There was no trumpet to mark his triumph.
No beam of light from the heavens. No roaring applause.
Only the dull ring of metal, the scent of blood, and the stuttering of his own ragged breath in the air.
Siege knelt beside the ruins of what had once been a reactive sparring dummy.
Now it looked more freeform sculpture—body cracked, face sunken, one side broken open to the world.
At the center of it all, planted deep in stone like an accusation, was the blade.
Gram.
Black and dark blue, its body glinted like the ocean at midnight. Silver accents ran along the edges, wave-like patterns etched into the length of the blade.
It pulsed faintly—like a heartbeat, or something deeper. Something ancient.
And Siege… trembled.
Around him stood the witnesses: Leo, shirtless as usual and grinning like a lunatic despite a fractured shoulde.
Seraphina, perched on a beam above like a green-haired owl, notebook in hand.
Albion, expression unreadable, quietly resetting his broken nose.
And Cassiel, arms crossed, watching with that ever-distant, but encouraging stillness.
"...Huh," Leo finally said, rolling his good shoulder.
"You did it. Big scary sword. Took you long enough, man. Thought I was gonna die of boredom."
Siege didn't answer. He stared at the sword like it was a corpse that had started talking.
Albion stepped forward, his voice low and cold.
"That wasn't luck, was it?"
"No," Siege croaked. "It was... something else."
He didn't want to say it aloud.
He didn't want to admit that it had come from the brink—again.
That he'd only managed to draw Gram after his back hit the wall for the hundredth time, his Aspect screaming inside his bones, his trauma bleeding into strength.
It had started during training. Another day of Thrakkor's delightful torment.
---
Earlier that morning, they'd been thrown into what the instructor fondly called the Chamber of Unyielding Flesh—a pit filled with dozens of enchanted constructs that felt pain, learned patterns, and hit like siege engines.
The goal? Survive. No timer. No rules.
Siege had fought until his arms were jelly. Until his body was bruised purple and black.
He had nothing left but instinct—and instinct failed him.
He had been cornered, overwhelmed, pinned by a construct with a hammer for an arm the size of a tree trunk.
And in that moment, he felt it again.
The burning.
Not fire. Not warmth.
The brand of the Aspect [Dragon Slayer] awakening from its fitful slumber.
The taste of scales. The echo of a scream in the abyss. The memory of Fafnir's laughter, coiled like a serpent around his spine.
He had erupted in a roar, and black horns burst from his head.
In a blur, he had torn the construct apart. Not fought.
And there it was, where none had been—Gram in his hands, fully summoned.
Dragged from the soul like an old sin finally confessed.
---
"Are you... okay?" Seraphina's voice was a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might shatter him.
Siege blinked. "No. But thanks for asking."
Albion, nose crusted with dried blood, muttered, "Your Aspect finally listened. Took it long enough."
Albion's gaze hadn't left the sword. "How much of it did you control?"
Siege hesitated.
"...About fifty percent."
Cassiel snorted. "Generous estimate."
He didn't deny it.
It hadn't felt like control.
It felt like opening a door and hoping you wouldn't be swallowed.
Leo gave him a hearty slap on the back, sending a jolt through Siege's spine.
"You're thinking too much. Big sword's out, that's a win. Next time, do it without the screaming. I thought a wyvern landed on the roof."
Siege exhaled shakily.
"You're lucky I don't shove it up your butt…"
Leo just grinned.
"Or were you expecting tea and cookies when unlocking death-blades?"
Seraphina dropped beside them.
"There's a theory," she offered gently, "that Titanic Aspects like yours have consciousness. Not fully sentient—but willful. They resist you if you aren't in alignment."
"Alignment?" Siege asked.
Albion answered for her.
"You're trying to draw power without embracing the truth of it. Your Aspect is [Dragon Slayer], and yet you tremble every time you remember that dragon."
Fafnir.
The name alone made Siege flinch. The cave. The fangs. The eyes.
He turned away.
"I'm not ready."
Leo leaned in with a grin. "Then get ready, brother. Midterms are coming."
---
The news hit like a falling tower. Academic midterms and Ranking Tournaments—tests of intelligence, Aspect mastery, and social influence, graded brutally and publicly.
Supposedly, to garner support from the masses.
Each class competed among themselves—Leviathan, Chimera, Gorgon.
Albion, of course, had already secured top in both academics and projected combat.
Leo was ranked fifth overall for Leviathan's strength division—Cassiel was third. Seraphina ranked second in tactical theory.
Siege? Academically, twentieth in a class of twenty-one. Only above Leo.
Leo clapped his hands that evening, eyes gleaming with battle-hunger. "We gotta train you up, buddy. We'll cram so much muscle memory into you, your ancestors will feel it!"
"Are you offering to tutor me or kill me?"
"Same thing!" Leo laughed.
Cassiel muttered, "He'll need a miracle."
Albion, for once, spoke without venom.
"No. He needs acceptance. Of who he is. Of what he carries."
Siege looked down at Gram, still humming quietly in the stone.
He didn't know if the sword was his salvation or his sentence.
But he knew one thing.
It was his.