The highlands whispered.
Mist rolled like torn silk across the jagged teeth of the Fading Peaks, and the road wound upward into clouds that never seemed to part. At the summit, carved into the bones of the mountain itself, stood Shadewatch Fortress — the ancestral seat of House Savoy.
To Kian, it looked less like a home and more like a judgment waiting to be passed.
The fortress breathed history: blackstone walls streaked with veins of glowing red ore, sigils pulsing faintly like embers beneath skin. The banners of the Savoy crest — a silver hawk wreathed in crimson flame — snapped in the cold wind, declaring dominance to the heavens themselves.
Kian sat in silence inside the carriage, fists resting on his knees. He was twelve, thin but wiry, still wearing the loose martial garb from his training at the small Eres Estate — the branch home he and his parents had built from little more than pride and stubborn will.
Across from him sat his father, Calix Savoy — broad-shouldered, with weathered hands that bore the scars of both battlefield and burden.
"Still time to turn back, boy," Calix muttered, eyes fixed on the fog. "The trials aren't made for the likes of us."
Kian met his father's gaze. "That's why I have to take them."
Calix's jaw twitched — a mix of pride and fear hiding behind that simple look.
He sighed. "You sound like I did before life broke my teeth."
The carriage hit stone. The wheels slowed, and the fortress gates yawned open.
Two sentries in red-plated armor bowed shallowly as the Savoy banner was revealed. But their eyes flicked toward the plain carriage — just a breath too long. Enough to remind Kian exactly where he stood in the pecking order.
---
They stepped into the courtyard.
Nobles' carriages gleamed like small suns — gilded, crested, surrounded by attendants. Kian's simple arrival felt like a smudge on the painting.
And standing beneath the central archway, waiting like predators in a menagerie, were the heirs of Savoy.
---
⚔️ The Seven Heirs of Savoy
The first he noticed was Lucien Savoy — seventeen, tall, coat sharp as his stare.
Jet-black hair swept back like ink under moonlight, eyes cold steel edged with red fire. His aura faint but oppressive shimmered crimson with silver veins, pressing subtly on the air.
He didn't speak; he measured.
Beside him stood Selina Savoy, sixteen, her auburn hair tied high, ruby eyes glinting with the kind of confidence that had never once been questioned.
Her cape fluttered like a spark threatening to become flame.
"The branch boy?" she asked softly, lips curving. "He's smaller than I expected."
Ronan Savoy, eighteen, laughed the kind that came from the gut. His sleeveless gi exposed arms carved by relentless training, aura flickering like a furnace.
"Hah! Don't mock him yet, Selina. Sometimes the smallest flame burns longest."
Cira Savoy, pale as mist, watched silently. Silver-white hair framed her calm, unreadable face. Her cyan aura shimmered in thin ribbons that trailed along her fingers, like strings attached to unseen puppets.
Varen Savoy, only fourteen, clicked his tongue. Violet energy crackled faintly around him, restless as thunder.
"Another cousin crawling out of the dirt. Perfect. Just what we needed."
And standing slightly apart from them all — the oldest — Aren Savoy, nineteen, cloak of bronze and green, face carved in patience and strength. His presence alone quieted the others.
"Enough," Aren said, tone steady as stone. "He came here the same as you — to prove himself. The trials don't favor blood, only endurance."
Selina smirked. "That's cute, cousin. Let's see if the mountain agrees."
---
The great doors creaked open.
Inside the Hall of Flames, the temperature rose. Walls lined with molten veins pulsed with slow heartbeats, and high above hung the ancient Savoy crest — carved in obsidian and crowned with a hawk's flaming wings.
At the far end stood the Patriarch Lord Alden Savoy.
He was an image of controlled destruction: tall, sharp, wrapped in robes of maroon and gold, his silver eyes reflecting both wisdom and warning. The air bent faintly around him, his aura too vast to hide.
When he spoke, even the torches seemed to listen.
"So, the seven heirs have gathered."
"Fire and blood run through all of you some diluted, some pure. But remember this" he raised one hand, flame dancing across his knuckles, "lineage is a weapon only if you wield it."
His gaze turned to Kian.
"Calix's son. The merchant's blood."
"Tell me, boy, why you've come. You already live comfortably away from our wars."
Kian's heart thudded, but he stood tall. "Because comfort breeds rust, my lord. And I don't intend to fade like unsharpened steel."
A murmur rippled through the hall. Even Ronan's grin faltered.
Lord Alden's eyes narrowed not in anger, but interest. "Hmph. Spoken like a Savoy, at least."
He turned, sweeping his cloak behind him.
> "Tomorrow, the Trials of Flame and Oath begin. Strength, will, and soul. Fail, and you will return to your branch in shame. Succeed, and the crest may yet burn for you."
The torches flared, as if echoing his decree.
---
That night, Kian stood on the outer balcony of the fortress, the wind cold against his face. Below him, the mountains glowed faintly red from veins of magma deep beneath the rock.
His father approached quietly, setting a hand on his shoulder. "You've set a fire you can't put out now, boy."
Kian smiled faintly. "Then I'll learn to burn brighter."
He looked toward the stars dim through the mist, but stubborn in their light.
"They may have more aura. More training. More pride."
"But none of them have something to prove like I do."
The wind carried his words into the dark, whispering back in embers.
Tomorrow, the trials would begin.