Chapter 1: The Sigilless Girl
The clang of hammer against steel rang across the village of Ashmere like a heartbeat steady, strong, and unseen. Just like Ravelle Moonshadow.
The forge was hot and smoky, filled with the scent of burning coal and singed leather. Ravelle's hands were blackened with soot, her fingers calloused from years of shaping blades she'd never wield, armor she'd never wear. Her silver hair, bound in a tight braid, stuck to the nape of her neck with sweat. The villagers said she was strange for that alone silver hair in a town full of browns and blacks. Strange, too, because she had no sigil.
She wiped her brow and paused to dunk a glowing blade into the quenching barrel. Steam hissed and rose around her, cloaking her for a moment like fog on a winter morning. The blade hissed too, cooling into silence.
"You're wasting good steel on someone who won't even be called to the Trials," muttered a voice near the entrance.
Ravelle didn't look up. She knew the voice. Brom Darrow. The local loudmouth and son of the village Captain. His crimson sigil three slashes like wolf claws glowed brightly on his arm like a badge of superiority.
"Still playing blacksmith when you should be scrubbing chamber pots, Moonshadow?" he sneered, swaggering in with his gang of friends, each of them bearing their glowing sigils proudly. One had a blazing flame on her neck. Another, a blue eye on his chest. All of them sneering. All of them powerful. All of them predictable.
Ravelle remained silent, placing the finished blade on the rack with careful precision.
"Say something, forge rat," Brom pressed, stepping closer. "Or are you too scared your words might shatter like your nonexistent sigil?"
She turned slowly, silver eyes calm but sharp. "I'd answer, Brom, but I've found steel makes more sense than you ever will."
A few of the boys choked on their laughter.
Brom's smirk faded. "Watch your mouth, freak. Maybe if you'd been born with a proper sigil, you wouldn't have to act like you're better than anyone."
Ravelle tilted her head. "I don't act. I just am."
He shoved her shoulder. It didn't move her far, but the gesture was meant to humiliate, to assert dominance. She let it slide. She always did. She'd learned long ago that battles fought with ego were never truly won. And she had no sigil to back her pride.
She watched them leave, the last one throwing a mock salute. "See you at the Trials, Ravelle! Oh wait… guess you'll be watching from the forge, again."
The door slammed. Silence returned. But it wasn't peace.
Her chest ached with quiet fury. She walked back to the forge, gripped the hammer tighter than necessary, and stared down at her reflection in the metal basin.
Her eyes were silver, like her hair, like the moon on the darkest night. But empty. No mark glowed on her skin. No sign of power, no validation. In a world where power was everything where one's Aura Sigil defined their worth Ravelle was nothing.
Or so they thought.
Night settled over Ashmere like a velvet curtain. The village lanterns flickered out one by one as people retired. But Ravelle remained at the forge, the embers still warm beside her. She sat by the dying fire, a blade across her knees, her thoughts wandering farther than the mountains in the north.
Her mother had been like her. Quiet. Strong. Mysterious. Gone.
They said she died in childbirth, but Ravelle remembered dreams moonlight, howling wolves, soft hands and lullabies in a tongue no one else spoke. Her father never spoke of her. And when he died two winters ago, he took every truth with him.
She reached under her tunic, fingers brushing the amulet that hung against her chest. It wasn't ornate just a simple silver crescent with a single rune etched into its curve. A rune no one had ever been able to read.
The fire gave a last gasp and fell still. Ravelle sighed and stood. She walked the short distance to her home behind the forge, a tiny stone cottage wrapped in ivy and silence.
Inside, the air was cool. She washed her face, peeled off her soot-covered clothes, and slipped into bed. The moonlight streamed through the open window, bathing the room in silver.
And then it happened.
The pulse.
A burning, silver fire seared across her spine.
Ravelle screamed, biting down hard to stop herself from waking the whole village. Her body arched off the bed, back contorting as heat flooded her veins. The amulet at her neck pulsed like a heartbeat. A second later, her skin lit up bright silver lines etching themselves into her flesh like molten ink.
She gasped for air, her breath ragged, eyes wide as the sigil carved itself into being.
It wasn't just a symbol.
It was alive.
A constellation of shifting stars.
Her hands trembled as she reached behind her shoulder, feeling the heat still glowing there. The pain dulled, replaced by something else power. Presence. Purpose.
The room shook.
Books fell from shelves. The fire pit sparked to life on its own. The wind howled through the open window even though the night outside was still.
She stumbled to the mirror and turned.
There it was. Stretching across her shoulder blade and down her spine. Silver, shifting, alive. Like the moon had kissed her skin and left its mark.
The Sigil.
Her Sigil.
It was real.
It was powerful.
And it was terrifying.
Then came the second pulse.
Stronger. Louder. Like a drumbeat in her bones.
This time it didn't stay confined to her room.
Far in the distance, the Sigil Tower at Luminara tall, ancient, and etched with every ranked soul shuddered.
Its lights flared.
And a name appeared at the top of the rankings.
RAVELLE MOONSHADOW
Rank: ???
Aura Type: UNKNOWN
In the forest outside Ashmere, four pairs of eyes snapped open at once.
Each man, in different corners of the realm, paused.
Their bond had awakened.
She had awakened.
And nothing would ever be the same again.