Dawn filtered through the translucent canopy of Selun'Thael, casting a silver mist across its floating towers and glinting runic gates. The echoes of last night's awakening still pulsed beneath the surface of the city—an altar, long silent, had stirred.
Nocth walked alone through the eastern bridge-market, clothed in modest dark robes that shimmered faintly when the wind curled around his frame. Whispers followed him now. He had no name yesterday—now, he was "the boy who stirred the altar of Celestial Pulse."
Imius had given him a name before daybreak, claiming it came to him in a dream: Nocth, a word from the lost tongue of the High Recorders, meaning twilight between stars. When spoken aloud, it felt too familiar.
Nocth bore it in silence.
He passed beneath curved arches humming with sky-script, his eyes absorbing everything—rune formations, weapon vendors, crystal-ink scrolls. He stopped often, not because he was slow, but because he saw deeper than most: how a merchant's display was arranged like a battle formation, how a child's tossed pebble echoed off the walls like a hidden cipher.
A group of youths from one of the minor Celestial subclans noticed him.
"There's the stray that lit up the altar," one said, nudging another.
"His bloodline veins must be low. Yet he made the altar tremble?"
Nocth turned to them slowly. His expression was unreadable, but something cold flickered in his gaze. The boy speaking felt a pressure on his lungs—a momentary illusion, perhaps. Nocth offered a faint smile, not of warmth, but of restraint.
Imius approached from behind, carrying a sheathed shortblade inscribed with testing glyphs. "Time for your assessment," he said. "The Families await."
Nocth followed silently. As they walked toward the eastern trial court, Imius glanced sideways. "Strange thing, yesterday. The altar resonated with you. Some of the elders are… disturbed."
"Is it because of the bloodline?" Nocth asked softly.
Imius paused. "Not just that. It responded to something else—something old."
They arrived at the court—a flat, wind-swept field rimmed with hovering judges' thrones. Dozens of young initiates stood waiting, armed with basic weaponry or gauntlets for channeling celestial energy.
Nocth's turn came last.
He stepped into the ring and took the blade. It felt dull. He frowned, not at its weight, but at the absence of resonance. He had felt something deeper the night before, when the altar had reacted. This… was lesser.
His opponent lunged—one of the aristocratic brats from earlier. The crowd expected an easy win.
Nocth parried clumsily once, twice—then stopped. He adjusted his grip subtly, a twist of the wrist like a memory returning. His third move disarmed the opponent and sent him spinning with a calculated push that looked accidental.
The watching elders murmured.
"He fights like a novice with ancient rhythm," one said.
"He doesn't know the technique—but his body remembers," said another.
Imius only watched with narrowed eyes. He had seen this before, long ago, in records of beings who awakened before their time.
Nocth stood quietly after the match, hands folded behind his back. His eyes scanned the clouds above the court, but his mind was elsewhere—remembering the pulse in his veins when the altar had awakened… and the fleeting vision that accompanied it: a woman with eyes like galaxies, falling through fire.
"Let's see where you go next," Imius muttered, almost to himself.
Nocth did not reply. But deep inside, something stirred.