Bloodline: Sovereign's Awakening - Chapter 20

Chapter 20: The Matriarch’s Decree
As the sun dipped below the horizon, its golden rays bled into the sky like molten amber, casting a dreamlike glow over the Academy’s towering spires. The highland air was crisp, laced with the distant scent of pine and the lingering warmth of the fading day. Unlike the bustling lowlands, where the air grew thick with the hum of restless cities, the Academy exuded a tranquil majesty, its halls steeped in ancient wisdom and the promise of ascension.

Judio stepped out of his last class, his bakya echoing against the polished stone as he navigated the lantern-lit corridors. Around him, students murmured in hushed excitement, their voices weaving a tapestry of anticipation—but his mind was elsewhere, caught in the gravity of Maestra Luningning’s morning lecture.

In the morning, Maestra Luningning had introduced the curriculum, her voice resonating with authority as she detailed the month’s forthcoming events. “By the end of this cycle,” she had announced, “we will assess your resonance and attunement levels to determine your talent as Weavers, Anchors, or Conduits.” Her words painted vivid images in Judio’s mind, each term laden with significance and potential.

She had continued, her tone unwavering, “Excelling in these assessments is not merely about grades; it is the gateway to the True Awakening Ceremony—a rite that every aspirant dreams of.” The classroom had fallen silent, the weight of her statement settling over the students.

“The True Awakening Ceremony of Bathalumean,” she had elaborated, “involves the Bathalumean traditional art of Batok. An ancestral shrine imparts unique markings upon the awakened, connecting them to the Loom and unlocking their true power.” Her description was both enchanting and daunting, leaving an indelible mark on Judio’s consciousness.

Hushed reverence had fallen over the students, the weight of her words pressing upon their shoulders. The True Awakening—spoken of in near-mythic whispers—was the gateway to greatness. It was what every student longed for, yet few would claim.

Now, as Judio walked along the Academy’s moonlit paths, the cool night air did little to quiet the storm in his thoughts. The assessments loomed like a rising tide, and with them, the unshakable desire to stand among the chosen.

Meanwhile, far below in the southern city of Pagadianara, twilight painted the heavens in a fiery spectrum of crimson, violet, and indigo. The city was a marvel—its golden towers catching the last light of day, its river reflecting the sky like a liquid mirror. Unlike the highlands, where serenity reigned, Pagadianara pulsed with life, its formidable walls standing vigilant against the ever-turning tides of fate.

Inside one of its grand castles, an opulent gathering was underway. The great hall of House Tala gleamed beneath the glow of hanging crystal lanterns, their light casting fractured constellations upon the polished marble floors.

The air was thick with the rich aroma of roasted meats, spiced wines, and exotic fruits laid upon long banquet tables adorned with golden goblets and silk runners embroidered with their house emblem—a constellation of rising stars.

Nobles was a spectacle in itself. They entered in measured strides, their garments woven with silver-threaded constellations, each step echoing with a quiet authority. Cloaks draped over shoulders like celestial mantles, their jeweled brooches catching the flickering candlelight.

Murmurs filled the air, hushed conversations of alliances, ambitions, and the forthcoming announcement that would determine the future of their youth.

At the head of the hall, elevated upon a grand seat of carved ebony, the great-grandmother presided over the gathering with an air of quiet command. She wore her silvered hair in an intricate braid, adorned with delicate golden star-shaped pins—an elder of House Tala, an unshaken pillar of wisdom amidst the shifting tides of power. She listened, sharp-eyed, as the elders exchanged glances, their decision already made.

A steward stepped forward, his deep voice cutting through the melodic hum of music and conversation. “The elders of House Tala have convened and have chosen the most promising talent among our bloodline for the Academy’s mid-noble recommendation this year.”

A hush fell over the hall. The nobles leaned in, eyes gleaming with anticipation, as the steward unfurled a parchment with measured precision.

They granted the recommendation to Xiadon Tala.

A wave of polite applause swept through the chamber, though the flickering expressions of some revealed barely restrained disappointment. Xiadon, a tall and poised youth, rose from his seat, his sapphire cloak billowing slightly as he inclined his head in gratitude. He was the pride of the pureblooded lineage, his talent in thread-weaving undisputed.

The announcement continued, shifting now to the others who would receive the lesser honor—entry into the Academy as low-nobles.

The steward’s voice remained unwavering as he recited the names. “Mircea Tala. Roque Tala. Saphina Tala. Ardan Tala.”

The banquet gleamed with celebratory toasts, goblets raised high, and conversations reigniting like crackling embers. Laughter and praise filled the air more completely than the finest silk could have, but beneath the grandeur, a subtle undercurrent of tension simmered—because everyone knew the remaining names were already decided.

And yet, the great-grandmother stirred.

Slowly, she rose from her seat, a presence that commanded silence without effort. The last name had yet to be spoken. Every eye turned to her, some expectant, others wary.

“Before we close this announcement,” she said, her voice measured but firm, “I have one last declaration to make.”

The air in the hall thickened, a collective inhale held in suspense.

“I will personally be supporting two additional names for entry to the Academy this year.”

A ripple of confusion spread across the gathering. Whispers darted from table to table like startled birds, some murmuring in intrigue, others in alarm.

“Those names,” she continued, allowing the weight of her words to settle before speaking them aloud, “are Nena Tala and Amon Tala.”

The room fell into an unnatural stillness.

Then, as if struck by a sudden bolt of tension, voices erupted. Some in shock, some in protest, and others in barely concealed outrage. The clan had just named the only beings of impure blood—a stain untouched for over a millennium—among those to enter the Academy.

“Impossible!” a voice hissed from the far end of the hall. “This is against tradition!”

“She cannot mean it,” another noble muttered, her fingers tightening around the stem of her goblet.

But the great-grandmother remained unmoved. She stood tall, her gaze steady, as if daring anyone to challenge her.

“Nena and Amon,” she said, her voice cutting through the noise like the strike of a blade, “deserve the same opportunity as any of you. They still share our blood.”

A silence followed the great-grandmother’s decree, stretching thick and unyielding like the heavy drapes that adorned the grand hall. The nobles, though seething, could do nothing but exchange glances of disbelief, their indignation smothered beneath the weight of unspoken law. No one could defy an elder’s ruling—not openly, not when the other elders chose to remain silent.

At the far end of the banquet table, a man in a robe of deep blue silk, heavily embroidered with silver constellations, shot up from his seat. The gold clasps at his shoulders reflected the flickering candlelight, and his expression was taut with barely restrained frustration.

“Father!” His voice cut through the murmuring crowd, sharp with disbelief. His gaze snapped toward one of the seated elders—Elder Yvandro Tala, a man of formidable stature, whose hair had silvered but whose presence had not dimmed. His son, Sionan Tala, a prodigious thread-weaver in his own right, stared at him with incredulous eyes.

Yet Elder Yvandro did not rise. He did not react. He merely cast his son a sidelong glance, his expression impassive, dismissive even, before he turned his gaze back to the front of the hall as if the outburst had not even been uttered.

Sionan’s hands curled into fists. “How can you all turn a blind eye to this?” His voice carried through the chamber, frustration rippling through every word. “Are we to ignore the integrity of our lineage? The purity we have upheld for generations? If we allow this—” his voice wavered as he looked around, searching for support among the elders seated at the high table, “—what does it say about us?”

But none of them answered.

Elder Yvandro remained composed, his fingers tracing the rim of his goblet in thought. To his left, Elder Marcon Tala, a quiet man with hawk-like eyes, sipped from his wine without a word. Elder Virelio Tala, the eldest among them save for the great-grandmother herself, simply exhaled through his nose, as if Sionan’s distress was little more than a passing breeze. Beside him, Elder Saphira Tala, a woman known for her ruthless pragmatism, barely spared Sionan a glance before returning her attention to the proceedings.

At the head of the table, Grand Matriarch Iskayna Tala remained standing, unmoving, a pillar of unwavering authority. The constellations embroidered into her indigo robes shimmered as if woven from stardust itself, her presence a force that demanded reverence. Though age had silvered her hair and lined her sharp features, there was no mistaking the fire that burned in her midnight-dark eyes.

With a voice like rolling thunder, she spoke again.

“Enough.”

That single word was enough to quell the lingering whispers, to silence the nobles who still reeled from the shift in tradition.

She lifted a hand, and the steward—who had paused in light of the disruption—cleared his throat and resumed his duty.

We will grant support to the following names as low-noble students of the Academy.

The roll call continued, punctuated by the polite nods of parents and the murmured gratitudes of the named. One by one, they called out the names.

“Jorvan Tala. Mircea Tala. Roque Tala. Saphina Tala. Ardan Tala.”

Then, as if the stars themselves held their breath—

“Nena Tala. Amon Tala.”

It was done. They spoke their names, inscribing them in the lineage and binding them to the elders’ decree. No amount of protest, of whispered outrage, could undo it.

Sionan remained rigid, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. He cast one last glance at his father, at the other elders, searching for a sign of disagreement, of defiance. But there was none.

The great hall, though still brimming with light and splendor, felt different now—as if someone had pulled an unseen thread, unraveling the old ways and forcing the House of Tala toward a future that not all were ready to accept.

Outside, the sky stretched vast and dark, the rising stars of House Tala shining ever higher, indifferent to the turmoil below.