Inside, the air smelled of incense and metal. Rows of benches lined the hall, filled with nobles and generals. At the far end stood the dais, where the Judges waited. Their robes were crimson, their masks silver, each bearing the Dominion’s chained sword.

The cathedral’s doors groaned open, spilling Kael into a cavern of stone and firelight.

The ceiling arched higher than any mountain he had ever seen, its ribs carved into chained swords and bleeding suns. Stained-glass windows painted the floor in reds and golds, their saints’ faces staring down with hollow eyes.

Kael stumbled forward under the push of a soldier’s hand. His boots clicked on polished black stone, the sound too loud in the silence.

At the far end of the hall, a half-circle of thrones loomed. Upon them sat the three pillars of Armathis: nobles in masks of beaten gold, generals in iron breastplates, and Judges in crimson robes. Incense smoke curled from braziers at their feet, filling the air with a cloying sweetness that made Kael’s stomach turn.

The robed figure stood in the shadows behind him, silent, watchful.

Kael’s heart hammered. He felt smaller than ever, a child dragged before monsters.

The silence broke.

“Bring forth the card.” The center Judge’s voice was low, muffled by his silver mask.

Kael hesitated.

The card rose in his palm, searing against his skin.

HERO.

 His palm trembled.

Gasps rippled through the chamber. Nobles leaned forward, their gold masks flashing. A general’s lips curled in a grin sharp as a blade.

“There it is,” one of the nobles breathed. “Proof that the Dominion is chosen.”

“A weapon beyond compare,” a general said. “With this boy, Azerath’s legions will sweep the seas and the sands alike.”

Murmurs surged.

But the Judges did not cheer. They stilled, their silver masks reflecting the glow of Kael’s word.

“This cannot be,” one whispered. “The Hero was only mentioned in an unreliable prophecy.”

“Prophecy of an impending doom!” another hissed.

The center Judge raised his hand. The chamber fell silent. His voice trembled, but his words carried iron. “The Hero is no gift. He is a herald. Do not rejoice.”

The generals bristled. “Superstition,” one snapped. “You would waste such a weapon because of old tales? This is strength given flesh.”

“And if your ‘strength’ burns the Dominion to ash?” the Judge retorted.

A general slammed his fist against the table. “Osvarra has already declared their Hero, a boy of Veyros blood! Will we sit idle while the seas crown theirs, and the Covenant whispers of divine judgment?”

“Propaganda,” a noble sneered. “If we do not parade ours, they will claim the heavens favor them.”

A Judge’s voice was a hiss: “And what of Lurienne? They will twist it as they always do that they need no Hero, for they are already god’s chosen. Mark my words, their faith will make weapons of envy.”

The nobles squabbled next, voices shrill beneath jeweled masks. “Parade him! Let the people know the gods favor us!”

“A child cannot be paraded,” a general snarled. “He must be tempered. Tested. Molded into the finest soldier Azerath has ever seen!”

“A child?” the Judge’s voice cut like a knife. “He is not a child. He is a bad omen.”

Kael stood frozen, his palm burning. They spoke of him as if he were not there at all. A weapon. A curse. A tool. Anything but a boy who wanted to go home.

His throat ached. He forced the words out, small and trembling. “I… I just want my parents.”

The chamber erupted.

“Parents,” a nobleman drawled, laughter sharp as glass. “Hear him! The boy craves only comfort.”

“Then give it to him,” another chimed in. “Promise him his mother’s embrace, his father’s hand, if he obeys. A leash woven of love binds tighter than any chain.”

The generals exchanged dark smiles. One leaned forward, voice low and iron-heavy. “Serve the Dominion, boy, and we will see them again. Obey, and the gates of Armathis will open for your family.”

Kael’s chest tightened. His lips parted, hope and fear warring in his eyes.

But a Judge’s voice cut through, cold as a blade. “Do not dangle hope before him. The Hero is not someone to be coddled.”

“Fool,” the noble spat. “Do you wish to squander the one the gods themselves have delivered?”

The generals’ voices overlapped, some pressing to shape Kael with promises, others urging discipline, threats, fear.

Kael stood at the center of it, trembling, their words clawing into him. Mother… Father… if I do as they say… will I be able to see you again?

The robed figure shifted in the shadows behind him, silent, unmoving. Watching.

At last, the center Judge raised his hand. The chamber stilled, but the air was thick with greed.

“Enough,” the Judge said. “If he is to be tempered, let the fire of the Grounds test him. Promise him what you will, but the Dominion decides when, or if, he tastes reunion.”

The decree fell like iron.

The guards seized Kael’s arms again. His card faded from his palm, but the weight of it clung to him. Not as a gift. Not even as a curse.

As a chain.

He was now taken to the training school of sorts where children from the cloisters were brought in every month and forged into obedient soldiers, weapons, and assets of Azerath.

The barracks smelled of sweat and damp straw.

Dozens of narrow beds lined the long hall, each with a thin blanket and a chipped cup of water beside it. The children of the Cloisters shuffled in, heads bowed, some clutching their arms as if they could still feel shackles there.

Kael followed, soldiers close at his back. His stomach twisted, he had half expected to be thrown into a dungeon again. Instead, he was led to the far corner of the hall, where a bed waited that was not like the others.

It was larger. The blanket thicker. The water clean.

And beside it stood a chest of folded clothes, simple but finer than anything the other children had been given.

The whispers started before he sat down.

“Look at his bed.”
“Why does he get that?”

Kael hunched his shoulders, wishing he could vanish. He didn’t want the larger bed, didn’t want the cleaner water. He wanted the small cot at the end of the row, the one no one would notice. He wanted his parents.

“Your Hero has finally arrived here you brats.” a soldier announced the new entry to the children inside the barracks

When Kael glanced up, he caught the stares of the others. Some were sharp with jealousy, others wide with awe, others hollow with fear.

One boy sneered. “The hero gets silk while we get rags.”

A girl whispered back, “Maybe he deserves it.”

Another child muttered, “If I had Hero, they’d bow to me too.”

Kael curled on the bed, clutching the blanket tight. It felt less like a gift and more like a chain, another way to make him different.

The next day, training began.

The trainers prowled like wolves, their voices echoing off the walls. They demanded the children run, climb, lift until their bodies shook. Cards flashed as powers were tested until they collapsed.

Kael’s chest burned, his small legs aching as he was forced to run and climb until his body shook. A boy with the Lantern card collapsed, his palm flickering weakly. 'Get up, worthless!' a trainer snapped, striking him with a switch until the boy scrambled back to his feet. This was how the Dominion shaped destiny.

Some trainers treated Kael harsher, insisting he behave as they imagined a Hero must: noble, unyielding, fearless.

“Heroes do not fall,” one snapped when he stumbled on the obstacle wall.
“Heroes do not cry,” another spat when he gasped for breath.

But others softened. A gray-haired instructor pressed bread into his hands when no one was looking, whispering “Stay small while you can. The world will make you large soon enough.”

Still, when Kael returned to the barracks at night, whispers followed him like gnats. Some hissed envy. Some muttered prayers. A few children crept close, asking, “Will you protect us? Will you save us?”

He didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t a protector. He was just a kid who wanted to go home to his parents.

Days passed.

The training yard was alive with sweat and dust. Children stumbled under drills, sparks and shouts filling the air as their cards flared in flashes of power. The Dominion’s instructors prowled like wolves, snapping orders, striking with switches when a child faltered.

Kael pushed through it as best he could, his chest burning, his small legs aching. His Hero card still refused him, glowing faintly at times but never answering when he needed it most. Each failure drew more stares. More whispers.

He was already a target.

It began when the older trainees of the noble lineage arrived. Boys and girls nearing nine, some even ten, who had been in the Grounds for years. Their faces were hard, eyes sharper than any child’s should be. They liked to pick on kids who were brought from cloisters as a form of entertainment.

They carried themselves like soldiers already, and they looked at Kael as if he were fresh meat.

“So that’s him?” The tall one sneered. His palm glowing with the word Maul. His knuckles thickened, fists turning dark like iron clubs. “The Dominion’s little miracle?”

Another smirked, flexing a hand as green vines slithered from his sleeve. Palm glowing with the card Bindweed. He was leaner as compared to the others. “Doesn’t look like much. Looks like he’d snap if I sneezed on him.”

A third scraped her boot across the dirt, pebbles rattling unnaturally at her feet. Her card faintly glowing Gravel. “Maybe he just needs to be ground down. See what’s left.”

Their eyes fell on a younger boy nearby, scrawny, trembling, his card flickering with the word Lantern. A faint light sputtered in his palm, too dim to be of use under the sun.

They grinned.

“Perfect,” one of them chuckled. “Let’s see if the Hero lives up to his name.”

The leaner boy lashed his vines, wrapping the Lantern boy’s arms and legs, dragging him to the ground. The girl scattered the yard with sharp stones that bit into the boy’s skin. He cried out, struggling, but the vines held fast.

“Help!” the boy sobbed. “Please — !”

His head turned to Kael.

“Go on, Hero,” The girl jeered, kicking dirt toward him. “Save him. Show us what destiny looks like.”

Kael froze. His stomach knotted. His breath came shallow.

The bullies sneered.

But when he saw the boy on the ground, face streaked with tears, Kael’s stomach twisted. His parents’ faces flashed in his mind from the day when he was taken to the cloisters, his father’s defiant glare, his mother’s broken body. He clenched his fists.

“Stop,” he said. His voice cracked, but he stood anyway.

The older trainees blinked, then burst into laughter.

“Did you hear that?” the tall one grinned, fists glowing dark. “The mouse roars.”

Kael’s legs shook, but he stepped forward. “If you want to hurt someone… hurt me.”

Silence rippled through the yard. The instructors didn’t move. The other children stared.

And then the tall boy laughed, deep and cruel.

“With pleasure.”

His fist swung, heavy as a hammer.

Kael raised his hands, desperate, willing the card to come, but nothing answered. No shield, no light, no strength. The blow crashed into his cheek, knocking him sprawling into the dirt. Pain burst white-hot, the world spinning.

The laughter exploded.

“Some savior he is!” The leaner boy howled. “He can’t even protect his own face.”

“Hero?” The girl spat. “Looks more like Beggar.”

The leaner boys vines tightening on the lantern kid. “Maybe his word’s just a trick. A lie to make fools like you kneel.”

The tall one loomed over Kael, cracking his knuckles again. “Stand up, rat. Let’s see what kind of blood the hero bleeds.”

Kael gasped, spitting blood, trying to push himself up. But when he looked at the Lantern boy terrified, helpless, he thought of his parents, of their broken bodies. He thought of what they would want him to be.

Something inside him refused to yield. He pushed himself to his knees, breath ragged, vision swimming.

“I won’t… let you hurt him,” he whispered.

Another blow crashed into his stomach, driving the air from his lungs. He collapsed, clutching the dirt. The older boy loomed over him, iron fist cocked back for a final strike.

“Hero huh.” The sneer cut deeper than the pain. “You’ll die before you save anyone.”

The fist came down, aiming to do more than just knock him out.

And struck steel.

The sound rang sharp, ripples echoing through the yard.

Kael blinked through the haze, and saw a figure approaching towards him

The girl from the Cloisters. Cropped black hair. Wide grin. Her palm glowed with the card: Blacksmith.

A slab of gleaming iron had burst into shape before her, catching the bully’s fist mid-swing. Sparks spat where knuckles met steel.

She tilted her head towards Kael, smiling as if this were a game. “Guess you are not that special, Hero”

The yard froze. Even the instructors held their tongues. The noble kids faltered. The younger ones stared, wide-eyed.

Kael struggled for breath, shame burning hotter than the bruises. He hadn’t been strong. He hadn’t been brave.

But she had.

And she was smiling.