The cold was the first thing, as it always was. It wasn't the type that makes you shiver, not anymore. Creed had left that kind of sensitivity behind years ago. This was a deeper cold that seemed to soak up from the earth itself, through the stone floor all the way through the thin straw mattress until it found his bones. It was a part of waking up now, as natural as the grey light of dawn or the rough scrape of the floor against his bare feet when he finally decided to swing them over the side of the bed.
He just sat there for a while, letting the pre-dawn gloom of the room rest on his shoulders.
Cell. That was the word for it, the word his mind always supplied. Not a dorm room. It hadn't been a dorm room in a long time. It was a box to keep him in.
High on the far wall, a single narrow window gave the only hint of light in the room. The glass was thick with the grime of countless seasons, a cascade of dust that softened the light of the outside world into a weak greyish one. It was just enough light to illuminate the little particles of dust, making them dance in the air like microscopic ghosts.
Creed's gaze drifted downwards, drawn by habit to the floor across his own bed. To the lighter patch of stone, the faint outline where Elian's bed used to be. Elian. He could still picture him, a jumpy kid who always looked like he was one step away from a panic attack, his nose twitching as if he were constantly sniffing out trouble or just a really bad smell. Elian had practically tripped over himself trying to get a transfer, his eyes wide with fear. Creed had found it insulting at the time. But he soon came to find out that fear was contagious. That was when the whispers about Emily had grown from quiet murmurs in the mess hall to something louder that echoed loudly in the halls.
'Good riddance,' Creed had told himself back then, and he'd mostly meant it. The kid had been exhausting. But the silence Elian had left behind… that was a different. It was heavier than any roommate, a constant quiet companion that did nothing but listen to his thoughts.
The room could be defined by one word. Minimal. Though not by choice. A rickety wooden desk that wobbled if you so much as touched it, a matching chair with a splintered back, his own narrow, uncomfortable bed. And a wardrobe that had probably seen hundreds of boys like him come and go.
Above him, on the stained ceiling, a faint mark, that seemed to be one made of water, darker than the surrounding stone spread into the shape of a skeletal hand reaching for something it could never grab.
In the long hours before his sleep, Creed would often trace its skinny fingers.
And today, like every day for the past month, the thought of the Selection was a physical thing. A cold, hard knot of dread pulling tightly deep in his stomach. The Selection. The day the spire formally separated the wheat from the chaff, the truly Blessed from… well, the rest. Or, in Creed's case, the day that would hammer the final nail into his coffin. He wasn't deluded enough to think he stood a chance. Not anymore. The rumors had put an end to any bit of hope he had.
With a sigh, Creed pushed himself to his feet. His joints cracking and popping, a quiet sound that reverborated in the even quieter room. He stood up, stretching his arms towards the stained ceiling, his back twisting and turning as he tried to work out the knots and cracks of his body.
His gaze caught his reflection in the cheap, standing mirror propped against the far wall.
Sixteen years old, five-foot-eleven, and painfully plain. That's what the files would probably say. That's what anyone would say. Black eyes, his features were on the rounder side, unremarkable in every way. Except for his hair, a mess of spiky black hair that seemed to defy gravity, combs, and common sense. It refused to be tamed no matter how much he might (or might not) try. It was the one thing that stood out. It made him easy to spot in a crowd. Easy to point at, easy to blame.
Despite all his shortcomings a small part of Creed still held on to hope, It was a belief that simply refused to die, no matter how much the other side of Creed tried.
He was meant for more than this. He had to be.
He still remembered the day, a full decade ago, he was a small bewildered six year old standing before the colossal gates of the Spire. A church official, a man who smelled of old incense, had found him. An orphan with nothing to his name but the ripped clothes on his back. This man had seen… something.
'Potential.'
He'd told Creed. The official had walked Creed through those gates, a feat that according to the church was impossible for the truly Unblessed. A sign of Verdia's acknowledgment they'd said.
But then… nothing. The divine acknowledgment, if it had ever existed, had gone silent. Years of study, grueling physical training, and mind numbing theological lessons and yet he'd remained completely average. He never reached the effortless grace of the others, the golden children of the Spire who seemed to be born from the Spire itself. But his confidence, or his ego as some of his less charitable instructors had called it, had never truly died. Deep down, in a place he protected from everyone, he still believed he was special.
Too bad nobody else thought so.
Returning from his thoughts, Creed pulled on his Kiron House uniform, its fabric stiff and unbending, a bland gray that inspired no hope in the youth. Over his heart, the Eye of Veridia was embroidered in a distinct silver thread. An unblinking gaze that seemed to judge his every movement. It felt heavier than usual today. He tightened the belt on his trousers and pulled them up, the rustling echoing in the quiet room.
Emily's face flashed in his mind. Her stupid, happy smile that he had now come to resent. He thought of the way she trusted everyone as if the Spire wasn't akin to a den of snakes. Then Iris's face, a ghost layered over Emily's. Her easy laughter, the deep friendship they once shared. The knot in his stomach tightened but he shoved the thoughts down. Wallowing wouldn't change a damn thing, it wouldn't clear his name, and it sure as heck wouldn't bring them back.
There was another feeling too, an undertone to his unease that always pricked at him in the Spire. A faint nausea he felt in his very bones whenever he was near objects or locations of holiness. It was a truly bizarre condition, one he'd learned to keep carefully hidden, another flaw in a long list of them. Unluckily for Creed, this was a flaw that was deciding to act up today.
…
The walk to the Grand Hall of House Kiron was long enough to feel like a pilgrimage. The spire wasn't a building in the conventional sense, it was a city carved into the heart of a mountain. A labyrinth of endless hallways, soaring arches that rose to an unseen roof, and vast chambers. Here, deeper within the territory designated to House Kiron, the ceilings were painted with fake stars in fading gold paint. The light was dimmer, and the glory was subdued compared to the Spire's main hallways. Large colorful tapestries hung on the stone walls depicting Veridia's great deeds. The Weaver goddess created order from the primordial chaos, her serene face looking down upon mortals. The vibrant threads were a stark contrast to the grey of the architecture and the student uniforms.
The usual sounds of life in the Spire, the chime of instructional bells, the low murmur of thousands of conversations, and the endless scrape of leather shoes on stone felt muted in Creed's section of the Spire. This was the wing that housed the outcasts and failures of House Kiron. As he moved into the populated corridors, the atmosphere shifted instantly. He felt it like a change in air pressure. Heads turned. Conversations died completely, replaced by a chorus of whispers that followed him.
"...that's him…"
"...I heard he actually…"
"...poor Emily…"
"...Kiron's shame…"
Creed kept his gaze fixed directly ahead, his face completely neutral. But the words were like poison, pricking at his skin. He'd grown used to it. That's what he told himself. But "used to it" was just another way of saying "enduring it" because you have no other choice.
…
Stern-faced statues of old Archons lined the corridors, their stone features carved into permanent expressions, ones that seemed to be filled with judgment. Their empty eyes almost seemed to follow Creed. He passed a small, recessed alcove where an eternally lit flame burned before a miniature statue of Veriadia. As he drew closer his usual sickness worsened, a faint dizziness turned into a full headache and his gut went from rolling to a whole gymnastics routine. His hand instinctively went to his stomach where his fingers found the outlines of a sphere hidden in an inner pocket of his uniform. HERO's gift. A Holy Weapon.