Next selection," the molten orb intoned, hovering higher as a new row of symbols formed in the air beneath it. "Designation: Thorne of Solus. Class: Radiant Vanguard. Divine Gift: Spear of the Unfailing Sun."
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Even the war goddess—Veyra, her name would later be—narrowed her eyes in grudging respect. Thorne stepped forward with the practiced ease of someone who knew exactly how magnificent he looked.
The sun itself bent slightly, or seemed to, as the golden spear materialized in a blaze of light. He twirled it, flourished it like a dancer, and gave a slight bow to the gods watching from above the arena. They hovered in a ring of silver thrones, half-visible behind veils of starlight.
Kael leaned sideways and whispered to a nearby participant, a woman with six arms and knives for fingernails. "Are we sure this isn't a pageant?"
She didn't answer. Just gave him a look like she hoped he'd die early so she wouldn't have to explain anything.
"Next selection," the orb said. "Designation: Kael Riven. Origin: Dravien. Class: Whisperer. Subclass: Inventory. Tier: Zero. Power: Inventory Whisper."
A silence fell over the entire arena.
Then—
A snort.
Then two.
Then Thorne was laughing outright. "Tier zero?" he said, holding his sides. "Oh come on. You're telling me they drafted a zero-tier class? What does he do—organize warehouse shelves?"
"Inventory… Whisper?" someone repeated nearby. "Does that mean he talks to boxes?"
Kael stood motionless as chuckles rippled outward like oil across water. His hands curled into fists, but he didn't move. Not yet. The orb descended toward him, humming.
"Your divine bond is confirmed. Activate your ability."
Kael raised an eyebrow. "What does that mean, activate? It's a whisper. Do I yell into my bag?"
More laughter.
The orb pulsed. "Touch one of your possessions."
Kael reached down to his belt pouch, more out of spite than hope. He grabbed the first thing he could find—a rusted gear from an automaton he'd salvaged hours ago.
And then—
"—Ow, you prick. That's my rust spot."
Kael blinked.
"What?"
"Yeah, now you notice me? Been stuck in this grease trap for a week and now you want a chat?"
He looked at the gear in his hand. It was warm. Vibrating faintly.
The voice was real. Cranky. Tinny. Like a wheezing drunk with opinions about engineering.
The crowd stared, expecting a display of light, or fire, or at least a glowing aura.
All they saw was Kael holding a piece of junk and looking very confused.
"I… think I just insulted a gear."
Thorne laughed so hard he dropped his spear.
The orb hovered silently for a moment, then boomed:
"ABILITY CONFIRMED. YOU MAY PROCEED TO THE HOLDING PLATFORM."
Kael started to walk off—then stopped.
He turned toward the gods' throne ring.
Raised the rusted gear high.
And said, "Hey, do any of you need something cleaned out of your divine plumbing? This one swears he's great with clogs."
The crowd erupted. A few gods even smiled faintly.
But most?
Most watched in silence, their expressions unreadable.
Especially the one seated furthest back. A woman wrapped in chains of starlight, whose lips moved—but made no sound.