The air in the Grand Hall crackled with anticipation.
Today was the annual Deity's Trial, a ceremonial event where promising students were selected to participate in a controlled interaction with a minor deity, a being of localized power associated with the Academy's protective wards.
It was considered a great honor, a testament to a student's magical aptitude and devotion.
Caelum stood on the periphery, the murmur of excited chatter washing over him. He felt the subtle shifts in the air as students preened, their nervous energy a tangible presence.
He had been informed of the event but held no expectation of being chosen. His unorthodox magic and his quiet demeanor had kept him largely outside the Academy's traditional hierarchy of merit.
Headmaster Theron stood on the dais, his voice resonating through the hall. "Today, we honor the divine by offering forth our most promising students.
Through this trial, they will gain invaluable experience and further solidify their connection to the benevolent forces that protect our Academy."
One by one, students were called forward, their faces a mixture of pride and trepidation. They knelt before a shimmering portal that had materialized on the dais, its swirling energy a testament to the deity's presence.
Each interaction was brief, a carefully orchestrated exchange of blessings and pronouncements.
Then, Headmaster Theron's voice echoed through the hall once more, carrying a note of unexpected deviation. "And finally… Caelum Rivenhart."
A hush fell over the hall. All eyes turned towards Caelum, a mixture of confusion and intrigue in their gazes.
Reya, standing nearby, gave him an encouraging nod, her expression a blend of curiosity and concern.
Caelum felt the shift in the atmosphere, the sudden weight of a thousand gazes. He moved forward with his usual quiet grace, his unseen gaze directed towards the shimmering portal.
The energy emanating from it felt… different. Not malevolent, but ancient, imbued with a sense of detached power.
As he approached the dais, a figure began to coalesce within the swirling energy of the portal. It took the form of a young man, his skin shimmering like polished bronze, his eyes glowing with an inner light. He wore robes woven with threads of pure energy and held a staff that pulsed with a soft, rhythmic beat.
"So," the deity's voice echoed, a melodious sound that nonetheless carried an undercurrent of amusement.
"The blind one. The whispers of your… unusual talents have reached even my realm." He chuckled, a light, airy sound. "Let us see what you have to offer, child of the mortal realm."
A wave of nervous energy rippled through the observing students.
This was unprecedented. A low-level transfer, blind no less, being given this opportunity.
Caelum stood before the deity, his head tilted slightly, as if listening to a silent question.
The air around the deity thrummed with power, a stark contrast to the calm stillness that usually surrounded Caelum.
"I offer no grand pronouncements or displays of power, honored one," Caelum said, his voice soft but clear. "I simply… observe."
The deity's glowing eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of surprise in their depths. "Observe? A blind mortal claims to observe a deity?"
Another wave of nervous whispers swept through the hall. Caelum's response was audacious, bordering on disrespectful.
Caelum remained unfazed. He could feel the ancient energy emanating from the deity, the layers of time and worship that clung to its being. And beneath that surface, he sensed something else… a subtle weariness, a hint of… forgetfulness.
He took a single step closer to the portal. The deity chuckled again, a sound laced with condescension. "Bold, aren't you? Perhaps you mistake my patience for weakness."
Caelum raised a single finger, his movement slow and deliberate. The air around them shimmered, not with magical energy, but with a strange… stillness.
"Tell me, honored one," Caelum said, his voice barely a whisper, yet carrying an unnerving weight. "What was your name… before you were worshipped?"
The deity's laughter died in his throat. His glowing eyes widened, not with anger, but with a dawning, terrifying confusion.
The bronze hue of his skin seemed to flicker, his radiant form momentarily losing its cohesion. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out.
His gaze darted around the hall, as if searching for something he had lost, something fundamental to his very being.
The rhythmic pulsing of his staff faltered, the energy within it sputtering like a dying flame. The shimmering portal behind him flickered erratically.
Panic began to ripple through the deity's features. He clutched at his staff, his brow furrowed in a desperate attempt to recall something that eluded him. His lips moved silently, forming syllables that held no meaning.
The observing students watched in stunned silence, their faces pale with disbelief. The deity, a being of power and reverence, was visibly… unraveling.
Headmaster Theron stepped forward, his expression a mask of shock and apprehension. "Rivenhart! What are you doing?"
Caelum didn't answer. His unseen gaze remained fixed on the struggling deity. The stillness he had emanated seemed to be affecting the very essence of the being before him, stripping away the layers of identity built upon centuries of worship.
With a final, desperate gasp, the deity's form dissolved into a cloud of shimmering dust, the portal behind him collapsing into nothingness.
The Grand Hall was plunged into an eerie silence, broken only by the ragged breaths of the horrified onlookers.
Caelum lowered his finger. The strange stillness in the air dissipated.
He turned away from the empty space where the deity had stood, his expression calm, almost detached.
"Sometimes," he said softly, his voice barely audible in the vast hall, "even gods… forget."
He didn't elaborate. He simply turned and walked back towards the edge of the dais, leaving behind a scene of utter bewilderment and dawning terror.
The carefully constructed order of the Academy, the unquestioned reverence for the divine, had been shattered by a single, quiet question from the blind boy who saw with silence.
As he walked, fragmented images assaulted his inner vision, not the sharp, painful memories of his family's destruction, but something older, something primordial. Whispers of forgotten names, echoes of beings who had walked Eliovan before the current pantheon, their power fading into the mists of time. It was a terrifying glimpse into a past far more complex and volatile than the Academy's sanitized histories. The void, it seemed, had not only amplified his senses but had also unlocked something within him, a resonance with the forgotten layers of Eliovan's history, a power that could even touch the minds of gods and unravel the very fabric of their being. The deity's unraveling wasn't just a display of power; it was a nightmare unfolding, a terrifying glimpse into the impermanence of even the divine, triggered by a simple act of remembering.
Chapter 8( Bonus gift) — "The Bloom Breaks"
The garden had returned.
White petals drifted lazily across the field behind Aetherveil's east tower, catching the wind like feathers loosed from the wings of forgotten angels. Caelum stood in the center, the wind catching the hem of his coat, his fingers gently brushing the flower heads.
These flowers should not have bloomed here. Not after what had happened. And yet, here they were—again.
White blooms. The kind that grew only in his home village.
Only in the place where everything died.
The parchment trembled in his hands.
A sealed record, stolen from the hidden archives beneath the Academy chapel. Truths whispered by time, choked by divine law.
And there it was.
His family. His bloodline. The Rivenhart name. Not just villagers—not just farmers.
Memory-binders.
Guardians of forgotten history, cursed with the ability to store, relive, and reveal truth that even the gods wanted buried.
The Bishop of Zephyscall, a man hailed as holy, had signed the order. Not for justice. Not for blasphemy.
But for fear.
Fear that the truth would bleed out through Caelum's veins.
That the past would scream.
That peace, as they sold it, was a lie written in gold and soaked in ash.
His hands lowered.
A single tear traced down his cheek—silent, unnoticed. Not rage. Not vengeance.
Just grief. A sorrow too still to scream.
"So peace is not allowed for me, after all," he whispered.
And for the first time since Elienne's death, the white flowers ignited—not with fire, but memory. Thousands of them—blooming and burning with each soul he had buried inside.
He didn't move.
But the wind stopped.