Crystalline pillars arched overhead, their facets catching the lamplight in prismatic shards that danced across the polished floor. Incense smoke curled in lazy spirals through the air, mingling with the faint murmur of distant chants to create a haze of sacred expectancy. Ian's boots echoed on marble as he was led into the inner sanctum, the soft click of his bound ankles a constant reminder of the manacles at his wrists. Every breath tasted of sandalwood and distant thunder.
High Priestess Cariel stood before an altar of white stone, her silver-laced voice weaving through the cavernous hall. "By the breath of Illyra," she intoned, "we summon the Gift to stand among us." Her words rolled like gentle wind over still waters, and Ian's pulse quickened. He tried to swallow, but the weight of every expectant gaze pressed against his ribs.
On a satin-covered cushion beside her lay the Collar of Illyra: a silk-smooth band wrought from pale steel, intricate runes etched along its curve. Ian's eyes, still adjusting to the lamplit glow, followed the High Priestess's outstretched hand as she beckoned her acolytes forward. They moved in hushed reverence, their white robes whispering against the floor like drifting petals.
Cariel's invocation rose and fell, each phrase an echo in the curved vault. Ian's throat tightened as she concluded, "Receive this mark, that your power may bind to our temple's will." Before he could think to refuse, two priestesses stepped to either side, their fingertips brushing the runes as they lifted the collar.
Cold met warm as the steel slipped around Ian's throat. He jerked—instinct a flinch that tugged at his spine—as the runes pressed against his skin. Immediately, a soft pulse of magic thrummed through him, and he staggered. The world tilted, and for a moment the lamplight fractured into streaks of azure.
A collective gasp rippled down the rows of novices. Their bowed heads lifted in unison, eyes wide in awe and fear. Ian's heart hammered; he clutched at the ritual table for balance, knuckles whitening. The collar's runes glowed a pale blue, each symbol shimmering as though alive, syncing with the heartbeat he felt throbbing at his throat.
From the rear pew, Olivia Stormwind's green eyes burned bright. She leaned forward, knuckles tightening on her sword-hilt, as though she could will Ian safe with sheer force of will. Their eyes met across the vast expanse of marble, and for a heartbeat his fear eased. In the silent promise of that glance, he found a spark of courage.
Behind him, Cariel placed a cool hand on his shoulder. The touch was firm, unyielding—and strangely comforting. Ian drew a shuddering breath and lifted his chin. Around him, the novices bowed again, their whispered prayers a soft chant beneath the grand invocation.
Then came the first true thrum of power. In Ian's chest, behind every racing heartbeat, he felt a rush of wind—an invisible gale that swept through his lungs and lifted his hair in feather-light currents. The sensation was exhilarating and terrifying all at once: raw Air magic unfurling at his will, unbidden. He staggered forward, the world tilting beneath him, but held himself upright with Cariel's steady grip.
A single horn sounded, its deep note resonant and clear, filling the sanctum with a solemn declaration. Ian stood alone at the altar, the collar's weight both a burden and a beacon. The lamplight glinted off its runes as he exhaled slowly, determination hardening in his blue-flecked eyes.
Behind him, the soft rumble of chanting faded into respectful silence. Ahead, the sanctuary doors awaited his first step into the grand courtyard—where every face would turn to witness the Gift of Illyra made manifest. Ian squared his shoulders, feeling the cold steel of his confinement and the warm promise of newfound power entwined at his throat. His next breath was a wordless vow: he would bear this collar—and what it bound within him—with unbowed resolve.