The factory floor smelled of oil, charred wires and Beast blood.
Corren's hands moved mechanically, extracting the core from another wolf corpse. Third one this morning. The crystal pulsed faintly in his palm before he dropped it into the collection bin.
Sixteen years of this, he thought, wiping gore on his already stained pants. Maybe sixteen more if today goes badly.
"Corren."
He turned. Lyra stood at the factory entrance, silhouetted against the morning light. She wore simple clothes, practical, not the silk and embroidery her family could afford. Her expression was flat, unreadable, the way it always was.
Behind her, a sleek black car idled. The family driver stood beside it, patient and professional.
"Miss Ironborne," the driver called. "We should depart. The ceremony begins in an hour."
Lyra didn't turn. "Go on ahead."
"Your mother requested..."
"I said go ahead." Her tone allowed no argument.
The driver hesitated, then nodded. He'd worked for the Ironborne family long enough to recognize which battles weren't worth fighting. The car pulled away, expensive wheels crunching over gravel.
Corren set down his extraction knife. "You should've gone with him."
"We're going together!"
"I've got three more corpses to process. Could be another twenty minutes."
"Then I'll wait." She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, looking every bit like someone who'd stand there all day if necessary.
Corren's supervisor, a grizzled man named Grozle, glanced between them and sighed. "Just go, kid. I'll finish the rest."
"But..."
"You think I don't remember my Awakening?" Grozle scarred hands gestured at the blood-soaked workstation. "This'll be here tomorrow. That ceremony won't. Get out of here."
Corren cleaned his hands on a rag that made them dirtier. "Thanks."
"Don't thank me. Just don't come back with some useless veil, yeah? Bad for morale." Grozel said it like a joke, but his eyes were serious.
Bad for morale. Right. Because seeing someone fail reminds everyone how close they are to failing too.
Outside, the morning air hit different. Cleaner. Colder. Lyra fell into step beside him, and they walked toward the Grand Plaza in silence.
After three blocks, she spoke. "What do you think you'll get?"
Corren shrugged, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Something weak, probably. Boring. Most commoners get weak Veils. Some element nobody cares about, or a specialist ability that's only useful in very specific situations." He paused. "Might get lucky and manifest something practical. Fire or earth. Something that'll help me get better work."
"And if you don't?"
"Then I keep extracting cores until i go bald" He said it matter-of-factly, like discussing the weather.
Lyra used her palm to touch her forehead. Giving off her disapproval.
"What about you?" Corren asked, steering the conversation away from his probable mediocrity. "Any guesses?"
"Metal," she said immediately. "Or earth. Something solid."
"That confident?"
"Everyone in my family manifests metal-related Veils. Father had metal. Mother is magnetic. My uncle works with bronze." She paused. "It's genetic. Bloodline trait."
"Makes sense." Corren glanced at her. "You've got that cold, iron will thing going. Very... metallic."
Her mouth twitched. Almost a smile. "Is that supposed to be a compliment?"
"Statement of fact." He kicked a loose stone down the street. "You're practical. Unbending when you need to be. Flexible when it's smart. That's metal, isn't it? Strong but workable."
"Guess so."
They walked another block. The streets grew more crowded. Other sixteen-year-olds moving toward the plaza, some with families, some alone. Nervous energy filled the air like static before a storm.
Then they heard it.
The sound of thousands of voices. murmuring, laughing, shouting. The ceremony had drawn the entire city. Merchants closed their stalls. Workers abandoned their posts. Even the beggars left their corners to witness this.
Corren and Lyra quickened their pace, weaving through the growing crowds.
The Grand Plaza opened before them like a mouth. The Awakening Stone rose at its center. A monolith of black crystal about the size of fridge, veins of white light pulsing beneath its surface like a heartbeat. The air around it thrummed with power that made Corren's teeth ache.
Above, raised platforms held the noble families. Silk banners. Family crests. The Ironborne section gleamed with polished steel decorations. The Flamesworth banner burned crimson and gold.
Below, the commoners packed shoulder to shoulder. No seats. No banners. Just bodies and hope and desperation.
"Corren! Lyra!"
Darius materialized from the crowd, grinning like this was all a grand joke. He wore tailored robes embroidered with the Flamesworth sigil, expensive, pristine, designed to make everyone remember who he was.
He clapped Corren on the shoulder. Hard enough to sting. "Made it after all. Wasn't sure you'd show."
"Wouldn't miss it," Corren said flatly with false enthusiam.
"Good, good." Darius's eyes swept over Corren's oil-stained factory uniform, and his grin widened. "At least you'll look the part when you Awaken something appropriately... modest."
Before Corren could respond, the Arbiter's voice boomed across the plaza.
"Citizens of Duskharrow. Witnesses to the Awakening."
The crowd fell silent instantly. Thousands of people holding their breath as one.
The Arbiter stood beside the Stone, robed and hooded, face hidden in shadow. His voice scraped like stone on stone. "Today, the children of the Empire will touch the Stone. Today, their Veils will be born. Torn from spirit. Made flesh. Made real."
He raised one gloved hand toward the monolith. "The Stone does not lie. It does not care for lineage, for wealth, for hope. It shows only truth."
His hidden gaze swept across the gathered initiates. "Step forward. Face your truth."
A boy stumbled toward the Stone first. Stocky, blonde hair, light skin, nervous energy radiating from every movement. Alphonse, Corren remembered. Worked in the textile district. Good kid. Quiet.
Alphonse pressed both hands against the black crystal.
The Stone pulsed.
Light shone outward. Brown and gold, earth-toned, solid. Alphonse He gasped, raising his head upwards and emiting light from his eyes as his Veil tore free. The ground beneath him cracked. Rocks and soil lifted into the air, orbiting his body like satellites, flowing around him in patterns that defied gravity.
His Veil wrapped him completely—earth and stone flowing like water, protective and alive.
He collapsed to his knees, gasping. Blood trickled from his nose.
The crowd roared.
"VEIL OF EARTH!" the Arbiter announced. "BORN OF STONE!"
Alphonse's family screamed his name from the worker section. His mother wept. His father shouted congratulations, voice breaking with pride and relief.
Basic veil. But it was something. He had a future now.
The next initiate approached. A thin girl with dark hair and darker circles under her eyes. She touched the Stone.
The light came slower this time. Pale. Hesitant. Her Veil manifested as translucent mist that clung to her skin, enough to cover her but nothing really impressive
"Veil of Mist," the Arbiter said. His tone was neutral, but the crowd's reaction wasn't.
Polite applause. Scattered. Her family tried to smile, but Corren saw the disappointment. Mist was weak. Defensive at best. Useless at worst.
She walked away with her head down.
One by one, initiates stepped forward. One by one, their Veils were torn screaming into the world.
The pattern held. Predictable. Safe. The Stone gave you the spark. Training gave you the flame.
Then the Arbiter consulted his list, and his voice rang out across the plaza:
"Darius Flamesworth."
Darius didn't walk to the Stone.
He strode. Every step deliberate, calculated to be seen. The Flamesworth heir. The prodigy. The boy everyone already knew would burn brighter than anyone else here.
Corren watched him go, and something cold settled in his stomach.
He's going to be incredible. Everyone knows it. Even he knows it.
Darius reached the Stone. Paused for dramatic effect. Then gently and arrogantly pressed a single hand against the crystal like he was daring it to deny him.
The Stone answered.
Crimson light detonated outward like a solar flare. The temperature in the plaza spiked so fast people gasped and stumbled back. Corren felt the heat from fifty feet away, actual, scorching heat that made his skin prickle.
His Veil exploded into existence. Not gently. Not carefully. Like a caged beast finally breaking free.
Fire coiled around him in spiraling torrents of pure heat. Not flickering. Not wavering. Raging. The flames condensed, compressed, shaped themselves into a massive spear of solid fire that shot fifteen feet into the air.
The flagstones beneath him cracked from thermal stress. The air shimmered. Someone in the crowd fainted.
"VEIL OF FLAME!" The Arbiter's voice shook with something Corren had never heard from him before. Awe. Raw, undeniable awe. "BORN OF FIRE AND FURY!"
The crowd didn't just cheer.
They screamed.
They chanted his name like a war cry. Darius. Darius. DARIUS.
In the noble seats, Darius's older brother Edwin leaned forward, no longer lounging. His eyes sharp. Calculating. Impressed despite himself.
Darius raised the flaming spear high, drinking in the adoration like wine. His grin was savage. Triumphant. Absolute.
His eyes found Corren in the crowd.
That grin widened.
See this? See what real power looks like?
Corren's stomach twisted into knots.
More initiates followed. Each one paling in comparison to what they'd just witnessed. A girl manifested shadows that barely dimmed the sunlight. A boy created wooden constructs that looked like they'd snap under pressure. Another managed lightning that crackled weakly between his fingers before dying out.
All forgettable.
Then: "Lyra Ironborne."
The crowd quieted. The Ironborne name carried weight. Expectations.
Lyra walked to the Stone with her back straight, expression unreadable. She didn't hesitate. Pressed a single palms against the crystal firmly.
Silver light erupted outward, blinding and brilliant. Lyra's body arched as her Veil tore free. not gently, but like something clawing its way out of a cage.
Liquid metal burst from her skin, hardening mid-air into flowing streams of steel. The constructs twisted around her like living serpents, shifting from razor-edged blades to flexible whips to solid chains in the span of a heartbeat.
One metallic lash cracked against the flagstones.
The sound echoed like thunder.
The crowd exploded.
"VEIL OF METAL! BORN OF IRON AND WILL!"
In the Ironborne section, Lyra's mother stood. Just for a moment. Her stoic mask cracking into the barest hint of a smile.
Lyra stepped back, pulling her Veil into tight coils at her wrists. She didn't look at the crowd. Didn't acknowledge the cheers.
She looked at Corren.
Gave the smallest nod.
Your turn.
More names. More Awakenings. The ceremony ground forward like an inevitable machine.
Each name called felt like a step closer to execution.
Corren's heart hammered against his ribs. His hands were clammy. His throat dry.
What if it's weak? What if it's nothing? What if—
"Corren Ashveil."
The crowd quieted. Not out of respect. Out of curiosity.
Who was this? No family in the seats. No crest. No name anyone recognized.
Corren forced his legs to move.
Each step felt wrong. Too heavy. Too light. Like walking through water or falling through air.
The Stone loomed before him. Taller than a building. Pulsing with light that seemed to see him. Judge him. Find him wanting before he even touched it.
Just get it over with. Whatever happens, at least you'll know.
He pressed his palm against the cold crystal.
Nothing.
The Stone pulsed once. Faint. Hesitant. Like it wasn't sure what to do with him.
Then pain.
Not the screaming agony of a Veil being torn free. Something worse. Something wrong.
It felt like his chest was cracking open, but nothing was coming out. Just cracks. Just breaking. Just…
His Veil flickered into view.
Thin. Fragile. A film of pale light clinging to his skin like frost on glass. Spider-web fractures spread across its surface, and through each crack, light bled away into nothing.
The crowd didn't cheer.
They stared.
"What... what is that?"
"It's breaking."
"Is that even a Veil?"
Corren tried to hold it together. Tried to force it into shape, into something functional. But the harder he pushed, the faster it unraveled. More cracks. More light bleeding through into emptiness.
The Arbiter stepped closer. His hooded face tilted, studying the manifestation like a scholar examining a failed experiment.
Silence stretched.
"Candidate Corren Ashveil." His voice was careful. Clinical. "Veil... awakened. Structure: compromised. Manifestation: unstable."
A long, terrible pause.
"Classification: Fragile."
Someone laughed. Nervous. Uncertain.
The Arbiter raised a hand for silence, but it didn't come fast enough. He continued anyway, his voice quieter now. Almost confused.
"Subtype: Porous."
The word dropped like a stone into still water.
Silence.
Then laughter.
Then jeering.
"Porous? Like a sponge?"
"His Veil is leaking!"
"Defective!"
"One in a million! Poor bastard!"
In the noble seats, someone whispered loud enough to carry: "Genetic failure. The Stone rejected him."
Corren's vision blurred. His throat closed. Heat burned behind his eyes. not fire, just humiliation and shame threatening to spill over.
He blinked hard.
Gone.
The laughter roared back in, louder now. Emboldened.
The Arbiter's voice cut through like a blade. "Next."
Corren stumbled away from the Stone. His legs barely held him. The crowd parted around him like he carried disease.
Fragile. Porous. Broken.
Darius passed him, still wreathed in residual flame, still grinning. He leaned in close. "Congratulations, Fragile. Try not to break before tomorrow."
Corren couldn't respond. Couldn't look at him.
Lyra caught his arm as he staggered past. "Corren."
He couldn't meet her eyes. Couldn't speak. His Veil flickered weakly around his skin, cracking further with each breath.
She squeezed once. Firm. Real. Then let go, understanding he needed to move.
He pushed through the crowd. Through the whispers. Through the stares. Through everything.
Until he was alone at the plaza's edge.
His Veil flickered weakly. Fragile. Porous. Broken.
One in a million, they'd said. Like he was special. Like being a statistical anomaly meant something other than being spectacularly, publicly worthless.
But in the cracks. in those spider-web fractures where light bled into nothing. he felt something.