In all of Caerthas, there is no institution more feared or revered than the Imperial Conqueror's Academy. Built atop the ruins of an ancient Echo site, it's both a school and a crucible. Its sole purpose is to forge Conquerors. Not scholars. Not soldiers. Conquerors. The kind of people who dive into forgotten dungeons and ruin-choked relic halls in search of echoes, fragments of power left behind by civilizations long lost to time and grief.
Most echoes are wild, dangerous, and unclaimable. Some, though, a rare few, choose to resonate with those whose souls mirror their own scars. These relics, called true echoes, offer abilities born of memory and pain. Chains wreathed in fire, born from the rage of slavery. Shields forged from the resolve of selfless sacrifice. But true echoes are rare. So humans made their own.
Pseudo-echoes are artificed imitations of relics. Safe, stable, modest. A blade that never dulls. A circlet that steadies the mind. They offer power, but it is predictable and contained. The best of them are awarded here, at the Academy's graduation, to the top of the class.
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The amphitheater rings with polite applause as Lyra steps forward.
Sunlight filters through the stained glass above, casting a rainbow across her shoulders. It dances as she moves. She is elegant, precise, inevitable. She doesn't bow. She doesn't need to. Everyone already knows.
First in the class. First in everything.
Lyra Ashveil looks like no one else in the room.
If the other graduates are sparks, she is a slow-burning star, dark and steady and impossible to look away from. Her black hair spills down her back in loose waves, barely tamed by the strip of cloth that holds it. Her skin holds the warm bronze of desert earth after rain. And her eyes, gods, her eyes, glow a deep, simmering red, like embers beneath frost. People whisper about them, not because they are strange, but because they are unforgettable.
She wasn't born into a noble house. She didn't carry a famous name. In fact, her original name was all but lost. At ten, she was just another orphan queued for an Echo resonance scan, a minor procedure nobles used to pluck talent from the masses. But when her turn came, her resonance burned through the system, shorted the scan, and left behind a reading so strong, so impossibly clear, it brought the entire procession to a halt.
The Pendragons, using their power and influence, moved quickly. They brought her into the Ashveil family, a vassal line sworn to House Pendragon through oath and tradition. The Ashveils had always been hunting dogs to dragons, a legacy shaped by obedience and service. Their entire purpose was to uphold the Pendragon name, to fight in the shadows where dragons could not be seen.
The Pendragons expected a powerful tool, someone they could shape and control. What they got was a prodigy who outshined most of the main family by the time she turned fifteen.
Including me.
"And now," Headmaster Calden announces, his voice echoing through the high stone dome, "our second-ranked graduate, Juno Pendragon."
I stand. The applause is still respectful. Louder, perhaps, because I am supposed to be the legacy.
I have the look. Platinum-white hair that falls just past my collar. Golden brown skin that catches in the light. Pale green eyes like ice lit from within. These are the traits of the Pendragon line, stamped into me from birth. I have the blood. I have the name.
And I have come in second.
I walk forward, hands dry, spine straight. This isn't new. I have spent my whole life rehearsing how to carry the name. Dignity. Strength. Control.
The Vault stands ahead. A circular pedestal embedded with a dozen pseudo-echoes, artificed relics crafted by human hands and refined by the Academy's artificers. Each one is stable, practical, and offers modest enhancements. No wild soul-bonds. No haunted memories. Just dependable power. The Academy reserves these for its top graduates. A gift of merit. A symbol of status.
Lyra is already wearing her choice. A crystalline circlet that shimmers like living light. The Prism Crown. A high-grade pseudo-echo. Elegant and functional, awarded only to the top graduate. It amplifies mental clarity, grants mild protection against hexes and illusions, and allows brief bursts of enhanced perception. It feels almost magical, without ever truly crossing the line into legend.
Lyra isn't just a prodigy. She is a phenomenon. In the entire recorded history of the Empire of Caerthas, only one other person has been known to resonate effortlessly with both pseudo and true echoes alike. The Founding Emperor, Caelus Vire. The man who forged the empire a century ago by conquering the first true echo and bending its will to his own. That kind of talent isn't supposed to happen twice.
But Lyra had already proven she could do the impossible. Her true echo, Athena's Shield, Aegis, had bonded with her before she turned fifteen. It wasn't just any relic. It had once been wielded by the Founding Emperor, Caelus Vire, during the wars that shaped the empire. Aegis was said to be a shield of divine craftsmanship, blessed by the gods of war and wisdom. When thrown, it flew effortlessly through the air, guided with uncanny precision, curving through wind and magic alike before returning faithfully to the user's hand. It could block and redirect even the most devastating magical or physical attacks. In battle, it radiated a calming aura that sharpened the minds of nearby allies, quieting chaos and turning it into clarity. Some whispered that in moments of crisis, the spirit of Athena herself flickered across its surface, offering silent counsel to its bearer.
Growing up, I was obsessed with it. I read every account of the Emperor's campaigns I could find, studied old murals, and begged war historians for scraps of detail. I used to sneak into the Pendragon vault just to see the shield. And I tried. Gods, I tried. Every few months I'd press my palm to the metal and will it to move, to glow, to give the slightest sign that I was worthy.
It never did.
Of course it didn't. It was a true echo, and I was just a boy chasing stories.
When Lyra touched it and it responded without hesitation, something in me cracked.
The shield that once belonged to the greatest man I had ever read about.
Now it belonged to her.
And now she has claimed the Prism Crown too. Two echoes. One soul. No hesitation. No rejection. Just harmony.
I approach the pedestal.
A dagger forged from obsidian-glass glimmers beneath the stained light, its edge said to cut through enchantments and silence. Beside it rests a staff veined with living silver, pulsing in rhythm with the breath of the room. A buckler of relicsteel hums with warding magic, flickering at the edges. Twin rings hover in stasis above a silk cushion, tuned for perfect spatial reflexes and movement harmony. Each one is a marvel of artificing, sleek and gilded with the finest enchantments the Academy can craft. They are trophies as much as tools, power wrapped in prestige.
And then, there is the sword.
The Ashthorn Blade.
It doesn't glow. Doesn't hum. Doesn't try to be impressive. But it's still here, set among the best, marked as high-grade. Which means it's powerful, just quiet about it.
That's why I choose it.
I don't need spectacle. I need something solid. Something with weight. Though I haven't been able to sync with a true echo yet, I've synced with pseudo-echoes before, easily, again and again during training. Though this is a high-grade one, it shouldn't be any different.
I place my hand on the hilt.
A flicker of warmth. A pulse. Then something colder underneath. Resistance.
This can't be.
To the crowd, it looks flawless. A faint glow, steady and controlled, the kind of response expected from a clean sync with a high-grade pseudo-echo. Nothing dramatic. Nothing out of place. But I feel it. A sliver of space between us. Not rejection. Not exactly, but something almost worse… hesitation. As if the blade is still deciding.
And for a second, I unravel.
This has never happened before. Not in all the controlled sync sessions, not with any other pseudo-echo. I had expected certainty. I had expected power. Instead, I feel... uncertainty.
Of course it's this one. Of course I pick the one relic that acts like it has something to say.
Headmaster Calden nods. "Accepted. Congratulations."
I step back, hand curling tightly around the grip. The sword rests at my side, heavier now. Colder.
The applause is polite. Dutiful.
But the silence between the beats is louder.
As I make my way down the stairs, I see Lyra already at the base, standing in front of her seat with the kind of stillness that draws attention without asking for it.
She looks up and our eyes meet. For a moment, we are aligned, face to face, close enough to feel like equals, though I know better. I hold her gaze longer than I should, then glance away.
The crown on her brow catches the light, pulsing with quiet resonance. Effortless. Alive. It rests on her like it was always meant to. And something in my chest twists.
"You picked the quiet one," she says softly, amused.
I force a smirk. "Thought we would balance each other out."
She tilts her head. "Or cancel each other out."
***
Later, as the hall empties and the banners come down, I stand alone in the shadows.
I grip the blade. The connection still hums faintly. Partial. Present. Distant.
From behind, a voice. "Second place means little if you never learn what you're carrying."
I don't turn. I know it is my mother.
"Thanks for coming," I mutter.
"I didn't." And then the footsteps fade, and she is gone.