The throne room doors loomed ahead, carved from towering oak and framed in dark stone etched with warding runes. Ross stood just behind them, waiting for his name to be called, the hush of nobility on the other side pressing against the walls like a tide before the break.
His heartbeat was steady, but his thoughts drifted.
The letter had arrived just a few days ago—royal seal, red wax, gold ink. The wording was formal and sparse:
Ross of Breven Hollow is hereby summoned to the capital at His Majesty's command. You are to be evaluated among the candidates for the Hero's Party. An escort will arrive within the day. You are to bring only personal effects necessary for a long-term stay.
He remembered the weight of the paper in his hand, the slight tremble in his mother's as she took it from him to read it again, slower this time.
They had sat around the kitchen table, the hearth behind them cold, untouched. The early light had made Elenor's face look drawn but resolute. Across from them, Marcus had spoken first.
"This isn't just a test," he had said, voice low and even. "The king's seen something. Or felt something. You were never going to stay hidden forever, Ross."
Ross had looked down at the seal. "You think they know?"
"They don't have to know," Marcus replied. "They only have to suspect. And that's enough to call you in."
Elenor had nodded after a long silence. "It's better to go. Better to show them you're not afraid." She'd placed a hand over his. "But don't let them make you a weapon."
"I won't," he'd promised.
Now, standing outside the throne room, that memory settled in his chest like a second heartbeat.
The heavy double doors creaked open.
The court herald's voice rang clear and sharp: "Ross of Breven Hollow. Age nine."
And the world changed.
—----------------------------------------
The throne room was a marvel of royal excess.
Tall stained-glass windows let colored light spill across the mosaic floor, illuminating the dais upon which King Theon sat. Incense curled in the air—myrrh and rosewood—heavy with divine undertones. Rows of nobles, generals, mages, and priests filled the chamber, seated by status and power. The weight of judgment filled the room like fog.
As Ross stepped inside, those attuned to mana and divinity felt it immediately.
The pressure.
It wasn't violent. But it was deep.
To the untrained, it might have seemed like a sudden chill. But to the gifted—the saints, the mages, the diviners—it felt like the ocean had risen in silence and swallowed them whole. Breath shortened. Skin prickled. Magic flickered like guttering candles.
A priestess collapsed against her seat. A knight clenched the hilt of his sword until his knuckles went white. A mage muttered a warding incantation without realizing it.
Ross walked steadily forward.
—----------------------------------------
At the front row, seated with divine blessing and adorned in ceremonial silver and white, Pharrex—the chosen Hero of the Temple of the Seven Deities—stiffened.
He'd been listening with calm indifference as each child was announced. Occasionally his Divine Insight would whisper impressions: pride, fear, hope, ambition. His Monster Sense, tuned from years of temple training, remained quiet.
Until now.
When Ross's name was spoken, Pharrex's body jolted like he'd touched lightning. His Monster Detection exploded in his head—an alarm so loud he could barely hear his own thoughts.
Danger. Monstrous. Other.
And yet… his Threat Assessment stayed flat.
No malice. No hostility. No danger.
His stomach twisted. His instincts warred. One side screamed for him to run. The other whispered there was nothing to fear.
Then Ross stepped through the door.
And Pharrex stopped breathing.
—---
Ross's footsteps echoed softly over the polished floor. He wore no ornate armor or glowing relics. His clothes were plain, his posture relaxed. But he walked like someone who didn't need to prove himself.
Not to the court.
Not to the king.
And not to the gods.
The pressure deepened for a moment longer, then receded like a tide, slow and deliberate.
King Theon, who had remained still throughout the entire ceremony, finally leaned forward.
On the edge of the dais, his fingers stopped tapping.
Ross came to a halt and bowed. "Your Majesty."
Theon studied him in silence. A dozen thoughts flickered behind his eyes.
Finally, he spoke. "Ross. Welcome to the capital."
"Thank you, Your Majesty."
"You understand why you've been called?"
Ross's voice didn't waver. "To evaluate whether I'm meant to stand beside the Hero."
"And do you think you are?"
Ross's gaze remained steady. "I think I'm meant to stand where I'm needed. If that's beside him, I won't falter."
The court murmured at the boldness, but Theon showed no disapproval.
Instead, he smiled faintly. "We'll see."
The court herald, slightly paler than before, stepped forward. "All candidates are to proceed to the north wing for lodging. Trials begin at dawn."
Ross turned. As he did, his eyes briefly met Pharrex's.
The Hero still hadn't moved.
His hands gripped the arms of his chair tightly, knuckles white.
Ross gave him a small nod.
Then he was gone.
The doors closed behind him.
And the weight in the air dispersed.
—----------------------------------------
On the throne, Theon leaned back, thoughtful.
Advisor Orlen, standing to the side, said nothing. But he looked just as shaken as the rest.
The king spoke quietly, more to himself than anyone else. "If he's in the Hero's party… it doesn't matter who else we pick."
Orlen exhaled slowly. "You believe he'll lead?"
"No," Theon replied. "I believe he doesn't need to."
Because whatever that boy was—human, divine, or something far older—the world had already bent slightly around his presence.
And the gods had simply made room.
—----------------------------------------
High Priestess Valenne moved quickly through the winding stone corridors beneath the castle, her robes whispering with every stride. The scent of rosewood and incense still clung to her from the throne room, but it was overwhelmed now by the faint copper tang of something older—something divine.
She had bowed her head when the boy—Ross—met her gaze. She had done it without thinking, as if her body already knew what her mind had not yet accepted.
Now, her footsteps echoed down the servants' passage toward the Temple of the Seven, tucked against the inner wall of the royal compound. Two guards posted at the entrance stepped aside with stiff, respectful nods. They must have seen the look in her eyes—tight with urgency, tinged with fear.
The moment she entered the temple, the world seemed to narrow. Cool, shadowed air embraced her, heavy with centuries of prayer. Candles burned before each of the seven altars—gods of Flame, Stone, Sea, Sky, Life, Death, and Balance. She did not go to any one of them at first.
Instead, she knelt in the center of the stone dais, between all seven, and pressed her hands to the ancient circle inscribed into the floor. The divine lattice. A link, faint and subtle, to the truths beyond.
"Reveal him to me," she whispered, eyes closed.
She felt the stillness press in. Not silence—but pause. The breath between heartbeats. The moment before the storm breaks.
Seven presences stirred.
It was rare—painfully rare—for all Seven to answer. Usually, it was one. Perhaps two. But now, Valenne felt all of them… shifting, watching, holding their breath.
She dared to ask again, more firmly this time. "Who is that boy?"
The altar of Flame flickered higher.
The Sea's candle guttered out.
The altar of Balance cracked—hairline, but deep.
Then—nothing.
Not even the faint whisper of guidance.
Valenne waited. And waited longer.
But no answer came.
Not from the Seven.
Her breath caught. A bead of cold sweat traced the back of her neck.
They're refusing.
That realization chilled her far more than any vision ever had.
In all her years as High Priestess, at least one god always spoke. The God of Stone gave quiet strength. The Sky brought glimpses. Even Death had murmured secrets in the stillness.
But now—all of them were silent.
And yet… the boy had divine protection. She had felt it with absolute certainty the moment he stepped into the throne room. It clung to him like a mantle—dense and ancient.
Which meant…
Valenne's stomach turned.
If the Seven aren't protecting him… then who is?
She stood, slowly, her hands trembling at her sides. The sacred air felt thinner now, like she was breathing on borrowed time.
Whatever divinity watched over that child… it was not one of theirs.
Not Flame, not Stone.
Not even Death.
Something else had laid claim to Ross of Breven Hollow.
And the Seven were afraid to speak its name.