The platform of Viremonth Bastion was alive with tension—movement, murmurs, and the electric thrill of something momentous about to begin. The sun had dipped past the horizon, casting golden shadows that danced along the polished steel rails. Rows of sleek black Veilflux vehicles hummed in eerie stillness. Among them stood the legendary transport, the Obsidian Spine, its hull pulsing faintly with restrained power—a vessel for the chosen.
Alaric Thorne adjusted the stiff collar of his issued uniform. His fingers clutched the ident-tag clipped to his chest. Beside him, Lyra Caelis exhaled slowly, her stance proud despite the nervous energy clinging to her every move.
Around them, candidates gathered in clusters. Some trembled. Others laughed—too loudly. But a few stood with unnatural confidence, clad in tailored uniforms that shimmered faintly with family crest threadwork. These were the children of privilege.
And they knew it.
From the center of the platform, a voice rang out.
"Tch. The smell of desperation is strong here."
A boy strutted into view, no older than Alaric or Lyra, but draped in the immaculate garb of a Second-Class Lineage. A red sigil blazed on his chest like a brand. His silver hair was slicked back, and his angular features curled in a practiced sneer.
As he passed a smaller child from the back lines, he stepped purposefully on the boy's foot.
The kid yelped. "Hey—!"
The boy didn't even look down. "Learn your place, Zero-class."
Lyra was already moving. "Hey! Watch it!"
The boy turned, slowly, as though annoyed by a fly.
"Oh? A mutt's barking at me?" He cocked his head. "Do you even know who I am?"
His voice rose, drawing attention.
"I am Caelum Ignivar. Son of House Ignivar of the Crimson Accord. Our line has produced three Platinum-ranked Lords, and two military strategists on the Accord Council."
He leaned in, eyes flashing.
"Don't you know my family?"
Alaric stepped forward, slipping smoothly between Lyra and the noble.
"And do they teach you to bully smaller kids at your elite dinners, or is that just your personal flair?"
Caelum's nostrils flared. "You dare mock a High Lineage?"
"I see a coward picking on someone who couldn't fight back," Alaric said, calm but cold. "Your blood might be 'noble,' but your character sure isn't."
Caelum raised his hand, palm curled like he meant to slap.
Lyra's eyes flared. "Touch him, and I swear—"
"Enough!"
A sharp voice boomed through the platform. A Veilguard soldier stormed over, heavy boots stomping. His grip locked like iron on Caelum's raised arm.
"No fighting before the Rite. You want to be disqualified before even boarding?"
Caelum winced under the grip but tried to maintain his smirk.
The soldier leaned close, eyes icy. "You think your family name will protect you from protocol? Prestige by Blood — But Not a Free Pass. Remember that."
A hush fell. Several nearby candidates exchanged glances.
Caelum tore his arm free with a snarl, glaring daggers at Alaric.
"This isn't over," he muttered.
Alaric didn't flinch. "No. It's just getting started."
Caelum turned and stormed off, his boots clacking furiously against the platform floor.
Alaric let out a slow breath. Lyra shot him a look—half admiration, half worry.
"You okay?" she asked softly.
He gave a nod. "Yeah. Just... tired of being stepped on."
A voice joined them.
"Well said. You had every right."
They turned to see a slender boy approach, his dark hair neatly tied back. His uniform was Third-Class, but bore the sigil of House Talvon, an embroidered falcon in flight.
"I'm Emric Talvon," he said, extending a hand. "We're not all like Ignivar. My House may be modest, but we believe respect isn't earned by blood—it's earned by deeds."
Alaric shook his hand cautiously. "Why help us?"
"Because people like him poison everything," Emric said quietly. "And because I think you'll prove them wrong."
The boarding chime sounded, cutting the moment. A soldier barked orders to form lines. The doors of the Obsidian Spine creaked open with mechanical grace, revealing a corridor lit by ethereal Veilflux glow.
Inside, the three found adjacent seats as the train pulsed to life beneath them.
"So," Alaric asked, "what's the deal with Lineage Houses? What are the ranks?"
Emric gave a small smile, grateful for the shift in tone. "It all began after the Cataclysm. Lords who survived formed the foundation of the new world. Their descendants became the Lineages."
He counted on his fingers.
"Low Lineages—newly elevated families. Talents rank F to D. They've earned their place, barely. Usually scrambling for territory and alliances.
Mid Lineages—C to B-rank Talents or strong economic control. They run cities, sponsor academies, and decide which Third-Class candidates get a real chance.
High Lineages—families with A to S-grade Talents. They have personal armies, advanced Veiltech, seats on the Accord Council. Like House Ignivar."
"And the highest?" Lyra asked.
Emric's eyes lowered, voice reverent.
"Prime Lineages. Ancient holders of SS to SSS-grade Talents. They founded cities, command vast zones, and hold sway over everything—from research to war. Their words shape the future."
Alaric looked down at his badge—plain, no crest.
"So even if we pass the Rite... the system's still stacked."
Emric's tone was gentle but honest. "It is. But it's also watching. The Rite's the only moment where background doesn't blind the judges. Talent shines—if you survive."
Lyra looked between them. "So what's the real strategy?"
Emric smiled faintly. "You pick the right allies. And you never fight alone."
Alaric leaned back, the hum of the Veilflux in his bones. For the first time, amidst the fire of insults and sparks of defiance, something stirred.
Hope.
Maybe this wasn't just a test of strength.
Maybe this was the beginning of something greater.