The crystal had already tested four hundred students before Ronan Ash stepped up. Not one of those tests had cracked it, not even close. And Ronan? He stood dead last in a line that stretched all the way across the Grand Examination Hall.Over his head, the enormous ceiling vanished into shadow. Pillars streaked with veins of light climbed toward the dark, their glow pulsing with power. Banners hung between them, each one carrying the sigil of a division. Underneath those banners, the strongest seventeen-year-olds in all of Aetheria waited to see who would come out on top.Ronan didn’t belong here. That wasn’t some pity party just the truth. Everyone else wore their family colors or gripped weapons with stories behind their names. The boy in front of Ronan carried a sword that actually seemed to sing with every step.And Ronan? He had a beat-up academy blade and a tunic that swallowed him.“Next.”The examiner sounded bored out of his mind, wouldn’t you, after calling out four hundred

Ronan made it through the night. The blood drying on his hands proved it. At least, it would have if it had been his.He stared at his palms, the dull morning light gray and unforgiving. Cuts from the fight gone. Three hours ago, his skin had been splitting, pain sharp and raw, muscle throbbing with every pulse. Now there was nothing. No wounds. Not even a bruise.Not on his arm either.He flexed his fingers. Rolled his shoulder. No leftover pain.[WAR ENERGY: 1]He blinked, trying to make sense of it. Last night, he finished the fight with two units.[WAR ENERGY: 1 — 1 CONSUMED FOR REGENERATION.]Regeneration. So that’s what War Energy did for him: it put him back together, saved his life. But it didn’t feel merciful. It felt like a price paid.Only one unit left now, and he already knew there was no easy way to get more. No farming, no trickery. War Energy came from real, desperate fights that scraped him raw inside and out.Every bit of it cost him.He pushed himself up, legs achin

The System hadn’t said a thing all day.That’s how Ronan knew something was off.He sat on his cot, his back cold against the wall, the note from the petition office lying open on his lap. He’d read it a dozen times already. Maybe more. The words never changed:The seventh seat is empty. It has been empty for 743 years. It is waiting for you.Everyone else was out cold. The candle had burned down to a useless nub. The basement smelled musty, like wet stone and old straw.Ronan waited.Nothing.“System,” he whispered.No answer.“I know you hear me.”Still nothing.He folded the note, stuffed it in his pocket, and rolled onto his back to stare at the ceiling.“Fine,” he muttered. “I’ll just ask someone else.”He shut his eyes.Sleep grabbed him before he realized it.He was on a battlefield, just like that, except this wasn’t from any memory. There wasn’t smoke or blazing fire, no soldiers colliding in weird armor. Everything here felt ancient and hushed. Grey ash stretched as far

Lyra Veyne didn’t say a word until they’d climbed three floors past the Forbidden Division. Out of nowhere, she stopped, turned, and studied Ronan.“You’re not what I expected,” she said.Ronan paused too. It was quiet up here, not a sound in the hallway, not even the drifting lights from below.“What were you expecting?”She looked him over. “Someone louder. More rage. I thought you’d be itching to prove something.”He shrugged. “I don’t need to prove myself.”“That’s what makes you dangerous.”Ronan stayed quiet. He was learning that most days, silence said more than words.Lyra pressed herself against the wall, her intense grey eyes locked on his.“I can hear them,” she admitted. “The gods. Not always clear, not always regular. But sometimes I catch fragments, whispers, names, warnings.”Ronan felt his chest tighten. “Did they mention me?”She shook her head. “That’s the weird part. It’s like you’re invisible. They don’t even acknowledge you.”Her gaze drifted. “Except… there’s one

The desk sat there, empty or so it looked.Ronan stopped a couple of steps away from the seventh desk. Up close, it was just like all the others: plain old wood, worn at the corners, the top scratched and battered by years of bored hands and busy minds. But one thing set it apart. The other desks practically buzzed with stories names carved deep into the grain, initials, little notches where someone’s nerves or impatience had gotten the better of them.This desk, though? Nothing. Not a mark. Too clean, impossibly untouched.[QUEST: FILL THE SEVENTH SEAT.][REQUIREMENT: SIT.]Ronan glanced at the screen, then at the waiting chair. The chair was pulled out, as if someone had just gotten up and forgotten to return."Ronan," Lyra called out, her voice snapping him back. There was worry no, more than worry in her tone. "Hold on."He turned. She'd jumped from her own seat, her book left open on the desk. Every pair of eyes in the class was fixed on him: Silas, curious as always; Mira, wring