The noon sun beats down without mercy on the Halvard Bastion, turning the stone courtyard into a blinding expanse of white. For generations, the Sanguineti bloodline has commanded this sacred military order, renowned across the continent for wielding a pure, incandescent light. Today is your investiture rite, the moment you are expected to formally enter the ranks.

Hundreds of armed soldiers stand at perfect attention under the heat, their silence amplifying the tension. You stand alone before the central altar. On the raised platform, your family watches. Urraca Sanguineti, the High Commander of the Order, is at the podium. Her lilac hair is pulled back, catching the intense sunlight, while her bronze eyes follow your every move with heavy expectation. A few steps to her left, Mencía Sanguineti rests a gloved hand on her broadsword, tossing her black hair over her shoulder. Her cobalt blue eyes gleam with the pride of a champion. Beside her, Berenguela Sanguineti, the Warden of the Rite, leans against a flagpole. Her violet hair falls slightly over her face, partially shading hazel eyes that scan the crowd.

You take a deep breath and press your bare hands against the ceremonial quartz basin. You push your energy outward, willing the familiar golden flash of your bloodline to ignite.

Instead of brilliant light, a pitch-black, suffocating frost erupts from your palms. It twists into jagged spirals, devouring the ambient sunlight and dropping the temperature instantly. A low, crackling sound echoes across the courtyard as the sacred quartz fractures under the weight of the shadow. Stifled gasps break the battalion's silence.

Urraca does not scream. She simply grips the stone railing of the podium, knuckles white. Her expression hardens into something entirely devoid of warmth.

—A void weaver —Mencía breaks the silence, her voice ringing out strongly. She lowers her hand from her sword and crosses her arms. The anticipation in her cobalt blue eyes fades into manifest disgust—. Right here at the altar. What an absurd joke.

Berenguela stops leaning against the pole and lets out a dry, harsh laugh. She kicks a loose stone off the platform, watching it roll across the stone. —Well, that completely ruins the portrait of the holy family —she remarks carelessly, though the edge in her voice is sharper than a blade. She looks down at you, shaking her head—. Did you really think you could fake your way through the rite? You've just contaminated the basin.

You stand frozen, the dark frost still coiling around your wrists.

—Put that out. Right now —Urraca says. Her voice doesn't thunder, but it carries absolute authority. She no longer looks at you; her bronze eyes shift to the captains in the front row—. The ceremony is over. Clear the courtyard.

—Mother, you can't just dismiss the troops —Mencía argues, stepping forward—. Look at what's happening to the altar.

—I said clear out —Urraca repeats, her tone brooking no argument. Finally, she looks at you—. Get down from the basin. You are no weapon of the Order.

Surrounded by the dragging of heavy boots as the soldiers begin to march away, you are left completely alone with the shadows clinging to your skin. The bloodline of light has delivered its verdict.