Reed stood in front of the cracked mirror hanging crooked on his bedroom wall, the frame slightly warped, its corners stained by years of sunlight and dust. Dawn had just begun its climb over the horizon, and pale beams of golden light filtered through the half-shuttered window, striking the wooden floor like ribbons of fire. In their glow, Reed studied himself—truly studied himself—not the way someone glances while combing their hair, but the way one might inspect a blade before a duel.
His reflection stared back: brown eyes ringed with sleepless shadows, dark hair curling stubbornly at the ends from last night's bath, and a faint line of worry just between his eyebrows. He pressed a thumb against that line as if he could rub it away. He looked older than yesterday. Maybe it was the weight of what today meant. Sixteen years. Sixteen years of life, of waiting, of quiet yearning—for this single moment.
He exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate, and tried to speak with conviction.
"Today's the day," he murmured, watching his lips move in the glass. His voice cracked slightly, but he didn't flinch. The words felt like a spell, a tether to keep his courage close.
In the kingdom of Asteria, turning sixteen wasn't just a passage of age—it was a moment that split your life into two distinct halves: before, and after. Because at sixteen, one was permitted to stand before the Church of the Golden Throne and receive the Blessing Spell—a ritual whispered to carry divine judgment. If the heavens deemed you worthy, you would be Chosen, a mark would appear, and with it, power. Real power. Not the kind that came from coin or swordsmanship, but the kind born of the gods' own hand.
But it was rare. Painfully rare.
Whole towns could go years without a single Blessed. Even here in the small village of Nareth, nestled between wildflower valleys and old pine forests, no more than five were typically marked each year. And once the spell was cast on you, that was it. No second chance. No trying again next year.
A knock, gentle but firm, stirred him.
"Reed?" his mother called softly through the door. "You'll be late, sweetheart."
"I'm coming," he called back, his voice steadier now.
He glanced one last time at the room. Modest. The floorboards creaked in all the right places. His bed was still unmade. A tiny wooden shelf near the window held a handful of worn books and a polished river stone his sister had once gifted him. On the chair beside the desk lay the ceremonial sash—deep blue, stitched by his mother's careful hands with silver thread forming patterns of waves and ivy.
He tied it around his waist with reverence, brushing his fingers once over the embroidery. "For luck," she'd said. He would need it.
When he stepped outside, the morning met him in full bloom.
The village was alive with movement. Bells rang gently from the high steeple. Laughter and voices mingled in the air as townsfolk—young and old—made their way toward the town square. Reed followed the flow of bodies, heart thudding with every step. The scent of fresh bread drifted from Harron's bakery as he passed. Someone waved, a blur of familiar face, but he didn't wave back. Not out of rudeness—he just couldn't pull his eyes away from what lay ahead.
The square looked transformed.
White petals had been strewn across the cobblestones. Gold silk banners fluttered from rooftops. The ancient fountain at the center, usually stagnant and mossy, now shimmered with crystal water and lilies floating serenely atop the surface. A sense of reverence hung in the air, heavy and sweet like incense.
And then he saw it: the stage.
Polished darkwood, fifteen yards across, ten deep. Raised just high enough to be seen by the crowd. The stairs looked simple—until he placed a foot on them and realized each step weighed more than it should, not physically, but in meaning.
There were others already there. Eleven in total, boys and girls, some fidgeting, others staring into the sky like they'd already made peace with fate.
Reed climbed the final step.
"Hey," someone said beside him.
He turned. A boy with wild dark hair and tanned skin stood at ease, grinning. "You look like you're about to bolt."
Reed blinked, startled, then chuckled nervously. "Not helping."
"Coren," the boy said, offering a hand. "You local?"
"Reed. Yeah. Born two streets down."
"Me too. This our shot, huh?" Coren said, eyes scanning the crowd. "My brother didn't get it. Neither did my sister. But… maybe today's different."
Reed nodded. "Let's hope."
The crowd stirred, and Reed's gaze was drawn to the front, where he saw them—his mother and little sister, barely five years old, standing hand in hand. His mother's shawl was neatly pinned. His sister had petals braided into her curls. Both waved the moment their eyes met his. His mother mouthed something—"I'm proud"—and Reed felt something tight unwind in his chest.
"Cute family," Coren said.
"They're everything," Reed replied.
Then—the drums.
One. Two. Slow. Reverent. The crowd silenced at once.
And from the far end of the square, the Bishop emerged.
The man seemed carved from moonlight and authority. His white-and-gold robes whispered across the stones, and his silver hair shimmered like starlight. When he walked, people parted. When he passed, heads bowed. He walked up the stage like gravity worked differently for him.
When he stood before the twelve, his gray eyes scanned them—deep, unreadable. Reed felt those eyes pass over him and shivered, as if laid bare before the judgment of the gods themselves.
Then the Bishop turned to the crowd.
"People of Asteria," he said, voice both thunderous and warm, "we gather to witness the choosing of Fate."
All eyes were forward. Not a whisper in the crowd.
"These twelve stand ready. Not all will be Chosen. That is the nature of the world. But today, the Divine gaze upon them."
He faced the twelve again.
"Still your minds. Breathe deep."
Reed obeyed, though his lungs felt like they were trying to leap from his chest.
"In the name of the Golden Throne…" The Bishop lifted his hands, a soft radiance beginning to gather in his palms. "Let the Blessing Ceremony… commence."
The stage was silent save for the rustle of silk.
"We begin," the Bishop said, "in order of arrival."
One by one, he stepped to each youth. Chanted. Placed his hands over theirs. A faint glow. A reaction—or none.
The first three failed. No light. Tears followed, silent but sharp. One girl sobbed as she was gently led off stage. The crowd watched in solemn silence.
But the fourth—a girl with dark braids and a quiet expression—lit up like the sun. Golden light burst from her palms, warm and divine. A mark shimmered into being on the back of her hand, shaped like a radiant shield.
"A Paladin," someone whispered in awe.
Reed's breath caught. His legs shook.
More teens followed. One by one. Two more succeeded—a burly boy with a dull blue glow and a red-haired girl with a vibrant green. Water and nature. Useful, but not extraordinary.
Then—Reed was the last one.
The Bishop stepped toward him.
Reed offered his hands.
The Bishop closed his eyes and began the chant.
A wind stirred. The crowd leaned forward.
Fifteen seconds passed. No glow.
Reed started to panic.
But then—something changed.
The light around them… dimmed. Like the world was holding its breath. Reed wasn't glowing—he was absorbing light, drawing it inward like a void.
The Bishop's eyes snapped open. He gasped.
Before him stood a boy cloaked in shadow darker than night. The light around him vanished, replaced by an aura of black—an impossible black, deeper than shadow, alive with an unseen pulse.
Gasps erupted in the crowd.
A few screamed.
Reed stood frozen as the Bishop whispered, "Impossible…"
A new color. One never seen. One never recorded.
The first—ever—Black Light.
And the world would never be the same.