The Weight of an Empire

The golden sigil hovered in the air, its shifting patterns glowing like embers in the dimly lit home. Aether's breath came shallow, his pulse hammering against his ribs as he stared at the mark that had just sealed his fate.

The Succession Games.

He had known the stories. Everyone had. The moment the world itself chose its contenders, there was no questioning it. No denying it.

The chosen either entered the tower—or they died.

Aether's hands clenched into fists. His mother's voice barely registered, the distant sound of her chair scraping against the wooden floor. Caelum had risen too, his hazel eyes dark and unreadable.

"Aether." His mother's voice trembled. "Your chest."

He looked down, his heart pounding harder as he pulled at the collar of his tunic.

The same glowing sigil that floated before him was now etched onto his skin, right above his heart. It pulsed in sync with his heartbeat, threads of golden light branching through his veins like cracks in the earth.

Aether's throat felt dry.

The mark of a chosen.

"Gods…" Caelum exhaled, his usual composure wavering. His grip on the edge of the table tightened, knuckles turning white. "I thought we'd have more time."

Aether forced himself to swallow, shaking his head. "What does this—"

Before he could finish, the house shook.

A distant, resounding boom echoed across the island, like thunder crashing down from the heavens. Outside, the wind howled, the storm twisting violently overhead.

But it wasn't just Vala'dir.

It was everywhere.

Aether could feel it—an unseen force spreading through the world, reaching across oceans and mountains, over cities and kingdoms. A vast, unfathomable presence moving through Alyria itself.

And then, as suddenly as it came, the tremors stopped.

A heavy silence settled over the village.

Then came the voice.

Deep. Resonant. A voice that did not belong to any man, nor any god. It was the voice of Alyria itself, woven into the very fabric of the world.

"The time has come."

Aether's blood ran cold.

"The chosen have been marked. In six months, the gates shall open. The Tower of Ascension calls its contenders. Rise, and claim your destiny—or be erased."

The voice faded, and with it, the sigil before him flickered and vanished, leaving only the glowing mark upon his chest.

For a long moment, none of them spoke.

The world had just declared its will.

The Succession Games had begun.

The village of Vala'dir was silent in the morning light. It wasn't the usual quiet of dawn, nor the peaceful stillness before a storm. It was the kind of silence that came when people were afraid to speak.

Aether walked through the streets, his hood drawn over his head, but it did little to stop the whispers.

"…Did you hear?"

"…One of the chosen… here?"

"…The prince."

Some voices held awe. Others, fear.

He kept his head down, shoulders tense. He had never been one for attention—not like Caelum, who carried himself with the natural confidence of a leader. But this was different. This wasn't admiration. This was the weight of expectation, of uncertainty, of knowing that one of their own had just been claimed by fate itself.

Aether exhaled slowly, pushing forward. There was only one person he needed to see.

The forge was burning hot when Aether stepped inside. The air was thick with the scent of molten steel, the rhythmic clang of hammer against metal filling the space.

Lewis barely glanced up from his work.

"So. It's you."

Aether hesitated, then nodded.

The blacksmith sighed, setting down his hammer and wiping the sweat from his brow. "Figured as much. The moment the world spoke, I knew." He studied Aether carefully, his gaze unreadable. "How do you feel?"

Aether swallowed. "Like my life just ended."

Lewis let out a short, humorless chuckle. "Aye. That's about right."

The old smith turned, walking toward the back of the forge. After a moment, he returned with something wrapped in dark cloth. He placed it on the worktable and unwrapped it carefully.

Aether's breath caught.

It was a sword. Not a great one. Not a masterwork. But his.

His first blade. The one he had made with his own hands, under Lewis's guidance. He had been barely fifteen, and it was crude by all standards—unbalanced, the hilt slightly uneven.

Lewis ran a hand over the steel, his expression unreadable. "Do you know why I made you finish this, even when it turned out like this?"

Aether didn't answer.

Lewis tapped a finger against the blade. "Because it was yours. Your work. Your failures. Your successes. No one else's." He exhaled, shaking his head. "The tower will try to break you. Make you forget who you are. Don't let it."

Aether clenched his jaw.

Lewis wrapped the sword up again and pressed it into Aether's hands. "Take it. Not because it'll serve you in the tower. But because you made it."

Aether nodded stiffly, gripping the bundle tightly.

Lewis studied him for a moment before sighing. "And for what it's worth… you were always meant for more than this island."

Aether swallowed past the tightness in his throat. "Thank you."

He turned to leave, but Lewis's voice stopped him one last time.

"When you make your next blade," the blacksmith murmured, "make sure it's one worthy of your name."

Aether stepped out into the cold morning air, the weight of the sword heavier than it should have been.

That night, Aether stood alone at the cliffside. The stars stretched endlessly above, as they always had.

But he felt different.

The world had chosen him. Had torn him from his life, from his family, from everything he had known. He hadn't asked for this.

But it didn't matter. The moment the mark appeared, the moment Alyria itself spoke, his path was sealed. He could fight it, resist, curse the heavens all he wanted.

And yet.

Something deep inside him stirred. Something that had always been there, waiting.

A desire. A hunger.

Not for the throne. Not for power.

For freedom.

For the chance to carve his own path.

For the first time in his life, fate had forced his hand.

But that didn't mean he would let it control him.

Aether exhaled slowly, staring up at the night sky.

Six months.

Then, the tower.

Then, the rest of his life.