Within the Drevir District Sector of Selun'Thael—though the city's brilliance remains veiled for now—lay an opulent compound whose name stirred both envy and reverence: the Drevir House.
Woven into a fold of the sky itself, the Drevir estate was not built but breathed into being, its structures flowing like gilded constellations captured in form. Towering spires curved into spiral shapes like frozen astral winds, reflecting the pale golden glow of the ever-burning horizon sun. Trees with silver-laced leaves shimmered beside radiant pools where faint ripples stirred under no wind, mirroring skies that stretched like veils of light above.
Beneath floating pavilions shaped like celestial shells, young disciples trained—some in strict formations with wooden swords, their blades humming softly against air infused with arcane pressure. Others huddled in the shade of transparent domes, meticulously crafting astral arms. Their hands moved over floating runes, tracing lines of intricate energy that danced like stardust across metal. What they touched responded—metal twisting, reforming, transforming into blades and gauntlets with a grace that hinted at secret texts guiding them—vein-lit glyphs only few could comprehend.
A quiet energy pulsed through the land. This was not a place of ordinary martial rigor. It was a sanctum where talent was forged under the weight of tradition and power, where the very stones whispered legacy.
Today, that legacy would be tested.
The central training ground—an amphitheater of dark, rune-etched stone—lay ringed in tiered stands filled with onlookers. From high-tier noble heirs to low-ranking guards, all eyes focused on the two young figures stepping onto the ceremonial field. Between them, a faint hum resonated as layers of formation barriers shimmered into existence, forming an iridescent dome engraved with celestial runes. The air thickened.
Above, in an elevated suite cloaked in mist, sat the Elders. Veins of mist wrapped the chamber in illusion, hiding their features from the crowd. Only silhouettes shifted within—shadows of immense presence. One form sat straighter than the others, posture regal, beard etched with streaks of silver.
Drevir the Fourteenth.
He was not the oldest among them—wrinkles marked the others' ages more obviously—but he was the most feared, the most experienced. Within the Zyreon Celestial Kingdom, and even beyond it, throughout the nine planes of the Thaleon system, his name echoed as both veneration and warning.
Beside him, a thin elder with a high brow and etched rings of power along his fingers held his chin thoughtfully. A quiet murmur broke the solemn silence.
"That's Drevir the Fourteenth," whispered a guard in the suite, a little too loud.
"We know that, you nosy goat," growled another, elbowing him.
"Still! I heard he once fought a Transcendent General to a standstill—bare-handed! And that he holds the second-highest chair in the Thaleon Guild. That's not just this kingdom, that's all nine. Nine planes, nine kingdoms, and—"
"—One headache. Now shut it."
Back on the field, the names rang out.
"Ezrel Drevir," called the announcer.
The youth stepped forward. His stance was light but precise, as though gravity itself conformed to his posture. He held a long staff—greenish in hue, elegant as a young tree of starlight. Runes spiraled down its shaft, flickering faintly with embedded lights. Within the staff, green flames shimmered like flickering mists caught in glass.
Ezrel's veins had opened—177 of them. They traced across his arms and neck, glowing faintly with a lattice-like pattern. Veins of light intertwined, forming a visible grid—Woven Core tier. The runic lattice pulsed gently as if syncing with the staff, breathing with the beat of his heart.
"A Level 1 Celestial Spark," muttered a spectator. "But already woven. That's talent."
Another leaned close. "He's from the Grand Celestial Academy. Zyreon's crown jewel. Only ten accepted each year."
Across from him, another youth stepped forward. His name wasn't called, but the silence gave him gravity. His eyes held hesitation—not fear, but a reluctance, a mind always questioning.
They called him Vayel Drevir.
He wielded a staff similar in form but lesser in soul. The green flames within his weapon shimmered too—but fainter, like fireflies lost within the ever-glowing moon. He was no less trained, but his bloodline had only unlocked 159 veins—enough for the woven core class, still formidable, still Level 1 Celestial Spark.
The formations locked. The bell rang.
Ezrel moved first—his body blurring in a faint green arc. His staff came down like a comet fragment. Vayel met it, gritting his teeth. Sparks flew as wood struck wood, but Ezrel spun low, the base of his staff sliding into Vayel's knee.
The crowd gasped as Vayel stumbled.
Ezrel did not relent. He moved with flowing precision, his staff rotating with fingers more like an artist than a warrior. Each strike bore rhythm and calculation. Vayel parried twice, failed the third, his own staff knocked back as Ezrel stepped inside his guard.
"He's so clumsy!" someone laughed.
"No, Ezrel's just that refined. That's Grand Academy training."
Vayel tried to feint, swinging high then thrusting low—but Ezrel predicted it, redirecting with a subtle twist that unbalanced the attack and sent Vayel spiraling to the ground.
Dust rose.
Ezrel's staff halted just above Vayel's heart.
The crowd erupted.
Clapping, cheers, voices echoing in awe. Ezrel didn't smile—he bowed slightly and walked away as the runes flickered and faded.
Above, in the suite, the elders nodded with approval. Drevir the Fourteenth's eyes narrowed in interest.
"What do we know about that boy?" he asked.
An elder with worn eyes replied, "Ezrel… once nearly forgotten. Born of a low-tier Drevir branch. His parents had neither power nor affinity. Disgraced. Perished during a territory dispute. He would've been expelled, lost to the slums."
"But someone helped him," another said. "A noble girl—Shae' is all we know. She intervened. Took him in. Let him train. Somehow… his veins began opening at a pace unseen."
Drevir the Fourteenth's expression shifted slightly. "Shae'?"
He stared into space, and for a flicker of a moment, his posture faltered. Something had struck him—an echo of recognition, or warning.
But then it was gone. He adjusted his robes and spoke smoothly.
"Ezrel's talent will be wasted here."
One of the elders raised an eyebrow. "You mean to recruit him? As your disciple?"
A smirk curled Drevir's lips.
"This little district cannot contain stars like him. The Thaleon Guild is where he belongs. And I will see to it."
The elders around him stiffened. Silence followed.
The name of the Thaleon Guild carried weight beyond lineage. To be summoned by it—was to be chosen by the cosmos.
As the mist thickened again around the elder suite, murmurs continued in the crowd below. Ezrel stood quietly near the edge of the arena, his staff resting against his shoulder. Somewhere far off, the silver leaves of the Drevir trees rustled gently—as if stirred by something beyond wind.
And in the shadows of memory, the name Shae' lingered in Drevir the Fourteenth's mind like a splinter of starlight too sharp to ignore.