Vaan had barely slept. Dreams had come in flickers, half-formed images of runes glowing beneath his skin, of grasping at flickering lights in the dark, only for them to vanish before he could understand. The moment the sky began to lighten, painting the thatched roofs of Wragford in pale gold, he was already up, slipping into his tunic and fastening the belt with nervous, clumsy fingers.

  Despite the early hour, the square buzzed with anticipation. Farmers in rough-spun wool rubbed shoulders with merchants in dyed linens, all gathered before the raised altar platform where the semi-silver basin gleamed under the rising sun.

  Vaan noted with some satisfaction that he'd arrived early enough to claim a decent position near the front, though the prime spots closest to the altar had already been secured, no doubt reserved by the retainers of noble houses well before dawn.

  He recognized a few local gentry, the mayor's plump son in his embroidered doublet, the miller's daughter with her hair done up in expensive ribbons. But others were strangers, their fine clothes and haughty bearing marking them as visitors from neighboring fiefdoms. One particularly ornate carriage bore the crest of House Veldrane, its gilded trim catching the light as a pale youth in velvet was ushered to the very front. Vaan couldn’t help but wonder if they had chosen his village for its lack of competition, where fewer noble-born challengers could contest their standing. He shrugged, let them buy their advantage. The ritual would judge them all the same.

  Tal and Ronald stood off to the side, near a cluster of villagers at the edge of the gathering. They leaned against the worn wooden fence separating the main square from the adjacent market stalls, their expressions equally amused.

  "Could've bet on you being up before the dawn's dew dried," Tal said, voice thick with amusement. His sandy hair was still unkempt from sleep, one sleeve half-rolled while the other dangled over his wrist like a wilted flower. "Sleep at all?"

  Vaan shook his head with a lopsided grin. "Like a baby. One that's dropped and screamed every hour."

  Ronald snorted. "He's shaking like a plucked chicken."

  "That's 'cause he knows," Tal added, elbowing Ronald. The motion sent a small cloud of dust rising from his threadbare shirt. "If no flair stone glows for him, he's doomed to muck out stables with Old Man Herrin."

  Vaan rolled his eyes. He wasn't worried. Even if no flair stone called to him, he knew his attributes were strong. Maybe not like those who trained in knight academies, drilling from dawn till dusk, but years of working the forge with his father had hardened his muscles. He wouldn't end up with some middling class. That much, he was sure of.

  Not that he didn't hope for a strong resonance. That could elevate a class to its fullest potential. If fire called to him and his attributes aligned, he could become a Fire Mage, wielding flames with unmatched power. Or if his vigor was high, perhaps he'd become a Fiery Fist, channeling fire through his strikes with brutal force. And who knew? If his resonance was 'might' and his 'vigor' stood strong, even a Knight class might not be out of the cards. Now that would be a dream, a path forged in steel, a warrior of legend.

  The altar loomed ahead, an ancient stone platform carved with runes, crowned by a basin of semi-silver liquid that shimmered in the early light. Statues of the three saints stood solemnly at its edges, though one was conspicuously absent. Wragford, part of the Ashwa’s fiefdom, did not recognize Romi as the fourth saint.

  Vaan found himself staring at Saint Saria. He had never been devout, not like his mother had wanted. But when he was younger, alone in his father’s forge with only the sound of hammer on steel, he had whispered to her. She was the Saint of Metal after all. His fingers flexed unconsciously, the old calluses a familiar comfort. He had always prayed when he was afraid, or when things loomed too large. Maybe that was why he had a certain fondness for her, or maybe it was because, in the quiet moments, he felt as if she had always answered.

  Vaan exhaled softly and, in a gesture so small that his friends wouldn’t notice, he bowed his head, murmuring a silent plea.

  His gaze drifted to the altar platform where Guard Chief Petros stood vigil, his massive axe resting against a shoulder corded with muscle. The chief's sharp eyes swept over the crowd like a wolf watching its den.

  "Don't block the steps," Petros called, his voice cutting through the murmur of the crowd. "You'll all get your turn."

  Beyond the initiates, the village had gathered in force. Blacksmiths still wearing their soot-streaked aprons stood beside farmers smelling of hay and earth. Mothers clutched the hands of wide-eyed children who'd never witnessed a Choosing before. But most striking was the figure in green and silver leaning against the empty fourth plinth - the adventurer's cloak fluttering slightly in the morning breeze, the guild insignia on his breast gleaming like a challenge.

  "Is that really a guild scout?" Vaan murmured.

  "Sure is," Tal replied, keeping his voice low as if afraid the man might hear. "Came all the way from Darven's Roost. That's a night's ride even on a ringhorn's back."

  Ronald scratched his chin, leaving a smudge of dirt across his jaw. "Means they are hoping someone here might be worth a contract."

  Vaan swallowed, suddenly aware of the weight of the moment. The Choosing Grounds seemed to hum with possibility, the ancient stones thrumming with some deep magic as the first initiates began their trials. The scent of incense from the altar mixed with the earthy aroma of the crowd, creating a heady perfume that made his pulse quicken.

  “If I don’t feel a strong resonance, I’ll just pass,” Ronald said suddenly, a rare note of seriousness in his voice. “No point locking into something weak. I will just train hard to improve my stats and that way I will have a better chance next time”

  “Unless you get a powerful flair. Then you have to take it,” Tal added, giving Vaan a meaningful look. “You’ll know if it’s strong enough to pull you.”

  “And if you get free attribute points, don’t waste them on Flair or Muse,” Ronald muttered. “Pop says they’re trap stats for warriors.” He nodded sagely. “Diminishing returns, you see.”

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Vaan nodded absently. His father had said the same. "Don’t have to allocate anything right away. You’ve got a day before unspent points fade. No rush."

  The crowd stirred as another initiate exited the altar tent, blinking under the morning light. Then, amidst the shifting bodies, a familiar face caught Vaan’s eye.

  Risa appeared, walking with quiet confidence, her chestnut hair tied back, eyes sharp and unreadable. She was the same age as Vaan, a reminder of simpler times when they had all been neighbors, though technically, she had lived next to Elijah. Back then, long before Elijah had become the insufferable snob he was now, the three of them spent days climbing trees, exploring caves, and wading through lily ponds to collect Dewspine Reed for his mother’s poultices—barring Elijah, of course, who’d always been too concerned about dirtying his precious robes. Vaan could still hear their laughter, the teasing, the races they’d had under the open sky, though some of those memories had grown fuzzy over time, as if something had been lost after the accident. He often wondered if Elijah had pushed him out of jealousy, or if it had really been an accident.

  The trio had never been the same afterward. It wasn’t that they hadn’t tried to stay close. Vaan had joined the troublesome group with Tal, Ronald, and others, while Risa had... well, become a girl. The dynamics shifted. A year ago, Tal, Ronald, and Vaan had voted her the village beauty. The title had somehow reached her ears, and when she’d scowled at him, Vaan felt an unexpected pang of guilt though he couldn’t say why. It was after that when Elijah made it clear to his mother that an arrangement had been made for Risa to become his future bride. Vaan had been shocked. She was too adventurous, too wild, to be tied down to a life in a scriptorium or librarium.

  But then again, maybe that was simply who Risa had always been to him the girl who climbed trees, collected reeds, and was always ready for adventure. She was still his friend, despite everything. As he watched her stand alone, without the usual entourage of girls, Vaan recalled that two of them had completed their initiation the year before, while one was still too young.

  "Look who finally decided to show up," Vaan called out, grinning as Risa approached. "Thought you might sleep through your own Choosing."

  Risa rolled her eyes. "Unlike some people, I don't need to arrive hours early to prove I'm eager."

  "Ouch," Tal said, clutching his chest dramatically. "And here we were, saving you a spot."

  "Saved me a spot at the back, more like," Risa countered, though there was no real bite to her words.

  Vaan chuckled, nudging her shoulder with his. "Still quick with the comebacks, I see.”

  "Elijah Ferrell!" Petros's voice boomed across the square.

  "Aye, and there he is!" Tal laughed. "Archivist Extraordinaire, back for his third attempt!"

  “What’s the big deal anyway? Scribes, archivists. Potatoes, tomatoes,” Ronald scoffed.

  Risa’s lips thinned. “Just because you don’t know the difference doesn’t mean they’re the same, Ronald.”

  Ronald snorted. “Why should I care? Non-combat classes aren’t worth losing sleep over.”

  Risa’s eyes flashed. “Tell that to your mother, then. Make sure she knows you think tailoring is a waste of time.”

  Tal grinned, holding his hands up. “Alright, alright, no need to start a revolution, future knight. Didn’t realize you were the champion of the underdog.”

  Before Risa could respond, Elijah strode past them, shoulders stiff, robes pristine. He didn't even glance their way as he entered the altar tent.

  Vaan raised a brow. “More importantly, how is he getting ahead of us all? He wasn’t there when we came”

  “Probably his dad pulling some strings”

  “Nonsense. The order is completely random”, Risa said. All three of the boys glared at her. She coughed, “Disregarding the nobles of course”

  The minute stretched. When Elijah finally emerged, he was pale, hands trembling, his eyes darting wildly across the crowd before fixing on their group, specifically on Risa standing so close to Vaan. His expression twisted for just a moment before smoothing into its usual mask of superiority as he pushed through the murmuring crowd.

  "Three times Archivist probably," Tal said, shaking his head. "At least he's consistent."

  They watched a few more youths step forward, some returning with triumphant grins, others pale and shaken. The ceremony continued, and the crowd buzzed with excitement.

  Vaan looked over at Risa, his curiosity piqued. “So, what class are you hoping for?”

  Risa’s lips curled into a small smile. “Hoping? Not really. But I’d like something that gets me out there. Away from all this.”

  Vaan raised an eyebrow. “Out there? Adventuring, you mean?”

  She shrugged, though her gaze was steady. “Something that lets me see the world, beyond the village and the books. I’m done with staying in one place.”

  Vaan couldn’t help but smile. “I guess I’m not that surprised.”

  Ronald snickered. “Risa, the adventurer. That’ll be the day.”

  Tal chuckled too. “Next thing we know, you’ll be leading a band of rogues.”

  Vaan for once didn’t join in the teasing. “You two really know how to make someone feel like a daydreamer.”

  Risa looked at him surprised but before she could respond, Petros’s voice cut through the banter.

  "Vaan Redbones."

  As Vaan stepped forward, he thought he heard Risa wish him luck but he couldn’t be sure over the sudden pounding of his own heart. His stomach dropped as he approached the stone archway, passing into the altar tent where the runes pulsed faintly, casting shifting shadows across the shimmering basin of semi-silver liquid.

  Runesmith Eldra stood nearby, hands folded over a bronze sigil-rod, its surface etched with glowing channels that pulsed in time with the altar's rhythm. "Do you understand the process?"

  Vaan nodded.

  "Flair stones will call to those who resonate. If none call, your attributes will determine your class. You may accept or reject, but once chosen, there is no turning back."

  Vaan stepped forward, inhaled sharply, and thrust his hand into the liquid.

  As Vaan's hand submerged into the semi-silver basin, for a moment, nothing happened. The liquid remained still, and no stones glowed. His breath caught in his throat as the silence stretched on. But then, all the stones began to tremble, but none had a dominant glow or reaction. But this... this was unlike anything he had seen before. All the stones jittered and shook energetically, creating a mesmerizing spectacle.

  Yet, the truth was the resonance wasn’t focused. It felt scattered, with no single element drawing attention. For a heartbeat, his chest tightened, and a wave of fear gripped him. Was it a mistake? Was I failing the ritual?

  He quickly steadied his breath, pushing the fear from his mind. It’s fine. My attributes will see me through, he reassured himself.

  He waited, tension coiling in his chest, until one stone rose from the center of the basin. It ascended above all the others, commanding the space like an emperor. The other stones quivered beneath it, as though applauding in unison before meekly falling back to the bottom. Vaan’s gaze fixed on the stone, his heart skipping a beat. It bore the image of a scale and a sword, symbols he recognized but couldn't fully place. Justice? No, wait… The realization clicked in his mind with a small spark. It’s order.

  "Nobody ever gets Order, of course," his father’s voice echoed in his mind, sharp and laced with a quiet reverence. "But it’s the imperial decree, the symbol of order... it needs to be there in all imperially sanctioned rituals."