Chapter 3: Ashes Among The Gilded

The morning mist curled like serpents around the high towers of Arcanum Kayont. Bells tolled from the Iron Wing, summoning its students to their first lecture of the day. Kaelen stood before the doors of the Sanctum of Mystika, clutching his regulation-bound tome and ignoring the sideways glances of the others as they passed.

He was no longer just a prince in exile. He was the cursed thing in the corner of everyone's eye.

"What's he doing in Mystika? That's for prodigies or lunatics."

The whisper was loud enough to hear. Kaelen let it pass. They'd learn soon enough.

Inside, the Sanctum was unlike any hall he'd known. No torches, no chandeliers — only a dull violet glow from veins of aetherstone etched into the floor. The air was thick with arcane tension, as if the very walls remembered blood and secrets.

A woman stood at the head of the room. She was neither young nor old, cloaked in violet silk threaded with gold runes. Her eyes were covered by a red silk band, and her voice when she spoke echoed in the bones.

"You may call me Archmistress Velthane. I will know your souls before you leave this hall. If you lie to me, I'll feel the rot behind your tongue. If you cheat, the aether will flay your skin from within."

Silence. Even the more arrogant students paled.

Kaelen found a seat in the back. Beside him, a lanky boy with ash-blond hair muttered, "She says that every year. Last year one kid pissed himself."

Kaelen turned just enough to glance. "You stayed in Mystika after that?"

The boy shrugged. "Best place for dangerous people, right? You're Kaelen. The Plague Prince."

Kaelen stiffened.

"I'm Riven Cael. House Cael got wiped out last year. Supposed to be dead, like you. Guess we have that in common."

Kaelen blinked. Riven smiled faintly, eyes hollow. Whatever had broken him, it had carved him into something sharp.

Velthane clapped her hands. "Today, you will awaken your Core Mark. This is not a trick of light or ego. The Mark binds your essence to the Path you'll walk for the rest of your lives. Fail... and your magic remains shallow, weak, like a surface wound."

Students lined up before the altar — a black slab surrounded by glyphs pulsing like a heartbeat. Kaelen waited, watching.

A girl ahead screamed as her mark appeared — a blazing serpent of wind carved into her chest.

Another student collapsed, convulsing with divine flame.

When Kaelen stepped forward, the aether shifted.

Velthane paused. "You carry something old. Rotten."

Kaelen met her blind eyes. "And yet I stand."

She said nothing, gestured.

He placed his hand on the altar.

Pain.

It was not physical. It was memory ripping open. A moment in time etched into his soul: the betrayal, the death, the curse. The hand of his brother gripping the dagger. The whisper of something ancient entering his flesh.

The mark bloomed across his collarbone: a black crown devoured by roots, pulsing with shadow-green veins. The room fell silent.

Velthane's lips parted slightly. "You should not be alive."

Kaelen stepped back. "Yet I am."

She turned away. "Sit."

Later that day, Kaelen sat beneath a frost-covered oak in the east courtyard, trying to stop the throb of his Mark. It itched, burned, shimmered beneath his skin like something hungry.

Riven tossed a piece of dried bread at his feet. "You handled that better than I thought. Heard some of the upper-class Golds are already pissed. Liora Valemorne's pet hounds were sniffing around."

Kaelen looked up. "Let them sniff."

"You're planning something, aren't you?"

Kaelen tilted his head. "No. I'm surviving."

The boy's smirk returned. "Same thing, these days."

Two Days Later – The Ascension Arena

Students gathered like vultures around the dueling platform. The first Trial would determine placement, privileges, and reputation. Kaelen's name had been called first — intentionally.

The crowd buzzed. Whispers echoed through the cold stone halls:

"The Plague Prince against Arel Thorne?"

"Arel's a Gold, trained by firemasters since he was five."

Kaelen stepped onto the obsidian platform, the mark on his collarbone glowing faintly beneath his tunic. Across from him stood Arel — smug, golden-haired, hands wreathed in white-hot flame.

The judge, a robed specter named Chancellor Drelor, raised a staff. "No death. All else is permitted."

Arel laughed. "Don't worry, prince. I'll only melt your arms."

Kaelen didn't reply. He simply lowered his stance.

The gong rang.

Arel charged, flames spiraling around his fists. A whirlwind of fire erupted, scorching the platform.

Kaelen stood still. He let the inferno come.

Then — he breathed in.

The flames flickered.

Something darker stirred.

The fire bent… and sickened.

Arel faltered. "What—?"

Kaelen extended one hand. The ground beneath Arel's feet darkened — not with shadow, but with rot. Mold, black and crawling, erupted in veins.

Arel screamed. His skin blistered where the mold touched. His fire dimmed, corrupted.

Kaelen walked forward, step by slow step.

"This is plague," he said softly. "It consumes everything — even light."

With a twist of his fingers, the mold spread like wildfire in reverse — eating heat, not giving it.

Arel collapsed, convulsing, unconscious.

The crowd was silent.

The judge raised his hand. "Victor: Kaelen Vire."

Later that night, Kaelen stood alone in the gardens outside the Ash Wing.

A figure stepped from the shadows.

Liora Valemorne.

Up close, she looked even more statuesque — a goddess carved from ambition and ice.

She studied him. "You infected a flameweaver. That shouldn't be possible."

Kaelen didn't answer.

"I've seen what real threats look like," she said. "You're close. But not yet."

Kaelen turned. "Then wait. I'm only beginning."

Liora stepped closer. "You'll draw attention. From the Guild. From the Emperor. Even the Inquisitors."

"And?"

"Don't die before I've figured you out, Kaelen Vire."

He smiled. "You'd miss me?"

"I'd hate to lose a rival with potential."

Then she was gone, cloak trailing starlight.

Kaelen stood under the moonlight, his breath misting in the cold air.

He looked down at his mark.

The roots had grown.