But Auryn had already made up her mind. If she didn’t have a gown to wear, she would Weave one. Could she accomplish it? She wouldn’t know unless she tried. Years had passed since she’d tried to use that power regularly. Even at the Turning of the Mirrors, she'd used it with caution. These passing decades, she’d taken great care not to trigger it, for it always came with a heavy cost.
This is my selfishness, perhaps. But appearance is everything in this city. One cannot come as they are before the People. They do not see you unless you burn as brightly as the stars.
She glanced at her dress. Old, yellowed, and splitting at the seams. A mark of shame. A mark of a girl playing at godhood.
A mark she refused to wear any longer.
She reached up and plucked the dress from the hanger, laying it out on the floor.
“Lu’ma, stand aside,” she decreed, pointing to the wall. “Just there. Do not interrupt me, even if I…” Auryn swallowed. “Even if it seems that I will fall.”
The girl obeyed, but the expression on her face was mutinous. She wrung her hands together, pressing the ring she always wore on her thumb against the inside of her palm.
Taking a long, deep breath, Auryn raised her hands. White was the color of the Sokâr. No other was allowed to wear it save for the Sovereign Flame. She thought of Shu’Khan, of his flowing white robes, of his golden bracelets and sandals, jingling as he glided across the marble floor.
Magic flowed through her fingers. The gown lifted into the air. Auryn closed her eyes, imagining herself floating like Shu’Khan. Untouchable. Standing above all others with that cold look in his eyes. His skin like marble. His eyes frozen and unreadable. His robes floating around him like clouds around the sun.
I want to Weave that.
To be that.
Even if it is just an illusion for a few hours.
I want to be seen.
She gasped as something pulled on her. Deep inside. Like a spear had punctured a hole in her chest and was bleeding her dry. But the magic held. Her body held. She Wove until Lu’ma shifted behind her.
Opening her eyes, Auryn looked up in awe and wonder.
The gown that floated before her was exquisite. An image of Shu’Khan’s splendor but made to fit her form. White. Brilliant, shining, shimmering white. It was spun from starlight and sanctity—an opalescent cascade of silk-thin fabric that shimmered like fine mist. Each thread was veined with golden sigils visible even in the fickle Polis light. Silver cuffs cinched the sleeves at the wrists and held the gown suspended at mid arm, leaving the wearer’s shoulders bare.
Long trails of misted gauze streamed from the silvery leaves and foils at the back in a regal train. Auryn would need no jewels or necklaces toaccent her status. This dresswasa moving, living relic. As if the threads of Doctrine themselves had chosen to drape her in their flawless grace.
A white gossamer veil lay on the floor beside the dress. And a crown. A diadem inlaid with crystals and silver strings of spooled starlight. Each piece caught the Polis-light, its spears fanned outwards like blades of judgment.
Lu’ma picked up the dress with shaking hands, and when she looked at Auryn, her eyes were brighter than she had ever seen them. She laid it out on the nearby divan and signed, ‘at last, a fabric worthy of Your Radiance.’
And Auryn smiled.
Smiled despite the stabbing pain in her chest.
Because the cost was worth it.
Somehow, it always was.
18
The Crucible
The Crucible Yard lay at the center of the Varrow District like a wound left open. The structure spread wide beneath the blinding light spearing through the Mirror Shafts at the heart of the city, its yawning gates surrounded by the Destroyer's effigies.
Generations of combat drills, both physical and magical, had worn the courtyard’s flagstones smooth. Jagged scorch marks darkened parts of the stone, a testament to thousands of spells cast in service to the Void. Here, Reskala were broken and reforged until nothing remained of the men beneath the armor.
Rows upon rows of warriors moved across the expanse in disciplined formation, their aethersteel plates catching the sharp light. Their eyes burned white beneath nearly shaven brows; a steady radiance that did not flicker even as sweat tracked down scarred temples and vanished beneath steel collars.
These were the Elite, each bearing ten or more major runes carved into their flesh. The markings wound across shoulders and ribs, climbed throats and spines, nested along collarbones and wrists. Some lines were clean and pale, healed with careful precision. Others were ridged and twisted; reminders of the pain endured when the brand bit too deep or mana surged too violently during the carving.
These were men who had chosen ordeal and survived it, who had stood conscious while their bodies were cut open to make room for power.
