The gates of the Bastion shut behind Asher Vale with the sound of finality. The echo rolled down the obsidian corridor like the closing of a tomb.
He was in.
The air changed as he stepped past the threshold—charged, humming with arcane pressure that licked at his skin. The stones beneath his feet vibrated with faint warmth, as if the building itself pulsed with life. He glanced upward. The ceiling arched high above, veined with glowing silver lines—sigils, embedded directly into the architecture, forming protective and surveillance arrays.
This wasn't just a school. It was a fortress of knowledge and control.
"First time seeing it up close?" came a voice to his right.
Asher turned to see a tall boy with slate-grey hair and violet eyes leaning casually against a pillar. A small green sigil glowed faintly on his wrist—woven like vines around a seed.
"I can always tell the new ones. You've got that look." The boy smiled. "Like you just stepped onto a stage and forgot your lines."
Asher offered a practiced smile. "Just taking it in. Kael Vintor."
"Reis Auralen," the boy replied, offering a brief shake of the hand. "Herb-bound. Healer class. Unfortunately."
Asher raised a brow. "Unfortunately?"
Reis rolled his eyes. "Most of us hope for something flashy. Fire, Iron, Shadow. I get plant magic. My mother nearly wept." He paused, tilting his head slightly. "What about you? What's your sigil?"
Asher tapped the blue cloth wrapped around his wrist. "Still sealed. Haven't taken the test yet."
"Ah, a late Awakener. Makes sense—those are always the interesting ones. Might want to hurry. Orientation ends in the Hall of Revelation, and they don't like waiting."
Asher nodded and followed as Reis turned toward the inner courtyard.
The Bastion opened up into a vast, circular plaza flanked by towering halls. Sigilbound of all ages wandered the space—some in crisp Academy uniforms, others in battle-worn cloaks or arcane robes. Floating platforms carried scrolls, relics, and occasionally entire people across the air. Statues of ancient Sigilbound stood silent at the edges, their arms outstretched toward a sky choked with storm clouds.
And directly ahead, nestled between two ivory towers, stood a structure shaped like a broken star—jagged, angular, and alive with swirling energies.
The Hall of Revelation.
---
They arrived at a set of shimmering doors guarded by a pair of Sentinels. Without a word, the automatons parted, and Asher stepped inside.
The hall was circular and smooth, carved from polished obsidian. The walls glowed faintly with runes that changed language as he looked at them. Elvish. Old Tongue. Modern Glyph. They whispered meanings, each just out of reach.
A platform sat at the center, etched with a single phrase in golden light:
"Reveal Thy Truth, and Be Judged by Flame and Thread."
A robed figure approached him from the shadows. Elderly, with an expression as unreadable as stone, the woman had a glowing silver chain looped around her wrist—each link marked with a different sigil.
"I am Arbiter Ilyra," she said. "Place your hand on the Nexus. You will not be harmed—unless you lie."
Asher stepped onto the platform. The sigil on his left wrist pulsed beneath the cloth, as if aware of what was coming.
"What will this test do?" he asked, voice level.
"It reveals what the world has written into your soul," she replied. "The power you were meant to wield. The form it takes is... personal. But the Nexus does not lie."
He hesitated.
He had no idea what would happen.
But he had come too far to turn back now.
Asher pulled the cloth away from his wrist.
Gasps echoed through the chamber.
The sigil etched into his skin shimmered with a strange, shifting silver. It was neither geometric nor organic. It twisted in real time, an infinite spiral of lines that folded into itself, forming eyes, keys, stars, and voids.
Arbiter Ilyra stepped back, her brows furrowing. "I have never seen such a mark."
The room darkened.
The platform glowed.
And Asher's world fractured.
---
The first thing he felt was weightlessness—like falling without motion. Then pressure, like an ocean collapsing around him.
A voice spoke—not in words, but in raw sensation.
"WHAT IS A NAME IF NOT A CHAIN?"
"WHAT IS POWER IF NOT STOLEN?"
He saw glimpses—of people screaming, of stars devoured by shadow, of chains made from light and sorrow. A blade that did not cut flesh but meaning. A door that could open into memories not his own.
Then silence.
He landed—hard—on a cracked white floor.
He was in a mirrored chamber. Countless reflections of himself stared back, each wearing a different face, a different fate. In some, he was regal. In others, monstrous.
In one, he wore no eyes.
A robed figure stood before him—faceless, hands clasped.
"You are not of this world," it said. "Your sigil is not forged by the Loom of Fate. It is an intrusion."
Asher steadied his breath. "Then what am I?"
The figure paused. "You are an Eclipsed. A bearer of a sealed truth."
"I need to know what my power is."
"You must choose."
A blade appeared in his hand—its hilt carved from obsidian, its edge flickering like a mirage.
"Strike the reflection that feels most real."
Asher turned. The mirrors whispered.
"Master of Doors."
"Warden of Names."
"Thief of Concepts."
"Binder of Secrets."
He stepped forward, eyes locked on a reflection where he stood amidst a swirling void, hands open as entire truths bent to his will—erasing fire, freezing time, unraveling purpose.
It terrified him.
He raised the blade and struck.
Light exploded.
---
He gasped awake on the platform, knees hitting stone. Sweat soaked his back.
Arbiter Ilyra stood over him, visibly shaken.
"Your sigil... it resisted the Nexus. Yet it accepted judgment."
She looked toward the pulsing platform.
A new symbol burned into its surface—shifting constantly, unable to settle.
"Your power defies categorization," she said slowly. "But it has been named."
She gestured, and golden letters formed in the air.
Class: Concept-Bound
Title: Eclipsed
Core Power: Concept Overwrite
Asher's eyes widened.
"Concept Overwrite?" he repeated.
Arbiter Ilyra looked at him with something between awe and fear. "You can alter reality by rewriting its concepts. But such power should not exist. Not even the Archbinders wielded this."
She stepped back.
"You are an anomaly."
Asher stood, the sigil on his wrist glowing faintly with pride—or hunger.
"I didn't ask for this," he said quietly.
"No," Ilyra said. "But the world gave it to you anyway."
She turned to the Sentinels. "Record the result under sealed classification. Code Black. No public registry. Assign him to Watch Tier One."
Then to Asher:
"Welcome to the Bastion, Asher Vale."