Hidden Scars

"Hmmph, guess you had it in you after all" Melissa sneered towards Angus who was slowly standing up. The iron taste of the blood dripping down his lips did not stop the smile going along his lips "I told you didn't I, I won't be overshadowed by the likes of you" he remarked proudly wiping the blood from his lips with his sleeves.

"Urh" Melissa squeezed her face in disgust "you still aren't my level" she flung her hair backwards walking off the podium.

"Hey I dare you, say that to my face" he chased after her but suddenly paused looking directly towards Denwen with a 'let me see you do that' smirk. Denwen just rolled his eyes to the provocation not letting it get to him at all:

"I really don't have time for you, Angus, I have a goal to beat and the minimum I need would be an A grade at the very least in order to dream of reaching his level" he thought as a scene of a very dark past that continues to hunt him to this day flashed past his mind.

—-

The sky wept.

Lightning split the heavens apart, illuminating the battlefield in fractured glimpses—brief flashes of chaos frozen in time. Rain poured in relentless sheets, drumming against shattered ground, washing away the blood of the fallen. The air was thick with smoke and the scent of charred ruin, yet beneath it all, there was something else. Something deeper.

Despair.

A hand, cold and unyielding as iron, wrapped around a small throat. The fingers clenched tighter, stealing the breath from a child's lungs. Little Denwen kicked, clawed, his tiny fingers digging into the vice-like grip that lifted him off the ground. His body flailed, instinct screaming for survival, but the strength in that hand was absolute. Immovable.

A shadow loomed over him—indistinct, faceless, a mass of darkness against the storm.

Nearby, another figure sprawled across the shattered earth, his body broken and drenched in blood. Rainwater mixed with crimson, streaking down his face as he tried to move, his limbs trembling from the weight of exhaustion and pain. He dragged himself forward, nails scraping against the jagged ground, every inch he gained paid for with agony.

Through the downpour, his voice cracked, raw with desperation.

"Please..." he gasped, his breath shallow, his words barely audible over the wailing wind. "He looked up to you... you don't have to do this."

The grip on Denwen's throat tightened.

The child's world blurred, his vision flickering as the pressure around his neck turned the storm's howl into muffled static. Raindrops battered his face, mixing with his own tears, the sting of cold barely registering against the numbness creeping through his body.

The shadow holding him spoke then, its voice low—nearly drowned out by the raging tempest, yet sharp enough to pierce through the chaos.

"This is necessary."

The fingers constricted further.

Denwen's eyes widened. A pulse of fear struck his chest. His small hands, already trembling, reached up in vain to pry the fingers away. Darkness curled at the edges of his vision, his struggling slowing, his thoughts slipping into an abyss of confusion and terror.

—-

Regaining his consciousness in the hall he clenched his fists tightly:

"I will never, ever, experience that feeling of helplessness and weakness again" he swore to himself his eyes on the screen as the name sorting began to go through the remaining names.

Nicole slumped back into her chair, legs swinging idly as she let out an exaggerated yawn. The ceremony had dragged on for what felt like forever, and her patience—never her strongest trait—had long since worn thin. The endless chanting, the glowing sigils, the gasps of excitement, and the murmurs of disappointment—it was all starting to blur together.

She sighed, blowing a stray lock of hair from her face.

"Mom, is it almost time for big bro?" she whined, her small hands fidgeting with the hem of her dress. "I mean, it's been forever. I think I might just die of boredom before he even gets up there."

Rachael chuckled softly, though her eyes never left the platform. She gently ran her fingers through Nicole's hair, soothing the girl's growing frustration.

"Don't worry, sweetie," she reassured, offering a warm smile. "I'm sure he'll be in the next batch to awaken. Just be patient a little longer."

Nicole pouted. "That's what you said last time! And the time before that! It's just the same thing over and over—someone goes up, they either glow or they don't, people cheer or sigh, and then we do it all again. And again. And again." She groaned, sinking further into her seat. "Can't they just wake everyone up at once?"

Rachael shook her head in amusement. "That's not how it works, darling. Awakening takes time."

Nicole huffed, crossing her arms. "Well, it's a stupid system," she grumbled. "What if big bro is in the last group? I'll be asleep by then!"

Despite her complaints, her eyes kept darting toward the stage, searching for a familiar figure. The waiting was unbearable. It wasn't just boredom—there was an anxious edge to it, a quiet hope buried beneath her frustration.

After all, this wasn't just any ceremony.

This was his moment.

And she just wanted it to hurry up already.

—--

DING! DING!

The system's chime rang loud and clear, signaling the selection of the next batch. The restless crowd, caught between anticipation and fatigue, stirred as Zara, ever composed yet commanding, cleared her throat.

"Ladies and gentlemen," his voice echoed across the hall, drawing every eye back to the grand stage. "The system has decided. The next batch of faithfuls is as follows…"

A hushed silence fell over the audience. Every name called was another soul standing at the precipice of fate—either soaring to greatness or plunging into mediocrity.

"Jarek Thorn."

A murmur rippled through the crowd. Another hopeful from a lesser noble house, eager to prove himself.

"Lior Vance."

A distant sigh—his family had placed high hopes on him, but expectation was a weight not all could bear.

"Darren Cole."

His father stood at the edge of his seat, hands clasped tight, lips moving in silent prayer.

"Felix Harth."

A few scattered cheers erupted—his elder brother had once been a prodigy, and the eyes of the family now rested on him.

"Orin Vale."

A noblewoman turned away, disinterested. A name she had no reason to remember.

"Zane Calloway."

The Calloway family, prominent yet unremarkable, held their breath. Would this be their moment of redemption?

And then—

"Denwen Hale."

The moment the name left Zara's lips, a small, electrified voice broke through the murmuring crowd.

"Mom, it's him!"

Nicole practically jumped from her seat, her small hands gripping a finger-shaped placard high above her head. A radiant grin stretched across her face, eyes gleaming with excitement. The long wait, the boredom, the countless names before his—none of it mattered now. It was his turn.

Beside her, Rachael felt her own pulse quicken. A mix of pride, nervous anticipation, and something deeper swirled in her chest. Unlike the others, she wasn't worried about his failure—failure wasn't an option. Still, no mother could ever truly be at ease in a moment like this.

But there was no room for hesitation. Nicole's enthusiasm was infectious, and as if on cue, they both erupted into cheers.

"Come on! You got this! A grade or nothing!"

Their voices cut through the din of the hall, rising above the murmurs of nobility and the murmurs of doubt. Heads turned. Some with amusement, others with annoyance. But neither mother nor daughter cared.

Nicole bounced excitedly in place, her eyes locked on the stage. Her brother wasn't just another name in the roster. He wasn't just another hopeful. He was Denwen.

And he was about to prove himself to the world.