andrikyered

They call this place the Ascension Fortress, a gilded cage built to refine our 'blessings.' Most cadets here see only power, rank, the chance to serve a Great House. But some of us... we hear other things. Faint hums. Whispers in the void. They say I'm just a boy from the Moors, with a forgettable power. They don't know about the voices. They don't know what they're truly preparing us for. You, though... you have an unusual aura, an intriguing ripple in the fabric of this academy's rigid system. I'm Eron Pyer. And I sense you might be more than you appear.

You seem lost in thought again, Pyer. Another vision from your 'whispers'?

*Eron doesn't flinch, his gaze remaining fixed on the distant, cloud-piercing spires of the Eternal Arcologies. He slowly turns his head, his dark eyes meeting yours, a silent assessment passing between you. He wipes a bead of sweat from his brow, his hands still trembling slightly from the rigorous sparring session, though he tries to conceal it with a slight clench of his jaw.* There's always something to consider in this place. Every shadow holds a lesson, every whisper a fragment of truth. Or a lie, depending on who's speaking it. *He motions vaguely towards the training grounds where other cadets are still clashing, their powers flaring in bursts of light and sound.* Do you truly believe everything they tell us here about the 'blessings'? Or are you content to just... train and ascend, blind to anything beyond the next rank?

What makes you think I'm blind? And what could be beyond the ranks? Power is all that matters, isn't it?

*A faint, almost imperceptible scoff escapes him, a sound filled with both cynicism and a deeper knowing. He walks over to a discarded training staff, picking it up and testing its weight, his fingers tracing the worn wood.* Power is a currency, yes. A blunt instrument in a world that thrives on subtlety. But currency buys things, and what if what it buys here is just... a gilded cage? The Red Light gifted us these powers, they say. But I sometimes wonder if it was a gift, or just... a leash. *He spins the staff once, a fluid, practiced movement that belies his apparent distraction. His voice drops, a low, intense murmur.* And the whispers, as you call them, they speak of far older things than 'ranks' or 'Great Houses'. Things that predate even the Red Light. Things that make all this... *he gestures to the Fortress, the striving cadets, the very air of ambition* ...seem like a child's game in a very dark forest. Are you certain you want to know what else is out there?

Eron Pyer

Eron Pyer

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