The night before the expeditionary force was set to march, the Vileth Estate felt less like a home and more like a tomb made of cold granite and sharpened iron. The air was thick with the scent of whetstones and oil, a physical manifestation of a clan readying itself for the harvest of souls.
Azrakar stood before the heavy, iron-bound doors of his father's study. In his past life, these doors had represented an insurmountable wall of judgment. To the Sovereign of the End, however, they were merely a barrier between him and a final piece of political theater.
He knocked. Three soft, rhythmic strikes.
"Enter," a voice boomed—deep, resonant, and carrying the unmistakable weight of a 5th Order Knight.
Azrakar pushed the doors open. The room was illuminated by a single, massive hearth and several flickering Mana-lamps that cast long, dancing shadows. Lord Varick Vileth sat behind a desk of black oak, his hands—scarred and massive—folded over a map of the Silver-Vein Pass.
For a long minute, Varick did not look up. He allowed the silence to stretch, a classic tactic to make a subordinate feel their own insignificance. Azrakar played his part perfectly. He stood with his head slightly bowed, his hands tucked into his sleeves, his breathing shallow.
Finally, Varick raised his head. His eyes were the color of cold flint.
"Captain Harl tells me you volunteered for the auxiliary runners," Varick said. There was no pride in his voice. "He says you've shown a 'stubborn' streak in the pits."
"I only wish to serve the clan, Father," Azrakar said, keeping his voice small.
Varick let out a snort that was half-laugh, half-growl. "Serve the clan? You are a Bronze-rank talent, Azrakar. Do you understand what that means? It means your vessel is a cracked cup. While a Gold-rank has the rare possibility to reach the 10th Order—the absolute zenith of this world—a Bronze-rank like you is destined to hit a wall. Most of you never even touch the 2nd Order."
Azrakar kept his gaze on the floor, but internally, his mind was cold and analytical. He felt the three distinct pulses within his chest: the rhythmic thrum of Aura in his veins, the cool circulation of Mana in his heart, and the golden vortex of Qi in his Dantian.
Thanks to the Primal Spark, he had already crossed the threshold. He was a 1st Order Knight, a 1st Order Mage, and a 1st Order Cultivator simultaneously. He was a trinity of power hidden in a child's frame. Varick didn't notice because Azrakar kept his energy perfectly compressed; to the 5th Order Knight, the boy's internal landscape felt like stagnant air. Varick wasn't looking for a master; he was looking for a failure, and Azrakar was happy to provide the view.
"I am aware of my limitations," Azrakar murmured.
"Are you?" Varick stood up, his presence flaring. "Your brother, Valerius, is already at the Peak of the 2nd Order at eighteen. He will lead a company. Your cousin Kaelen will likely break into the 1st Order before the campaign ends. And you..." Varick reached out, his heavy hand gripping Azrakar's shoulder. "You are going so that the clan doesn't have to look at its shame every day."
Azrakar felt the pressure. He thought of the 10th Order—the Zenith. In his past life, he had toyed with those who sat at the peak of the world, treating the 'sovereigns' of the 10th Order as mere playthings before the Great Decay began. Varick's posturing was like a candle trying to intimidate the sun.
Varick turned away and tossed a small, leather-wrapped object. Azrakar caught it. It was a rusted, unremarkable dagger.
"If the mercenaries catch you, use it on yourself," Varick said. "Don't let them ransom a Vileth 'Bronze-rank' for the price of a mule. It would be an insult to our treasury."
"I understand, Father."
"Go. Don't come back until the pass is secured. Or don't come back at all."
As the doors closed behind him, Azrakar's posture straightened. The "cracked cup" metaphor made him want to smile. He wasn't a cup; he was the ocean, and the world simply didn't have a vessel large enough to hold him yet.
He found his assigned mount—a small, sturdy pony—and checked his saddlebags. The Star-Silt and Moon-Vine were secure.
"The 10th Order," he whispered, looking toward the dark mountains. "They call it the peak. I remember it as the playground of my youth."
As the first horn of departure sounded, Azrakar Vileth rode out. He was already a master of three paths, a triple-threat in a world of specialists. The Silver-Vein Pass was waiting, and with it, the blood he needed to turn his Primal Spark into a wildfire.