The land of Gorgoda was a place where Fate arrived early and stayed forever.
On the first day of the 36th year of the 7th Period, in the northern kingdom of Avra, Mihel Westrow walked toward the place where his childhood had started and now ,after fifteen years of practice and training, quietly ended.
The stone road beneath his feet had been worn smooth by generations of students, soldiers, and healers, all moving toward futures they did not choose but forced to live.
Today, those stones felt colder, as another day of new beginnings came to pass.
The morning sky was pale, a bright blue, almost unfinished, as if the sun itself was hesitant to rise on such a day.
A thin wind brushed past Mihel's face, carrying the smell of damp earth and old leaves.
He adjusted the strap of his bag and kept walking. Fifteen years. The age when Fate finally stopped pretending to be distant, and crept up in a second.
Ahead stood a government-run Skola. Not one of the ornate academies raised by the churches, heavy with prayer halls and sacred symbols, but a place built for observation, discipline, and results.
Even though church Skolas were cheaper, the students often found the churches doctrines drilled deep into them.
The state preferred its students to be well oiled machines that would carry the nation forward.
Mihel had studied here for as long as he could remember.
His parents were devout followers of the Fountain of Everlasting Life. Both had received Healer Destinies. Both had lived lives shaped by service, patience, and quiet miracles.
Neither had spoken much that morning, but their hope clung to Mihel like a second shadow.
A healer Destiny would be safe.
A healer Destiny would be familiar.
He slowed as he reached the iron signboard hanging from a flowering tree. Red petals drifted lazily in the breeze, brushing against cold metal.
Amaryllis, common to the city of Skaria. Beautiful flowers that bloomed brilliantly, then withered without warning.
The sign swayed back and forth.
Exousia Skola.
Mihel paused for a heartbeat longer than necessary, various thoughts of doubts and other matters flowing rapidly through his mind, before stepping through the gates.
The courtyard beyond was already crowded. Students stood in clusters, some whispering, others standing alone, eyes fixed on the ground or the sky. Laughter surfaced occasionally, brittle and forced.
Everyone here was fifteen. Everyone here understood that by the end of the morning, nothing would feel the same.
In Gorgoda, the first day of each year belonged to Fate.
Mihel adjusted his bag and walked toward the old tree near the courtyard's edge, its trunk thick and scarred with years of carvings. Whispers followed him, soft but sharp.
"There he is."
"The prodigy."
"I heard even the church Skolas tried to recruit him."
"I wonder what Destiny he'll get."
Mihel ignored them. He had learned long ago that expectations were heavier than insults.
He was first in history and battle knowledge. Second in hand-to-hand combat and weapon mastery. Last year, he had ranked second in the Avra Kingdom Tournament, an achievement that had drawn rare attention to a government Skola competing against church-backed elites.
Teachers watched him more closely. Officials wrote his name more often in records for future service potential.
He sat beneath the tree and pulled out his notebook, more out of habit than purpose. His friend still hadn't arrived.
Mihel began writing, copying phrases his mentors had drilled into them all week.
'Revealing Day, often called D-Day, marks the moment when every fifteen-year-old receives their Destiny Slate.'
He paused and glanced up.
Two students nearby were sparring, their movements sharp and frantic. One slipped. A heavy slam followed, dust bursting into the air as the match ended.
'Every Destiny has grades,' Mihel continued writing. 'From Common to Legendary.'
He hesitated, the pen hovering.
'The Destiny Slate must be treated as an extension of the self. Loss of possession invites death.'
The words felt heavier written than spoken.
His thoughts drifted.
'Where do the Slates come from?' he wondered. 'Do the gods we pray to, truly decide our paths… or do they only record them?'
A shadow fell over the page.
Mihel raised his hand instinctively.
A solid knock landed against his open palm.
He smiled.
Riche Malant stood before him, grinning like the morning itself had failed to exhaust him. Taller, broader, and already built like a veteran fighter, Riche dropped down beside him with easy confidence.
They had shared this handshake since infancy. A habit born in a shared cradle, kept alive without either of them remembering why.
Riche was the other pride of their Exousia Skola. First in hand-to-hand combat and weapon mastery. Second only to Mihel in history and battle knowledge. Last year's Avra Tournament Champion.
"Mi," Riche said, ruffling his blonde hair, "tense as always. Even today you can't put that notebook down?"
Mihel exhaled softly. "With something like this? I don't think I could relax even if I tried."
Riche laughed. "You'll be fine. You're good at everything. You'll adapt no matter what Fate throws at you."
Mihel turned sharply, then broke into a grin. "Good? I'm great. Skip training for a day and I'll surpass you in fighting too."
Riche barked a laugh. "Keep dreaming, brother."
For a moment, the tension loosened.
Then Riche's smile faded.
"Must be nice," he said quietly. "Having a family that already knows what Destiny it wants for you."
Mihel didn't respond immediately.
"My mother doesn't even talk about hers," Riche continued. "Doesn't care what I get either." He exhaled slowly. "Sometimes I wonder what that means."
Mihel looked down at his notebook.
"Sometimes I think your situation might be easier. I keep asking myself if I'm even fit to be a healer." He let out a nervous laugh. "I haven't slept properly in days."
Riche shook his head. "You think too much. Today's meant to be enjoyed."
Before Mihel could answer—
Gong.Gong.Gong.Gong.
Four beats.
The time: 4 eos.
The courtyard fell into absolute silence.
Even the wind seemed to stop.
Mihel and Riche looked at each other. Riche opened his palm. Mihel knocked against it, once.
The tradition held.
Then, without warning, a glowing white sheet bordered in gold appeared before every student.
No wind. No sound.
Only breath held too long.
Mihel lowered his gaze.
The Slate felt heavier than he expected.
Letters began to form.