The Argent Citadel didn't just loom; it exhaled history, its towering spires of polished moonstone piercing a sky thick with gathering storm clouds that mirrored the electric anxiety below. Inside the Grand Coliseum, the air was a physical weight, thick with the ozone-scent of raw mana and the collective, jagged breathing of three thousand spectators. Every tier of the amphitheater was a sea of shimmering- opulence scions of noble houses draped in spider-silk robes that rippled like liquid starlight and warriors clad in dragon-hide leathers etched with glowing runes. Standing amidst this sea of gold and velvet, Adrian felt like a blemish on a masterpiece. His tunic, a mosaic of coarse, faded wool and rough-spun patches, chafed against his skin, a loud proclamation of his gutter-born origins that drew pitying looks from the instructors and sharp, jagged snickers from the students.
When the High Herald's voice finally boomed his name, the atmosphere shifted from vibrant anticipation to a cold, predatory stillness. "Adrian of the Low-Wards," the Herald announced, his voice echoing off the marble like a death knell. A dull roar of whispers surged through the stands- a toxic tide of "The Empty Vessel", "The Magic less Mutt," and "Why do they even let his kind try?"
Adrian walked toward the central dias, his boots sounding unnervingly loud against the ancient stone. His heart wasn't just beating; it was frantic, trapped bird slamming against the bars of his ribs. Reaching the center of the massive, glowing summoning circle, he inhaled the scent of crushed herbs and ancient power, raised his trembling hands, and began the chant. The syllables felt like jagged glass in his throat, a millennia-old incantation that demanded blood and soul. To the shock of the crowd, the air didn't just ripple- it tore. A violent vortex of emerald light erupted from the stone, a spiraling cyclone of pure, unadulterated magical pressure that forced the front-row nobles to shield their eyes. For one heartbeat, the skeptics were silenced, the Archon himself leaning forward as the brilliance promised a beast of legend- a dragon, perhaps, or a pheonix born of jade fire.
Then, with a sound like a dying sigh, the emerald sun collapsed.
From the shimmering, fading portal emerged not titan of myth. There was no roar to shake the foundation, no heat to singe the air. Instead, a single, scrawny common crow hopped onto the cracked stone. Its feathers were dull, its beak was slightly crooked, and its beady black eyes darted around in confusion. It tilted its head, looked at the stunned crowd, and let out a thin, wheezing "Caw," before fluttering up to perch uncertainly on Adrian's shoulder.
The silence that followed was absolute, a vacuum that lasted until the first snort of derision broke the dam. Then, the Coliseum erupted. It wasn't just laughter; it was a tidal wave of cruel, rhythmic mockery that hit Adrian with the force of a physical blow, making his knees buckle.
"Look at that!" Valerius, the Archon's son, bellowed from his place of honor, his hand resting on the mane of a massive spectral lion whose golden eyes glowed with disdain. "The Great Emerald Vortex...for a scavenger that eats roadkill! Does it have a special 'begging' spell, Adrian? Or it will just peck at our leftovers."
"Careful," a girl nearby giggled, stroking the crystalline fur of her shimmering ice-fox, her voice easily carrying through the jeering crowd. "It might drop a feather on you if you're not careful. It's a perfect match- a gutter bird for a gutter boy."
The laughter redoubled, a defeaning roar of the "The Crow-Prince of Nothing!" that drowned out the few sympathetic whispers from the back rows. Adrian stood paralyzed in the center of that vast, mocking circle, his cheeks burning a deep, shameful crimson. The crow on his shoulder shifted, digging its tiny talons into his patched tunic, a small, weak, and pathetic testament to what everyone now knew for a fact: his future was as empty as his magic.
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The golden afternoon sun bled across the Grand Plaza of the Argent Citadel, casting long, skeletal shadows as the thousands of initiates filtered out the Coliseum's arched maws. The air hummed with a frantic buzzing energy; students were already huddled in tight circles, their newly summoned spirits- prancing stags of silver light, miniature drakes breathing embers, and sleek crystalline hounds- acting as living badges of their status. In the center of the plaza, beneath the Great spire, stood the elite: the Esteemed Summoners. These were the upperclassmen and masters, figures of legend whose presence alone commanded a suffocating hush. Their spirits didn't just stand; they dominated, with mountainous golems and spirits of pure elemental fury towering them like silent gods.
Grand Summoner Elara stepped forward, her robes of midnight blue sweeping across the marble with a sound like shifting silk. She raised a hand, and chatter died instantly under the weight of her authority. "The Rite was a heartbeat," she began, her voice resonating not through the air, but through the very mana in their blood. "A fleeting moment of potential. But potential is a candle in hurricane. From this hour your true potential begins, you are no longer children with pets; you are summoners in a world that hungers for your failure. Look to your left and right. These are your peers, but they are not yet your allies." She gestured toward the far end of the plaza, where the air began to fracture and bleed. "You must now find your place. Apply to the established Club Houses or venture to form your own. Strength is a lonely road, but survival requires a pack. Choose your allies wisely, for the battles ahead will not care for your lineage- only your competence."
With a sharp flick of her wrist, several massive portals tore open, swirling with different colored mists that led to the various Club Halls. The plaza became a chaotic river of light and sound. Students began to summon their spirits again, mounting them with practiced pride. A group of nobles rode past Adrian on a carriage pulled by six-legged light horses, their manes flickering with blue flame. As they neared him, the lead rider, a girl with hair like spun copper, leaned over the edge of carriage, her eyes dancing with malice. "Still standing here, Crow-Boy? Careful not to trip on the portal's threshold; I hear those 'common' wings can't carry the weight of failure." Her friends erupted into a chorus of snickering as they vanished into the swirling mist. Another boy, perched atop a massive, armored tortoise, slowed just long enough to spit at the ground near Adrian's boots. "The Club of Scavengers is that way, I think," he pointed toward a dark corner of the plaza, "though you'd probably be better off in the kitchens."
Adrian waited. He stood like a stone in a stream, letting the tide of mockery wash over him until the plaza was an empty, echoing expanse of marble. Only when the last student had disappeared did he reach into the cold, silent center of his chest. He didn't chant. He didn't even speak. The air behind him simply...died. A jagged tear of pure, eyeless void split the space behind his shoulder, accompanied by an eerie, hollow sound like wind whistling through a tomb. Obsidian stepped out of the darkness, his feathers not black, but a shade of "absence" that seemed to pull the light from the air. The crow flapped its wings twice- a heavy, rhythmic sound- and landed on Adrian's shoulder, looking back at him with beady eyes that held a depth that shouldn't exist in a bird.
"I know," Adrian whispered, his voice a sharp contrast to his previous silence. "We have a club to join, too."
He stepped forward, his silhouette cutting a lonely, dark line against the glowing portal. As he vanished into the mist, Grand Summoner Elara stopped dead in her tracks. She was halfway across the plaza, surrounded by the most powerful summoners in the academy, but she froze, her head snapping back toward the portal Adrian had just entered. A cold shiver, something she hadn't felt in decades, crawled up her spine. The mana in the air around that boy hadn't just been dark; it had felt hungry.
"Grand Summoner?" one of the Esteemed Summoner asked, stepping toward her with a look of confusion, his hand resting on the hilt of ceremonial blade. "Is something the matter?"
Elara stared at the empty space where Adrian had been. For a second, she thought she saw a lingering trail of black feathers dissolving into ash, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. She felt the eyes of her subordinates on her, waiting for an explanation. "Nothing," she said, her voice clipped and cold, dismissing their concern with a single, sharp word. She turned and continued her stride, but her heart was racing. That wasn't a crow, she thought, her eyes narrowing. And that wasn't boy. It was a doorway. Behind her, the Esteemed Summoners exchanged a long, uneasy look before following behind her, the golden light of the afternoon suddenly feeling much colder than before.
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