They were led into a large, silk-lined tent at the center of the square. Inside, a man sat behind a mahogany desk, lazily looking over a stack of parchments. He looked up as they entered, and Athel felt a surge of immediate dislike.
The man didn't look at the documents. He looked at Octavia with a slow, hungry gaze that made Athel's skin crawl.
"Well, well," the man said, leaning back. "Lady Octavia. You seem to grow more beautiful with every passing year. How has the North been treating you?"
Octavia's face remained a mask of polite concern. "It has been fine, Sir... I apologize, I seem to have forgotten your name."
The man stood up, a smirk playing on his lips. "Fret not, I am always happy to introduce myself to a woman of your caliber. I am Sir Frederick, of the House of Rodwell. It is a name you would do well to remember."
He stepped around the desk, ignoring Athel entirely, and reached for Octavia's hand. He took it and pressed a lingering, oily kiss to the back of her knuckles.
Athel felt a hear rising in his chest. He stepped forward, clearing his throat with a loud sound that cut through Frederick's antics.
"Excuse me, Sir Frederick," Athel said, his voice deeper than he expected. "But I believe I am the one here for the checkup. Not my mother."
For years, Athel had been ignored during these visits, the soldiers always far too preoccupied with flirting with Octavia to notice the boy standing in her shadow. But he was sixteen now. He was tired of being a bystander in his own life, and he certainly wasn't going to let a man from the House of Rodwell look at his mother that way.
Frederick slowly turned his gaze towards Athel, his smirk fading into an expression of cold annoyance. He slowly walks toward Athel, not breaking eye contact, stepping so close that Athel could smell the wine on his breath. He projected a suffocating aura of authority, the weight of a man who could have someone executed on a whim.
"You..." Frederick's whispered, his voice dangerously low. "Did I give you permission to speak, boy?"
The air in the tent seemed to thicken, making it hard for Aethel to breathe. Octavia's composure broke, she reached out, her fingers trembling as she grasped Frederick's armored sleeve.
"Sir... please," she begged, her emeral eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "He is just a boy. Please, don't hurt my child."
Frederick looked down at her hand, then back at Athel's defiant face. He exhaled a long, slow breath. "Since Lady Octavia asks so sweetly... we shall proceed with the evaluation. I would hate to spoil such a lovely afternoon with blood."
Behind the mask of his smile, however, Frederick's thoughts were dark. He looked at Athel with pure spite, hoping the boy would prove to be a "dud", someone with no magic and no talent. If Athel was worthless, Frederick could arrange from him to be sent to the most dangerous outposts on the border. With the boy gone, Octavia would have no choice but to turn to a protector.
Two soldiers standing by the entrance moved with precision, guiding Athel toward a secondary desk at the back of the tent.
Resting on a brass tripod was an orb of translucent crystal, hummed with a faint, internal light. Behind the orn sat a figure shrouded in a heavy, hooded robe. The Royal Crest was embroidered in thick gold thread across the chest.
"Have you ever experienced any magic related incident?" the figure asked. The voice was a bit unrecognizable, making it impossible to tell if the speaker was a man or a woman.
"Not that I know of," Athel replied with confused tone.
"Very well." The hooded figure stood and reached out a gloved hand. "Put one hand on mine, and the other on the orb."
Athel hesitated, but the figure reached out with surprising speed, seizing his wrist and guiding his other hand to the cold surface of the crystal. "Stay calm. Do not let go."
For a heartbeat, there was nothing but the cool touch of the glass. Then, the world exploded into white.
A surge or agonizing heat tore through Athel's arm, beginning at the point where the hooded figure touched him and racing toward his heart. It wasn't like a burn, it felt as if his very blood were being turned into liquid lightning. His legs buckled, his knees hitting the rug with a thud, but the soldiers on either side caught his shoulders, holding him upright.
Athel let our a strangled, visceral scream. The pain was so immense he couldn't see, couldn't think.
Is this what the others went through? he thought through the haze of agony. How can anyone survive this?
"H-How much longer?!" He gasped, his teeth gritted so hard he thought they might shatter.
In the background, he heard his mother's voice, a sob of pure heartbreak. "My baby! Please, stop!"
The hooded figure remained unmoved, their voice cold as usual. "Now... focus. Take that pain. Do not fight it. Move it. Channel it into the orb."
Athel felt a primal instinct take over. He didn't know how to "channel," but he knew he wanted the heat out of his veins. He pushed. He threw every ounce of his will against the agonizing heat, forcing it down his arm and into the crystal.
The orb didn't just glow. It roared.
A blinding, sapphire-blue light erupted, so bright it burned through the silk walls of the tent and cast a long, distorted shadows across the town square outside.
Athel felt a final, violent jolt, as if something deep inside him had finally snapped open. And then, the world went black.