A Choice Made

The whisper was gone.

But the weight it left behind lingered.

Nero let out a slow breath, his hands still buried in the dirt. His heart thumped hard in his chest, his body coiled tight—like a beast that had sensed something lurking just beyond its vision. But the night remained still. The only sound was the soft rustling of the grass and the distant hum of the city lights below.

Maybe he was imagining things. Maybe exhaustion, disappointment, and the weight of the ceremony had twisted his thoughts.

"Oi, boy!"

Nero halted, looking up.

An old man stood at the edge of the path, illuminated by a dim street lantern. He wore a simple, tattered cloak, his posture slightly hunched with age. His face was lined with deep wrinkles, but his eyes were sharp as they settled on Nero.

"It's late," the man said. "Too dangerous for kids like you to be wandering around."

Nero blinked, caught off guard. He glanced around—he hadn't noticed anyone nearby earlier. But the old man didn't seem angry, just matter-of-fact.

"…Yeah. I was just heading home," Nero replied.

The man gave a small nod. "Good. Go on, then."

Nero hesitated, then dipped his head slightly. "Thanks."

Without another word, he started walking again, the soft crunch of gravel beneath his feet. The night felt colder now, though he wasn't sure why.

By the time he reached home, the lights were still on.

The door opened before he could touch the handle.

His mother stood there, worry in her eyes. "Nero."

Behind her, his father leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "You should've come straight home."

Nero forced a small smile. "Sorry. Just needed some air."

His mother sighed, pulling him inside. "We were worried."

His father didn't say much after that, just watched him carefully as they sat in the living room. They spoke to him—soft words of reassurance, reminders that Orvian's blessing wasn't the end of his path. That he still had a future, even if it wasn't the one he had dreamed of.

Nero nodded along, saying what they needed to hear.

But the truth sat heavy in his chest.

Later, when he finally closed the door to his room, he let out a slow breath.

His eyes lifted to the posters on his wall. Warriors, legends, heroes—each one a reminder of the future he had wanted.

His gaze found the one at the center.

Bram Pendragon.

A man who had forged his own legend, rising from nothing.

Nero stared at the poster for a long time, his fists clenched at his sides. No matter what they said, no matter how much they reassured him—he wasn't fine.

"Pathetic. Throwing a tantrum like a child."

The words cut through him like a blade. Cold, scornful. Not his own.

His breath hitched. He turned sharply, scanning the room. Nothing. His bed, his desk, the familiar posters on the walls. The silence pressed in around him, undisturbed, as if nothing had happened. But it had. He heard it.

His chest tightened as his gaze dropped to his arm. Slowly, he pushed up his sleeve, his fingers brushing over the mark on his skin. It looked the same—unchanged, unblemished, a silent emblem of Orvian's blessing. But doubt coiled in his stomach. He pressed his fingers against it, searching for anything unusual. Heat. Pain. A reaction.

Nothing.

Marks didn't fully activate until Faltheris. Every awakened knew that. Until then, they were just symbols, a promise of power yet to come. There was no reason he should be hearing voices, no reason for the lingering weight of those words to settle like poison in his veins.

And yet, the unease remained.

His fingers hovered over the mark a moment longer before he let his sleeve fall. His pulse was still racing, his breath unsteady, but the voice didn't return.

Maybe… maybe this was part of Orvian's blessing.

The thought was flimsy, but it was something. Orvian wasn't just the god of doorways—he was also the Keeper of Secrets. It wasn't impossible that his chosen could hear whispers, maybe even knowledge hidden from others. Hadn't some wayfinders been known to sense things no one else could? To hear the echoes of things long forgotten?

But this didn't feel like wisdom or guidance.

It felt like contempt.

A chill crawled up his spine. If this was Orvian's doing, why would his own patron's voice be filled with loathing?

Something was wrong.

His fingers curled into a fist before he exhaled and forced them to relax. He needed to calm down. He was exhausted. His mind was probably playing tricks on him after everything that had happened today.

That had to be it.

…Didn't it?

Nero swallowed, pushing the thoughts away as he lay back on his bed. His body was still tense, the weight in his chest refusing to fade, but the voice didn't come again. Sleep, however, didn't come easily either.

* * *

To awaken was to step beyond the ordinary—to leave behind the life of a mere citizen and take the first step toward something greater. Power, danger, opportunity... all of it lay ahead, waiting.

They were no longer just another citizen.

They were awakened.

And that meant choices.

It was easy to believe that awakening alone was the true beginning, that receiving a god's blessing was what set someone apart. But in reality, awakening was nothing more than a door opening. What lay beyond was what truly defined a person.

And the paths were many.

At the heart of it all stood the Federation, a singular governing force that maintained order across both Earth and Faltheris. It ensured that the flow of awakened individuals was controlled, that the balance between worlds remained intact. Some chose to serve under it, joining its ranks as enforcers, strategists, and scholars. To work for the Federation was to devote oneself to structure, to stability.

But it wasn't the only force at play.

The Great Families held just as much—if not more—power in shaping the awakened world. These weren't just noble houses or wealthy lineages; they were dynasties of power, each bound to a patron god whose blessing ran through their very blood. Their children awakened under the same deity, inheriting abilities honed through centuries of experience and refinement.

There were only ten of these families, and their influence was undeniable.

To serve under one of them meant wealth, prestige, and security. It meant standing beneath the shadow of a name that had already carved its place in history. Many sought to align themselves with these families, becoming loyal retainers, warriors, or scholars—anything that would allow them to bask in the power of the superior bloodlines.

And yet, not all wished to serve.

Some awakened chose to carve their own names into the world. They built their own factions, gathering strength through alliances, resources, and raw ambition. These were the ones who wished to create legacies rather than inherit them, who sought to shape Faltheris with their own hands.

Then there were the rare few who walked alone.

The free birds.

Those who never swore allegiance to the families or the government, choosing to navigate Faltheris by their own strength alone. It was a romantic notion, the idea of an individual standing against the tides of gods and monsters, but in reality, few survived that path.

Because Faltheris did not forgive weakness.

No matter the path one chose—federation, family, faction, or freedom—every awakened had to face one unavoidable trial: the academies.

Faltheris was not a place for the untrained. Those who stepped into it unprepared were little more than prey, doomed before they even took their first steps. The academies existed for this sole purpose—to forge the newly awakened into something more than what they were.

Five schools. Five philosophies.

Each academy approached training in its own way. Some focused on discipline and structure, treating their students like soldiers. Others encouraged independent growth, pushing students to find their own way through trial and hardship. Some emphasized teamwork, while others honed individual strength.

But in the end, they all had the same purpose.

To weed out those who weren't fit to enter Faltheris.

The application process wasn't difficult. As long as one had awakened, they could enter. But staying?

That was another story entirely.

As many as half of the students who entered an academy would never make it through. Not because they lacked intelligence or willpower, but because not everyone was meant to survive the other world. Strength alone wasn't enough. It was about instincts, adaptability, and the sheer will to endure.

And those who lacked those things?

They were sent back.

Nero had never once doubted which academy he wanted to enter.

Skyreach Academy.

Bram Pendragon had trained there. It was the place where he had built his foundation, the very ground where he had taken his first steps toward legend. Nero had spent years watching his ascension, memorizing his battles, dreaming of the day he would follow the same path.

Nero stepped out of his room, the weight of the morning pressing against his chest. The familiar scent of cooking food drifted up from the kitchen, grounding him in the moment. His thoughts lingered, torn between his doubts and the expectations placed on him.

He took a deep breath, pushing the door open and walking down the stairs. The house was quiet, save for the soft murmur of his parents in the kitchen. His mother, focused on cooking, stood by the stove while his father, as always, was seated at the table, quietly reading through some papers.

"Good morning," Nero muttered, trying to push down the heaviness in his voice.

"Morning, Nero," his mother replied warmly, looking over her shoulder and setting a plate of food in front of him. "Sleep okay?"

Nero sat down at the table, his gaze flickering to the plate, though the food didn't seem to matter much right now. He hadn't slept much, his mind too preoccupied with everything that had happened. But he didn't want to burden his parents.

"I'm fine," he said, his voice steady, though the turmoil was still there.

His mother studied him for a moment. "You sure? You've seemed a bit... off lately."

Nero forced a smile, trying to dismiss the weight in his chest. "Just a lot on my mind. You know how it is."

His father, ever observant, set the papers aside and leaned forward slightly. "I get it. You've been dreaming of this for so long. It's a lot to process all at once. But don't let the mark define you. It's what you make of it that matters."

Nero nodded, though the words felt distant. "Yeah."

His mother sat down beside him, her hand brushing against his arm. "So, have you thought about where you want to go?"

Nero paused for a moment. He had been dreading this question, but the answer was already clear to him. "Yeah, I've made up my mind. I'll go to Skyreach."

His father raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Really? That's where you've been set on going?"

Nero's shoulders sagged slightly. "Yeah. It's where I want to be."

His mother sighed, but there was no judgment in her voice. "We know you've always had your eye on that one. But, just remember, it's not going to be easy. Once you step into that world, it's a different place entirely."

His father gave a quiet chuckle. "It's not all just about getting in, son. You've got to survive once you're there. And you know it's not just about learning the basics. It's survival training, real-world stuff. You're going to be tested."

Nero nodded, his mind already running through everything he'd need to prepare for. It was one thing to get in, but everything that came after would determine who he truly was.

"Well, you've got a week to get ready," his mother said softly. "But I know you. You'll be fine."

His father added, "Just don't try to do it alone. You're not going in there unprepared."

Nero stood up, a small smile crossing his face. "I won't."

His parents exchanged a glance—one filled with understanding and silent pride. They knew him well. He wasn't the type to back down, no matter the challenge.