Year 2124. The Servant Quarters.
The servants' common hall was quiet, too quiet. Alia, now fifteen, was wiping down the synth-marble counter, her long, striking white hair pulled back tightly, only a few crimson strands escaping around her face. She was composed, slender, and bore an unsettling, knowing stillness.
"Galen, are you sure we can afford this much synthesized sugar?" she asked, not looking up.
Galen Thorne, hunched near a maintenance grate, jumped. "Afford what? Nothing. I'm just inspecting the flux regulator."
"No, you're not," Alia countered, her red eyes finally lifting to meet his. "You're acting suspicious. Which means Cook Mara is probably involved, and if Cook Mara is involved, someone is hiding a whole vat of stolen fruit concentrate."
"STOLEN?!"
Cook Mara, a woman whose temper was only matched by her Rynu-fueled stamina, burst out of the supply closet. She was holding a large, unevenly baked cake dusted in powdered synth-sugar, which she slammed onto the counter.
"It's celebratory appropriation! And it's not for you, you overly observant viper. It's for her!"
Mara spun on Alia. "SURPRISE! Happy fifteenth, you impossible child!"
The hall, which had been hiding half the staff behind stacks of clean linens and laundry carts, erupted in cheers. A makeshift banner—stitched together from discarded flag remnants—unfurled: ALIA TURNS 15! NOW WE ALL HAVE TO LISTEN TO HER OPINIONS!
Alia's composed expression finally broke. A genuine, unguarded smile spread across her face. "Mara! You know the Patriarch—"
"The Patriarch is in the East Wing complaining about his water pressure, courtesy of a minor 'accident' Galen had with the main line this morning," Mara hissed, shoving a piece of cake in Alia's hand. "Eat. This is the only birthday you're getting until you leave."
Alia laughed, accepting the moment of warmth. A younger maid, Kael, shyly pushed forward a small, hand-carved piece of scrap wood.
"We made you something. It's a fox… for good luck."
Alia's red eyes softened, recognizing the faint tribute to her mother's Spirit Form. "Thank you, Kael." Mara launched into a loudly exaggerated story about the "Ash Rain Disaster," drawing laughs from the whole hall, just as the atmosphere snapped.
THUD-KLANG!
The heavy iron door was thrown open. A man, cloaked entirely in black, stood there, his mask absorbing the light. His presence was a void of emotion, cold and hostile.
"An inquisitor!" gasped one of the maids.
"By the authority of the Council," the synthesized voice grated, echoing, "all citizens who have reached the age of fifteen will submit to Academy aptitude testing immediately."
The servants froze.
Galen's expression hardened. "Sir, we didn't request an examination."
The masked man didn't reply. He just handed him a letter. The letter was signed by the marshal containing only three words:
It is time.
In this country, those of 15 years of age are required to be tested to assess their aptitude as an ability user and enlist in the academy.It was also a way for the five great clans to keep each other in check. He quickly gestured Alia to follow him into the utility office, but addressed the Inquisitor with forced deference.
"Inquisitor, the standard procedure requires a secluded, a shielded testing chamber. The utility office is insufficient. I must escort you to the proper facility now."
"The test proceeds where I stand," the Inquisitor countered, his voice a flat command.
"With all due respect," Galen pleaded, taking a desperate step closer, "the presence of others is too disturbing for the child."
The Inquisitor paused, his head tilting slightly. He clearly disliked the deviation but saw the logical, if overly cautious, point. "Very well. Proceed. Now."
Galen nodded, his gaze locked on Alia, guiding her toward the narrow utility office. He pulled out the stone tablet engraved with glowing, blue runes. Alia placed her hands firmly on the cold stone.
The blue runes pulsed, searching for the Spirit Skeleton, the Elyasin circles, the Lower Dantian.
[SCANNING: ORAK CONDUITS...]
The blue runes turned a harsh, pulsating black.
KZZZZT!
The tablet shrieked, flashing a large, crimson symbol: the small, dark shape with clawed hands—the Demon Curse Body insignia. The final verdict appeared beneath it in harsh, red text: CONDUITS NON-VIABLE. APPLICATION DENIED.
Alia stared at the horrifying black symbol and the words Demon Curse Body. She felt a sickening lurch in her gut—this was it. She turned to the Inquisitor, her eyes wide with forced, innocent confusion.
"Inquisitor, sir," she whispered, her voice shaking just enough. "What… what does that strange black mark mean? The one that says Demon Curse Body? Is it… is it bad?"
Galen, who had never heard that specific term before, stepped forward instantly, his face pale with alarm. "Alia, don't worry about these terms. It's a very rare… non-issue. It simply means the primary Orak systems are… unreadable. We can run the test again in a week, surely."
The Inquisitor's synthesized voice was cold, merciless, and designed to cut through hope. "Servant Thorne. Silence. The subject requested clarification. I shall provide it." He fixed his gaze on Alia.
"The Demon Curse Body is an extremely rare genetic anomaly. It means your Orak conduits are shrunken, incapable of supporting Vorx, Elya, or Rynu. For the vast majority, this condition renders them powerless—a curse."
Alia's eyes widened, her mask of innocence wavering slightly as she tracked his words. "A curse... but you said 'majority.' What about the rest?"
"The rest are those born with a Dantian—the vital energy storage center for Rynu," the Inquisitor continued, without pause for compassion. "For them, this curse becomes the rarest talent in existence. The Council can use resources to build synthetic conduits, enabling them to utilize all three power systems and become the strongest Sentients in history. Only one has ever succeeded."
Galen put a protective hand on Alia's shoulder, terrified by the clinical cruelty. "Inquisitor, stop! You don't need to be so blunt! She's just a child!"
The Inquisitor ignored Galen, his attention solely on Alia. "However, Servant Alia, the scan was conclusive. Your anatomy cannot form a Dantian. Therefore, the condition is permanently a curse. You have zero usable Orak energy potential. You are fundamentally broken."
Alia's face crumpled. It wasn't the pain of the truth—she had always suspected her limitations—but the finality of the diagnosis, stripped bare of any hope, hit her like a physical blow. She let genuine sadness fill her eyes, realizing her plan to escape had just hit a seemingly impenetrable wall.
Galen immediately spun to face the Inquisitor, cutting off any further psychological damage. "Inquisitor! Wait outside! I must inform the child of the rules regarding denial, privately. It is Ravaryn protocol to handle internal disappointments with discretion. Wait for me outside in the hall. Five minutes, no more."
The Inquisitor stood immobile, then nodded once. "Five minutes. The denial must be filed by the hour." The massive figure turned and stepped out of the narrow utility office.
The moment the steel door clicked shut, the carefully constructed mask of grief on Alia's face evaporated instantly.
The sudden, forced tears in her eyes dried up. The slumped shoulders straightened with a whip-like snap, and she sucked in a sharp, furious breath. She snatched the ribbon and swiftly tied her long white hair into a severe, high ponytail, pulling the strands tight. She began pacing the small room in quick, angry strides, a dangerous smirk twisting her lips.
"Damn it," she muttered, the voice no longer the meek servant girl, but low and filled with frustrated rage. "I knew it. I knew that stupid curse would do this."
She snatched the crimson ribbon tying her long white hair and ripped it off. She quickly re-tied her hair into a severe, high ponytail, pulling the strands tight enough to hurt, then began pacing the small room in quick, angry strides, the thin synthetic floorboards groaning under her small boots.
"Fifteen years, I played the good little mouse. Fifteen years of 'Yes, Galen,' and 'No, Galen,' and acting like some fucking goody two-shoes so he wouldn't worry. And for what? To be denied the one way out of this gilded cage."
She punched the dusty air with a tight, frustrated fist.
The Academy. It wasn't about education or glory. It was the first, necessary step toward true revenge.
I have to get out of this place. I need contacts. I need power beyond Galen's protection. I need the strength to make Eryx Ravaryn pay for every single humiliation, every footstep on my hands, every smug look of contempt.
I need to make sure the Ravaryn Clan is the first to burn when I ascend. I don't care if I have a Dantian or not. I don't care if I have a Spirit Form. I have Will, and I have knowledge. That should be enough.
She heard Galen's voice through the door, strained and desperate, a broken plea. He was begging the Inquisitor for another chance, for a re-test, completely humiliating himself.
Alia stopped pacing. She took one last, deep breath, smoothing her clothing and letting her face settle back into the mask of the innocent, desperate servant girl.
Galen Thorne was hunched over, his hands clasped tightly, whispering desperately to the Inquisitor. "Please, Inquisitor. Just one hour. She needs to rest. We can re-calibrate the tablet. She is the daughter of a High Aegis agent, surely she must have latent ability! I beg you, sir."
"Servant Thorne, your sentimentality is irrelevant," the synthesized voice grated. "The Council's judgment is final. I leave now to file the denial."
Alia flung open the utility door and stepped out. The innocent, devastated servant was gone, replaced by a composed, slender girl whose red eyes held a spark of cold fire. She addressed the towering black figure directly, bypassing Galen entirely.
"Inquisitor, sir," she said, her voice now sharp and strategic, cutting through Galen's pleas. "You are tired. It has been a long journey from the Citadel, and you need repose before you file that denial."
She then turned and began to run toward the North Wing the opposite direction of the common hall.
The distance was long, taking her through dimly lit service corridors, past silent secondary courtyards, and finally out into the meticulously manicured North Wing grounds. The air grew cooler, and the scent of Orak-infused soil and metallic dew filled her lungs.
The Patriarch's private space was the Blue Lotus Garden, a vast, covered dome of reinforced synth-glass, kilometers away from the servant quarters. It was filled with exotic plant life and, most prominently, thousands of luminous blue flowers that pulsed with latent Elya energy.
She reached the massive, ornate gate to the dome. Two enormous guards, their armor thick with the faint glow of internal energy, blocked the entryway.
"Stop. Only the Patriarch and his designated guests may enter the Blue Lotus Garden," the first guard commanded, his voice a gravelly rumble.
"I must speak with the Patriarch! It is an emergency of the highest Ravaryn importance!" Alia demanded, her voice loud, but still retaining a desperate servant's ring.
"Step away, servant," the second guard said, raising his massive Rynu-staff a fraction. "Another step, and we will detain you for unauthorized access to the North Wing."
Alia paused, knowing she could not overpower them. She had only one weapon left: information.
She positioned herself squarely in the threshold, took a deep, steadying breath, and screamed a single sentence at the top of her lungs, projecting her voice as far as possible into the dome.
"Patriarch! You cannot break the promise to the Marshal!"
The heavy silence of the garden shattered.
Patriarch Ravaryn's massive form appeared through the blue lotus stalks instantly, his silver eyes blazing with fury. He was dressed in a simple, charcoal cultivation robe, making him look less ceremonial, but no less terrifying.
"Child! How dare you step foot here?! Guards, secure this child immediately!"
Alia cut him off, her posture perfect, her breathing even, though her voice was still laced with urgency.
"You have an Inquisitor from the Council downstairs filing a denial for my Academy application," she stated, bypassing all servant deference. "You know who I am, Patriarch. I am the daughter of Serena Veryn, High Aegis, and the charge of Commander Ardan Hale. The failure of the test has revealed the Demon Curse Body anomaly to the Council's system. If this information leaks, the other Council Clans—especially Bloodthorn and Ironvale—will immediately question why the daughter of a key target was sheltered here, consuming your resources, only to be revealed as a genetic liability!"
The Patriarch took a menacing step toward her, forcing the guards to back up instinctively. "Silence! You speak of things you cannot possibly know!"
"I know the Aegis Oath is binding, and I know Commander Hale forced your hand with a debt you despise!" Alia countered, holding his terrifying gaze. "If I am denied entry to the Academy, I stay here. I am now a fully grown liability for the Ravaryn Clan, the secret you desperately want gone. If I stay, the other clans will see me as a weak point, and you will be forced to explain why you sheltered the child of a High Aegis agent for so long. It draws too much attention to your house!"
She took a decisive step toward the gate. "But if I go to the Academy, I become a non-issue. I become a statistic. I become their problem, and more importantly, I leave your estate forever."
She lowered her voice, making it a chillingly calm, strategic whisper. "I want to go to the Academy. You want me gone. Let me go."
The Patriarch stared at her—the calm, calculating, defiant red eyes of the girl contrasting violently with the cowering servant he expected. He saw the cold logic in her threat: she was a volatile asset whose best use to him was immediate removal from his domain, before the other Council Clans could use her presence against him.
He inhaled deeply, letting the silence hang heavy.
"The deal was I live until fifteen. You have lived. The deal is concluded."
"No," Alia said, shaking her head slowly. "The deal was I live until fifteen, and then I get to choose my path. And my path is out of this cage. You will honor the spirit of the deal. Let me go, or I will stay here and be the biggest problem your house has ever seen."
The Patriarch's lips curled into a silent, slow snarl. He turned to one of the Rynu guards.
"Yorin, Go to the servant quarters. Find the Inquisitor. Bring him to me now."
The guard bowed instantly. "Yes, Patriarch." He sprinted away toward the main house.
The Patriarch turned back to Alia, waiting in simmering silence amidst the blue glow of the lotus flowers until the guard returned, followed by the black-cloaked Inquisitor.
"Patriarch," the Inquisitor greeted, bowing stiffly.
"I have reviewed the test results for the servant girl, Alia," the Patriarch said, his voice hard, every word a deliberate hammer blow. "The Demon Curse Body is noted. However, the report must be adjusted. She will be accepted."
The Inquisitor stiffened, his head snapping up. "Patriarch, I cannot falsify a physical condition. The Orak scan shows no conduits, no Dantian. It is a mandatory denial under Council code 77-A."
"I am aware of the code, Inquisitor," the Patriarch stated, radiating Will pressure that was physically palpable. The air felt thick, heavy—a reminder of the Sentient power he wielded. "I did not ask for your opinion on the code. I asked for compliance with the Ravaryn decree."
The Inquisitor's synthesized voice contained a sharp edge of resistance. "I am bound to the Council, not a single clan. Falsifying this report will expose me—"
The Patriarch stepped closer, his shadow falling over the Inquisitor, immense and menacing. "You will mark her aptitude score as lowest—Zy-level—nothing more. You will note a latent Will signature but zero usable Orak. She will be accepted as an average, late-stage applicant. A weak candidate who poses no threat and draws no suspicion. Do this, and your loyalty to the Council remains intact. Fail to comply, and I will personally see to it that your memory is wiped and your consciousness is transferred to a drone on the front line of the Drakara Rift—your body a new gift to the Dragons."
The threat was bone-chillingly clear. The Inquisitor paused, the sound of his suppressed breath heavy in the silence. The Patriarch's power was absolute within these walls.
"...Zy-level aptitude registered," the Inquisitor conceded, the resistance gone, replaced by grudging obedience. "The report will be filed immediately. Servant Alia will report to the Citadel of the Last Dawn in three days."
The Patriarch watched the Inquisitor depart, then turned to Alia, his silver eyes blazing with cold, calculating contempt.
"The deal is done, child of Veryn. Do not mistake my compliance for kindness. I will be far more dangerous to you when you are outside my fortress than when you were within it. Now, get out of my sight."
Alia simply bowed, a faint, satisfied smile touching the corner of her lips—a smile he did not see. She had won the first round.
Alia returned to the common hall, which was now quiet and subdued. The Inquisitor was gone. Galen, pale and trembling, rushed to meet her.
"Alia! What did you do?!"
Alia straightened her spine. The mask was back, but this time, it was the mask of a calm, successful strategist.
"I simply ensured the Patriarch understood the consequences of keeping me here, Galen. He has a weakness for avoiding complications."
Galen looked down at the tablet in his hands, which was now humming softly, displaying the result.
[RESULT: ZY-LEVEL. APTITUDE ACCEPTED.]
Galen stared at the Zy-level result, then at Alia, his eyes wide with a mixture of terror, relief, and dawning comprehension. "You… you forced his hand."
Alia's eyes held a spark of cold fire. "We are going to the Academy, Galen. It's time to find out who killed my mother. It's time to start the real fight."