The stone chamber beneath the Zars estate smelled like dust, sweat, and old magic.
Deus stood alone at its center, a faint ring of glowing runes encircling his feet. Above him, floating in silence, were five glyphs — elemental sigils representing fire, water, earth, wind, and light. They shimmered like living script, pulsing gently as if breathing.
This was The Resonance Trial — the standard rite for noble-born children. A measure of magical affinity. Most passed. Some failed. A few awakened something special.
Deus had no intention of awakening anything.
But something had other plans.
"Begin when ready," instructed Master Orlin, the family's mage-in-residence — an older scholar draped in red robes, eyes dull from years of disappointment in students.
Deus raised his right palm slowly. He didn't chant — he never did. The other children had needed incantations and ritual stances. Deus simply focused.
Nothing happened.
The glyphs dimmed slightly.
Orlin cleared his throat. "Perhaps you should—"
Deus closed his eyes.
And thought about pain.
Not anger. Not power.
But the helplessness of Fred Winslet.
Of choking on his breath as laughter echoed outside a locked hospital room.
Of fading into death while the world kept moving.
And then—
The glyphs flared.
All five.
Simultaneously.
The runes began to spin — slow at first, then accelerating into a cyclone of elemental light. The air thickened. Dust on the floor lifted in slow, impossible spirals. The chamber itself groaned, as if waking from long sleep.
Master Orlin stumbled backward. "Impossible…"
Deus didn't move.
His heartbeat stayed level.
But inside his tower, back in his private chamber, two wooden blades resting on a stone rack cracked.
A pulse of invisible force shimmered through the room. The twin practice swords—one black, one silver—glowed faintly at their cores.
For the first time, they responded.
Back in the trial chamber, the spinning glyphs collapsed into one burst of light.
When it cleared, Deus stood alone in the silence.
The runes were gone.
Master Orlin stepped forward slowly, mouth open.
"That was— That wasn't resonance. That was a… melding. That shouldn't be possible."
Deus turned to him.
"No one ever asks what should be possible," he said. "They only say what has already been done."
Orlin stared at the boy — unsure if he felt awe… or dread.
Later – Private Quarters of the Duchess
Thesea Zars stared at the cracked hilts of the practice blades brought to her.
"The blades responded."
"Yes," said the attendant. "But only after his resonance spike."
She said nothing for a long time.
Then: "Tell the forgemaster to begin preparations."
"For what?"
She looked out the frost-covered window.
"For the true Antrar."
Midnght – Deus's Tower
Deus sat cross-legged on the cold stone floor, the two blades lying before him.
He hadn't touched them yet.
But he felt something in the room had changed.
The air listened differently.
He extended his hand, slowly.
The black blade vibrated, lifting an inch from the ground.
No magic word. No chant.
Just will.
And when he grasped the hilt, a faint pulse shot through his spine — like ice cracking under pressure.
He let go.
Not out of fear.
But control.
"I'm not ready for you yet," he whispered.
The blade didn't fall.
It rested gently back onto the floor — as if obeying him.
As if waiting.