The sheer audacity of the Sul Empire, to have ensnared existence within contract and name—a semantic web spun over centuries, millennia, truly, to do its work. By invoking the Sul name, they steal what is not theirs. They sign contracts without understanding the depths of their agreement, and in doing so, they recreate the one true sin. Beware the slaver, even when draped in cloth of gold.


    – Excerpt from Chains of Gold by Krussana the Ringed Lord, King of Sarithix


    Aslavain: Eight Days After the Summer Solstice


    “Let’s discuss exactly how to get you out of this stifling place,” Casselia said, her tone so placid that Lotem wondered how difficult it could really be. From what he’d gathered in his conversations with Sylva, this woman even entering the trial should have been impossible. If she could do the impossible once, what is a second time?


    “Do you have a key? Some grand spell?” Lotem asked, realizing a bit guiltily that the prospect of freedom stirred him more than it should. After all, this was a rare opportunity to train—Hadrian had insisted as much, and Sylva had agreed. He didn’t want to drag them away just because he was faltering in his first trial.


    “Nothing so grand,” Casselia replied, shaking her head with a hint of regret. “It took a stroke of luck and Krinka’s ingenuity just to enter an active trial. We lack the power or influence to forcibly end one, especially within Tir Na Nog. No, we’ll simply ensure you conquer this first test, and then we can seek out more promising opportunities.”


    “You think we can beat the trial as we are now?” Sylva asked, her brows knitting together in concern as she glanced between Casselia and Lotem.


    “As you are now?” The naga’s hissing laugh, like a blade scraping a whetstone, sent a shiver through Lotem. He was still grappling with the fact that the creature who had once pursued them with what he thought was murderous intent was now one of the mentors sworn to guide them. “As you are now, you couldn’t defeat a single one of them if they were at their full strength.”


    “Now, Alsarana, that isn’t fair,” Krinka said with an exasperated sigh, accompanied by a wave of his hand. “These Eidolons aren’t able to do their best; they are shackled by restrictions meant to temper the challenge for fresh initiates. Even Tir Na Nog must adhere to the empire’s laws. I estimate they’re limited to only a fraction of their skills and have caps on their physical and magical abilities—enough to challenge, but not overwhelm.”


    That made sense to Lotem. He had spent hours lying on his cot, Sabel’s warmth radiating against his chest, pondering the strange restraint the Eidolons showed. He had watched true warriors fight, and their battles were far more intense and swift compared to these sluggish encounters, not that they felt sluggish to him.


    Each of the Shrined and Eternal Cities hosted an Eternal Contest—an exhibition, in the empire’s formal rhetoric—during the year-long training period within Aslavain. Most of these exhibitions were exclusive to citizens of the empire, but Lotem had been granted the rare chance to watch in UlaanThur the year his brother competed at the Spring Gathering of the Tribes—not that he recalled his brother’s performance that spring. He dismissed the fleeting hint of a stolen memory, refocusing on the conversation that had continued past his racing thoughts.


    “—impress them so thoroughly they can’t deny your ability to handle the second test.” Krinka continued his explanation, and Lotem regretted his lapse in attention. “A trial of approval is the most common first test in trials like this. It acts as an effective barrier, weeding out candidates unqualified for more dangerous challenges. And with recovery rooms to prevent true injury or death? Well, it’s brilliant, really,” Krinka added with a knowing nod.


    “Wait,” Sylva said, tilting her head quizzically, “so you’re saying if the Eidolons just decided to let us pass, that’s enough? We don’t actually have to kill them?”


    “Need to? No.” The naga hissed, his mouth parting to reveal twin fangs glistening like polished ivory, which sent a chill down Lotem’s spine. I don’t mind the scholar or the leader of this trio, but this naga unsettles me… “You get to kill the three of them. How great is that?”


    Hadrian looked like a horse sensing the freedom of an open field just before a gallop. His eyes darted toward the door, as if tempted to return. At least Sylva has a lick of sense about her, he mused. The Silkborn woman refocused on Krinka, raising a single eyebrow with the controlled precision Lotem imagined was unique to the Silkborn. He was still adjusting to the Silkborn’s deliberate mannerisms, as though every motion and word carried calculated intent.


    “No, you don’t need to kill the three of them,” Krinka explained, ignoring the naga’s words with a casual shrug. “They merely need to approve you to descend.”


    “And if we don’t intend to descend further?” Sylva asked cautiously.


    “Well, they’ll need to agree to let you pass so you can return to Aslavain. Normally, that would be as simple as asking, but Tir Na Nog poses a unique challenge. All the emotional shrines do, to be honest. You should have seen the City of Sadness before its destruction in the Beast Wars. Now, that was a truly unfortunate trial to endure. Oh, and the City—”


    “Thank you, Krinka,” Casselia cut him off gracefully, “but that’s beside the point. We don’t want you pleading your way out of the trial in the first place.”


    “You don’t?” Hadrian asked, a hint of relief in his voice. Casselia shook her head.


    “Tir Na Nog’s Eidolons wouldn’t accept it for one. Have they explained why they’re here?” Casselia paused, her gaze sharp.


    Why are they here? They had mentioned hating the Dion, but nothing more than that. It was curious that two of the three were Numen and Lotem wondered why, not for the first time. Humans made up the vast majority of the empire’s population and had for nearly two millennia; most Eidolons should have been human. Yet here they were, faced with a naga—rare enough to be a true anomaly—and two pure-blooded Numen, as rare as gems among stones. Lotem knew firsthand just how uncommon full Numen bloodlines were.


    The Numen clans’ control over their bloodlines was second only to the reclusive Silkborn, though that wasn’t saying much. Each newly formed Silkborn required the death—or near enough, at least—of two elders. He had never understood how the Silkborn hadn’t gone extinct, walking that delicate balance on the edge of oblivion. Refocusing on Casselia’s question, Lotem frowned in thought.


    “They have not,” Lotem’s deep voice rumbled through the chamber, the sound resonating against the cold stone. Krinka and Casselia didn’t seem surprised by his answer. Meanwhile, Alsarana flicked his tongue in and out of his jaws like a serpent testing the air, and Lotem suppressed a shiver. He had never liked snakes; at least Seraphis was openly trying to kill them, which felt more honest to his experience with the creatures.


    “Tir Na Nog, the City of Rage, was founded in the Fifth Age as a backlash against the empire’s immigration policies at the time,” Krinka began, his words flowing seamlessly, leaving no room for interruption. “The Sunborn fled the Empire of the Eternal Dawn on great barges that glided like shadows up the Diontel, eventually reaching Sabahar, the City of the Sun. The Sunborn were welcomed into the city in exchange for access to their magic. But, as you can imagine, the sudden influx of tens of thousands of golden-scaled naga caused a wave of unease within the empire.”


    “Some people just hate snakes,” Alsarana said with a sly grin that curled like smoke, exposing his sharp fangs. “Racist, if you ask me.” Krinka ignored the naga’s remark and continued.


    “The Dion reacted, unsurprisingly, with covert violence—assassinations, theft, political embargo, and the destruction of the Crests of the few Sunborn [Venerate] at every opportunity. The Sunborn allied with the Numen tribes who lived in what is now the Khanate, and the Justicars as they ascended into the prominence they maintain to this day. The three groups united against the Dion in a formal rebellion that ended with the establishment of the Khanate, the Province of the Sun, and the Province of Justice.”


    Lotem hadn’t heard any of this before. He had been to the Khanate, seen its towering stone walls rising larger than life on the horizon. He had smelled the acrid smoke from their great forges, the black pillars blotting out the sky as he approached. He had always assumed that the Numen of the Bal tribes were the first Numen in the empire, but if what Krinka said was true… the Numen had been in the empire for almost 1,300 years, not 500. Why wasn’t this history talked about in the tribe? Is there a reason we didn’t learn about a Numen rebellion against the Dion?


    “Tir Na Nog was established on the borders of Bonehold, the City of Moving Bone—home of one of the empire’s greatest dungeons—and Dornogor, the City of Beasts. It was formed primarily to disrupt two of the most vulnerable Dion holdings of the time. Tir Na Nog was conceived as an act of punishment against the Dion, and that seed of revenge hardened into the heart of the Shrine.”


    Krinka paused, as if weighing whether they grasped the gravity of his words. Sylva nodded, as though she understood, though Lotem suspected she might be putting on a front. This wasn’t the kind of history the empire promoted, especially for non-citizens, and if he hadn’t known the truth about the Numen’s past in the empire, would she? Hadrian hung on Krinka’s every word with rapt attention, and when Krinka caught Hadrian’s questioning look, he continued.


    “As I’m sure you know, each shrine is built around a primary idea—a seed that takes root in the heart of the shrine, shaping its affinity and influencing not only its manifestations and rewards but also its restrictions. Take Quartzall, the City of Peace, for example. It is difficult—near impossible, really—for one of Quartzall’s Eidolons to engage in an act of violence. They carry an aura of tranquility that seems to repel aggression. To become an Eidolon of a shrine, one must fully embrace that shrine’s core ideal. For these Eidolons,” Krinka gestured toward the door leading to their chamber, “the idea of revenge has been etched into the core of their being.”


    “But we aren’t Dion,” Sylva said, as if reminding them of something obvious. “They have no grievance with us.”


    “Aside from one of you being the [Squire of Carven Bone], a role traditionally held by the Dion within the empire, sure. But you’re misunderstanding— even if all three of you were direct allies of the Sunborn and Numen, you would’ve faced an entirely different set of Eidolons in your trial. Likely some of the Nygmar who resent their induction into the empire, or one of the surviving Beastkin who predate the Sixth Age. There’s no end to the well of rage and resentment here, and Tir Na Nog is an established shrine designed to give you poor pairings. You were always going to face unfavorable Eidolons; that is their goal.”


    “Why would anyone join a shrine like this, then?” Hadrian asked, leaning forward, his attention intensely focused on the [Historian].


    “Most shrines are very selective about who is chosen to bear the title of Eidolon in their name. Remember, each Eidolon is simultaneously a living embodiment of the shrine’s will, an eternal guardian of its demesne, and a servant to the whims of current citizens using the shrine. Tir Na Nog? It accepts anyone with a grievance strong enough to feed from. Tir Na Nog loves rage, so its Eidolons and inhabitants must as well.”


    “So, these Eidolons are dead set on revenge and wouldn’t let us out, even if we begged?” Sylva asked, her tone frustrated. Krinka nodded enthusiastically in response. “Then what’s the point of this trial? Why would anyone willingly put themselves through this?”


    “Aside from those with grievances festering beyond reason, Tir Na Nog offers power to those willing to challenge and endure the suffering of defying the status quo. Each shrine has a collection of unique skills available only to those who succeed in its trials or its contest. Tir Na Nog boasts a particularly robust catalog of skills that can empower acts of revenge or cause havoc for specific groups. Back in the—”


    “Thank you, Krinka,” Casselia interrupted before the man could descend into a tangent that Lotem was actually intrigued by. “You’re here, and your only way out is to win this trial. I’d say it’s time to start training. The good news about a trial like this is that it allows for training without interruption. Krinka, Als, six days should be a sufficient time to ensure they are up to our baseline standards, we will reconvene at that point.”


    “How are we supposed to train in a room like this?” Sylva asked, gesturing at the cramped walls and the corridor barely large enough to hold all six of them.


    “Training is far more than just clashing with weapons, though Hadrian will have enough of that. Now, to begin—Krinka, take Sylva to one of the chambers. I want you to start with an introduction to the magic of the Sulphen and primary incantations,” she paused, her eyes flicking back to Krinka, “stay on topic, please. We’re on a timeline and six days is already rushing her training.”


    “Hadrian, you’re going to go through the trial again, solo, with Alsarana as your witness and guide. Als, help determine his affinities and focus on helping him develop a combat art from there. Understood?” The naga, his usual playful demeanor replaced by a sharp intensity, muttered a quick affirmative to the order.


    “Lotem,” she glanced between him and Sabel, “you’re with me. We’re going to teach you the basics of being a [Beastmaster]. [Guardian] shares foundational elements with the general class, which you’ll need to understand.”


    Does she really believe we can beat the Eidolons, and soon? Lotem wondered, feeling a knot of doubt tightening in his chest. Could it really be that easy?


    <hr>


    Hadrian grunted as he leaped backward, the club descending like a falling tree, missing his shoulder by a hair’s breadth as he twisted away. The stone shook beneath him as the club smashed into the floor, sending chips of rock spraying in all directions. He felt the dull impact of the shards against his body but ignored the faint sensation. His fog robe absorbed the force of the blows, turning what could have been lethal strikes into something more akin to the gentle patter of spring rain during the monsoons.


    “For a circuit fighter, it’s disappointing that you can’t even hurt a man barely past his first moon of adulthood,” Alsarana taunted the Eidolon. Hadrian grimaced as the Eidolon let loose a growl that reverberated through the stone chamber and pivoted, his club swinging horizontally toward Hadrian’s chest. The naga had entered with Hadrian, declaring himself both his new mentor and a necromancer before proceeding to enrage Drakar every chance he got.


    Hadrian wasn’t sure what had shocked him more—the Eidolon’s reaction to his suddenly having a mentor in the middle of the trial, or the revelation that the naga would taunt the Numen. Hadrian had been dodging Drakar’s attacks for less than a minute, but he was certain he couldn’t last much longer. A bead of moisture formed on his brow, and he absently wondered whether it was sweat or a trickle of blood from a cut he hadn’t noticed. It wouldn’t matter either way.


    Hadrian channeled all his focus into his footwork. He danced backward from a barrage of club strikes, then dove to the side in a roll as Drakar shifted his weight to hurl the club at him. Just as his roll brought him clear, Drakar was upon him and the giant’s foot lashed out, connecting with his ribs with a sharp crack that echoed in his ears and left him breathless. He was thrown across the room, his back slamming against the wall. With a wet, wheezing breath, Hadrian crumpled to the floor, lying there in defeat, ready for Drakar to finish him.


    “Ohh, what a pity,” Alsarana mocked. “The big bad Numen had to use one of his skills to get you.” He did? Hadrian thought absently, his limbs heavy with fatigue, wondering if it was worth the effort to try standing. “His club was too heavy so he had to drop it. That sounds like a win to me, Hadrian. Are you just going to lie there and let him pass?”


    “Shut your fucking maw, snake,” the Numen growled, his fury surging. Hadrian could hear the heavy thud of boots against stone as the Numen moved in to finish him off.


    “Really? ‘Snake’? That’s the best you could come up with after centuries in this armpit of a shrine? I bet—” Alsarana’s words were abruptly cut off.


    Hadrian woke with a gasp in the pool of water, his breath eventually coming in smooth, steady draws that reassured him his lungs were intact. He had come to appreciate the sensation of being healthy and decided not to get injured in the future. It was something he had to work on. He let his raging heart settle as he replayed the fight in his mind, retracing Drakar’s steps and how he could have dodged differently. The blow you dodge is worth more than any attack you land, Pa always said.


    After a dozen deep, slow breaths, Hadrian felt his sense of self return, the shock of dying receding into the background. He was recovering faster each time, and he wasn’t sure that was a good thing. Do I really want to become used to dying? The door to the room slid open, jolting him from his thoughts as a scaled form slipped into the chamber like a shadow, its body coiling around the pool of water as it tried to fit into the cramped space.


    “A fine showing, truly fine. If you had managed to land any blow on the Numen, you could have drawn blood, and what is blood but the first step toward victory?” Alsarana’s eyes gleamed with excitement, as if Hadrian’s defeat was a minor inconvenience. “Now that the compliments are out of the way, let’s move on to the feedback.”


    Hadrian sat up and met the naga’s gaze. Casselia had mentioned that Alsarana would help him develop a combat art. Hadrian wasn’t exactly sure what that entailed; he knew he loved both combat and art, and the thought of combining the two made his heart quicken with anticipation.


    “You dance across the chamber as if you weigh no more than the robe on your shoulders, but you’re as likely to hurt the Numen as that robe is. You’re so focused on not dying that you never take the time to think about actually winning. In here, that’s fine. But out in Aslavain proper or Creation? That mindset will eventually make you food for the crows. Safety from imminent death means nothing if you end up trapping yourself against inevitable death.”


    That sounds like the opposite of  Pa’s advice, Hadrian realized, the thought darkening his mood. He didn’t want to choose between his parents’ teachings and a new way. They knew him and had taught him well.


    “How can I focus on anything but that club of his?” Hadrian asked, his voice tinged with frustration that he hoped didn’t come across as rudeness to his new mentor. “Fog below, even a single kick from that giant is enough to end the fight. He’s nearly three feet taller than me, and his thighs are as thick and solid as tree trunks.”


    “Of course. How callous of me. I forgot you’d never fight creatures bigger than yourself,” the naga’s voice dripped with sarcasm, though his cold, unblinking eyes betrayed no humor. “Do you think a Simian would be more forgiving in a fight? Or a Tul? A Bloodmarked?”Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.


    “I wouldn’t have to fight any of those in an enclosed chamber like this. I’d use my bow from a distance, from safety.” Even to Hadrian, the words felt hollow. He had seen the villagers fight the gray-furred Simians, their four grasping arms and fangs glistening with saliva. Sylva had described the Tul as ogres, towering like full-grown Numen but twisted inside. He didn’t know what a Bloodmarked was, but he was sure it was equally terrifying.


    ‘You don’t choose every fight you’ll be in, but you do choose how to survive them’, his Ma’s words came unbidden, and he clenched a fist as the naga’s harsh truth hit home. He couldn’t choose every battleground, but he needed to be able to survive them. I didn’t choose this one, after all.


    “You can lie to others, boy, but never settle for lying to yourself. That’s the coward’s way.” Hadrian flinched as though struck, the naga’s words now sounding far too much like his Ma’s.


    “So what do I do, then?” he asked, eager to change the subject. “Casselia mentioned a combat art—what is that?”


    “Mages of all sorts touch upon the Sulphen to change the world around them. Most young fighters mistakenly believe that only mages can touch upon the Sulphen, while physical combat is purely their domain. This is a false dichotomy. The Sulphen is an ever-watchful eye, judging and rewarding all actions. A combat art is what we call it when a warrior touches upon the Sulphen during combat to manifest their own affinity to the Sulphen.”


    Hadrian blinked; he had seen abilities like that. His father had been able to grow his weapon in an instant to allow it to stretch farther than it should have been able to, and his Ma’s arrows would glow with an eerie light that had always reminded him of Luminaries’ flame. They had both claimed it was part of a skill they had earned but that they couldn’t share more. Were those combat arts?


    “What’s the difference between a skill and a combat art?” Hadrian asked, his curiosity piqued.


    “A skill is granted directly by the contract the Sulphen embeds in your soul during the ritual of citizenship. It’s the empire’s crystallization of past excellence onto your soul. A combat art, in contrast, is the Sulphen’s direct infusion into your fighting style, like a signature etched into your very movements. It manifests in ways unique to each individual, though creating a truly new combat art is exceedingly rare, most learn an existing art from a master.”


    That made sense to Hadrian. He had always been told that skills were like individual strands woven together to form a rope, capable of far more together than they ever could be alone. If skills were the strands of the rope, then his class was the pattern that guided the weaver’s hand, ensuring the rope’s strength. What then was a combat art?


    The naga’s description made it seem more like the way the village [Luminaries] described their connection with their flame. Skills acted as a shortcut to enhance their control over the flame, but they weren’t the source of that control. The [Luminaries] wielded the flame as if it were an extension of their own will through an affinity to the fire. Just like the [Arborists] could pull and move trees with their will alone.


    “We once trained a warrior before the Flower Wars who could light his sword on fire with a mere thought. The fire danced along his blade, growing fiercer with each thrust, parry, and feint, his movements dictating the flame’s intensity and behavior. The Sulphen called it the [Elegy of the Last Ember], a name I always thought was overly dramatic.”


    Hadrian clung to every word, captivated by the idea. He could imagine orange flames licking along his weapon, leaving his hands unscathed as he commanded them. He could almost see the flames as they found his foes, consuming them in a searing blaze.


    “What happened to him?”


    “Like so many of our charges, he perished during a delve into a lost shrine. Krinka died alongside him, if memory serves.”


    “A lost shrine?” Shrines can be lost? Hadrian wondered, his mind racing to grasp the concept. How does that work?


    “I’m sure Casselia will explain eventually. She’ll be cross if I get sidetracked,” Alsarana deflected with a sly grin that made Hadrian suspect he’d prompted the question on purpose. “Combat arts are drawn from two primary principles: intentionality and affinity.”


    Hadrian nearly pressed for more information about the lost shrines, but Alsarana’s sudden shift to combat arts held his curiosity in check. He would learn about the shrines eventually; for now, Alsarana was focused on combat arts.


    “Intentionality requires that every action you take is in pursuit of a goal or follows a set pattern. The specific actions don’t matter as much as the intent behind them; it’s about making combat more than just a flurry of attacks. For example, the [Elegy of the Last Ember] requires its user to maintain a rhythm in their movements, mirroring the flickering light of a dying ember. As they fought, you could almost hear a dirge accompanying the movement of their body and the shifting flame.”


    Like when Pa would force me to justify every movement of my body when we fought, Hadrian realized with a start, thinking back to his father’s rigorous training. I was always so frustrated by the level of precision he demanded. Is this what he was training me for? He recalled entire sessions on the training poles, where every movement was restricted and analyzed down to the twitch of his muscles.


    “Affinity is the elemental force or idea that resonates most deeply with the user of the combat art. Each person has their own affinities, drawn from their background and history.”


    “What are my affinities?”


    “How would I know?” Alsarana made a movement that Hadrian interpreted as a shrug—it was hard to tell without arms or shoulders. “This is where we begin to explore the foundation of all power, a journey unique to each warrior.”


    Hadrian wondered what that would entail—a ritual to test him? Or would they experiment with different ideas in combat with Drakar? More importantly, why hadn’t Alsarana mentioned this before his first fight? Had the naga been hoping to identify his affinity from that singular battle?


    “What do I need to do?” Hadrian asked, his voice tinged with anticipation.


    Alsarana leaned forward, his voice laced with feral glee, a grin playing at the edges of his lips. “Have you ever talked to someone about your childhood trauma before?”


    <hr>


    Sylva sat cross-legged on the floor of the room she and Krinka had entered as Hadrian and Alsarana vanished through the doors at the end of the hall. She held herself as upright as possible, her spine straight and her gaze intent on the pudgy man sitting across from her. She was rigid with excitement, her heart pounding at the prospect of finally getting true answers about how magic worked. She did her best to remain presentable despite her anticipation.


    “The Sect of Silken Grace, and wearing the robes of Eisentor, no less. Well met, Sylva of the Clan Strenath. They call me Krinka, the least impressive member of our triumvirate, I’m afraid.” Krinka offered a modest smile. “Casselia has tasked me with training you in the basics of magical theory. I’ll assume you’re well-educated in areas not considered taboo by the powers that be and spare you the indignity of being spoken down to.”


    Sylva liked the man already. He had recognized the symbolic significance of her robe and had gone out of his way to start their conversation with humility followed by praise. She thought that even the elders of the sect would have responded well to the [Historian], human or no. If he truly was the least impressive member of the triumvirate… She wondered absently if the Triumvirate had a formal title.


    “It is an honor to meet someone as esteemed as one of the empire’s heroes. I eagerly anticipate hearing of your exploits across the centuries, Krinka.” She inclined her head, feeling a weight lift from her shoulders as he responded with a wide grin.


    “Now, you’ve been given the [Thaumaturge] class, and Casselia needs you to achieve a moderate degree of mastery over your powers as quickly as possible, so we’ll be accelerating your training significantly in this room. That red light in the hallway gives me a headache—maybe intentionally,” he added, glaring at the door to the hallway as though his gaze might pierce it before turning his focus back on her.


    “Each spellcasting discipline has what we call a primary principle, tapping into the endless power of the Sulphen. [Wizards] draw on Knowledge, [Sorcerers] on Affinity, [Thaumaturges] on Conviction, [Witches] and [Warlocks] on their pacts, and countless other variations, each with its own distinct connection to the Sulphen. The contract you bound to your soul when you became a citizen of the empire assigns names to the classes and skills, but it’s crucial to understand that the voice you hear is just that—labels for the phenomenon of the Sulphen.”


    If what Krinka said was true, then the great work of the Sul Empire was merely a system to categorize and sort powers, rather than granting them. That didn’t sit right with Sylva. She knew the histories, had read the stories of non-citizens who spoke of the wonder of citizenship by comparison. Why would their contract of citizenship be the envy of the civilized world?


    “If I hadn’t accepted the contract, could I still be a [Thaumaturge]?”


    “Technically, yes, anyone could gain the abilities with enough time and practice. Practically? No. You’re far too young to have naturally acquired the powers that define a true [Thaumaturge].” He raised a hand, forestalling her next question. “There might be a misunderstanding here, stemming from unclear definitions. When I say that the contract is responsible for labeling and categorizing power, I’m being technically accurate without being functionally accurate.”


    As more questions fought to escape, she debated whether it was worth interrupting him if he kept talking without pause. She had seen Casselia do it, but it still felt wrong to cut off a [Venerate]. Her fingers twitched, itching to ask.


    The elders had been very clear. If someone was of a higher social status than her, she was to conduct herself according to her station. She was half certain their advice was just another way to entrench their authority within the sect—when had the elders ever missed an opportunity to empower themselves, after all? Their advice had always seemed more like a chain, binding her to their authority than anything else.


    The other half of her thought there might be a kernel of truth to their warnings. Power could corrupt, at least some, and she knew firsthand the ritual significance of the status quo to those in power. She didn’t think Krinka would react negatively; if anything, he seemed harmless as she memorized his words. But this man had become one of the [Venerate], one of the greatest minds of an entire generation.


    “The contract directs the Sulphen on the path you’re on, assigning your just rewards. It informed the Sulphen that you would be a [Thaumaturge], and accordingly, you received a skill that matched your experience and everything the contract had observed. Without the contract, the same markers would exist for your eventual development into someone capable of thaumaturgic incantations, but you’d likely be guided by a different form of indoctrination. The Sulphen is present in all things, like a gardener nurturing everything to reach its potential.”


    He took a breath, seeming to ponder his next words. Sylva judged this as a good moment to ask another question. She calmed her racing thoughts and smoothed her expression, putting on her best attentive face—the one she used when speaking to her favorite elders.


    “So the contract of the empire, the one we all agree to on our twentieth summer solstice, teaches the Sulphen how to help us grow?” Sylva asked, her mind turning over the implications.


    Krinka nodded, a gentle smile deepening on his face as she spoke.


    “So when I asked if I could have been a [Thaumaturge] without the contract, it’s like asking if I could rediscover the process of becoming one on my own, without instructions. Sure, it’s possible, but it would be a long and arduous path, like navigating through fog. It would just be easier to find a different set of instructions on becoming a [Thaumaturge]. That’s what other nations do, right?”


    “Exactly,” he nodded sagely. “Each nation has its own way of filtering the Sulphen’s power. The Serpentine Monarchs who rule the Scaled Dominion in the south channel power through a rigid caste system, empowering only the strongest. Draconian stuff, truly.” A smirk danced in his eyes. “The Free Holdings even further south use a form of currency to trade abilities like we trade coin. To the west of the Free Holdings, tribes roam the Beastlands with a system that empowers ritual and story.”


    He paused conspiratorially, leaning forward as if to whisper a secret. “Here’s the unspoken truth of the world: they’re but shadows of us. The contract of the empire is a work of true brilliance, a system that evolves and adapts over time. When the Sunborn arrived? We copied all their instructions and wove them into our own. When the Bal joined the empire? We took theirs too. We don’t have just one set of instructions, Sylva; we have dozens.”


    He leaned back on the bench, his green eyes watching her intently as she struggled to weave this new information into her understanding of the world.


    “Nyxol said that magic requires a will, a word, and a sacrifice,” she said. “So if our system is the most complex, then what’s the cost—the sacrifice—for it?” His eyebrows drew up slightly, and Sylva felt a thrill at having surprised him.


    “Well, the largest is that we can only access one of the existing Tenets. We can’t draw on the Tenet of Consumption or the Tenet of Evolution.” His face twisted with distaste. “Not that any civilized people would.”


    ‘Civilized people.’ The term made her think of the elders, and her mood darkened. She was pretty sure he meant the Tul to the east—certainly uncivilized—and the Brood to the west, also uncivilized. Yet, the word ‘civilized’ had so many colonial overtones, and she believed the empire had moved beyond that outdated perspective. She was glad she had perfected her serene expression over the years; her face remained a calm mask.


    “Don’t look at me like that,” he said. Maybe the mask isn’t perfect yet, she thought. “I choose my words carefully. Our magic is far more civilized than that of the Tul, the Bloodmarked, or any of the now extinct scavenger races. We grow by improving; they grow by consuming us. Never think it’s the same. Evolutionary races are no better. I once watched a vulture queen exterminate an entire city because one hunter killed one of her ‘subjects.’ Her wrath descended like a plague. Bloodlines and beasts—that’s all it is. But that’s beside the point.”


    He gave her a stern look, as if disappointed she had steered them off topic, but she had no regrets. That was more information than she had learned in years about the true mechanisms of the world, and she loved it. Her mind was a sponge, soaking up every word. She would need to reconsider everything she understood about the empire. There was so much left to learn.


    “Casselia told me to stay on topic, and here you are, leading us on a tangent. We need to teach you the fundamentals of incantations, though I suspect you’ll pick it up quickly. Incantations are the way you’ll shape your will into a language the Sulphen can understand. We’ll start with verbal incantations before moving on to those using your hands, your body, and eventually your will alone—though I suspect the last will remain beyond your reach for years yet. Then we will just need to find you the magical silk to give you [Arcane Sight] and you should be well on your way.”


    “What did you say about magical silk?” she asked, feeling her strings itch in anticipation. Is this why the elders were so obsessed with magical silk? It gives us abilities?


    “The Sect never told you? Well, I guess they wouldn’t have. If we can get you silk of a high enough quality to replace the silk in your pupils, well, you will be able to see the ripples and currents of the Sulphen in the world.”


    “Magical silk. Like Fog Silk?”


    “Fog Silk is an excellent example,” Krinka said, beaming. “Now, incantations. We will start with a basic incantation that amplify the feeling of the Sulphen to help until you get your magic eyes, in Ylfenhold most likely.”


    Unless I can convince Hadrian to share.


    “Enough interruptions! Once you have mastered the six basic incantations to my satisfaction we can discuss the process to get your [Arcane Sight]. Now, the first incantation. In order to prime the Sulphen that a greater incantation is coming you must hold the image of the Sulphen in your mind as you repeat after me.”


    <hr>


    Sabel pounced on the piece of jerky that Casselia tossed across the hallway, a contagious smile spreading across her face as the kitten leaped into the air. Sabel dashed away, only to turn and pounce again, as if imagining herself stalking prey. They sat in silence for a few minutes, watching the kitten play, before Casselia finally spoke.


    “You’ve formed a bond with her. Can you feel it?”


    Can I feel it? Lotem wondered, focusing on the kitten. He felt a faint sense of joy as he focused on the kitten but what did that mean? He always felt happier when he looked at her—was that a sign?


    “I—” He cut himself off abruptly as a side door opened and Alsarana slithered into the hallway. A sudden wave of anger surged through him, and he froze with a sudden realization. Why am I angry? He had no reason to dislike the naga. Sure, he found the snake unsettling, but he wasn’t prejudiced—he wouldn’t get angry just by seeing a naga. He glanced at Sabel, and the anger mixed with fear as the kitten swiped a claw at the passing naga before darting back to him.


    “I can,” he said simply, as if he had always known and not just realized it moments ago. Casselia turned to him with a look that made him feel as if he had impressed her. He hoped he had. Maybe he wasn’t so useless after all.


    “Good. We can begin training once you understand what you’re training for.”


    “What am I training for?”


    “How would I know?” she asked casually. You’re my mentor, he wanted to say, but she continued before he could respond. “You clearly want to fight the Tul, but you’re no Tulunganar. You brought a kitten into Aslavain without knowing how to bond with it. You, Lotem, seem like a man with a goal bigger than you know what to do with.”


    His first thought was that his mother had said the same thing, and he quickly pushed the memory aside. He wasn’t ready to think about her—about how they had left things. His second thought was that Casselia might be able to help him solve his problem. That idea, at least, was easier to deal with. He coughed, cleared his throat, and nodded, unsure of what to say.


    “I was the same way once.” Casselia turned her gaze to Sabel, giving Lotem space to think without her piercing eyes on him. “When I was a little girl, I wanted to end the constant civil wars that ravaged my country. Back then, wars weren’t rare like they are today. There was at least one major conflict every generation. I dreamed of peace but had no idea how to make it a reality.”


    “What did you do?”


    “Back then? I entered the Eternal Domicile of Night and fought monsters until I was strong enough to be taken seriously. If I could go back, I’d tell young Casselia to come up with a proper plan for her growth. Throwing yourself into danger is a great way to grow strong—it’s also a great way to get killed.” She paused, letting her words sink in. “You need a plan, one that takes you step by step toward your ultimate goal.”


    He nodded. It made sense, and if it allowed him to grow stronger without the suffering of trials like this one—or worse—then it was worth it. For a moment, he wondered what the Domicile of Night was, unfamiliar with the place, but refocused as Casselia continued.


    “What’s your ultimate goal, stated plainly?”


    “I want to destroy the Tul.”


    She nodded, as though she had expected nothing less. It made sense. “Destroy the enemy” was hardly a unique goal. But Lotem believed the honor of his cause set it apart. The Tul were far worse than other enemies.


    “So, what do we need to achieve that goal? Give me three ideas.”


    He thought in silence as Sabel continued to play, having ventured out after Alsarana had slithered into Hadrian’s chamber.


    “I need to be strong enough to fight the Tul in relative safety—or at least have a team that could repel and fight them. I’d need the Empire’s commitment to mobilize entire armies for this, since the Tul are too strong to defeat otherwise. And,” he hesitated, “I’d need a way to find all the Tul, so we can kill them to the last.”


    He was proud of his answer, confident it would serve as a solid foundation for whatever Casselia had planned.


    “Acceptable. Personal power, political capital, and intelligence are all achievable, though distant, goals. Let’s focus on personal power for now—the others become relevant once we’re out of this trial. Fair?” He nodded. “Now, the good news: your [Guardian] class has bonded you to Sabel and given you a skill that lets you share your abilities with any beast companions you acquire. As Sabel grows, so will your power. Our mission is to improve your skills as much as possible while she’s still growing. The earlier she’s shaped by your skills, the stronger she’ll become.”


    “But Sabel isn’t going to fight or help my power. She’s just a cat,” he said, gesturing at the kitten in front of them.


    “She’s a cat with enhanced Numen bloodline traits now. Do you know what that means?” He didn’t, so he remained silent, waiting for her to continue. “She’ll grow to be at least the size of a mountain lion—and that’s if we don’t manage to develop an affinity. She’ll be a perfect scout, hunter, and ambush predator. It’s best to plan for that now.”


    She would? Do I even want that? Would she be in danger?


    “Now,” Casselia continued, “our goal is to find more skills that will benefit both of you and then develop them. Once we’ve reached the requisite twelve skills to evolve your class, we should be able to get you the [Guardian of the Small] class, which I’m certain Krinka had in mind for you.”


    Twelve skills?


    “Let’s discuss what we’re targeting in terms of skill composition. You already have two enhancement skills and a nemesis skill. I’d recommend we focus first on developing a communication skill between you and Sabel, and then transition into a conditional skill.”


    “Wait,” he raised a hand, and she obligingly stopped her train of thought. “I think I’m following, but are you saying we can choose what skills I get? I thought that was the Sulphen’s decision.”


    “A half-explained truth is no truth at all,” she said with a frown. “Yes, the Sulphen decides what skills you get. But that doesn’t mean you have no agency. Your actions earn rewards, and the Sulphen provides a fitting skill based on what you’ve done. If Hadrian performs the same lunge thousands of times, the Sulphen will eventually give him a skill to empower that lunge. The Sulphen chooses the reward, but Hadrian chooses the actions that prompt it.”


    “If that’s true, why doesn’t everyone get the skills they want?”


    “Most people don’t work with me,” she said with simple confidence, cutting through Lotem’s racing thoughts. “Lotem, they call me the Crownless because I shape the course of empires. Aside from Krinka, I doubt anyone in the entire empire knows more about classes, skills, and domains.” Her lips curled into a coy smile, like a cat who’d just caught a mouse.


    “Your triumvirate has grand goals—goals that could shatter the balance of power if achieved. We’re here to make sure they succeed and that you survive long enough to see it through.”


    A weight lifted from his shoulders as he tossed another piece of jerky to the kitten crouched ahead of him. He nodded at Casselia, a silent acceptance. If she could guide him to achieve his goal, then who was he to ignore her teachings?


    “What do I need to do?”


    “First, we need to strengthen your bond with Sabel so you can feel not just vague emotions, but her full thoughts and needs.”


    He nodded again, watching as Sabel batted at the jerky in front of her. He wanted that bond, needed it if he was going to succeed. After being lost for so long, having something as simple as a connection felt like it could finally anchor him.


    Casselia continued, “The bond is key to unlocking both your potential and hers. Deepening that connection will open the door to more advanced skills and abilities. The Sulphen rewards those who strengthen their ties, and your bond with Sabel is the perfect place to start.”


    A flutter of hope stirred within Lotem. For the first time since entering Aslavain, he had a clear path forward—something more than just wandering through danger.


    “How do we start?” he asked, feeling determination rise within him again. It had been so long since he’d been certain of anything, and even this small step felt like success.