purpose. Some desired fame for their families, some believed this was the only path out of their small, forgotten towns. Others simply yearned for an identity, for a destiny that might validate their struggles.

  Stencil let the clamor swell, counting heartbeats until it reached a crescendo, then hushed it with a single sharp inhale. That slight sound commanded more attention than a shout would have. “Listen up,” he said, scanning the crowd as though memorizing each face. “I know, for some of you, this is the first time you’ve glimpsed the true scale of what lies outside our academy walls. It can feel like a whirlwind. If we had the luxury, we’d give you weeks, months, even years to digest it all. But time isn’t on our side.”

  He gestured at the markers strewn across the stone floor — those shimmering outlines the dust motes had formed under his command. “See those fancy rectangles etched into the ground? I want you each to pick one and sit in the lotus pose.”

  Movement rippled through the crowd as novices scrambled to obey. Some looked bewildered by the pattern’s precise spacing, while others simply followed out of anxious compliance. From his perch on the rising platform, Stencil squinted at the faces taking their places. He felt an elbow nudge from Gilberto, who silently pointed out an especially eager group of youths. Their eyes brimmed with anticipation. Stencil cracked a soft smile, remembering the electric thrill he’d once felt at their age.

  “Now,” he said, withdrawing a small ember-colored pebble from his pocket. Its surface pulsed with an inner fire, like a cinder stoked by invisible bellows. “Each of you will receive an ars stone, much like this one. Think of it as a spark that will etch this day into your memory forever. You might be wondering why you have no clue what this stone does… or why ‘Awakening’ sounds so momentous. Well, that mystery is part of the design.”

  A line of attendants — older students wearing layered robes — moved among the novices, carefully distributing identical ember stones. Stencil watched the reaction in each young face: some alight with curiosity, others struggling to contain raw dread. His mind drifted, just for an instant, to the path that had led him here. He was nearing forty. His life, split into segments of ten-year roads: a carefree boy, then a book-obsessed youth, then a teacher, and now a Headmaster, shouldering the weight of every Awakening that came twice a year.

  He recalled the echo of the old Headmaster’s warning, years ago:

  'Mark my words, Stencil, it ain’t gonna be a walk in the park. You’ll see their grins, the fire in their eyes, and for just a moment you might forget this wretched place we’re stuck in — maybe feel a flicker of joy. But remember one thing, lad: in the jail, joy is just despair wearing a pretty mask. It’s a poor excuse for real happiness. We can’t grasp what true happiness is in here.'

  Stencil swallowed that memory and surveyed the gathering again. For five years, he had abided by those words, guiding each Awakening with minimal flourish. He found a certain purity of speech worked best — no fancy riddles, no empty encouragement. “All right,” he began, raising three fingers for emphasis. “Three things you need to know.”

  He folded the first finger. “Number one: not everyone who can wake will wake. Harsh, but true. Your stone will test you in a few minutes. If it melts, you have a shot at Awakening. If it crumbles into dust, it wasn’t in the cards, and you’ll be labeled a dreamer.”

  A slight tremor passed among the seated novices. Some knuckles turned white around their stones.

  Stencil offered the slightest nod of sympathy. “For those of you who end up as dreamers, remember that Awakening is no gentle path. It can kill you in a blink. And you still have value here, even if you don’t awaken. We’ve got roles for dreamers in the academy — some of them carry more responsibility and respect than you’d think.”

  He folded the second finger. “Number two: it’s impossible to predict when — or even if — what will happen. Some might awaken tonight; others might die. It’s not something you want to hear, but it’s the truth. A dice roll of heritage and luck. Trust me, luck plays a bigger part than we’d like to admit.”

  He paused, scanning the anxious faces. “I can’t spill every secret to you. Each journey is different. We could talk for days and you’d still find yourself blindfolded once it starts. Which brings us to the final point.”

  The last finger curled, and his voice dropped, grave. “Ars. It’s the root, the wild heartbeat that moves our world. Everyone tries to study it, shape it, confine it to theories, but it remains elusive. Like trying to grab a passing shadow. For dreamers, references to Ars won’t resonate, not with how your mind is wired. You could read every treatise we have and still remain baffled.”

  Taking a breath, he continued. “But here’s what you can hold onto. Everything we do — moving, speaking, forging relationships — comes steeped in intention. We carry our experiences like invisible scars, shaping how we see the world. So be mindful. This is your last, best warning before the true test begins.”

  A subdued chuckle escaped him then, as though he couldn’t keep the weight of his own words from clawing at his throat. The novices bore that hush with surprising composure; only a few heads drifted side to side, uncertain. Stencil scanned the sea of faces, counting how many he might see ascend to new power… and how many would vanish, either into humdrum roles as dreamers or succumb to the dangers of the Awakening.

  He let the moment stretch, then nodded to replicate the sense of finality. “All right,” he said. “Everyone, hold your ars stone firmly. Breathe in, calm yourselves, close your eyes.” He waited as hundreds of eyes slid shut. “Take that sharp little edge” — he angled the ember stone in his own hand— “and press it against your wrist. Don’t draw too much blood. Just a prick.”

  Gasps flickered across the arena. Sharp intakes of breath punctuated the stillness as each novice obeyed. A few flinched outright, dropping their stones, but scrambled to pick them up again under the watchful gaze of the seniors. A dull throb of pain sprouted from each small cut, a jolt that dug past muscle and bone, straight into the mind’s deeper recesses—like unearthing a hidden part of the self left slumbering too long.

  For some, a blossoming warmth spread at once, coaxing an unexpected rush of euphoria. Their eyes remained shut, but tears slipped from tightly pressed lids, an unspoken prayer that soared on newly unfurled wings. Others felt only emptiness: a hollow swirl that left them chilled, as if a door had been slammed on their potential before they ever had the chance to behold what lay beyond.

  Onlookers — faculty, older students, curious guests — tightened in tension. They, too, had witnessed numerous Awakenings, seen the heartbreak and triumph. Whispers drifted among them, though no one dared speak loud enough to interrupt the Headmaster’s domain.

  Stencil raised his arms. Energy glimmered around his open palms, faint arcs dancing like ghostly serpents. “Awake!” he roared.