Vixirys

In the nation of Avrael, power is both a blessing and a curse. Sixteen-year-old Ayato Daath, a poor orphan, had always hoped to live unnoticed in the shadows of the city. But when he is forced to undergo The Rite of Manifestation, the ritual that determines one’s magical potential, his worst fear comes true—he is an Elite.

Now torn from the only life he’s ever known, Ayato is thrust into a brutal world of magic, bloodshed, and treacherous politics. In a society where the strong prey on the weak, where rival factions scheme in the dark, and where a single misstep could mean death, Ayato must quickly learn one thing—adapt, or perish. And one thing Ayato already knows is that in Avrael, only the ruthless survive.

Ashes of the Elite

The first thing you should know is that I am my parents' son. So when the Inquisitors came, I did exactly as they asked which was nothing. I didn't cry when they paraded my parents through the streets, past rich bastards who sneered and hurled their vile insults. I didn't cry when they forced the nooses around their necks, the thick ropes fraying against their skin like a twisted embrace. I didn't cry when the Inquisitor declared their so called treason, his voice hollow with rehearsed authority.

I didn't cry when the stools were kicked out from under them.

And I didn't cry when the crowd dispersed, leaving their bodies swaying in the breeze, a grim warning against defiance.

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I can hear them behind me now those damned Inquisitors. They just had to be in the area when I was breaking into my latest target, a gorgeous blue mansion nestled in one of Lont's wealthy districts.

"Hey, stop running, kid! You're only making this worse for yourself!"

I roll my eyes. Yeah, sure buddy whatever you say.

I veer left, darting into a narrow alley. The cold stone walls rush past as I push myself faster, lungs burning. I need to get back to the outskirts the Inquisitors wont bother chasing me there. A prolonged chase in the city is suicide the longer this goes on, the more Inquisitors will catch wind of the commotion.

The impact rattles through the alley as a spear slams into the wall beside me, the force of it sending cracks spiderwebbing through the brick. I stumble back, heart hammering, before glancing over my shoulder with a sigh.

One of them lowers his throwing arm, the smug bastard. The fact that I'm still breathing means he chose not to impale me. How nice.

"Surrender," one of them orders. "You can't outrun us."

I take a breath, considering my options, then grin.

I didn't want to use this, but alas no choice.

I pull a metallic cylinder from my back pocket and hurl it toward the group. The moment it leaves my fingers, I pivot and bolt down another alley.

Shouts erupt behind me. Even Inquisitors trained, disciplined, deadly aren't expecting a handcrafted flashbang to explode right in their faces.

I let out a chuckle, the sound lost in the rhythm of my pounding footsteps.

The streets blur as I sprint through the city, but the sights still ignite a familiar anger. Shops with golden-trimmed windows, homes with imported stonework, lanterns glowing softly in the wealth-drenched night. This isn't my world. It never has been. I grew up in the outskirts, scraping by on whatever I could steal. While these people dined in luxury, I starved in the shadows.

I grit my teeth. Almost there. Just a few more blocks.

I push forward, the thought of disappearing into the slums easing my tension. It's disappointing I failed tonight, but it could always be wor.....

A breeze. A whisper against my skin.

I'm flung off my feet, the world flipping violently before I crash onto the cobblestone. My skull slams against the ground with a sickening crack, pain detonating through my body like a thousand knives digging into my bones.

I groan, vision swimming, limbs refusing to move. "

"Oh, my bad. I didn't mean to hit you that hard." The voice is smooth, almost amused. "But really, young man, you were asking for it by running away."

I force my eyes to focus. Blurred shapes sharpen into a figure, a guy, probably early twenties, standing with an infuriating air of ease.

Blonde. Maybe around 5'10. Disgusting Bright blue eyes so bright even I can see them clearly in my obvious concussed state.

But my attention falls to his hands. To the faint wisp of air curling around his fingertips.

Welcome to Avrael