The wind howling over Edge Island always carried the taste of salt and rust. But today, Zain could swear it carried something else.
It tasted of fear.
Zain stood near the precipice, his knuckles turning white as he clenched the iron railing. His eyes were fixed on the massive stone gates of the Sky Temple, a structure of white marble that loomed over the shantytown like a judging god.
Today was the Day of Awakening.
Inside those gates, destiny was written in ink and magic. Outside, there was only the struggle to survive.
Zain glanced over the railing at the endless sea of grey clouds churning miles below. The Abyss. It was a graveyard that waited for anyone who fell—or anyone who failed.
"Nervous, rat?"
Zain didn't turn around. He knew the voice. It belonged to Kael, a bulky boy from the mining district who had made Zain's childhood miserable. Kael was already sweating, wiping his forehead with a dirty rag.
"I'm not nervous," Zain lied, his voice steady despite the pounding in his chest. "I'm just ready."
"You better be," Kael sneered, stepping up beside him to look at the line of hundreds of eighteen-year-olds winding toward the temple. "You know the rumors. The quotas are low this year. If you don't get a Combat-Type Seal... well, the Dust Mines are always looking for fresh meat. They say miners last about three years before their lungs turn to stone."
Zain's hand instinctively went to his chest, touching the worn silver locket hanging beneath his shirt. The metal was cold against his skin.
He didn't care about glory. He didn't care about becoming a hero or exploring the Sky Sea.
He thought of Yamen, his younger brother, lying in their shack, his breath rattling like dry leaves in his chest. The Blue-Rot was eating him alive. The medicine cost five hundred sky-coins a vial. A miner made ten coins a month.
A Sky Hunter, however, could make a thousand in a single expedition.
It has to be a combat seal, Zain told himself, tightening his grip on the locket. Falcon, Wolf, even a wild boar. Anything that lets me hunt. Anything less, and Yamen dies.
"Next group!" The Temple Guard's voice boomed, magically amplified to cut through the roaring wind.
The heavy gates groaned open. The crowd shuffled forward, a mix of excitement and terror radiating from them.
Inside, the Great Hall was suffocatingly silent. The ceiling was high enough to fit a small cloudship, and the walls were lined with statues of the Ancient Heroes—men and women who had conquered the skies centuries ago.
In the center of the room stood the Awakening Stone. It was a jagged crystal the size of a boulder, hovering a few inches off the floor, humming with a soft, rhythmic light.
"Step forward," the High Priest commanded. He looked bored. He had seen thousands of kids touch the stone, and most of them ended up as farmers or laborers.
A girl from the inner district went first. She wore fine silk, a stark contrast to Zain's patched linen tunic. She placed her trembling hand on the crystal.
Hummmm.
A brilliant green light erupted from the stone. Above the girl's head, the spectral image of a large, blooming flower appeared.
"A Flora Seal!" The Priest announced, his voice slightly more interested. "B-Rank Support Type. Excellent. The Agricultural Guild will pay handsomely for you."
The girl wept with relief as she was ushered to the right—the side of the winners.
Kael went next. He smirked at Zain before slamming his beefy hand onto the stone.
Boom.
A heavy, orange light. The image of a rock-skinned Ox materialized.
"Stone-Ox Seal. C-Rank Defense Type," the Priest nodded. "The Vanguard Corps will take you."
Kael pumped his fist, shooting a mocking glance at Zain as he walked to the right. "Good luck in the mines, Rat!"
"Next!"
It was Zain's turn.
The walk to the center of the room felt like miles. Every footstep echoed on the polished marble floor. He could feel the eyes of the nobles on the balcony, judging his ragged clothes and his messy black hair.
Just give me something, Zain prayed silently. I don't need an A-Rank. I just need a weapon.
He stood before the hovering crystal. Up close, the hum was louder, vibrating in his teeth.
"Name?" The Priest asked, not looking up from his scroll.
"Zain."
"Place your hand on the stone, Zain. And pray the Sky Mother favors you."
Zain took a deep breath. He held the image of his brother's smiling face in his mind—the way Yamen used to look before the sickness took his color.
For Yamen.
Zain thrust his hand forward and pressed his palm flat against the cold surface of the crystal.
He waited for the light. He waited for the warmth.
But there was no light.
Instead, a sudden, biting cold shot up his arm, freezing the marrow in his bones. It wasn't the cold of winter; it was the cold of the grave.
The hum of the crystal stopped abruptly.
Silence descended on the hall. Absolute, terrifying silence.
Then, the torches lining the walls flickered and died. The magical lamps overhead shattered. The entire Great Hall was plunged into twilight shadows.
"What is happening?" someone whispered in the crowd.
The Priest stumbled back, dropping his scroll. His bored expression had vanished, replaced by a mask of pure horror. He pointed a trembling finger at the Awakening Stone.
"The... the light..."
Zain looked down at his hand.
The crystal wasn't glowing green or orange. It had turned pitch black. Ink-like tendrils were crawling out of the stone, slithering up Zain's wrist like living snakes. They dug into his skin, burning like acid.
He tried to pull his hand away, but he was stuck. The stone was holding him.
Thump-thump.
A heartbeat. But it wasn't his.
The black markings twisted around his forearm, forming a pattern that made the Priest's face drain of all color. It wasn't an animal. It wasn't a plant. It was a chaotic, spiraling vortex that seemed to drink the remaining light in the room.
"Get back!" The Priest screamed, scrambling away. "Guards! Kill him! It's a Void Brand!"
The guards drew their swords, the metal ringing in the silence.
Zain's eyes went wide. Kill me?
Pain exploded in his head. It felt like a rusty nail being driven into his skull. He fell to his knees, screaming, but no sound came out. The shadows in the room seemed to rush toward him, wrapping around him like a cocoon.
And then, for the first time, he heard the Voice.
It didn't come from the room. It didn't come from the Priest. It echoed directly inside his mind, sounding like grinding stones and ancient, broken chains.
"Finally..."
The voice was old. Older than the temple. Older than the sky itself.
"A vessel that does not shatter."