The Ceremony of Marking was the most sacred rite at Mystara Academy. Held only once every five years, it signified the alignment of a student's soul with one of the academy's great divisions—Spellblade is for combat, Arcanum is for Scholars, Animyst is for tamers , healers and empaths , Chrono-stella is known for Time-affine and memory-diving specialists, or Luminar are for Guardians of tradition and order. The sigils, ancient in design and pulsing with Source energy, would bind to the chosen, appearing on their body as radiant glyphs, unique to each individual and impossible to forge.
But on this day, under the watchful eyes of thousands, something unprecedented happened.
Vahn Romanoff did not receive a mark.
The Grand Hall of Concordia shimmered with ritual light, a domed chamber made of translucent stone and webbed with veins of Source Crystals. Banners of division colors flared above the central podium where each student stood, one by one, to receive their mark from the Master Channelers.
Whispers had started even before Vahn took the stage.
"He's not even strong enough for Spellblade."
"Bet he ends up a Shaper—just like his sister."
"No. He doesn't even have that much potential."
Vahn said nothing. He rarely did.
He stepped forward when his name was called. The Channelers, robed in chromatic silks, summoned the Rites of Divination, a lattice of light encircling Vahn's body like a golden net. It hummed, searching, reaching.
But nothing happened.
The sigils floated past him—Spellblade's crimson flame, Arcanum's shifting script, Warden's steel coil, Seer's eye of stars, Shaper's golden wheel—all approached him, yet none bonded. They hesitated, circled… then faded.
The chamber was silent.
"Impossible," muttered one of the Masters.
Principal Aerion Dael, who had presided over thirty cycles of markings, stepped forward. His aged face, carved like marble, was unreadable. He raised his hand and the hall silenced further.
"Vahn Romanoff," he said slowly, "you are Unmarked."
The entire hall erupted into stunned gasps.
In the days following the failed marking, chaos brewed across the academy.
To be Unmarked was thought impossible. A soul untouched by division? No path, no bond, no allegiance to the Source Streams? Students whispered that Vahn was cursed. Some claimed his soul was fractured. Others believed it was divine punishment for the sins of his bloodline.
Yet, Vahn kept his silence.
Faculty meetings turned hostile. Some professors, like Master Ceren of the Spellblade Division, demanded his expulsion. "He is an anomaly," she barked. "A weakness that should not be nurtured within our walls."
"He is a threat," argued Archmage Luthien of Arcanum. "What if the Source rejects him entirely? What if this is the beginning of corruption?"
Only a few defended him—Chief among them, Principal Aerion.
"He is not without affinity," the old man said. "The Source does not reject him. It fears him."
That claim sent ripples of fear across the council.
Despite the opposition, Aerion made a declaration none expected.
"Vahn Romanoff shall be allowed to stay within Mystara, to study all disciplines without restriction. As no division has chosen him, he shall be free to explore them all. This is my decree."
The council erupted.
The final compromise, forged after a full day of relentless argument, was this:
Vahn would remain, with full access to every library, arena, laboratory, and meditation sanctum—but he would be barred from formal competitions, rankings, and inter-division tournaments.
He would be allowed to learn.
But never to shine.
Vahn stood before the Principal's sanctum three nights later. The chamber was vast and austere, lit by a floating sphere of white flame. Principal Aerion regarded him from his high chair, a crystal cane resting beside him.
"You want to know why I did it," Aerion said without preamble.
Vahn met his gaze. "I do."
The old man exhaled, long and slow.
"Because I have seen your kind before. Once, during the War of Embers, there was a boy with no mark. They called him an aberration. But when the final battle came, he stood when all others fell. The Source doesn't always bless with clarity—it often hides its greatest warriors in silence."
"I don't feel blessed," Vahn replied.
"Then perhaps you are finally ready to walk the harder path." Aerion's eyes twinkled. "I will teach you myself, if you wish it."
Vahn hesitated—then nodded.
Free to wander the disciplines, Vahn began to absorb knowledge at a pace even the most gifted envied. He sparred with Spellblades, learned with Arcanists, gained knowledge of soulbond from Animysts, and learned Luminar techniques of binding and shieldcraft. From Arcanum, he studied the deep logic of Source Equations and astral geometry.
Each teacher noted the same thing:
He was learning faster than they could measure.
But there was no mark to guide him.
Only the storm within.
And the sigil pendant Leslie had left him, which now reacted faintly whenever he practiced a new technique—glowing differently depending on the discipline.
It wasn't just a keepsake.
It was resonating with him. Shifting. Watching.
The other students watched him too.
Some with curiosity.
Most with resentment. As he was genuinely a shut in . something he is putting on airs because of principals care.
"He thinks he's better than the rest of us."
"Just because the Principal favors him…"
"I bet he bribed the Rites—his sister was a researcher, wasn't she?"
Even the noble-born viewed him with suspicion.
But Vahn didn't flinch. Every night, after classes, he returned to his tower—the observatory now renamed in quiet jest "The Unmarked's Roost"—and continued his secret training.
He discovered something strange.
When he used lightning—his elemental affinity—the reaction wasn't localized. It rippled across his disciplines. Lightning-infused Spellblade techniques became faster. Arcanum sigils snapped into formation quicker. Even Luminar barriers responded with greater elasticity.
He wasn't just learning disciplines.
He was weaving them.
Unmarked was not the absence of a path.
It was the freedom to carve one.
Weeks later, in an abandoned training ground, Vahn stood facing three masked duelists—upper-year students who wanted to "test" the Principal's pet.
The match was unsanctioned.
No professors. No spectators.
Just raw, unfiltered aggression.
"You don't belong here, Romanoff."
"oh sorry, i forgot you need to be buried here " he answered.
this response enraged the seniors.
The first Spellblade charged—fast, with a burning saber.
Vahn ducked, weaved, and countered with a pulse of lightning-infused kinetic force, sending the boy flying. The second unleashed an Arcanum curse, but Vahn dispelled it with a Shaper inversion technique and responded with a Seer's flash-vision strike.
The third never moved.
They saw the glow building in Vahn's palm—the same light that once struck from heaven when Leslie died.
The duel ended before it truly began.
None spoke of it again.