The faint gray light of dawn crept through the narrow cracks in the stone walls, painting thin lines across the straw mat where Vihan Riven lay. Sleep had come late and left early, leaving behind a restlessness that settled deep in his bones. He sat up slowly, the thin blanket slipping from his shoulders, and pressed a hand to his chest. The strange pressure from the night before was still there—not pain, not quite, but a vast, hollow awareness that made every breath feel slightly heavier than it should. He shook his head, telling himself it was nothing more than the lingering weight of yesterday's exhaustion and hunger. The lantern had guttered out hours ago, and the small room felt colder than usual, the air thick with the damp chill that never fully left the lower levels of Kharos Spire.
Vihan stood, his joints protesting after another night on the hard mat. He moved to the wooden box in the corner and unwrapped the cloth from the fingernail-sized card fragment. It lay dull in his palm, the faint shimmer from yesterday gone as if it had never been. He turned it over once, the rough edges familiar against his callused fingers, then wrapped it again and tucked it into the inner pocket of his coat. Seven years of carrying that piece had taught him its weight was more than physical. It was the last tangible reminder that his father had once believed in something better than the slums.
There was no food left. The last of the millet from two days ago was gone, and the three copper coins in the box would have to wait for the next mine shift. Vihan pulled on his patched coat, tied the frayed leather cord around his hair, and stepped out into the alley. The slums were already stirring. Smoke rose from illegal forges where artisans worked on low-grade cards for the black market, the metallic tang of Aetherite mixing with the smell of boiling root stew from communal pots. Children with dirty faces darted between adults, some clutching cheap practice cards that flickered weakly in their small hands. A woman two doors down argued loudly with a vendor over the price of spirit herbs, her voice sharp with the desperation of someone whose veins were failing.
Vihan kept his head down as he walked the familiar path toward the upper slums. Garrick and his crew were nowhere in sight yet—too early for their usual loitering—but others noticed him. An old woman sweeping her doorstep paused, her eyes softening for a moment before she looked away. She had known his mother once. Further on, a group of young miners heading to the same Vein-17 shift nodded in passing, their picks slung over shoulders reinforced with crude earth bindings.
"Heading to the plaza today, Riven?" one of them called, a stocky man named Torv with a scar across his cheek from a cave-in last year. "Heard the results are up. You actually sat the written?"
Vihan gave a short nod. "Yesterday."
Torv fell into step beside him for a few paces. "Good on you for trying. Most of us wouldn't even bother with Blank veins. My cousin tried once—got laughed out before the first question. You make it far?"
"Far enough to write the answers," Vihan said quietly. He didn't elaborate. There was no point in sharing the ninety-four percent or the way Lady Seraphine had watched him with those amethyst eyes.
Torv clapped him on the shoulder, the gesture heavy with pity. "Well, if they let you in on theory alone, that'd be a first. Keep your head low either way. Vesper delegation's still hanging around. Don't give them reason to remember the name." He peeled off toward the mine entrance with a final wave. "Luck, Riven. You'll need it more than most."
The streets widened as Vihan climbed the gradual slope that separated the deepest slums from the mid-level districts. The air grew slightly cleaner, the buildings less crumbling, though the shadow of the seven great spires still loomed overhead like watchful giants. Merchants were setting up stalls along the main road—fresh spirit buns steaming in baskets, vials of low-grade mana recovery pills glowing faintly, even a few second-hand card cases displayed on worn velvet. Hopefuls from every corner of Kharos Spire streamed toward the Arcane Crown Academy outer plaza, their excitement palpable in the way they walked faster, voices louder, deck cases clutched proudly.
Vihan joined the flow, his worn boots blending with the crowd. No one paid him much attention at first; he looked like any other slum dweller making the long trek to see if dreams had survived the night. But as the plaza came into view—the massive marble square ringed by stone pillars carved with the symbols of the Seven Houses—he felt eyes begin to linger. Whispers followed like trailing smoke.
"Is that the Blank one?"
"Riven kid. Yeah, the forger's son."
"Wasted his time, poor bastard."
The plaza was already packed, even though the sun had barely cleared the eastern spires. The great results board dominated the eastern wall, its law runes shimmering as names shifted and settled into final order. Golden entries glowed for the accepted, silver for those who passed theory but failed elsewhere, gray for the outright rejected. Crowds pressed close, families cheering or consoling, young masters posing for admirers while their retainers held back the press of bodies. Vihan worked his way to the edge of the throng, slipping between gaps with the quiet skill born of years avoiding trouble. His heart beat steady but heavy. He knew what he would find, yet he needed to see it with his own eyes.
It took nearly an hour of patient pushing and waiting before he reached a spot where the lower sections of the board were visible. The runes rearranged themselves smoothly, names sliding into place like cards in a perfect deck. Vihan scanned upward from the bottom, past the long gray lists of slum-born failures, until his eyes locked on the R section.
Riven, Vihan – Kharos Slums Written Theory: Pass (94%) Physical Compatibility: Denied – Blank Affinity Overall Status: Rejected
The silver script was crisp, unyielding. A small footnote in even smaller runes explained the denial: "Blank veins pose unacceptable risk to academy resources and fellow students. Application closed per foundational decree of the Grand Weaver." No gold. No special notation. Just rejection, as final as the Shatter command that had ended his father's life seven years ago.
Vihan stood motionless, reading the lines again and again. Ninety-four percent. He had recalled every obscure detail—the exact year the Great Houses formalized the sealing of the eighth Concept, the precise mana backlash formula for unsynergized high-cost summons, the subtle differences in how House Mirage illusions warped political alliances compared to House Valorian's brute force. All of it poured onto the parchment while his stomach growled and his hand cramped. It had meant nothing. The academy's rules, etched into the plaza stones themselves, cared only about what flowed through a person's veins. Blank Affinity was not a hurdle to overcome with knowledge or effort. It was a sentence.
Around him, the crowd reacted in waves. A family nearby erupted in joy as their daughter's name turned gold. Further along, a merchant son cursed loudly when his silver entry remained silver. Then the murmurs reached Vihan's section.
"Blank Trash actually passed theory? Ninety-four? That's higher than half the nobles."
"Doesn't matter. Rules are rules. Can't have an empty vessel wasting training fields."
A taller figure pushed through the press—a young man in crimson Valorian robes, hawk emblem gleaming on his chest, flanked by two retainers with mid-tier decks openly displayed. Vihan recognized him from yesterday: one of the minor Vesper cousins, perhaps seventeen, face smooth with the confidence of someone born with strong veins and stronger connections. His name on the board glowed gold, of course.
The cousin stopped a few paces away, eyes narrowing as he spotted Vihan. "Well, if it isn't the slum writer. Heard you scored high on paper. Impressive for someone who can't even light a spark." He flicked his wrist casually, and a small flame sprite card activated in his palm, hovering with a warm glow that drew admiring glances from nearby girls. The heat brushed Vihan's face again, singeing the air between them. "Tell me, Riven—did you really think the Houses would bend the Grand Weaver's own laws just because you can memorize history? Or were you hoping for pity because of what happened to your traitor father?"
The retainers chuckled. One of them, a burly youth with a crude earth golem card on his belt, added, "Blank veins are a mercy, really. Saves everyone the trouble of watching you fail spectacularly in the dueling halls. Go back to mining shards. That's all your kind is good for."
Vihan kept his gaze fixed on the board, hands loose at his sides. The pressure in his chest stirred again, deeper this time, like ink threatening to bleed through unseen parchment. He breathed through it, slow and even, refusing to let it show. Answering would only escalate. He had seen what happened to those who talked back to House scions in public—fines, beatings, sometimes worse if the guards decided the Blank deserved no protection.
The cousin leaned closer, voice dropping to a mocking whisper loud enough for the surrounding crowd to hear. "Your father thought he could challenge us too. Look where that got him—soul shattered in front of everyone. At least he had a deck. You've got nothing. Nothing at all." The flame sprite darted forward, brushing the edge of Vihan's sleeve. Fabric singed, a small black mark appearing. The cousin laughed. "Oops. Guess even fire knows an empty target when it sees one."
A few onlookers joined the laughter, though some shifted uncomfortably. An older merchant woman muttered something about decency, but no one stepped forward. Vihan felt the familiar heavy weight settle deeper—the same weight that had pressed on him since age twelve. He turned away without a word, slipping back into the crowd before the situation could worsen. Behind him, the cousin's voice carried on, boasting about his own perfect score and the parties planned for the accepted.
The walk back down toward the slums felt longer, each step echoing the rejection on the board. The mid-level streets were busier now, full of celebration and disappointment in equal measure. Vihan passed a small group of accepted students being congratulated by families, their new academy tokens pinned proudly to robes. One girl from House Mirage—silver hair catching the light—stood among them, laughing with friends. For a moment Vihan thought it might be Lady Seraphine, but the features were softer, younger. Still, the sight twisted something inside him. She would enter those halls, learn from the best instructors, duel on pristine training fields while he returned to Vein-17 and its collapsing tunnels.
By the time he reached the deeper alleys, the sun was higher, warming the damp stone. Garrick's crew had claimed their usual spot outside the Broken Fang, bottles already passing. Garrick spotted him immediately.
"Back so soon, Blank Trash? Board spit you out already?" He raised a bottle in mock toast. "Come on, tell us—did they make a special exception for the son of the great forger? Or did they laugh you straight to the mines?"
The others howled with laughter. A half-eaten spirit bun sailed past Vihan's head, crumbs scattering across the ground. He kept walking, jaw tight, the singed mark on his sleeve a small but constant reminder. One of the gang members, a wiry youth with a cheap lightning card, stepped into his path briefly.
"Oi, at least show us your rejection slip. We can use it to light our next forge."
Vihan sidestepped without breaking pace. The pressure in his chest flared briefly, the ancient emptiness brushing against his thoughts like dry parchment turning in an unseen wind. He pushed it down, focusing on the rhythm of his boots on the uneven stone. Anger solved nothing here. Survival meant endurance, not confrontation.
His room was unchanged when he pushed open the warped door—cold, dim, empty. He sat on the mat, back against the wall, and stared at the cracks in the ceiling that formed the same shattered patterns as always. The eleven silver still sat wrapped in his pocket, useless now for this cycle. Six months until the next trials. Another half-year of triple shifts, saving every copper, avoiding the gangs, studying theory by stolen light. And for what? Another silver rejection? Another public reminder that the world had no place for someone born empty?
The pressure returned, stronger, coiling around the hollow place where his Aether should have flowed. This time it brought faint sensations—colors bleeding at the edges of his vision, whispers in languages that felt older than the spires themselves. The card fragment in his pocket grew warm against his chest, though he knew it was impossible. Vihan closed his eyes, breathing slowly, counting heartbeats until the feeling receded to a faint echo. He told himself again it was exhaustion, hunger, the sting of public humiliation. Nothing more.
Yet deep down, in the quiet place where he guarded the memory of his father's final proud look across the arena sand, something had shifted. The emptiness no longer felt like simple absence. It felt like a page, long sealed, that had begun to sense the approach of a quill.
Outside, the slums continued their endless rhythm—shouts from forges, the clink of shards being counted, distant roars from wild card beasts testing the lower barriers. Rumors spread through the alleys about the academy results, about which Houses had claimed the strongest new talents, about whispers that the Aether Veins were thinning faster this year and that the Great Reshuffle spoken of in old legends might not be so legendary after all.
Vihan lay back on the mat, one hand resting over the hidden fragment. Sleep would come eventually, restless as always. Tomorrow the mines waited. The day after that, the next shift. But the weight in his chest remained, patient and ancient, waiting for the moment the page would finally turn.
In the upper districts, far above the smoke and the shadows, Lady Seraphine Mirage sat in her private study within the silver spire of House Mirage. A single sheet of parchment lay before her on the polished desk—the full transcription of Vihan Riven's written exam, smuggled from the proctors by a discreet retainer. She traced the precise, elegant handwriting with one slender finger, her amethyst eyes narrowed in thought.
"Ninety-four percent," she murmured to the empty room, a small, intrigued smile curving her lips. "And not a single error in the forbidden sections. How very… unexpected for a Blank."
She leaned back, silver hair catching the light from a floating illusion lantern. Below, in the slums, Vihan turned in his uneasy rest. The pressure stirred once more, subtle as the first drop of ink touching untouched parchment.
The verdict had been delivered in silver.
But something far older had begun to read between the lines.