The evening was calm, the light of two rising moons filtering through the windows and casting a soft glow over the humble Redbones home. Vaan breathed in deeply, savoring the warm scent of roasted meat, fresh bread, and savory herbs that filled the air. The simple feast laid out on the table was a stark contrast to the weight of the upcoming ritual, but Vaan could hardly contain his excitement. Tomorrow was the day—the night before his class initiation, a moment he’d been waiting for his entire life.

  The table was laden with dishes that spoke of his mother’s skill as an herbalist. A platter of roasted pheasant, glazed with honey and thyme, sat at the center, its skin crisp and golden. Beside it was a loaf of crusty bread, still warm from the oven, and a bowl of moonroot stew, a hearty soup made with tender chunks of rabbit, wild mushrooms, and fragrant herbs. Vaan could already taste the subtle hints of rosemary and sage, a testament to his mother’s mastery of herbs. A pitcher of elderberry wine, sweet and slightly tart, completed the spread. It was a feast fit for the occasion, and Vaan couldn’t help but feel a swell of gratitude for his mother’s efforts.

  As he reached for a piece of bread, Vaan caught a glimpse of his reflection in the polished surface of the dining table. His features were stout but not heavy, a blend of his mother’s soft warmth and his father’s sharpness. His warm brown eyes gleamed with eager anticipation, and his messy, curly hair, brown like Garix’s, framed his face in a way that made him look both rugged and approachable. He’d heard others describe him that way before, often comparing him to his father’s handsome features. Personally, Vaan thought his father had more presence, especially with that patch over his eye. It looked dashing, like a mark of a life fully lived.

  The years spent working alongside Garix in the forge had rewarded Vaan with a robust physique. Vigor, finesse, mettle, and even acuity were all attributes that could be honed through the rhythmic clang of hammer on steel, the precision of shaping metal, and the endurance needed to work long hours by the blazing furnace. Vaan didn’t know exactly what his attributes would be, but he was certain they’d be on the higher end compared to others his age. He’d seen the way his peers struggled with tasks that came easily to him, whether it was lifting heavy loads or maintaining focus during intricate work.

  As he flexed his calloused hands under the table, Vaan couldn’t help but hope for the swordsman class. It felt like the natural path, a way to honor his father’s legacy while carving out his own. The thought of wielding a blade, of stepping into the world as a warrior, sent a thrill through him. But even if the ritual didn’t grant him that class, he knew he’d make the most of whatever came his way. After all, he’d already proven to his father that he could thrive under the heat of the forge. What was a little more pressure?

  Across from him sat Elijah Ferrell, his half-brother, every bit the contrast. Elijah’s hawkish dark eyes scanned the room, narrowing as he appraised those around him. His sharp, aquiline nose lent him an aristocratic, almost snobbish air, as though he considered himself above them all. His black hair, sleek and straight, framed his pale face, but his expression remained aloof and distant, tinged with a near-dismissive arrogance. Elijah’s looks were more effeminate than handsome—delicate, almost fragile, though it was hard to mistake for vulnerability, given the sharpness of his tongue and his knack for cutting remarks.

  Vaan, however, could hardly contain his excitement, and even Elijah’s scornful demeanor failed to dampen his spirits today. He was seventeen, finally old enough to attend the class ritual. His father, Garix Redbones, had graciously welcomed Elijah to their home for the occasion. Elijah was technically his elder brother, Brenda’s son from her first marriage, and though his visits were rare, Garix always treated him with respect. Still, there was a certain tension at the table, and Vaan couldn’t help but feel a flicker of annoyance. He’d never liked Elijah much. The boy was too much like his father, Vincent Ferrell, with his airs and pretensions.

  Garix sat at the head of the table, his presence a quiet but steady force. His once-powerful frame, honed from years of swordsmanship, had softened slightly with age and his transition to the forge. A patch covered his left eye, a relic of a battle long past, and his right leg, crippled in the same skirmish, rested stiffly beneath the table. Despite these marks of a life lived hard, his remaining eye gleamed with a sharp, knowing light. His hands, calloused and scarred from decades of wielding both blade and hammer, rested gently on the table. The transition from swordsman to swordsmith had not been easy, but Garix wore his new role with quiet dignity, his craftsmanship now as renowned as his skill with a sword once was.

  Brenda Redbones, Vaan’s mother, sat beside Garix, her eyes soft but wary. She had learned over the years to be patient with Elijah’s self-absorbed nature, but it didn’t make it any easier to watch him now. The strained bond between her eldest son and the family was always a sore spot, but tonight, she chose to remain quiet, letting the meal settle into a gentle lull.

  “So,” Vaan said, breaking the silence with an infectious grin, “tomorrow’s the big day. The moons align, and I finally get my class. I can hardly wait! Feels like a lifetime to get to this point.”

  Elijah stirred his wine, not meeting Vaan’s gaze. “Yes, I suppose it is. But I don’t see why we should make such a big deal about it. Shouldn’t we be celebrating after the selection, not before? It’s just a ritual.” Elijah was nineteen, and this was actually his third initiation ritual.

  Vaan chuckled, his enthusiasm undeterred by Elijah’s dismissive tone. “Of course it’s a ritual, but it’s the kind of ritual that defines our futures. Don’t you feel anything? A little bit of excitement?”

  Elijah sighed, his words laced with sarcasm. “I’m not wasting time getting excited over something I already know is going to happen. I’ve opted out of the archivist class twice. If I get that again, I’ll reject it and acquire the scribe class from my father directly through the legacy ritual.”

  Vaan raised an eyebrow, leaning forward with a teasing grin. “So, did your old man finally seal the writ? Third time’s the charm, huh? But isn’t this your last shot? I heard if you waive off a class three times, the Empire forces you to take whatever you get. Unless, of course, you’ve got that legacy scribe class waiting.”

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  Elijah’s jaw tightened, but he kept his tone cool. “Yes, my father did acquiesce to share the scribe’s class in case I don’t get it myself. Not that it’s any of your business.”

  “A scribe’s life would suit you! No running through the dirt, no bloodshed. Just quills and coins. Whatever floats your boat, I guess,” Vaan shrugged. The ‘System’ or the ‘Weave,’ as his mother preferred to call it, permitted the inheritance of non-combat classes. A parent could pass their class to their progeny without losing it themselves, though the transfer came with limitations: no skills, no perks, just the bare class framework. Even then, the heir had to meet the progenitor’s original attribute thresholds and any lingering class requirements without exceptions.

  For the life of him, Vaan couldn’t imagine wasting his days as a scribe. But Elijah? That pretentious prick was practically made for it. He could already see him hunched over some noble’s parchment, that same insufferable sneer on his face as he peered down at the world from his cushioned scriptorium perch, another spoiled Ferrell drowning in ink and arrogance."

  “Boooring! What’s the big deal with Archivist and Scribes anyway? Both sound the same to me,” Marianne muttered. She had the same brown eyes as Vaan, but her curly hair was longer and even more troublesome than her brother’s.

  Elijah’s voice sharpened slightly, though his tone remained cool. “Scribes and scholars are more well-rounded than archivists. Archivists are too specialized and focused, with specific conditions for progression. Scribe, generic though it may be, offers more room for diverse growth and all-around opportunities for progression.” He paused, realizing he’d actually deigned to reply. He quickly tried to regain his aloof unbothered stance, scoffing dismissively. “It doesn’t matter. If I get an archivist again instead of a scribe, runesmith, or scholar, I'll simply claim my father's scribe lineage through bloodright.”

  His gaze turned pointedly to Brenda as he spoke of his father, Vincent Ferrell. His tone was deceptively casual, as though trying to incite a reaction from her, but it never worked. Brenda merely glanced at Garix for a brief moment.

  Garix, who had been quietly watching the exchange, cleared his throat softly. “Don’t dismiss the value of any class just because it’s not what you expected. There’s no such thing as a bad class. At least not when it’s drawn through a properly sanctioned imperial ritual, with a runesmith, priest, or approved ritualist overseeing it. That’s the way it’s meant to be.” He turned to Vaan, who would actually listen to his advice. “Remember, while you can always opt out of a class during your first selection, if there’s a powerful resonance, you’d be a fool to ignore it.”

  Vaan grinned at his father. “And if something powerful comes my way, I’ll take it. But whatever I get, I’ll make it work.”

  Elijah rolled his eyes, his voice dripping with condescension. “I’m sure you will, Vaan. Always the moon-chaser.”

  Garix chuckled under his breath. “It’s not about optimism. It’s about recognizing what’s inside you. Tomorrow’s about finding your spark. The stones will reveal that.”

  “Right, yes, it’s all written in those stones,” Elijah said drily.

  Brenda, watching the exchange, sighed softly but didn’t speak up. She hated that it was always so difficult to bridge the gap between them. At least Garix had a way of handling Elijah’s barbs without letting them bother him.

  Marianne, noticing the tension building between the brothers, decided it was time for a little mischief. She crept toward Elijah, who was still brooding in his chair. Vaan watched, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips.

  Before Elijah could notice, she “accidentally” knocked over the bowl of moonroot stew, letting it spill down the back of his robe. Elijah froze, his eyes going wide as he turned slowly to face her. “What... what in the...?” he sputtered, his calm demeanor cracking under the surprise. His eyes darted between the mess on his robe and Marianne, who was struggling to contain her laughter. “You- what the hell, Marianne?!”

  Vaan couldn’t help himself and burst out laughing. “Guess you needed a little luck before tomorrow’s ritual, huh? Some people spill salt for luck, I guess you prefer stew.”

  Elijah’s face turned a deep shade of red, his usually composed expression now giving way to frustration. “Stupid girl! This is my dad’s robe, and you’ve ruined it! Forget it... I’ll... I’ll be in my room!” He muttered before standing up quickly, storming out of the room.

  "And there goes the finicky princess", Marianne said as he disappeared.

  Brenda stifled a sigh. Garix, however, looked exasperated. “For the love of the saints! I’ve never seen someone this strung up before their own class ritual!”

  “He’s just nervous, dear,” Brenda smiled.

  Vaan wiped a tear from his eye, still laughing. “What’s the big deal? He can always be that damned scribe whenever he wants. He said so himself! Just needs to ask his daddy.”

  “Well, there’s the chance he might get a better resonant class, maybe even a runesmith,” Garix frowned. “It’s common for nobles to attempt multiple times for stronger affinities. But he’s burning time... especially with the Grand Trial only a few months away.."

  "Someone should tell him that he is not a noble", Marianne remarked.

  “The kid’s not wrong for trying,” Garix admitted. “But that attitude of his… it’s worse than his father’s ever was. And I didn’t think that was even possible.”

  They grew silent at that. The topic of Elijah’s father was taboo in their family. Though Garix didn’t mind using some choice words about that asshole with Vaan, he only did so when Brenda wasn’t around.

  The tension gradually faded, and soon they slipped into familiar banter, speculating on what class Vaan might receive. Guardsman, Swordsman, Spearman, Duellist.. the usual contenders were tossed around. Marianne, never one to keep things simple, chimed in with increasingly absurd suggestions: ‘Doom Herald,’ ‘Butcher Saint,’ ‘Soul-Eater of the Hollow Flame.’ Each one more outrageously grim than the last, until they were all laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of it.

  Garix launched into the tale of his own initiation, a story they’d heard countless times. Yet Marianne and Vaan listened as if for the first time, caught in the rhythm of his voice, the warmth of the hearth, and the comfort of family.

  Outside, the twin moons cast their silvery glow across the fields, their mana essence gently seeping into the land. Somewhere out there, the ritual stones drank in the moonlight, preparing for tomorrow’s rites.

  Tomorrow, the ritual would arrive. Tomorrow, Vaan’s future would unfold.

  And whatever class the fates had in store, Vaan knew one thing for certain... he was ready for whatever came next.