Isaiah's feet dragged against the stone, his body barely able to hold itself upright. Each movement was slow and strained, and a defiance his weak body could scarcely afford. Eight years old, sickly, bones sharp beneath thin skin, yet still summoned to the clan's sacred amphitheatre. They knew. They all knew. His body, a fragile cage of bone and papery skin, could barely lift the pen for his lessons and yet here he was, walking a path carved by generations of warriors, the same way his father had.
The stone seats curved high around him like the hollow ribs of the giant beasts that now roamed the Earth, spreading darkness and corruption as they went. At the center of it all sat the sovereign—his grandfather—crown gleaming atop silver hair, and the scowl carved deep into his face like it had always been there whenever Isaiah saw him.
The boy didn't stop. His gaze searched the crowd, eyes flitting over silken robes and varying expressions. Aunts. Uncles. Cousins. But not a single sign of his father. Not his mother either. The two people who had sat beside his bed every day, telling him stories and reading him books were now gone for two weeks without a word or an explanation.
Still, he walked, and dragged himself through the final steps to the center of the amphitheatre.
He knew what today was. The Affinity Test.
Even after two years confined to his manor, with no word spoken of such things, he knew. He remembered how, at four, Aether had flowed through him like breath itself. Elders of the dominion had called him a prodigy then. A light of promise. But the sickness came swiftly after, hollowing him out faster than any could understand, draining every bit of him faster than hope.
Now, there was nothing left in him. Not even the faintest flicker of what once had been. The sacred energy good as gone.
But there was something left in his eyes. Because when his gold rimmed gaze snapped to the figure seated just below the sovereign, a coldness, sharper than the amphitheatre's stone, flooded Isaiah's veins. Pure hatred burned in his gaze. An aura, incongruous and so chilling briefly tightened the air. It was not the kind of look expected from a child. But the onlookers dismissed it. What threat lay in this dying boy?
The man was the source. The architect of Isaiah's ruin. But there was no evidence to condemn him, only what the eight year old boy could say about what he witnessed and that was hardly considered wise to believe.
His kin held a gallery of expressions, some pitied him, though less, but the mocking smirks of most were poorly hidden. Some didn't care for the circumstances or the result either way, for them Isaiah was merely a procedural inconvenience. Everyone, however, was certain of the result.
And in truth, so was he.
His father was different. A revered war hero. One of few in history to show affinity to more than one element. Stories were whispered in the manor of his victories, how he had felled monsters in numbers greater than entire battalions. The maids used to speak of him with pride in their voices.
Used to.
Even they had fallen silent.
A low table was placed before him. Two boxes of ancient wood bound with faded sigils. One for the True Elements – earth, air, fire, water, spirit – they were as powerful as they were rare. The other box held the promise of the lesser elements—twisted, unstable power but much more common.
Isaiah knew neither box would stir for him. He'd known since the sickness stole it four years ago, how the once abundant Aether in his body had been erased from his veins and replaced by poison.
Still, he moved forward, each step heavier than the last.
He placed a trembling hand, skin pale as moonlight, on the box of the true elements. It remained unlit and still, but it was unlikely for the majority to have an affinity to the true elements. His cousin, Malcolm had shown an affinity to those though, he had made the sacred fire dance in his palm. The maids had chattered about it last year.
Then Isaiah moved towards the lesser elements, and waited. No pulse or flicker came through, just as everyone predicted.
A collective sigh rippled through the amphitheatre, relief from some, confirmation for others, a final nail for most.
The sovereign stood and his gravelly voice shattered the silence.
"Isaiah Valkareth, son of Eren Valkareth, by decree of your blood and the law of this dominion, you shall begin martial training. In two years, you will join the front lines."
A stunned silence, heavier than before, crashed down. Even the mockers looked momentarily shocked. To fail at eight was unremarkable for common folk; affinities could bloom until fourteen. But Isaiah was the first Vitalis blood. The Valkareth dominion. Descended from the first Bringers of Light after an age of unending Darkness. It was they who had cured the rot in the blood of plagued men, giving rise to the elemental gifts now called affinities.
Every single Vitalis child in recorded history had manifested by eight.
Every one. Until him.
But even so, to send him to the front lines where survival was a coin toss, was barbaric. What use would a ten year old be to the battalions fighting day and night, losing limbs and minds to the corruption? Perhaps, that's what the sovereign wanted, make sure the one who sullied the Valkareth's reputation wasted away. It was also true, that Isaiah's father was closer to the sovereign than any of the others, But it is what it meant to belong to the warriors dominion, destroy the weak link and avoid any other damage to the dominion.
Isaiah didn't flinch, neither did he protest. He didn't look again at the perpetrator or search futilely for his absent parents. He understood the unspoken verdict: useless to the dominion, useless to the realm, but perhaps still useful as cannon fodder. A final, bitter utility.
So, the eight year old with gold rimmed eyes and his raven black hair sticking to his face did what every sane person would do when faced with such a command. He lowered his head, in a gesture of acceptance. His frail frame straightened slightly, a ghost of the dignity his lineage demanded.
"Your will is done, Sovereign," he said, his voice clear and disturbingly steady in the vast, silent space. The words were formal and empty of any warmth or resistance.