The bells woke Alaric before the servants did.
They rolled across the rooftops of Ashmere's capital in slow, heavy waves, sinking into the stone of his room. He lay still, staring at the ceiling beams, waiting for the sound to fade.
It didn't.
Three tolls.
A pause.
Three more.
Alaric swallowed.
That pattern only rang on special days—days when the Church opened the Triune Basilica, the great cathedral of the three gods.
Testing days.
Every child in Ashmere faced them at eight.
Some walked out chosen.
Others walked out ordinary.
Some did not walk out the same at all.
The door opened.
His father stood in the hallway, wearing light armor under a dark riding cloak, his sword belt fastened tight.
Lord Darian Vaelor looked like a man carved for war. Grey streaked his hair now, but his posture had never softened. Years ago he had broken a monster charge on the western border. These days he trained knights, guarded supply roads, and studied maps late into the night.
Still dangerous.
"Dress," Darian said.
Alaric moved quickly.
Darian turned to fasten his cloak.
The clasp slipped.
Metal tapped against metal.
He froze.
Alaric thought of his mother.
Of warm hands fixing crooked buttons. Of quiet humming while brushing his hair.
Slow down, she used to say.
You always rush.
Darian picked up the clasp and tried again.
"Knight. Hero. Weapon." His voice was low. "Today is only about seeing what you are."
That was not how the city talked about testing days.
Alaric hesitated. "But… if I don't awaken?"
Darian didn't answer.
He took his gloves from the table and slid them on, tugging each finger tight.
"Shoes."
They walked the corridor in silence. Servants bowed as they passed. Outside, a carriage waited at the gate dark wood, the Vaelor crest modest against brighter noble sigils nearby.
Darian climbed in first.
Alaric followed.
The carriage lurched into motion.
Only then did Darian speak.
"If you awaken," he said, eyes forward, "the Church writes your name down. They decide where you train. Who commands you. Where you bleed."
Alaric's hands curled in his lap.
"And if I don't?"
Darian's jaw flexed.
"Then you stay mine," he said. "You learn steel, patrol routes, supply lines. You guard roads instead of relics."
Alaric hesitated. "Like you."
The carriage rattled over stone.
"For a knight, that isn't failure," Darian said. "It's how you survive long enough to grow old."
Then, more quietly:
"I did not raise you to vanish into Church vaults."
Alaric blinked.
"You will still come home."
The words weren't soft.
They were decided.
Alaric studied his father's face.
No comfort.
No warmth.
Only certainty.
Darian met his eyes once.
And nodded.
Ashmere was already awake.
Stone streets climbed along the riverbanks in pale tiers, banners fluttering from towers and balconies. Cathedral spires pierced the morning mist.
Priests hurried past with crates of candles and bowls of salt. Soldiers roped off alleys. Bakers sold sweet rolls to parents who kept glancing at their children instead of the bread.
The kingdom had been uneasy.
Late caravans.
Missing patrols.
Ruins stirring.
Testing days always followed fear.
When worry spread, the Church made lists.
The square before the Basilica was packed.
Silk cloaks clustered near the front.
Merchants and guild children behind them.
At the back stood orphan halls grey coats, wooden name tags bouncing against thin chests.
Alaric took his place with lesser nobles.
Close enough to hear court rumors.
Far enough to be crushed by them.
The Basilica doors towered overhead bronze slabs carved with three radiant figures standing above kneeling humans.
They opened without a sound.
Alaric shivered.
Inside smelled of wax and cold stone.
Three stained glass circles glowed high above.
Gold.
Red.
Smoke-dark.
Three rings lay beneath them.
Chalk.
Ash.
Bone dust.
Priests whispered while tracing symbols.
Near the altar stood a tall man in white-and-crimson robes.
High Inquisitor Marcellon Pryde.
Scholar's face.
Judge's eyes.
"You were born in the eastern quarter," Pryde said, glancing at the slate in his hand.
"Yes, sir."
Pryde nodded once. "A quiet district. Easier for the registrars to keep accurate rolls."
Darian's jaw tightened.
"We keep thorough birth records," Pryde added calmly. "Especially for families tied to the Crown."
Alaric felt something cold settle in his stomach.
Children were arranged into lines.
Some whispered.
Some stared at the floor.
One girl wiped tears with her sleeve.
Chalk scraped against stone.
A priest muttered, "Again."
The Basilica felt too large.
Like it was listening.
Alaric noticed a thin boy nearby.
Borrowed coat.
Bare feet.
Wooden tag crooked against his chest.
The boy wasn't watching the altar.
He was staring at the dark window overhead.
Alaric followed his gaze.
Nothing seemed wrong.
When he looked back, the boy had already lowered his eyes.
A priest clapped his hands.
"Prepare."
The line shifted.
Darian's hand settled heavy on Alaric's shoulder.
"Stand straight."
Alaric did.
High above, metal shifted.
The bells were being readied again.