This is a glimpse into Chapter 3 of Awakening of the Ascendant—a moment of reckoning where power awakens, and fate begins to shift.
No spoilers. Just tension.

Chapter #3 - The First Rite

The blood of others had paved his path to this moment. Scholars who’d refused to share their knowledge. Guards who’d stood in his way. The old woman in Urazel who’d recognized what he sought in her precious texts. The girl who’d glimpsed his tattoos and couldn’t be allowed to speak of them. All necessary sacrifices on the altar of his ambition. Their deaths mere stepping stones, nothing more. Tonight would make their sacrifices worthwhile.

He felt no remorse. Only the unquenchable hunger for what he must become.

The man’s hands trembled as he lit the last of the ritual candles. Shadows leaped across the ancient chamber walls, dancing over carved symbols weathered by centuries. Sweat trickled down his neck despite the underground chill. His heart hammered against his ribs as he placed the final candle at the northern point of the circle.

He stepped back, surveying his work. The chalk lines formed perfect geometric patterns across the cracked stone floor. In the circle’s outer ring, he had carefully inscribed the fragments he’d gathered over years of searching—symbols half-remembered from ancient texts, pieces of the First Word. His blood marked the inner circle, still glistening in the candlelight where he’d opened his palm with the ritual knife.

This abandoned chamber, buried beneath layers of forgotten history, had taken months to find. The perfect convergence point, where old foundations met even older ruins. Where the thrum of something ancient still throbbed, faintly, beneath the stone.

”No turning back now,” he whispered, his voice echoing in the emptiness.

Doubt gnawed at him. How many had attempted what he now dared? How many had died, their bodies twisted by forces they couldn’t control? The Pacta Orders spoke of such failures in hushed warnings to their acolytes—cautionary tales of ambition outstripping wisdom.

He touched the few tattoos marking his chest beneath his robes. Each one earned through knowledge, through fragments pieced together. Years of careful collection, of deciphering patterns others couldn’t see. Connections hidden in plain sight, waiting for someone with the patience to unveil them.

The alignments were right. The vibration beneath the chamber grew stronger. It had to be now.

A memory flashed—the Pacta-master’s dismissive glance as he scrubbed the library floors. ”That one? Just a servant. No aptitude for the Word.” The burning shame of that moment had never faded.

”You were wrong,” he hissed, anger rising like a tide. ”All of you were wrong.”

They’d called him nothing. Beneath notice. Unworthy of teaching.

But he had learned anyway. Stolen knowledge in midnight hours. Fragments gathered while they slept in their comfortable chambers, blind to the power slipping through their fingers. Each piece meaningless alone, but together—together they formed a key that had taken him years to understand.

He straightened his back, cold resolve replacing the trembling in his limbs. This was who he must become. Not the beggar-scholar hiding in shadows. Not the servant boy mocked and ignored. Something greater. Something that would make them remember his name—if he survived.

He stepped into the circle, careful not to smudge the markings. Kneeling at its center, he placed his bloodied palm against the stone floor. The rhythm beneath seemed to answer, quickening to match his heartbeat.

”Var-ek-tuum,” he began, the first fragment falling from his lips. The sound hung in the air, thicker than it should be. ”Nath-ek-suvaar.”

Each syllable felt like lead on his tongue, ancient and heavy with meaning. The chamber grew darker despite the candles, as if the darkness itself pressed closer to listen.

”Mal-ruuth-daan,” he continued, voice stronger now. ”Esh-tar-vaas.”

The air around him thickened. Pressure built against his eardrums. Dust from the ceiling began to drift downward as a tremor passed through the stone beneath him. The resonance—that strange rhythm he’d first sensed weeks ago—quickened and strengthened, no longer just beneath his feet but inside his chest, behind his eyes.

Something was awakening. Something was answering his call.

The Rite had begun.

His breath caught as the air became almost too dense to inhale. The pressure crushed against him from all sides, as if the chamber itself were contracting. Candle flames stretched and distorted, their light taking on an unnatural blue tinge. The chalk lines of the circle began to glow with a faint luminescence of their own.

The beat thundered now—no longer subtle but a physical force that shook his bones. He felt it synchronize with his heartbeat, each thrum sending waves of sensation through his body. His vision blurred, then sharpened to painful clarity. The carved symbols on the walls seemed to shift and writhe, revealing deeper patterns he’d never noticed before.

”It’s working,” he gasped, voice barely audible through the pressure.

A low vibration rose from the floor, climbing through his knees and into his core. The blood in the inner circle no longer appeared merely wet—it shimmered with an inner light, droplets rising against gravity to hover inches above the stone. His own blood in his veins felt suddenly hot, as if responding to its separated kin.

His fingers dug into the stone floor, seeking purchase as the forces around him intensified. This was only the beginning—the first tremors of something vast stirring from slumber. Fear and exhilaration warred within him as the ancient power he’d summoned began to flow, seeking a vessel, seeking him.

This is a glimpse into Chapter 3 of Awakening of the Ascendant—a moment of reckoning where power awakens, and fate begins to shift.
No spoilers. Just tension.

Chapter #3 – The First Rite

The blood of others had paved his path to this moment. Scholars who’d refused to share their knowledge. Guards who’d stood in his way. The old woman in Urazel who’d recognized what he sought in her precious texts. The girl who’d glimpsed his tattoos and couldn’t be allowed to speak of them. All necessary sacrifices on the altar of his ambition. Their deaths mere stepping stones, nothing more. Tonight would make their sacrifices worthwhile.

He felt no remorse. Only the unquenchable hunger for what he must become.

The man’s hands trembled as he lit the last of the ritual candles. Shadows leaped across the ancient chamber walls, dancing over carved symbols weathered by centuries. Sweat trickled down his neck despite the underground chill. His heart hammered against his ribs as he placed the final candle at the northern point of the circle.

He stepped back, surveying his work. The chalk lines formed perfect geometric patterns across the cracked stone floor. In the circle’s outer ring, he had carefully inscribed the fragments he’d gathered over years of searching—symbols half-remembered from ancient texts, pieces of the First Word. His blood marked the inner circle, still glistening in the candlelight where he’d opened his palm with the ritual knife.

This abandoned chamber, buried beneath layers of forgotten history, had taken months to find. The perfect convergence point, where old foundations met even older ruins. Where the thrum of something ancient still throbbed, faintly, beneath the stone.

”No turning back now,” he whispered, his voice echoing in the emptiness.

Doubt gnawed at him. How many had attempted what he now dared? How many had died, their bodies twisted by forces they couldn’t control? The Pacta Orders spoke of such failures in hushed warnings to their acolytes—cautionary tales of ambition outstripping wisdom.

He touched the few tattoos marking his chest beneath his robes. Each one earned through knowledge, through fragments pieced together. Years of careful collection, of deciphering patterns others couldn’t see. Connections hidden in plain sight, waiting for someone with the patience to unveil them.

The alignments were right. The vibration beneath the chamber grew stronger. It had to be now.

A memory flashed—the Pacta-master’s dismissive glance as he scrubbed the library floors. ”That one? Just a servant. No aptitude for the Word.” The burning shame of that moment had never faded.

”You were wrong,” he hissed, anger rising like a tide. ”All of you were wrong.”

They’d called him nothing. Beneath notice. Unworthy of teaching.

But he had learned anyway. Stolen knowledge in midnight hours. Fragments gathered while they slept in their comfortable chambers, blind to the power slipping through their fingers. Each piece meaningless alone, but together—together they formed a key that had taken him years to understand.

He straightened his back, cold resolve replacing the trembling in his limbs. This was who he must become. Not the beggar-scholar hiding in shadows. Not the servant boy mocked and ignored. Something greater. Something that would make them remember his name—if he survived.

He stepped into the circle, careful not to smudge the markings. Kneeling at its center, he placed his bloodied palm against the stone floor. The rhythm beneath seemed to answer, quickening to match his heartbeat.

”Var-ek-tuum,” he began, the first fragment falling from his lips. The sound hung in the air, thicker than it should be. ”Nath-ek-suvaar.”

Each syllable felt like lead on his tongue, ancient and heavy with meaning. The chamber grew darker despite the candles, as if the darkness itself pressed closer to listen.

”Mal-ruuth-daan,” he continued, voice stronger now. ”Esh-tar-vaas.”

The air around him thickened. Pressure built against his eardrums. Dust from the ceiling began to drift downward as a tremor passed through the stone beneath him. The resonance—that strange rhythm he’d first sensed weeks ago—quickened and strengthened, no longer just beneath his feet but inside his chest, behind his eyes.

Something was awakening. Something was answering his call.

The Rite had begun.

His breath caught as the air became almost too dense to inhale. The pressure crushed against him from all sides, as if the chamber itself were contracting. Candle flames stretched and distorted, their light taking on an unnatural blue tinge. The chalk lines of the circle began to glow with a faint luminescence of their own.

The beat thundered now—no longer subtle but a physical force that shook his bones. He felt it synchronize with his heartbeat, each thrum sending waves of sensation through his body. His vision blurred, then sharpened to painful clarity. The carved symbols on the walls seemed to shift and writhe, revealing deeper patterns he’d never noticed before.

”It’s working,” he gasped, voice barely audible through the pressure.

A low vibration rose from the floor, climbing through his knees and into his core. The blood in the inner circle no longer appeared merely wet—it shimmered with an inner light, droplets rising against gravity to hover inches above the stone. His own blood in his veins felt suddenly hot, as if responding to its separated kin.

His fingers dug into the stone floor, seeking purchase as the forces around him intensified. This was only the beginning—the first tremors of something vast stirring from slumber. Fear and exhilaration warred within him as the ancient power he’d summoned began to flow, seeking a vessel, seeking him.