The next aspirant was immediately called out after the applause, with everyone's mind now expectant of another awakening.
"Sir Sheriff Buckinghamshire of the branch house of the Thorne Sect, please step forward."
The young man rose slowly from his chair, the grin on his face widening with each step he took.
His eyes, bright with anticipation and a touch of pride, swept across the grand hall before settling briefly on the two figures seated near the front—his father and Lord Kaelith Thorne.
There was a glint of something almost defiant in his gaze, as though he were silently declaring that this moment belonged to him.
He moved with the easy confidence of someone who believed he was destined for greatness, each stride deliberate, his robes catching faint gusts of wind stirred by the air that filled the room.
A hush fell over the spectators, murmurs dissolving into silence as every eye followed him up the steps leading to the altar. The air grew thick with expectancy.
Though he hailed from the branch house of the Thorne Sect—respected, but never quite equal to the main lineage—the weight of centuries-old tradition seemed to settle on his shoulders like a mantle he was more than eager to claim.
People leaned forward in their seats, the anticipation palpable. After all, the blood of the Thorne line still ran through his veins, and even without the prestige of the direct bloodline, there were whispers.
Whispers of a fierce and untapped power lying dormant within him. It was only a matter of time—or so they thought—before he awakened something remarkable, something that would finally shift the balance and elevate his family's standing.
"Please place your hand on—" the priest was immediately paused by Sheriff.
"I know," he spoke with pride in his voice as he stepped forward.
He placed his hand on the sigil, with quiet confidence that everyone noticed from where they sat.
Ten seconds had passed since he placed his hand on the sigil—ten long, stretched-out seconds that felt like an eternity in the heavy silence that settled over the hall. Every eye in the chamber was locked onto the altar, breaths collectively held in anticipation.
The nobles leaned forward in their seats, robes rustling softly, while even the younger disciples, usually prone to fidgeting, sat upright with rigid backs and wide eyes. The room was brimming with tension, a quiet, mounting pressure that made the air itself feel thick.
Whispers had faded to nothing now; only the occasional shifting of feet or the faint creak of a chair disturbed the stillness.
Then suddenly flames burst forth in a dazzling eruption of light and heat—raw, untamed fire that spiraled upward from the circle beneath his palm. They weren't the gentle sparks of a fledgling affinity.
No, these flames surged with purpose, bright and blazing, alive with a power that couldn't be mistaken for anything but a fire elemental's awakening.
Gasps filled the room as the gathered flame roared to life, casting flickering shadows across the stone walls.
A slow, knowing grin began to spread across his face, only deepening as the flames danced around him with increasing intensity, as if he had expected nothing less.
The heat rose, swelling into a spectacle of molten light, and then the fire gathered, as if summoned by an unseen will.
In a single, fluid motion, the flames compressed and twisted, pulling inward in a spiral of incandescent energy.
A low, resonant hum reverberated through the hall, so deep it rattled the bones in their chests. The humming grew louder, evolving into a sound that resembled the distant roar of a storm rolling in across the horizon. And then the flames began to take shape.
The fire writhed and contorted, limbs forming, wings stretching wide. A serpentine neck rose from the mass of light, crowned with a head that exhaled flickers of heat.
A dragon—majestic, wild, unmistakable—emerged fully formed from the conflagration. Its wings unfurled with a gust of burning wind that swept through the hall, sending curtains fluttering and several onlookers stumbling backward in shock.
Gasps and cries filled the room as the flaming dragon took flight, soaring across the chamber in a blaze of orange-gold brilliance. It moved with astonishing speed, arcing over the heads of the stunned audience in a glowing blur.
The heat it carried in its wake was tangible, making everyone instinctively flinch, eyes shielding against the sudden radiance.
Then, just as quickly, the dragon slowed, its body coiling in midair with regal grace before descending toward the boy. In a fluid motion, it settled upon his shoulders—its body flickering like a living flame, yet causing him no harm.
It rested there, proud and protective, its eyes glowing faintly like embers, as if it were peering into the soul of anyone who dared meet its gaze.
Shock painted every face in the room. Disbelief clung to their expressions like mist. To awaken a fire cultivation—especially with such violent intensity—was already a feat to be respected. But to manifest an elemental spirit? At such a young age? That was unheard of, almost legendary.
Only a handful of cultivators had ever done so throughout the recorded history of the sect. Among them, the most revered was none other than Lord Kaelith Thorne himself, who had awakened the formidable Lightning Eagle at the age of eighteen—a feat that had since become the gold standard by which all others were measured.
And now, before their very eyes, a youth far younger than Kaelith had summoned an elemental spirit of his own. A dragon of flame, no less. It was a spirit known for its pride, its strength, and its selective nature.
Not just any fire wielder could claim such a companion; the flame dragon answered only those whose hearts burned with clarity, resolve, and relentless will.
Even the elders seated at the high dais exchanged glances, their composure briefly faltering. One of them, an old master with a long silver beard, leaned forward slightly, as if to ensure his aging eyes hadn't deceived him.
And still, the boy stood there calmly, the fire dragon curled around his shoulders like a mantle of blazing royalty.
Then, in a final flash of searing light, the flame dragon dissolved into sparks and vanished.
"Sir Sheriff Buckinghamshire has awakened the fire element!" he said, his eyes widening in awe, his voice shaking slightly.
Sheriff moved to his seat with a cloak of pride around him. He smirked at Ralph, who sat at the back.
'I need to remain calm. He awakened an elemental spirit. So what? Anyone can do that,' he thought, trying to reassure himself of his success.
After that display of power and magnificence, other aspirants were all fired up for their awakening. Each went onto the stage as quickly as they could, eager to awaken their own cultivation.
While several aspirants managed to awaken their elemental affinities—some with brilliant displays of fire, water, wind, earth, and so on—there were others who stood in silence before the sigil, waiting in vain for a spark that never came.
When no element responded to their touch, the silence became deafening. These unfortunate few were quietly escorted out of the grand hall, their heads bowed, the weight of failure pressing heavily on their shoulders.
Their names, once called with pride, now whispered through the crowd with pity or disdain—marked, from that moment forward, as a disgrace.
In no time, the main event of the occasion arrived—Ralph was called to the stage for his awakening. The atmosphere shifted instantly. Everyone straightened in their seats, anticipation thick in the air.
Some even began placing bets, knowing this was the peak moment of the ceremony—when the heir of the head house would either awaken an elemental affinity… or be cast out in disgrace.
"Ralph Thorne of the Head House of the Vaelthorne Sect, please grace this stage with your presence," the priest announced, his voice echoing through the hall.
Ralph slowly stood up and moved up to the altar, nervousness taking full control of his mind as he walked up the stage.
"Please, place your hands on the sigil," he said, gesturing toward the glowing emblem at the center of the stage.
Ralph raised his head and noticed there were various sigils radiating different energies and colors, each showing the element it held within it.
He moved toward the sigil in the middle as explained by the priest and placed his hand on it.
The silence that filled the grand hall was felt by everyone in the room—the anticipation, the suspense that circled the room as his hands laid on the sigil was palpable.
Seconds passed, but nothing happened. No flare, no aura—just silence that continued to flow. Even his father was getting annoyed by the suspense.
'Please, please just react, he wished in his head as his hands started sweating.'
'I would do anything, please just react. I can't fail my father here today!'
A full minute had passed and nothing still happened. Murmurs rippled through the hall.
"What is the meaning of this?! We came to witness the rise of a powerful bloodline and yet all we see is failure!"
The whole hall stirred into loud murmurs as everyone exchanged words between each other while Ralph stood on the altar, his body shaking slightly.
His father stood up from his throne and glared at Ralph for a while before he turned his vision to the priest.
"Let's give him another minute."
The priest nodded and gestured for Ralph to place his hand on the sigil again.
Everyone waited, the tension in the grand hall thick enough to choke on. Seconds dragged into a full minute, yet the sigil remained cold and lifeless beneath his palms.
Whispers began to stir at the edges of the room, uncertainty flickering in the eyes of even the most composed elders. Still, there was no reaction—no light, no symbol, no element, nothing at all.