Lucas, meanwhile, stood atop the platform, still frozen in the lingering light of the ceremony.
All around him, the other young initiates stirred like ripples in still water.
He heard their voices—not distant or abstract, but clear and close.
"He really has a seven string wind affinity," one boy whispered, awe clinging to his words.
"Look at him," said another, "Only a noble could keep his composure like that."
A group of older initiates stood near the edge, murmuring with a mix of admiration and unease.
"The last time a seven string was recorded was half a century ago," a girl said under her breath.
One boy edged forward cautiously, his expression caught somewhere between envy and respect.
"What does it feel like?" he asked, barely audible.
Others didn't come closer.
They hung back, eyes wide, whispering with quick glances.
A few backed away entirely, as if Lucas had become something alien—untouchable.
