The Hall of Ceremonies was big. It had to be, considering just how much use it saw almost everything single day. It was mostly constructed of a white, marble-like stone with veins of a darker shade held therein, giving it a strange, slightly otherworldly appearance, in contrast to the architecture of the rest of the buildings that surrounded it. It didn’t really give Damien much pause. While Regina’s shop had been a feast for the senses in terms of just how much magic had been in a single place, the Hall of Ceremonies was more subtle in its awe-inspiring heights.

“Quite the place, huh?”

Corbyn waited for Damien by one of the double door entrances to the building, a slight smile on his canine face. Unlike before, when he’d been dressed to the nines in his dark leather armor, he wore a simple grey tunic and brown pants, along with a pair of worn leather boots that looked to have seen better days. There was also a nondescript leather belt slung around his waist, holding on it a few pouches and that same, strange sword hilt that he hadn’t given Damien a name for.

“It’s definitely a place,” he replied. “But we’re not here for the sights, though they are pretty great.”

The Canis chuckled. “Fair enough. You ready for your Awakening?”

“... no. Let’s get it over with.”

The inside of the Hall of Ceremonies was just as ethereal as it was on the outside, with a row of check-in counters and employees of all stripes dressed in white robes that Damien could only assume were uniforms. It was a little creepy, if he was being honest. Like a church and a mega-corporation had done a merger.

Corby led him to the nearest counter bereft of clients, where a woman in her mid-thirties sat going over some documents. She seemed short, with blonde hair and fair skin, though that wasn’t what attracted Damien’s attention. The flowing lines that looked like magma veins on her skin were so unusual that, for a brief moment, it was like meeting Felicia all over again, except she wasn’t nearly so enchanting as the young Seraphite had been. And unlike his prospective friend, this woman seemed bored and overall done with life. And the Traveler couldn’t say he didn’t understand the sentiment a little bit.

“Welcome to the Hall of Ceremonies. Do you have an appointment?” the woman asked, her tone bored as she continued to parse through her documents. She didn’t even bother to look at them.

“Yes, we do,” the Canis answered causally. “Should be in about ten minutes.”

“Okay. Can I get your name to verify the appointment?”

“Corbyn Evershade, escorting one Damien Sinclair to his Awakening.”

The Canis’ name stopped the woman dead in her tracks. She looked at the Hunter then, her eyes widening with shock as she seemed to recognize him. It wasn’t a recognition by way of familiarity or fondness. It was recognition by reputation. And, perhaps, a bit of fear.

“My deepest apologies, sir!” she said, bowing to him as she backed away from the desk. “I-I’ll make sure everything goes smoothly!”

“Thank you,” Corbyn said, sighing as the woman ran to the interior of the Hall itself. “Dammit. Why does this keep happening?”

“Uh... are you a big deal around here or something?” Damien asked. “Because she definitely knew who you were.”

“Ugh. I hoped I’d be able to save this for later, but... the thing is, kid-”

“Corbyn! How are things, old friend?”

A deep, masculine voice cut through the Canis’ answer, causing his eyes to twitch and drawing their attention to a figure approaching them from the Hall’s entrance. He was tall, and looked to be human in the latter half of his middle years physically, with stereotypical coifed blonde hair with tasteful grey streaks, pretty blue eyes with the beginnings of crow’s feet and smile lines at their edges, and a smile that was way too perfect to be genuine. He was buff, with thick biceps, wide shoulders, and a thick-looking chest, and was dressed in shining steel armor of the kind a knight would typically don. His entire personality and demeanor were complete anathema to Corbyn and the general impression he gave of Hunters.

Damien immediately went on edge when he noticed Corbyn forcing a smile onto his face. It wasn’t as though the man was naturally gloomy, but even though they had only known one another for a few days, it was enough for the Traveler to pick up on a few of the Hunter’s tics. Like the fact that his eyes tended to twitch ever so minutely when he was annoyed, or the aforementioned forced smile. He had only seen it once, and the experience had been... memorable, to say the least.

“I’m doing just fine, Eric,” he answered. “Didn’t think I’d see you here. Didn’t you have an assignment somewhere in Carmina?”

“Sure, a few months ago,” Eric said, getting uncomfortably close to them. “But I finished up a while ago. I arrived in Lamora last week and thought I should take the time to relax. Imagine my surprise when I found out you were staying here as well! What a coincidence!”

“Yeah... how odd...” Corbyn said,

Damien glanced down at the man’s belt, searching for weapons. He found almost nothing, except for a single, terrifying tool. A sword hilt. It was gaudy, gold-plated, and looked like it belonged in some rich dickbag’s collection rather than at the side of a warrior, but its presence could only mean two things. Either those swords were more common than Damien had initially thought, or, more worryingly... that Eric was a Hunter. And given Corbyn’s attitude towards him, not a trustworthy one.

“What brings you to the Hall of Ceremonies? I don’t think you missed any of your rituals, did you? If you did, the fact that you’ve come so far, is frankly astonishing!”

There was little hiding the man’s blatant attempt at an insult, and the questioning of Corbyn’s accomplishments set Damien on edge. Well, it seemed he’d been right. His mentor seemed to be something of a big deal. That was simultaneously reassuring and slightly worrying. Mainly because a reputation like that might mean that Corbyn had enemies. Was that part of the reason he had been so dead-set on Damien thinking this through? Why he had given so few details? So that he wouldn’t learn anything that might put him in danger later on?

That was a pretty big leap to make, but given their current company, that explanation was starting to make more and more sense.

“I’m not here for me,” Corbyn sighed, seemingly unable to find another way to explain their visit to Eric.

“Oh?” the man looked genuinely surprised, raising a blonde brow and looking suddenly intrigued. “Have you finally chosen a potential apprentice?”

“... maybe,” Corbyn admitted. He shut up soon afterward.

Before Eric could pry any further, the blonde clerk came back, looking flustered, but confident. “Everything is ready, Mr. Evershade!”

“Thank you,” the Canis replied, looking relieved to find a way out of the conversation. “Anyhow, we’ll be taking our leave now, Eric. Have a good rest of your day.”

Eric didn’t reply to the departing words, merely waving as Corbyn and Damien stepped further into the Hall of Ceremonies, away from his intense gaze.

“What the hell was his problem?” Damien asked once they were out of earshot. “That was way too tense.”

“He’s... it’s a long story,” Corbyn admitted, scratching the back of his head as his ears started drooping. “But you’re right to think he’s trouble, because he is.”

“Why though? I understand that you two don’t seem to like each other, but I don’t have any context for the situation at large.”

Corbyn sighed, and looked at the room they were approaching. It was a wide place, with arcane symbols and circles carved into the very marble floors of the building, conducting such a large and intense concentration of Mana that even Damien could sense it, if only barely. It was a strange feeling, but one that he quickly adjusted to.

“Could you give us a few minutes?” he asked, glancing at the receptionist with a hopeful look. “I have some things to say to my young friend here.”

“Of course,” she said with a slight bow. “Feel free to call us in whenever you’re ready.”

Corbyn thanked her as she left, closing the door behind her with an ominous thud. The Canis sat down on the ground, legs folded in a meditation position as he patted the ground across from him. “Please, sit. This might take a bit, and they don’t have any chairs in here. Throws off Mana flow and all.”

Damien did, attempting to sit the way Corbyn was, and immediately finding it uncomfortable. The floor was way too hard for him to be sitting like that. So, instead, Damien crossed his feet and sat back on his hands, finding the position much more comfortable.

“So... did you two date or something?”

The question caused Corbyn to bark in laughter. Not a metaphorical bark either; a full-on dog bark that escaped his lips suddenly and without warning. After that, he reduced himself to chuckles only. “No, no, nothing like that. I’m not into men, human or otherwise.”

“Okay, glad that got cleared up. So... what did you want to talk about?”

“... I think you’ve probably pieced together by now that I’m... a bit of a big deal,” Corbyn admitted. “I don’t advertise it, but people seem to recognize me eventually. Didn’t realize people could recognize me by name until today, but we can save that for later. As to why I have a reputation in the first place... I’ll have to explain some things about the internal workings of the Hunter Orders. Some of it’s pretty basic, but I’ll be telling you some stuff that really shouldn’t be discussed in public. So, I need your word that you’ll keep what I’m about to tell you to yourself. Okay?”

The seriousness of Corbyn’s words gave him pause. Until a few minutes ago, Damien had almost never seen him genuinely annoyed, except for that one time with the particularly annoying hotel clerk who had been unreasonably stingy about Damien’s room. This was serious. Much, much more serious.

“Cross my heart,” Damien said. He meant it, too. After everything Corbyn had done for him, he was more than willing to keep a secret or two.

“Good. Good...” Corbyn said, rubbing his hands along his thighs, feeling at the material of his pants. “So, the first thing that you should understand is the nature of how rankings in the Hunter Orders work. There are plenty of ranks within, starting out with the Neophytes. If you join the Order of the Night Wolf, you’ll be starting out at that Rank. After that, you’ve got the ranks of Scribe, Pilgrim, Inquisitor, and Templar, in that order.”

“This is all sounding remarkably religious,” Damien noted.

“It started out that way, but the actual religious shit fell by the wayside a few thousand years ago when the official Churches came to power, though the terms for ranks stuck with us through the millennia. The Churches are... they’re a bit nuts, but that’s for another time. Anyway, there are two ranks above those five, but you can consider them mutually exclusive, since only one person can hold them at any time. And... I hold one of those positions for the Order of the Night Wolf.”

The silence that followed practically deafened Damien as he took in the weight of Corbyn’s words. The magnitude of what it might mean for his position. Taking a deep, steadying breath, he asked Corbyn the obvious question. “A-and... what rank is that?”

“Arbiter.”

The sheer, intangible weight of the rank’s title alone was enough to cause a few more seconds of silence before the Canis continued further. “Most people think I’m a particularly high-ranking Templar within the Order of the Night Wolf. It’s not too far off from the truth, so it’s what we let people believe about me and those who share my rank in the other Orders. It’s easier, that way. Arbiters are considered the strongest individual combatants of each Order, and are generally decided through two means. By way of a tournament if they didn’t leave an apprentice, or by way of being said apprentice. I think you can understand what kind of responsibility you’d be undertaking by apprenticing under me. Becoming a Shade Hunter is already hard enough, but becoming a potential successor to an Arbiter... it can make your life feel like a living hell. I won’t object if you still wish to walk this path, but... is this still what you want? Even knowing what you do now?”

Damien looked down at his legs, and began to think. Corbyn did have a point. Taking an apprenticeship with him did come with a lot of baggage, and a weight that he might not be fully prepared to handle. Becoming a Shade Hunter was one thing, but becoming the apprentice to an Arbiter on top of that? It was daunting. And Corbyn had been able to take out that Alpha Vermisca without much effort – and in only one strike, too! He hadn’t seen anything close to his true capabilities yet. Would he be able to live up to that?

And then, he glanced at his hand. At the mark there, placed onto his skin by the very wolf for which Corbyn’s order had been named. He had told Noctis that he wanted the chance. Even if it was hard, or filled with strife. He’d wanted another chance at life. Because doing otherwise would mean accepting the injustice of what had happened to him.

With gritted teeth, Damien looked Corbyn in the eye. The Canis flinched back at what he saw there, just under his gaze. A fire unlike anything he had seen from Damien before. An intensity that he had only ever felt in the midst of battle. The sheer, stubborn determination to not give up, even in the face of what was difficult, or what seemed impossible.

“Yes. I’m not going to waste any more opportunities just because I’m scared. I’m not going to be that person anymore.”

Despite himself, Corbyn looked a bit sad... but mostly relieved. He smiled while he tapped a ring on one furred finger. A moment afterward, a book materialized itself in his hands. It was large, thick, bound in dark leather, and held the Order of the Night Wolf's symbol on its face. Below it was a string of words in a flowing dialect that Damien couldn’t quite decode, which quickly translated itself into English in his head thanks to his Polyglot Trait.

“Way of the Night Wolf: Grandmaster Tome.”

Corbyn nodded at Damien’s translation. “Indeed. There are very few Martial Arts Tomes like this one in the entire world, and there is one for each of the Hunter Orders. This is the one for my own Order. It might be a bit presumptuous to call your Affinity now, but I think we both know that with that mark on your hand, it’s unlikely to be anything other than Umbra. It took me a bit to get this copy made via my own Skill, and it's actually part of the reason I had your Awakening delayed to today.

“We’ll be implementing it into your Awakening, since that generally helps with overall comprehension of a style. You won’t become some kind of grandmaster overnight – you’ve still got a long road ahead of you before you can even begin to approach that level of expertise, but you’ll learn fast. Especially with me as your teacher.”

“... so, this Martial Arts Tome... how does it work? Is it something you can actually read, or is its form purely aesthetic-based and it acts more like downloadable information on a flash drive?”

“Down... load?” Coryn said, obviously confused by the term.

“Oh, sorry,” Damien apologized, and went on to try and explain downloading as best he could. “There were these things back on my world called flash drives that could carry information between devices physically in a smaller format, and the devices would recognize and decode that information in a way that could be displayed to a user. Is it a bit like that?”

“... well, now that I have some context, yeah, kinda. But not exactly,” Corbyn said, catching on quick. “Like I said, the Marital Arts Tome will speed up your progress, but you’ll still need to learn how to actually use the forms and techniques. No effort, no result. And you’ll be learning everything in stages. The first three tiers should be relatively fast, but after that, things will slow down significantly.”

“That sounds good to me. I’d like to get a handle on the basics before I’m expected to kill something in midair.”

“Well then... let’s get you some magic powers, eh kid?”

A few minutes later, Damien was laying down in the middle of the large Awakening circle, surrounded by ten hunks of magical-looking crystal, each with a distinct coloration and feeling to them. The one he felt most familiar with, of course, was a black hunk of perfectly spherical ore with tiny veins of violet streaked all throughout it. It reminded him of Noctis, the kind wolf who had been compassionate enough to send him here, and give him another chance.

I’ve got this.

The officiator of the Awakening – a balding man who appeared to be in his late sixties and dressed in similar white robes to their receptionist – began to chant in a guttural language that Damien’s Polyglot Trait couldn’t translate. That was fine. The description had only said that it gave him an understanding of many languages, not all of them, and this appeared to be one of the first that he’d come across that he couldn’t translate. It did sound ominous, though.

Then, the stones began to float off of the ground, dissolving and combining into a swirling vortex of pure, colored Mana, so intense that Damien could actually see it with the naked eye. It was beautiful, like an otherworldly corona of cosmic forces combining into him, to grant him strength like no other.

Then, the Tome at his feet started to dissolve as well, becoming a swirl of violet, runic letters that he could read but had no time to comprehend as they joined the corona of mana, like a swirling shell of information that protected the energies as the descended towards him. They connected to his chest, just lightly tapping his sternum and entering his body.

That was when his world became nothing but pain and whiteness.

Corbyn seized the officiator of the Awakening ritual by the throat, but it was already too late. The Ritual had begun, and there was nothing that either of them could do to stop it now. He hadn’t realized anything was wrong until the condensed energy had entered Damien’s Mana Channels. It was hostile, attempting to ravage him from the inside out. And there was nothing that he could do to stop it.

“What did you do?” he asked, his voice eerily calm. A cold rage burned in his golden eyes, one that was intense enough for the officiator to begin trembling. A distinctly yellow stain appeared near the man’s crotch. “If you tell me nice and quick, I might not kill you. If you can reverse it, I might only let you off with a severe warning.”

“I-I-I can’t tell you!” he said, tears trailing down his face. “If I do, h-he’ll... he’ll kill my family!”

“Who?”

“I can’t say! I can’t say! I’m sorry!”

The Canis let out a low, angry growl, baring his fangs at the man. “Can you stop it?”

“Wh-what?”

“Can. You. Stop. It?”

“No! Once an Awakening is in motion, it can’t be interrupted! He must ride it out or...”

Or he will die. Someone had tampered with the Awakening with the intent of killing Damien, using the officiator as a proxy, threatening his family to get him to cooperate. To get to him? But no one at the ground level of any of the Orders knew that he was in the city. No one except...

“Eric, you cowardly bastard...”

The man flinched at the mention of the former Arbiter’s name. That confirmed it. If there was any doubt that Eric had arranged for this little ‘accident,’ it had been dispelled. And Corbyn was pissed. He looked at Damien, and it fell away, just a bit. He was floating above the circle now, the lines and runes glowing with a strange mixture of lights. It should have solidified into a singular color by now, indicating which Affinity he would be taking on. But it seemed that, whatever the officiator had done, Damien couldn’t stabilize. It just seemed so... unfair.

And then, the mark on the back of his right hand started to glow a steady, burning shade of violet.

Something was drawn out of Damien by the mark, and Corybn watched in sheer awe as it took the kid’s own mana in thin, violent strings and used it to stabilize the foreign energies in his body, tying them down and guiding their power to allow him to ride out the rest of the Awakening. Still, that didn’t mean that he wasn’t changed. While he still definitely looked like the same kid he’d found that day in the sewer, something inside of him had shifted. Something big. And he had a feeling that, in the end, this just might turn out in Damien’s favor, if he was lucky.

Then, as the kid’s body was lowered back down to the ground, a shadow appeared above him. It was of a dark, otherworld wolf made entirely of flickering shadows, with the only distinct thing about it being the twin violet suns it held for eyes. That large beast could only be one thing. One of Noctis’ kin. A Shadow Wolf. Those who sought justice, for the lucky few who could find the ear of their progenitor.

“Who dares to disturb an Awakening?” the wolf asked. His voice was soft, but firm and unbendable, like hearing the words of a wise, compassionate, but ruthless king. “Who dares to interfere with the Marked of my father?”

Corbyn was so shocked that, for several seconds, he didn’t know how to respond. It was true. Noctis himself had marked the boy and sent him here. He had probably just saved his life. But still, even this much attention was unusual, especially from a Primordial Spirit. And now he was going to seek out the man who had orchestrated all of this?

“His name is Eric,” he said, head turned down as he found himself unable to hold the spirit’s gaze. “Eric Forsythe. He’s a former Arbiter, but-”

“No need to explain further,” the wolf said, interrupting Corbyn’s explanation. “I have his scent. I shall ensure that he pays for what he has done this day, and none shall know his fate save we and those whom you trust with that knowledge. I thank you, Arbiter of Shade. Guide him true. Guide him well. My father watches as best he can.”

And with that, the Shadow Wolf disappeared, melting into the ground as a pool of shadows. His words to the Canis were strangely casual, but genuine, and kind, in their own way. And they were heavy, too.

He had already been determined to train Damien as best he could the moment he had accepted his offer. Now, though? His resolve had been affirmed. He would make this kid an Arbiter... or die trying.

Eric Forsythe was enjoying a chilled glass of wine on a balcony near the top of the Hall of Ceremonies. It had paid off, investigating Corbyn’s appointment here. All he’d had to do was threaten one officiator, and the plan for his revenge had written itself. It was so beautiful he had been tempted to weep at its sheer brilliance.

And best of all, no evidence leading back to me. Even if they suspect something, all the evidence points straight to that officiator. And he knows better than to talk.

He placed his lips to his wine glass, and took a long, deep pull of the dark liquid. It was sweet and fruity with just the barest hint of bitterness on the tongue. Just the way he liked it.

And that was when something knocked into him right in the head, and his mouth was overwhelmed by the taste of his own blood.

Eric sprawled out on the balcony, shards of the glass embedded in his mouth, his high Constitution Stat quickly helping him to recover from the minor damage. But before he could right himself or draw his Lux Blade, a massive paw the size of his entire torso lightly stepped atop him. The sheer weight was enough to drive the breath from his lungs, pinning him against the wide marble floor.

The beast above him was made entirely of shadows, and looked to have the rough outline of a wolf with twin violet suns for eyes. It barred dark fangs at his throat, threatening to rip it out. Then, against all logic, it spoke to him. No, not to him... down at him. As though he were less than muck on its paw.

“You dare interfere with an Awakening, foolish human? I thought your kind were more sensible and decent than that. It seems that you are an outlier. A rather extreme one at that.”

“Do you know who I am?!” Eric asked, desperate, scared, and angry at this beast that believed it was higher than him. Him! A former Arbiter! “I am-”

“I know you, Eric Forsythe,” the wolf growled, cutting him off. “I know that you belong to the Order of the Radiant Seraphim, that you were once lauded among their ranks. I know that you were a former Arbiter of Dawn, stripped of title and rank for no reason but your own incompetence and spite. And I know you are a sad, pathetic old man of two hundred and fifty-five years who would resort to tampering with an Awakening to satisfy a desire for revenge that is not deserved. You are nothing. Less than nothing. You are little more than the tiniest speck of dust on my paw. And yet...

“I think I shall enjoy killing you all the same.”

Then, the wolf’s maw opened wide, and Eric Forsythe was no more.