Chapter 4: The Gate Opens
Aurelian awoke before the sun had fully crested the hills, the first pale light filtering through the high windows of the servants' quarters. For a long moment, he lay still, staring at the wooden beams above, the memory of last night burning behind his eyes—the flickering sigil, the pendant's sudden glow, the strange sensation like something ancient shifting inside him.
He sat up slowly, pulling his threadbare blanket tighter around his shoulders. His hands trembled again, but not from fear.
I felt it, he thought. Something woke up.
The sigil was still fresh in his mind, etched not just into the dust, but into his very thoughts. He remembered how it shimmered for an instant before vanishing—an echo of something greater. Was it real? Or just a desperate illusion conjured by a starved mind clinging to hope?
He had to know.
Moving quietly so as not to wake the others, Aurelian slipped from his cot and pulled out a small stick of charcoal he'd pocketed days ago. He crouched beside the wall, where the light hit just enough to see, and began to trace the sigil again—slowly, carefully.
But the lines didn't flare. The air didn't stir.
He tried again. And again.
Each time, the result was the same. Just black lines on stone. Dead. Lifeless.
He pressed a hand to his chest, over the silver pendant hidden beneath his tunic.
"Why?" he whispered.
The pendant pulsed faintly, almost too soft to notice. Aurelian narrowed his eyes. It's not just a keepsake. There's more to it. There has to be.
He tucked the pendant back in place, brushed the failed sigil away, and rose to his feet.
If I want answers, I need to go where magic lives.
---
Later that day, Mistress Calda handed him a folded parchment and a list of supplies.
"Bread, salt, lamp oil. Fresh herbs if the cart's in. And don't dawdle."
"Yes, Mistress," Aurelian said with a bow, taking the coin pouch and basket.
He slipped through the gates and into the chilly morning, grateful for the rare moment alone outside the estate. The cobbled streets bustled with early market traffic—merchants crying their wares, horses clattering past, and the scent of baking bread mingling with woodsmoke. But something felt different today. There was a tension in the air, a ripple of excitement. People clustered near the corner square, voices raised in speculation.
Curiosity tugged at him.
As he crossed into the main road, he saw it—a shimmering poster made of arcane vellum, glowing faintly with enchantment. A crowd had gathered around it. Aurelian moved closer, heart beginning to race.
The sigil of the High Magisterium gleamed at the top, etched in fire-gold.
> By Order of the High Magisterium of Velmora,
The Arcanum Academy Entrance Trials shall be held on the Third Moon of Frostwane.
All citizens aged 14–17 possessing arcane potential may present themselves at the Grand Plaza for testing.
No noble blood required. All power shall be judged.
A gasp escaped his lips before he could stop it.
"No noble blood…" he whispered, staring at the words like they might vanish if he blinked.
A boy beside him—well-dressed, with golden embroidery on his cloak—snorted. "As if commoners will ever pass the trials," he muttered to his attendant. "It's just a formality to keep the peasants hopeful."
The servant laughed sycophantically as they walked off, shoving past Aurelian without a glance.
But Aurelian didn't move. The world blurred around him. His mother's voice whispered through time:
"One day, you will walk among mages and scholars, not shadows and dust."
His fingers tightened around the edge of the basket. This… this could be it. The gate.
And in that moment, the pendant flared warm against his skin—subtle, but unmistakable. As if it, too, had heard the call.
---
He rushed through his errands, barely remembering to collect the herbs or count his change. His thoughts swirled with questions, hopes, and plans he dared not say aloud. He made his way back up the hill toward the estate, passing familiar buildings now cast in a new light.
As he neared the servant gate, he overheard two maids talking near the laundry line.
"They say even lowborns can try for the Academy now."
"Pfft. It's just propaganda. No one without connections passes the trials."
"I heard one girl from the outer ring awakened fire last year. She got taken in."
"Well, if that's true, the nobles will probably snuff her out before she learns anything."
Their laughter faded as Aurelian slipped past them, his thoughts churning.
In the scullery, he tried to ask subtly—what were the entrance trials like? What kind of magic was judged?
An older servant chuckled. "You? Trying out? What would you do, lad? Mop the floors with your mana?"
Kegan, overhearing, nearly spat his drink. "Don't tell me the royal runt thinks he'll be picked," he sneered.
Ulric joined in. "Maybe he'll charm a broom to sweep for him."
They howled with laughter.
Aurelian said nothing. He bowed slightly and returned to his duties. But the fire inside him had already caught flame.
---
That evening, under the fading light of dusk, Aurelian returned to the old storeroom in the western wing—his refuge. He slid open a loose floorboard and pulled out a scrap of parchment and a bottle of ink he'd managed to acquire with leftover coin.
He set the pendant beside him.
"You knew," he whispered. "You knew the path would open again."
Taking a deep breath, he dipped the quill and began to sketch the sigil—slowly, carefully, trying to match the memory burned into him. The first version was crooked. The second bled too much ink. But the third—something in it felt right.
Then, beneath the sigil, he wrote a single word:
Arcanum.
He stared at the page. He wanted to believe this meant something. That this was the beginning of his rise, not another illusion of hope.
And then—he heard it.
A voice. Soft, like breath over water. Familiar and distant.
"You carry more than a name, my son."
His chest tightened. His breath caught.
Mother?
He clutched the pendant tightly, heart pounding, vision swimming. For an instant, he saw flames. A city burning. Screams. His mother's face, bloodied, determined, reaching toward him with her final breath.
Then—darkness.
He gasped and fell back, the vision fading, leaving only silence.
The parchment on the floor trembled faintly. The ink on the sigil shimmered with a silvery gleam before fading.
He stared in silence. His eyes burned with unshed tears.
This is no dream.
Slowly, he folded the parchment and slipped it into a crack beneath the floorboard.
"They can laugh," he whispered. "But when I walk through those gates…"
He stood, head lifted, eyes sharp.
"…they'll remember my name."
Then the lamp beside him flared violently—and the flame turned violet.
He stepped back, breath caught.
And then—footsteps echoed down the hall outside.
Too heavy to be a servant. Too deliberate to be random.
He quickly shoved the pendant beneath his tunic, replaced the board, and snuffed the lamp.
The door creaked.
He pressed against the shadows.
And then—
The door opened.
A figure stood silhouetted in the fading light. Cloaked. Hooded.
Aurelian's heart pounded.
"You've awakened something that shouldn't yet stir," the figure said softly. "The blood remembers, boy."
Aurelian's eyes widened.
"Who are you?" he whispered.
The figure didn't answer.
Only stepped back, disappearing down the hall.
Aurelian rushed to the door but the corridor was empty.
The chill returned to his spine.
The gate has opened, he thought. But what waits beyond it… might not be mercy.