Chapter 8: The Verdict of the Orb
The Corridors
The manor was quieter than it had ever been. Not the stillness of peace, but the silence of held breath.
My small slippers tapped against the cold stone floors as I walked at Father's side, down corridors lit by a thousand frantic candles. The walls usually shadowed and damp now gleamed with beeswax polish, every imperfection scrubbed at by Marta's merciless hands. Even so, the smell of mildew clung stubbornly, beneath the sweetness of tallow and smoke.
Servants lined the passage, backs pressed flat against the walls as we passed. They bowed quickly, whispering prayers, their eyes darting to me before lowering in shame. Their fear was palpable. I wasn't a boy to them tonight—I was a vessel of judgment, the coin that might buy their futures or condemn them all.
Sir Cedric limped ahead, each step deliberate, his battered armor burnished to a muted shine. He barked orders as he went, his gravel voice echoing:
"Spears upright! Banners high! You stand for Alistair, not yourselves!"
The guards obeyed, though their grips betrayed tremors. Spears wavered ever so slightly, shields quivered in hands grown used to too much waiting and too little glory.
Father walked tall beside me, though I felt the strain in the set of his jaw. His hand rested lightly on my shoulder not guiding, but steadying. Mother followed, her gown of deep blue whispering against the rushes strewn across the floor. Her face was serene, but her knuckles were white where she clutched her rosary. My brothers trailed behind: Lorien restless, Orion quiet and sharp-eyed.
We moved as though to an execution.
And in a way, we did.
TheDeacon Arrives
At the end of the corridor, the great doors of the ceremonial hall stood open. Beyond them, nobles filled the chamber, their silks rustling like restless wings. Banners of serpent green, hawk blue, and half a dozen lesser crests gleamed in the flicker of torchlight.
At the center of the dais stood the Deacon of the Church of Affinity.
He was tall, gaunt, his beard white as snow. His robe was pure ivory, untouched by the grime of travel, edged with golden thread that shimmered like molten sunlight. In his hands he held the orb: a crystal sphere the size of a man's head, caged in silver filigree that pulsed faintly with light. The air around it seemed charged, humming with restrained power.
The nobles rose as he lifted his hand. The hall fell into reverent silence.
"By the will of the Church," he intoned, his voice deep as a tolling bell, "we gather to witness the awakening of a soul. May truth be revealed, and may the Affinities mark what is worthy."
Every noble bowed low. Some like Lord Carroway bent shallowly, a bow meant more for show than devotion. Others, like Lord Theron, lowered themselves with care, wary of slighting the Church's authority.
Father bowed deeply, pulling me gently with him. My knees bent stiffly, but I mimicked the motion. When I rose, the Deacon's pale eyes were upon me. Cold. Measuring. As though I were less a child than a vessel to be filled.
"Ren Alistair," he said, the name carrying like judgment. "Step forth."
The First Touch
The dais stretched before me, impossibly long. My steps were small, the hall impossibly vast. Whispers rippled like a tide as I climbed the steps and stood before the orb.
Its surface glowed faintly, colors shifting within like storms trapped under glass. My hand trembled as I reached out, not from fear but from the weight of calculation. Every gaze, every whisper, every noble's smirk or frown they were all variables in an equation I could not yet solve.
"Place your hand upon the orb," the Deacon commanded.
I obeyed.
Cold fire raced up my arm. My vision blurred, then split. For a heartbeat, I felt everything the pulse of earth, the whisper of wind, the burn of flame, the tide of water. Too much. My knees buckled, but I held fast.
And then the orb erupted.
The Colors Unveiled
At first, the chamber was swallowed in black.
A deep, devouring void poured from the orb, filling the air with a silence so absolute it pressed against the skin. The banners stilled as though even air itself dared not move.
"Space…" someone whispered, voice cracking.
Gasps followed. A few nobles made hasty signs of warding. Carroway's lips curled, though his eyes gleamed with unease. Theron's gaze narrowed, calculating.
Before the silence could settle, the black flared into pale gold.
Soft, blinding, weightless like dawn breaking over eternity. The nobles froze. Awe and fear warred in their faces.
"Time," another voice whispered hoarsely. "Impossible…"
The Deacon's eyes widened, for the first time showing emotion. His lips moved in silent prayer, fingers clutching the orb's silver cage.
And then, as suddenly as it came, the light shifted again.
A roar of brilliant blue filled the chamber, jagged arcs of lightning crackling across the orb. The air stank of ozone, hair rose on every arm. Nobles flinched back from the dais as thunder rolled, though no storm touched the sky outside.
"Thunder!" shouted one knight, his voice echoing in disbelief. "He bears Thunder!"
The hall erupted in chaos fear, awe, and envy boiling into one. Some nobles cursed under their breath. Others muttered of omens, of destiny.
The blue faded, and in its place bloomed a gentle green and brown, roots intertwining, vines unfurling, the scent of loam rising as though from living earth.
"Medicinal plant," a noble sneered. "A waste affinity."
"And Life…" another muttered, almost scornful. "Another waste. Pretty, but weak."
"Two wastes," someone said louder now, with relief. "But Thunder will save them. Barely."
Their whispers collided, desperate to bury what they had seen before the black and gold, the impossible.
The Deacon Speaks
The lights faded. My hand fell from the orb, numb, my chest heaving as though I had run for miles.
The Deacon raised the orb high, his voice carrying like thunder itself.
"Ren Alistair, third son of House Alistair, has awakened!" His voice reverberated through the hall. "He bears the Affinity of Thunder—rare and mighty. And with it, the Affinities of Life and Medicinal Plant. Three in total."
A ripple of gasps.
But he did not mention the black. Nor the pale gold.
The silence of Space. The eternity of Time.
Omitted. Hidden.
Yet I had felt them. And so had he.
His eyes flicked to mine, the briefest spark of warning or promise.
TheReactions
Father exhaled, a sound half relief, half despair. His shoulders slumped, but his voice rang clear:
"He is awakened. My son is blessed."
Mother's eyes shone with tears, though whether joy or fear, I could not tell.
Lorien's jaw was tight, his fists clenched so hard his knuckles whitened. Orion's gaze was unreadable, but I felt his thoughts circling like wolves around prey.
Carroway leaned to whisper to his steward, smirk returning. "Thunder alone cannot save a house rotted at its core."
Theron's expression was calmer, but his eyes never left me. Calculating. Measuring.
The hall buzzed with whispers:
"Three affinities."
"Two wastes."
"But Thunder… perhaps the falcon has not yet fallen."
"Or perhaps it only delays the inevitable."
The Collapse
The orb's residue still burned in my veins. Threads of light lingered in my sight, wrapping every noble, every guard, even my father. Lines of color, of strength, of weakness data laid bare.
It was too much.
The hall tilted. My knees gave way. Darkness rushed up to meet me.
As I fell, I heard the Deacon's voice, sharp and final:
"Bear witness! The falcon has been given a storm!"
And then silence.
Chapter 8 End