He hurried, his footsteps echoing slightly on the polished stone floor as he entered the small, hexagonal chamber.
The room was sparse, yet somehow intimidating. The walls were smooth, unadorned stone, broken only by sharp edged pillars, and the lighting was soft, diffused, coming from unseen sources. In the center stood a worn, circular stone table. Laid out upon it with precise, equidistant spacing, were six distinct objects. A deep green, intricately carved wooden bird with small, feather-like leaves, sat at one end. At the other sat a small, shifting glass orb that constantly rippled with kaleidoscopic colors, making it hard to focus on. A gleaming, miniature clockwork spider crafted from polished brown bronze, its delicate legs poised as if to scuttle away sat beside the bird, and by the orb sat a fist-sized chunk of rough, reddish-black obsidian that pulsed with a faint, internal heat. The last two between these were a delicate, silver-chained locket that seemed to hum with a faint, celestial resonance, its surface etched with tiny, unfamiliar constellations, and a polished cobalt-blue shield-brooch intricately etched with complex warding sigils that seemed to glow with an inner light.
A disembodied voice, calm and clear, resonated from unseen figures in the room, making him jump again. "Rhys Thorne. Welcome to your Affinity Assessment. You will interact with the objects before you. Touch, examine, or attempt to manipulate them as you see fit. There is no time limit, but know that your actions are being observed. Begin when ready." He looked around the room, his eyes searching. High on one wall, he noticed a small, almost imperceptible pane of glass, dark and reflective from his side, confirming the voice's statement about being observed. The weight of expectation settled heavily upon him.
He nervously approached the table, his hands visibly shaking, a tremor that made the simple act of walking a challenge. As he neared the circular stone and reached out, his elbow brushed against the edge, and the fist-sized chunk of reddish-black obsidian, pulsing faintly with internal heat, teetered precariously. He gasped, lunging forward with an ungraceful scramble, catching it just before it hit the floor, his muttered, clumsy apology echoing in the silent room. He quickly set it back down, his heart pounding.
Trying to compose himself, he idly ran his fingers over the delicate, silver-chained locket, feeling its faint, celestial hum, but nothing more. His attention shifted to the gleaming, miniature clockwork spider. As he reached for it, his fingers clumsy with nerves, there was a sickening crack of something snapping. He winced in panic, pulling his hand back as if burned, certain he had broken the intricate construct. He quickly placed it down again, a fresh wave of hopelessness washing over him. This was it, he thought. He was truly a mundane.
Then, he heard it. Faint, ethereal whispers, like dry leaves skittering across ancient stone, yet undeniably present. The language was alien, unknown, but he felt an undeniable pull, a cold, hungry draw that resonated deep within him. His gaze, as if by an invisible force, snapped to the deep green, intricately carved wooden bird.
It was no longer green. The wood had turned to a mottled, unsettling charcoal, as if burnt or corrupted, and its carved head was now subtly, undeniably looking at him, its sightless eyes fixed with an unnerving intensity. A powerful, forbidden curiosity, mingled with a primal sense of danger, gripped him. Warnings screamed in his head, but he couldn't help himself. His hand, as if acting on its own, reached out.
The moment his fingers brushed the charcoal-stained surface, they snagged. Not on a splinter, but as if the wood itself had come alive. A strange, woody grip clamped around his fingers, and he tugged, twisted, but his hand wouldn't budge. "H-Hey... I... I can't... I can't let go," he stammered, a frantic edge to his voice.
The wooden bird twisted further, its form distorting, no longer just a carving. It moved with a horrifying, organic fluidity, wrapping tendrils of charcoal-stained wood around his wrist, starting to crawl, with an unnerving, deliberate slowness, up his arm. The whispers grew louder, more insistent, morphing into a chaotic chorus of ancient, guttural sounds, pressing in on him from all sides. The shadows in the room seemed to deepen, to coalesce, coiling around him.
"Get off! Help!" he cried out, his voice cracking with sheer terror. He thrashed, desperate, pulling at the thing consuming his arm, but its grip was iron. This didn't seem right. Why weren't they doing anything? In a wild, unthinking panic, his other hand lashed out blindly, seeking anything, anything at all, to break free. It closed around the polished cobalt-blue shield-brooch.
The instant his fingers connected, a blinding, furious burst of pure white light exploded outwards from the brooch. It wasn't just light; it was a physical force, an expulsion of protective energy so potent it felt like a silent scream. The woody tendrils clinging to his arm shriveled back, hissing, releasing him with a sharp snap. The force of the blast sent him flying backward, tumbling uncontrollably across the room, slamming hard against the far wall.
The world spun dizzyingly, a kaleidoscope of pain and fading white light. His head throbbed, and the whispers, though still echoing in his ears, had receded, driven back by the surge of arcane energy. He was slumped against the wall, aching, disoriented, but free.
Seconds later, the heavy door to the assessment chamber slammed open with a violent thud. The stern-faced proctor, her composure utterly shattered, rushed in. Her eyes, previously so impassive, were wide and wild with a mixture of panic and utter bewilderment. She hauled him roughly to his feet, her grip surprisingly strong, her voice swimming into focus as she launched a barrage of frantic questions he had no answer to.
"What in the blazes happened here, boy?!" she demanded, her voice high-pitched and strained. "What did you do? Are you injured? Speak already!" She shook him slightly, her gaze darting from his dazed face to the still-smoking, charred remains of the wooden bird on the table, and then to the pulsating, almost vibrating cobalt-blue shield-brooch.
"I- I don't know!" he cried out in raw panic, his voice hoarse. His head still spun from the impact with the wall, a dull ache throbbing behind his eyes. The room seemed to tilt, and the proctor's frantic questions swirled around him, impossible to answer.
Just as the proctor seemed ready to shake him again, the door, still wide open from her hurried entry, creaked open further. Another figure stepped into the chamber. This was not another proctor, nor an older student. This was a presence that commanded instant, absolute silence.
An imposing woman, taller than the proctor, with a regal bearing and eyes that held the depth of ancient stars, stood framed in the doorway. Her silver-streaked dark hair was pulled back in a severe, elegant braid, and her robes were of the purest, unblemished white, trimmed with silver thread that seemed to shimmer with its own faint light. Her very presence seemed to calm the chaotic energy in the room, albeit with an unsettling stillness.
She took in the scene with a single, comprehensive glance: his wide, terrified golden eyes, the distraught proctor, the table with its disturbed objects—the ruined charcoal bird, the subtly vibrating shield-brooch, the still-quivering clockwork spider with its broken leg. Her gaze lingered for a moment on the shattered remains of the wooden bird, a faint frown touching her lips, before settling on Rhys.
"Proctor Theron," the woman's voice was low, yet carried an undeniable authority that instantly silenced the proctor's panicked questions. "Please secure this chamber and continue the assessments as planned. Send a word to me directly if any other... anomalies arise. And ensure no one speaks of this." Her eyes, however, conveyed a much more urgent, silent instruction to the proctor.
Theron, visibly shaken, nodded mutely, her eyes still darting between him and the woman. She quickly moved to the table, her hands trembling slightly as she began to discreetly gather the damaged objects, her gaze avoiding his.
The woman stepped fully into the room, her gaze never leaving him. It was a gaze that saw through him, beyond his eyes, beyond his trembling fear, to something far deeper. A profound understanding, and a chilling recognition, dawned in her ancient eyes.
A grave, almost sorrowful expression settled on her face. Without another word, she turned and walked towards the door, gesturing for him to follow. Her stride was swift and purposeful, and he instinctively knew that arguing or resisting would be futile.
He followed her out of the hexagonal chamber, leaving the bewildered proctor and the strange objects behind. She led him down a series of quieter, less-trafficked corridors, away from the bustling assessment areas and the throngs of other students. The air grew cooler, and the soft, diffused light gave way to more stately, natural illumination from high arched windows.
Finally, she stopped before a grand, obsidian door carved with intricate, glowing runes, set apart from all others. She pressed a hand against it, and the runes flared, the heavy door swinging silently inward to reveal a vast, circular office. Bookshelves lined the walls to the soaring ceiling, overflowing with ancient tomes and arcane artifacts. A massive, polished darkwood desk dominated the center, covered in scrolls and more mysterious objects. Light streamed in from a panoramic window that offered a breathtaking view of the entire Spire grounds and the capital city beyond.
She walked to the center of the room, turning to face him. "Rhys Thorne," she said, her voice quiet now, but weighted with immense significance. Her eyes, ancient and knowing, were fixed on him, probing for the truth of what had occurred. "I am Eliza Vane, headmistress of the Sovreign Spire.” Her hand motioned to a seat, stepping behind the desk. “Sit. Tell me, in your own words, what just transpired in that assessment chamber."
His heart leapt in his troat. The headmistress. Oh he had really screwed up now. Was he so mundane that the magic had tried to kill him? Was he going to be sent home? His vision blurred as he sank into the offered seat, throat tight.
Headmistress Vane remained silent, her expression unreadable, as he recounted the terrifying experience in a shaky, strained tone.
"I-... I don't know," he stammered, his voice still weak. "I really don't. I just... I was doing the assessment, and nothing was clicking. I tried to interact with the objects, but... I broke the spider," he added, a fresh wave of despair washing over him. "And nothing else happened."
He paused, trying to gather his scattered thoughts, the memory of the bird's transformation chilling him to the bone. "And then... the bird thing, it looked at me, and it was... talking. Or... actually it wasn't talking, but there was a bunch of... whispering. I couldn't really tell you what they were saying." His voice dropped to a nervous whisper, as if the very memory of the sounds could summon them back. "And then it just... latched onto me. I couldn't get it off. It was... moving." he shuddered, remembering the sensation of the wood coiling around his arm. "It felt... wrong."
Headmistress Vane listened patiently, her eyes never leaving him, absorbing every word. Her expression remained solemn, but a profound understanding deepened in their depths. She took a slow, deliberate step towards him, her gaze intense. "Whispering, you say," she repeated, her voice a low murmur that seemed to fill the vast office. "And it latched onto you. And then?"
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He blinked for a moment, recalling the frantic, desperate lunge for anything that could help. "I... I tried to grab something to hit it with... I think it was the brooch thing..." he trailed off, gesturing vaguely with his still-trembling hand. "But it just... kinda exploded. Or something. I don't know, it pushed me back."
The vast, elegant office suddenly felt like a cage. His thoughts raced, spiraling into a vortex of panic.
He was so lost in his internal torment that he didn't see Headmistress Vane move. One moment she was several paces away, the next she was suddenly in front of him, a blur of white robes. Before he could react, a small, firm hand gripped his chin, tilting his head up, and the next thing he knew, something was being gently but insistently pressed into his mouth.
It was a small, soft, surprisingly sweet-smelling cookie, with a subtle hint of lavender and honey. He nearly choked on it in surprise, the unexpected taste and texture momentarily silencing the torrent of panicked thoughts in his head. As he instinctively bit down and swallowed, a wave of profound calm washed over him. The dizzying spin in his head subsided, the frantic beat of his heart slowed, and the lingering memory of whispers in his mind faded, replaced by a soothing quiet. His shoulders, which had been hunched with tension, noticeably relaxed.
Headmistress Vane released his chin, her expression still grave but now laced with a hint of compassion. Her eyes, however, remained sharp, observing the profound effect of the calming confection.
"That will help settle your nerves, Rhys Thorne," she stated, her voice softer, almost motherly now that his panic had subsided. She moved to her large darkwood desk, picking up a quill and a fresh scroll of parchment. "We have much to discuss. And know this, young man: you are not a mundane. Far from it." Her gaze held a complex mix of concern, fascination, and perhaps, a touch of apprehension.
He blinked owlishly, the calming magic of the cookie slowly permeating his system as he swallowed with difficulty, the sweet taste lingering.
"How did you-" he began, his voice still a little hoarse, but much steadier. He stopped himself, the unspoken question hanging in the air. How had she known he was worrying about being a mundane? His mind, now clearer, raced with new, unsettling possibilities. Had she read his mind somehow? The thought sent a fresh, though muted, shiver down his spine.
Headmistress Vane settled into her own chair behind the massive darkwood desk, her gaze still fixed on him. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched the corners of her lips, as if amused by his unspoken thought.
"I did not need to delve into your mind, Rhys Thorne," she said, her voice calm and measured. "Your fear was palpable, a tremor in your magical aura. It is a common worry among those on the cusp of discovery, especially after an assessment experience such as yours." She paused, her eyes glinting with a shrewd intelligence. "But your concern is misplaced. You possess a unique aptitude, one that far exceeds the ordinary."
She leaned forward slightly, her expression growing more serious. "The wooden bird you encountered is a conduit, a carefully crafted artifact designed to sense a strong affinity with the Lyceum of Kindred Souls – a deep connection to life, nature, and the forging of reciprocal bonds. The fact that it animated, and moreover, attempted to bind to you, signifies an immense, untamed power within you, a resonance unlike anything we've seen in that artifact for centuries. You have a profound, raw affinity for Kindred Souls."
She then tapped the quill lightly against the scroll. "And the shield-brooch, a Bastion of Wards artifact, designed to react to defensive instincts and inherent protective magic. Its explosive reaction, pushing away the encroaching corruption, confirms a strong secondary affinity for the Bastion of Wards. A natural guardian, it seems." For a moment he felt a flood of relief. He wasn't a mundane. Two affinities…
Her gaze hardened slightly as she continued. "However, the way the Kindred Souls artifact reacted was... profoundly unnatural. It was not merely responding to your affinity; it was corrupted by something else, something that allowed it to twist and bind, to whisper in a language not of this world. That charcoal staining, the ravenous pull you described... that is not the way of the Kindred Souls, Rhys." His heart plummeted.
Her voice dropped, becoming hushed but intensely serious, echoing the earlier pronouncements about the void and its dangers. "This indicates a third affinity, Rhys, one that is exceedingly rare, utterly forbidden, and profoundly dangerous. It is a connection to a magic that should never be wielded, a knowledge that is hidden for the safety of all. You must understand, this connection to the Void—"
She cut herself off, correcting herself with a sharp intake of breath. "No, we do not speak its name carelessly. Let us simply say, this shadowed affinity is one he must learn to suppress, to lock away, to never, under any circumstance, attempt to use. It is a path to ruin. Understood?"
The void... A shiver ran down his spine, deeper and more profound than the chill in the air. Why did that sound familiar? The word echoed with a vague, unsettling resonance, a phantom memory just beyond his grasp. He tried to focus, to pull it into conscious thought, but his mind, still reeling, unable to quite seize it.
"Wait—what are you talking about?" he interrupted, his brow furrowed in confusion, his voice still a little shaky. "Vo-” he flinched at her sharp look, correcting himself. “Shadowed affinity? I thought there were just the six..." he trailed off, gesturing vaguely towards the panoramic window, as if the colleges themselves could offer an explanation. The idea of a seventh, unspoken affinity, especially one described with such dread, was completely alien to everything he’d learned or imagined.
Headmistress Vane's expression softened slightly, a flicker of something akin to pity in her eyes, before hardening with resolve. She leaned back in her chair, her gaze sweeping over the vast, book-lined walls of her office, as if drawing on the wisdom of centuries.
"You are correct, Rhys. Officially, there are only six colleges, six recognized paths of magic taught and sanctioned by the Sovereign Spire," she explained, her voice low and steady. "But the tapestry of magic is far vaster, and far older, than even our most ancient texts fully comprehend. And some threads, some colors in that tapestry, are best left unseen, untouched, and utterly forbidden."
She paused, her gaze settling back on him, unwavering. "The affinity I speak of is not a path one chooses to walk, nor is it openly acknowledged. It is a... resonance. A raw, fundamental connection to the very fabric of that… place, the primal nothingness that existed before creation, and still presses against the edges of our reality. It is the magic born of forgotten pacts, of reckless dabbling, of a hunger that consumes."
Her voice became gravely serious. "There are no colleges for such magic, Rhys, for it leads only to destruction. It is an instinctual draw, a raw conduit to power that corrupts everything it touches. The Kindred Souls artifact, an object imbued with life-affirming magic, was warped by this resonance within you, turning it to charcoal, making it seek to absorb rather than to bond. That is the nature of this shadowed affinity. It is why we keep such knowledge hidden, why it is never spoken of openly among students."
She folded her hands on the desk, her expression a mix of concern and profound gravity. "For your own safety, and for the safety of the Spire, this connection must remain a secret. You must learn to suppress it, to lock it away. Do you understand what I am telling you, Rhys? This is not a gift to be cultivated; it is a burden to be controlled, lest it consume you and everyone around you."
"Pacts... do you mean like the Malakor?" he questioned, the word 'pacts' triggering a flicker of memory, a connection to the information he’d absorbed about the rare races in his reading. He thought of Hamlin Godric, his scaled tail and predatory smile. The Malakor as a race, as far as he understood, were born from ancient pacts with entities that, while malicious and often monstrous, were still of this plane, or at least a plane closely connected to it – devil-spawn creatures or fae-like beings, with their own twisted bargains and deals.
But even as he voiced the question, a more primal, unsettling intuition stirred within him. The whispers, the cold hunger he had felt... that wasn't like a negotiation. The void, as the Headmistress had called it, didn't make pacts or deals. The void, he instinctively felt, only took what it wanted.
Headmistress Vane's gaze remained steady, recognizing the distinction he was grasping for, even if he hadn't fully articulated it.
"A keen observation, Rhys," she acknowledged, a faint nod of approval. "Yes, the Malakor lineage is indeed a testament to ancient pacts, bargains struck with powerful, often malevolent, entities – those from the darker fae courts, or the infernal realms, for example. Those beings, however dangerous, still operate within a framework of exchange, of promises and prices, however twisted."
She paused, her expression becoming more somber, her voice deepening with a note of gravitas. "That place is... different. It has no needs that can be bartered with, no desires that can be appeased through conventional pacts. It is pure hunger, a force of dissolution and entropy. When a connection is forged with it, it is not a pact in the traditional sense, but rather an opening, a vulnerability. A conduit through which its influence can seep into our reality. It doesn't offer power in exchange for loyalty; it offers a taste of its consuming nature, pulling you into its endless maw."
Her eyes, ancient and wise, bore into his. "The whispers you heard, the corruption of the artifact... that was not the language of devils or fey. It was the insidious song of that place, seeking to take, to bind, to claim." Her words carried the weight of terrible, forgotten histories. "The Malakor bear the marks of their ancestors' deals. You, Rhys Thorne, bear something far more primal, a dangerous echo of something that hungers for existence itself."
Rhys slumped further into the plush chair, the horror of her words settling over him like a suffocating shroud. The calm the cookie had brought was quickly eroding, replaced by a cold, leaden despair. An affinity for something so awful, so inherently destructive... he wasn't sure if this was worse than being a mundane or not. At least as a mundane, he wouldn't be a walking threat, a conduit for something that "only took what it wanted."
His golden eyes, wide and filled with a terror he could no longer hide, met the Headmistress's. "What... what do I do?" he whispered, the question barely audible, laced with a raw vulnerability that betrayed his usual reserve. The weight of this terrible secret, this terrifying connection, suddenly felt unbearable.
Headmistress Vane observed his despair with a solemn expression. She leaned forward, resting her forearms on the desk, her gaze unwavering.
"What you do, Rhys Thorne, is survive," she stated, her voice firm, cutting through his rising panic. "And you learn to control that which you did not ask for. The Spire exists not only to nurture talent, but to safeguard the world from its dangers – both external, and internal."
She picked up the quill again, her gaze distant for a moment, as if contemplating the gravity of what she was about to propose. His heart skipped in realization. She had every right to send him away, or worse. Yet, instead, she was securing his place here, giving him a chance. The weight of the sudden responsibility to not let her down settled heavily over him.
"Your primary affinity for the Lyceum of Kindred Souls is indeed profoundly strong, a connection to life itself. And your secondary for the Bastion of Wards is equally potent, a natural counterpoint to the darkness within. This combination is... crucial. It suggests you have the innate capacity for balance, for life, and for protection against the very thing that seeks to corrupt you."
Her eyes returned to him, intensely focused. "For now, your official enrollment will be in these two foci. While dual paths are certainly not unheard of for ambitious students later in their studies, starting with two such distinct and powerful affinities directly after assessment is... quite remarkable, especially given the circumstances surrounding his Kindred Souls awakening." For a brief moment, a ghost of a smile touched her lips, and he shifted in his seat with a sudden embarrassment.
"However," she continued, her voice dropping to a near whisper, "the true nature of your... shadowed affinity, and the circumstances of its awakening, will remain an absolute secret. Not even the highest-ranking professors outside of myself and one trusted senior staff member will know. Your curriculum in both colleges will be specifically tailored. Within the Bastion of Wards, you will receive an accelerated program focusing on mental fortitude, abjuration, and self-control. There will be specialized meditations, warding techniques, and ancient practices designed to build an impenetrable bulwark within your own being. This will not be easy, Rhys. It will demand absolute discipline and unwavering resolve."
She pushed a small, blank scroll and a quill across the desk towards him, which he took in a shaky hand, staring down at it. "You will also keep a journal, detailing any... sensations, any whispers, any unusual occurrences you experience. This journal will be for my eyes alone. Understand that this is not a punishment, but a path to safeguarding yourself, and by extension, all those around you. We will help you, Rhys, but you must be an active participant in your own salvation."
She leaned back, her white robes rustling softly. "Do you accept these terms, Rhys Thorne?"
He nodded, the weight of the knowledge settling heavily upon his shoulders, leaving him feeling utterly exhausted. "Yes ma'am," he murmured softly, the words barely audible, his voice thick with resignation. The implications of this secret, this burden, were immense, overshadowing his brief relief he might have felt at being accepted into the Spire.
Headmistress Vane observed his weary acceptance for a moment, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. Then, as if a switch had been flipped, her demeanor changed with remarkable speed. Her solemn expression melted away, replaced by a warm, almost radiant smile that seemed to brighten the entire office.
She clapped her hands together, a crisp, cheerful sound that echoed surprisingly in the vast space, making him jump in shock. "Excellent! A wise choice, Rhys Thorne! Welcome, truly, to the Sovereign Spire!" Her voice was now bright and encouraging, banishing the shadows of the Void as deftly as she had conjured them moments before, and the sudden cheer left him dizzy.
She rose from her desk, her white robes flowing gracefully, and swept around to take his arm, a gentle but firm grip guiding him out of the plush chair and onto unsteady legs. "Now, no more moping! You've had quite an eventful assessment, but the important thing is you're in! And with two excellent affinities, no less! You'll be a credit to both Kindred Souls and the Bastion of Wards, I'm sure!"
She steered him towards the obsidian door, her voice a rapid, efficient stream of instruction. "Proctor Theron will meet you just outside. She has been instructed to guide you through the initial registration. Your official college robes will be issued tomorrow morning before orientation, but we'll get you sorted with your student ID and dorm assignment now. You can join the others who are currently gathering in the main hall to choose their dormitories and settle in."
With a final, encouraging pat on his arm, she opened the door, revealing Proctor Theron waiting patiently in the quiet corridor. Her face was still a shade paler than previously, but she quickly composed himself at Headmistress Vane's beaming smile.
"Proctor Theron, our newest student, Rhys Thorne, is ready for registration!" she announced, her voice resonating with an almost theatrical cheerfulness. "He's chosen the Lyceum of Kindred Souls as his primary, with a secondary in the Bastion of Wards. Quite the talent!"
Proctor Theron stared tensely before offering a nod in his direction, and Rhys swallowed thickly. Headmistress Vane gave him one last, knowing look, a subtle shift in her golden eyes that only he could perceive, before stepping back and closing the obsidian door with a soft click.
He was left standing in the corridor with Proctor Theron, who, after a moment, cleared her throat. "Right then, Thorne," she said, her voice a little tense, still clearly affected by the earlier incident but determined to be professional. "Follow me. We'll get you sorted with your student ID, dorm assignment, and then direct you to the main hall where the other prospective students are gathering."
She turned and began to walk down the corridor, leaving him to ponder the startlingly swift shift in the Headmistress's demeanor, and the strange, unsettling duality of his new life at the Spire. He walked behind Proctor Theron in a daze, the grand corridors of the Spire a blur of polished stone and shimmering arcane lights.
