Caelan Veyne's POV
The banners of the Seven loomed high above the temple courtyard, snapping like whips in the wind.
They towered over us all — each a heavy sheet of woven silk, dyed deep colors that seemed to drink in the sun. A black serpent coiled around a silver crown. Twin blades crossed over a red star. A golden sunburst crying seven tears. Each sigil older than memory itself.
I stood among the chosen and the hopeful, packed shoulder-to-shoulder at the foot of the great marble dais, heart hammering against my ribs.
There were so many of us. Young humans. Stern-faced elves. The stout dwarves in ceremonial braids and armor polished to a mirror's gleam. Even the beast-kin — ears twitching, tails flicking in nervous anticipation.
And me.
Caelan Veyne.
Seventeen.
Half-elf.
Fatherless.
I felt the weight of the stares even before I moved — eyes sliding to the boy with silver hair and violet eyes. Different. Always different.
The wind caught the strands of my hair, making them flutter like pale smoke across my forehead. I pushed them back with a gloved hand, trying to still the nervous energy that burned in my limbs. My simple black tunic and cloak felt too thin against the biting spring air, but I would not shiver. Not here. Not now.
At the head of the courtyard, past the arched columns and sprawling mosaics, the Archpriest of the Seven lifted his staff. Sunlight glinted off the golden rings woven into his heavy crimson robes.
"Today," he intoned, voice echoing through the stone courtyards and high walls, "the worthy shall be marked."
The crowd fell silent. Even the flags seemed to hush.
A line had formed at the base of the steps. Each name called would ascend, kneel before the Chalice of Binding, and be judged.
And receive the blessing of one of the Seven.
Or so it was supposed to be.
I shifted in place, feeling the worn leather of my boots scrape against the ancient stones. My mother stood at the edges of the crowd, her figure hidden under a heavy cloak. Only I could pick her out — small, slight, her hands clenched tightly in front of her chest.
She smiled when our eyes met.
A sad smile, brittle and brave.
I looked away before it broke me.
"Caelan Veyne," the herald called.
My heart jolted.
The murmurs started immediately.
"That's the half-blood."
"Didn't his father die in the Border Wars?"
"I thought the gods favored pure lines…"
I kept my head high as I stepped forward, each stride loud against the hush that fell.
The dais was larger up close — a wide platform of white marble veined with silver, old enough to remember empires that had crumbled into dust.
The Chalice of Binding sat atop a raised pedestal at its center, cradled by seven blackened iron claws.
The light within it was alive — swirling hues of crimson, gold, and azure. Magic, thick and ancient, pressed against my skin, prickling across the fine hairs on my arms.
The Archpriest watched me approach with unreadable eyes. His face was a latticework of deep lines, his beard forked and silvered. A crown of woven laurel leaves — symbol of his station — rested atop his brow.
"Kneel," he commanded.
I obeyed, dropping to one knee before the Chalice.
The scent of burnt incense filled my nostrils, mingling with the sharp tang of something older, metallic — blood, or something close to it.
The Archpriest dipped a thin ceremonial blade into the Chalice.
It came out dripping with light.
He approached, murmuring prayers in a language older than the mountains.
I braced myself.
The blade pricked the skin just above my heart.
Pain flared — sharp, but brief.
The light seeped into the wound, sinking into my chest.
I waited for the fire.
The searing agony that would forge the divine Mark into my flesh.
The proof that one of the Seven had claimed me.
I waited.
And waited.
The world tilted.
A low murmur spread through the gathered priests.
The crowd rustled — hundreds of bodies shifting uneasily.
The Archpriest frowned, stepping closer. His hands hovered over my chest, muttering prayers faster now, more urgently.
Nothing.
No burning.
No mark.
No acceptance.
I felt the blood drain from my face.
It wasn't happening.
"It must be a mistake," I thought, frantic. "Maybe it takes longer for half-elves. Maybe—"
But deep inside, I already knew.
I rose unsteadily to my feet.
The Archpriest stepped back as if I were something foul.
He turned toward the assembly, voice carrying out like a death knell.
"Caelan Veyne... is unchosen."
A stunned silence fell.
And then — the whispers.
Louder this time. Harsher.
"Rejected."
"Marked by none."
"Unworthy."
The nobles' children stared at me with thinly veiled scorn.
The beast-kin turned their faces away.
Even the dwarves shifted uncomfortably, muttering beneath their braided beards.
At the edge of the crowd, my mother flinched as though struck.
I stumbled back down the steps, the eyes of thousands burning into my flesh.
The line moved on without me.
Another name was called. Another boy stepped forward. Another flame of light seared into skin.
The ceremony continued, as if I had never existed at all.
---
We walked through the streets in silence.
The city of Nareth sprawled around us — once dazzling, now oppressive.
White marble towers pierced the sky, their banners catching the sun. Statues of the Seven lined the broad avenues, their faces stern and blind.
Merchants hawked wares from gold-inlaid stalls.
Temple guards in sapphire cloaks watched with hands resting on sword hilts.
But everywhere we passed, whispers followed.
Mother of the Unchosen.
The half-blood who failed.
Bad omen.
I kept my gaze fixed on the worn cobbles underfoot.
The buildings grew smaller, less ornate, as we pressed deeper into the city's poorer quarter. Here the stones were cracked, the walls patched with wood and cloth. Smoke coiled from chimneys, carrying the smell of stew and ash.
Our house — if it could be called that — waited at the end of a crooked alley. A squat, two-story structure of pale stone, its door hanging slightly ajar.
Inside, the hearth was cold.
Mother lit a fire with trembling hands, her face turned away from me. I could see the faint lines at the corners of her eyes, the strain tightening her jaw.
She had always been beautiful, in a quiet, aching way.
Hair like spun frost. Eyes a shade deeper than mine, violet laced with steel.
But now she looked so small.
"I'm sorry," I said, voice cracking.
She shook her head violently. "No. No, Caelan. You did nothing wrong."
"But—"
"It is they who are blind," she said fiercely. "Not you."
The fire caught at last, filling the room with a feeble glow.
I sank onto the rough-hewn bench near the hearth, letting the heat wash over my frozen hands.
For a long time, neither of us spoke.
The shadows lengthened on the walls. Outside, the city carried on — bells ringing the hour, children laughing and shouting somewhere distant.
But here, in this hollow little house, the world had ended.
---
When night fell, I lay awake in the cramped loft under the thatched roof, staring at the dark.
My chest ached — not from the failed marking, but from the empty space it had left behind.
I thought of my father — the man I barely remembered.
A warrior, they said. A hero of the Border Wars.
Fallen on the fields of stone and ash before I ever drew breath.
I wondered if he would have been ashamed of me.
"No," Mother would say.
"He would have loved you, no matter what."
But doubt gnawed at me.
I turned onto my side, pulling the thin blanket tighter around my shoulders.
Above me, the stars blinked coldly through the cracks in the roof.
So many stars.
So far away.
For the first time in my life, I truly felt how small I was.
How alone.
And yet — somewhere deep inside — a small, defiant ember refused to die.
I did not know then that this was only the beginning.
That rejection by the Seven was not an ending, but a door opening onto something far older, far greater than anything I had ever imagined.
For now, there was only silence.
And the slow, steady beat of a heart the gods had cast aside.