SPIRITBINDER: The Boy Without A Mark
Chapter 39: Conscience Cuts Deep

Chapter 39: Conscience Cuts Deep

Months had slipped by, yet today carried a distinct weight—it marked exactly one year since the Awakening Ceremony of Morvane. The day he had walked away unmarked, powerless, and defeated. That moment had carved a wound in his pride, one that festered in silence for months.

But time had a way of unveiling truths. Through trials and whispers of hidden strength, Morvane had uncovered something within himself—a power that pulsed with purpose, one that defied the shame of his past. He was no longer the hollow vessel he had believed himself to be.

Yet, for all his newfound strength, a shadow lingered in his mind: Hiraya. Her name was a wound he couldn’t heal, a memory etched in blood and regret. He should have been the one to end her, to spare her the torment. Instead, it was Medas who had struck the fatal blow.

The weight of that decision bore down on him each day, each night. There wasn’t a moment when the thought didn’t claw at his conscience, haunting him in the stillness.

The months that followed had been anything but kind. Morvane had neither the courage nor the words to speak to Medas about what happened. And as for Hiraya’s spirit, her sudden appearances only deepened his guilt. She had become a ghostly tether to the past, her cryptic presence both a torment and a guide.

Even now, as she flickered into view like a fragile flame, Morvane couldn’t help but wonder if she held the answers he sought—the path to uncovering her true killer.

The day wore on with a heavy stillness, but as the sun dipped below the horizon, Morvane found himself face-to-face with Medas.

"Tomorrow is the full moon," Medas began, his voice steady, "and it’s the Awakening Ceremony for this year. You should come with me on stage."

Morvane raised a brow, unsure. "Is that... okay?"

Medas smirked faintly. "Of course. Every ruler stands with their right-hand man, you know."

Morvane hesitated but nodded. "Alright."

Medas continued, "The ceremony will be held in Crimson’s kingdom, Katakwan."

At the mention of Crimson, a flicker of something unspoken crossed Morvane’s face. "I haven’t heard from him in months," he admitted. "Our training stopped three months ago."

"He’s been busy," Medas replied with a shrug. "Running a kingdom isn’t easy, even for someone like Crimson. But you’ll see him tomorrow."

For a moment, the room fell silent. Morvane stared at the floor, the weight of the past year pressing down on him again. Medas studied him but chose to say nothing more. Tomorrow would bring its own battles—of power, of pride, and perhaps of reconciliation.

Tomorrow arrived like an ominous whisper. The day of the Awakening Ceremony had come, and the anticipation was palpable. The sun hung high in the sky, casting its light over Katakwan, Crimson’s grand and formidable kingdom.

The arena was an architectural marvel, carved from black stone and adorned with ancient sigils of power. Thousands of people filled the benches, their chatter an electric hum of excitement. At the heart of the arena stood a circular platform where the ceremony would take place.

The fifteen-year-olds, chosen from all seven kingdoms, lined up at the edge of the platform. Each one bore a mixture of excitement and apprehension. This was their moment—the day that would define their futures.

One by one, the rulers of the seven kingdom made their entrances, each with their own flare and regal bearing. The crowd erupted into applause as they ascended to the raised stage overlooking the arena. Medas stood beside Morvane, who tried to maintain a calm exterior despite the tension in his chest.

Crimson, standing tall and imposing in his ceremonial armor, stepped forward to deliver the opening speech. His voice carried across the arena with practiced authority, addressing the gathered masses and the hopefuls waiting for their awakening. His words stirred both pride and expectation, his presence commanding absolute attention.

When the speech ended, the rulers stepped forward, forming a circle around the platform. They raised their hands and began to chant in unison. The words were ancient, their meaning known only to the rulers themselves. As the chant echoed through the arena, the crowd fell silent, anticipation thick in the air.

At the chant’s conclusion, the fifteen-year-olds were called to step into the center of the arena. One by one, they moved forward, forming a tight cluster on the platform. All eyes turned to the sky as they waited for the light to descend and mark their shoulders, signifying their awakening.

But nothing happened. No light streaks. No marks. no awakening.

No one dared to make a noise as everyone waits form the light streaks to happen.

Minutes passed, and the sky remained still. No streaks of light, no sign of the awakening. The crowd shifted uneasily, whispering amongst themselves. Confusion rippled through the arena.

Crimson leaned toward Medas, his voice low but edged with concern. "This is unusual," he muttered.

The fifteen-year-olds exchanged nervous glances, their excitement giving way to confusion. Whispers grew louder among the crowd, and the rulers exchanged uncertain looks.

Medas finally stepped forward, his voice cutting through the murmurs. "Perhaps someone misspoke during the chant. We will do it again."

Crimson frowned, his tone firm. "That’s impossible. No one made a mistake."

Despite Crimson’s certainty, the rulers resumed their positions and began the chant once more. The words echoed across the arena with renewed intensity, but the tension in the air was undeniable.

The chant ended. Silence fell.

Again, the sky remained unchanged. Minutes passed, but still, no light descended. The crowd’s whispers turned into murmurs of unease. The fifteen-year-olds shifted on their feet, their earlier confidence now replaced with doubt and quiet questions.

For the first time in years, an eerie uncertainty loomed over the Awakening Ceremony, and no one knew what it meant.

The arena, once filled with excited anticipation, now buzzed with confusion. The crowd’s murmur grew louder, punctuated by scattered voices demanding answers. A tense energy hung in the air, and every ruler on stage felt its weight.

Then, cutting through the noise, a loud voice from the benches bellowed, "What’s happening?"

The shout rippled through the crowd like a spark igniting dry wood. Others began calling out too, their voices filled with concern and frustration.

"Why isn’t the light coming?"

"Is something wrong with the ceremony?"

"Are they unworthy?"

Morvane stood frozen beside Medas, his gaze fixed on the group of fifteen-year-olds standing in the center of the arena. The young candidates, once brimming with hope, now shifted uncomfortably, their faces painted with confusion and fear.

This scene struck Morvane deeply. His chest tightened as memories of his own awakening surged forward. A year ago, he had stood where they stood now—waiting for the light, for the mark, for the affirmation that he had a purpose. And like them, he had been met with nothing but silence.

He clenched his fists at the thought. This can’t be happening again. Not to all of them.

His mind raced with questions. How could every single one of them be markless? Was this just a cruel coincidence? Or... was it something more sinister?

He thought of his own revelation, the power that had emerged within him long after his failed awakening. Is it possible... that they’re all like me? The idea sent a chill down his spine. His eyes scanned the crowd, then flicked back to the young ones on the platform.

Did the demons touch them too?

"This can’t be," he muttered under his breath, the words barely audible.

Medas, standing beside him, caught the faint whisper. "What did you say?" he asked, his tone sharp but low, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

Morvane quickly shook his head, unwilling to voice his thoughts. "Nothing. It’s just... strange."

Medas didn’t press further but kept his attention fixed on the arena. His jaw tightened, his expression unreadable.

Meanwhile, Crimson stepped forward, raising a hand to silence the growing unrest among the spectators. His voice boomed across the arena, calm yet commanding. "Silence!"

The crowd hushed, though a low murmur lingered.

Crimson turned to the rulers, his voice carrying the weight of authority. "This has never happened in the history of our kingdoms. The ceremony cannot fail. Something is interfering."

The rulers exchanged uneasy glances but offered no response. The arena remained tense, the atmosphere thick with unanswered questions.

The fifteen-year-olds, still standing in the center, looked more uncertain with each passing moment. Some whispered among themselves, their voices trembling with confusion.

"Why isn’t it working?"

"Did we do something wrong?"

"What does this mean for us?"

Morvane’s mind continued to churn, battling the gnawing fear growing in his chest. This isn’t normal. If they’re like me... if they’ve been touched by demons... He couldn’t finish the thought. The implications were too dire.

"This can’t be," he whispered again, this time so quietly that even Medas didn’t catch it.

The ceremony was falling apart, and no one—ruler, crowd, or candidate—could make sense of it.