Auroria—
A realm where magic is not just wielded… but breathed.
Where destinies are not written in stars, but forged in steel.
Four Orders shape this world:
The Elites, rulers of flame and intellect.
The Fi, underestimated, yet unyielding.
The Guardians, enforcers of balance.
And the Sentinels, silent keepers of forbidden truths.
But in Auroria, a sword is not merely a weapon—
…it is a covenant.
And for those like Ahaan, a young Fi with dreams far too vast for the box he was born into,
the Sword Ceremony is not just a rite.
It's the only path to rewrite fate.
Chapter 1: Dawn of Resolve
The first light of morning slipped through the cracked window of Ahaan's hut,
casting streaks of gold across the worn straw mattress.
The chill in the air whispered through the clay walls,
carrying with it the damp scent of earth and the soft hum of a village waking.
Ahaan sat up.
His fingers grazed the wooden shelf above his bed—
His gaze landed on a small clay figurine.
A miniature sword.
Its edge chipped, but still sharp.
"Today," he whispered.
"The world will see me."
From the kitchen:
"Ahaan! Breakfast is ready!" his mother's voice called.
The smell hit him instantly—
Fresh parathas, sweetened yogurt—his favorites.
In the cramped space, his mother moved with practiced ease,
though shadows of exhaustion clung to her eyes.
"You made my favorites?" Ahaan grinned as he took the plate.
She offered a soft smile.
"A warrior needs strength, doesn't he?"
Before he could reply—
Thud. Thud.
Heavy footsteps.
His father entered.
Face stern.
But in his eyes... something else.
Doubt? Fear?
"Son," the man began,
"what if the swords don't choose you?"
Ahaan's grip tightened around his fork.
"They will."
"And if they don't?"
Silence.
Then—
"Then I'll make them."
His voice—steel.
"I won't spend my life bowed under the weight of what others think I deserve."
His father exhaled deeply,
placing a calloused hand on his shoulder.
"Hope is a fire, Ahaan... Just don't let it burn you alive."
Chapter 2: Bonds and Burden
Outside, the village buzzed—
Merchants haggling,
Children laughing,
The sharp clang of blacksmiths shaping steel and dreams alike.
At the edge of the square,
Ishaan hunched over a broken pendant.
His fingers moved with familiar precision, trying to mend it.
Ahaan approached, nudging him with a smirk.
"Ready to lose again?"
Ishaan scoffed,
but the smirk faded as his eyes flicked to the looming Tower of Selection.
"Do you ever wonder why they even let Fi near the ceremony? A cruel joke, maybe."
Ahaan's smile dimmed.
"It's not about permission. It's about proving we belong."
Ishaan sighed. "You really believe that, don't you?"
"I have to."
Then—
A commotion.
A small boy, being berated by a shopkeeper for short payment.
Without thinking, Ahaan stepped in—
Clink.
Coins on the counter.
"Leave him be."
The shopkeeper scowled but said nothing more. The child darted away.
"Always playing the hero," Ishaan muttered.
"What's the point?"
Ahaan met his eyes, unwavering.
"The point is, we don't wait for the world to be kind."
"We make it kind."
The Training Grounds
Silence—
Then the murmur of a crowd gathered under a pale sky.
Elders with gnarled canes.
Children perched on shoulders.
Mothers with hopeful eyes.
Today wasn't an ordinary spar.
Today was a preview of destiny.
Steel and magic were about to dance—
Between two souls bound by brotherhood and rivalry.
At one end stood Ishaan. Sword drawn. Lightning flickering at his fingertips.
The crowd exhaled.
He had never lost to Ahaan.
His discipline—flawless.
His strikes—razor-precise.
The villagers trusted him with certainty.
At the other end—
Ahaan.
Blade twirling.
A grin like wildfire.
The crowd adored his spirit.
But when whispers of bets passed through the air—
It was Ishaan's name they murmured.
"Ready to lose again?" Ishaan teased.
"Keep talking." Ahaan's grin widened.
"It'll make winning sweeter."
The Clash
CRACK!
Ishaan struck first.
A bolt of lightning split the ground—
…but Ahaan was already gone.
An illusion stood in his place.
Shadows surged upward like living things.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
"Tricks won't save you," Ishaan growled, slicing through another decoy.
"Neither will rules!"
Ahaan's voice echoed—everywhere.
Then—Shing!
Ahaan materialized, blade clashing against Ishaan's.
Steel rang. Sparks flew.
"You've improved," Ishaan muttered, eyes narrowing.
"Not improved," Ahaan panted, pushing him back.
"I've been holding back."
Suddenly—
Twelve Ahaans.
Mirrors. Illusions.
A dozen blades dancing in perfect synchrony.
The crowd erupted.
But Ishaan… closed his eyes.
He listened.
One breath.
One heartbeat.
He lunged.
Not at a phantom—
But at the real Ahaan.
Lightning screamed along his blade.
"Got you."
Ahaan barely parried—
The force sent him skidding backward, boots carving trenches in the dirt.
Silence.
Then—
Laughter.
Ahaan wiped the sweat from his brow, still grinning.
"Alright, fine. You win."
He sheathed his sword.
"But tomorrow? The swords choose. And they'll pick the better fighter."
Ishaan smirked.
"We'll see."
As the cheers rose around them,
the two clasped forearms.
Rivals.
Brothers.
Each the other's shadow… and spark.