The carriage ride ended not at a building, but at the edge of the world.
The Testing Ground sat on a high plateau jutting out from the cliff face of Observo Marus. To the west, the ocean churned, a vast expanse of grey water crashing against the rocks hundreds of feet below.
But the chaos of the wind and sea seemed to die the moment they stepped onto the flagstones.
The Pentad awaited them.
It was a place of absolute, ceremonial order. Five massive spires of pure, polished Obsidian pierced the sky, each standing three times the height of a man. They were arranged in a perfect circle—four at the cardinal points, one in the center.
Guarding each spire stood a Centurion.
They were terrifying statues of the Imperium's might. Each was clad in full Obsidian Plate—armor that didn't shine, but seemed to swallow the sunlight. From their shoulders flowed cloaks of woven shadow-silk, rippling like liquid darkness in the wind. In their hands, they held massive Obsidian Spears, the tips carved from the same crystallized magic that powered the city.
They did not move. They did not breathe. They were the silent witnesses of the Raven Lord's will.
"Form lines," Instructor Davos ordered, his voice hushed, respecting the sanctity of the ground. "This is a Rite of Designation. Treat it with honor."
Sola shivered. The air here was heavy, saturated with the density of the magic that infused the stones.
The Centurion guarding the Central Spire—the tallest of the five—struck the butt of his spear against the stone floor. THOOM. The sound resonated in Sola's chest.
"The Pentad sees all," the Centurion announced, his voice amplified by his helm. "The Center Spire reveals your Power and your Potential—the depth of your Obsidian soul. The Cardinal Spires reveal your Path."
He gestured with a gauntleted hand. "Begin."
"Torin," Davos whispered.
Torin stepped forward. He walked past the outer ring of guards, his mechanical leg clicking softly. He approached the Central Spire, looking small beneath the towering black stone and the silent Centurion watching him.
He placed his hand on the surface.
Hummmmm.
The reaction was immediate. The stone at the base glowed a steady, violet hue—his Current Power. Simultaneously, the pyramidal capstone at the apex flared with a brighter, sharper light—his Potential.
"Circle 1, Tier 3," the Centurion announced.
Instantly, the East Spire—guarded by a Centurion whose cloak bore the sigil of the Hammer—lit up with a warm, orange-purple glow.
"Path of Industry," the Centurion declared. "Artifice and Smithing."
Torin bowed to the spire, then to the guard, and hurried to the designated line, his face beaming with relief.
The line moved forward. One by one, the students were judged. A girl with glasses triggered the West Spire (The Quill) and was marked for the Administratum. A large, quiet boy triggered the North Spire (The Sword), the Centurion there nodding in approval as the boy was sent to the Legion line.
"Sola," Davos called.
Sola stepped out of the line.
She walked past the outer guards. Up close, the Obsidian Plate of the Centurions hummed with a low, menacing frequency. They smelled of ozone and cold iron.
She approached the Central Spire. The Centurion guarding it looked down at her. He did not speak, but she felt his gaze tracking her every movement.
She reached out. Her hand looked tiny against the massive slab of black stone.
She pressed her palm flat.
The world went silent.
The violet glow of Current Power did not appear. Sola had no training, no mastered strength. She was empty.
But then, the capstone at the apex reacted to her Potential.
It did not flare with light. It turned Vantablack.
The pyramid ceased to reflect the sun; it began to drink it. The daylight around the spire curved and warped, pulled into the vacuum of the stone as if a hole had been punched in reality. The darkness poured down the sides of the spire like heavy oil, rushing toward Sola's hand, seeking to fill the vessel.
The Centurion guarding the spire took a sharp step back, his spear lowering slightly—a break in protocol triggered by pure instinct.
The four Cardinal Spires did not light up. They flickered—wild, confused bursts of energy. The North flared, then died. The South pulsed, then faded. The East and West trembled. The Pentad could not categorize her.
She was not a sword. She was not a hammer. She was not a wand.
Sola stood frozen, her hand stuck to the cold stone, feeling the immense, crushing weight of the Obsidian acknowledging her existence. It was vast. It was heavy. It was everything.
"Enough!" Matron Vara's voice cracked the silence.
Sola snatched her hand away.
The Vantablack effect snapped instantly. The light returned. The wind rushed back in. The spire returned to its dormant state.
The five Centurions were no longer statues. All five had turned their heads to look at her. The silence on the plateau was suffocating.
The Central Guard looked at his tablet, then at Sola. He hesitated, his stylus hovering over the stone.
"Result?" Instructor Davos asked, his voice tight.
The Guard cleared his throat, the sound harsh and metallic.
"Current Power... Null," the Guard rasped. "Potential... Void Class. Path... Undefined."
A murmur ran through the gathered students.
Matron Vara walked onto the dais, her robes rustling. She placed a protective hand on Sola's shoulder, steering her away from the spires.
"File the report," Vara said to the Guard, her tone brokering no argument. "Schola Majoris. Sealed records."
The Guard nodded slowly. He struck the ground with his spear again. THOOM.
"Next," he commanded, though his gaze lingered on the small girl walking away.
Sola looked at her hand. It wasn't glowing. It looked exactly the same. But deep in her chest, she felt a new sensation—a quiet, heavy anchor, waiting for a chain.