CHAPTER 16
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THE INITIATION
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THE NORTH CITY COUNCIL HALL —
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Traeven walks alone through the winter frontier, snow hissing beneath his boots. A white fur coat, far too regal for a man of his origins, wrapped around him like a borrowed identity.
Beneath it, he wears all black—silent, sharp, a shadow moving through a world of ice.
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He lifts his gaze.
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The mountains glow with built‑in homes, sky‑piercing highways, cathedrals, and hanging malls—a civilization stacked toward the heavens, each level brighter than the last. The lights shimmer like constellations trapped in stone.
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He approaches the largest cathedral, its doors towering like judgment itself.
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Inside, warmth vanishes, silence swallowing him.
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Traeven removes the fur coat and hands it to a servant at the door, a black mask and wig, the uniform of someone who should not be recognized.
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He steps into the cathedral tunnels—a labyrinth of stone arteries pulsing with faint blue light. The air taste metallic. His footsteps echo like distant drums.
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His thoughts spiral.
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The tunnels twist with shadows, moving where no one walks. Every turn feels darkened, heavy, intentional, as if something's guiding him.
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A final staircase spirals upward, ending at a massive crystalline door.
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Traeven exhales once.
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Then pushes.
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—THE COUNCIL CHAMBER
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Light explodes.
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A single beam from the sky‑window strikes the center of the room like divine spotlight. Traeven steps into it, his silhouette swallowed by radiant light.
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The floor beneath him is transparent crystal, alive with shifting colors—ruby red, citrus yellow, sapphire blue—each reacting to his footsteps like ripples in water. He notices it with awe.
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Around him stand the High Council, arranged in a perfect circle: Red robes burning like embers, Yellow robes glowing like dawn, Blue robes shimmering like deep ocean.
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Their hoods hide their faces, but their presence presses on him like gravity. A Blue Hood lifts a crystalline gavel and strikes it.
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WHAM!
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Blue Hood:
“Traeven. Welcome. You requested this meeting, and we… are delighted to hear what you have to say.”
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Traeven blinks, stunned.
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He thinks of Paul for some reason—of that humiliating moment, that failed persuasion, that sting of inadequacy. Something here feels familiar, like dejavu.
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He cracks his neck, steadying himself. His eyes drift to the red‑hooded figures and something inside him stirs.
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Instinct.
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Heritage.
Danger.
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His pupils tighten. His irises glowed faintly red—matching the man in the red hood.
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Red Hood:
“Tell us what troubles you, son…”
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Traeven:
“As you know, I am the hand of the king in the village square. I request the right to act in his stead while he recovers from the collapse of the wall at Rabbit’s Village.”
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Red Hood:
“We are aware of all activities in the state. What is it you intend to do?”
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Traeven:
“I want to retain all troops to protect the lives that matter in the village.”
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Blue Hood:
“That’s it?”
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Traeven swallows. The simplicity of the question rattling him, catching him off guard.
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Traeven:
“Hasan will gather our infantry, leaving us helpless against bandit attacks.”
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Blue Hood:
“You got that right!”
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Blue hits the gavel unnecessarily.
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Blue robes laugh.
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Red robes smile.
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Traeven’s stomach tightens with fear creeping in like liquid hot magma.
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Traeven:
“King Theron is out of commission. The people no longer respond to him. The priests are obsessed with Metro—it’s draining attention from what truly matters.”
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Yellow Hood:
“And what is that, Traeven?”
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Traeven freezes.
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Then clarity strikes him.
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Traeven:(calm, smooth, deliberate)
“To keep supply routes and trade protected at all costs. To safeguard the villagers who pay taxes and keep our government alive. I need independence—like Hasan has. Like Felix has.”
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He drops to one knee before the Blue Hood.
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Red Hood (roaring):
“GET OFF YOUR KNEES!”
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Traeven jolts upright.
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A migraine detonates behind his eyes.
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The Red Hood’s gaze pulses—ruby red, rhythmic, violent—syncing with the pain rippling through his skull.
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Yellow laughs.
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Blue shakes his head, smiling.
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Yellow Hood:
“He’s not ready.”
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Blue Hood:
“Yes he is...”
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Traeven meets the Red Hood’s eyes, slowly.
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And vomits.
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Red Hood:
“We know you love your friend. But you must let that go if you want a place in the High Council.”
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Yellow Hood:
“He’s doing better than you did, Red. Fire it up.”
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Blue Hood:
“FIRE IT UP, RED!”
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The Red Hood steps forward, his eyes igniting—literal flames.
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Traeven screams as red fire engulfs him, lifting him off the ground, twisting his body in agony. His hands curl. His back arches. His voice shatters.
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Thirty seconds.
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An eternity. He collapses on the floor gasping and moaning.
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The flames vanish.
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Smoke curls from his clothes.
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His shirt is burned away, chest lightly scorched, neck scarred.
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A second Red Hood approaches silently and drops a red robe beside his steaming body.
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Traeven curls into a fetal position, trembling.
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Red Hood:
“STAND UP!”
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He staggers quickly, wobbling, still smoking.
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Red Hood:
“From now on, you will never show your face in this city. When we call you, you will wear your reds—masked. If anyone learns you are here, you will die.”
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A pause.
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A smile beneath the hood.
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Red Hood:
“We will protect you, Traeven. We have watched you for some time now. You will be useful to our movement…
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‘…Congratulations, you will soon have what you desire.”’
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Traeven gasp, shaking, trying not to collapse. Fear wraps around him like a second skin.
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Red Hood:
“Continue your position as the hand. We will contact you for your first initiation ritual.”
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He laughs—low, cruel, echoing.
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Traeven’s eyes widen in horror.
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The scene fades.
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and then Add to home screen.