The council hall felt suffocating, heavy with centuries of history and unspoken expectation. Golden light from towering braziers reflected off gilded pillars and polished marble, casting long, dancing shadows across the chamber. Yet even this light could not dispel the oppressive aura that hung in the air like a storm about to break. Every Golden Asper present bowed deeply as the old figure entered, their forms shimmering, expressions a mixture of awe, respect, and something darker—fear. Even Morvain, calm and indifferent in nearly every circumstance, lowered his head, silent and still, as if the very air demanded obedience.
Solvane's heart pounded so violently he thought it might shatter his chest. He had never seen this man—not in lessons, not in records, not in the public eye. And yet, the reaction of everyone around left no doubt: this was the last Golden Asper. A living legend, whispered of in reverent tones across Avallah.
He counted six others seated or standing—familiar faces of the council—but Elder Vox made the seventh. The first Asper in history, the architect of the Yellow Aspers' liberation, the one who had carved freedom from tyranny centuries ago. Now, aged and frail, he moved with deliberate care, each step weighted by the wisdom and burden of countless generations. His back bent, his hair a silver halo, his hands trembling slightly—but each motion carried the authority of a man who had witnessed the rise and fall of empires. Solvane's father supported him as he reached his seat, but even then, the hall seemed to shiver beneath the old man's presence, as if the building itself acknowledged his supremacy.
If Solvane had felt fear before, it was nothing compared to the icy dread now curling through his chest. Why him? he thought. I was hoping he wouldn't come. This is… bad. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword that he wasn't even holding—muscle memory gripping for courage.
Elder Vox's voice, fragile yet sharp, cut through the silence like steel. "What is this I hear about my grandson having no unique aspects?"
The words landed like hammers, echoing across the chamber. Whispers died instantly; the air itself seemed to contract around him. Each breath felt heavy, as if the room itself held its weight in reverence. Solvane could feel the gazes of every Golden Asper burning into him, measuring him, judging him, weighing the worth of his bloodline.
King Aubrean dropped to his knees with thunderous force, the sound of his kowtow resonating off the marble like a crack of doom. "It is all my fault, Elder Vox! I have failed in my teachings!"
"It is not your fault," Vox said, his frail voice carrying undeniable authority, each syllable a subtle command. "And he is not a late bloomer. He simply requires a push… a spark."
"Solvane?"
"Yes… yes, Elder Vox," Solvane stammered, throat tight, voice trembling like a fragile wind over a precipice.
Elder Vox leaned forward, letting out a dry, faint laugh that reverberated in the hall like a ghostly echo. "Call me… Grandpa."
A shiver ran down Solvane's spine. Even in frailty, the old man radiated a terrifying aura—ancient, untouchable, and absolute. Power didn't need to roar when it could whisper and still command obedience. "Do not worry," Vox continued. "Grandpa will awaken your power… and those who mocked you will taste the shame of their ignorance."
The weight of centuries pressed down on Solvane's mind. Could he endure it? Could he withstand the judgment of the living embodiment of his bloodline? Doubt gnawed at him, curling into a storm, but beneath it, a flicker of something else stirred—curiosity, thrill, the faint, dangerous pulse of anticipation.
"Xander," Elder Vox called, turning to a figure standing at the edge of the hall, shrouded in shadow, "will you do me the honor?"
The figure stepped forward. Towering. Cloaked. Hooded. Not a single feature of his face visible, yet his presence alone radiated menace. The air itself seemed to bend around him, heavy and oppressive. Each step he took was a silent declaration of danger.
Without a word, Xander crouched in front of Solvane, coiled like a spring ready to snap. The weapon he carried was invisible, yet Solvane could feel it in the air—its weight, its intent, its deadly promise.
"Don't die, kid," Xander murmured, voice calm yet deadly, resonating beneath the hood like the echo of inevitability.
Solvane's pulse raced. Every gaze in the hall pressed against him, whispers of immense power brushing against his mind, caressing and threatening all at once. His hands trembled slightly, but deep inside, a spark flared—a faint ember of something he had never felt before. It buzzed in his veins, igniting his nerves. The air around him seemed to hum with potential, danger, and inevitability, vibrating against his skin as though alive.