《An Empire of Silk and Bone》


 Prologue: Across the Diontel

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    In Tul¡¯s jaws, memories rend,


    Flesh and mind, they both descend.


    Lovers¡¯ faces, names consumed.


    Tul feast and Tul subsume.


    Silent cries, the hunted¡¯s plight,


    Caught in darkness, no escape in sight.


    TulBane¡¯s bite, the only peace,


    Swiftest death, their prey¡¯s release.


    Tul¡¯s gaze cuts, a butcher¡¯s thrill,


    Stalking shadows, closing to kill.


    In their hunt, the mind they grind,


    Leaving bones, memory entwined.


    ¨CRise of the First Baneby Caelum Vindicare


    Creation: The Tenth Month in the Twenty-Third Year in the Reign of Golden Harvests


    The echoes of ancient fear lingered in Astalia¡¯s mind as she gazed across the shadowed valleys of the Tul lands. Beside her, Ryaldon, ever the cautious strategist, now spoke of pushing forward. This was their first journey across the mighty river¡ªa scouting mission intended as a rite of passage for them as second-year scouts, led by one of the [Venerate]. Only three miles in and the air felt charged following the recent news.


    The advanced scouts of the Tulunganar, the mercenary company they were working under, had given them the report mere minutes ago: at least three mounted Tul raiders, their course set to pass north of their group on a path towards the rivers ford. Astalia knew that the guards of the ford would be able to handle the Tul ogres, but not without casualties, not if the Tul were mounted on those beasts of theirs.


    Ryaldon¡¯s voice cracked under the weight of his plea, the usually steady cadence now threaded with a palpable urgency. ¡°Astalia, we can¡¯t let them cross. My father died to their raids. If I fail, it¡¯s not just my command¡ªit¡¯s my honor. Not again.¡±


    Astalia¡¯s gaze lingered on him, noting the tightness in his shoulders, the way his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides¡ªa mirror to the turmoil brewing within her. ¡°And what of the others, Ryaldon? Do Alvain and Telvar share your eagerness to dance with oblivion?¡± Astalia shuddered at the thought, her voice tightening. ¡°The Tul¡­ They devour more than flesh, Ryaldon. They steal our very meaning. Do you truly grasp what that means?¡±


    He swallowed hard. ¡°I . . . we may not be ready to face them in open combat, but¡­ an ambush could tilt the scales in our favor. If we can get in front of the riders, ambush them from a hilltop where their mounts will struggle to pursue . . .¡± Ryaldon¡¯s gaze hardened with resolve, a stark contrast to the vulnerability flashing in his eyes moments before. ¡°I¡¯m leading this ambush, with or without your blessing. You are our mentor, but this is our choice not yours. Not unless you are invoking your right of return.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve stood against the Tul, and it is never something to do lightly. Yet,¡± she paused, her gaze distant, ¡°I won¡¯t invoke the right, not on your first command.¡± She glanced at him. ¡°We tread carefully, engaging only in ambush. Three Tul might be within our capabilities from a hilltop ambush.¡± Her voice, usually so steady, carried a tremor of uncertainty as she broached the next query, ¡°Your Tulbane¡ªstill active?¡±


    ¡°Of course it¡¯s active; we got them installed by the Tulunganar less than a fortnight ago and they know their work.¡± His gaze softened. ¡°Astalia, we know the protocol, but we won¡¯t need to use them. Ancestors know that the poison is a last resort, it¡¯s just an ambush, like we have done on the plains hundreds of times.¡±


    But the Tul¡­ They are not the same as beasts. We learned that lesson long ago, we paid for that ignorance in blood and bone.


    With a hesitant nod, she gave her approval. ¡°We need to regroup now,¡± Astalia said, her voice firm. ¡°They¡¯re heading north, and we know their pace. If we move fast, we can still catch them off guard. But we need to be invisible. Secrecy is our only shield.¡±


    <hr>


    As they ascended the ridge the world seemed to tilt into silence, save for the unsettling harmony of their mounts¡¯ hooves against the earth. A piercing scream erupted from Astalia¡¯s horse, shattering the eerie calm. The animal reared violently, eyes wide with terror, hooves flailing as if battling unseen foes. Around her, the other horses bucked and whinnied, the air thick with panic. Astalia fought to regain control, her heart pounding as she scanned the darkening horizon for the source of their fear.


    In the eerie dance of their shadows against the burnt orange of the grasses, Astalia¡¯s heart sank. ¡°They sense them,¡± she whispered, a chill of realization creeping along her spine. The Tul were near, perhaps nearer than they should ever have been able to get.


    Astalia¡¯s heart raced, the air growing thick with unease. The breeze, once a gentle caress, now carried a scent¡ªsomething sharp and rancid, like decay. Her skin prickled, the unspoken dread of the Tul seeping into her bones. ¡°They are upwind,¡± she murmured, realization dawning with chilling clarity. Her voice, though strained with panic, commanded, ¡°Ride hard! The ambush is lost to us. Our only hope is to cross the ford. Ride!¡±


    Urging her mount forward, she felt its muscles tense beneath her, its breaths coming in ragged gasps. Nothing in the world would panic a horse of the empire faster than one of the Tul Horsebeasts. Astalia could understand that. The thought of the Tul, those mountains of rippling flesh, their jaws, just slightly too large and filled with two rows of sharpened teeth. She shivered.This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    Her horse surged forward, muscles straining beneath her, as they overtook Alvain. Alvain¡¯s expression was a tapestry of fear and determination, her usual companion, her fogwood bow, tied to the saddle behind her as she scrambled to retrieve it. Her mare, drenched in sweat and fear, barely kept pace with the group, its flanks heaving with each labored breath. Astalia¡¯s breath caught as she noticed her steed¡¯s faltering steps.


    The horse¡¯s sides heaved, sweat darkening its flanks, its pace slowing with every stride. Panic clawed at her throat. This wasn¡¯t normal exhaustion¡ªit was something far worse, something unnatural.A skill?She knew the Tul could bear skills, but it was rare, not something she would ever expect this close to the Diontel.


    Behind her, a roar shattered the tense silence, wrenching her attention backward. Memories, as numerous and varied as the stars, flooded her mind¡ªbattles fought, lives saved, and too many lost to the savagery of the Tul. Despite decades of combat, the raw, visceral fear they inspired never dulled; it clawed at her insides. In the face of the Tul, all were prey.


    The first Tul crested the ridge, a giant astride a nightmare steed darker than the void; a cold shiver traced Astalia¡¯s spine. Her hands trembled on the reins, not from the chill in the air, but from an ancient fear resurfacing. The sight of them¡ªmonstrosities of flesh, bigger than any human¡ªwas a harsh reminder of their reality. Size was but a fraction of their terror; it was the cold intelligence in their eyes paired with grinning smiles that truly chilled her to the bone.


    Why didn¡¯t I force them to stay? The right of return was mine¡ªI should have invoked it, saved them from this. But I hesitated. I wanted them to see me as more than just a mentor, more than just a relic of old battles. I wanted them to succeed on their terms, but now¡­ Now I¡¯ve led them into death¡¯s jaws. No skill is worth this.


    As her horse surged forward, Astalia caught a fleeting glimpse of Telvar. The young warrior, determination etched into his features, gripped an emerald-bladed longsword¡ªa stark contrast against the fear that shadowed his movements. His words, carried by the wind, were a desperate mantra against the encroaching fear, an invocation of his ancestors¡¯ wisdom and protection.


    Then, the horizon birthed more nightmares. Two additional Tul, their forms a blur of menace, joined the hunt, their mounts¡¯ hooves thundering a relentless rhythm against the earth. Astalia felt each beat as a hammer against her chest, the distance between them closing with every heartbeat.


    Three, we might be able to handle three.


    The Tul began to close on Alvain. Their mounts¡¯ long legs eating the distance. Astalia was sure she could feel her mount¡¯s frantic heartbeat through the saddle as she leaned forward, dropping the reins, and began guiding the warhorse with her knees.Only one chance.


    Astalia¡¯s fingers danced over the familiar weave of her spellstring, each touch sending a tremor of power through her. Her voice, low and urgent, threaded the air with the ancient words. As she chanted, the grasses before them began to shift, their soft blades hardening, sharpening. The spell took hold, binding the land to her will. She breathed a sigh of relief¡ªtheir ambush might just succeed.


    The Horsebeasts hit the affected grasses and collapsed. The patches of grass had become the swordgrass of the deep south. Hard as iron and sharp as its namesake, the blades bit deep enough to hit bone, crippling the beasts. She inhaled, a breath of triumph rising within her.


    She heard the cries of the Tul as they were tossed from their mounts, tumbling into the sharpened grasses. They were going to make it. Her heart fluttered, relief buoyant, stronger than the anchor of fear that had weighed her down in their desperate ride.


    ¡°Gwooooh-gwooooh.¡± Warhorns sounded from the hills to their sides. She flinched at the sound, grabbing her reins once more.A whole war party?


    Her team slowed their horses, knowing without having to be told that they needed to circle closer. That they needed to stay together. ¡°The Tul-¡±


    ¡°Meat. Oh, such juicy, primed meat. We have found our first meat this night, brothers.¡± A Tul spoke in the broken, jarring speech of his people, as though their sharpened rows of teeth cut the very words coming from their mouths. The words echoed through the hillside, their source obscured. ¡°A feast of lowlanders for us and a feast of the lowlander horses for our own.¡±


    ¡°Astalia,¡± Ryaldon turned, the panic evident in his voice, ¡°What did they say?¡±


    It is better not to know.Her voice raised, catching the attention of the others as she wove enoughmeaninginto her words to pierce the panic. ¡°It¡¯s time¡­ The Tulbane is our duty. They cannot consume us, our memories, they cannot be severed. This is about more than us now.¡±


    She saw the others hesitate; she knew the Tul were closing in, getting closer every moment. A voice echoed down from the opposite hillside as the first. ¡°Did the Meat hope to catch us, slay us one by one as they did in the old days? It is as Thar Nol Grak said.¡± The broken speech was mocking, its tone cruel.


    Alvain drew her bow, nocked an arrow, and shot it up the hill towards the location of the voice. ¡°Astalia, what did they say?¡± Her voice cracked, the panic clear as her arrow vanished over the hill.


    ¡°I just love when the meat struggles before the feast.¡± The third rasping, chuckling voice echoed from behind them. ¡°This one is going to be a treat.¡±


    Ryaldon lurched to her right. She spun, saw a black arrow, long as her arm, piercing his chest. He fell from his horse. Gone. It was too late for him. He waslost.


    I cannot wait any longer. We cannot wait any longer.


    ¡°The Tulbane,¡± Astalia¡¯s voice cracked, her hand already moving to her mouth. The sharp crunch of the molar-cap split the chaos, and the bitter powder flooded her senses. Darkness swallowed her vision as she toppled from the saddle, a single thought haunting her as the world faded¡ªtoo late.


    All three taken by arrows? Did any of them take the poison?Her thoughts slowed as her soul began its return to the empire. She knew she had only seconds left before she would wake once again.


    Her body hit the ground with a dull thud, her horse fleeing in blind terror. As her vision blurred, she caught sight of movement on the hills¡ªdozens of dark shapes, swarming down like a living tide. Rats, monstrous and unnatural, their eyes gleaming with a malevolent intelligence.Have the Tul bred new horrors?The thought flickered and faded as darkness claimed her, pulling her back into the cold embrace of the shrines.

 Chapter One: Rites of Passage

    In the empire¡¯s heart, where destinies entwine:


    Malan¡¯s ambition, Dion¡¯s dark design,


    Kiel¡¯s wisdom deep, where fog-land giants stand,


    Bal¡¯s nomadic soul, roaming ancient land.


    Bound by history, yet each path uniquely sown,


    Together they forge an empire of their own.


    In competition, innovation, and unity they thrive,


    Under twin moons, their stories come alive.


    ¨C The Harmony of Empires by Liraelin Silverson


    Creation: The 6th Month in the 28th Year in the Reign of Golden Harvests


    A crack split the air as the [Drummers of the Sky] mimicked thunder, and the countless people at the Kulakhar fell silent, aware it was about to begin. The three auspicious hills stilled. The mighty shrines atop were crowded with onlookers who turned to watch the procession weaving through the plains, illuminated by thousands of torches and the golden light of the twin moons.


    Three tribes of the ThurBal had convened in the plains of the Nomad¡¯s March for the annual procession, with more than five thousand of the clans¡¯ youth gathered to celebrate their passage from childhood to adulthood. It was a time of hope for a better future, filled with excitement as they became citizens of the empire and the Sulphen took hold within each of them.


    In the heart of the quieting crowd, Lotem Jarval stood tall, a looming presence with shoulders broad as the horizon, his majestic bison fur cloak draped over him like a mantle of authority. His sharp, observant eyes scanned the crowd, his silent nods acknowledging those brave enough to meet his gaze. Even the impartial glow of the twin moons seemed to favor him, casting his long and distinguished shadow upon the grass, a silent monolith amid the stream of humanity.


    Around him, the sound of conversations and footsteps persisted, yet there was a subtle gap, an almost reverent buffer unconsciously preserved by the crowd, acknowledging his distinct position among them. He carried no blade of metal, grass, or bone. He wore no armor. He displayed no symbols of authority. He didn¡¯t have to. His skin, the color of burnt grass, and his piercing blue eyes, like shards of a clear summer sky, spoke of his Numen heritage and that was enough.


    The [Drummers of the Sky] resumed their performance, the drums¡¯ taut hides stretched over bone frames resonating loudly enough to quiver the very ground beneath his feet. Lotem sensed the atmosphere shift, the air growing tense as though bracing for a storm despite the clear sky above. The cool night air carried the scent of damp earth and distant fires, mingling with the tang of sweat and the rustle of grass under shifting feet.


    The tension in the air was palpable, like the charged silence before a storm. As the drums¡¯ rhythm reached its peak, the very ground seemed to pulse beneath them, then suddenly stilled, leaving only the hushed breath of the crowd. Lotem could feel the anticipation rushing in to fill the sudden quiet.


    A voice broke the silence, as loud as thunder, recognizable to all in the assembled throngs. The Balar, the Khan of Khans, the true Khan of the ThurBal, spoke, and an image of him appeared in the night sky above, blocking the light of distant stars. The Balar stood, his snow-white bison cloak a mirror to Lotem¡¯s own. Only a dozen such cloaks existed in the Sul Empire, none more treasured than the hide of Kathanka, the Balar¡¯s steed before his ascension at the great Shrine.


    ¡°Brave sons and daughters of the eternal steppe,¡± the Balar began, his voice as deep and commanding as the thunderous beat of the drums that had swept through the crowd. ¡°The path you choose from this day forward will sculpt the destiny of our tribes. It is a path fraught with the thorns of challenge, yet abundant with the promise of glory. I challenge you, young warriors, to grasp honor for our people. To ride the winds of fate and bend them to your will, as the falcon dominates the skies.


    Eighteen generations ago, we journeyed to this land, rich in silk and bone, to find peace. Eighteen generations ago, we conquered this land with shrine and steel. We vanquished the endless legions of the Malan and the masters of their great sects. We crushed the spirit of the Dion [Bone Lords] with their ivory legions. We defeated the [Witches of Woven Word] and the [Luminaries] of the Kiel.¡± The voice paused, resounding triumphantly as it continued, ¡°Sixteen generations ago, we ratified the Treaty of Swallow¡¯s Grace. Sixteen generations ago, we transcended our forebearers, we discovered paradise and claimed it as our own. Now, this empire belongs as much to the Bal as it does to the Malan, Dion, or Kiel. This empire is ours.


    Now, it is your moment to wield the power of our empire, the power of the Sulphen. Some of you will employ that power to create great works, to forge relics with powers yet to be seen. Some of you will join the legions, pledging yourselves to the defense of those too frail to defend themselves. The finest among you will enter Aslavain this very night and form your own triumvirates as you strive for the very zenith of power.¡±


    Lotem stood tall amidst the gathered youth of the ThurBal, the Balar¡¯s words echoing in his mind. The Khan of Khans, a living legend among their people, whose very presence commanded respect and awe. Lotem had always admired the Balar, not just for his strength and leadership but for his embodiment of the ThurBal spirit. How many times had he imagined himself wearing a cloak of white bison, standing proud beside the Balar as a beacon of their people¡¯s resilience and honor?


    The Balar had taken them from the jaws of destruction in the Beastlands to a land of paradise. He had fought the Sul Empire and he had won. Lotem couldn¡¯t help but feel a surge of pride and determination. This was the path he wanted to follow, the legacy he wanted to build. The Balar¡¯s words were more than just a call to action; they were a reminder of what it meant to be ThurBal, a reminder of the strength that lay within him.


    Lotem¡¯s hands tightened into fists, his broad shoulders stiffening under the weight of the Balar¡¯s words. The twin moons cast their impartial light on his weathered face, but the fire in his eyes betrayed the storm brewing within. His heart thundered in his ears as he noticed heads turning toward him, their anticipation almost tangible. The boldest among them, the bravest youth of the ThurBal tribes, would seek to enter Aslavain and prove themselves in its many trials. Those admitted to Aslavain would compete for one year to gain fame, glory, and power. Success in Aslavain could allow a sheepherder to become someone of importance, someone of meaning. If they survived.


    As the Balar spoke of Aslavain, Lotem¡¯s thoughts drifted to his brother, the gaping void in his memory where his presence should be. The empire¡¯s records claimed his brother had fallen to a Tul raid, but to Lotem, it was more than just a loss¡ªit was an emptiness that gnawed at his soul. He could remember his laughter, the hunts, the shared dreams, but his brother¡¯s face, his voice, even his name, were like shadows slipping through his grasp.


    How could one grieve the loss of their very memory? Lotem could recall the thrill of the hunt, the laughter echoing across the plains, but the face of his companion was lost to shadows. The harder he tried to grasp it, the more it slipped away, like smoke through his fingers. It was as though his brother had been erased from existence, leaving behind only a hollow ache and fragmented memories that refused to piece together. He had been left with a patchwork of clues about his brother, every memory a mystery he desperately wished to solve. But the memories were gone, and their absence a continued wound.


    Of the few memories he had left, the clearest was of his brother¡¯s emerald sword, its rippling patterns forged deep into the swordgrass blade. He could imagine how proud his brother had been, how excited for the future as he showed off his new blade. Why could he remember the blade his brother had won in Aslavain more than his brother himself? He breathed in deeply through his nose and exhaled as the shamans had taught him. Did my brother share this rage, he thought, this fury sharp as grass and buried deeper than any root?


    The Balar¡¯s voice rose in volume, and Lotem refocused on the moment at hand. ¡°Those of you destined to serve our empire in times of peace should spread your wings and explore the empire. I encourage you to use this opportunity to travel to a city that calls to you. I ask you to grow, to learn, and eventually, to return to the ThurBal and share your knowledge.


    For those of you courageous enough to serve in the imperial military, I ask that you think of the threat to our east. We need soldiers to man the great colored forts across the Diontel, to hold the Tul at bay. There is no greater honor than keeping the people you love safe from the monsters at the gates.


    For those of you who believe you have what it takes for greatness, I applaud you. Once you reach Aslavain, you will be charged with forming a triumvirate with two candidates from elsewhere in the empire. You will have until the fall equinox to arrive in one of the Eternal Cities and compete in the first of the three true contests. Should you prove powerful enough to win one of the Eternal Contests, seek me out in UlaanThur, and I will give you a boon as I have done since the Treaty of Swallows Grace.¡±


    The Khan of Khans raised one fist, and a roar erupted from the surrounding tribes. Lotem felt his nerves settle; he was ready. He would avenge his brother and recover the blade whose memory he couldn¡¯t seem to leave behind. He would win an Eternal Contest and rally the tribes to stand against the Tul.


    He was confident that nothing else could bring him the peace he craved.


    <hr>


    Sylva Strenath, poised with the grace of a perfectly spun thread, felt her heart quicken, her fingers curling into the fabric of her robe as the realization struck her¡ªthis was it. The years of relentless training, the solitude, the struggle¡ªall had led to this moment. She had reached the pinnacle. Her life was about to truly begin.


    The vast chamber loomed above, its domed ceiling etched with the ascensions of sect elders, their tales inlaid with streams of silver. Moonlight poured through a skylight, bathing the central altar in a celestial glow.


    Thirty-six initiates of the Sect of Silken Grace formed a circle around the altar, their anticipation palpable¡ªa testament to the moment¡¯s gravity. From the hundreds given to the Sect at their creation, only these thirty-six had earned the right to compete in what the Malan called the Eternal Contest within Aslavain. Sylva had earned the right to petition the Immortals to enter Aslavain, form a triumvirate, and conquer its unknown wonders.


    The dense smoke of the moonshadow incense curled through the air, its scent shifting from earthy to sweet as it absorbed the moonlight. Sylva¡¯s nose wrinkled at the unusual aroma, the smoke glowing faintly as it spiraled toward the altar, seeming almost alive. The smoke, moving as if with intent, began to drift toward the altar, its scent subtly changing, drawing inward as if beckoned by the altar itself. It gathered in the center of the chamber, where the altar rose, a mirage of moonlight and silver hidden within the smoke.


    Her heart pounded with a mix of nerves and excitement as she realized the time had come. Her long-awaited moment for freedom, her opportunity to transcend the sect¡¯s fierce rivalries, was finally here. How often had she envisioned this day? To secure her place in the Eternal Contest and to step outside the sect¡¯s confines for only the third time, finally achieving the liberty she so desperately sought. She knew logically that Aslavain didn¡¯t technically count as the ¡®real world,¡¯ and it certainly wasn¡¯t safe. Yet, to her, it was freedom.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    A harp¡¯s strings sang out, weaving a crystalline melody that pierced the chamber¡¯s silence, each note echoing against the stone walls in a hauntingly beautiful cascade. Sylva smiled; the Ode to Empire always soothed her, its familiarity calming her nerves as the melody gently faded. Then Elder Valinsa, robed in woven silver, approached the altar. As the First Among Equals, she was the sect elder Sylva respected least, her strict adherence to propriety and hierarchy grating against Sylva¡¯s sensibilities.


    ¡°Initiates,¡± Elder Valinsa¡¯s voice was as hard as steel, ¡°the time draws near when you shall be plucked from the ordinary, consecrated to our empire¡¯s grand design, scrutinized. You stand apart from the unrefined masses, those who revel in their crude fascinations with bone and fire. You are the bearers of our empire¡¯s most exalted legacy. It is my expectation¡ªno, our collective anticipation¡ªthat not one among you shall falter and fail to gain admittance to Aslavain. Never once has a candidate of the sect failed to gain admittance; the shame of such a failure would be¡­ unbearable. Do not let such ignominy define you; here, to falter is failure.¡± Her voice sharpened on the word ¡®failure,¡¯ the very idea igniting a furious spark in her eyes.


    ¡°You will not bring dishonor upon our sect, nor will you be the cause of our embarrassment. Triumph is the only outcome we will tolerate.¡± As she spoke, Elder Valinsa rotated slowly, locking eyes with each initiate, her gaze sharp and commanding. ¡°Last year, three of our candidates were crowned champions in the Eternal Contests, a mere three out of all of the  challenges over the course of the contest.¡± Her lip curled as though she had just bitten into a lemon, distaste evident on her face. ¡°Do not allow their failure to inspire you. You shall do better.¡±


    Elder Valinsa¡¯s words cut like a blade, each syllable heavy with expectation. Sylva¡¯s shoulders tightened under the invisible weight, the pressure to not only excel but to dominate coursing through her veins like the Lifethread itself. Failure was not an option¡ªit was a disgrace she could not afford.


    Her sect was unparalleled within the empire. For almost a millennium, the Sect of Silken Grace had reigned supreme. They had survived the chaos of the Beast Wars, fought in the Flower Wars, and grown even stronger in the years of peace since the Treaty of Swallow¡¯s Grace.


    ¡°The shortsighted Treaty of Swallow¡¯s Grace has compelled our empire to accept triumvirates comprising members from the dirty herds of the Bal, the deceptive Dion in their halls of bone, and the isolated Kiel living in the eternal mists. Yet, let the lesser peoples not dim your resolve; remember, you are imbued with the noble essence of our empire, the pure Malan spirit that courses through your silken veins. From the moment your Lifethread was spun and imbued by your parents, your destiny was sealed¡ªnot merely to participate, but to triumph in the name of the Malan.¡±


    The elder stepped forward, and the moonlight streaming from above was absorbed into her silver robes until she shone. Her hands began to twist and shape an unseen object in the air in front of her, moving as though tying invisible strands into complex knots. Her fingers danced in the air with a precision that Sylva envied, and the thick smoke in the chamber began to glow with the same light as the elder¡¯s robe.


    ¡°Remember where you have been assigned and ensure that your triumvirate arrives at the correct shrine for the Eternal Contest on the fall equinox. We tolerate no disobedience in this. You may be leaving the sect, but do not mistake me; you are still members of the Sect of Silken Grace, and that comes with obligations as well as rewards. Do not think that you can reap the benefits of our teaching without repaying our generosity.¡±


    The elder¡¯s hands stopped moving, and the incense froze in place before flowing into the silken robes of the initiates, transitioning the myriad robes from a uniform black into a rainbow of different hues. Sylva suppressed a gasp as her robe became a deep emerald green. She was to go to Eisentor, the City of Woven Word, one of the true Eternal Cities and the home of the Scholars of Silk. She had been selected to compete in the most competitive of the Eternal Cities. Only one initiate received such an honor.


    ¡°Remember, your debt is not yet paid, and you owe the sect more than you know. Win honor in our name, in your name. Now, the time has come.¡±


    Sylva felt an exhilarating lift, her heart racing with the thrill of expectation. Bathed in a golden light, she sensed the dawn of her long-awaited destiny. At last, her life was poised to truly begin.


    <hr>


    On the eve of his twentieth summer solstice, Hadrian of Cutra, a boy on the cusp of manhood, knelt, awaiting the start of his Ceremony of Loss.


    Hadrian¡¯s mind wandered to the rest of the empire. Years ago, a [Merchant] and [Courier] had stayed in Cutra for two weeks, sharing tales of their travels. The [Courier] spoke of a grand festival hosted by the ThurBal, culminating in a star-lit march before three Eldar.


    Hadrian wasn¡¯t sure what an Eldar was. The traders described it, albeit poorly, as a walking hill crowned with a Shrine. They spoke of clumps of grass falling from the elementals¡¯ legs, with dozens of [Herbalists], [Alchemists], and [Farmers] scrambling to collect the magical soil and plants left in their wake. Hadrian couldn¡¯t imagine such a sight.


    Hadrian was born in Cutra, the Village of Untamed Mist, though it had yet to truly earn its name. The residents considered themselves part of the Sul Empire, close enough to the empire¡¯s borders to benefit from their citizenship, even if the empire might disagree. For almost thirty years, the people of Cutra had worked to transform their part of the canopies in the great Fologian Forest into a village. Hadrian had spent his entire life in the canopies, hundreds of feet above the forest floor, where monsters lurked within the fogs.


    He longed to feel soil beneath his bare feet, to witness the great herds of the Bal, to marvel at the stone cities, and to explore the cities ruled by the Luminaries and the Weavers within the Fologian Forest to the Northeast. He wanted to see everything. Yet, he understood that leaving Cutra meant leaving everyone he had ever known behind. He would embark on his grand adventure, but until he was strong enough to break the veil between worlds, he could never return home.


    Cutra needed a Shrine to truly thrive. It needed to join the great network of the empire. A Shrine would allow Cutra to trade its wondrous fog-woven silk, tempting traders to make the dangerous trek. A Shrine would allow the youth of Cutra to return after their twentieth solstice without having to traverse more than a hundred miles of untamed forest beyond the Spine.


    He knelt in the center of the village plaza, a wooden platform suspended by dozens of lines, connected to the great trees the village had shaped into their home. The homes surrounding him were built within the trunks of the great trees, carved into the wood with the aid of the Luminaries¡¯ fire. Below the platform, the fog glands of the trees wept their eternal stream of gray fog. Each drop of fog drifted to the forest floor below, joining the rivers of mist that drained westward.


    Tapestries of woven rope formed bridges and balconies, each cradling dozens of onlookers, a silent crowd composed of everyone he had ever known. A lone flute began to weave a haunting melody, its somber notes familiar as the dirge began. Soon, a second flute joined the first, then a third, their notes intertwining and interlocking, the harmonies impossible to ignore as the ritual began.


    Pillars of fire rose from the platform¡¯s three bonfires one at a time as three arrows fell from the heights onto the prepared stacks of kindling and wood. The flames did not just illuminate the area surrounding Hadrian; they each whispered silent promises as their light bathed his kneeling form. Luminaries¡¯ fire, he realized with a start, as the light of the flames began to influence him.


    The first flame, the color of the sky on a cloudless day, cast a serene glow that cooled the air, making his skin tingle with the electricity of potential. Its light slowed his thoughts, urging him to ponder every choice he might make. The flames encouraged him to approach the ritual with a logic divorced from emotion.


    The second flame, the color of fresh leaves, spread through the wood like the first breath of spring. Hadrian felt the flames¡¯ influence pushing him to experiment, to take risks. It spoke to him as though he were a seed trying to find a home in foreign soil. The flame encouraged him to spread his wings and leap from the nest with nature¡¯s indifference to his personal gain and loss.


    The third flame, the deep crimson of blood, pushed the other light, fighting with the rival hues as it began to pulse in a steady rhythm. This fire demanded retribution, repayment for what Hadrian was about to lose. It spoke with an unheard voice of injustice and righteous anger. Hadrian turned away from the rising force of the flame, preferring the gentle call of the forest to the fires of rage.


    A drumbeat echoed through the fog, and the light from the fires mixed into the gray mist, dancing with every beat. The fog roiled, boiling with collected emotions: the crimson hue of rage, the verdant shade of hope, the deep blue of logic. The emotions remained trapped within the fog, within the air surrounding him, impossible to ignore.


    To the residents of the village watching in silence, the fog was mesmerizing¡ªa blend of colors and emotions captured in ethereal mist. To Hadrian, the fog illuminated by the Luminaries¡¯ work was something¡­ more.


    The Luminaries of the Fogland had long ago learned the secrets of infusing flame with emotion and meaning. Hadrian had heard that in the Bridgelands to the east, lanterns filled with white flames of hope covered hundreds of miles of rope bridges, each lantern tended to by initiates to ensure that no stretch of the mighty highway through the canopies was unlit. Hadrian had helped create similar lanterns to hang in the branches surrounding Cutra to keep the fog at bay. He had thought he was ready.


    These flames fought to control his emotions with unexpected ferocity. He hadn¡¯t realized the difference between the gentle flame of a lantern and the raging blaze of the bonfires. This flame was far larger and stronger than any lantern he had encountered, and that was before the drum began its mighty pulse and the fog became infused with the light of the flame. His prior experience with Luminaries¡¯ flame had been like the descending drops of fog¡ªan occasional reminder to have hope in the future. The light around him now was a raging river, a torrent of emotion pulling him in three directions.


    It felt as though his soul was at war with itself. He wanted to laugh, cry, and scream. He wanted to escape the dancing fog around him as the melody continued for what felt like hours. When the melody eventually faded, the emotions held by the flames and fog bled away, leaving only three fires of orange flame burning around him.


    A familiar voice emerged from one of the bridges to his right. He turned, his eyes struggling to adjust to the sudden darkness as he searched for the speaker. Today would likely be the last day he would see his mother. They both knew he was unlikely to form a shrine. They had spoken that morning about the difficulty of his task. He lacked the formal schooling and expansive social networks essential for entry to Aslavain, and he wasn¡¯t even sure he would make it that far.


    Despite that, she believed in him. She believed he had what it took to become the best. She believed with unshaken confidence that he would pierce the veil between worlds. That his triumvirate would make Cutra a true part of the empire. That his triumvirate would be the first to expand the empire¡¯s borders in generations.


    Tears formed in his eyes as he saw her gentle smile and heard her soft words float through the fog. He knew this was it, his final goodbye.


    ¡°Have you made your choice, Hadrian? Will you accept Cutra¡¯s dream as your own? Will you swear to return only when you are strong enough to form a Shrine?¡±


    He cleared his throat, conscious of the watching eyes and listening ears hidden by the fog. He had recited his speech hundreds of times in the past month. Even now, with the lingering turmoil of the Luminaries¡¯ flame, he was certain he could say the words with the conviction they deserved.


    ¡°I swear on the trees I have called home, on the people who have made me the man I am today, and on my very life to strive endlessly toward the dream we all hold.¡± Hadrian pitched his voice to carry across the open air of the canopies. ¡°An empire cannot survive without expansion; this is a fact known the world over. Yet, the powers that be are content to hoard control over the empire¡¯s destiny, afraid of the consequences of claiming our birthright.


    ¡°The first Luminaries braved the canopies and claimed the forest east of the spine despite the protests of the Malan, the Dion, and even the Weavers to the far north. The greatest among them, Hirion, formed not just a shrine, but an Eternal City, a place of wonder the world over. It is past time for a new wave of expansion, and Cutra shall be its herald.¡±


    A familiar voice emerged from the fog on his left, and this time he couldn¡¯t suppress the tears as he saw his father for what could be the last time.


    ¡°Your oath has been witnessed and accepted, my son. You have the blessing of everyone who has known you, and throughout your journey, know that you have our support, no matter how distant and far it may seem.¡±


    At those words, the Summer Solstice truly began, and Hadrian felt a gentle shift, as though he were falling, taking him away from everything and everyone he had ever known. He closed his eyes as he felt the change and promised himself that he would never forget the love he saw in his Pa¡¯s gray eyes.

 Chapter Two: Contracts

    When Apalarakan rose in mist,


    A ghost beneath the silver sky,


    The Legions vowed his reign to end,


    Before the year¡¯s first light would die.


    But Transalas, a mighty force,


    Appeared as days were few and done,


    The Legions saw their hope recede,


    The war would span the rising sun.


    Then Gransa came with wings of dread,


    A shadow cast to swallow day,


    The Empire braced for years of war,


    As darkness spread, the skies turned gray.


    For forty years, the battles raged,


    Nine Beast Kings fell to sword and flame,


    The Sixth Age closed, a peace restored,


    A dawn arose, the world reclaimed.


    ¨C The Rise of the Beast Kings


    Aslavain: One Day after the Summer Solstice


    Sylva felt the shift take her, and in a blink, a flash of golden light, she found herself free from the confines of the sect she had called home. She took a deep breath, savoring the clean air, free from the overpowering incense of the sect. For the first time, she felt truly alive, her mind racing with the possibilities of the future. This is it, she thought. No more constraints, no more elders watching my every move.


    She smiled and turned to take in the room she had arrived in. She would have only three hours to make a decision before being transported once more by the grand bindings of the empire¡¯s magic, and she wanted to make every second count.


    She stood in a circular room, her posture immaculate, surveying the round table in the center with a critical eye. One of the chairs was formed from pale ivory, its every surface a masterwork of Dion [Boneshapers]. The second was made of gray stone with veins of gold, silver, and copper woven throughout to form the image of the rising sun. The third chair was carved from wood, its surface covered in detailed carvings and symbols of the Kiel peoples who lived in the Fologian Forest.


    Around her, the curving walls formed a similar pattern of bone, wood, and stone. The wall transitioned seamlessly from bone carved with the flowing script of the Dion to wood covered in colorful threads woven into an intricate tapestry. It then shifted to stone, adorned with runes and scenes of triumph in the Rahabian style of the original empire. Each element blended together, creating a stunning, cohesive design.


    In any other context, Sylva would have called the room ostentatious. She wasn¡¯t an expert in masonry or carving, but it didn¡¯t take one to realize the sheer effort that went into every aspect of the space. The walls were designed to impress as much as to communicate, and Sylva felt they did their job well. The Room of Threefold Oaths did not disappoint her expectations.


    She glided toward the leftmost strands of silk hanging against the deep brown of the Folog Wood, her movements precise and deliberate as she began to study the intricate hanging threads. Each thread communicated an idea with its color, length, texture, and position relative to the other strings. To most people, it would look like one of the art exhibits that traveled through the empire annually after the spring equinox and the civilian exhibitions. Most people had never had the years of training required to understand the scholars¡¯ script. Most people were not from the Sect of Silken Grace.


    She was certain that most candidates would be drawn to the stone with its clear text written from left to right in the orderly patterns that the Malan cities loved so much. She could read the stone script, of course. The elders had said it would bring ¡°great dishonor on her ancestors¡± if she couldn¡¯t read all three imperial scripts. On this, at least, she could agree with the elders.


    Sylva began to trace the pattern of the woven word of the silk in her mind, following the threads and knots with her eyes as she worked to memorize the whole pattern. She felt a whisper of relief as understanding came to her. The contract was the same. She had been confident that the elders wouldn¡¯t mislead them about something this important, but still, she felt a weight lift from her shoulders as she realized that she truly was ready.


    The strings laid out the grand design of Nyxol the Scribe, forming the intricate contract that granted citizenship in the Sul Empire. This contract, woven into the fabric of their society, was a choice given to everyone after twenty years within the empire¡¯s borders. Citizenship brought rights, responsibilities, and access to the magical arts. Sylva couldn¡¯t imagine anyone turning down such a boon.


    Yet, it was still her choice, and that meant something. As much as the elders had controlled her life up until this point, right now, in this moment, she was in control.


    She didn¡¯t understand all the principles behind the contract¡ªshe assumed few aside from Nyxol herself likely did¡ªbut Sylva knew she didn¡¯t have to understand to agree. Burning string, she had even heard that the illiterate could agree to the contract without having any idea what was included. Consent did not require understanding; all the contract required was a willingness to accept the offered terms.


    She moved away from the silken tapestry and traced her fingers along the wooden runes and carved stone as she made her way around the circular room. She waited almost the full three hours before taking a deep breath and sitting in the wooden chair. She closed her eyes and spoke the words she had spent her life preparing for.


    ¡°Under the gaze of Nyxol the Scribe, I invoke the right of Empire. I bind myself to the Sulphen willingly and pledge to serve the empire. I seek an audience to gain entry into Aslavain.¡±


    A needle made of pale ivory pierced the table in front of her. It rose several inches above the wood as though a seamstress had begun a stitch. Sylva half expected it to push all the way through, leaving a tail of string behind. The needle stopped moving and sat in front of her, ready for her to seal her oath.


    She pricked her finger on the needle and felt a slight drain, as though part of her was being drawn out. A rush of memories swept through her, her every secret and memory drawn from her in a single moment. Then, the needle withdrew, the table sealing behind it as it vanished, as though it had never been. It was done. Now, all she had to do was wait for her audience to be granted.


    For most, the needle would take a sample of blood as a sacrifice to fuel the binding. The elders liked to say that the cost of empire was weighed in blood. Easy enough for the Silkborn to say. She brushed the silken fibers of her skin and felt the strands reconnect where the needle had entered.


    Her hand felt weaker after some of its animating magic had been drained, but she was confident it was not enough to cause her any real concern. She was going to meet Nyxol herself, and she knew she had nothing to fear. Nyxol had always favored the Silkborn, and Sylva was confident her audience would be accepted.


    She felt the shift take her once more, the same flash of golden light, and then she was surrounded by trees.


    <hr>


    Hadrian felt the shift take him, the flash of golden light overwhelming his senses. His alabaster skin, pale as moonlight, seemed to glow in the ethereal illumination as he was unceremoniously dropped to the floor of a stone chamber. He fell to his hands and knees, retching violently as his stomach rebelled. The acrid taste of bile filled his mouth, and he scrambled backward, desperate to keep his precious robe clean. The robe, a gift from his parents, was woven from Fog Silk, its delicate strands mirroring the pale hue of his skin, representing their hopes and dreams for him.


    His parents had sat him down the day before and given him a robe woven from Fog Silk, a thin fiber produced by magical silkworms. The light gray strands came from The Brood to the west, harvested in the great nurseries kept by the insectile races of the western Fog-Lands. A robe woven from Fog Silk was capable of turning blades and arrows aside while remaining as light as fog around the body. Hadrian didn¡¯t know what his robe had cost Cutra, but he was certain it was worth more than anything else he had ever seen. He wore a treasure, and the idea of getting his own bile on the robe made him shudder.


    He stood slowly, letting his rebellious stomach adjust to the motion as he examined the silk for stains. His cool gray eyes, like polished silver, then began to take in the room with a watchful gaze. They were drawn to the familiar look of the table and the wooden portion of the wall. The dark brown Folog Wood surfaces were exactly as he expected.Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    He walked around the small puddle and approached the portion of the wall the color of clouds and dripping fog. He ran his fingers along the smooth substance, feeling the whirls and slashes carved into the surface from floor to ceiling. He wondered absently what beast the slab of unbroken bone had come from. He imagined there were not many creatures in the empire with bones taller than he was and dozens of feet long.


    As he ran his fingers along the wall, he felt a sense of ease around the bone that helped settle his mind. Sure, he had been a tad sick when he arrived and taken it out on the floor near his arrival, but it wasn¡¯t like there were others here. He pushed the sense of shame down and allowed the sense of wonder to replace it.


    He circled the room, his fingers tracing along the wall as it transitioned from the white bone to the mottled gray of stone. He marveled at the texture of the stone and the precise carved script on its surface. He had heard of stone, of course; traders who had visited Cutra had traded him a pebble when he was younger, and he had kept it by his bed for years, imagining the day he would see real stone.


    His fingers slowed as they brushed against the stone. He had given the pebble to his parents the night before as a parting gift¡ªsomething to look at and remember him by, he had said. He took a deep breath. Today was about the future, not the past. He left the stone and returned to the carven bone; it was better to start anew, to leave his memories behind.


    He squinted at the swirling script carved onto the bone and tried to decipher the meaning held within, to no avail. He had tried to learn the scholars¡¯ script used by the village merchants, but he had never gotten beyond the most rudimentary understanding of the strings. He had never even seen carven bone before, let alone the script carved into the second piece of stone he had ever seen.


    As his eyes traced the carvings in front of him, he couldn¡¯t help but feel out of his depth. He was about to embark on a grand adventure, but he couldn¡¯t even read what the adventure would include.


    He moved back to the wooden table, taking a seat in the ornate chair carved from bone. He spoke the words his parents had taught him day after day since winter. The words came easily in the way of something that has long since become routine.


    ¡°Under the gaze of Rovan Khal, the Ancient One, the Father of the Dion, the Titan of Carven Bone I invoke the right of Empire. I bind myself to the Sulphen willingly and pledge to serve the empire. I seek an audience to gain admission to Aslavain.¡±


    He waited for a grand change, a flash of golden light to whisk him away, a booming voice echoing in the chamber, or a rush of emotions like the luminaries fire could provoke. Instead, a thin spike of pale ivory rose from the table in front of him like a thorn emerging from a branch. He frowned.


    No one in his village had returned from Aslavain, the famed training realm of the empire. Despite that he had heard the stories around the fires at night of monsters to slay, tournaments to determine the best and the brightest of his generation, and even of trials that were capable of granting powerful magics. Aslavain was the place for an aspiring group to make a name for themselves in the empire and he couldn¡¯t let the opportunity pass him up.


    He examined the spike of bone for more of the Dion script carved onto its surface, an explanation for those who could read its purpose but found only a surface polished to a sharp point. He spent several minutes examining the spike before tentatively reaching out and brushing its surface, feeling the smooth bone narrow into a fine tip.


    As his finger reached the top of the spike he felt a sudden prick and a rush of heat down his arm. He recoiled, his finger a pale white with a drop of red welling on its surface. Had he been attacked? He had not been told to expect that he would be in danger in the Room of Threefold Oaths.


    He began to stand from his chair when the needle sank back into the table in front of him and almost immediately he felt a sudden shift and a flash of golden light in his vision.


    <hr>


    Lotem felt the shift take him as he was transported to the Room of Threefold Oaths, one of the greatest works of the Sul Empire. The feeling wasn¡¯t unexpected, though Lotem had traveled through the shrines before. No child of the Bal tribes came of age without having traveled through a shrine to UlaanThur, the City of the Crossroads to his people, the City of Silk and Spice to the imperials. At least this shift was smoother than his first, and he kept his stomach settled at the very least.


    He had felt the grass beneath his feet disappear, replaced by the smooth chill that he had come to expect from stone against bare feet. He studied the room around him, his towering figure casting a long shadow. In the center of the room sat a table made from wood of all things, its dark brown hue even deeper than the cloak across his shoulders. The three chairs positioned around the table were carved from three different materials. The three stretches of wall, each decorated with its own word scars, trapping the ideas of the past in an eternal present.


    The Empire had always loved its threefold imagery, he thought ruefully. Malan, Dion, and Kiel, the three ¡®true¡¯ peoples of the empire they said, as though the Bal¡¯s claim of centuries meant nothing. No matter how much the Bal contributed to the empire with warriors sent to fight the Tul in the east or caravans carrying goods from the southern reaches to the northern cities hungry for trade, the imperials had never truly accepted them as a part of the empire.


    He knew the basics of the great ritual whose terms were carved into the walls around him, of course. His towering stature and rugged demeanor belied a keen, if unlettered, intelligence. The carvings and string on the walls spelled out the great contract of the empire; the contract which gave every citizen the potential for greatness. He knew that spelled out in front of him were the costs of such a boon, nothing with the imperials was ever truly free.


    He paced around the room, the stone cold against his bare feet, his massive frame moving with surprising grace as he considered what would come next. His parents had asked him, begged him really, to spend his years of service with the civilian groups. He could tend to the great herds of bison on the plains as he had dreamed of when he was young or go to Saralainn, the City of Growth and learn the secrets of cultivation. He had always been a fan of grass and even now was tempted to spend his dozen years of service learning the natural arts.


    As much as he knew he looked like a warrior towering over normal folks in his hide cloak and with arms thicker than most men¡¯s thighs, he had never felt like a warrior. He could only imagine that his brother had been the warrior in their family. His brother had chosen not to serve in the civilian groups as his parents had almost certainly begged him as well. His brother had chosen to enter Aslavain and find glory for the clans.


    His brother had died.


    Was he really considering the same? To enter the imperial training grounds and compete for power, wealth, and glory was something he would never have considered before his brother¡¯s loss. Now, the absence of memory served as a constant reminder that the world was not safe. The absence of memory was a reminder that there was evil in the world. The Tul.


    The mere thought of the monsters caused him to clench his fists and take another of the deep breaths. His parents had asked him, begged him, to stay safe. They couldn¡¯t bear the idea of losing their one remaining child to Aslavain or the Tul. He understood that fear, as it was in constant battle with the sense of anger he kept beneath the surface.


    He stopped his pacing in front of the stone portion of the wall and bowed his head. He had lost the memories of his brother, but even the Tul couldn¡¯t erase the physical evidence of his brother¡¯s life. The Tul couldn¡¯t erase the letter his brother had sent describing his impression of Rovan Khal or of the relic he had acquired in Aslavain, one of the sword-grass blades unique to the southern plains of the empire.


    Lotem knew that his brother had chosen Rovan Khal as his guide. He knew that his brother had sat down in the ivory chair and given the immortal a drop of his blood. Lotem didn¡¯t think he could do the same. Not for Rovan at least. Not if his guidance had led to his brother¡¯s death.


    He turned, his heart heavy with the lack of memory of his brother. Am I making the right choice? he wondered. The thought of entering Aslavain without the training his brother had terrified him, but he knew he needed an edge. Taking a deep breath, he sat in the stone chair, hoping that Sylvine, the Sovereign of Emerald Skies, could provide the strength he needed to survive.


    Sylvine, the Sovereign of Emerald Skies had a¡­ tenuous relationship with the Bal. She had stood firmly against their integration following the Treaty of Swallows Grace, had spent centuries harassing any of his people who had chosen her in this very ritual. That had all changed when Saralainn, the City of Growth, had petitioned her for peace.


    The Bal hosted the best [Shamans] and [Druids] in the empire with entire shrines dedicated to the craft atop the roaming Eldar, themselves the source of the best soil in the empire. The Bal tended entire herds of magical beasts which produced fertilizer, manure really, capable of nurturing magical plants in any climate. Saralainn had needed Bal goods and eventually Sylvine had relented, offering real skills, classes, and talents to the few Bal brave enough to meet her every year.


    He knew he needed an edge, something to help him survive the coming years. He knew he lacked the training to compete in Aslavain. He hoped Sylvine could give him the edge he would need to eventually rise to greatness and destroy the Tul all the way down to the root.


    ¡°Under the gaze of Sylvine, the Sovereign of Emerald Skies, I invoke the right of Empire. I bind myself to the Sulphen willingly and pledge to serve the empire. I seek an audience to gain admission to Aslavain.¡±


    A needle made from bone rose from the table in front of him. Lotem hesitated for a moment, his heart pounding with anticipation. Then, he pricked his finger on the tip and felt as though something more than mere blood had been taken. A wave of emotion washed over him¡ªfear, hope, determination¡ªall mixing together as he committed himself to the path ahead. The needle sank back into the wood and he once again felt the shift take him and the flash of golden light.

 Chapter Three: Immortal Moments

    Before the rise of the Lord of Chains, the Master of Blood and Flesh, the dread Tul-Tul-Tar, three immortal races reigned. The Titans, giants among beings, ruled the great plains and the empires of mankind with unwavering might. Perched within their halls of stone, the Dragons lorded over their realms, each a sovereign of its own domain. The Weavers, in their seclusion, were devoted to the creation of new intelligent races, weaving the fabric of life with their ancient magics.


    The Blood Wars and the ensuing Breaking of Chains heralded the downfall of these ancient powers. By the start of the Fourth Age, the immortal races were all but extinct, their vast empires shattered. Survivors, once lords of creation, were now fugitives or prisoners bound to shrines, their direct influence over the world severed.


    From the ashes of this turmoil, the Sul Empire emerged, its foundations laid in the Contract of Empire penned by Nyxol the Scribe in the final days of the Blood Wars. It has since stood under the guardianship of Sylvine ruling from her emerald throne, and Rovan Khal, with his legions of bone. In desperation the three reluctant allies forged a new kind of contract, a new magic born from the old.


    ¨C Excerpt from The Last Immortals by Alchess Transalara


    Aslavain: One Day after the Summer Solstice


    Lotem felt the shift, the flash of golden light, and the familiar wrenching sensation in his gut. His mind raced with thoughts of the impending meeting. Would Sylvine be as imposing as a storm over the plains? Would she sense his hidden companion? He swallowed hard, trying to calm the storm brewing within. This encounter could determine his future, and he couldn¡¯t afford to make a mistake.


    He felt the small form nestled against his chest stir for the first time in hours, hoping she would wait until he left the chamber to make her presence known. He examined the space, hoping the slight movement of his neck would conceal the faint wriggling beneath his cloak.


    He stood in an immense stone room, vast enough to house a herd of bison, its towering walls like cliffs, the floor a cold ocean of stone veined with gold and silver. The cold stone beneath his feet felt alien, a stark contrast to the soft, singing earth of the plains he had spent his life within. Even the air felt different, carrying a faint, musty odor of age and disuse.


    Today wasn¡¯t the first time Lotem had seen stone construction, though he was far from familiar with the craft. Years earlier, he had visited Gertolai, the City of Steel, and Galsharok, the City of Copper, within the Khanate. He had been awestruck by their towering stone walls, yet horrified by the acrid smoke that billowed from the smokestacks, rising higher than the walls themselves to join the clouds.


    Lotem was no [Mason]; his knowledge of the craft was limited. His people, the Bal, lived in yurts made of bone and hide, not stone. He couldn¡¯t help but compare the cold stone beneath his feet to the soft earth of the plains. Still, the majesty of the room took Lotem aback.


    The floor was a single slab of white stone veined with gold and silver. Pillars of storm-gray stone rose towards the dome above, cradling the velvet expanse of the night sky. The dark ceiling was dotted with silver, reflecting the torchlight like stars.


    Smelling like the herds of home, his thick cloak carried a scent foreign to the halls of carven stone. It shifted on his shoulders and the small form once more pushed against his chest. He knew that she would get more insistent if he didn¡¯t act and he really didn¡¯t want to discuss his companion with Sylvine. He withdrew a small piece of jerky from his pocket, brought it to his chest, and made a quiet, hushing sound deep in his throat as he turned, pretending to marvel at the room around him.


    The meat was taken and the form settled once more within its pocket. He hoped that Sylvine hadn¡¯t noticed the action and he let his gaze settle on the dragon for the first time since he had arrived.


    Deciding it was time, he began walking towards the emerald-scaled dragon, her throne glowing like a beacon in the shadowy hall, each step echoing like a drumbeat. His steps were slow and methodical, carrying the weight of the moment. Lotem knew this was a memory that would never leave him, nor would his choices today.


    His steps sounded loud against the stone, the echoes reverberating against the walls with every footfall. The dragon, the last of the empire, watched him with casual grace. Her ancient, wise eyes flickered with an inner flame, telling stories of empires risen and fallen. Her wings, the color of fresh grass, were folded against her back, her sinuous tail wrapped around the emerald throne.


    After passing the last of the twelve stone pillars, he stopped and bowed, bending low, almost parallel to the ground. He wasn¡¯t sure if bowing was proper for Sylvine or if she preferred her subjects to kneel. He hoped he had gotten it right.


    ¡°Your greeting is acceptable, Lotem of the Zherenkhan,¡± she said. ¡°I welcome you to the halls of empire. You may greet the throne.¡± He raised his head and started. The throne was empty, the dragon gone. The slithering voice echoed through the chamber, its origin impossible to place.


    ¡°I greet the Emerald Throne, the Final Haven of Queens, a jewel among stones, the seat of the Sovereign of Realms.¡± Lotem¡¯s voice, steady and devoid of emotion, betrayed no concern for Sylvine¡¯s absence. ¡°I stand before you, oh hallowed throne, to claim my entrance into Aslavain, to forge a triumvirate as is my right.¡±


    He wasn¡¯t sure that greeting the throne rather than the Sovereign was the right decision, but he hoped it would catch her attention. She chose to become invisible; she didn¡¯t get to complain if he used the wrong titles, dragon or otherwise.


    ¡°Your right, you claim? It seems the so-called barbarians have finally learned the language of empire.¡±


    The voice hissed through the air. Lotem wasn¡¯t sure if he detected amusement or malice. Maybe both? He hoped her sudden invisibility was a good sign. He had heard of worse greetings from the Sovereign of Emerald Skies to his people, though not in decades.


    ¡°Yet, not purely of the wilds, are you? Numen blood flows through you, I sense¡ªa giant¡¯s legacy, albeit diluted. But you lack the true advantages of the Numen, this I can tell. Only one heart beats within your chest. Good.¡±


    He wasn¡¯t surprised that she had noticed his distant Numen heritage. He was three generations distant from a Numen bloodline and two hands shorter than his own father but the height had always stood out. Two hearts in his chest? Now that was a full blooded Numen trait. Two hearts. Four lungs. Double the size of normal men.  He hoped it would keep her mind away from Sabel.


    ¡°So, you demand the empire¡¯s rights¡ªrights forged in my people¡¯s blood under duress. Obligation binds me to grant them, and the druids will complain if I do so spitefully. Still, why do you believe you deserve my gift, a portion of my authority?¡±


    He took his time to consider his response, knowing he had hours with the dragon and was in no rush. He wanted to tell her about Wilson and Warma, the bison who came running at his whistle and slept outside his tent. He wanted to tell her about his companion, curled up against his chest. But those were remnants of his past life, not skills for Aslavain. They were gone.


    The silence stretched as he thought about his answer, the emerald throne still empty. Sylvine¡¯s voice slithered through the chamber, a whispering hiss. The words sounded different, as if the dragon hadn¡¯t meant to speak aloud, her thoughts vocalized as she grew bored waiting for his response.


    ¡°Rovan has chosen a squire of his own this year, some boy not even from the true empire who is in need of¡­ qualified companions. A boy destined for failure in need of allies? I think you will work¡­ well together. Touched by the Numen? Rovan cannot complain, will not complain. Not when his squires have always been pure blooded Numen before. Maybe he will even give my squire a worthy companion. But¡­¡±


    The echoes of her words faded and the chamber went still. Sylvine reappeared on her throne, looking as though she had never moved or spoken at all. Maybe she thought she hadn¡¯t.


    Without giving him the chance to answer her first question she continued. ¡°Now, enlighten me, Lotem of the Thurbal. Why are you here, attempting to enter Aslavain?¡± Her eyes, glowing silver against her emerald scales, were snakelike as they watched him.


    ¡°My brother was taken . . . devoured . . . by the Tul,¡± Lotem¡¯s voice trembled with barely contained rage. ¡°I seek revenge, and, though I know it¡¯s impossible, I want to reclaim his memory. To make the Tul pay for every life they¡¯ve stolen.¡±


    ¡°Revenge and an impossible task? Numen blood truly runs within your veins. It was always the way of the Numen to take on tasks even larger than themselves. Good. Good.¡± She watched him intently before adding, ¡°Do you fear the Tul, Lotem?¡±


    He hesitated before answering. He did not dare lie to the immortal, not when she could still determine his fate. He waited, hoping she would grow distracted again. After almost ten minutes of silence, he answered.


    ¡°Does a mouse fear a cat? Does a deer fear a wolf? To not fear the Tul would be stupidity. What you ask is if I have the courage to fight anyway. Can the sparrow overcome the hawk? I do not believe it can on its own, but in a triumvirate you are never alone. We shall take on the Tul together.¡±


    ¡°An idealist with an impossible task in the east? You are exactly what I need. I will grant you admittance to Aslavain. However, if you fail to form a triumvirate with the pair you are entering with, I will personally ensure you regret it. Understood?¡±


    ¡°Thank you, Sovereign.¡± He couldn¡¯t say the words fast enough. She was admitting him to Aslavain and, unless he misunderstood, was going to place him with some of the most accomplished initiates of their year. Maybe even with the squire she mentioned earlier. He wondered who was great enough to be chosen as a squire to Rovan Khal himself. ¡°I will not disappoint your expectations.¡±


    ¡°Now, what shall my boon to you be.¡± She narrowed her slitted eyes and examined him as though seeing him for the very first time. Her lips split and revealed rows of pale teeth and she began to make a hissing, huffing noise. He was pretty sure it was a laugh, although that didn¡¯t do anything to settle his nerves. ¡°Did you bring a kitten into Aslavain?¡±


    He froze, deathly still as Sylvine watched him with amusement. He had hoped she wouldn¡¯t notice. Sylvine, the famously inattentive, decided this year to take real notice of the Bal candidate in her midst. He decided in the hanging silence that there was nothing to do but tell the truth.


    ¡°Sabel¡­ She didn¡¯t have anyone else Sovereign. And she asked me to bring her with me and I¡­ I couldn¡¯t bring myself to leave her.¡±


    ¡°It is not often that I get to experience something¡­ new. Immortality robs us of our sense of novelty. But to dare to bring an untrained beast with you to Aslavain while intending to fight the Tul¡­the sheer arrogance is inspiring. I have made a worthy choice for you.¡±


    His muscles began to relax and he bowed his head to Sylvine. A question sprang to mind and he couldn¡¯t help but ask, ¡°Am I truly the first to bring a companion on the journey across worlds?¡±


    ¡°The first to bring a companion? Hardly. I have seen full grown cairn wolves carried in the arms of candidates. I once denied entry to a Silkborn with an entire colony of the Brood¡¯s fire ants on her back. But to bring a newborn cat of all things into Aslavain?¡± She let out another of those huffing noises and Lotem wasn¡¯t sure if he liked the amusement from the emerald dragon. ¡°It¡¯s not even one of the long-toothed kittens that would grow into a real threat; it¡¯s just a cat. Did you even train it first?


    ¡°Sabel will be trained once she is old enough to do more than sleep most of the day. She has proven a sufficient deterrent to mice so far. I have not seen a mouse in months,¡± he said defensively.


    ¡°For the novelty alone I would give you a worthy boon, Lotem of the Thurbal. If you are to serve with a [Squire of Carven Bone] you must not be an embarrassment. Rovan just stopped his endless whining about my boons and the thought of his booming complaints upsets me. But first. Answer me this: what do you really, truly want?¡±


    The words had a sense of gravitas to them that Lotem found ominous. Sylvine, studied him with a focus that belied her earlier ramblings. He was certain that this question meant something important.


    He took his time to consider his response. The chamber held the silence for the first minute and then the second. It held the silence for ten minutes and then fifteen. Lotem wanted his answer to be perfect and he knew there was no rush.


    ¡°The empire is at war, even if some forget it. We are not at war with one of the civilized races who honor the original accords. We are at war with one of the Banes of Civilization. The Tul were created to oppress. They were created to inspire fear. And they do not deserve to exist. My brother died in this war and no one seems to even notice. I want to make the Tul afraid of us once more.¡±


    ¡°Spoken like one of the original Numen. You shall compliment that [Squire of Carven Bone] wonderfully. Rovan would have loved you.¡±


    With those words Lotem felt a shift take him, pulling him back to the Room of Threefold Oaths. Sylvine had dismissed him to the next stage of his journey. He saw the same flash of golden light and the same twisting feeling in his gut as he had come to expect. Yet, this time was different.


    Before, the shift had seemed to last a mere heartbeat, a single moment between locations. This shift stretched the moment and in the black, inky silence he heard a voice speak to him. The voice was androgynous and it spoke without an accent or distinguishing feature. Lotem knew that he heard the voice of empire, the voice of civilization, the voice of the Sulphen made manifest.


    [Boon Granted: Enhanced Blood of the Numen]


    [Skill Obtained: Natural Enemy ¨C Rodents]


    <hr>


    Sylva smiled as she felt the shift begin and the golden light embrace her. She had become a citizen of the empire, entering into the great social contract forged by Nyxol the Weaver. The needle had taken her essence, binding her fate to the Sulphen. Now, she just needed to prove she was worthy of more than mere citizenship.


    She knew better than to expect to be selected as Nyxol¡¯s squire. Each of the three immortals only chooses a single squire each year to represent them within Aslavain and the true empire after their return. Despite her confidence in being the best choice in the empire to represent Nyxol this year, she knew better than to approach the meeting with expectations of grandeur. Even the most qualified candidates knew that arrogance wasn¡¯t the best look.


    The golden light fled her vision, and she took in her surroundings. She stood on a circular wooden platform surrounded by strands of silk, each line nearly invisible as it attached the platform to the trees on all sides. Sylva had studied dozens of tapestries woven with this very image. No true child of the empire would enter their ascension without knowing all three immortals, and Sylva was certain she was more prepared than most.


    As she turned, seeking the figure she knew would be at the heart of the great web, she savored the forest¡¯s fresh, earthy scent and the cool breeze caressing her skin. The rustling of leaves and the faint hum of insects filled the air, creating a symphony of the wild that contrasted sharply with the rigid formality of her sect.


    She smiled as she beheld the figure she¡¯d been searching for, her lips forming a gentle smile before she could school her expression. It¡¯s truly Nyxol, the Queen of Silk, here to greet me as I step into adulthood. Am I presentable? Sylva quickly smoothed her robe, abashed at the idea of a single wrinkle in the presence of the queen.


    Enthroned in the epicenter of an immense silk masterpiece, Nyxol¡¯s formidable figure loomed, her legs sprawled elegantly across the delicate threads of her web. Each movement incited ripples that resonated with the forest¡¯s essence. Her exoskeleton, glistening under the faint light, reflected a mosaic of dark hues, each segment a polished shard of midnight blending seamlessly into the shadows, her eyes shimmering like scattered starlight in the night sky.


    Like shards of the night sky, Nyxol¡¯s eyes gleamed with brilliance. To Sylva, she was beautiful; there was something unquestionably right about the arachnid form before her.


    ¡°Queen of Silk, Monarch of Woven Shadows, Architect of the Aranea, it is an honor to stand before you,¡± Sylva said, her voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions within her. She stood tall, her spine straight; none of her people would ever need to bow before the Queen of Silk.


    ¡°Sylva, it is a delight to finally meet you. I have been reviewing your memories and have come to expect great things from you.¡± The voice did not come from Nyxol¡¯s mouth as she spoke. Instead, Nyxol brushed one of her eight limbs against the web. At her touch, the strands vibrated, and her speech rose from all around Sylva, each strand of the web speaking Nyxol¡¯s will.If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    Reviewing her memories, her past? Sylva knew that the strongest weavers could touch the strands of fate and read them, predicting thoughts and actions with precision. She knew that the Sulphen could change or adjust memories, the Tul were living proof of that. But reading them in real time was a feat grand enough for Nyxol herself. Was this a result of the needle draining her essence?


    ¡°A wonderful deduction. The Sect of Silken Grace has truly outdone itself this year.¡± The words emerged from the web as Nyxol¡¯s legs moved gracefully along the strands. ¡°The Sulphen is always watching through the eyes of others, and in its watching, it leaves behind a pattern. A simple drop of blood, or essence in some cases, allows for my access to the pattern left behind.¡±


    Sylva knew the Sulphen could see one¡¯s actions through the eyes of others. Every scholar of the empire knew how the great magic of the empire worked. The Sulphen awarded excellence in the form of skills, titles, classes, and other great boons when citizens accomplished extraordinary deeds in the presence of others. A deed unseen by others was a deed unawarded; everyone knew that. But . . . Nyxol was saying she could review all of those memories, and the scope of that claim shook Sylva¡¯s understanding of how the world worked.


    ¡°Not exactly all of them, unfortunately, though that would certainly make the eternal waiting more palatable,¡± Nyxol answered her racing thoughts. ¡°No, I can only review the performance of those petitioning for a right to enter Aslavain, only read those in front of my senses. Happily for us, you are petitioning for that very right.¡±


    Was she imagining it, or did the voice responding to her silence sound amused as it rose from the webs around her? As the voice continued, the amusement faded, replaced by a calm certainty that bespoke concern.


    ¡°The world is shifting, Sylva, and we feel its tremors. The Tul are awakening, and whispers of a new breed of ravenous rats crossing the Diontel River have reached my web. The empires far to the south are expanding, and the nomads of the plains are stirring in response. The Brood have created new weapons and shifted the balance of power in the West. Not since the years preceding the Bal Invasion and the subsequent Flower Wars have we seen the strings of fate quiver as they do now. Do you understand, daughter?¡±


    Sylva nodded hesitantly and said, ¡°You think the stirrings indicate the start of a new age and that we, the Sul Empire, are not ready?¡± She wondered as she spoke what her role was to be in this new age. Was she to be Nyxol¡¯s squire, her personal representative? The thought sent a thrill through her.


    ¡°Destiny¡¯s web is never easy to read, but the signs are there. I could be wrong; it wouldn¡¯t be the first time, but I refuse to be caught unaware, not again. Not after the rise of the Lord of Chains or the first of the Beast Kings. When Apalarakan, Transalas, and Gransa ascended, we were not ready for what was to come. This time must be different.¡±


    Nyxol¡¯s exoskeleton leaned forward, her eyes focused on Sylva as her legs continued to pluck the webs, bringing her thoughts into the world.


    ¡°Rovan has seen this truth. The empire needs champions to be ready for what is to come. I have never dictated terms for the children of silk; the Silkborn have always chosen their own fate in my presence. Therefore, I ask you this, Sylva of Clan Strenath: will you join the triumvirate of Rovan¡¯s chosen, the [Squire of Carven Bone]? Will you seek the strength of the empire with the whole of the thread at the core of your being?¡±


    She prepared to respond but hesitated as she understood the request Nyxol had tendered. To be a companion to a squire, not a squire herself. She would be in a position of authority, a member of a triumvirate with the support and boons of the three immortals. Even this morning, she would have said that it was more than she could have hoped.


    And yet, for a fleeting moment, she had dreamed of something more. She knew she would accept; she couldn¡¯t imagine denying the Queen of Silk. Still, she took a few moments to let the dream of being a squire herself fade. She was sure that whoever Rovan had chosen would be just as exceptional as herself. Maybe they would even choose to go to Eisentor as her elders had requested. They needed to choose one of the Eternal Cities, after all.


    Sylva expected nothing but excellence from her future team and knew she would get it. This is what she was made for, what her parents had given her before their seclusion. She smiled at the giant spider in front of her and spoke.


    ¡°Queen of Silk, of course I will accept your request. I have asked for nothing but the opportunity to prove myself, and working with a squire is just that opportunity.¡± She hesitated before adding, ¡°Can you tell me anything about the squire, or Sylvine¡¯s chosen for our triumvirate?¡±


    ¡°Can I tell you about your future companions? I could. But I shall not. My words carry too much meaning; each statement is a thread capable of tangling your own threads of fate. It is why it is forbidden in the Sul Empire to reveal too much to a child who is not yet a citizen. I shall leave you to your own conclusions once you meet them.¡±


    She wished Nyxol had been willing to elaborate further, but she understood. The Elders had spoken about ¡®undue influence¡¯ over one¡¯s fate at length. In her experience, it was simply a way for the Elders to avoid teaching them the real powers of the world. What use is learning the theory of magic if ¡®undue influence¡¯ meant she never got to actually practice.


    Nyxol¡¯s legs twitched with what Sylva hoped was excitement as she strummed the silken lines, and the sound of her voice once more filled the air.


    ¡°Know this: Rovan might have chosen the squire to bring attention to your path towards glory, but I have chosen the mentors who will help you achieve your goals. In Dornogor, the City of Beasts, one of the [Venerate] will be waiting for you. Casselia is her name, a member of the Mandate, she will be waiting for you alongside her own triumvirate. They will ensure your success in Aslavain.¡±


    Sylva tried to process the words, to make sense of Nyxol¡¯s plan. Dornogor? The City of Beasts wasn¡¯t even on the prepared list of shrines she had spent months curating in case the elders asked her to go elsewhere. Dornogor hadn¡¯t even been in consideration. It was too close to the lands of the Tul and far too close to Tir Na Nog for comfort, especially in Aslavain where the empire had ceded control of the Diontel. Moreover, it was hundreds of miles from Eisentor, on the entirely wrong side of the empire.


    And yet, Nyxol was offering a team of mentors who likely had few peers across the empire. She had said that Casselia was one of the [Venerate], part of the empire¡¯s true elites, the immortals who could travel through the real empire, what they called Creation or through Aslavain. She knew that the [Venerate] were near impossible to kill, their very souls bound to the empire. Working with Rovan¡¯s squire was an honor she wouldn¡¯t refuse, training under one of the [Venerate] was an honor she couldn¡¯t refuse.


    The Elders would understand. They had to understand. She didn¡¯t have the choice to go to Eisentor. Still¡­ Dornogor of all places?


    ¡°Are you sure that Dornogor is the city she will be in?¡±


    ¡°Casselia has chosen to train her next Triumvirate in the City of Beasts. As for the reason? That is for Casselia to share if she so chooses. That is enough about the choices outside of your control. What boon do you request of me for this service, Sylva?¡±


    What boon did she request? Her hand drifted towards the pocket within the sleeve of her robe where she kept her bundle of tied notes. She had prepared for this very question, hoping that she would get a say in the start of her journey. She gave Nyxol a thankful nod and decided that if she had lost control over the rest of today, she could reclaim some control now.


    ¡°I wish to perform grand magics, to weave the threads of fate and make my will into reality. I have spent my life learning the language of the empire. I ask only for a boon to start me upon that path.¡±


    ¡°A reasonable request, daughter of silk, one which I shall grant. I gift you not a shortcut to power but a skill which will let you pave your own way. True magic requires three things: an iron Will capable of imposing belief so strongly upon the world that the world itself conforms to your belief, the Word to communicate one¡¯s will clearly and with precision, and the Sacrifice, for no magic is ever truly free. Never forget that your magic will only be as strong as your conviction.¡±


    ¡°A final question.¡± All eight of the eyes focused on her. ¡°What do you truly want?¡±


    I want to become powerful and important, she thought before reconsidering. That wasn¡¯t right.


    She spoke, ¡°I seek knowledge, Queen of Silk. My parents created me with the purpose of greatness, and I shall not dishonor their sacrifice. I desire to comprehend the intricacies of magic, society, and justice. Then, I will reshape them, bend them to a vision of a world less cruel, less unjust. I will tame the chaos.¡±


    Nyxol dipped her head in acknowledgment, and Sylva felt a rush flow through her. ¡°Go now, I have no doubts that you shall make ripples within the Empire. You are free, daughter of silk, treasure it.¡±


    The golden light once more enclosed Sylva, and she felt the shift begin. The light¡¯s touch was warm against her skin, urging her onward. She resisted, her will challenging the light as she spoke one last time. ¡°Queen of Silk¡­ Thank you.¡±


    The light enveloped Sylva, its warmth a promise of the journey ahead. As it pulled her away, she heard the calm, steady voice of destiny itself, marking the true beginning of her path.


    [Boon Granted: Sympathetic Intuition]


    [Skill Obtained: Lesser Dexterity]


    <hr>


    Embraced by the golden light¡¯s warmth, Hadrian felt it swell in brightness around him followed by another shift. The light receded, leaving him in a strange, new world, his stomach churned and he struggled to hold the remaining contents within as he knelt on the ground.


    Struggling to rise, Hadrian blinked against the stubborn blur clouding his vision. As shapes formed from the haze of colors, a vast expanse of yellow and green unfolded before him, an endless plain stretching farther than he could see. His heart pounded, a combination of awe and the unsettling realization that his journey had truly begun, he had been accepted for an audience with Rovan Khal himself.


    The air around him was alive, pulsating with a freshness that was both ancient and entirely new, like the first breath of a world reborn after ages of slumber. It carried the essence of rain-soaked earth and the wild, untamed energy of the world outside the canopies of Cutra. Could this really be grass? The very same spoken of in travelers¡¯ tales, now beneath my feet? He stared intently at the carpet around him the color of leaves in the spring.


    His heart raced with the exhilarating realization that he was standing on solid ground, the earth directly beneath his feet, touching them, for the very first time. As a child of Cutra, raised in a city nestled within the canopies, he was never permitted to explore the ground. The idea of descending from the treetops had always been deemed foolish, not least because of the dense fog that blanketed the area and obscured the forest floor.


    Hadrian was acutely aware of what awaited his gaze when he mustered the courage to lift his eyes from the verdant tapestry enveloping him. When he was young he had implored his parents night after night to weave the tales of the empire¡¯s heroes into his dreams. From his earliest memories, the sagas of ancient kings and queens had stitched the fabric of his dreams and nightmares, a tapestry as vivid and complex as the world he now beheld for the first time.


    He had always loved most of the stories about the First Triumvirate. Rovan Khal, the Titan of Carven Bone, strode the great plains. His immense shadow offered sanctuary to tribes of men, while legions of skeletons, a haunting procession, followed steadfastly in his wake.


    Then there was Sylvine, the Sovereign of Emerald Skies, who ruled from a throne of carven emerald. The very idea of a giant winged serpent, a dragon, had excited Hadrian to no end. He had encountered snakes in the forest outside of Cutra and was quite familiar with the birds who called the canopies home. The image of the emerald snake-bird was one he had never been able to shake, even though his parents insisted it wasn¡¯t the best image to use.


    It was Nyxol, the enigmatic Queen of Silk, who haunted Hadrian¡¯s dreams more than any other. As the patron of the Kiel, his people, Nyxol¡¯s presence was a constant in the village stories. He suspected that most Kiel would choose to meet Nyxol in her platform suspended in the canopies he had always known. Most Kiel weren¡¯t afraid of spiders.


    Hadrian experienced a fleeting moment of relief as he realized he was not in the canopies, trapped amidst a labyrinth of webs. No. He was . . .


    ¡°Settle, little one,¡± came a voice from behind him, resonant and deep as the seas of fog that blanketed his homeland. The air stilled as the voice permeated the open grassland, filled with authority. ¡°I welcome you. Today, you are presented with a choice that will define the trajectory of your life. You have asked to enter Aslavain in the service of the empire.¡±


    Hadrian turned, and his heart leapt at the sight of Rovan Khal, a meeting he had yearned for in dreams too numerous to count. This was the moment he had fantasized about since childhood, and now, standing before the towering figure of legend, his mix of reverence and anxiety intensified. Could he truly live up to the expectations of such an august being?


    Here Hadrian stood in disarray, his once pristine attire marred by the ordeal of his arrival in the Room of Threefold Oaths, while Rovan Khal welcomed him in stark contrast. Rovan was immaculate in a toga as white as freshly fallen snow, his presence almost ethereal. His helm, masterfully carved from the skull of a formidable, long-extinct lizard, boasted twin horns that extended majestically above, casting an imposing silhouette. The intricate designs etched into the bone seemed to pulse with a faint, otherworldly glow.


    Even seated, Rovan towered over him, a colossus of bone and sinew, his presence as immovable and imposing as a mountain. Hadrian had heard that Rovan stood dozens of feet tall, each of his feet larger than a normal man was tall. He raised his head and met the gaze of the Immortal, awe overtaking him. In front of him sat the Rovan Khal. He couldn¡¯t bring himself to speak as he took in the foreign sights all around him.


    ¡°You hesitate, I see,¡± Rovan Khal remarked, mistaking Hadrian¡¯s silence for uncertainty.  ¡°But hesitation serves no purpose here. You have requested an audience and I have granted it. Let us discuss Aslavain.¡± Hadrian listened patiently, unwilling to interrupt even as the silence stretched between them for what felt like an eternity. It would not be proper to offend Rovan, not proper at all.


    ¡°Aslavain is a trial, a challenge for those who deem themselves worthy. It is an outlet for the best and the brightest of the empire to prove themselves to the populace, a chance for the Eternal Cities to host great events and recruit the most promising new citizens of each year. Aslavain is at the core of imperial power. ¡±  He paused. Hadrian wasn¡¯t sure if he was supposed to say something. He decided that silence was the least likely to bother his hero; he was in no rush to leave, after all.


    Having deemed Hadrian fit for the whole speech, Rovan continued. ¡°If you hesitate to enter Aslavain, you can still decide to enter the Civilian Corps and spend twelve years of your life working on projects sanctioned by the local province and city boards. You could decide to serve in the Legions, it is only a six-year-term . . . boy, are you mute?¡± he asked, after silence once again followed his words.


    ¡°Rovan Khal, Ancient One, Father of the Dion, Titan of Carven Bone,¡± Hadrian began, his gaze lifting to meet Rovan¡¯s with a mix of reverence and nervous anticipation, ¡°I am not mute.¡±


    Silence.


    ¡°And?¡±


    Hadrian, sensing that he had permission to speak began, ¡°Oh King of Calcara, Breaker of the Tul-Tul-Tar, First King of Bone¨C¡± The traditional three-part praise structure his parents had taught him flowed freely, ¡°My ambition is to enter Aslavain, the realm of heroes, to forge a triumvirate, and to one day ascend, creating a new shrine in my home of Cutra.¡±


    A chuckle, rich and knowing, escaped Rovan Khal. ¡°A cat trying to prowl among lions. You seek to form a shrine outside of the borders of the empire?¡±


    ¡°Sovereign of Skulls, Wielder of the Wraith Blade, King of the Unbroken Plains, I do.¡±


    ¡°Do you understand what that entails? The consequences which that action would bring about?¡±


    Hadrian paused and considered the question with the intensity he believed it deserved. He knew that forming a shrine required him to grow strong enough to ¡®pierce the veil between worlds¡¯ and connect Cutra to the network of shrines throughout the empire. As to what ¡®pierce the veil between worlds¡¯ actually entailed? No one in Hadrian¡¯s village had been able to give him more details about what that meant; he wasn¡¯t sure they even truly knew.


    He didn¡¯t need to understand the mechanics of forming a shrine right now, he was confident in that. His parents had been so clear. All he needed to do was to grow stronger, each and every day. If he was stronger tomorrow than he was today he would be closer to accomplishing his goal. If he was stronger every day than the day before he was certain that he would eventually achieve his dreams and bring honor to his people.


    As to the consequences of forming a shrine? Of course Hadrian was familiar with them. He would make everyone he had ever known happier. He would allow future children to return to the village to live out their lives rather than being stolen away. He would expand the empire. What could be more noble than that?


    ¡°Oh, Patriarch¨C¡±


    ¡°Skip the titles.¡± Rovan said with a touch of exasperation. Hadrian shifted uncomfortably before responding.


    ¡°Truthfully, I do not understand how shrines work or their grander purpose in the empire. I am sure that I do not understand the full consequences of the action, not like someone as grand as yourself must. But, someday I will understand and I will make my family happy. The entirety of Cutra helped raise me so that I could connect them to the empire. I will make that dream come true regardless of what stands in my way.¡±


    ¡°And what of the Brood to the west who may disagree with your goal? What of the pressure from the Dion in the east who have sworn to oppose any action in the west while the Tul still draw breath? What of the Malan in the north who treasure trade and glory above all else? Your goal is not without enemies.¡±


    He tried to settle his nerves, to find the quiet focus he had honed hunting in the canopies. He had known that there were likely factions who would oppose his goal but the Brood, the Dion, and the Malan factions? That should have been worrisome to Hadrian and yet¡­ he just couldn¡¯t bring himself to care. Why should he care what strangers in strange lands thought about his plans for Cutra. His village wanted, needed a shrine and so he would form one or he would fail after trying his best.


    ¡°What of them?¡± He asked with a bravado that he hoped didn¡¯t sound feigned. ¡°The Brood, the Dion, the Malan, fog below, even the Kiel could stand in my way and I would not falter. This is my purpose.¡± As he spoke he felt his beliefs crystalize, solidifying within himself as though speaking the words had a power all their own.


    Rovan¡¯s belly shook as his laughter echoed across the plain, loud enough to hurt Hadrian¡¯s ears. ¡°I like you, Hadrian of Cutra. You are ignorant to the point of foolishness, and yet . . . sometimes ignorance is a boon all its own. I claim you. You shall be my squire while you are within Aslavain, and should you succeed in bringing honor to my name you shall be far more than that in time.¡±


    He couldn¡¯t believe his ears. He had been chosen by Rovan Khal? By Rovan, his hero. Was he truly to be his . . . squire?


    ¡°Yes, Hadrian?¡± Rovan smiled, ¡°Speak freely, I have chosen you. Ask your question.¡±


    ¡°Why me?¡± Hadrian asked tentatively. ¡°It has been almost a decade since a child of Cutra returned from Aslavain to Creation. My village deserves hope, but . . . to be your squire, your chosen? It is more than I have ever wanted.¡±


    ¡°Why you? You are not the most clever, the strongest, or the most popular candidate in this year¡¯s Ascension. You do not hail from a powerful sect, a prestigious school, a roaming clan, or a masterful guild. You come unprepared for the monumental challenges that lie ahead.¡±


    That was¡­ harsher than he expected. He felt his hopes curl and fall, drifting like leaves to vanish in the mists. He was not good enough. He misunderstood. He hung his head.


    ¡°But a storm is coming, little one; one like we have only seen twice before. We need champions, not just in the circuits and tournaments of the inner empire, far from the monsters abroad. We need heroes to rise and combat the coming darkness. Why you? You amuse me with your formality and your impossible dreams. You delight me with your ignorant curiosity. Most of all? You have the potential to be something new. I want you on my side when you reach your potential.¡±


    Hadrian didn¡¯t know what to say. He felt as light as the robe around him, as though the grass against his ankles was the only force keeping him from floating away. Rovan Khal had seen him, recognized his potential, and embraced his purpose. It was a moment that would define the rest of his life.


    ¡°Thank you. I . . . thank you.¡± He met Rovan¡¯s eye. Filled with new certainty, he asked, ¡°What do you need me to do?¡±


    ¡°Few of the sects remember the ancient threats, content to squabble amongst themselves. The Eidolons have bound themselves to the old powers and have ground change to a halt. Few aside from the Mandate of Empire remain true to their original oaths; you shall join them, join one of Nyxol¡¯s chosen. As my squire, you will have access to the Cairn of Titans in Aslavain once you conquer the challenge of an Eternal City. Out of all admitted, I expect you to claim the skills and treasures inside. You shall have a chance at your goal, Hadrian, but do not let the distant future blind you to the opportunities of the present.¡±


    With those words, the golden light enveloped Hadrian, whisking him away to the next stage of his journey. Despite the uncertainty ahead, Hadrian felt a renewed sense of purpose and hope. He was ready to face whatever challenges awaited and meet his companions. As the light fully blinded him, he heard an empty voice fill the silence with Rovan¡¯s gift.


    [Class Obtained: Squire of Carven Bone]


    [Boon Obtained: Lesser Armory of Bone]


    [Legacy Skill Obtained: Legacy of Luminaries Fire]

 Chapter Four: Convergence

    Is any creature a truer mirror of life than the moth? We all begin helpless¡ªwhether as egg or child¡ªdriven only by the hunger to grow. It is only when the child gathers empathy, experience, and the nourishment of wisdom that they are ready to shed their larval form and transform. For the children of the Sul Empire, is there any greater pupa than Alsavain? The great cocoon of empire, where larvae become majestic beings bound to serve, drawn toward greatness like moths to flame. To never enter Alsavain is to remain forever larval.


    ¨C Mustva Marsellius, Kiel Scholar


    Aslavain: One Day after the Summer Solstice


    As Sylva entered the Room of Threefold Oaths, she took a moment to compose herself. The room was unchanged since her conversation with the Queen of Silk, except for two men seated at the table, looking startled by their sudden appearance.


    The larger of the two, with shoulders like the rolling hills of his homeland and a thick mane of curly brown hair framing a face chiseled by the elements, wore a fur cloak that made him seem out of place in the civilized empire. His skin was like the warm, sun-kissed earth, and his piercing blue eyes were like shards of the clearest summer sky, contrasting sharply with the earthy tones of his attire.


    The other, with delicate features and alabaster skin, had hair the color of spun gold that glinted in the room¡¯s light. His gray eyes, cool and watchful, resembled polished silver, matching the gray silk robe he wore, which seemed to shimmer with a life of its own.


    Sylva¡¯s shoulders were squared, her back straight as she took in the room, a slight tremor in her fingers the only betrayal of her racing heart. She was from the Sect of Silken Grace and it would simply not do to allow someone else to begin the negotiations.


    The first man was seated in the stone seat reluctantly, as though uncertain what his place was at the table. Even seated she could tell that he was tall, at least a head taller than herself, likely more. His thick fur cloak was the same color as his brown, curly hair, as though the two were related. Maybe they were if the stories Elder Valinsa had shared were true. The elder had always claimed that the Bal were part beast.


    The other man was less noticeable at first glance. His pale golden hair and silken robe let her know that he was Kiel, from the Bridgelands if her gut was right. She examined his robe in more detail after she realized that the gray silk was a shade she wasn¡¯t familiar with. She almost shifted her focus back to the Bal when she realized how absurd that idea was. A silk that she wasn¡¯t familiar with? Impossible.


    She focused on his robe and then froze. No. It couldn¡¯t be.


    Sylva leaned in, her eyes widening as the light caught the fabric. ¡°Is that woven from Fog Silk?¡± she blurted out. How could a village gift something so rare? What other secrets does he hold? She felt a pang of envy.


    ¡°Yes, it is,¡± He replied, with a flicker of hesitation. ¡°It was a gift from my village yesterday, before¡­¡±


    He averted his eyes, a bit wary as he met her intense gaze.


    ¡°A real fog robe? And freely given to you?¡± Disbelief tinged with envy colored Sylva¡¯s tone as she watched him, her dark eyes widening in amazement. ¡°In the entire Sect of Silken Grace, perhaps only a few of the most reclusive elders possess such treasures. It¡¯s unimaginable that a village would relinquish one so freely¡­¡±


    She couldn¡¯t help but be mesmerized by the way the robe shimmered in the faint white light of the ceiling¡¯s glowstones. The fabric seemed almost alive, casting a glittering aura around him that held her captive.


    Sylva¡¯s heart ached with an unfamiliar yearning; the robe was more than mere fabric¡ªit was a symbol of status and power. Even the elders of the Sect couldn¡¯t afford Fog Silk for their bodies. This wealth on display¡­ He must be from one of the wealthiest sects; who else would risk such a treasure? Luminaries Grace? The Sect of Eight Stands? The Guild of the Weavers?


    Realizing she had been staring too long, Sylva coughed to hide her embarrassment as the owner of that miraculous silk looked taken aback. This was not how she had imagined their introduction going. Trying to regain control, Sylva shifted the conversation.


    ¡°Sylva Strenath of the Sect of Silken Grace.¡± She inclined her head to each man in turn, her black hair cascading over her emerald robes, hoping her breach of decorum hadn¡¯t offended them. The Bal man raised an eyebrow, his dark eyes curious.


    ¡°Silken Grace? An unexpected surprise. Well met, Sylva.¡± He grinned and she felt a surge of relief at the realization that at least one of her potential teammates was friendly. ¡°My clan, the Zherenkhan, gave me the name Lotem Jarval.¡±


    Jarval? Sylva could have sworn that she had heard the name before. She tried to remember why the name sounded familiar, searching her memory for everything she knew about the ThurBal. She knew that the ThurBal were more peaceful than their cousins to the south, the UlaanBal. Not the most helpful piece of knowledge considering that any peasant in the empire would know that the Human and Numen tribes of the northern plains were more peaceful than the Greenskin tribes to the south.


    The Orc and Goblin tribes were¡­ rougher against the sensibilities of the empire. She was glad that if she was to work with one of the Bal it would be the civilized type. Still, why did she know that name?


    The other man introduced himself, his jaw clenched and voice tight, barely concealing his annoyance. ¡°I am Hadrian, son of Maximus and Suelin, raised by the village of Cutra.¡± He looked to her with a hint of challenge in his gaze, his sharp gray eyes the shade of the robe. ¡°Is it truly impossible that my village would gift me a fog robe?¡±


    She decided that defending her earlier words would not get her any closer to her real goals and, kicking herself for her earlier outburst, she said, ¡°I spoke out of excitement earlier, I hope that you can forgive my prior words. I do not doubt your word and the fog robe is truth enough of your claims. I was¡­ shocked is all. I have never heard of someone entering Aslavain with a fog robe.¡±


    ¡°Burning string,¡± she swore. ¡°I don¡¯t know if anyone has ever left Aslavain with a fog robe. There must only be a few dozen of the robes in the entire empire. You wear a great honor Hadrian, and I sincerely apologize for my earlier offense. You must be destined for greatness if your village would trust you with such a treasure.¡±


    She thought she may be laying her apology on a little bit too thick. The Kiel from the Southern Fologian Reaches and the Bridgelands were notoriously suspicious of false praise, but Hadrian seemed to brighten at her words.


    ¡°We cannot hold a Silkborn responsible for her fascination with silk, can we Hadrian?¡± Lotem paused for just a second before continuing, ¡°not like we can swap out our own skin for something better, much as magical skin would be an improvement.¡±


    ¡°Oh, yeah. Silkborn. Of course.¡± Hadrian said quickly. Sylva almost thought that he wasn¡¯t familiar with the Silkborn before dismissing the idea. No child of the forests would be unfamiliar with the Silkborn, regardless of how reclusive the sects were. He was clearly from the Bridgelands, though she hadn¡¯t heard of Cutra specifically.


    ¡°You are both beyond gracious,¡± she said, hoping that the sincerity was noticeable in her voice. ¡°Now, we do have several items that need to be discussed. I propose we start by determining if we shall form a triumvirate.¡±


    ¡°Is there any reason we would not form a triumvirate? I wasn¡¯t under the impression that there was much of a decision to be made.¡± Hadrian¡¯s brows furrowed, and his eyes narrowed slightly as he looked at them both, his concern clear. ¡°You don¡¯t want to go into Aslavain alone do you?¡±


    ¡°I have no interest in going alone.¡± Lotem said without hesitation. ¡°My choice would be to form a triumvirate, simple enough. Sylva?¡±


    ¡°We can¡¯t make this decision without proper discussion and review. Neither of you have even read the contract. It is simply not done!¡± She gestured at the walls all around, covered with text in the three imperial scripts. This isn¡¯t just about formality, she thought, it¡¯s about trust. How can I trust them to have my back if they don¡¯t understand the commitment they¡¯re making? I need them to see the gravity of this pact.


    Hadrian and Lotem exchanged a glance before Lotem cleared his throat. ¡°Well, we can discuss the terms if you need us to Sylva, but I for one don¡¯t worry much about the standard terms of the contract. The empire has formed triumvirates since before the Beast Wars, before my people had found residence in the great plains. Surely the contract is fairly enforced.¡±


    ¡°That is quite simply not the point, Lotem. Sure, the contract is the same. Sure, we are all going to agree to the contract. But we have to at least talk about it first! This is important!¡±


    She knew that she may be coming across a tad too intense for her first meeting, but the very idea of signing a contract without reading the terms first was just unacceptable.


    ¡°If it¡¯s important to you, I am not opposed to hearing about the terms of the contract,¡± Hadrian offered in an attempt at a peace offering. ¡°Are you willing to explain the terms of the contract to us? It would likely be faster than us trying to read the thing ourselves.¡±


    ¡°We only have three hours to decide not just if we want to work together, which it seems we do, but also where in Aslavain we want to arrive,¡± Lotem said. ¡°Sylva, we can discuss the terms of the contract if you would like, but I think that planning for our arrival would be a better use of our time.¡±


    Sylva nodded as Lotem spoke. He made a fair point. They were on a time limit and she knew that they likely couldn¡¯t read nearly as quickly as she could. And, at the end of the day, she had already memorized the terms of the contract. They could always discuss it once they were in Aslavain. It wasn¡¯t like she wanted them to split up and enter on their own, simply that she wanted to make sure the process was handled with the gravity that it demanded.


    ¡°A fair point Lotem, if we are in agreement we want to work together, even without any real discussion or the gravitas it deserves, we can proceed to more pressing matters.¡± Both men looked relieved at her words and she realized belatedly that she should be grateful to find a team with such a focus on their time constraints. Following the schedule was essential for a successful team. ¡°Moving on to the second piece of business then. We need to determine our destination.¡±


    ¡°What options would you recommend?¡±


    ¡°Why Hadrian, I am so glad that you asked.¡± Sylva smiled as she pulled out the string tied in the intricate method of the scholars script, her quipu, and spread her full notes on the table in front of them and began to prepare to take notes of their conversation for any future review. They were going to be heroes after all, it simply would not do to fail in her recordkeeping duties. ¡°Here are my top twenty-four choices ranked in order, and we should have plenty of time to get through the full list if we are moving quickly. But first, we need to discuss what each of us can actually do.¡±


    <hr style="font-weight: 400">


    Hadrian had been excited when he returned to the Room of Threefold Oaths and met his new companions. This is it, he thought, finally a chance to prove myself. But what if they don¡¯t trust me? He glanced at Sylva, noting her intense focus on his robe. She looks at me like I¡¯m a thief, he thought, still uncomfortable with the idea.


    The Bal man, Lotem, fascinated Hadrian. He wore a cloak covered in thick brown fur that Hadrian could smell even from across the table. He found himself captivated by the sight. What kind of beast had the hide come from? Was it friendly? The very idea of meeting such a beast thrilled the young man.


    He couldn¡¯t wait to learn about the beast and the man who wore its hide. Hadrian didn¡¯t know much about the Bal, but if they were all as heavyset as Lotem, he wasn¡¯t surprised they didn¡¯t take well to high canopies.


    He was still staring at the fur cloak, imagining the monster it came from, when Sylva drew attention to herself. Sylva he was¡­ less sure about. He approved of her emerald robes; green was practical for blending into foliage and second only to gray for purposes of stealth.


    Hadrian leaned forward, eyes wide with curiosity, ready to ask more about the ¡®Silkborn,¡¯ until he noticed her staring at his robe, envy darkening her features. He knew his Fog Silk robe would draw attention, but her reaction was stronger than he expected. She looked half ready to jump him and steal the cloth right off him, modesty be damned.


    And that had all been before she called it ¡®unimaginable¡¯ that his village would give him the robe, as though he was some thief who had taken it. He was determined to watch the woman and make sure that his robe never left his sight. It was all that he had left from home, and the idea of losing it was more than he thought he could bear.


    Despite his newfound concerns for the theft of his robe, he was grateful that at least one of them seemed to know what was going on. His parents had been excellent teachers in the areas they specialized in and completely useless for everything else. By the time the ritual had claimed him he could handle a blade or shoot a bow better than anyone else in Cutra, while being entirely clueless about the grander state of the empire.


    Sure, it wasn¡¯t all his parents fault. The empire had strict rules and guidelines about explaining how the magic of the empire and Aslavain really worked. He had been sternly told that it was unbecoming of him to ask for information about those topics and that knowledge could be dangerous. He didn¡¯t really understand why knowing what was coming was taboo, but it wasn¡¯t his place to understand. As his Pa had liked to say, ¡°Knowledge may be power, but so is the ability to perform great acts of violence.¡±


    The memory reminded him that as much as today may feel like the start of an adventure, it was also the end of his past life. He may never see his parents again, had sworn to stay away until he was powerful enough to make Cutra¡¯s dream come true. It could be decades before he reached that point.


    He returned his focus to the meeting at hand, chastising himself for his distraction as Sylva began her interrogation of Lotem about his abilities.


    ¡°You said you¡¯re part of the ThurBal, Lotem. Which clan?¡± Sylva¡¯s fingers danced between a series of differently colored threads on the table with a speed Hadrian struggled to follow.


    ¡°The Zherenkhan of the Brown Hoof Lake, if you are familiar.¡±


    ¡°And what did you do for the Zherenkhan? Any particular training or expertise?¡± Sylva inquired.


    ¡°I worked primarily with the herds.¡± He shrugged nonchalantly, his muscular frame barely shifting under the weight of his thick fur cloak, as though herds of beasts larger than men wasn¡¯t a big deal.


    Hadrian couldn¡¯t help but interrupt. ¡°What type of herds?¡±


    ¡°Bison, primarily. We also had several ground sloths to protect the herds from local wildlife.¡±Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.


    ¡°Bison.¡± Hadrian drew the word out, treasuring the sound of something new and trying to imagine the type of creature a ¡®bison¡¯ would be. ¡°Is that what your cloak is made from?¡±


    Lotem gave him an odd look. ¡°Yes, this is a bison cloak.¡±


    ¡°What do bison look like?¡± Hadrian leaned forward, his gaze intense as he tried to imagine these creatures.


    ¡°Um, well¡­¡± Lotem began.


    Sylva coughed gently, interjecting with a smile. ¡°I¡¯m sure you¡¯ll have plenty of time to learn about the herds, Hadrian, but we¡¯re on a time limit. Lotem can describe the bison and ground sloths later.¡±


    ¡°Understood,¡± Hadrian said, looking eager to know more.


    ¡°Someday we¡¯ll visit the great herds, and I¡¯d be honored to introduce you to my beast friends. Wilson and Warma will love to meet you,¡± Lotem promised.


    Hadrian opened his mouth to ask more questions, but Sylva redirected the conversation. ¡°So, Lotem, it¡¯s fair to say your skillset is in the natural sciences?¡±


    Hadrian was about to ask what that included when Sylva added, ¡°Herding, plants, and all things outdoors.¡±


    ¡°Yes. That is fair.¡±¡±


    ¡°And your boon and skill Lotem?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s personal. I¡¯d prefer not to say,¡± Lotem replied.


    Now that, Hadrian found interesting. Should he also keep his abilities a secret from Sylva? He didn¡¯t think there were any advantages of keeping his teammates in the dark, but maybe Lotem knew something he did not. Sylva raised a single eyebrow as though to say, ¡®fine, keep your secrets¡¯ but she didn¡¯t press further.


    ¡°Hadrian, what¡¯s your skillset like? Cutra is in the Bridgelands right?¡±


    ¡°Yes, and I¡¯ve been trained as a warrior since I could walk.¡± Hadrian grinned confidently. ¡°I¡¯ve fought Simians, shot Slinkai out of the sky, and hunted great birds above the canopies.¡±


    ¡°Simians and Slinkai?¡± Sylva¡¯s eyes took in more than just his robe this time.


    ¡°Slinkai?¡± Lotem asked. He had heard of Simians of course, the bards loved to tell tales of the modern conflict with the worst of the remenants from the Beast Wars. Slinkai though? Those were new to him.


    ¡°Nasty little things,¡± Hadrian explained. ¡°Never trust something that wants to steal your teeth.¡±


    Sylva tried to steer the conversation back on track. ¡°Are you willing to share your boon and skill, Hadrian?¡±


    Hadrian considered. What harm could it do? ¡°Rovan Khal named me a [Squire of Carven Bone]. I have the skills [Lesser Armory of Bone] and [Legacy of Luminaries Fire].¡±


    Sylva didn¡¯t seem to know what to make of that, she seemed confused as she looked to Lotem and then back to him. ¡°You¡¯re the Squire? And with a class already, and two skills¡­ that¡¯s impressive.¡±


    ¡°And what of you Sylva? Clearly you are a capable secretary,¡± Lotem gestured at her continued tying of the various strands with a hint of amusement as he continued, ¡°but I have a sense that you have more skills than simple rope work. The Sect of Silken Grace has a reputation for quality and you don¡¯t strike me as an exception to that rule.¡±


    ¡°I intend to learn how to tap into and shape the Sulphen directly. My training has prepared me for spellwork.¡±


    ¡°But you¡¯ve not actually cast a spell before?¡±


    ¡°It is only a matter of time.¡± She replied in a bit of a huff. ¡°We were forbidden from touching the Sulphen directly until we became citizens. The elders have strict rules to prevent premature access to knowledge or magical ability.¡±


    ¡°Are you willing to share your boon and skill?¡± Hadrian asked.


    ¡°I received the boon [Sympathetic Intuition] and the skill [Lesser Dexterity] with the assurance from Nyxol herself that they would guide my path.¡±


    Hadrian relaxed, recognizing the boon. ¡°That is so cool. Do you think you¡¯ll get [Enhanced Dexterity] or [Greater Dexterity] someday?¡±


    Sylva seemed taken aback by his enthusiasm but smiled. ¡°Thanks.¡±


    She seemed to ponder for a moment before turning back to Lotem. ¡°If your skills are too personal to share, can you give us an idea of what aid they might provide? It could influence our choice of shrine.¡±


    Lotem thought about the question, taking his time before responding to the Silkborn woman. ¡°I do not believe either will be of great aid at the start of our journey. Make your decision regardless of my abilities.¡±


    ¡°Okay, so first on the list of possible cities is Kaelen, the City of Arrows¡­¡±


    <hr style="font-weight: 400">


    After nearly two hours of discussing which shrine to choose in Aslavain, Lotem felt they were finally nearing an agreement. He had hoped to convince them to go to UlaanThur, The City of Crossroads, to meet the other Bal entering Aslavain this year, but Sylva had quickly shot down the idea. She had ranked UlaanThur as her eighteenth choice, which Lotem found a bit insulting.


    UlaanThur was at the very heart of the empire and the center of trade and travel. More than that, it was one of the Eternal Cities and hosted one of the great contests in Aslavain each and every year. He thought that it should have at least been in the top ten for the group. He understood that UlaanThur lacked the grandeur of the other Eternal Cities and that selecting it would force them to undergo a long journey to reach the lands of the Dion that Hadrian, the [Squire of Carven Bone], would need to reach to fully access his potential. But still, eighteenth? Sylva hadn¡¯t even known they would be working with a squire when she put the list together.


    Sylva had seemed insistent at first that they go to a city either near Eisentor, the City of Woven Word, or one which specialized in travel like Darvoon, the City of Couriers, and that could help them reach distant shrines like the one in Eisentor. Lotem would not agree to anything that had to do with trees of all things; trees were just bad luck, everyone knew that.


    Hadrian was insistent that they should be able to reach the Cairn of Titans within a reasonable time frame and as a result sided with Lotem for most of the conversation. Sylva was certain that the Cairn was a mountain west of Ylfenhold, the City of the Veil. Ylfenhold was itself one of the Eternal Cities and was ranked fourth on Sylva¡¯s list.  Lotem thought that would make the choice easy.


    ¡°Are we all able to agree that Ylfenhold seems to suit our needs?¡±


    ¡°Before we decide I would like to move to consider an additional option not previously discussed.¡±


    ¡°Sylva, we have already discussed far too many cities and we just came to what seemed to be a great option, do we really need another one?¡±


    ¡°Well, those were the twenty-four options I prepared in advance of meeting the Queen of Silk. Now I have new information. Nyxol told me that she had prepared a trainer, one of the [Venerate] no less, at Dornogor, the City of Beasts to undertake our triumvirate¡¯s training personally.¡±


    ¡°And you failed to mention this highly relevant detail for the past several hours of discussion why?¡±


    ¡°We didn¡¯t fully discuss the contract. I thought it would be a tragedy to skip over our options before entering Aslavain.¡±


    Lotem took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and felt the cold air enter his lungs before he tried to move the conversation forwards. He knew that the Malan, and especially the Sects, had a reputation for bogging down even the simplest choices with a need for thorough review. The Malan had invented bureaucracy at the founding of the empire and the Sects maintained the illustrious tradition.


    He felt Sabel shifting under his cloak as the deep breath disturbed her rest. He had decided after careful consideration not to mention his small companion until after they were within Aslavain. He didn¡¯t expect his new team would make it into an issue but Sabel was sleeping and he didn¡¯t think it was worth the risk.


    He needed this team to accept him, especially if there was a [Venerate] waiting to train them. He almost regretted refusing to share his skills with the pair earlier but he wanted, needed really, to be sure they would work with him before sharing that both of his skills were useless. He needed to learn how to fight Tul, not rodents. The dragon had lied when she told him he would get something worthwhile, he should have known better.


    ¡°A [Venerate]?¡± Hadrian asked, his tone betraying none of the frustration that Lotem felt. ¡°That must be someone important. Dornogor it is then!¡±


    ¡°Well, it¡¯s not quite that simple.¡± Sylva interjected, ¡°Dornogor is¡­ tricky. Are you familiar with the unstable zones?¡±


    Hadrian looked to Lotem, clearly in the dark. Lotem had heard the term before but he wasn¡¯t sure why Sylva was bringing it up. He knew that the Eldar could create unstable zones if too many of the walking shrines were in a region. It was why they had strict rules that no more than three of the Eldar could attend any single gathering of the tribes. He was less sure about what an unstable zone actually did, but he knew it wasn¡¯t good.


    ¡°That happens when shrines are too close, right?¡± He said after it became clear that Hadrian was in the dark.


    Sylva looked surprised at his answer as she responded, ¡°Well, yes actually. You see it all goes back to the Radius of Silver and Stone¨C¡±


    ¡°And Dornogor is in one of these unstable zones?¡± Lotem interrupted Sylva. He had realized that if someone didn¡¯t interrupt Sylva she would talk for minutes at a time about details that he barely followed and that he was confident Hadrian did not at all understand. The man had seemed fascinated by the stone ceiling for minutes at a time while Sylva had spoken earlier, and Lotem hoped he could save him from a similar fascination with the floor.


    ¡°Exactly!¡± Sylva seemed more excited to have participation in the discussion than she was annoyed about the interruption. ¡°Dornogor is in the most famous of the unstable zones, its demesne¨C¡±


    Hadrian interrupted quietly as he turned to Lotem as though hoping Sylva wouldn¡¯t notice, ¡°How can cities dismay be too close?¡±


    ¡°Demesne not dismay.¡± Sylva said with a sigh. ¡°Let me adjust my lexicon and use smaller words. The area of control around the shrines in Aslavain is overlapping with two other cities. She tossed down three circles of woven string and overlapped them to demonstrate her point. ¡°Each of the circles is the demesne that surrounds a shrine, you see these areas that overlap? Those are the unstable zones. I will teach you the real terms eventually Hadrian; we have words for a reason. It¡¯s just efficient.¡±


    ¡°And that overlapping area is a bad thing?¡± Hadrian looked at them with a confident look, as though proud that he had figured it out.


    ¡°Yes, Hadrian, that is a bad thing.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Well¡­¡± Sylva hesitated. ¡°I don¡¯t know the exact mechanics of the disturbance, but the elders assured us that it was not something to take lightly.¡±


    And now they were both watching him as though he should know the answer. He would have loved to impress them with his detailed knowledge of the mechanics of inner shrine confluences if he had any. He decided that the best course of action would be to look like he was pondering the question deeply until Sylva gave as much of the real answer as she was able. After a silence thicker than Warma¡¯s coat, it was clear that they were all at a loss.


    Sylva cleared her throat. ¡°Dornogor is connected to two other shrines, Tir Na Nog, the City of Rage, and Bonehold, the City of Moving Bone. Just using simple inference, the City of Beasts would be influenced by rage and moving bone. The beasts in the demesne are likely more violent and they may even be reanimated by the aura of the place.¡±


    ¡°I vote Dornogor,¡± Hadrian said immediately, a hint of excitement in his voice.


    Sylva and Lotem both looked at Hadrian with surprise. Lotem wasn¡¯t sure why skeletons and feral beasts would be a selling point for the city no matter how much the idea seemed to excite his new companion.


    ¡°Because of the mentor waiting for us there?¡± Sylva asked.


    ¡°Well¡­ sure, yeah. The mentor waiting for us is a great reason to go to Dornogor.¡±


    ¡°Is that why you voted for Dornogor?¡±


    ¡°Not entirely¡­¡± Hadrian seemed to have decided that the writing on the wall over Sylva¡¯s shoulder was supremely interesting. ¡°I just remembered some of the advice my parents gave me before leaving.¡±


    ¡°Which was?¡±


    ¡°My Pa always liked to say that the only way to get stronger was to kill things that were stronger than yourself. Feral beasts and skeletons sure sound like a good way to kill things stronger than myself.¡±


    ¡°But we don¡¯t know anything about the risks involved. Aside from Nyxol advising me that we should go to Dornogor, we don¡¯t even know if there are additional effects of an unstable zone. Shouldn¡¯t we go to a city near Dornogor and just travel there. It would be far safer and we lack the knowledge to make the gamble worth it.¡±


    Lotem couldn¡¯t help but agree with Sylva. He had heard stories about unstable zones pulling people into themselves before trying their best to kill them. Even the Balar only allowed a few of the Eldar shrines in an area at a time, so the consequences must be dire indeed to scare that man. He was about to interject when Hadrian responded with a certainty in his tone.


    ¡°As my Pa and Ma always said, ¡®Knowledge may be power, but so is the ability to perform great acts of violence.¡¯ Do we really need to understand everything about the choice? One of the immortals set us on this path, another named me his [Squire] and we all seem more qualified than most. Surely this is what Aslavain is all about!¡±


    Lotem wondered what type of village Hadrian had been raised in. Was he a part of a combat sect of some sort?


    ¡°Your parents seem¡­ lovely Hadrian.¡± Sylva said. ¡°And what exactly did you say your personal training has been which would lead to such a¡­ charming phrase.¡±


    ¡°My village taught me how to fight. I am primarily an archer, although that isn¡¯t the most helpful without a bow. I have trained in knives, swords and practiced perfecting an axe strike. I almost got through my entire tree trunk before today. I was so close.¡± Hadrian looked wistfully past them, seeming to imagine this mostly chopped down tree.


    ¡°One of the mighty folog trees?¡± Sylva asked incredulously. ¡°Those are wide enough for a large family to live within, not speaking of the height.¡±


    ¡°What else?¡± He looked to her with confusion. ¡°The Fologian Forest only has Folog trees; nothing else grows nearly tall enough. Between the fog and the canopies, its all we¡¯ve got. I¡¯ve been chopping that tree as long as I can remember.¡±


    Lotem raised his hand and they both looked to him. ¡°I also vote Dornogor. I¡¯m not sure if we will encounter any of the issues you are worried about Sylva or if we are drawn off course like the stories say is possible. Regardless, Hadrian is right. Nyxol tasked us with this and the worst that comes is the chance to prove ourselves. I think I will put my trust in Hadrian to safeguard us with ¡®great acts of violence.¡¯ We were chosen by the Immortals, how bad could it be?¡±


    Hadrian beamed at him and Sylva looked ready to argue before she seemed to arrive at a decision.


    ¡°I vote to go to Dornogor then,¡± Sylva said. ¡°It seems we are in agreement.¡±


    ¡°So, do we just loudly announce our intention?¡± Hadrian asked. ¡°What do we do from here?¡±


    ¡°Are we in agreement then?¡± Sylva waited for both of their nods of acknowledgement before speaking the formal words in a deeper, more intentional voice. ¡°Under the gaze of empire we have chosen to form a triumvirate. We demand entrance to the demesne of Dornogor.¡±


    At her words three of the ivory needles rose from the table, one in front of each of them. Sylva quickly pricked her finger and Lotem watched with fascination as the skin on her arm seemed to lose some of its color, as though something had been stolen from the silk. Lotem weathered the prick and draw of blood with a stoney face. He watched Hadrian hesitate before following suit.


    The needles withdrew into the table a moment later and then he heard the same monotone voice speak from inside his mind.


    [Triumvirate of the Sul Empire formed]


    Lotem felt a tangible resistance, a pressure as if the air itself compressed, squeezing him in an unfamiliar way as the shift took him and they began to travel to the City of Beasts. Soon they would be at the shrine within Dornogor and able to begin their journey. Maybe the [Venerate] was already waiting for them. I hope we made the right choice, he thought. If Dornogor is as dangerous as Sylva fears, we¡¯ll need every bit of strength and cunning to survive. Sabel, stay close. We can¡¯t afford to let our guard down for a second.


    He sensed Sabel pressing her small form against his chest, seeking comfort from within his cloak as the journey that was supposed to take a few seconds stretched longer and longer. It was as though time itself had slowed and stilled in this place that was neither Creation nor Aslavain. Lotem began to suspect that something was wrong.


    A pulse of red light cut the air, shapes shifting within it, overpowering the golden hues and filling his vision with the color of fresh blood. Sabel stirred against him as the air filled with the sharp tang of iron. Lotem barely noticed. The crimson tide spoke to the primal core within him, tugging at instincts humanity had never fully shed.


    His breathing became ragged as the red light overwhelmed his senses and shapes began to resolve in the red mist into a vision that he knew was a mere illusion. The vision solidified as war horns blared in his ears; he could see, almost feel, towering forms charging from the hills, teeth bared in savage grins. He watched a swarm of rats emerge, covering the hillside, overtaking the Tul. What is this? he wondered before the realization arrived. The Tul. He was seeing the Tul. Even knowing it was an illusion, that it wasn¡¯t real, his heart began to pound in his ears, the beat of a steady drum heralding the arrival of the Tul.


    The Kiel describe rage as a burning ember, ready to ignite into a blaze as natural as fire itself. The Dion see it as a force that animates the flesh, turning one¡¯s body into a vessel beyond the soul¡¯s control. The Malan consider rage a tool to be harnessed, akin to joy or sorrow. In that moment, Lotem was convinced that rage was a righteous fury, a natural and correct response.


    The call of rage stirred within him, igniting a desire to confront the Tul. His muscles tensed, ready to spring at the nearest shadowy figure and eliminate the threat. He felt Sabel shaking against his chest, her claws digging into his skin as she tried to escape from within his cloak. He took a deep breath, urging the calm to come. This has to be a vision. It couldn¡¯t be real. He had to calm down.


    He steadied his breath, looking wide eyed for his companions as the light began to fade and the anger that he suspected was far from natural began to dissipate. As his rage faded so did the scene that had filled his vision and the sounds of scurrying feet and warhorns faded to nothingness. And then, he was no longer alone. They had all arrived somewhere, but they were not in Dornogor.


    Sylva¡¯s voice came from just behind him as he began to take in the scene. All around them were trees formed from bone, the branches forming a network of pale ivory overhead. Visible through the canopy was an obelisk carved from black stone which loomed over them. Beneath his bare feet was a soil darker than any Lotem had seen before.


    What is this place? Lotem wondered, his heart pounding in his chest. This isn¡¯t Dornogor, it can¡¯t be. He clenched his fists, ready to face whatever came next.


    ¡°This must be the the demesne of Tir Na Nog. Formally named in imperial records the City of Rage. Informally known as the City of Revenge¡­ we are not ready to be here.¡±


    Well shit, Lotem thought, did I cause this?

 Chapter Five: Forest of Thorns

    Before the Dion Civil War, and the Beast Wars, the Sul Empire lay divided between the Dion lords of the east and the Malan lords of the north. In the thousand years since, the Malan lands have endured largely unchanged, a stark contrast to the east, where Dion dominion fractured under the weight of growing discontent. As outrage surged, the Sunborn and Penitent of Sabahar, the Numen of the Khanate, and the Justicars of Ylfenhold rose in defiance, carving out new provinces of their own. What city better embodies this schism than Tir Na Nog?


    ¨C The Rise of Tir Na Nog by Alcar Valentar


    Aslavain: One Day after the Summer Solstice


    ¡°This must be the demesne of Tir Na Nog. The City of Rage,¡± Sylva announced, her voice barely masking the dread creeping into her heart. ¡°Also known as the City of Revenge¡­ we are not ready to be here.¡± She bit her lip, cursing silently. What was Casselia thinking, dragging us into this unstable zone? We were supposed to be in Dornogor, safe from danger until we chose to face it. She hated the feeling that the choice had been stolen from her, thrusting them into peril before they were ready.


    The landscape of Tir Na Nog sprawled out like a twisted nightmare. Cracks zigzagged through the barren earth, and the air was thick with the pungent scent of rot. Each breath tasted of decay, the distant obelisk looming like a dark omen against the sky. Sylva heard the sandy soil shift beneath Hadrian¡¯s feet as he turned to take in the sight.


    Sylva¡¯s chest tightened with a mix of anger and fear. Dornogor should have been their haven, their place of preparation. Instead, they were thrust into danger, their plans unraveling like the cracked earth beneath their feet.


    ¡°Is that natural?¡± Hadrian¡¯s voice wavered as he pointed at the reflective black obelisk, his eyes wide with a blend of curiosity and unease.


    ¡°Of course not,¡± she snapped, immediately regretting her harsh tone. It wasn¡¯t Hadrian¡¯s fault they were in this mess. Patience. He¡¯s from the Fog Lands; of course, he hasn¡¯t seen anything like this before. ¡°That¡¯s a Dion-style obelisk,¡± she said, her voice tinged with unease. ¡°But theirs are usually made of bone, not obsidian. This one feels¡­ different.¡±


    ¡°People built that? Then that must be where we have to go. Lucky for us that our destination is so prominent.¡±


    That was one interpretation of their situation, though she wasn¡¯t sure it was a destination they¡¯d want to visit. Meeting the denizens of the City of Rage wasn¡¯t on her list of priorities. Hadrian turned and looked to Lotem behind her, his eyes widening.


    ¡°What is that?¡±


    She turned, raising an eyebrow at what had grabbed Hadrian¡¯s attention. Lotem held an orange kitten in one palm, feeding it pieces of dried meat. Well, now, that¡¯s unexpected. I didn¡¯t realize the ritual would allow someone to bring an animal with them. Is that a pet?


    Lotem¡¯s eyes softened as he looked at the kitten nestled in his large hand. ¡°This is Sabel,¡± he murmured, cradling the kitten as if she were the last piece of warmth in the cold, unforgiving forest.


    ¡°A kitten?¡± Sylva asked, incredulous. ¡°You brought a kitten with you into Aslavain?¡±


    ¡°Is it dangerous?¡± Hadrian asked warily, watching the mass of orange fur as it nuzzled Lotem¡¯s hand, one pointed tooth jutting from the beast¡¯s mouth. Its fur was the color of a warm fireplace lighting a dark night.


    ¡°Dangerous?¡± Lotem echoed, incredulous. ¡°Sabel¡ª¡± He lifted his palm, the orange kitten blinking sleepily, its black eyes darting around, taking in the dense, bone-strewn forest. ¡°¡ªis only dangerous to small pieces of string.¡± He glanced at Sylva. ¡°Unattended string, that is. Sabel didn¡¯t have anyone else to watch her. I couldn¡¯t bear to leave her all alone, and she agreed to be well-behaved for the journey.¡±


    ¡°She agreed?¡± Sylva asked in disbelief.


    ¡°Well, if by ¡®agreed to behave¡¯ you mean she sleeps most of the day and stays quiet if I give her treats occasionally, then yes.¡±


    ¡°And that works?¡±


    ¡°I gave her a piece of meat in Sylvine¡¯s throne room, and she behaved there. Sabel is a good girl; she knows what she needs to do.¡±


    ¡°Leave it to a Bal to bring a beast into Aslavain,¡± Sylva muttered, a hint of irritation in her voice. But as she looked at the tiny kitten, a reluctant smile tugged at her lips. ¡°Can I hold her? You can¡¯t just show off a fluffball like that and not share.¡±


    ¡°Later. She needs sleep. Today¡¯s been long for the little one, with lots of new smells to process,¡± Lotem said, returning Sabel to a pocket in his cloak. ¡°But you¡¯ll have plenty of time with her, as long as you offer meat and gentle ear scratches.¡±


    ¡°Now that we¡¯re in Aslavain and clearly out of our depth, are you willing to share your class and boon, Lotem? I didn¡¯t want to press earlier, but circumstances have changed.¡±


    He looked thoughtful before nodding. ¡°I probably should have shared earlier, but¡­ well, they¡¯re not the most impressive. Not compared to either of you.¡±


    ¡°No skill is useless; that¡¯s what my parents always said,¡± Hadrian offered sagely, as though speaking words of true wisdom. Sylva thought that might be a bit ambitious. Everyone knew some skills were just better. Half the reason Aslavain was so important to the empire was the number of strong skills awarded in every cycle.


    ¡°Hadrian¡¯s right,¡± she said, ignoring her racing thoughts. ¡°No skill is useless,¡± Sylva asserted, recalling her training. ¡°The elders always said that every gift has a purpose, even if it¡¯s not immediately obvious. What did Sylvine grant you?¡±


    ¡°My boon was [Enhanced Blood of the Numen], though the Balar only knows what that means,¡± Lotem said, his voice barely above a whisper. He clenched his fists, the veins on his arms standing out prominently.


    ¡°Wait, you¡¯re one of the Numen? That¡¯s amazing!¡± Hadrian said excitedly. ¡°One of the traders told me about the might of the Numen tribes during the Flower Wars, and I¡¯ve always dreamed of meeting some of the great warriors.¡±


    ¡°An enhancement skill? That¡¯s nothing to scoff at,¡± she interjected, cutting off Hadrian from dragging them into another tangent. ¡°It will likely purify the bloodline. I wouldn¡¯t be surprised if you continue growing for at least a few more years.¡±


    ¡°Continue growing?¡± Hadrian looked up at Lotem¡¯s face, already more than a foot above his own, with awe.


    ¡°My great-grandmother married into a Numen tribe before her self-imposed exile. I have a touch of the blood going back several generations, but it isn¡¯t anything special.¡±


    ¡°Depending on the strength of Sylvine¡¯s boon, you could grow to match one of the pure bloodlines of the clans. That¡¯s a rare gift, Lotem¡ªsomething to be proud of.¡±


    Lotem shifted uncomfortably, his eyes flickering with a mix of uncertainty and longing. ¡°I guess,¡± he muttered, his voice barely audible. He still looked uncomfortable discussing his bloodline, but he seemed less disappointed than before. Sylva counted that as a win.


    ¡°And your skill?¡± she prompted.


    He coughed and quietly admitted, ¡°I received [Natural Enemy ¨C Rodents].¡± He hurriedly added, ¡°I think Sylvine thought it would be humorous after she noticed Sabel.¡±


    ¡°Like squirrels?¡± Hadrian asked, curious. ¡°I hate squirrels.¡±


    ¡°I guess? Though I think the intention was more like ¡®cats eat mice, and you have a cat.¡¯¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure that¡¯ll be of great use if we encounter any vermin.¡± Sylva wasn¡¯t sure how likely that actually was, but she felt the need to say something. Compared to his enhancement skill, that was¡­ underwhelming. Not that she¡¯d ever tell him that.


    ¡°Wait, do you think our skills will actually work now?¡±


    ¡°They should, though I think you¡¯re the only one of us with an active skill you can use, Hadrian.¡± She knew her [Lesser Dexterity] was likely active, though she hadn¡¯t felt any different since they¡¯d arrived. She wondered what her [Sympathetic Intuition] skill could do, but she had a feeling it was passive, something to guide her rather than something she could invoke on command.


    ¡°How do I use the skill? You mean [Lesser Armory of Bone], right?¡±


    Lotem spoke before she could answer Hadrian¡¯s question. ¡°Just focus on it. My mother had a similar skill, I think, and she could always use it with a bit of focused intention.¡±


    ¡°Your mother had an armory skill?¡± Sylva asked curious.


    ¡°Not exactly. She had a [Cook] skill that let her summon the tools she needed in the kitchen. If she needed a ladle, a ladle would appear.¡± He shrugged. ¡°It probably works the same.¡±


    Hadrian¡¯s face scrunched up in fierce concentration. He extended one hand outward and closed his eyes. It can¡¯t be that hard, surely, she thought. With a faint popping sound, an object appeared in his hand, and Hadrian¡¯s face lit up with a triumphant grin, the weight of their perilous journey momentarily forgotten.


    In his hand sat an ivory bow, its smooth surface wrapped around the center with a leather band. It wasn¡¯t anything special; the bone lacked the intricate carvings she knew were common in the work of [Boneshapers] to enhance the bow beyond its mundane potential.


    ¡°Amazing,¡± Hadrian said, just as a second popping sound materialized an arrow in his free hand, carved from the same pale ivory and feathered with thin strands of bone. He nocked the arrow, pulled back the bow, and aimed at one of the ivory trees at the other end of the grove.


    ¡°I knew I¡¯d need to get a bow eventually. What use is an archer without one? But this¡­ this will do mightily.¡± He released the string, and the arrow vanished into the trees, faster than Sylva¡¯s eyes could easily follow.


    ¡°Well, isn¡¯t this touching?¡± The voice came from above, within one of the bone trees ahead of them. ¡°Three birdies caught in the web. Trapped. Defenseless.¡±


    The voice was unlike any Sylva had heard before. The words were garbled, barely distinguishable, as though spoken by a mouth never meant for speech. Cackling, the harsh sound of inhuman laughter echoed through the trees. She turned toward the voice.


    ¡°Are the birdies ready? Ready to play? Play our game? Game! Are you ready?¡±


    Sylva heard another pop, followed by the twang of the bowstring releasing.


    ¡°Close! So close to Old Rutsen.¡± A black form¡ªlikely a raven, Sylva thought¡ªrose from the canopy in the distance, its voice mocking. ¡°You can kill Old Rutsen. Truth! But survive the Forest of Thorns? Lies! Death to the Sul. Death to the empire! No death to Old Rutsen.¡±


    It circled, moving erratically through the air, its mocking cries echoing through the trees around them.


    ¡°We need to move, now!¡± Sylva¡¯s voice was urgent as her eyes scanned the shadows. ¡°That thing¡¯s cries will draw everything nearby. We¡¯re not ready for a fight on that scale.¡±


    Another pop came from behind her, followed by the twang of the bowstring. She watched, incredulous, as the creature exploded in a cloud of feathers and dropped to the forest floor.


    ¡°There we go. I can¡¯t believe it dodged my first shot.¡± Hadrian lowered his bow, a satisfied grin on his face. I can¡¯t believe he made the second shot, she thought, a mix of awe and frustration gnawing at her. How could he stay so calm and precise while she felt every nerve on edge?


    ¡°Where do we go?¡± Lotem asked. ¡°The obelisk? Do you think there¡¯s a trial there?¡±


    Hadrian made the decision for them, striding confidently toward the structure in the distance. Sylva glanced at Lotem, and the two followed. She was sure she could handle what the creature called the ¡®Forest of Thorns¡¯ once she had learned a few spells, but until then, she chose to stay near the only one among them with any real protection against the dangers of the forest.


    They moved quickly, the eerie silence of the forest pressing in on them. The trees seemed to close in, their bone-like branches forming an oppressive canopy. Every rustle of leaves, every creak of wood, set her nerves on edge. Sylva strained her ears, each sound a potential threat in the oppressive quiet.


    It¡¯s only several miles. Surely, we can avoid danger until we reach the obelisk. The trials of the demesne will abide by imperial law. If we can just reach the obelisk, we¡¯ll be safer than in this forest.


    Yet, something inside her doubted it would be that simple.


    <hr>


    Lotem¡¯s steps were heavy, each one a silent curse against the choices that had brought him here. The bone branches overhead seemed to mock him, their eerie creaking a constant reminder of his perilous path. His parents had warned him that Aslavain was a death trap¡ªnearly a third of candidates who entered never returned, or came back crippled. He had argued that the empire had safeguards, policies to prevent needless death or injury. But after encountering Old Rutsen, he wasn¡¯t so sure he had been right.


    The ivory boughs thickened around them, casting long, skeletal shadows that danced in the dim light. The towering obelisk in the distance was almost entirely obscured, but Lotem felt a strange, unerring confidence that they were still heading in the right direction. Each branch moved as if swayed by a heavy wind. It wouldn¡¯t have bothered Lotem as much¡ªif there actually were a wind. Or if the branches weren¡¯t covered in thorns as large as knives.


    Sylva walked easily under the hanging branches ahead of him, her smaller stature allowing her to avoid many of the low-hanging limbs he had to dodge. She had said he would keep growing, that his enhancement skill could turn him into a pure-blooded Numen. He was still grappling with the idea.This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    It wasn¡¯t that he didn¡¯t want to be larger, stronger, and more resilient, but it felt like he was losing part of what made him, well, himself. His family and tribe were not Numen. In some ways, they had stolen the gift of true blood, and he had inherited the result of that theft. To be Numen was to be more than a normal man. It¡¯s what my goal demands of me, he thought.


    He tried to focus on the forest as they cautiously moved forward, banishing thoughts of the future. He wasn¡¯t sure he would even have a future to worry about unless they reached that obelisk before something dangerous found them.


    The Bal had a less strict understanding of what could be shared with youth before their entry into the other world compared to the rest of the empire, and his parents had made sure he understood the most dangerous elements of Aslavain. If they could reach a trial, they could sign a contract to safeguard them during the trial. It was the interim that posed the real danger.


    ¡°So, what can we expect from the trial?¡± Hadrian asked, his voice breaking the silence of the forest. ¡°You both seem to have some idea of what¡¯s going on.¡±


    ¡°Each demesne has three trials under imperial charter,¡± Sylva explained, her voice thoughtful as if recalling an old lesson. ¡°Each trial begins with a Room of Threefold Oaths, where we¡¯ll be offered a contract for the duration of our competition. The terms will bind us to the trial until we either fail or succeed.¡±


    ¡°Bind us to the trial?¡±


    ¡°Are you familiar with how the [Venerate] work?¡±


    ¡°Nope,¡± Hadrian replied cheerfully, unfazed by his ignorance.


    ¡°Essentially, they bind their essence to something that allows them to be reborn if they die. The elders assured us the process is far more complex than simple rebirth, but that¡¯s how it functions.¡±


    Sylva continued after seeing Hadrian¡¯s nod of understanding. ¡°The trials in Aslavain work similarly. While we¡¯re in a trial, it¡¯s unlikely we¡¯ll die or suffer lasting injury.¡±


    ¡°Unlikely is the key word,¡± Lotem said. ¡°My clan always said it depends on the trial. In Quartzall, the City of Peace, even the gravest errors result in little consequence. But in Tir Na Nog¡­ it¡¯s best to assume the worst until we know otherwise.¡±


    ¡°The trials are bound by imperial law,¡± Sylva said, ¡°but there are always ways to bypass protections. Lotem¡¯s right. Tir Na Nog is likely to ignore regulations just to show their displeasure.¡±


    ¡°But, in theory, we can fight dangerous enemies to the death without actually fearing death?¡± Hadrian asked, with what Lotem thought was a tad too much excitement.


    ¡°Well, that¡¯s what the system is designed for,¡± Sylva said, ¡°but it¡¯s no excuse to take unnecessary risks!¡±


    Hadrian grinned, but Lotem felt it did little to ease her nerves. They continued talking quietly about the trial as they navigated the forest, and Lotem realized he was far calmer than he should be. Hadrian¡¯s enthusiasm for everything around them was at least a little contagious.


    After hours of cautious walking through the empty forest, Hadrian pointed out a hill nearby, free from the ever-swaying trees. They ascended, the black soil shifting beneath Lotem¡¯s bare feet. He felt something buried beneath the surface and bent down, noticing a gleam of white in the recently disturbed earth.


    Lotem brushed aside the dark soil and carefully lifted a bone from the ground. He called out to the pair ahead, ¡°I found a branch buried in the soil. Watch your step¡ªthere¡¯s a nasty thorn here that could slice right through a shoe.¡±


    He held a branch the size of his arm, a single thorn at its tip as long as his finger. This could work as a weapon. I need something to defend myself, at least, he thought, striding to catch up with the others. Why is this area devoid of trees if these branches suggest they were once here? he wondered as he climbed.


    At the top of the hill, he paused, taking in the rocky summit and the view beyond. The obelisk was closer now, and from this vantage point, its immense size became clear. It towered hundreds of feet tall, still several hours¡¯ journey from their current location.


    ¡°We¡¯re still on the right track. Should we rest here before continuing?¡±


    ¡°I have rations if you need some.¡± Lotem pulled a packet of jerky from his pocket opposite Sabel and handed them each a piece.


    ¡°What kind of meat is this?¡±


    ¡°Bison.¡± Lotem grinned as Hadrian eyed the meat with wonder, taking small bites as if afraid it would vanish.


    ¡°I¡¯ve never tasted bison before,¡± Hadrian remarked, chewing thoughtfully. ¡°It¡¯s gamey, richer than the jerky we get back home. This is a treat.¡±


    Lotem¡¯s attention shifted downward as a sudden unease crept in. Something deep inside warned him that something was wrong. His heart raced, and he looked around in sudden fear.


    ¡°Lotem?¡± Hadrian frowned. ¡°Everything okay?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure. Something feels¡­ off.¡±


    Lotem heard a faint pop and turned to see Hadrian with his bow drawn, an arrow nocked. ¡°It could be nothing,¡± he added quickly, ¡°but something just feels wrong.¡±


    ¡°Wrong how, Lotem?¡± Sylva asked, rising from the rock where she had been resting. The unease deepened, and Lotem grabbed the long bone he had found earlier, holding it like a crude spear.


    He paused, considering. ¡°Like something is watching us, something dangerous. The only time I¡¯ve¡ª¡± He stopped mid-sentence, striding forward to crouch and touch the soil. ¡°Vibrations¡­¡±


    ¡°Lotem?¡± Hadrian asked, his bow drawn tight.


    ¡°Something¡¯s burrowing, trying to surface. Back,¡± Lotem said quickly, retreating and readying his makeshift spear.


    Seconds later, a black snout broke through the dark soil, nostrils flaring as it sniffed the air. Lotem¡¯s grip on the bone spear tightened, his heart pounding. The ground shifted and heaved as the creature emerged¡ªa rat the size of a wolf. Its matted fur and feral eyes gleamed with hunger. The creature¡¯s incisors, each the size of Lotem¡¯s hand, caught the dim light as it let out a high-pitched squeal, sending shivers down his spine.


    The rat wasn¡¯t alone. The ground trembled and cracked as more monstrous rodents clawed their way to the surface. Two other rats emerged, writhing and squirming through the earth. Their eyes locked onto Lotem with an intensity that made him pause. [Natural Enemies ¨C Rodents], he realized ruefully. The skill must be the source of my unease.


    Lotem steadied his breathing, pushing back the rising panic. He stepped back deliberately, positioning himself between Sylva and the advancing rats. His grip tightened on the bone spear, ready to defend her. Hadrian stood poised with his bow, eyes darting between the creatures.


    The nearest rat lunged, teeth bared and claws outstretched. Lotem thrust the bone spear forward, aiming for the creature¡¯s open mouth. The rat screeched as the spear tip ricocheted off an incisor, scoring a line down its side. Lotem swore as the tip broke off, spinning to the ground before the rat could retaliate.


    The rat collided with Lotem, forcing him to grunt as the soil shifted beneath his feet. The rat tried to wrestle him to the ground, biting into his hip. Lotem screamed as the incisors sliced through his flesh, feeling a draining sensation as if his body heat was being drawn out. With a grunt of effort, he grabbed the creature, lifted it over his head, and hurled it down the hill. Blood welled through his leathers as he staggered, his focus locked on the rat he had thrown.


    The other two rats charged, their eyes filled with rage. Hadrian released his first arrow, the projectile whistling through the air and striking one rat squarely in the side. The creature yelped, tumbling to the ground with a wet rasping sound as it stumbled forward. A second arrow followed, piercing the rat¡¯s eye, and it collapsed.


    ¡°Lotem!¡± Hadrian yelled as the second rat leapt toward him. Lotem spun, instincts kicking in, and punched the beast¡¯s snout with a loud crunch. The rat squealed, falling backward, and went silent as an arrow struck its eye.


    Lotem refocused on the rat he had thrown and watched in surprise as it charged back up the hill. Hadrian quickly finished it off with two arrows, and the sense of unease within Lotem dulled to a faint pulse.


    ¡°We have to get out of here. This must be a warren.¡± How do I know that? he wondered. I don¡¯t know anything about rats, especially this size. Yet he knew with certainty it was true. They had likely disturbed rats close to the surface, maybe even sentries posted by the colony, though Lotem wasn¡¯t sure if they were that organized. They¡¯re just rats, he thought.


    Sylva looked shocked by the rapid turn of events, standing behind Hadrian with wide eyes. As much as Silken Grace is supposed to be the best, she wasn¡¯t much help here. Lotem wondered about that. Was Sylva not up to the sect¡¯s standards, or was she just unprepared for the sudden violence? Ultimately, it hadn¡¯t mattered. Hadrian could likely have taken all three rats without them, doing so from a distance without breaking a sweat.


    ¡°Lotem, your right leg¡­¡± Sylva said, snapping back to reality.


    He tested his leg, shifting more weight to the right and feeling the deep ache of the bite. He frowned. The pain had settled far too quickly for a bite like that. Those incisors weren¡¯t razor-sharp, and a bite wound is never easy to heal. He could have sworn the teeth had sunk at least an inch into his hip, stopping at bone. Yet the wound was already clotting, and his leg could bear weight.


    ¡°I think it¡¯s fine.¡± He began walking toward the obelisk with a slight limp. ¡°We need to go. We can check the wound later, but my instincts tell me more of these creatures will emerge soon. Let¡¯s move.¡±


    Hadrian frowned, stepping forward to help Lotem as they descended the slope. ¡°That wound looked nasty. You sure you¡¯re alright? I could¡¯ve sworn it closed its jaws on you, and those teeth were like daggers.¡±


    ¡°It must¡¯ve been shallower than we thought. I can walk fine, and the pain¡¯s manageable.¡± Lotem spoke with feigned confidence. The fact that Hadrian saw the same thing worried him. What are the odds we¡¯re both mistaken?


    Sylva raced to catch up as the three quickly moved away from the warren toward the looming black stone ahead. We survived, Lotem thought as the adrenaline faded and the ache from the bite settled in. It hurts, but that just means I¡¯m still alive. He hoped the rest of their journey to the trial would be uneventful, but he knew better than to say that aloud. No need to tempt the Sulphen today.


    <hr>


    Hadrian moved cautiously through the woods, his bow ready, an arrow nocked. This time, he vowed, he wouldn¡¯t be caught unawares. The memory of the rat attack gnawed at him. If he had been quicker, Lotem might not have been bitten. Guilt and frustration churned in his gut. He desperately hoped his new companions could forgive him for his weakness.


    Hadrian knew rationally he had done a lot¡ªkilled three of the beasts¡ªbut the nagging feeling of inadequacy wouldn¡¯t leave him. Fog below, he thought, I wouldn¡¯t have even realized the danger until it was too late if not for Lotem. He alerted us, and I failed to protect him. His father¡¯s words echoed in his mind: ¡°Ensure you¡¯re in a safe spot before you start throwing punches.¡± He clenched his fists, his knuckles white around the bow.


    Hadrian knew the lesson well, applying it daily in skirmishes with Simians who braved the tree climbs. If you were going to take on a Simian, you had to keep them at arm¡¯s length from their muscled frames and four grotesquely long arms. If they had been fighting Simians, Lotem would be dead. Hadrian shuddered at the thought.


    After half an hour of silent walking, each lost in their thoughts, Sylva broke the silence.


    ¡°Hadrian, umm, thanks.¡± Sylva¡¯s gaze remained fixed ahead, her voice unsteady. ¡°You were pretty incredible back there. I don¡¯t think we would have made it without you. I was¡­ well, fighting rats isn¡¯t exactly what I was trained for.¡± She offered a tentative smile, a rare moment of vulnerability breaking through her usual composure.


    ¡°I can see why Rovan chose you,¡± Lotem said, his deep voice cutting through Hadrian¡¯s self-reproach. ¡°I¡¯ve only seen archery like that from the Tulunganar who cross the Diontel. They¡¯re¡­ intense. You turned a potentially deadly situation into something we could handle with ease.¡±


    They aren¡¯t mad at me? Hadrian thought, hope flickering through his guilt. But I failed. ¡°I should have done better,¡± he said aloud, his voice heavy with regret. ¡°I hesitated, and it led to your injury, Lotem. I hope you can accept my apology.¡±


    ¡°Hadrian, dear,¡± Sylva said, ¡°modesty has its time and place, but here it¡¯s a bit insulting.¡± She raised a hand to cut off his response. ¡°I stood on a rock and did nothing. Lotem at least defended himself, even preparing two of them for your arrows. Without you, we could¡¯ve died or been much worse off.¡±


    In that moment, Hadrian realized these people were more than just companions¡ªthey were his friends. Despite knowing them for less than a day, he felt a deep trust forming, and he believed they felt the same. He had never had friends his own age before, and the warmth of this newfound camaraderie was something he cherished.


    ¡°Thank you,¡± Hadrian said, rubbing the back of his head with a rueful smile. ¡°I should¡¯ve done better. I could¡¯ve prevented your injury, Lotem. But you¡¯re right; we came out mostly unharmed. How¡¯s your leg?¡±


    ¡°It could be worse. It hurts, and it¡¯ll need more care when we¡¯re safe, but it¡¯s manageable. The pain is already fading, hard as that is to believe. Do you know what those things were?¡± Lotem directed the question to Sylva. Hadrian thought that was a good decision. Sylva had the knowledge; he had the skill with violence. They each had their roles.


    ¡°Apart from rats? No. But Nyxol mentioned something interesting when we met.¡± She cleared her throat dramatically and recited, ¡°The Tul are awakening, and whispers of a new breed of ravenous rats crossing the Diontel River have reached my web.¡±


    ¡°Crossing the Diontel? Do you think they were related to the Tul?¡± Lotem asked, a sudden intensity in his gaze that caught Hadrian¡¯s attention. The normally placid man had an edge to him now.


    ¡°Who knows? It has to be more than a coincidence that Nyxol mentioned beasts like the ones we saw. Once we¡¯re safely in Dornogor, we can ask the [Venerate] about them. Hopefully, they¡¯ll know.¡±


    They fell into a contemplative silence, their footsteps crunching on the forest floor. As the obelisk loomed closer, its ominous presence grew more intimidating.


    Finally, they reached the forest¡¯s edge and stepped into an open field of thin, pale grass, the obelisk towering imposingly at its center. Lotem bent down and plucked a handful of the pale grass without explanation as Sylva and Hadrian scanned the field for threats.


    ¡°It looks safe,¡± Hadrian said. ¡°Do you think we can cross in the open to reach the structure?¡±


    ¡°Lotem, can you jog with your leg?¡± Sylva asked.


    ¡°I can manage something slow, though it¡¯s questionable. My legs should cover the distance faster than you¡¯d expect, even at a fast walk¡ªan advantage of being tall.¡± The Bal man grinned, and Hadrian couldn¡¯t help but return it.


    ¡°I¡¯m not the best at running, to be honest,¡± Hadrian said, causing both to look at him in surprise.


    ¡°Why¡­¡± Lotem began, then understanding dawned. ¡°Ah, not much running in the Fologian Forest, I¡¯d imagine, with the whole living-like-birds lifestyle in the trees.¡±


    ¡°I can climb a rope almost as fast as a Simian,¡± Hadrian said with a triumphant grin. Lotem and Sylva exchanged a look, and Hadrian wondered if that was a helpful point of reference.


    ¡°So, we agree to hustle to the structure?¡± Sylva asked.


    ¡°I vote aye.¡±


    ¡°I vote aye.¡±


    ¡°Keep your eyes open,¡± she said. ¡°I don¡¯t like how exposed we¡¯ll be if there¡¯s another ¡®Old Rutsen¡¯ around.¡±


    Hadrian took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves. They were about to make a run for it, and he needed to focus. The open field between them and the obelisk felt vast, and he couldn¡¯t shake the feeling that something would go wrong.


    ¡°Alright, let¡¯s go,¡± Sylva said firmly. ¡°Lotem, you set the pace.¡±


    Lotem nodded and began a brisk walk, his long strides quickly covering ground. Hadrian and Sylva fell in step beside him, their eyes darting, scanning for any signs of movement. The pale grass rustled softly underfoot, adding to the eerie silence that enveloped them.


    As they walked, Hadrian kept a constant eye on the skies. Lotem had sensed the last ambush from the ground; Hadrian hoped he could do the same if they encountered another threat. He was scanning the sky when he noticed something emerging from the skyline, moving toward them.


    ¡°There.¡± He pointed to the object, calling out details as he¡¯d been taught. ¡°It¡¯s large, several dozen feet long, pale white. I see three forms on its back, though I can¡¯t make out more.¡±


    ¡°Lotem, can you pick up the pace?¡± The Bal man nodded and began a gentle jog, which Hadrian found himself struggling to keep up with. If this is his speed while injured, how fast could he move normally?


    ¡°Hadrian,¡± Sylva said, taking control of the situation, ¡°can you make out anything else? I can barely see the form, let alone what you just described.¡±


    ¡°Same,¡± Lotem added quickly. ¡°I would¡¯ve thought it was just a distant bird.¡±


    Hadrian kept his eye on the form and realized with a start that it was moving fast enough to intercept them. As it approached, he saw it was a serpentine structure made of white material¡ªbone, if his recent experience meant anything. It looked as though a snake had been animated and given wings to carry the three forms on its back.


    ¡°There are two humanoid figures on its back and what looks like a black snake riding a bigger white snake. Wait, the white snake seems to be made of bone, like they¡¯re riding a winged snake.¡±


    Lotem picked up the pace on his own, and Hadrian felt his lungs protest as he tried to keep up while tracking the creature.


    ¡°Sylva, any idea what that is?¡±


    ¡°Sounds like one of the Dion constructs, though few Dion can animate bones for flight. It¡¯s an incredibly rare skill and rarely used. The skies in the empire aren¡¯t safe.¡±


    With that, at least, Hadrian could agree. As bad as the Simians were, the forest¡¯s flying inhabitants could be worse. Their dash brought them closer to the obelisk ahead, and Hadrian watched as the form began to descend.


    ¡°Hadrian, will we make it?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯ll be close. Should we try to talk to them? They might be friendly.¡±


    ¡°I vote no,¡± Lotem said, gasping, the faster pace clearly straining his leg. ¡°I¡¯m injured, and we¡¯re in no shape to fight if they¡¯re hostile.¡±


    ¡°I vote no,¡± Sylva said curtly, seemingly unbothered by the pace. Is that a Silkborn trait? Hadrian wondered as his lungs burned and his legs ached. ¡°We¡¯ll leave the trial strong enough to confront whatever it is, if it¡¯s still here, but we need to get stronger where we¡¯re safe.¡±


    Behind them, the bone structure hit the ground with a crash, and one of the human riders dismounted and ran after them. A moment later, a massive black-scaled snake began slithering through the grass, closing in on the group.


    Lotem was the first to reach the obelisk, touching the structure and vanishing just before Sylva, then Hadrian, reached it and were similarly transported away.


    ¡°Fog below, that was close,¡± Hadrian swore, the image of the black snake closing rapidly on them as when they reached the obelisk burned into his mind¡¯s eye. A dark skinned women had been only paces behind the snake and Hadrian had no idea what to make of that.


    For the third time that day, the triumvirate stood in the Room of Threefold Oaths. The room was mostly the same: the same wooden table at its center, the circular walls covered by imperial scripts. The only difference was the floor and ceiling, now formed from the reflective black obsidian of the obelisk they had just entered.


    ¡°We made it. We actually made it.¡±

 Interlude: A Triumvirate Reunited

    Three crowns offered, thrice declined,


    Crownless plots with minds aligned.


    Mentor now to royal thrones,


    Guides the realm through whispered tones.


    Once a queen where shadows lie,


    Set her crown as night draws nigh.


    Wisdom chose and subtle might,


    Shunned the sun, in moon¡¯s cold light.


    Secret council heeds her voice,


    Crownless, yet she holds the reign.


    Triumvirates she molds from choice,


    To ensure the Mandate¡¯s gain.


    ¨C Opening to the Ode to the Crownless, composed in the seventh age.


    Creation: The 3rd Month in the 28th Year in the Reign of Golden Harvests


    Casselia awoke with a gasp, hacking up water as she broke the surface. Memories of her last death surged¡ªstabbed by an [Assassin] sent by the [Procurator] again. The pain had been searing, a betrayal that burned deeply. Coughing violently, she struggled to her feet. How many times must I endure this? She scowled, already plotting her revenge. I will not let this slide. Not again. This time we will shatter his real Crest and break this seemingly eternal cycle of ours.


    She glanced around the stone chamber after she was certain her heaving had expelled all of the liquid from her lungs. How long has it been this time? she wondered. Last time I died, it took over a century to recover and it was taking more each time. What of the others? Have they returned as well?


    She spotted an elaborate cotton robe hanging on the sole chair in the room, the robe was gray interwoven with gold thread to give the impression of lightning on a cloudy sky. Her Crest¡ªa small amulet¡ª was placed upon it. A robe in the Malan tradition, I wonder how my crest arrived here. She had left her Crest in Tuvashar, the City of Scholars, before her death and expected to awaken in one of the recovery pools of the Kiel high in the treetops.


    Casselia stood, her legs unsteady as she adjusted to her reborn body. Though her body was the same as it had been for more than a thousand years, each resurrection left her feeling slightly out of sync, like wearing a garment that was just a bit too tight in unfamiliar places. She always felt like she had to spend months readjusting to a body after she returned. It just never felt quite the same. She hated dying outside of Aslavain.


    She dressed quickly, slipping the amulet around her neck and hiding the Crest beneath her robe. With a practiced motion, she wove a spell in the air, her fingers moving in familiar patterns, drawing heat from the murky water nearby. The stone wall in front of her became glossy as the surface smoothed and took on a reflective finish. Casselia examined her reflection, her dark skin and black hair complementing the woven gold in her robe. Acceptable. She dismissed the spell and turned as the wall returned to normal.


    Casselia paused before leaving the chamber, her fingers lightly brushing the stone wall as she composed her thoughts. She was going to be greeted by one of the servants and his memories would surely be reviewed by local intelligence. Her return would draw notice and she knew she would need to move quickly. She couldn¡¯t afford to be killed before she had become a sworn mentor for a triumvirate in Aslavain.


    A proper mentor contract would ensure that even if she was killed she had a tether that would allow her to return. Well, not any death. Consumption by the Tul, was the most common true death for one of the [Venerate], that she was certain of. They hadn¡¯t always avoided the lands across the Diontel, they had lived far too long for that to have been possible in the service of the empire, but they hadn¡¯t thrown themselves at the monsters like some of their peers.


    As long as she could reach Aslavain she would be safe from that fate at least. Aslavain, the Realm of the Sul Empire, was the world¡¯s greatest training grounds. Aslavain was an alternate world with unique rules, abilities, and treasures that had been created by the First Empire. It was one of the few treasures of that dead people which had survived the Blood Wars. The Tul, like all of the surviving creations of the Tul-Tul-Tar, were unable to enter Aslavain. It was one of the few Realms to survive the Tenant of Consumption and thank the Sulphen that is the case.


    Stepping out of the chamber, Casselia found herself in a stone hallway lined with identical doors, spaced every dozen feet. A rare sight, she thought, as few cities or sects dedicated multiple rooms to the rebirth of a [Venerate]. The cost of maintenance was exorbitant and could last for decades at a time.


    Rahabia, the City of Games and the capital of the empire was the most likely city she was in, she decided. Saralainn, the City of Growth could have similar facilities but she doubted it, not without even a single plant within sight. The last time she had awoken in Saralainn she had been in a glade in the clearing, surrounded by trees that had been cultivated in a piece of living art. Rahabia indeed.


    She heard the shuffling of someone rushing down the corridor and turned to see a pudgy man in yellow robes and spectacles who looked far more worried than he should. A [Venerate] being reborn was typically a moment of celebration but the man looked as though he was on the verge of panicking.


    ¡°Lady Casselia, I was sent to greet you as soon as the staff realized that you had awoken. I apologize profusely for my delay.¡±


    The man bowed hastily, his glasses slipping from his nose and clattering to the floor. He froze, shooting her a nervous glance before stooping to retrieve them, his fingers trembling as he fumbled with the frames. What is wrong with him? Casselia wondered.


    ¡°It is of no concern. Have you come to brief me on the state of the empire?¡±


    ¡°The stories of the Crownless¡¯s grace are true indeed. I have come to bring you to a meeting room and answer any questions you have. Shall we?¡± He gestured down the hallway, and Casselia nodded, following him in silence, content to think.


    As Casselia followed him through the winding corridors, her eyes traced the intricate carvings that adorned the Malan architecture. Mythical beasts and scenes of ancient battles leapt from the walls in exquisite detail, each line and curve a testament to the city¡¯s rich history. The flickering torchlight made the carvings seem to move, shadows dancing as if the ancient stories were coming to life before her eyes.


    Ornate sconces, each one a unique work of art, held the torches that bathed the corridors in a warm, golden glow. The air was filled with the faint scent of incense and Casselia took a moment to appreciate the lengths that they had gone to make this area feel worthy of the rebirth of the empire¡¯s greatest heroes. The empire managed to create new [Venerate] a few times a decade if they were lucky, and they often paled in comparison to the heroes of old. It was fitting that they made even the youngest [Venerate] feel a part of something grand, she decided.


    Eventually, they reached an ornate wooden door that swung open of its own accord, revealing a square chamber with a finely crafted wooden table at its center. Definitely Rahabian in style, she thought. For Rahabia to transfer my Crest would have required the imperial intervention of someone at least as powerful as one of the Wardens, maybe even the Imperial Triumvirate itself. As she entered, she hoped the man would be able to provide her answers.


    The room was clearly an homage to the Room of Threefold Oaths, with one wall covered in a wooden veneer and its opposite painted in ivory tones reminiscent of bone. Each wall was decorated with intricate carvings of cranes in various forms, where the contract¡¯s language would have been in the real thing. ¡°Welcome to the Crane Room milady; feel free to take a seat.¡±


    As they took their seats, she noticed his continued nervousness, as though he had news he was reluctant to share. Casselia¡¯s mind raced with possibilities¡ªwas the empire in a state of crisis, or was he simply unaccustomed to dealing with one of the [Venerate]? She needed answers.


    ¡°My name is Lirien Malinar, and I work with the Guild of Fallen Heroes. I apologize again for any inconvenience for one such as yourself; we were not expecting your return after all this time.¡±


    Casselia¡¯s brow furrowed. ¡°All this time? How long have I been in recovery?¡±


    Each death tended to result in longer and longer recovery periods for the [Venerate], but she didn¡¯t expect her departure would have taken much longer than it had the last time.


    ¡°The summer solstice in three months will mark two hundred and thirty two years since your last death and thirty-six years since your crest was transferred by the order of the North Warden.¡± That was¡­ unexpected. She had spent more than two centuries in recovery? She had seldom heard of any of the [Venerate] being gone so long.


    ¡°That long?¡± She asked. ¡°I should have returned over a century ago.¡±


    ¡°We have been experiencing a¡­ slowing of the return lately, milady. There are various theories as to what¡¯s causing the inconvenience but nothing is certain. It¡¯s impacted the oldest of the Venerate the hardest.¡±


    Over a century of lost time on top of her normal period of return was not something minor in the workings of empire. The [Procurator] better not be dead. I can¡¯t shatter his crest and stop him from ever returning if he is in recovery. Even his death isn¡¯t worth the consequences of breaking the Compact of Return. Her thoughts returned to what Lirian had said. A slowing of the recovery for the empire¡¯s greatest heroes? I should have been around to investigate this. I bet they are criminally underusing Krinka. Clearly something is wrong and whoever is investigating is not nearly qualified enough.


    ¡°And what of my companions? Have Krinka or Alsarana recovered yet?¡±


    ¡°The [Archivist] and the [Harbinger] have both awoken. Lord Krinka awoke thirty-seven years ago and Lord Alsarana awoke twenty-three years ago; both have been waiting for your full recovery. It was Lord Krinka who requested your Crest be transferred from Tuvashar to Rahabia with the approval of the Warden.¡±


    Relief washed over Casselia. She despised the waiting game, the agonizing stretch of decades spent anticipating the recovery of her companions. Though she could always find ways to occupy her time, the idle waiting gnawed at her patience, each day a reminder of their incomplete triumvirate. Though she was certain Krinka had loved the extra decades to conduct his research free of her ¡®meddling.¡¯


    ¡°Are they here now?¡±


    ¡°Lord Krinka is in Haffarah and Lord Alsarana left us notice that he intends to travel to Haffarah to join him as soon as you had recovered. Word has already been sent and he should be on his way.¡±


    Krinka is in the City of History as always; I should have known better than to ask. I have to force him to leave the Archives in the best of times, let alone when one of us is still in recovery.


    ¡°And what is the state of the empire, Lirien? Are we at war once again?¡± Casselia¡¯s voice held a steely edge, bracing for the worst.


    ¡°Why no, milady.¡± He looked taken aback by the question, though he shouldn¡¯t have been. A lot could change in centuries. ¡°The empire has enjoyed peace, save for skirmishes with the Banes of Civilization, ever since the Treaty of Swallows Grace and the integration of the Bal. The House of Lords has even declared this a period of unmatched prosperity.¡±


    His tone was meant to reassure, but Casselia caught the undercurrent of uncertainty in his eyes.


    Prosperity¡­ and yet, why do I sense a storm on the horizon? Casselia mused silently. Peace could be as fragile as glass, shattering with the slightest pressure. ¡°And yet, the fact that the Sulphen has called us back suggests there may be more beneath the surface. I trust you¡¯ll keep me informed of any developments, no matter how minor they may seem.¡±


    That explains the longer than expected slumber at least. If there hasn¡¯t been a need for us the Sulphen wouldn¡¯t have called us back. Has it simply been long enough that we were returned anyway, or are we on the verge of some disaster?


    Casselia interrogated Lirien for the better part of an hour about the state of the empire before she was satisfied that she had the information she would need in order to make her way to Haffarah and connect with the rest of her triumvirate. As she thanked him for his time and prepared to go, he interrupted her.


    ¡°Before you leave milady, one of the Arenea left this for you and indicated that it was of the highest priority.¡± He pulled out a bundle of string and passed it across the table to her. She quickly read the message, sorting through the various strings and deciphering the meaning held within.


    Casselia wanted to resent Nyxol¡¯s audacity to assign her a task before reuniting with her companions, but she knew better than to expect the Queen of Silk to consider her feelings. That spider always thinks she knows something I don¡¯t, she thought. Still, we have almost three months before the cycle starts and they would need to be in Aslavain.


    Two centuries¡­ So much would have changed. She thought of Nyxol¡¯s message, her mind racing with possibilities. Why assign us a new triumvirate rather than letting us pick our own? Is the empire truly at peace, or is there a storm brewing beneath the surface? Her hand instinctively went to the amulet around her neck, her Crest. We¡¯ve been through this before. We¡¯ll adapt, overcome, and if necessary, we¡¯ll forge new paths from the ashes. I won¡¯t let the empire fall into darkness again.


    She rose from the seat and after a quick explanation to Lirien about what she would need, he led her through the complex they were housed within to an open hall milling with people. The room was four stories tall with a massive skylight bathing the crowd with sunlight from high above. Lines of people waited in front of the dozens of large gates set into the wall every three dozen feet.


    ¡°The gate to Haffarah is on the third story, about halfway down.¡± He pointed at a balcony high above as he handed over a scroll with the seal of Rahabia. ¡°That will grant you access to the portal. As one of the [Venerate] you, of course, have full access to the imperial transportation network. As you work to reunite with your companions, this scroll will make that clear to anyone who seeks to give you trouble.¡±


    ¡°And the gate to Tuvashar? I have business in the City of Scholars to resolve before I travel to Haffarah.¡±


    Lirien pointed to a gate set into a wooden frame and she thanked him for his assistance before leaving, her thoughts focused on her companions. The idea of reuniting with Krinka and Alsarana filled her with a mix of anticipation and unease. We have endured so much together, our bond forged in the crucible of war and tempered by centuries of shared purpose. Yet, time and death have a way of changing people. Will they still be the same? She knew her worries were foolish, unlikely to bear any fruit. Krinka and Als were her closest friends and she knew they would be there for her. Until the empire falls we will stand firm, we swore it all those years ago.


    She steeled herself, knowing that whatever lay ahead, they would face it together. The Mandate of Empire had risen from the ashes before, and they would do so again. The Mandate¡¯s motto was ¡®Ashes to Edifice,¡¯ and she had a feeling that soon there would be ashes to rebuild from.


    She would reach Tuvashar within the hour to settle her affairs before pulling Krinka¡¯s head out of his tomes and Als tail away from whatever group he was tormenting.


    <hr>


    Creation: The 4th Month in the 28th Year in the Reign of Golden Harvests


    Krinka the [Archivist], one of the empire¡¯s most valuable [Venerate] and a companion to the Crownless herself, sat cross-legged before one of thousands of towering shelves brimming with the Sul Empire¡¯s knowledge. He was deeply engrossed in a tome about the historical mating habits of the northern swallows of the Gondarian Marsh, steadfast in his defense of the empire.


    Krinka wasn¡¯t an ecologist, and he certainly didn¡¯t approve of the continued existence of any type of bird¡ªa sentiment starkly contrasted by the dozens of tomes about these creatures piled around him. Each book represented hours of meticulous research by those who regarded the birds as airbound menaces.


    Two years ago, one of his contacts had informed him of worries about the rise of a new Beast King in the north. After years of dedicated study, Krinka was confident they had been wrong. Not only had a Beast Lord failed to materialize over the past two years¡ªproviding ample evidence of a false conclusion¡ªbut Krinka¡¯s research also revealed that the region was carefully tended by Bal [Shamans] and Malan [Ecologists], who were providing great service to the empire.


    At this point, he was convinced that the birds were locked in a constant battle to impress their potential mates¡ªa struggle that left little energy to concern themselves with the Sulphen and ascend. In his long life, he had discovered that far more issues stemmed from mating habits than anyone would expect.


    As much as Krinka hated birds, exterminating yet another species in the name of preemptive defense felt wrong. He closed the tome and stretched, glad that Casselia wasn¡¯t there to comment on his poor posture or bulging stomach pressing against his robe. She always wanted everything he did to be perfect¡ªnot that he minded too much. Even in her absence, her influence lingered. He chuckled softly. I suppose that¡¯s why I miss her. Her presence was always a reminder of our potential for greatness.


    Casselia had a way of making people feel important¡ªa trait she possessed even before she became the Crownless.


    The soft rustle of pages and the scent of old parchment were comforting, yet they were a stark reminder of his self-imposed isolation.  For too long, I¡¯ve buried myself in these tomes, hiding from the world outside. Alsarana and Casselia¡­ they¡¯ve seen so much more. His eyes drifted to the shelves, filled with the weight of history. But can I truly help them out there? I know the theories, the strategies, but reality is unpredictable. Still, if Casselia believes in this, I must stand by her. The empire¡¯s future might very well depend on the knowledge I¡¯ve gathered. It¡¯s time to turn theory into practice.


    Krinka hoped she would return soon. It had been far too long since he had awakened and found his companions held within the Sulphen, though Alsarana had visited him almost two decades ago and promised to find Krinka as soon as Casselia returned. He also hoped that the naga hadn¡¯t gotten himself into too much trouble over the decades.


    Krinka stood and called upon one of the archives¡¯ Eidolons, requesting the spirit to return the stacks of texts to their appropriate locations. The ghostly form of the Eidolon assured him it would be taken care of. Absently, Krinka wondered if his life would have been better as one of the Eidolons¡ªmaintaining and curating the enormous collection bound to the stacks until they were chosen to run one of the trials in Aslavain.


    Shaking his head ruefully, he dismissed the thought. If he were an Eidolon, he wouldn¡¯t have been able to leave the archives unless appointed to the Immortal Chambers as an [Administrator] of the empire¡ªa role he had no interest in. Being one of the [Venerate], with the authority to travel through Creation or Aslavain, was far better. Freedom was always preferable.The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    He still didn¡¯t understand why they were called [Venerate]. He had spent centuries trying to trace the etymological origins of the term and thought he was on the verge of understanding it in an abandoned Domicile rumored to interest the Dion¡ªand, in Casselia¡¯s view, the [Procurator]. They had wasted months on that red herring.


    The term [Venerate] seemed to date back to the First Empire, before the rise of the Tul-Tul-Tar. As a historian, how could Krinka not be interested in what life was like before civilization collapsed and the apocalypse broke the world? The First Empire possessed magics and abilities that had yet to be replicated, and Krinka knew there were thousands of abandoned Shrines and Domiciles holding those missing pieces of knowledge¡ªlost in the wilds or locked away from public use.


    The [Venerate] weren¡¯t worshiped nowadays, and few gods existed in the Sul Empire. Sure, some ancient cults still claimed their own divinity¡ªthe Holy Church of the Three, the Radiant Flame, and the Eternal Weave¡ªbut most simply worshiped the Sulphen itself. Krinka would argue that these cults worshiped manifestations of the Sulphen rather than independent divinities.


    A hissing voice shattered the silence of the archives, interrupting his wandering thoughts. ¡°So, do the sparrows need extermination this time, or do the birdies get to keep their short, little lives?¡±


    He turned with a rustle of thick cloth as his robes brushed against the nearby shelf, speaking with a calm that concealed his racing excitement. ¡°Alsarana, did you find wandering up to your standards?¡±


    ¡°It was¡­ enlightening this time around. I had never spent time with the UlaanBal before. The goblin warrens are quite a sight to behold.¡±


    Krinka knew that Alsarana wanted him to ask about the goblins and his purpose in the south, but he preferred the naga to volunteer the information after he refused to inquire. It was an old habit, one he understood well, as habits were the glue that held life together. What were friendship or love but the sharing of habits and interests? A repetition of actions and conversations that made each relationship unique. ¡°I take it that Casselia has awakened and is on her way?¡±


    ¡°Yessssss.¡± The word hissed out, Alsarana¡¯s annoyance palpable in its lengthening. Krinka suppressed a smile as his friend seemed reluctant to mention the goblins again.


    The empire had lacked any established greenskin tribes until the Treaty of Swallows Grace, and goblin matrons were notoriously secretive about the inner workings of a warren. He would honestly love to learn more about the local cultures and, even better, goblin-specific skills, but annoying Alsarana took priority for now. He was sure Casselia would ask when she arrived, and Alsarana would never have returned without word that the Crownless was awake.


    ¡°Swallows.¡±


    ¡°Swallows?¡±


    ¡°Earlier, you asked if the sparrows need extermination. I am studying swallows, not sparrows.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s the difference?¡±


    Krinka wasn¡¯t entirely sure what the difference was, but he wasn¡¯t about to let Alsarana know that. ¡°The wing size, among other things¡ªthey are actually very different birds. You should be more up to date on your local ecology, Als.¡±


    ¡°Well, do the swallows need to be exterminated?¡±


    ¡°No. Too busy finding mates to ascend. All the birds can think about is reproduction and it hampers their ambitions. I have always said that romance is a trap, and the swallows are modern proof.¡±


    ¡°And what about sparrows? Can we exterminate them instead?¡±


    Krinka gave the question the thought it deserved before responding. ¡°Sparrows can stay for now, but if you see any on our travels make sure to pay extra attention.¡±


    Alsarana nodded gravely, ¡°I will keep my eyes out and let you know if I spot any.¡± Krinka was confident that Alsarana had no idea what a sparrow looked like. He didn¡¯t mind; it¡¯s not as though he could tell most birds apart either, nasty little things that they were.


    ¡°Do you think we should return to the shrine and meet Cass when she arrives?¡±


    ¡°I just came from the shrine and I left firm orders with the Eidolon manning the gate from Rahabia to let the Crownless know we are in the archive. I didn¡¯t want to hang around the gates longer than necessary. It¡¯s never good to draw too much attention to myself here in the north.¡±


    Now, that was something Krinka could agree with. Alsarana¡¯s serpentine form was a dozen feet long and covered in scales the shade of the night sky without a single star. Not quite black but close enough to be near indistinguishable. A black-scaled naga would draw attention in the best of circumstances, and Alsarana¡¯s missing arms made him even more recognizable than most.


    His lack of arms heightened Alsarana¡¯s snakelike appearance and gave the [Necromancer] an appearance that was memorable. Krinka didn¡¯t blame him for fleeing to the archives. Alsarana was the [Harbinger] and people tended to recognize him eventually if he loitered and that was usually not what they needed before they were back to full strength.


    ¡°Any idea what likely woke Casselia? The local Eidolons have been telling me that the [Venerate] have all been slower to return than they used to be in the last several decades.¡±


    ¡°Is there any working theory for the issues? The goblins don¡¯t have a single [Venerate], and that wasn¡¯t my focus anyway.¡±


    ¡°The most popular theory is that they just aren¡¯t needed. For more than four centuries the empire has been at peace. A Beast King hasn¡¯t awoken since we were last alive. Even the Tul were quiet for decades until the last few cycles. Some of the Malan factions were openly questioning the need to station the majority of our forces in the east to combat the Tul, though those discussions have died down since they were a hair¡¯s breadth away from consuming one of the [Venerate] a handful of years back.¡±


    ¡°Anyone we know?¡±


    ¡°Astalia was their name. One of the newer [Venerate], she formed her crest in the decades following Swallows Grace, apparently.¡±


    ¡°They let a [Venerate] that young, cross the Diontel? That must have drawn every Tul in the region to her like flies to honey. No wonder she was almost taken. Who authorized that?¡±


    ¡°She was leading a triumvirate on its first mission, a simple scouting mission the triumvirate escalated into a conflict. She failed to invoke her right to return and was almost taken.¡± He shook his head, ¡°They simply don¡¯t teach common sense to the youth these days.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s the Krinka that I know, always complaining about those younger than himself.¡± A woman¡¯s voice came from the corridor outside the library¡¯s aisle the pair had claimed, and Krinka felt a wild grin split his face as he turned.


    ¡°Cass! It has been too long.¡± He stood and pushed Alsarana backwards as the snake tried to slip past him. ¡°When did you return?¡±


    ¡°Krinka, I see you are neck deep in the tomes like always.¡± She returned his grin as she stepped into the aisle and took in the menacing naga next to him. ¡°Ahh and Alsarana is here as well, good. Als, I hope you have not created any messes while I have been recovering.¡±


    Alsarana¡¯s tail flicked, a hint of amusement playing in his eyes. ¡°I have just been learning the secrets of a goblin warren, nothing that would cause you issues,¡± he said, his tone defensive yet laced with a smirk. Casselia¡¯s eyes narrowed, a knowing glint betraying her skepticism. She could always see through his playful deflections.


    ¡°Goblins¡­ and you got admittance to the warren how?¡±


    ¡°I merely showed them my power and they were more than willing to welcome me in. Even goblins have enemies, and I provided moral support to their cause.¡±


    Krinka felt his grin widen at the words. ¡°You didn¡¯t form another cult around yourself?¡±


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t call it a cult.¡±


    Krinka and Casselia made eye contact and spoke in unison over Alsarana. ¡°Definitely a cult.¡± The naga looked ready to argue before sighing.


    ¡°Look, it¡¯s not my fault that I am a [Harbinger]; cults spring up around me without my intervention. The mortals are always looking for a powerful god snake. It¡¯s not my fault.¡±


    After they had spent a few hours catching up on what Casselia had missed Krinka spoke, ¡°I have missed you both,¡± he said, his tone filled with warmth. ¡°I have enjoyed my time in the archives, but it is long past time for us to make a name for ourselves again. It seems few remember the [Triumvirate of the Broken Crown]. Shall we change that?¡±


    ¡°Do we have our orders, Cass?¡± Alsarana hissed. ¡°What¡¯s our mission?¡±


    ¡°Nyxol has promised us a triumvirate with potential and requested we train them in Aslavain,¡± Casselia said, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully. ¡°She suspects the empire is approaching a tipping point and she wants to ensure that heroes, both old and new, are ready for it.¡± She paused, her gaze distant for a moment. ¡°There¡¯s more to this, I¡¯m sure of it. Nyxol always has layers to her plans. We must be vigilant. The surface peace might be hiding deeper currents of unrest. I fear we¡¯re on the brink of something monumental.¡±


    ¡°Aslavain? It¡¯s been too long since we have been in the Imperial Realm. Where is our entrance point?¡± Krinka hoped they would remain in the north where he could have access to the Archives of Haffarah in an emergency, but he doubted it would be that easy. Casselia never steered them away from danger.


    ¡°Dornogor.¡±


    ¡°The City of Beasts?¡± Alsarana asked, confusion evident in his tone. ¡°Dornogor hasn¡¯t been a safe arrival point since the Numen and Sunborn formed the City of Rage and created an unstable zone.  How long ago was that?¡±


    ¡°Tir Na Nog dates back to the fifth age, Alsarana. Regardless, the zone results from the clash of the domains of animate bone, beasts, and revenge,¡± Krinka added. ¡°Not exactly the most compelling start to our first adventure in centuries. What if the triumvirate gets drawn off course?¡±


    Casselia shrugged, ¡°Then they will have a great opportunity to improve quickly. Nyxol wouldn¡¯t assign us a team without incredible potential. If they can¡¯t survive in Tir Na Nog for the few days or weeks it takes us to find and swear an oath with them then we will find a new team. Its one cycle, we can always try again next year. The prize in Dornogor is worth the risk and the contest is at the first convergence of the moons, only six weeks into the cycle.¡±


    ¡°I approve.¡± Alsarana announced. ¡°Any opportunity to put the youth in life or death stakes is good enough in my books. This modern empire is too peaceful for anyone¡¯s good.¡±


    ¡°We have two months to reach the City before the solstice. Is there anything that you need to prepare?¡±


    <hr style="font-weight: 400">


    Aslavain: The 6th Month in the 28th Year in the Reign of Golden Harvests


    ¡°Do we know what our triumvirate is supposed to look like?¡± Alsarana sprawled across the entire couch in the halls of Dornogor¡¯s arrival point, exuding a relaxed confidence as they waited for their newest charges to arrive at the shrine.


    Alsarana personally hoped that they would get drawn into Tir Na Nog. Krinka insisted that it was unlikely. Tir Na Nog would only take the group if one of the candidates had a desire for revenge or some other deep-seated anger they had yet to deal with.


    Krinka thought that the longstanding peace made it unlikely that they would want revenge before they had even entered the true ranks of the empire. Alsarana had laughed at the idea with enough vigor that Krinka had looked a little hurt. What did he expect, though? The world had never been fair and no generation was free of trauma.


    Alsarana thought that the trauma was what made the hero. He had lived through one of the calamities, died more times than he could count, and personally overseen the extinction of more than a dozen species. If the triumvirate was promising enough to get assigned to him, then at least one of them would want revenge for something.


    ¡°Shush, Als, Nyxol will be sending me the description as soon as they have finalized their choices.¡± Casselia said, though dividing her concentration away from a more important task. ¡°You know how the solstice is for the three immortals.¡±


    ¡°They don¡¯t get to complain about having to personally assign every candidate when they created that very system and have refused to revise it.¡±


    ¡°They don¡¯t technically assign every candidate¨C¡± Krinka interjected, causing Alsarana to uncoil his tail from the leg of the sofa as he shifted his position to glower at the small human man.


    ¡°They assign all of the important ones. If someone isn¡¯t brave enough to enter Aslavain, do they even count as a true candidate?¡±


    ¡°Sit back down. I don¡¯t need you menacing over me, your scales block out the light.¡± Krinka replied curtly. ¡°And all candidates matter. Though,¡± he conceded, ¡°those who enter Aslavain do matter more than most. None of the true talent refuse the opportunity, even if the risk of death and injury is notably higher. It¡¯s actually quite the utilitarian perspective on¨C¡±


    ¡°Sooooo, Casselia, any luck hearing from the spider?¡± He cut the scholar off before he could go any deeper into the ethics of the current imperial system. Krinka frowned at the interruption, huffed, and pulled out a book having decided the conversation was unlikely to go any further.


    ¡°I just told you, shush.¡±


    Alsarana¡¯s tail coiled around his backpack, slipped inside, and withdrew a femur. The bone floated in the air in front of him and he began to trace symbols on its surface with the tip of his tail, each motion leaving a streak of red on the bone.


    ¡°That¡¯s not a child¡¯s leg is it?¡± Krinka asked after a few minutes of watching Alsarana¡¯s work.


    ¡°Just a goblin. It¡¯s amazing how many bones they keep just buried in the warren. Honestly, very homely of them.¡±


    He was about to regale Krinka with the story about how he had discovered this specific bone during a raid of a rival warren when Casselia raised her hand, cutting him off.


    ¡°We are to work with the [Squire of Carven Bone] and his assigned triumvirate.¡± She paused as though waiting to learn more to provide them. ¡°A Silkborn candidate from the Sect of Silken Grace and one of the Bal, who Nyxol claims has a touch of Numen blood are the other two candidates.¡±


    ¡°A Dion, a Malan, and a Bal.¡± Alsarana hissed appreciatively. ¡°How progressive of them.¡±


    ¡°A Kiel, a Malan, and a Bal,¡± she corrected. ¡°The [Squire] is from the Bridgelands apparently. Nyxol says to look for a fog robe on the boy.¡±


    ¡°A fog robe?¡± Krinka looked up from his book for the first time, suddenly interested. ¡°That is no small token. That robe is going to drive thieves to violence once they reach an Eternal City.¡±


    ¡°I am more interested in the fact that the Titan chose one of the Kiel as his [Squire].¡± Alsarana said. ¡°How long has it been since the last time one of his chosen wasn¡¯t Dion?¡±


    ¡°Since before I awoke, at the very least.¡± Krinka answered. ¡°I can think of a handful of years Rovan chose one of the Bal as his champion, but they struggled to synergize with the most common skills that his class is able to provide.¡±


    ¡°I suspect,¡± Casselia said, ¡°that we are meant to fill that gap.¡± Her eyes drifted to Alsarana and to the bone still floating in the air in front of him.


    The three watched as sets of candidates began to emerge from the reception chamber ahead. Most came in full triumvirates, though some of the candidates emerged in pairs or alone after having failed to form a triumvirate in the Room of Threefold Oath. Dornogor was far from the most popular destination within Aslavain to start one¡¯s journey, but it still gathered a fair-sized crowd of those who either didn¡¯t know about the unstable zone or just didn¡¯t care enough to choose a different destination.


    Alsarana reveled in the attention as the candidates emerged and studiously avoided his gaze as he flicked his thin tongue in and out of his fanged jaws. Humans seemed to naturally hate when he leaned into his snake heritage, and he had never lost the enjoyment of seeing their mild discomfort. After the stream of candidates slowed to a trickle with no fog robe in sight, he heard Krinka sigh.


    ¡°They are in Tir Na Nog, aren¡¯t they?¡± Krinka asked with a sigh.


    ¡°I suspect that is the case.¡± Casselia said placidly and Alsarana wondered, not for the first time, what she was playing at here. Sure, they could just get another triumvirate to train next year if this group perished early, but waste had never been Casselia¡¯s style. He suspected she had some information they did not, though Alsarana assumed as much about every plan with Casselia or Krinka involved.


    ¡°We are not going to Tir Na Nog ourselves are we?¡± Krinka asked, looking as though he knew what the answer was going to be.


    ¡°Why Krinka, we can¡¯t leave our charges all alone now, can we? Als, construct transport outside, and we can be on our way within the hour. Krinka, I do need you to calculate the most likely vectors that would draw them off course so we can figure out where we need to arrive.¡±


    They moved into action, Alsarana slithering out the grand doors of the hall and into an open field underneath the boughs of a great tree. The field was filled with new candidates excitedly taking in the grand elephants and wildlife that filled Dornogor¡¯s demesne. Alsarana ignored them and began to pour bones from his satchel. The small humanoid bones fell in a cascade from his dimensional pouch, and he happily watched as candidates of all races moved away from the thousands of bones as they began to interlock and form a construct on the lawn.


    The construct rose as bones clicked into place with a series of resonant snaps. From the pile of bones the construct formed wings and a sleek, sinuous body. The air filled with the dry, brittle sound of bones interlocking, a cacophony that sent shivers down the spines of the onlookers.


    Candidates gasped and murmured, their awe mingling with fear as the construct took shape, a living embodiment of the [Harbinger]¡¯s grim artistry. The bones glowed faintly, pulsing with an otherworldly light as ancient runes flared to life, infusing the construct with the magic that animated it. Now if only I had some real bones to work with they would be truly in awe. These goblin bones suffice but I miss my old collection. This would be so much faster if only I had my cache of bones.


    With a final flourish, Alsarana completed the construct, its wings spreading wide, casting long shadows over the awed onlookers. Casselia and Krinka approached, their expressions a mix of anticipation and resolve.


    Casselia turned to her companions, her eyes reflecting the twin moons¡¯ light. ¡°We ride to Tir Na Nog.¡±


    The trio mounted the bone construct, its skeletal wings spreading wide as they prepared to take flight. The bones beneath them glowed as runes became visible and pulsed with energy, resonating with the magic that animated their transport as Alsarana fueled the working. The construct shuddered, then lifted off the ground, the air filled with the sound of bones clinking together like a macabre symphony.


    These bones won¡¯t last too long, but they should get us to Tir Na Nog before we encounter issues and the skies in Aslavain tend to be safe unlike in Creation. The construct was long and sinuous, formed in the pattern of one of the great coatl¡¯s from his homeland. The wings formed from bone were incapable of sustaining flight on their own, but their presence resonated with the Sulphen and made the animated flight easier than it would have been without them.


    He coiled around the front of the construct as Casselia mounted behind. Krinka, seated behind Casselia, adjusted his robes and pulled out a small notebook. He began to jot down calculations, his mind already working on the problem Casselia had set before him. His eyes darted between the pages and the horizon, considering the possible routes their charges might have taken.


    As they ascended, the vast landscape of Dornogor unfolded below them, the great elephants and exposition tents shrinking into miniature as they climbed higher. Krinka, seated behind Casselia, adjusted his robes and pulled out a small notebook. He began to jot down calculations, his mind already working on the problem Casselia had set before him. His eyes darted between the pages and the horizon, considering the possible routes their charges might have taken as the construct began its long flight.


    Krinka shared his estimates after they reached altitude and Alsarana swore inwardly. 40 miles, it can surely make it 40 miles. These goblin bones won¡¯t let me down.


    The winds made conversation difficult and after a long stretch of silence Krinka yelled about the buffeting winds. ¡°We should prepare for a bumpy arrival, the unstable zone around Tir Na Nog will make this journey unpredictable. I¡¯ve calculated several possible entry points, but we¡¯ll need to be ready for anything.¡±


    Casselia nodded, her grip tightening on the construct. ¡°Understood. Alsarana, keep an eye out for any disturbances. We can¡¯t afford to be caught off guard.¡±


    Alsarana hissed his acknowledgment, his senses on high alert. The night sky stretched endlessly before them, the stars twinkling like distant memories. The construct flew with a grace that belied its eerie appearance, cutting through the air with ease.


    As they neared the border of Tir Na Nog, the air grew thick with a palpable tension, the very essence of the unstable zone seeping into the bones, weakening his hold on the construct. The landscape below shifted, the lush greenery of Dornogor¡¯s rolling plains giving way to the twisted, shadowed terrain of Tir Na Nog.


    The demesne of Tir Na Nog lacked any foliage to cover the dark soil that carpeted the regions for miles in every direction. To their north was a forest filled with trees the color of bleached bone, and an obelisk made from obsidian rose from the center of the ivory forest in a plain covered in pale white grass. To their south the City of Rage loomed with its obsidian construction and pulsing aura, which spoke to Alsarana¡¯s darker impulses as it cast a dark pall over the land.


    ¡°We¡¯re close,¡± Casselia said, her voice barely a whisper against the wind. Alsarana felt the pressure of one of Casselia¡¯s skills activate. She turned towards the obelisk to the north and swore. ¡°They are about to enter the trial, quickly, to the obelisk.¡±


    The construct turned sharply and began its descent, its bones rattling as it navigated the turbulent currents of the unstable zone. In the distance he could make out three forms as they began to outrun his construct across the white grasses of the plain surrounding the obelisk. The magic animated his construct began to churn wildly as they neared the ground and he felt his hold slipping as the construct lost control.


    The trio braced themselves and with a final, bone-jarring lurch, the construct landed fifteen yards back from the trio, its bones crumbled into dust and his working collapsed. I hate curse magic, Alsarana thought, if only I had my real bones, these goblin bones lack the authority for something as difficult as flying. Now if we could get real dragon bone¡­


    Casselia began to sprint to the trio as they approached the obelisk and he began to follow, his serpentine form quickly overtaking the women. She swore as the trio reached the obelisk ahead of them, touched the structure, and vanished inside.


    ¡°Alsarana, wait.¡± Casselia called out causing him to slow. ¡°They are gone. We were too slow. We will have to set up camp and greet them once they emerge.¡±


    ¡°If they emerge.¡± He said unhelpfully. ¡°Even the imperial guidelines haven¡¯t made Tir Na Nog safe.¡±


    She shrugged as Krinka caught up to them, chest heaving as he sucked in air desperately.


    ¡°They are in the trial now and unlikely to decide that they are in over their heads. Alsarana, are you able to work with the bone forming these trees? I wouldn¡¯t mind a cabin while we wait. Krinka, I want you to see if there is a way we can enter their trial.¡±


    ¡°Casselia, you¨C¡± Krinka began, his face grim.


    ¡°I know it¡¯s not a simple request, but we know it¡¯s possible. Remember the trials in Kohlenhain in the seventh age? Figure it out if you can. Some time on their own will do them well, but we can¡¯t afford a long period of stagnation from them.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll do my best Cass, but you know it¡¯s not that simple. Without something on the inside to create a sympathetic link with, a prior story about this shrine that I could invoke, or a sudden increase in my abilities¡­ well, maybe they can handle it on their own.¡±


    Alsarana¡¯s hissing laughter was the only response to his optimism.

 Chapter Six: The Trial

    At the break of dawn, as golden light spills over the plains, the bison stirs, muscles tensing as it senses the call to stay one step ahead of the hunter. Somewhere nearby, the wolf stretches and prowls, hunger sharpening its every move, knowing that without the chase, the day ends empty. Each morning, whether built to endure or born to pursue, life demands they rise with purpose: to run, to survive, to live another day.


    ¨C Echoes of the Plains by T.J. Warden


    Aslavain: One Day after the Summer Solstice


    Lotem slumped into one of the cold stone chairs in the Room of Threefold Oath, the seat¡¯s chill biting into his weary back. His sigh echoed in the dim chamber, mingling with the musty air¡ªa stark reminder of their harrowing escape. His heart still pounded from their frantic sprint to the obelisk, the memory of the bone construct chasing them vivid and haunting. What was that monstrosity? Why were they after us?


    He shivered, recalling the massive snake that had pursued them, its black hood covered in scales that seemed to form countless red eyes, each one glinting with malice. Lotem loathed snakes, and this one was plucked straight from the depths of a nightmare. Even more unsettling were the two humans accompanying the creature raising more questions than answers.


    Sylva¡¯s voice pulled Lotem back to the room. ¡°I¡¯m planning to read the scholar¡¯s contract for the trial. Do you want to read the other versions so we can compare notes?¡±


    ¡°Oh, I don¡¯t think that¡¯s necessary, Sylva. I¡¯m sure you¡¯ll give us an excellent overview of the terms,¡± Hadrian said, glancing at Lotem.


    ¡°Don¡¯t you want to know what you¡¯re agreeing to?¡± she asked, her tone slightly sharp. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t it be better to get that knowledge firsthand?¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± Hadrian cleared his throat, ¡°you know how I said my focus has been more on the violence side than the knowledge side?¡±


    Sylva¡¯s eyes narrowed, her fingers drumming an impatient rhythm on the table. Lotem bit back a smile, realizing Hadrian might also be unable to read the imperial scripts. He braced himself for Sylva¡¯s reaction, amusement bubbling within him.


    ¡°I remember,¡± she said, her gaze fixed on Hadrian. The room fell silent as the Kiel man shifted uncomfortably on his feet.


    ¡°I never had the time to learn the scripts,¡± he added quickly. ¡°Not that my parents didn¡¯t try¡ªthey could read the trade script¡ªbut it just never seemed important.¡±


    ¡°But what about all the knowledge you¡¯ll never access? Aren¡¯t you worried about missing something important?¡± Sylva¡¯s expression showed she couldn¡¯t fathom how he had never learned the script. She turned sharply to Lotem, eyes ablaze. ¡°And you, what are you smiling about?¡±


    ¡°I never bothered with the word scars either. What¡¯s the point? I can speak and ask someone who can read what it means,¡± he shrugged. ¡°And let¡¯s be honest, Sylva¡ªyou can read anything we encounter and explain it to us. Simple.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not the point! What if I lied to you?¡±


    ¡°Will you lie to us?¡± Hadrian asked curiously.


    ¡°Of course not!¡± Her fingers twitched before she clasped her hands together, her grip tightening. She drew a slow, deliberate breath, nostrils flaring. When she spoke, her voice was calm, but with a steely edge. ¡°Do I seem like some cheap half-scholar to you?¡±


    ¡°Of course not!¡± Hadrian echoed with a grin. ¡°Glad to hear we can trust you. So, what does the contract say?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll let you know when I¡¯m done.¡± She turned away, more aggressively than Lotem thought necessary. Hadrian¡¯s right. Lotem gave him a nod, respecting a man who kept his mind pure from the influence of the written word.


    He gently lifted Sabel from his pouch, the tiny kitten yawning and stretching her delicate paws. Placing her on the table, he watched as she curled up next to his hand, purring softly. Smiling, he gently stroked her head until she drifted into a peaceful sleep.


    What if she lied to us? Words were powerful things, and his people knew that sometimes a hidden word could save a life. He glanced at Sylva, grateful that she could navigate these perilous legalities. Leaning back in his chair, he closed his eyes, hoping the rest would ease the dull ache in his thigh and quiet his racing thoughts. He picked up Sabel, holding her to his chest as his breathing deepened and slowed, drifting to sleep with the kitten in his arms.


    [Skill Obtained: Lesser Strength]


    Lotem woke with a start, the placid voice of the Sulphen cutting through the haze of sleep. He jerked awake, his head rocking backward from where it had been hanging.


    ¡°You okay, Lotem?¡± Hadrian asked, seated across from him, idly twirling a pale white knife in his grip.


    ¡°I just got a new skill.¡±


    Sylva turned from the tapestry she¡¯d been studying, giving him an appraising look, her expression clearly asking him to continue.


    ¡°[Lesser Strength],¡± Lotem answered her unspoken question. It wasn¡¯t a bad skill, especially if he could eventually get the more advanced versions. He hoped it would help in the coming trials.


    ¡°Think I¡¯ll get a new skill if I fall asleep too?¡± Hadrian asked, excitement bubbling in his voice.


    ¡°Could be. The Sulphen probably noticed the fight with the rats and our struggles. ¡®Struggle breeds skill,¡¯ as the saying goes.¡±


    ¡°How long was I out?¡±


    ¡°I was just finishing the contract terms. It¡¯s¡­ interesting.¡±


    ¡°Interesting in a good way?¡± Lotem pressed.


    ¡°I think so. The contract uses standard language, but there are some parts unique to Tir Na Nog that we need to discuss.¡±


    ¡°What are the standard contract terms?¡± Hadrian asked, then added, ¡°Assume I know nothing about contracts,¡± as though Sylva hadn¡¯t already been doing just that.


    ¡°Of course you don¡¯t,¡± she muttered before answering. ¡°The standard contract language binds us to follow its terms, and it binds the trial to do the same. It¡¯s a mutual agreement, the basis of contractual magic. Think of it like the ropes connecting the trees in the Bridgelands, Hadrian. The ropes are necessary, but they don¡¯t make the journey easy. The specific contract clauses are like the planks on those ropes¡ªthey allow the journey to actually happen.¡±


    ¡°And these planks are the interesting part?¡±


    ¡°Exactly. It outlines that there are three challenges we must overcome to complete the trial, though we can leave after beating just one.¡±


    ¡°Only three challenges? Easy enough.¡±


    ¡°No, not¡­¡± Sylva sighed, giving up on correcting him. ¡°The first trial tests our skill at arms, the second our control, and the last our dedication.¡±


    ¡°Skill at arms?¡± Lotem asked, a note of concern creeping into his voice. ¡°Are we in danger?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s the interesting part, Lotem. The contract demands a much larger portion of our essence in exchange for protection from any non-voluntary injury or death.¡±


    ¡°Our essence?¡± Hadrian echoed, confused.


    ¡°Your blood, my animating magics. It¡¯s how the contract enforces its safety assurances, I think.¡± Sylva began pointing out the specific connections between the clauses when Lotem interrupted.


    ¡°Non-voluntary injury or death? So if we agree now that we don¡¯t want to be injured or killed, we¡¯ll be safe?¡±


    ¡°That is what the contract says, yes.¡±


    ¡°I vote aye to enter the trial,¡± Hadrian said without hesitation. ¡°If this contract really protects us from injury or death, it¡¯s a rare chance to get stronger without risking our lives. We don¡¯t know what¡¯s out there, and a trial at arms sounds awesome. We can¡¯t miss out on that.¡±


    ¡°Hadrian¡¯s right,¡± Lotem said, catching Sylva¡¯s skeptical look. ¡°Not about it being awesome¡ªsome of us don¡¯t want to fight¡ªbut it¡¯s a good opportunity, right? I vote aye. How bad could one challenge be? We could always leave after we beat it.¡±


    Sylva rubbed her temples, closing her eyes as if gathering her patience. ¡°Again?¡± she muttered, a faint smile tugging at her mouth. ¡°Why is everything a vote with you two?¡±


    ¡°We Bal have a storied history of democracy. It¡¯s you imperials who struggle with sharing power,¡± Lotem teased.


    ¡°We don¡¯t have an issue with¡ª¡± she started, then cut herself off. ¡°Fine. I vote aye, not that we have much of a choice. Hadrian, take your seat.¡±


    Sylva took her seat in the wooden chair and began an intricate chant, her voice low and rhythmic as she read from the contract. As she finished, three bone needles rose from the table, hovering in the air. Following Sylva¡¯s lead, Lotem pricked his finger on the needle and gasped as he felt a suction, pulling more and more blood from his body. His heart raced as the needle finally withdrew, and he felt a shift take hold, pulling him into the next phase.


    <hr>


    Hadrian surveyed the stone-hewn room, wondering if every structure they encountered would be fashioned from this same cold, unyielding substance. The Malan, he knew, had an affinity for stone, abundant in this part of the empire. Yet, he never imagined such an overwhelming presence of it in one place, as though the very heart of the world had been carved out and shaped into these imposing walls.


    The room stretched before him like an elongated corridor¡ªa narrow, imposing passage a dozen feet wide, with walls slanting inward sharply to form a triangular prism. Three doors, evenly spaced on each side, interrupted the relentless stone. He couldn¡¯t fathom how they might open, given the severe angles, but the very impossibility of their function lent the place an air of mystery, as if the geometry itself was a riddle.


    His gaze drifted upward, drawn by the flickering light of a long brazier suspended from the ceiling. The flames danced and writhed, casting erratic shadows that pulsed with a life of their own. The room was bathed in an uneasy blend of orange, yellow, and red, the colors swirling together like a smoldering sunset trapped within these stone confines. An inexplicable unease gnawed at him, a vague, unnamable dread that he dismissed as nothing more than claustrophobia. The slanting walls pressed in on him, narrowing his world to a suffocating slice of existence.


    ¡°Ahh, this is perfect!¡± Sylva¡¯s voice cut through his thoughts, her enthusiasm a stark contrast to the oppressive atmosphere. She moved with purpose toward one of the stone doors, her steps confident, almost eager. ¡°I hoped there would be recovery rooms, but I didn¡¯t dare expect it. The contract mentioned the possibility, though it all depended on the whims of the Eidolons overseeing this year¡¯s trials. Although¡­¡± Her voice trailed off as she reached the door.


    Sylva¡¯s fingers brushed against a rune etched into the door¡¯s surface. The stone shifted, sliding smoothly into the ceiling with a sound that was both seamless and unsettlingly final. The room beyond was sparse, its austerity almost monastic. A single stone platform jutted from one wall, offering the barest hint of comfort in this otherwise stark environment. Opposite it, a coffin-shaped basin, longer than Hadrian was tall, brimmed with crystal-clear water. A solitary torch, its light muted and steady, hung on the far wall, casting a serene reflection across the water¡ªa stark contrast to the violent hues outside.


    ¡°Well, at least we won¡¯t die of thirst,¡± Hadrian said with a grin. ¡°I was worried with all this stone around¡ªno need for water to survive.¡±


    ¡°That is not for drinking!¡± Sylva¡¯s voice was horrified. ¡°Those are the waters of rebirth¡ªthey allow us to return after grievous injury or death in the trials.¡±


    ¡°So what are we supposed to drink, then?¡± Hadrian asked, genuinely curious.


    ¡°We won¡¯t need to. The contract said we don¡¯t need to worry about ¡®mortal concerns¡¯ like food and drink.¡±


    ¡°But we can drink if we want to?¡± Hadrian looked hopeful. ¡°I love the taste of cold water after a workout.¡±


    ¡°The door covered in engravings of people fighting each other might lead us to a different source of water,¡± Lotem suggested, raising an eyebrow.


    ¡°They¡¯re probably guarding it,¡± Hadrian mused, excitement returning with force. ¡°If I were a guardian deep underground, I¡¯d definitely guard the water. Combat to the death until we quench our thirst¡ªthat¡¯s how it should be!¡±


    ¡°There won¡¯t be any thirst,¡± Sylva retorted, her patience wearing thin.


    Lotem, however, seemed intrigued. ¡°But Sylva, are you sure we can¡¯t drink this water? It looks safe enough, and Hadrian makes a good point¡ªthere¡¯s power in a good drink.¡±


    ¡°We might be able to, but¡­¡± Sylva hesitated, distaste evident in her voice. ¡°It doesn¡¯t feel¡­ civilized. Drinking from a pool designed to rebuild our forms feels wrong.¡±


    Hadrian squatted by the pool, dipped his hand into the placid surface like a ladle, and slurped loudly. ¡°Sure does taste like water.¡±


    ¡°Hadrian!¡± Sylva¡¯s exasperation was palpable. ¡°You can¡¯t just drink random dungeon water.¡±


    ¡°I was thirsty. We can¡¯t fight dehydrated, Sylva, that¡¯s just common sense.¡±


    ¡°You weren¡¯t thirsty; you can¡¯t be thirsty¡ªthe contract made that clear.¡±


    As Lotem bent down to sample the water, Hadrian felt a warmth ignite in his chest¡ªa quiet satisfaction that he wasn¡¯t alone in defying the strange rules of this place. ¡°This isn¡¯t bad at all, Sylva,¡± Lotem said thoughtfully. ¡°Tastes like spring water. Can we designate a pool for rebirth and keep one clean for drinking?¡±A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    Sylva looked appeased by the idea. ¡°The trial¡¯s almost certainly already assigned us a pool; it took our imprints earlier, so we shouldn¡¯t need to provide another.¡± She shrugged. ¡°The only way to know for sure is to die.¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s try not to test that, then. Any idea why there are six rooms but only three of us?¡±


    ¡°Those rooms are for a triumvirate of mentors,¡± Sylva explained. ¡°The contract specified that if we had mentors, they would accompany us but couldn¡¯t assist in the trials. Since we don¡¯t have any, it looks like we just have extra space.¡±


    Hadrian stood and summoned his bow with a sudden pop. ¡°We¡¯re ready to try the trial, then. To the bronze door?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not that simple, Hadrian,¡± Sylva cautioned. ¡°We aren¡¯t ready yet.¡±


    ¡°Oh, what else do we need to prepare?¡± We have water and an objective¡ªsurely we¡¯re ready to beat the first trial. And what¡¯s the worst that happens? We¡¯ll just get reborn if something goes wrong. What my parents wouldn¡¯t have given for one of these in the village.


    ¡°Well¡­ we could meditate on the challenges ahead.¡±


    ¡°Meditate?¡± Lotem asked, skeptical. ¡°The first trial¡¯s about combat, not inner peace, Sylva.¡±


    ¡°Fine, combat it is. We need rest, but it¡¯s best to try the challenge at least once first. Come, boys, let¡¯s give it our best shot.¡± She gave Hadrian a look that brooked no argument, showing she wasn¡¯t afraid of whatever awaited them.


    Hadrian followed her, his eyes tracing the intricate script on the bronze door at the end of the hallway. The door radiated authority, a weight pressing down on him as he approached. It was more than it appeared¡ªimbued with the essence of the trials, it carried an almost spiritual weight. It reminded him of the difference between normal flame and the flame imbued by the Luminaries¡ªa sense of authority that was impossible to ignore.


    ¡°Are we ready?¡± Sylva asked, her tone serious.


    They both nodded, and Sylva placed her hand on the center of the door, her fingers brushing over the intricate carvings. The script glowed, and the doors swung open with a creak that echoed through the hallway, revealing a large hexagonal chamber beyond.


    They stood in silence, taking in the grandiose space. The floor was covered in a mosaic of tiles that formed a pattern Hadrian couldn¡¯t decipher. His attention, however, was drawn to the three sarcophagi embedded in the walls opposite them, each adorned with carvings and scripts that seemed to tell a story¡ªa life captured in stone.


    The Kiel, Hadrian knew, sent their dead into the rivers of fog on elaborate ships, a final voyage to the next world. These sarcophagi seemed the opposite¡ªa tomb of stone, a prison without air or light. Why would anyone choose such a fate? he wondered.


    In the center of the room stood a pedestal, a column of carved gray stone holding a crystal ball filled with swirling smoke. The mist within reminded Hadrian of the rivers of fog¡ªa familiar sight from his childhood. He resisted the urge to stride forward and challenge whatever awaited them, knowing Sylva wouldn¡¯t approve. Instead, he stood ready, his bow in hand, an arrow nocked.


    Sylva took the first steps into the room. She strode to the pillar, crouching before the stone. She ran her fingers along the carved script, muttering under her breath as she studied the symbols. Hadrian glanced at Lotem, but the large man seemed content to wait as long as it took Sylva to reach her conclusion.


    After a few minutes of quiet observation, Sylva stood and turned. ¡°Lotem, you should leave Sabel in one of the rooms. She won¡¯t be safe in here.¡±


    ¡°Fair enough.¡± Lotem turned and left the chamber.


    ¡°Are we going to fight something?¡± Hadrian asked Sylva as they waited for Lotem to return.


    ¡°This trial draws three Eidolons of the demesne to challenge us. Once we prove ourselves worthy, they¡¯ll let us move on.¡±


    ¡°And we prove ourselves by fighting?¡±


    Sylva sighed, clearly exasperated.


    ¡°Yes, Hadrian, I do believe they might attack us. The stone makes it clear we might be killed and reborn in the rooms behind us.¡±


    ¡°And you¡¯re sure we¡¯re safe despite that?¡± Lotem asked as he rejoined them.


    ¡°Sure enough.¡± She shrugged. ¡°Are we ready?¡±


    Hadrian nodded excitedly, while Lotem hesitated for a few seconds before nodding as well. Sylva touched the crystal ball, and the swirling mist within froze, then glowed gold. The door behind them swung shut with a resounding crash. In front of them, the sarcophagi lids creaked open, revealing three figures.


    A giant of a man emerged first, towering even over Lotem, his mane of fiery red hair blazing in the chamber¡¯s light. He wielded a massive club¡ªno, a bone, the leg of some great beast. Hadrian¡¯s mind raced. What creature could yield such a weapon?


    His gaze shifted to the next figure¡ªa naga, her golden scales gleaming like the fires of home. Her torso and arms bore a humanoid shape, though covered in those lustrous scales. She wore a sleek toga, her face a strange blend of serpent and woman, with eyes that glowed the orange of a setting sun. Hadrian had never seen a naga before, and a thousand questions flooded his mind¡ªquestions he hoped to ask once they had defeated her.


    The last figure to emerge was another giant, clad in armor of gleaming green metal, intricately carved with the images of two creatures. The armor must weigh more than I do, Hadrian thought. How am I supposed to wound him? The helm alone was a formidable weapon, with curving horns that narrowed to lethal points.


    The armored man whistled, and the creatures etched on his armor materialized¡ªsolid and real. The first was a robust, barrel-shaped beast, its fur coarse and streaked with red and gray. It had a broad head, small ears, and large, dark eyes. The second creature was spiny, its body bristling with needle-like spines. Its small, dark eyes and short snout gave it a deceptively harmless appearance, but Hadrian sensed the danger.


    The beast¡¯s spines reminded Hadrian of the darts Simians used in their raids. Nasty things, those. The other creature looked¡­ unassuming. Its thick frame resembled a rat¡¯s, but the face was all wrong¡ªtoo square. It reminded him of the squirrels he¡¯d hunted.


    ¡°Summoned this soon into the cycle?¡± said the man with the bone club. ¡°This should be interesting. It¡¯s what, the first day?¡±


    ¡°Drakar and Morvan, an interesting confluence indeed,¡± the naga hissed, eyeing the two men on either side.


    ¡°Seraphis,¡± said the red-haired man¡ªDrakar, if Hadrian understood correctly. ¡°How¡¯s overseeing the forge? You haven¡¯t been called to kill an initiate in how long?¡±


    ¡°Now, Drakar, no need to rile the snake up,¡± Morvan said. ¡°I¡¯m sure she¡¯s been busy with whatever it is Sunborn mages spend their decades working on.¡±


    ¡°Research. It is¨C¡±


    ¡°Ah yes, I¡¯m sure it¡¯s been a riveting period for you,¡± Morvan said. Hadrian tensed as he noticed Morvan¡¯s creatures growing still, their muscles tensing, eyes locked on Lotem.


    ¡°So all we need to do is kill these three and we can move on?¡± Hadrian asked quietly, growing more confident they couldn¡¯t afford to delay. He didn¡¯t know much about conversation, but he knew when violence was about to start. The air had a feeling to it.


    ¡°Kill us?¡± Drakar let out a guffaw.


    ¡°Drakar, stop playing with your food,¡± Seraphis hissed bemusedly. ¡°We can talk with them after they recover, they can earn our answers.¡±


    As the naga began weaving her hands in complex patterns, Sylva swore. ¡°It¡¯s five of them, not three.¡±


    ¡°Is now really the time?¡± Lotem asked, his eyes fixed on the twin creatures.


    ¡°Accuracy is important in all things¡± Sylva replied as the beasts lunged, and Drakar deflected Hadrian¡¯s first arrow.


    <hr>


    ¡°Krinka, how is the scrying attempt progressing?¡± Casselia¡¯s voice sliced through the dense air of the makeshift cabin. ¡°They¡¯re almost certainly preparing for the first trial today. We need to witness this.¡±


    Casselia sat at a table fashioned from the bones of nearby trees, its skeletal framework stark against the rugged walls of their impromptu cabin. Outside, Alsarana¡¯s magic thrummed through the air, the crack of falling trees punctuating the stillness as Krinka focused on bypassing the wards. The distant crashes masked what she was certain was Alsarana¡¯s manic laughter.


    ¡°The Tir Na Nog wards are adequate,¡± Krinka muttered, sketching symbols into the wall. ¡°Not as intricate as a specialist shrine, but respectable. They carry a hint of the Khanate¡¯s style, really¡ª¡±


    ¡°Krinka, enough with the details,¡± Casselia snapped. ¡°I need results. Save the ward scheme lecture for later.¡±


    ¡°Easy for you to say¡­¡± he grumbled, resuming his sketching. After a few more minutes of focused effort, he shot her a muted smile and wiped away a bead of sweat rolling down his brow. Then, the [Archivist of Hidden Truth] invoked one of his skills, and she felt a shift in the room as his power took hold.


    Relief washed over Casselia as the wall shimmered, revealing the three youths by the pedestal. She strode to the door and flung it open. ¡°Alsarana, hurry! The children are about to face their doom.¡±


    Casselia shook her head with a rueful smile. Alsarana would never miss a chance to watch a fight, especially a hopeless one. Moments later, he slithered into the room, eyes gleaming with anticipation. ¡°Did I miss anything?¡±


    ¡°Just the Silkborn reading the instructions,¡± Krinka said, slumped in one of the chairs. ¡°Ah, here we go. She¡¯s summoning the Eidolons. Looks like it¡¯s a trial of approval. Casselia, do you think they¡¯ll set a challenge or go for a traditional attack?¡±


    ¡°In Tir Na Nog? The Numen, Nygmar, and naga are likely to demand a trial by combat. You know their history as well as I do.¡±


    ¡°We naga do love an unfair fight.¡± Alsarana added unhelpfully. ¡°I hope she bites one of them.¡±


    ¡°The Sunborn is unlikely to bite the candidate, Als,¡± Krinka interjected matter-of-factly. ¡°She¡¯ll almost certainly prepare a spell if they let her.¡±


    ¡°Shush you two,¡± Casselia said. ¡°It¡¯s starting.¡±


    They watched intently as the sarcophagi creaked open, releasing a shiver of ancient air. Two Numen and a Sunborn emerged, their presence commanding. A [Beastmaster]? The Bal can¡¯t have a companion yet. Did he smuggle a beast into Aslavain? Casselia¡¯s unease deepened. They should have intercepted the group before they entered the trial. I didn¡¯t expect them to get drawn here¡ªnot really.


    She hadn¡¯t anticipated they¡¯d rush into a trial so soon. What kind of fools enter an unknown shrine without securing a class or relevant skills? Relying solely on the boons of immortals was¡­ reckless. Yet, this was her chance to witness the trio¡¯s raw abilities before any external influences could shape their paths.


    She hoped they could survive the trial and reach Dornogor within the next month and a half. At least if they escaped the trial in time, her plan could still work.


    ¡°I can¡¯t get audio yet; creating a sympathetic connection is tricky, and the ward scheme still insists it¡¯s right.¡± Krinka plopped into one of Alsarana¡¯s conjured seats, his brow furrowed. ¡°But look, they¡¯re bantering. Why do the youth never grasp the danger of idle chatter?¡±


    Casselia¡¯s eyes were fixed on the shifting image on the wall. She expected the same unwavering focus from Krinka and Alsarana, who knew better than to test her patience. The Sulphen¡¯s awards depended on the precise quality and quantity of feedback they gathered. Casselia was confident that few could match the caliber of insight her group provided, and it was wasteful not to pay attention.


    Though Casselia couldn¡¯t confirm it, she believed trials of approval thrived because Eidolons were required to provide meaningful feedback to the contenders. Becoming an Eidolon meant one was strong and insightful enough to guide the empire¡¯s newest citizens, and, she knew, too weak to actually advance any further.


    Casselia¡¯s musings ended as Sylva detected the naga¡¯s spellcraft, igniting the fight. The trio clustered near the pedestal, mere strides into the expansive chamber, with the Eidolons across the room. The [Beastmaster] raised his hand, and two beasts¡ªa Crystal-Quill and a Thunderback¡ªrushed Lotem in a flurry of motion.


    Casselia frowned. The Crystal-Quill, a porcupine variant from the hills west of Valourwash River, charged forward. Known for disrupting infantry formations with explosive spines, it was a formidable sight. Beside it, the Thunderback¡ªa lightning-infused capybara¡ªaimed to disable enemies with powerful electrical shocks. An unusual choice for the trial, these rodents lacked the defensive prowess expected against a triumvirate with a spellcaster, though that was irrelevant for now.


    Her gaze shifted to the [Squire] as he drew and released his first arrow at the spellcasting naga. His form was nearly perfect, showcasing the potential Rovan had seen in him. As the first arrow flew, a second materialized in his hand, swiftly following. An armory skill? And he wielded it well. The bone arrows streaked through the air, only to be caught by the Eidolon¡¯s club, shattering into ivory shards.


    An armory of bone skill suited Rovan¡¯s profile. Such a skill implied proficiency with multiple weapons, not just the bow. Casselia hoped he¡¯d showcase his versatility before the Eidolons ended the fight. The Eidolon deflected his third and fourth arrows with disdain. How long before he shifts tactics? Casselia wondered.


    ¡°Is the girl countering the Sunborn¡¯s spell?¡± Krinka muttered, eyes narrowing at the battlefield. ¡°The naga¡¯s spell array keeps shifting, and she¡¯s responding with hasty adjustments to her incantation. The girl¡¯s form is sloppy, though¡ªdoubtful it will do much to interfere unless she chooses her counter well¡­ Maybe I should try to get audio.¡±


    Krinka¡¯s words faded as the Crystal Quill erupted, launching a barrage of sharp quills that pierced Lotem¡¯s side. He crumpled to his knees, blood staining the ground. The Thunderback followed with a thunderous headbutt, its electrical shock powerful enough to stop anyone but one of the Numen, she knew. Lotem flew backward with a crash before sinking into the ground.


    ¡°There goes the giant,¡± Alsarana remarked with a gleeful smirk. ¡°Slain by rodents! It¡¯s not a first, but it¡¯s certainly novel.¡±


    Casselia¡¯s eyes darted back to the [Squire] as he shifted his aim to the Thunderback¡ªa mistake. The pressure on the Sunborn waned. The Numen warrior surged forward, covering the distance in heartbeats. Two arrows pierced the Thunderback before Hadrian realized his error and spun to face the oncoming Numen, now hurtling toward Sylva.


    Sylva backpedaled, eyes locked on the Sunborn, her hands weaving desperately to counter the naga¡¯s spellwork. Too slow, Casselia noted. The Numen¡¯s club swung wide, a dozen feet from Sylva, before he released the weapon at the arc¡¯s peak. The spinning club slammed into Sylva¡¯s chest, the club nearly as large as she was, sending her crashing into the wall. She vanished into the floor with a thunderous impact.


    ¡°A mage, felled by a club? Amateur work,¡± Alsarana taunted, clearly relishing the spectacle.


    Hadrian dropped his bow and lunged at the disarmed Numen. Just as his attack seemed to fall short, a spear materialized in his hand, stabbing the warrior¡¯s shoulder and drawing blood. The Sunborn completed her invocation, and Hadrian¡¯s moccasins burst into yellow flames, clinging to his feet with fierce intensity. Casselia knew better than most how painful the Radiant Flame could be.


    ¡°And that¡¯s why fog robes are prized throughout the empire,¡± Krinka remarked. ¡°He¡¯d be a pillar of flames in any other garb. But even with the robe¡¯s resistance, he¡¯s in a tight spot now.¡±


    The Numen warrior raised his fist, summoning his club back with a swift, practiced motion. It reversed course from where it lay after felling Sylva, returning to the giant as though on a string. He caught the club, and in an instant, it descended. Hadrian crumpled, his body sinking limply into the floor. A tense silence followed before Casselia turned to Alsarana, her gaze sharp and serious.


    ¡°Analysis?¡± Casselia asked, her mind racing.


    ¡°The [Squire] shows real potential, wielding his armory skill with the finesse of a seasoned veteran. However, he lacks the power to penetrate true defenses. Against peers, he¡¯d be a formidable opponent, but seasoned combat specialists like these Eidolons? He¡¯s lucky to have landed a hit. The Numen let his guard down.¡±


    ¡°And the others?¡± Casselia prompted, her eyes narrowing in thought.


    ¡°The Bal likely has a skill that agitated the beasts. Otherwise, the [Beastmaster] wouldn¡¯t have targeted him with both. Had he split their focus, the fight would¡¯ve ended even quicker. Despite this, the boy¡¯s response was negligible. He might lack a weapon, but more likely, he has no combat training whatsoever.¡±


    ¡°I concur,¡± Casselia agreed, noting Alsarana¡¯s keen observation. ¡°The [Beastmaster] suggests the Bal is on that path, even if he hasn¡¯t fully acquired the class. Oddly, no sign of his companion beast. Krinka, what¡¯s your take on the spellcraft?¡±


    ¡°The girl appeared to be manually unraveling the invocation. Unless she possesses a skill that allows her to directly interpret her opponent¡¯s spellcraft¡ªunlikely at their level¡ªshe was trying to comprehend and disrupt the naga¡¯s invocation on the fly.¡± Krinka looked perturbed. ¡°Unless the sects are teaching spellcraft pre-trial, which is doubtful, she was operating blindly.¡±


    That wasn¡¯t something Casselia had considered. She leaned forward, eyes narrowing. ¡°Explain.¡±


    ¡°The naga used the Sabaharian spellcasting framework to link the trio¡¯s gear to the Radiant Flame, igniting it like Hadrian¡¯s moccasins. Sylva countered with her own understanding of the world, likely an Imperial Poem of some sort, disrupting the spell for a few crucial heartbeats. Only a few heartbeats, but still.¡±


    ¡°What skills could enable that?¡± Casselia¡¯s mind was racing through the possibilities. The girl had to have the assistance of the Sulphen in some form. Otherwise¡­ Nyxol had created a monster in one of those sects she claims not to own.


    ¡°Most likely? An intuition skill. She might have an active skill like [Counter Meaning] or [Unravel Spellcraft], but I doubt it. An active skill would¡¯ve ended the invocation, not just delayed it.¡± Krinka anticipated her objection. ¡°Not that [Delay Invocation] isn¡¯t possible, but she was too focused for a simple active skill.¡±


    ¡°Interesting. We will have to keep an eye on her. If anything,¡± she focused on Krinka, ¡°this means it is even more important for you to form a connection with the trio. We need them to accept our offer of mentorship as soon as we can. We should be providing the feedback directly, not secondhand like this.¡± Especially not if one of them is using the Radiant Flame, and against a Silkborn no less. She knew the girl must be terrified of the stuff¡ªall Silkborn were. ¡°How long until you can usurp the wards?¡±


    ¡°Getting visual feedback like this is easy,¡± Alsarana snorted at the casual mastery in that statement, earning a warning look from Casselia. ¡°But forming a link through the shrine?¡± Krinka shook his head. ¡°That¡¯s a tall order.¡±


    Casselia knew only a few dozen individuals in the empire could accomplish what she was asking, and she wasn¡¯t sure Krinka was one of them. He¡¯d need to access the trial¡¯s inner ward scheme without alerting the Eidolons. An [Archmage] could handle it, but Krinka wasn¡¯t a [Mage]; he was a [Historian], relying on a different skill set. He had had to steal one of Als skills earlier to even etch the incantation onto the bone.


    ¡°Can you do it?¡± Casselia¡¯s tone held a hint of challenge, knowing the scholar wouldn¡¯t back down.


    ¡°I¡¯ll try my best, Cass. But if there are no historically similar ward sets broken this way, my hands are tied. None come to mind. I¡¯ll need to review wardbreaking histories, and that takes time. My best estimate is a month unless something changes. If we could get a talisman inside, I could do it sooner, but I doubt we want to call attention to ourselves by recruiting in the city.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯ll have to do,¡± she said, turning to Alsarana. ¡°Gather as much bone as possible while we¡¯re here. Krinka, can you alert us whenever the trio makes another attempt? This will be an interesting month.¡±

 Chapter Seven: The Eidolons

    From Grasping Coil, in fifth age¡¯s tender light,


    The Sunborn voyaged, armed with spells of might.


    To Sabkhata, they crossed the sands afar,


    Their pyromancy soared, a blazing star.


    In golden halls, Eternal City gleamed,


    Where Radiant Flame, in endless splendor, beamed.


    Their fiery arts, a dance of heat and fire,


    Wove through the empire, lifting spirits higher.


    With spells unique, their flames did twist and twine,


    A legacy beneath the sky¡¯s design.


    Golden-scaled, they joined the empire¡¯s kin,


    With Malan, Dion, their tales begin.


    In unity, their powers blend as one,


    The Sunborn¡¯s light, a beacon never done.


    Their Radiant Flame, a guide through darkest night,


    Eternal keepers of the empire¡¯s light.


    ¨C The Story of the Radiant Flame, script from a performance by the Golden Troupe in the 22nd year of the Reign of Everflowing Silver.


    Aslavain: One Day after the Summer Solstice


    Sylva spluttered, icy water erupting from her lungs as she sat bolt upright in the pool, a panic gripping her as she struggled to draw air into her silken lungs. She remembered the club spinning through the air before everything went black from the pain. How long did we manage to survive those three? Ten seconds? Fifteen? The elders would be beside themselves if they had seen such a poor showing.


    Sylva clenched her fists at her sides as she forced another rasping breath, coughing up the last of the water with a wet splash. She had tried to decipher the naga¡¯s movements, had even desperately attempted to counter them, but she knew her efforts had likely been in vain. The others hadn¡¯t stood a chance against one of the Eidolons, let alone all three.


    The naga had moved her hands in a precise pattern that Sylva recognized as the Sabaharian variant of the imperial script. Her fingers danced in the air, carving invisible symbols as if etching a tablet with a stylus in each of her eight primary fingers. It was one of Sylva¡¯s favorite variations of the script, though it mattered little in the end. She couldn¡¯t decipher much of the naga¡¯s motions, but one thing was clear: her incantation dealt with flame.


    Fire. A pyromancer. The thought sent a shudder through Sylva. Of all the elemental disciplines, fire was the most terrifying. A Silkborn could lose a limb to a blade, endure a crushed leg, even survive a great fall with far less risk than a human. She was repairable, eminently fixable, as long as her Lifethread remained intact. But fire¡­ fire didn¡¯t stop at her skin. If it reached her core¡­ Sylva resolved then and there to do everything in her power to avoid that fate.


    She had tried to disrupt the naga, mimicking the imperial hand script in a desperate attempt to interfere. On a whim, she had recited the Ode to Deep Waters, a favorite Imperial Poem penned by an adventurer who dared to explore the ocean¡¯s floor. It hadn¡¯t helped. In the end, she had been worse than useless. Lotem had at least managed to distract two of the beasts. Only Hadrian seemed to stand any chance against the Numen, but even the [Squire of Carven Bone] had failed to hold back the giant¡¯s club. There was only one thing left to do.


    Sylva rose from the shallow pool, water streaming from her as she strode out.


    ¡°Hadrian, Lotem, are you both awake?¡± she called out, her voice firm and clear, carrying the authority of someone accustomed to giving orders. She waited for their muttered affirmations before continuing, ¡°When you¡¯re ready to discuss our performance and try again, I¡¯ll be in the central chamber.¡±


    After a brief wait, the two men entered the central hall to find Sylva seated cross-legged, striving for a serene pose as the red and orange light danced in the hallway. Hadrian¡¯s robe shed the water effortlessly, the only sign of his recent dunking his damp hair. Lotem, in contrast, was a soggy mess. His cloak dripped continuously onto the floor, and his thick curly hair had soaked up as much water as it could hold. He looked downcast as he settled next to her, a pool of water forming around him. Sylva hoped she looked more like Hadrian than Lotem.


    ¡°Do you want to take your cloak off to dry?¡± Hadrian asked hesitantly.


    ¡°It¡¯s not my first time being wet,¡± Lotem replied, his tone casual. ¡°Besides, now Sabel can get used to the feeling.¡±


    Sylva focused on Lotem and noticed the sopping wet kitten cradled in his hand, looking even more miserable than the big man. ¡°She jumped into the pool when she saw me and gave us both a fright,¡± he explained, giving the kitten a stern look. ¡°We should both dry out soon enough.¡±


    Hadrian shifted his position, edging away from the creeping tide of water spreading around the Bal. ¡°Should I be the first to say it?¡±


    ¡°First to say what?¡± Sylva asked, her curiosity piqued.


    ¡°That was so cool!¡± Hadrian exclaimed. ¡°It was like a real-life fight¡ªreal weapons, magic, monsters. We died, but not really. How great is that?¡±


    Sylva blinked, surprised by the optimism following their poor performance in the trial. Frustration edged her tone as she felt the need to state the obvious. ¡°We only survived for a handful of seconds and couldn¡¯t effectively challenge any of our opponents. We failed, and quite poorly at that.¡±


    ¡°Naw, that wasn¡¯t a failure,¡± Hadrian said firmly, crossing his arms. ¡°This trial is designed for us to die, time and again. It¡¯s meant to test our limits and force us to adapt. Now we know more than we did last time.¡±


    He isn¡¯t wrong, but¡­ failure isn¡¯t acceptable. We have expectations to live up to. How would the elders see this? She pondered that for only a moment, her chest tightening. The elders had a notoriously low tolerance for failure and would be ashamed of her inability to contribute. She was of the Sect of Silken Grace, and the honor of her ancestors was her duty. Memories of past ceremonies, where successes were celebrated and failures harshly reprimanded, flooded her mind.


    ¡°I should have done more to protect myself from the beasts,¡± Lotem said quietly, his eyes downcast. ¡°I wasn¡¯t much help against either, but I could feel a sense of enmity from both. I¡¯m pretty sure they¡¯re rodents.¡± He shrugged, noticing her quizzical look. ¡°Felt similar to the rats before.¡±


    ¡°Those were also rodents?¡± Hadrian asked, not waiting for a response before grinning. ¡°A living pinecone and a bloated squirrel¡ªyour natural enemies. We¡¯ll slay them soon enough.¡±


    Living pinecone? Bloated squirrel? Those are¡­ inventive descriptions, Sylva thought, suppressing an unexpected smile. She still wasn¡¯t sure what to make of the man and his seemingly endless optimism when violence was on the horizon.


    ¡°You were both already dead, but the naga finished her spell,¡± Hadrian said, his voice tinged with discomfort. ¡°It was¡­ unpleasant.¡±


    ¡°Unpleasant?¡± Sylva asked, curiosity sparking. Did I understand what the naga was up to correctly?


    ¡°My shoes turned into fire,¡± Hadrian explained, shuddering. ¡°Just my shoes, though I doubt that was her intention.¡± He ran his hands down his robe, and Sylva couldn¡¯t help but feel a twinge of jealousy. Of course, it was the robe that stopped the spell from overwhelming him. If only I could convince him that its protections would be better used elsewhere¡­ But he¡¯d never go for it. Still, what she wouldn¡¯t give for protection from a spell like that. She could feel the lingering heat in the air, a reminder of her vulnerability that brought an edge of fear before she could master herself.


    ¡°Nasty spell,¡± Lotem muttered, his voice still tinged with lingering fear. ¡°That rodent hit me with some kind of lightning attack. My body locked up just before my death¡ªnot that I could focus much with those quills in me.¡± He grimaced. ¡°I¡¯d really prefer that not to happen again.¡±


    ¡°So we just need to figure out how to stop the naga from turning our clothes into fire, beat the guy with the club, and avoid the pinecone and squirrel?¡± Hadrian said with a smirk. ¡°Easy enough.¡±


    Sylva was relieved to see that she wasn¡¯t the only one who thought Hadrian was a bit crazy. At least she wasn¡¯t alone in her doubts. Lotem spoke up first, his eyebrows raised in disbelief.


    ¡°Easy enough? Hadrian, we didn¡¯t even last half a minute in there¡­¡± Lotem¡¯s hands clenched into fists, his voice laced with frustration.


    ¡°Yeah. But we get to try again, right?¡± Hadrian¡¯s smile widened as he saw their reluctant nods, his eyes lighting up with determination. ¡°See? It¡¯s that easy. We just keep trying until we get it right. Of course we failed the first time¡ªwe had no clue what was about to happen. This time, we do.¡± He stood and stretched, a grin plastered across his face.


    ¡°Are you sure we shouldn¡¯t discuss our performance the first time?¡± Sylva asked, her voice tinged with hesitation as she tried to delay their inevitable return to the pyromancer. ¡°We could analyze our skills, maybe come up with innovative solutions. Or find a way to improve our odds before trying again some other way.¡± Her mind raced with possible strategies, desperate to find a safer approach.


    ¡°Do we have enough information for that to be worthwhile?¡± Hadrian asked, a thoughtful frown crossing his face. Sylva felt a flicker of relief, glad to see that he was taking her idea seriously.


    ¡°Do either of you have any ideas to counter their tactics after the first fight?¡± She waited, but the silence answered for them. I was really hoping one of them would have a solution. ¡°Then we should keep trying until we do. We need an idea of how we want to improve if we¡¯re going to actually get better.¡±


    ¡°More fighting then?¡± Hadrian asked, excited.


    ¡°More fighting, then,¡± Sylva agreed, forcing herself to sound resolute. It¡¯s just fire, and maybe it won¡¯t even get me this time. She tried to look determined as Hadrian stood.


    Lotem¡¯s shoulders sagged as he stood, the weight of their failure pressing heavily on him. ¡°Yeah, let¡¯s go,¡± he muttered, his voice barely audible. Sylva glanced at Hadrian, noting the determination still burning in his eyes, and took a deep breath. Together, they strode once more to the carved doors, each step a testament to their resolve. The room awaited them, a silent challenge demanding their best.


    ¡°Now, Hadrian, I want you to guard me for as long as you can,¡± Sylva said, her voice firm. ¡°Lotem, are you able to distract the beasts?¡±


    <hr style="font-weight: 400">


    As Sylva rested her palm on the pedestal once more, Hadrian took a deep breath and let his mind drift back to the training grounds in Cutra. He missed the feeling of wood beneath his feet, the gentle ridges formed by the rings of the tree rippling outwards from the heart of the folog stump, the lingering scent of sap in the air.


    He imagined the lanterns imbued with the flames of ambition hanging equidistant around the stump, their flickering light casting dancing shadows. A trickle of that old emotion stirred within him, sparked by the memory. He didn¡¯t have the real stuff to inspire him today¡ªwasn¡¯t sure he ever would again¡ªbut the memory was enough to settle his nerves.


    He was going to change the world with these people, and Rovan Khal had given him his blessing. Sylva was uptight and particular¡ªthat much was already clear¡ªand Lotem was quiet, unsure of his role in their group. But Hadrian saw potential in both of them, and for the first time, he felt a budding camaraderie he had never experienced before. These were his new friends, and now was his chance to impress them.


    ¡°Ready?¡± Sylva asked, her hand hovering over the crystal ball, poised to invoke the challengers once more.


    After receiving a pair of confirmations, she touched the crystal ball, and Hadrian summoned his bow. The familiar weight of the weapon settled into his hands as the doors swung closed behind them. He didn¡¯t know what he would do without the weapons granted by his skill, and once again, he sent a silent thought of thanks to Rovan Khal. The Titan has truly blessed me.


    As the three emerged from the sarcophagi, untouched by the prior fight, Sylva called out in a commanding voice, ¡°I demand introductions. If we¡¯re going to fight you repeatedly, we deserve to know who we¡¯re challenging.¡±


    Hadrian thought that was very sporting of Sylva. He hadn¡¯t even considered asking the enemies for anything¡ªdidn¡¯t seem like something enemies would offer. But then again, he was used to fighting Simians and the monsters of the Fog Lands, not exactly civilized foes. He felt a surge of gratitude toward Sylva for thinking ahead; he would have hated to come across as rude.


    The Eidolons exchanged a hesitant glance before the armored figure called out, ¡°I am Morvan of the Blue Fort, hero of the Night of Crimson Moons. Soldier in the service of the Imperial Rangers before my escalation.¡±


    Now that sounds like a story worth hearing, Hadrian thought. Where was the Blue Fort? What was the Night of Crimson Moons? He¡¯d have to ask the man after he beat him. Tales of valor and mystery like that always sparked his interest.


    ¡°I am Drakar, [Breaker of Bone], Champion of the Seventeenth Circuit in the Reign of Watchful Eyes,¡± the burly figure proclaimed, his voice echoing through the chamber. Champion of the Seventeenth Circuit? Hadrian wondered what kind of battles Drakar had fought to earn such a formidable title.


    Hadrian began to shake; he always did before a big fight. His Pa had called it the shivers.Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    Sylva glanced at him briefly, then quickly returned her gaze to the naga, as though fearing that any lapse in concentration might spell her downfall.


    ¡°I am Seraphis, [Priestess of the Radiant Flame], a member of the Oracles of Divine Light,¡± the regal figure declared, pausing as her eyes scanned the group for a response.


    ¡°I am Hadrian of Cutra, the [Squire of Carven Bone],¡± he declared firmly, standing tall, pride evident in his tone. ¡°Child of Cutra.¡±


    ¡°A [Squire] of the Dion lord?¡± Drakar¡¯s tone was harsh, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.


    ¡°Drakar, you¡¯ll have to share this one.¡± Seraphis¡¯s eyes narrowed as she looked at Hadrian, her posture tense, as though powers were ready to be unleashed. ¡°We accept no Dion here.¡± Her words were laced with disdain, hinting at a deeper conflict.


    ¡°Sylva of Clan Strenath, an initiate, well graduate now, of the Sect of Silken Grace,¡± Sylva quickly added, her voice steady as she aimed to steer the Eidolons¡¯ focus away from the brewing tension.


    Why do they have so many issues with the Dion? Hadrian wondered. Do they think I¡¯m Dion? Should I correct them?


    ¡°At least this one¡¯s from the Heartland,¡± Seraphis hissed, her eyes still locked entirely on Hadrian.


    ¡°I¡¯m not Dion, if it matters,¡± Hadrian said, not wanting any confusion. His parents had always taught him that honesty would prevail, and the idea of deceiving them didn¡¯t sit right with him, especially if they were angry about a misconception. ¡°I¡¯m from the Fog Lands.¡± He stood firm, meeting their gazes with unwavering resolve.


    All three sets of eyes focused on him with sudden curiosity. ¡°The [Squire of Carven Bone] isn¡¯t from the Dion? Has even the great Rovan realized the flaws of his people?¡± Drakar¡¯s mighty voice boomed, making Hadrian flinch. ¡°Maybe there¡¯s something to be said for the lad. Still, Rovan is no friend of ours.¡±


    ¡°And you, boy?¡± Morvan¡¯s eyes shifted to Lotem, his gaze piercing and intense.


    ¡°I am Lotem Jarval, son of the Zherenkhan.¡±


    ¡°A halfbreed?¡± Morvan sneered, his interest fading as his lip curled in disdain. ¡°What a disappointment. I thought you might be of the true blood, not one of the Bal bloodline thieves.¡±


    Lotem bristled at Hadrian¡¯s side, his jaw clenching in anger. Sylva quickly stepped forward, reclaiming the attention of the Eidolons as their least controversial member. ¡°This is a test of approval. Do you have terms or goals we need to achieve to satisfy you? From what I understand, you decide what our goals must be.¡±


    ¡°You must slay us,¡± Seraphis said, her voice calm and unwavering. ¡°If you were true to the cause of Tir Na Nog, we might let you pass with a sufficient showing, but you are not. You carry none of the rage, the hatred we demand. You were pulled to us, yes, but none of you carry the spark of rage Tir Na Nog demands¡ªnot openly, at least.¡± Her words hung in the air, both a challenge and a judgment.


    ¡°You are weak, and Tir Na Nog is not for the weak.¡± Drakar¡¯s words were final, a harsh judgment that left no room for argument. Morvan whistled sharply, and his two beasts appeared once more, muscles rippling under their fur as they tensed, ready to charge.


    ¡°Wait!¡± Sylva called out, rushing to get the question out before the fight began. Her voice was filled with urgency, almost desperation. ¡°We don¡¯t understand the cause of Tir Na Nog. We didn¡¯t choose this. What is your cause?¡±


    ¡°Our cause? Revenge, lass,¡± Drakar replied, his voice heavy. ¡°Revenge for wrongs endured. Revenge for wrongs never righted. Revenge for slights that never die.¡± His words carried the weight of centuries of pain and anger, a cause that drove them forward with unyielding resolve.


    ¡°Revenge for family slain?¡± Lotem asked quietly, his voice tinged with pain. ¡°Revenge for memories lost?¡±


    ¡°Aye. Revenge for that too lad.¡±


    Hadrian looked to Lotem, expecting to see sadness in the man who seemed more gentle than fierce. But he found none. Lotem stood straight, his gaze locked onto Drakar¡¯s across the chamber. ¡°You¡¯re here to teach us how to be strong enough to extract that revenge?¡±


    ¡°If you are worthy,¡± Seraphis replied, her gaze serious as she watched Lotem closely. ¡°You seek revenge against the Tul?¡±


    ¡°Aye.¡± Lotem met their gazes with an intensity Hadrian had only seen when the man was hurling rats. In that moment, Hadrian recognized the fire in Lotem¡¯s eyes¡ªa rare glimpse of the fierce warrior hidden beneath his gentle exterior. He felt a surge of pride for his newest friend. Everyone needed a fight to call their own.


    ¡°And what say your companions?¡± Morvan asked, his gaze shifting to Hadrian. Hadrian barely needed to consider the question. Why would Lotem help him achieve his own goals if he didn¡¯t stand by Lotem in return? Friendship meant standing by each other¡¯s side, no matter the cost¡ªat least, that¡¯s what his Ma had always said.


    ¡°Lotem is my friend. His revenge is my revenge. The Tul are monsters, anyway¡ªthey deserve to fall.¡± Hadrian knew that creating a shrine would require expertise and raw power. Why shouldn¡¯t they get strong on the blood of monsters? Especially if those monsters had slain the family of his friend.


    ¡°And you?¡± Morvan asked Sylva, seemingly satisfied with Hadrian¡¯s response.


    ¡°A day ago, I would have said the Tul aren¡¯t my fight to pick,¡± she began, glancing at Lotem before continuing. ¡°But that was before one of my sworn companions spoke of his revenge. Hadrian has the right of it. What use are heroes if they fail to slay the monsters at the gate?¡± Heroes. I like the sound of that, Hadrian thought.


    ¡°Rage requires more than mere words to satisfy, and Tir Na Nog ensures that the rage is as pure as holy flame. Still, your words have been heard; now you must prove why we should take you seriously.¡±


    Drakar smiled for just a moment before he hurtled across the room, his club outstretched.


    <hr style="font-weight: 400">


    Lotem was having a very bad day. His leg throbbed where the rats had bitten him, and his heart still pounded from being chased by a snake with scales as dark as midnight. Now, he was trapped in a death trial, forced to face three experts in a fight to the death. He had already been impaled and electrocuted today, and it looked like it was about to happen all over again. The memory of searing pain and the smell of burning flesh clung to him, a constant reminder of the agony that awaited.


    Drakar lunged forward, his club swinging with such force that it seemed he expected to reach all three of them in a single burst of speed. Lotem wasn¡¯t sure he wouldn¡¯t. He dove sideways, throwing himself in the opposite direction, just in case Drakar decided to hurl his club in Lotem¡¯s direction.


    His heart pounded as he moved, his eyes locked on Morvan. A surge of panic washed over him as he saw Morvan speak quietly to the beasts, who lunged forward with their gazes fixed on Lotem. The sound of their claws scraping against the floor sent a shiver down his spine.


    Why did Hadrian get a powerful armory skill, and I got something that makes everything we fight want to kill me? Lotem braced himself as the beasts closed in, the crystalline quills of the porcupine catching the golden torchlight as they moved. He swung his fist in a wide arc, hoping to catch one of the beasts with a lucky hit. His heart raced as the rat creature leapt and slid under his hastily thrown punch. Lotem threw himself backward, desperate to dodge the creature as he felt the hairs on his body stand on end, drawn toward the beast. How do I stop a creature that can electrocute me at a touch?


    Lotem kicked forward, feeling a brief surge of success as his bare foot connected with the beast, sending all the force he could muster into the strike. The creature flew backward, slamming into the back wall with a sickening thud. But before Lotem could savor the moment, a jolt of electricity thundered through him, locking his muscles for a crucial instant. The acrid smell of singed flesh filled the air, searing into his senses.


    Lotem braced himself for the quills to strike again, expecting the bright trails of pain to follow. But the quills never came. Instead, Morvan barked a command in a language Lotem couldn¡¯t understand, and the beast spun toward Hadrian and Sylva, unleashing a wave of quills in their direction. The sound of the quills whistling through the air filled Lotem with dread. His heart sank as he realized the imminent danger they were in.


    Sylva took the brunt of the attack, three quills sinking deep into her chest, causing her to collapse with a gasping scream. Pain shot through her as she struggled to breathe. Hadrian had a quill lodged in his shoulder and another in his thigh. He tried to draw his bow, desperate to launch another arrow and keep Drakar on the defensive. But Lotem¡¯s heart sank as he saw Hadrian¡¯s arm refuse to draw the bowstring. Hadrian swore and dropped the bow; it vanished before even hitting the floor, and he gripped a sword in his uninjured hand, his face twisted in pain and frustration.


    Drakar¡¯s club flew across the room and collided with Hadrian with a sickening thud that told Lotem something vital within Hadrian had just broken. Hadrian sank through the floor, defeated, and Lotem knew they had lost even before Seraphis finished her incantation.


    The golden flame consumed him in a pyre, its searing heat briefly overwhelming his senses. The agony faded quickly as he slumped to the floor and sank through it once more, the cold stone beneath him a stark contrast to the fiery pain.


    <hr style="font-weight: 400">


    ¡°They used a different skill this time. The Beastmaster issued a command that seemed to change the tide. That wasn¡¯t a complete failure,¡± Krinka said, leaning back thoughtfully after observing the triumvirate¡¯s failed second attempt to pass the trial.


    ¡°Not a complete failure, no. I¡¯d say about 85% failure,¡± Alsarana replied, his tone dripping with sarcasm. ¡°They spoke to the Eidolons and probably gleaned something useful from the conversation. We¡¯d know for sure if someone¡ª¡± Alsarana flicked his eyes pointedly toward Krinka, knowing it would irritate the scholar, ¡°had our audio access working.¡±


    ¡°Als, you know as well as I do that Krinka getting visual access is an accomplishment in itself,¡± Casselia said, her words causing Krinka to brighten. ¡°Though¡­ it would be nice to listen in soon.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m working on it!¡± Krinka said with exasperation, throwing his hands up in frustration. ¡°But you told me to prioritize establishing a connection we could speak through. Unless I can somehow rig an Eisentarian array to bypass the Sabaharian wards, I¡¯ll have to choose between audio or the ability to send vocal messages.¡±


    ¡°Then just finagle the Eisentarian array,¡± Alsarana said, his tail flicking gently, the only sign of his amusement as he riled up his oldest friend. ¡°It can¡¯t be that hard, can it? If the insects can figure it out, surely the greatest [Archivist] in the empire can.¡± He smirked, clearly enjoying the banter.


    ¡°I. Am. Not. A. [Mage],¡± Krinka said slowly, enunciating each word as if worried Alsarana might miss something important. ¡°I am not a [Wizard]. I am not a [Sorcerer]. I am not a [Thaumaturge]. I can¡¯t just wave my hand and solve problems with magic.¡± He glared at Alsarana, his irritation evident.


    ¡°Have you considered just becoming one of those?¡± Alsarana asked with a smirk. ¡°I think [Warlock] could be sufficient for you.¡±


    ¡°That¡­ that¡¯s not how any of this works!¡± Krinka exclaimed, his face reddening with frustration. ¡°And you know that!¡±


    Alsarana caught a warning glance from Casselia before she coughed and held up a hand, cutting off the conversation. ¡°Krinka, don¡¯t let Als get under your skin. You should have centuries of practice ignoring the big snake by now.¡± She gave Alsarana another pointed look. ¡°Als, don¡¯t pretend you don¡¯t know how this works. You¡¯re one of the best [Necromancers] on the continent and could likely break through the trials¡¯ wards on your own if we were willing to risk a full ritual array.¡±


    ¡°Can I?¡± he perked up, the hood on either side of his face stiffening, creating the impression of a cobra suddenly interested in the prey in front of it. His eyes gleamed with excitement at the prospect. Casselia never let him do ritual array¡¯s anymore.


    ¡°Do you actually have enough bones for an array?¡± Casselia asked, her curiosity piqued.


    ¡°I do have a lot of goblin bones. Like, a lot of goblin bones. So many goblin bones.¡± Alsarana¡¯s voice carried a hint of pride, though he knew their quality left much to be desired.


    ¡°So, no?¡± Casselia asked, one eyebrow arching in skepticism.


    ¡°As much as I adore my gobbo bones, no.¡± Alsarana dramatically curled deeper into his coils. ¡°They¡¯re tragically not great for rituals. The flesh didn¡¯t live long enough to empower the bones, and they crack under the slightest pressure. But still, they make a lovely collection,¡± he added with a wistful sigh.


    ¡°Can we¡ª¡± Krinka started, but Alsarana cut him off.


    ¡°No, Krinka,¡± Alsarana said with a hint of exasperation, ¡°I can¡¯t use the trees, bone-made as they are. They belong to Tir Na Nog and would refuse to break the wards here. That¡¯s basic sympathy; you should know this.¡±


    ¡°I wasn¡¯t going to ask that,¡± Krinka retorted, glaring at him. ¡°I was going to ask if we can get back to the matter at hand.¡± He muttered under his breath, ¡°Of course I know how sympathy works.¡±


    ¡°So, about the fight. Als, since you clearly have a lot of thoughts today, why don¡¯t you share your analysis?¡±


    ¡°Bonus points to the group for trying again so soon after their last walloping. I didn¡¯t expect another bout for at least a day. But they lose all those points for still being bad at fighting.¡±


    ¡°Specificity, please, Als, you know the drill.¡±


    ¡°As you command, oh great Crownless,¡± Alsarana uncoiled, rising to tower over the two of them. He knew it wouldn¡¯t intimidate them like it would others, but he had an image to keep. ¡°The weak link is the Bal. His main value in the first fight was distracting the Crystal-Quill and Thunderback. The [Beastmaster] neutralized that with a single skill, ending the fight.¡±


    ¡°And the others?¡± Casselia prompted, her tone expectant.


    ¡°The fighter is competent. His archery kept a steady threat on the naga and forced the Numen warrior to defend her. Not that he has any real chance of winning like this, but he can distract his counterpart for a few seconds,¡± Alsarana said, tilting his head as though coming to a realization. ¡°Kind of like the Bal in that way, now that I think about it. The Silkborn is harder for me to judge. I don¡¯t follow hand motions very well anymore.¡± He cast a pointed glance at the wounds where his arms had once been, smirking as Krinka looked away. It wasn¡¯t his fault, but he still held the guilt all these years later.


    ¡°Krinka?¡± Casselia prompted, her gaze shifting to him.


    ¡°I¡¯m fairly certain she was attempting to recite the Ode to Deep Waters. It¡¯s actually a solid choice for dampening the Radiant Flame. Her motions were shaky but clearer than before, and the naga¡¯s incantation faltered until Sylva was taken out of the fight,¡± Krinka said thoughtfully.


    ¡°You think Sylva was attempting Imperial Poetry against the naga?¡± Casselia asked, her brow furrowing. ¡°It could work, the Poems use the grammatical structure of relevant incantations, but the inefficiency at her level would be staggering¡ªunless the poem itself could negate the bleed.¡±


    ¡°The Ode to Deep Waters has a strong affinity for the darkness and pressure of the deep sea. It¡¯s actually a brilliant counter to the Radiant Flame¡ªwhere even the sun¡¯s light is said to die in the depths. My best guess is she has an intuition skill guiding her, along with two decades of training in the foundations of transmogrification, even if she doesn¡¯t realize it yet,¡± Krinka explained.


    ¡°Do you think she¡¯ll succeed at countering the Sunborn magic anytime soon?¡± Casselia asked as Alsarana mulled over the new information. A transmogrifier¡ªnow that would be an intriguing trainee. We haven¡¯t worked with a specialist in sympathy since the Marquis of Bone incident. I can¡¯t wait to teach her about bone sympathy. His scales almost itched with excitement at the thought.


    ¡°Succeed? No, no, no. She might be able to contain an aggressive ritual like the Radiant Flame, but actual success? She has no chance of doing more than delaying the inevitable,¡± Krinka said, shaking his head decisively.


    ¡°So, we¡¯re concluding that the trio can survive for about ten to thirty seconds, with not much better odds than that?¡± Casselia¡¯s expression shifted to the look Alsarana recognized as her prelude to requesting the impossible. Her eyes focused on the distance, pieces clicking into place as she reached her conclusion. He hoped it involved Krinka.


    ¡°Krinka, we need access to the candidates. We¡¯ll brainstorm solutions and see if we can find something workable. We just need enough time to swear the first of our oaths; after that, we¡¯ll be in.¡± She turned to Alsarana, and he braced himself for her judgment on his free time. ¡°Als, we need someone to watch the candidates. You¡¯ll monitor the sympathetic link full-time. Someone has to keep an eye on them while we¡¯re busy.¡±


    ¡°Can I occasionally roam the bone forest?¡± he asked, quickly adding, ¡°I found the most beautiful skull earlier, and I¡¯d hate to leave the bones all on their lonesome. It¡¯s for the good of the bones, Cass.¡±


    ¡°Sorry, Als, the bones can wait. I don¡¯t want you to miss a single fight; it could make a difference for the trio. You know that. We¡¯ll need you to make wards in the forest eventually, but not until the children start to slow down.¡±


    ¡°I have to stay here starting now?¡±


    ¡°Starting now.¡±


    Alsarana, the [Harbinger of Extinction], curled up on the bone sofa he¡¯d constructed, looking forlorn as his closest friends delved into the intricacies of ward theory. I never get to have fun anymore.

 Chapter Eight: The Rage

    In rolling rocky hills they dwell, the Tul with eyes of flame,


    Amidst the stones and jagged cliffs, their dark desires inflame.


    They feast on memories¡¯ tender threads, each thought they do reclaim,


    And twisted beasts roam by their side, sharing in their shame.


    These beasts of warped and wicked form, with Tul they haunt the night,


    Their hunger keen for human minds, they stalk with ghastly might.


    A shepherd¡¯s tale, a child¡¯s first word, devoured out of sight,


    In those bleak hills, where echoes fade, consumed by primal blight.


    Beware the stony crags at dusk, where Tul and beasts abide,


    They gorge on memories rich and sweet, in shadows they reside.


    For when the stars are dim and cold, and darkness spreads its tide,


    The Tul and their corrupted kin will feast on what you hold inside.


    ¨C Ransalcar the [Bard of Broken Truths]


    Aslavain: One Day after the Summer Solstice


    Lotem burst from the pool with a heaving gasp, his lungs aflame as he expelled the icy liquid in harsh, desperate coughs. The Eidolons had killed them with terrifying ease once again. The searing memory of the golden flame scorched his mind, an agony unlike any he had ever known. A muffled sob escaped him, the pain and fear twisting inside, a knot of despair. As he dragged himself from the pool, he became aware of Sabel¡¯s distressed howls, the kitten drenched and shivering with indignation.


    With a start, he realized that Sabel had jumped down from the raised platform of the bed, caught by a wave of water when he had abruptly sat up. At least this time she hadn¡¯t plunged directly into the pool. He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly, trying to expel the lingering memory of that golden fire. Moving with deliberate care, he lifted Sabel back onto the bed, his hands trembling as he gently stroked her damp fur. For several minutes, he focused solely on her, offering pieces of jerky from his cloak, grounding himself in the familiar comfort of her presence.


    He heard Sylva¡¯s voice calling for him outside his room, no doubt deep in discussion with Hadrian about the last fight. But he didn¡¯t care. He needed a moment to himself, a moment to soothe his little companion back into slumber. A thought gnawed at him: should he have left her behind, safe in his parents¡¯ care? Would she be better off without me? The worry coiled tight in his chest, squeezing his heart with doubt.


    Once Sabel had finally settled back into sleep, Lotem stood slowly, whispering the command to open the door as he slipped away. The soft hiss of the door closing behind him seemed to echo his lingering doubts. In the center chamber, he found Sylva and Hadrian seated on the unadorned floor, deep in a robust discussion, their voices a low hum in the otherwise silent space.


    ¡°Lotem,¡± Hadrian called out, worry etched clearly in his voice, ¡°are you all right? You were the last one standing in that last bout, and we got worried when you didn¡¯t come out right away.¡±


    ¡°Just needed a few moments to settle Sabel back down. She got splashed when I woke up,¡± Lotem replied, his voice carrying only half the truth. Yes, he had needed to calm Sabel, but more than that, he needed time to wrestle with the doubts gnawing at him. They had been in Aslavain for less than a day, and already the weight of their situation was pressing down on him like a boulder.


    His parents had always warned him that he wasn¡¯t suited for Aslavain, that no gift from the empire came without strings, without a price to pay. But he had never imagined that the cost would be dying in agony, only to be reborn to face it again and again. How cruel the empire¡¯s generosity could be, a gift wrapped in suffering.


    If he understood Sylva correctly, they wouldn¡¯t be able to leave these chambers until they had earned the approval of the very same people who kept killing them. How did that make sense? How was that fair?


    The torchlight around them was a red-orange hue that cast the room in a light that reminded him of the blood moons that always came after the wildfires in the hills. The flames flickered ominously, casting unsettling shadows that seemed to dance with cruel intent. Between the oppressive light and the sloping walls that pushed him toward the center of the room, Lotem was beginning to hate this place.


    ¡°Glad to hear Sabel is doing all right, the little cutie,¡± Sylva said with a lightness that Lotem knew was forced. She had been impaled by those quills, and he could only imagine the pain she had endured. A faint anger stirred within him at the memory. ¡°We were just strategizing for the next attempt. Hadrian thinks if we can keep the pinecone¡ª¡± she glanced at the Kiel man with a soft, strained smile ¡°¡ªoccupied, we might stand a better chance.¡±


    ¡°Makes sense,¡± Lotem replied, though uncertainty tinged his words. ¡°It seems to favor attacking me, but Morvan was able to command it somehow.¡±


    ¡°We were just talking about that,¡± Hadrian said with a frustrated sigh. ¡°I wish Morvan wasn¡¯t wearing that blasted armor, though at least he stayed back and just watched last time. I¡¯m not sure my bow will be able to get through it if he does attack.¡± He scratched the back of his head, a rueful expression crossing his face. ¡°I¡¯ve never really fought anything armored before. The closest I¡¯ve come was during the occasional raid by the mantis factions of the Brood back in Cutra, but the village never let me join the defense. They always said it was ¡®citizens¡¯ work,¡¯ not for someone like me.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll circle back to that later, Hadrian. The fact that your village had to skirmish with the Brood is¡­ concerning. But now isn¡¯t the time.¡± Sylva turned her attention to Lotem, her tone steady and authoritative. ¡°Lotem, we were just finishing up our review of the fight. Do you need us to go over everything, or are you good to continue from here?¡±


    ¡°I think you can continue from here.¡± He forced the words out, even as questions clawed at the back of his mind. How are you not more upset about this? How are you not struggling right now? He almost asked, almost let the doubts spill out, but he smothered them down. Maybe I wasn¡¯t ready for this, but I can¡¯t back down now. What good would giving up do? We¡¯re trapped, and there¡¯s no way out but through.


    ¡°We were just discussing Hadrian¡¯s idea to engage Drakar up close. He thinks part of the problem is that Drakar isn¡¯t being pressured enough by his arrows, and once their beasts engage, we lose any chance of victory.¡±


    How is she so calm right now? How are they not furious? Why am I the only one struggling here?


    ¡°I¡¯ve been trying to counter Seraphis¡¯ incantation, though honestly, I¡¯m not entirely sure what I¡¯m doing. I think it¡¯s working¡ªthe fact that her spell only fully takes hold after my concentration breaks seems to be proof of that. At least, I hope it is.¡±


    ¡°It was effective until you vanished,¡± Lotem said, unable to keep the anger from his voice. ¡°That naga¡¯s fire¡­ it was pure agony.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, it burned my feet pretty badly too.¡± Hadrian¡¯s expression darkened momentarily, as though the memory of the fire clung to him like a shadow. But then he forced a smile, as if to push the darkness away. ¡°But it doesn¡¯t hurt anymore. Isn¡¯t that amazing?¡±


    ¡°Being burned alive?¡± Lotem asked, incredulous.


    ¡°Well, no. Not that part,¡± Hadrian admitted with a wince. ¡°But the idea that we can experience that kind of pain¡ªagony, even¡ªjust for a moment, and then be brought back, renewed. This place is teaching us how not to die. We just need to get good enough to learn the lesson.¡±


    ¡°And what a lesson it is,¡± Sylva added, her tone thoughtful. Then she turned her gaze to Lotem. ¡°How¡¯s your leg holding up, Lotem? I meant to ask after the first fight, but things got a little hectic.¡±


    Lotem frowned, remembering how the rat had bitten through his leathers during their travels. His leg had felt mostly fine since, but he hadn¡¯t checked the wound since they entered the trial. His frown deepened as he prodded the site, feeling the thick scab that had formed. This wound is less than a day old, yet it looks like it¡¯s been healing for weeks. Was I wrong about how bad it was earlier? he wondered, confusion and concern gnawing at him.


    ¡°It¡¯s healed up pretty well,¡± he said after a moment of thought. ¡°The flesh is mending, and the wound barely bothers me anymore.¡±


    ¡°But you still have the wound?¡± Sylva asked.


    ¡°Of course. Why wouldn¡¯t I?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ve died and been reborn twice today. Don¡¯t you think it¡¯s strange that our bodies, our Lifethreads, even our clothes are fully restored, but your wound remains?¡± Sylva touched her chest absently, as if recalling the pain of the quills that had pierced her. ¡°I was impaled by those quills¡ªmy Lifethread severed¡ªand yet, here I am, completely whole. So why hasn¡¯t your wound healed?¡±


    Lotem paused, caught off guard by the validity of her question. He let the silence stretch as he mulled over her words. ¡°My leg was already healing before we even entered the trial. It might have been this far along before our first fight. But honestly, I have no idea why it¡¯s healing so fast.¡±


    ¡°Numen heal much faster than humans; they¡¯re almost as resilient as my own people,¡± Sylva pointed out. ¡°But you¡¯ve never healed this quickly before, have you?¡±


    Lotem thought back to the countless cuts and scrapes he¡¯d endured growing up on the plains. None of them had healed like this. He shook his head slowly. ¡°The Numen blood runs thin in my veins. I¡¯m several generations removed from the source.¡±


    ¡°You were generations distant from the source,¡± Hadrian interjected. ¡°But that was before. [Enhanced Blood of the Numen]¡ªthat¡¯s one of your skills now, right?¡±


    ¡°It couldn¡¯t have that much of an impact, could it?¡± Lotem asked hesitantly, leaning back against the cold stone wall. He wasn¡¯t familiar with the skill¡ªor with many skills, really. His family weren¡¯t fighters; they were herders, and their skills and classes had always reflected that way of life. The imperial taboo against discussing the Sulphen and its manifestations with non-citizens had spread to the Bal tribes centuries ago, leaving him with only the scant knowledge his parents had shared. Not nearly enough, he thought bitterly.


    Sylva shrugged. ¡°It could. Especially if that¡¯s the boon Sylvine gave you. Hadrian got his armory skill from Rovan, and I got my intuition skill from Nyxol¡ªboth of which are definitely useful. It¡¯s unlikely Sylvine would give you two skills that won¡¯t help. Though I¡¯m still not convinced your natural enemy skill is something to worry about.¡±


    ¡°Really?¡± he asked, struggling to process Sylva¡¯s words. He hadn¡¯t given much thought to his skills before. He¡¯d assumed they were a joke¡ªa dragon¡¯s idea of a cruel laugh. She¡¯d noticed his Numen heritage and decided that would define him. She¡¯d noticed Sabel and made a rodent joke. Had he misunderstood everything?


    ¡°No skill is useless. I told you that when we first arrived, and I meant it.¡± Sylva¡¯s voice was firm, her eyes locking onto his with unwavering certainty. ¡°Lotem, none of the Immortals give useless gifts. Not to the chosen triumvirates, at least.¡± She gestured toward Hadrian, who was idly tracing the edge of a bone knife. ¡°That dummy over there made sure of it. Sylvine didn¡¯t slight you.¡±


    ¡°Hey!¡± Hadrian objected, but the moment Sylva¡¯s gaze sharpened on him, he quickly looked away, his protest fizzling out.


    ¡°You were chosen as a companion to a [Squire] of one of the Immortals. You¡¯re the companion of the top initiate from the Sect of Silken Grace this year. You were chosen for a reason, Lotem, and I refuse to believe otherwise.¡±


    Lotem hadn¡¯t realized how much he needed to hear that. Sylva¡¯s words settled something deep inside him, easing the tension he hadn¡¯t even noticed building. ¡°Thanks,¡± he said quietly, nodding to Sylva as her gaze softened. ¡°But what if I don¡¯t know why she would have chosen me?¡±


    ¡°Hadrian,¡± Sylva said, her eyes still holding Lotem¡¯s. ¡°Why did Rovan Khal choose you to be his squire?¡±The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    ¡°He said I amuse him with my formality and impossible dreams,¡± Hadrian replied with unmistakable pride. Formality? Lotem almost laughed at the thought¡ªHadrian, who was currently twirling a knife he¡¯d summoned just to play with, being formal? ¡°He told me I have the potential to become something new. That we have the potential to become something new.¡±


    ¡°Lotem, things are changing in the empire. Nyxol believed we¡¯re on the brink of another calamity¡ªsomething like the Blood Wars or the Beast Wars. She wanted us to be ready to make a difference when that time comes.¡±


    ¡°Rovan said something similar,¡± Hadrian added, his voice taking on a seriousness Lotem hadn¡¯t heard before. ¡°He talked about the rise of ancient threats and how only a few, like the Mandate of Empire, still take them seriously.¡±


    Ancient threats¡­ like the Tul? Is that why I¡¯m partnered with them¡ªbecause I want to destroy the Tul? For the first time since they arrived in the Room of Threefold Oath, Lotem felt like he might actually have a place with his team. He decided to trust his teammates; they had likely already begun piecing things together after that last fight. After a deep silence, he spoke.


    ¡°Five years ago, my brother left for Aslavain, determined to win glory for our clan. My parents begged him to stay, warned him of the dangers. I wish I could remember his response.¡± Lotem¡¯s voice faltered, the memory hazy and tinged with pain.


    Sylva¡¯s gaze stayed on him, her expression softening with empathy. Hadrian stilled, his hands pausing their restless motion with the knife. Lotem felt a small wave of relief, the words beginning to flow more easily as he sensed their patient attention.


    ¡°I woke up, had breakfast with my parents, and then went to tend the herd, just like any other day. Then the news came from the Imperials. A hawk, its plumage dark as shadow and a crimson beak, fell from the sky. It landed on Warma¡¯s back, and I remember worrying it might be attacking us. But then I saw the letter attached to its leg. That¡¯s when I knew something was wrong.¡±


    He paused, the image caught in his memory like an insect trapped in amber. He could still recall the growing sense of dread, the creeping unease as he tried to grasp what was happening.


    ¡°I rushed home with the letter, and my uncle, a trader, read the missive aloud.¡± He swallowed, his chest tightening. ¡°When he said my brother had died across the Diontel, my first thought was, ¡®I don¡¯t have a brother.¡¯¡± He lowered his head, unwilling to see their reactions, to face their judgment.


    ¡°That¡¯s the worst thing about the Tul. They don¡¯t just take lives¡ªthey take your memories too. They steal your ability to mourn. I don¡¯t remember my brother. When I try to recall days we spent roaming the plains together, I can remember the sights, the hikes we took. But he¡¯s not there.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve sworn to end them.¡± He let the spark of anger grow, feeding it with the fear of being hunted through that nightmare forest, the memory of agony, and the certainty that more was coming. He fed it with his fear for the days ahead. His voice came out deep and harsh as he finally shared the anger he had carried for years.


    ¡°The Tul are devouring us day by day, and the empire seems content to let it happen. The imperial factions bicker over petty disputes while they pour enough treasure into Aslavain each year to end the war with the Tul. They united to defeat the Beast Kings. They united to fight my people to a standstill. Where is that anger now? Our people are being consumed, and those in power barely seem to care.¡±


    ¡°What was it Sylva said?¡± Hadrian asked, his light tone at odds with the tension in his muscles. ¡°What good are heroes if they can¡¯t slay the monsters at the gate? Your quest is worth our efforts, and I think we have a lot to show the empire before we¡¯re through.¡± Lotem couldn¡¯t help but envy the confidence that seemed to come so naturally to Hadrian. Is this what Rovan saw in him? he wondered, feeling the thumping rage in his chest grow as the red light deepened, the flickering from the ceiling casting ominous shadows.


    ¡°I stand by my words. Lotem, when we¡¯re free from Aslavain, I swear I¡¯ll join you in your cause.¡± Sylva¡¯s brow furrowed, and her lips tightened as if she were wrestling with a thought. She looked¡­ angry, Lotem realized, as if she were coming to a new understanding. ¡°I need to do¡­ something productive. Come.¡± She rose abruptly and strode toward the chamber doors, her movements decisive, the expectation clear that the two men would follow as she slammed the doors open.


    <hr>


    The Sect of Silken Grace was a name whispered with reverence throughout the empire, a beacon of excellence known for producing scholars, mages of all varieties, and linguists of unparalleled caliber. Every initiate, Silkborn by birthright, began their training within days of their Lifestring¡¯s creation. For Sylva, those twenty years had been an unending cycle of discipline, study, and relentless pursuit of perfection. She had mastered the ancestral tongues of the UlaanBal and ThurBal, deciphered, and with the aid of arcane tools, even replicated the guttural speech of the Brood. Imperial scripts, with all their countless variations, were mere threads in the vast tapestry of her knowledge.


    She had meticulously copied the texts of the empire¡¯s twelve foundational philosophies, her mind wrestling with their labyrinthine questions of law, morality, and justice. Arithmetic, taught in the cold, precise manner of the Trade Guilds, was another string in her bow. Sylva was, in her own estimation, brilliant. Yet, in this crucible of stone and fire, that brilliance now felt like a hollow word.


    So why do I feel so useless? Sylva¡¯s thoughts churned with frustration she could barely contain. The rats had nearly overwhelmed her. These Eidolons loomed like insurmountable mountains. Burning string, what good is all my training, my life, if I fail here? Nyxol had chosen her for a reason¡ªhadn¡¯t she? Determination, cold and sharp, surged within her as she strode to the pedestal, her fingers brushing the crystal ball. The three sarcophagi swung open, their ancient occupants stirring to life, but Sylva had no intention of giving them a moment¡¯s respite. In the chaos of battle, every heartbeat mattered.


    Seraphis, the naga, had started both prior encounters with the same ritual¡ªcarving a story into the air with swift, precise motions, each finger stroke weaving an invisible tapestry. Sylva suspected it was an Imperial Poem, and the realization made her pause.


    She had, after all, committed each of the sanctioned Imperial Poems¡ªover two hundred in total¡ªto memory. These verses, commissioned to honor triumvirates who had served imperial authority with distinction, were the empire¡¯s most revered works. To have one¡¯s deeds immortalized in such a way was the highest honor, coveted even by the [Venerate]. So why, then, was Seraphis dedicating herself to such a recital in the midst of battle?


    What do we know? Sylva¡¯s mind raced. The naga¡¯s incantation turns her target¡¯s garments into golden flames, undoubtedly linked to the Radiant Flame of the Sunborn. And yet, my instincts¡ªthe instincts that Nyxol imparted¡ªurge me to recite the Ode to Deep Water. My hands begin the motions almost unconsciously. Has my presence somehow disrupted Seraphis¡¯ spellwork? Could this be the skill Nyxol granted me¡ª[Sympathetic Intuition]?


    She was done playing the role of counter to Seraphis. That approach had failed, leaving her with a bitter taste she refused to swallow again. She would not be relegated to merely negating the enemy¡¯s power. She had trained for this¡ªprepared for the moment when she could unleash her own magic, create something truly great. She would not be found wanting.


    Her fingers hovered in the air before her, poised as if at one of the great looms where she had spent countless hours in training. In her mind¡¯s eye, she saw the threads, each interwoven with the next, forming a complex, beautiful tapestry. The imperial hand scripts had always seemed unnecessary to her¡ªa skill to communicate without sound, to trace imaginary lines in the air. They were like playing an invisible instrument, relying on tactile memory and the precision of unseen threads. She had cursed the elders countless times for criticizing her lack of finesse, for demanding perfection in every stroke. That was nearly a decade ago. Sylva hadn¡¯t struggled with the scripts, written or otherwise, in years.


    As Morvan whistled and his beasts materialized, Sylva¡¯s focus sharpened. She let her intuition guide her fingers, her concentration honed to a razor¡¯s edge. Nyxol had taught her that true magic required an iron will, a clear word, and a sacrifice to fuel the spell. The will and the word she could provide, but the sacrifice remained elusive. Still, she pressed on.


    She smiled as clarity struck. The Ode to the Triumvirate of the Broken Crown was among the Imperial Poems commissioned after the Beast Wars. The verse she recited now recounted the second battle with Gransa the Suneater, the harpy-turned-Beast King who had ravaged the legions of the Sixth Age. Gransa, who had nearly driven the Sunborn to extinction after shattering the wards of Sabahar, had haunted their collective nightmares. The choice was apt, almost poetic. Gransa had been the bane of the Sunborn, a terror to their Radiant Flame.


    Sylva began to chant, her voice steady and resonant, each word reinforcing the incantation her fingers wove. ¡°In the epoch of twilight, the age of night, Sabahar, the City of Sun and Light, bathed in celestial, radiant gleam, met its end in a harpy queen¡¯s dream.¡± The air grew thick with tension, her words vibrating with palpable energy and she could almost imagine the Sulphen turning its focus to her.


    Seraphis¡¯ eyes widened, her movements becoming frantic as she recognized the pattern Sylva was creating. Morvan barked a command, and his beasts immediately redirected their focus from Lotem to Sylva, their eyes narrowing with predatory intent.


    Lotem roared a challenge, swiftly closing the distance between himself and the creatures with powerful strides. Hadrian surged forward, an axe materializing in his grip as he clashed with Drakar, deftly sliding beneath the massive club.


    Sylva quickened her pace, her voice rising with urgency. ¡°Gransa the Suneater, Queen of the Air, descended with shadows, spread despair. Her flock of harpies, a legion of night, their cries like dirges, a terrifying sight.¡± The chamber darkened, the edges of the room blurring as the air grew cold. Sylva could almost hear the harpies¡¯ cries, their wings beating in rhythm with her pounding heart.


    Hadrian grunted as Drakar¡¯s club slammed into him, sending him skidding across the stone floor. His axe flew from his grip, clattering to the ground as he quickly rolled to his feet, summoning another weapon with a flick of his wrist. He slashed at Drakar¡¯s legs, but the giant sidestepped, countering with a powerful punch that Hadrian barely managed to evade.


    Lotem reached the porcupine-like beast just as its quills exploded outward. He screamed, shielding Sylva with his own body, then gritted his teeth and hurled the writhing creature at Seraphis. The naga ducked just in time, the spined beast crashing into the wall with a sickening thud.


    ¡°Wings dark as void, hearts black with spite, talons tearing through the purest light, magic dissolved in her ravenous maw, Gransa, the Suneater, the Queen of Sky¡¯s Law.¡± The room seemed to shudder under the weight of her words, the shadows coalescing into dark, winged forms. Sylva¡¯s heart raced with wild energy, a thrill she had long sought but never quite grasped¡ªuntil now.


    Seraphis faltered, her eyes narrowing as she felt the power gathering in the chamber. She abandoned her incantation, locking her gaze onto Sylva with fierce intensity. ¡°[The Radiant Flame Knows No Equal],¡± she hissed, her words imbued with an authority that Sylva felt more than heard. The darkness retreated, the shadows dissolving as if banished by the naga¡¯s will. Sylva¡¯s power slipped away, the spell unraveling with terrifying swiftness. A skill, Sylva realized, panic rising within her. She struggled to regain the momentum, to grasp the energy that had just been within her reach.


    Desperately, she tried to weave the next verse. ¡°A decade she waged this relentless fight, turning golden walls to ashen night, the sun, a ghost, behind clouds it lay, its warmth siphoned, its vigor decayed.¡± But the words fell flat, the power she had wielded only moments ago now a distant memory. This isn¡¯t how it¡¯s supposed to happen, she thought, a feral sense of injustice clawing at her insides. I should be in Eisentor, learning from the greatest scholars, mastering the ancient forms of magic. I should be receiving the tutelage I was promised. I¡¯m not ready for this.


    She had been chosen by Nyxol to accompany one of the year¡¯s Squires, promised a mentor among the [Venerate] to guide her through Aslavain¡¯s trials. But that had been ripped away, stolen by the Eidolons who had crafted this shrine¡ªa trap, an unforgiving crucible. It wasn¡¯t fair. She wasn¡¯t ready. But now¡­ now she knew what true power felt like, and she refused to let it slip away.


    Sylva began again, softly at first, her focus narrowing as she blocked out the chaos around her. She no longer recited any imperial verse, no sanctioned poem or inherited incantation. She had no skills to invoke, no class to lean on. She simply spoke the words that felt right, words that flowed from the deepest recesses of her being.


    ¡°By light of day and moon of night, We curse thee, naga, with endless blight, Your scales of gold, your eyes of flame, Shall dim and darken, shamed in name.¡±


    The air around her quivered, and she poured every ounce of her anger, her sense of injustice, her shame into the incantation. She didn¡¯t care about the imperial forms, the sanctioned scripts. She would make her own magic, by force of will alone.


    ¡°In the heart of earth, where fire sleeps, In depths unknown, where silence weeps, We bind thee, Serpent, in realms below, In caverns cold, where sun won¡¯t glow.¡±


    Lotem¡¯s leg connected with the lightning beast in a powerful kick, sending it tumbling across the floor, but its electric charge froze his muscles in place. Morvan seized the opportunity, tackling Lotem to the ground and pummeling him with gauntleted fists. Sylva¡¯s lips tightened at the sight, her fury growing as she funneled it into the incantation, feeling the power surge within her.


    ¡°By breath of wind and whisper of star, By ocean¡¯s depth and land afar, Your power wanes, your might undone, In shadows lost, your spirit gone.¡±


    Drakar stepped back, dodging Hadrian¡¯s strike, and with a grunt, hurled his massive club toward Sylva. Hadrian lunged, deflecting the club¡¯s path, but the force knocked him off balance. Drakar¡¯s punch connected with Hadrian¡¯s head, sending him sprawling across the floor.


    Alone.


    I¡¯m alone. The realization struck her with a cold, sharp clarity. She poured her terror into the incantation, felt the spell surge against her control, trying to break free. But Sylva¡¯s will was ironclad. This was her magic, and it would bow to her.


    ¡°Seraphis, Sunborn, feel the curse, In every pulse, in every verse. Your light consumed, your strength undone, By ancient vow, by setting sun.¡±


    Sylva¡¯s chant ended as she collapsed, her body drained of all strength. Every muscle trembled with exhaustion, every nerve frayed to its limit. But she had done it. She had performed real magic¡ªshe had created, not just countered. Whether the spell would work when they reentered the challenge, she didn¡¯t know. She didn¡¯t care. She had felt the power, and it had answered her call.


    Drakar loomed over her, his eyes assessing her with a calm, almost paternal gaze, the massive club resting loosely in his hand. ¡°That was a good showing, lass. Be proud of it. But know this¡ªit will not happen again. Seraphis underestimated you. She won¡¯t make that mistake twice.¡± The club descended, and all went black.


    In the darkness that swallowed her, before the world returned with a gasp of air and a pounding heart, she heard the voice:


    [Class Obtained: Thaumaturge]


    [Legacy Skill Obtained: Silkborn Conviction]

 Interlude: Aslavain

    The snake in the jeweler¡¯s box slithers no more.


    ¨C Dion Proverb


    Aslavain: Seven Days After the Summer Solstice


    Emilia was jolted from sleep by a suffocating grip of fear, her skin slick with the remnants of a nightmare that clung to her like a shroud. Twisted specters writhed in the gloom of her subconscious, a nightly affliction since her arrival in this cursed city.


    Tir Na Nog¡¯s oppressive atmosphere had seeped into her very soul, warping her dreams. With a shuddering breath, she disentangled herself from the damp sheets, the last vestiges of sleep slipping away like shadows before dawn. She had to move, to train¡ªanything to silence the lingering dread that threatened to root her in place.


    Wrapping a cloak around her shoulders, she slipped out of her quarters and headed to the guildhall. The cool night air bit at her skin, a chilling counterpoint to the fevered intensity of her dreams. Every breath tasted of damp stone and something ancient, as if the city itself exhaled malevolence.


    Why had she chosen this shrine, of all places in the empire? she wondered, her thoughts a tangle of regret and resolve as she strode through a city designed to unsettle the senses. Tir Na Nog¡¯s twisted spires and shadowed alleys seemed to mock her principles, as though the city itself conspired to erode her will. Each step felt like a concession, a small surrender to the pervasive unease that thrummed beneath the surface of this accursed place.


    The fractured, jagged obsidian road beneath her feet gleamed darkly in the faint moonlight, its sharp edges biting at her boots with every step¡ªsilent sentinels of a city designed to carve away at one¡¯s resolve. Emilia recalled the scene with a grimace: the Kiel candidate crumpling to the ground, his foot nearly sliced in half by the treacherous obsidian. His desperate pleas for a healing potion had been met with cruel laughter from the shadowed Eidolons, their mirth echoing through the streets like a chorus of specters. The memory clung to her like a dark stain, a reminder of the city¡¯s inherent cruelty. How could she not be haunted by nightmares in a place where suffering was a source of amusement?


    Why did the dragon tell me to come here, of all places? She had approached Sylvine, begging for an opportunity to make the empire more just, and the dragon had sent her to this frightful city. Steadying her nerves as she passed a street corner shrouded in dense, unnatural fog, she sent a fervent prayer to the Three to aid her in her righteous quest.


    The Dion culture was a creeping rot within the empire, a festering wound threatening to corrupt everything Emilia held sacred. The Holy Church of the Three had warned of the evils of necromancy, their sermons etched into her mind like divine scripture. Each word fed the fire within her, stoking a hatred that simmered just below the surface. The Dion were body snatchers, purveyors of death¡¯s perversions, their craft a mockery of the natural order. Emilia clung to that anger, using it to sharpen her focus, to steel herself against the corruption she was destined to purge.


    Her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden, wet sensation on her ear. Something¡ªno, she realized with growing disgust, someone¡ªhad licked the inside of her ear. She screamed, recoiling as she swung a gauntleted fist toward the figure that had snuck up behind her. They laughed with savage glee, a sound that made her sick. This¡ªthis is everything that is wrong with the south.


    ¡°You Gloombound are a menace. I will kill all of you someday,¡± she spat, venom dripping from each word, a dagger clenched in one hand. The man vanished into the shadows of the darkened street, the fog echoing with his laughter. A week ago, she might have hesitated to threaten murder to a stranger, but after enduring the Gloombound¡¯s torment, any civility her parents had taught her was long gone.


    Who would choose to specialize in fear? Rot and ruin, this is training for him, she realized with a sick sense of horror. She knew the Sulphen took notice of extreme emotions; she had hoped it would notice her own piety. Now she cursed the Sulphen¡¯s focus. Why do we reward this behavior? But she knew the answer. The Dion. It was always the Dion and their perversion of what was right.


    As Emilia approached the guildhall, lingering threads of fear clung to her, coiling tightly around her heart. The structure stood resolute, a bastion of order amidst the chaos of Tir Na Nog, its sturdy gray stones absorbing the faint light like a fortress against the encroaching night. Pennants and banners, proudly bearing the crimson handprint of her order, fluttered in the cool breeze¡ªa solemn reminder of the purpose that had brought her to this forsaken city. Here, at least, was a place that held firm against the surrounding darkness, a beacon of her commitment to justice.


    She entered the building in a huff, fury simmering at the indignity of her encounter with the Gloombound. Striding past the reception booth staffed by an elderly Eidolon woman, she made her way into the training hall, where rings were demarcated on the floor with metal inlays. She was on the fourth of the five training golems and was determined to reach the fifth and final golem by the end of the night. She needed something to take her anger out on, at the very least.


    She picked up the hammer the guild had given her when she joined. The promise of cold iron and a way to improve with it had been half of the reason she had joined the Crimson Hand at all. That, and its persistent hatred of the Dion.


    With a muttered command, Emilia summoned the bone construct, its skeletal frame materializing with a disconcerting clatter. She set upon it with practiced precision, each strike a blend of duty and distaste. The use of bone for training constructs repelled her¡ªan echo of the necromancy she despised¡ªbut necessity outweighed her revulsion. The Crimson Hand had left her no choice: to forgo the training dummies was to forfeit any hope of finding a mentor. So she swung her war hammer, again and again, each blow both a lesson in endurance and a rehearsal for the battles she would one day wage against necromancers.


    Emilia quickly came around to the notion. In the end, it would give her training in fighting necromancers, and that was something she couldn¡¯t refuse. The Crimson Hand would aid her holy crusade, and if this was what it took, who was she to disagree?


    A deep croaking sound filled the chamber, and Emilia whirled in surprise. One of the Nygmar, the amphibious people from the empire¡¯s southeastern underground caverns, stood watching her with an impassive gaze. Its throat pouch inflated, and Emilia looked away, unnerved by the light blue flesh stretching almost to transparency. She had met her first Nygmar when she arrived in Tir Na Nog, but she still wasn¡¯t used to the sight of the frog-like people.


    ¡°You,¡± it croaked, its voice a rasping echo that reverberated in the dimly lit hall. ¡°You will do.¡± Those bulbous, amphibian eyes locked onto her with unsettling intensity, and Emilia felt a twinge of unease curl in her stomach. The Nygmar were an enigma, their influence negligible in the broader empire, relegated to the isolated depths of the Earthen Few or the shadowed mines of the north. Rarely did they surface, and even more rarely did they take an interest in the affairs of others. She prayed silently that she hadn¡¯t inadvertently offended this one, knowing too little of their ways to gauge the consequences.


    She had seen at least a dozen of these creatures since her arrival, and, more worryingly, the other Eidolons seemed to tread carefully around them. She didn¡¯t know why the frogs terrified the Eidolons so much, and she decided it wasn¡¯t her duty to find out.


    ¡°Excuse me?¡± She asked, unsure of what else to say.


    ¡°You. I have a task for you. Do you accept?¡± It tilted its head to the side, as though already expecting an answer.


    ¡°Doing what?¡± she retorted. ¡°And why should I help you at all?¡± She blamed the Gloombound for her barely suppressed hostility. It was hard to trust anyone here when half the population seemed to delight in terrifying her.


    ¡°You investigate trial. I provide skill for you. Powerful. Make enemies quiver in fear.¡±


    ¡°If I investigate some trial, you¡¯ll teach me a powerful skill?¡± She paused, the heat in her tone draining away as she realized the Nygmar was serious. She already had the one skill granted by the Sulphen after her conversation with Sylvine. Gaining a second skill only a week into the trial would be¡­ fortuitous. With a second skill, she could find a mentor, maybe even persuade two other candidates to form a triumvirate. At least they wouldn¡¯t reject her like those damned Dion pricks. ¡°What do you need to know about the trial?¡±


    ¡°You investigate interference. Wards are being examined. I want to know why.¡± The Nygmar croaked, and she almost flinched at the sudden noise and expansion of its throat. ¡°Go north. Follow the old road. Find the obelisk. Investigate for outsiders. Enter the trial if you must. Find who is tampering with the wards. Then you¡¯ll get your skill.¡±


    ¡°I accept. When I have the information¨C¡±


    ¡°Talk to the receptionist. Say Gruffanak sent you. She¡¯ll give you instructions for the trial. Understand?¡±


    ¡°Fine.¡±


    The Nygmar hopped away, its thick legs tensing before releasing to carry its form a dozen feet at a time. She still wasn¡¯t used to the sight and hurried to the woman on night duty. After a rushed conversation about the Nygmar¡¯s request, Emilia had verbal instructions to begin her journey to the trial. She thought she might need it.


    She navigated the dark, foggy streets on high alert, her eyes scanning the ground for hazards while she regularly checked behind for lurking strangers. The Gloombound, from what she could tell, only accosted her when she let her concentration lapse. She was sure the bright lantern she held didn¡¯t hurt either.


    Leaving the twisted streets of Tir Na Nog behind, Emilia stepped onto the barren black soil stretching before her, a wasteland devoid of life and hope. The ground beneath her feet was harsh and unyielding, as if the very earth had been scorched by some ancient curse. The night air carried a whisper of something ancient, something that stirred uneasily at the edges of her awareness. As she began her solitary trek northward, her destination was obscured by the dense, oppressive darkness that clung to the horizon like a shroud.


    Hours passed in a relentless march northward, the cobbled road beneath her feet whispering promises of safety that Emilia found increasingly difficult to believe. When she finally glimpsed the first skeletal silhouettes of the bone forest, a chill ran through her that had nothing to do with the night air. The trees stood like silent sentinels, their trunks and branches bleached to a stark, ghostly white, adorned with vicious thorns that gleamed like daggers in the moonlight. What could twist the very essence of nature into such a grotesque mockery? The answer was both inevitable and loathsome: the Dion. Only they would take something pure and corrupt it so thoroughly, draping thorns over living wood as though nature itself were a thing to be violated.


    As she approached the forest, the cobbled road began to lose its stones, entire chunks missing with deep holes where they had been. It was as though a giant had taken a shovel to the road, digging holes seemingly at random, more than deep enough to trap or injure. She assumed the Dion were responsible for that too.


    After navigating around her third hole in the road, she heard footsteps coming from behind. Moving off the road, she tried to cover her lantern, dimming the light to avoid drawing unwanted attention. She saw two flames, likely lanterns of their own, rapidly approaching, and frowned.


    The lights were moving much faster than someone on foot could manage. Were they mounted? If so, they weren¡¯t from Tir Na Nog. The City of Rage had an¡­ undue effect on beasts within its radius, and she hadn¡¯t seen many creatures since her arrival a week ago. As the forms of two large, landbound birds came into view, she couldn¡¯t help but stare.


    Who would dare to ride an Axebeak? The thought gnawed at her as she crouched in the shadows, eyes wide with a mix of awe and dread. The creatures were formidable, their light brown plumage ruffling with each powerful stride, while their beaks¡ªmassive, curved blades of bone¡ªgleamed wickedly in the moonlight. She had heard tales of these birds, how their beaks could shear through even the steel armor of the Khanate, leaving devastation in their wake. It took a special kind of fearlessness¡ªor madness¡ªto command such a beast.


    As the pair approached her hiding place, she squinted, trying to make out the riders¡¯ forms through the gloom. Two humans, she thought, though it was never a sure guess with the Numen and Silkborn around. An older woman and a man who looked to be her age. An initiate and a mentor? She considered calling out to stop the pair before suppressing the idea. What if they were the group she had been sent to investigate?


    As the thumping steps of the Axebeaks faded into the distance, she stood and continued her trek onward, thoughts racing about what she would find when she reached the obelisk looming in the distant night.


    Whatever it takes. I need the skill the Nygmar promised. I will compete in Ylfenhold in three months and show the empire the justice of my cause.


    <hr>


    Valentine of the Carver¡¯s Blood stared down at the humanoid leg bone before her, its pristine white surface almost indistinguishable from the pallor of her own skin. The bone was an echo of her identity, a blank canvas waiting to be inscribed with the power of the Ancient Blood. With practiced hands, she adjusted the carving knife, its blade keen and unforgiving, and traced three whirling lines into the bone¡¯s surface. The delicate script, transferred with painstaking precision from the tome her mentor, Chanvar of the Warrior¡¯s Blood, had bestowed upon her, was more than mere decoration¡ªit was a promise, an invocation of power that would bind her to her destiny.


    Chanvar¡¯s acceptance of her as a mentee had not come easily, nor cheaply. Bribing a [Venerate] was not a matter of gold or silver¡ªno sum of coin could sway one of the Dion¡¯s champions. Yet her parents had means far beyond mere wealth, their influence rooted in secrets and alliances that spanned generations. Valentine often pondered the nature of the leverage they had used, the hidden truths exchanged in darkened rooms to secure her place under Chanvar¡¯s tutelage. But such knowledge was not yet hers to claim. The deepest secrets of the Carver¡¯s Blood remained locked away, withheld even from her, their rightful heir¡ªfor now.


    Valentine¡¯s gaze lingered on the bone, her eyes following the intricate script that spiraled around its length, each sentence meticulously carved in precise, unbroken rings. It was an art both ancient and exacting, a discipline honed over countless hours in her workshop. Satisfied with her work, she lifted the bone and approached the half-formed skeleton hanging suspended in the center of the room. The bone horror was her first creation, and as she carefully integrated the new piece into its structure, she wondered what her parents would think of it. Would they see the promise of greatness? Or would they find it lacking, an imperfect reflection of the legacy she was destined to uphold?


    The Immortals held a tight grip on the flow of magical knowledge, doling out secrets to non-citizens with a miserly hand. Until her arrival in Aslavain, Valentine had never been allowed to experiment openly with necromancy. Even the clandestine lessons from her personal tutors had been constrained, limited to the theoretical foundations of the craft. Yet those lessons had been invaluable, teaching her the ancient art of inscribing incantations directly into bone¡ªa practice as old as the Dion themselves, a rite passed down through generations of the Ancient Blood. Now, here in Aslavain, she finally had the freedom to put that knowledge to the test, to breathe life¡ªor something like it¡ªinto her creations.


    Valentine was keenly aware that her parents would have gladly flouted the imperial taboo against teaching youths before their citizenship ritual, if not for the omniscient eyes of the Immortals and the swift retribution they would bring. The memory of a generation of Dion nobles, barred from Aslavain a century ago for transgressing these unwritten rules, still lingered like a shadow over the Clans of the Blood. That political debacle had been a harsh lesson in compliance, forcing even the proudest families to bow to the empire¡¯s will. Now, the Clans tread carefully, ensuring their heirs faced the trials of Aslavain with minds untainted by forbidden knowledge¡ªat least, in theory.


    She hadn¡¯t known of her parents¡¯ intention to bribe one of the [Venerate] to be her tutor until after Chanvar approached her on the first day. Her parents had told her when she was young that when she provided her essence in the Room of Threefold Oaths at her citizenship ritual, the Immortals would review her entire memory. They hadn¡¯t wanted to keep her from the clan¡¯s business and secrets, but they couldn¡¯t afford their political rivals in the north or east to learn those secrets, and the Dion suspected the Immortals were sharing their pillaged knowledge as they saw fit. Until she was free of the endless trials of Aslavain, she would be content with coming to her own conclusions and amassing her own secrets.


    She returned to her work station and began her work on the next bone for her creation. She slipped into a routine that lasted hours as she carved bone after bone, the construct becoming a little more real with each addition. This was the first of her creations and the lynchpin to her eventual victory in the contest in Ylfenhold in three months, she was sure of it.


    She knew that the [Squire of Carven Bone] always competed in Ylfenhold at the first of the major contests three months into their time in Aslavain. They needed access to the Cairn of Titans and only victory at Ylfenhold could provide that opportunity. She was preparing to exploit that vulnerability.


    If she could defeat the [Squire] at Ylfenhold, she would not only usurp his class but finally become Rovan¡¯s chosen, as she had always known she was destined to be. The memory of her meeting with Rovan Khal gnawed at her, and in a moment of distraction, her knife slipped, scoring a jagged line across the bone. A curse escaped her lips as she realized she had ruined the piece. Rovan¡¯s dismissal still stung, a wound deeper than she had anticipated, though he had granted her a boon along with the standard skill every new citizen received. But the sting of his indifference lingered, a bitter reminder that she had yet to prove herself in his eyes.


    Valentine was rummaging through the closet for a replacement bone when she heard the workshop door creak open. She turned, her heart sinking as she saw Chanvar standing in the doorway, a faint glimmer of amusement in his eyes. Of course, he would arrive just as she made her only mistake of the night. The bitter thought flickered through her mind as she faced her mentor, her frustration barely concealed. There was no escaping his scrutiny now, no hiding the slip of her knife that had marred her work.


    ¡°Ruin one of the bones, did you?¡± Chanvar¡¯s smirk was a knife-edge of condescension. Tall and thin, he exuded an aura of practiced control, yet Valentine felt no trust for the man. Trusting a [Venerate] of the Dion Blood was always a perilous endeavor, especially one from a rival clan. The Warrior¡¯s Blood were not known for their subtlety, but Valentine knew better than to mistake that for honesty. Just because a snake hadn¡¯t bitten you yet didn¡¯t mean it wouldn¡¯t strike when the opportunity arose.


    Chanvar¡¯s skin was as pale as her own, but there the similarities ended. Valentine¡¯s curves and soft form spoke of a life of privilege, where labor was left to others¡ªskeleton constructs, mainly¡ªwhile she focused on the finer arts of her craft. Chanvar, by contrast, appeared as if he had deliberately starved himself, whittling his body down to nothing but sinew and bone, as if seeking to bring his own skeletal structure closer to the surface. Yet Valentine knew his gaunt appearance belied a dangerous power. No [Venerate] capable of forming a Crest could be dismissed lightly. As his cold eyes watched her, she gave the expected bow, careful to hide her unease.The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    ¡°Master, I discovered an impurity in the bone as I was carving and decided it would be prudent to replace it before proceeding further.¡± The imperfection was, of course, her own doing, but her words were not entirely false. In this game of half-truths, precision mattered. ¡°As you know, a construct is only as strong as its weakest bone.¡± A deflection, an attempt to shift his focus away from her slip, though she could feel his gaze weighing her words, searching for the lie beneath the surface.


    ¡°Ah, how¡­ vigilant of you,¡± Chanvar replied, his tone laced with mockery. ¡°But, if you don¡¯t mind, I¡¯d like to examine this supposed impurity myself. It would be remiss of me to allow a faulty product into your workshop. After all, a master who provides their student with substandard materials would be utterly unacceptable. I must rectify this at once.¡± His words were a thinly veiled challenge, an invitation for her to admit her mistake¡ªor perhaps to catch her in a lie. The game was clear, and Valentine knew she was on dangerous ground.


    This, Valentine realized, was what she despised most about dealing with other members of the Blood. They all understood the game too well. Chanvar could have let the matter slide, sparing her the humiliation of acknowledging her error. But no¡ªhe had chosen to twist the knife, forcing her into a corner where she was twice damned: first for her initial mistake, and again for being caught in her lie. Among the Blood, every misstep was an opportunity for another to assert dominance, and Chanvar was playing the role with relish.


    ¡°Of course.¡± She picked a random bone from the closet and brought it to the gaunt man as he stood before her bone horror, taking in the sight of its looming form. She had decided to surprise the [Squire] with a creature they would never have seen before, one of the Simians, the four-armed gorillas native to the Fog Lands. Rovan would never choose one of the tree dwellers, and she knew a bone horror modeled after the beasts would give her an edge.


    She handed him the uncarved bone and said, ¡°This is the bone I was looking to replace. See here,¡± she pointed to an unmarred stretch of bone, ¡°my skill, [Lesser Affinity ¨C Bone], tells me this won¡¯t be an ideal fit for what I need.¡±


    His eyes narrowed, and his gaze flitted to the mostly carved bone on her workspace before settling back on her. ¡°A diligent approach. Have you had any other realizations with your affinity skill?¡± She had, of course, solved several larger issues in the design with the guidance the skill provided. Not that she felt the need to explain her work to Chanvar. The man may be a [Venerate], but he was of the Warrior¡¯s Blood, and she was of the Carver¡¯s Blood. That meant something.


    ¡°Only minor adjustments like this one.¡± She moved to change the topic to something more productive. ¡°I¡¯m hoping to secure the [Necromancer] class within the fortnight, but I know the bone horror has to be fully operational before the Sulphen can award me the class. Is there anything I should do to impress the Sulphen with my first work?¡±


    ¡°Earning a class is always a momentous occasion,¡± Chanvar began, his tone slipping into the familiar monotone of a lecture she had heard many times before. ¡°Your first class is foundational, crucial to your future path. As you know, the Sulphen bestows three primary types of abilities. Skills, the most common, grant knowledge or capabilities that extend beyond one¡¯s natural limits. Classes, however, are the core of your identity¡ªthey define the skills you can acquire and, more importantly, the actions you must undertake to gain further power. Once you claim the [Necromancer] class, the more you embody that role, the more the world itself will recognize you as such. Your skills will grow in proportion to how fully you embrace the mantle of a [Necromancer].¡±


    ¡°But before I have the class, what can I do to improve its eventual strength?¡± She knew her class would serve as the guide for how to advance, but she had never gotten a satisfactory answer on how to stack the odds in her favor.


    ¡°Isn¡¯t it obvious?¡± He gave her a look that suggested she should already know the answer. ¡°Excel. The Sulphen rewards those who exceed their own capacities. It bridges the gap between the possible and the potential. If you¡¯re not pushing yourself, you¡¯re not growing.¡±


    ¡°Of course I knew that,¡± she said, frustrated by the lack of a helpful response. ¡°But no system is so simplistic as to be impossible to influence. My question should be restated.¡± She paused, collecting her thoughts before continuing. If he was going to be pedantic, she would get it right the second time. ¡°What can I do to showcase my work in such a way that the Sulphen¡¯s rewards are satisfactory to my capacity?¡±


    ¡°A much better question.¡± Chanvar¡¯s smile was sly, almost pleased, as if she had finally done something worthy of his approval. The bastard. ¡°Since you¡¯ve asked, I will arrange an unveiling ceremony where you can present your work to your peers in the field. The Eidolons of Bonehold are masters of our craft, and their critique will ensure that the Sulphen¡¯s gaze falls upon you. With their attention, you¡¯ll have the audience necessary to secure the rewards you seek.¡± His tone carried a hint of condescension, but beneath it, Valentine detected a subtle challenge¡ªa reminder that in this game, success was never guaranteed.


    ¡°Thank you, Master. You said earlier there were three forms of rewards from the Sulphen, but you never mentioned what the third was.¡±


    ¡°I did not.¡± He said, face returning to an impassive mask.


    ¡°Will you?¡±


    ¡°When you are ready,¡± Chanvar replied, his voice carrying the weight of an unspoken judgment. ¡°You are so far removed from it that fixating on the idea would only be a distraction you can ill afford.¡± Valentine clenched her teeth, frustration simmering beneath her composed exterior. Perhaps one of the Eidolons would be more forthcoming with information. But as if reading her thoughts, Chanvar¡¯s gaze sharpened, a dangerous glint in his eye. ¡°Before you even think of asking an Eidolon, understand this¡ªI will know, and I will be greatly displeased. Valentine, heed my words. You will learn when it is time. No sooner.¡±


    ¡°When do I need to complete the bone horror?¡± she asked, fuming as she returned the conversation to a topic he would actually discuss.


    Chanvar¡¯s eyes moved over the partially built bone horror, his expression inscrutable as he assessed her work. ¡°I will schedule the unveiling for midnight, twelve days hence,¡± he declared, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. ¡°Ensure that you are ready by then. The event will not be postponed, and a failure at that juncture would not only tarnish your name but bring great shame upon the Carver¡¯s Blood.¡± His words were a cold, hard reminder of the stakes she faced. This was not merely a test of skill; it was a trial by fire, one that could either elevate her status or cast her down into obscurity.


    ¡°I will get back to work, then,¡± Valentine said, her voice steady with a resolve that belied the storm of emotions churning within her. She turned away from Chanvar, returning to the closet where she selected a new bone to replace the one she had damaged. She could feel his gaze on her back, a silent pressure that weighed heavily on her, but she knew he would leave her to her own devices. The moment the door closed behind him, she allowed herself a single breath, then refocused her mind. The deadline loomed, and failure was not an option. She had work to do¡ªwork that had to be flawless, perfect in every detail, for anything less would mean more than just personal defeat; it would mean the end of everything she had worked for.


    <hr>


    Kirian still found himself uneasy at the prospect of riding a beast of war, especially one as temperamental as the Axebeak. The custom leather saddle perched atop the bird¡¯s back offered a semblance of familiarity, reminiscent of those used on horses or bison. Yet, in practice, the Axebeak was an entirely different creature¡ªmean-spirited and unforgiving, a mount as likely to kill him as to carry him through the treacherous terrain of Tir Na Nog.


    Kirian hailed from the Tulunganar, the relentless tribe of the ThurBal sworn to confront the eastern menace of the Tul. The Tulunganar roamed the central plains of the Sul Empire, gathering strength and support from the tribes they visited, their cause a rallying cry against the encroaching darkness. Citizenship in the Sul Empire granted him the right to ride such beasts, to access the Sulphen¡¯s power, but he was still adapting to the grim reality of a mount that might just as easily end his life as deliver him to his destination.


    As his Axebeak raced down the decaying road, he couldn¡¯t help but feel on high alert. The dark, sandy soil, the trees formed from bone in the distance, and the wisps of fog rising from the ground, obscuring hazards, all put his mind on edge. Tir Na Nog was just as much of a nightmare as he had imagined.


    For the umpteenth time that night, Kirian questioned his decision to enter into a mentorship contract with Shansa Six-Step, one of the [Venerate] present in Darvoon, The City of Couriers, upon his arrival in Aslavain. Shansa was a living legend on the central plains, her name synonymous with the swiftest deliveries and the most perilous missions. For centuries, she had carried messages across vast expanses, her reputation as one of the greatest ambassadors of the Bal to the empire¡¯s other peoples firmly established. He hadn¡¯t exactly realized what being her mentee, well, meant.


    Shansa had been one of his childhood heroes, a figure of mythic proportions whose deeds had inspired him to pursue the life of a courier. When her dark-skinned, brown-haired form had emerged from the shadows of the Couriers Hall and called his name, he had frozen in disbelief. The contract had been finalized with a swiftness that left him reeling, and Shansa revealed she had been sent to find him¡ªa directive from the Tulunganar six months prior. Kirian still marveled at who could have possibly pulled such strings¡ªsuch a favor was not lightly given.


    His mount leaped over a hole in the road that Kirian hadn¡¯t seen, the fog¡¯s ghostly tendrils obscuring the danger until it was nearly too late. He jerked in the saddle, almost toppling before he caught hold of the leather horn, using every ounce of strength to regain his balance. Had he been on a horse, he could have leaned forward, wrapped his arms around the animal¡¯s neck, or gripped with his knees for stability. But Shansa had been adamant¡ªany attempt to show what an Axebeak might perceive as disrespect was an invitation to a swift and painful end.


    ¡°Did you see that?¡± Shansa¡¯s voice cut through the night as she reined in her Axebeak, slowing the beast until they were riding side by side.


    ¡°The hole in the road? No, I missed it,¡± Kirian replied, his eyes still locked on the treacherous path ahead, bracing himself for the reprimand he was certain would follow.


    ¡°No, not the hole. Let Cleaver handle obstacles like that¡ªthis bird would never submit to the indignity of falling down a hole.¡± Kirian still struggled to believe the pair of Axebeaks were named Cleaver and Butcher. Shansa had owned the beasts long before he arrived a week ago, and she would hear nothing of changing their names to something less violent.


    ¡°If not the hole, then what?¡± he asked, puzzled.


    ¡°There was a woman back there,¡± Shansa continued, her voice casual, as if discussing the weather. ¡°She stepped off the road to let us pass. I thought I caught a glimpse of the Crimson Hand¡¯s iconography on her, though I could be mistaken.¡± Her tone remained indifferent, almost dismissive, as if a lone traveler wandering the roads of Tir Na Nog at night was of no consequence.


    ¡°The Crimson Hand?¡± he asked, unfamiliar with the organization.


    ¡°One of the northern guilds dedicated to the worship of the Three,¡± Shansa said with an indifferent shrug. ¡°Though they¡¯ve expanded their southern presence in recent decades, from what I understand. I¡¯m not surprised they¡¯d have a guildhall in Tir Na Nog. The Crimson Hand has always pursued a strong anti-Dion stance, and this is one of the best locations to send champions into Aslavain to challenge the Dion¡¯s contests.¡±


    Kirian had never grasped the allure of organized religion, particularly the Holy Church of the Three. The Sulphen¡¯s presence in the world was tangible, its power undeniable, and that alone commanded his respect. But the so-called ¡®aspects¡¯ of the Sulphen, those the Church endlessly preached about, seemed more like relics of a bygone era, irrelevant to the world¡¯s current state. The true gods were dead, that much was certain, yet these institutions persisted in the northern reaches, clinging to their ancient rituals. What could a lone woman possibly be doing out here in the dead of night?


    ¡°Should we turn around and check on her?¡± He didn¡¯t want to, but it felt like the decent thing to ask.


    ¡°No. We¡¯re almost to our destination, and it¡¯s too high a priority to delay.¡± He had assumed she would say that; they had only stopped to tend to their mounts and get a few hours of sleep before returning to the saddle. By now, he was certain Shansa had a skill granting the creatures unnatural endurance.


    ¡°You still haven¡¯t told me where we¡¯re headed.¡± Shansa shifted in the saddle and turned to face him. She had been dodging the question for days, but to his relief, she finally seemed to be considering an answer.


    ¡°Are you familiar with the [Triumvirate of the Broken Crown]?¡± Shansa¡¯s voice grew measured, as if she were weighing each word before speaking.


    ¡°Weren¡¯t they heroes of the Beast Wars?¡± Kirian replied, his voice uncertain, as if testing the waters of a deeper, darker truth. He only knew the name from the [Bards] who had performed in front of the tribe and even then, he wasn¡¯t sure if his memory was accurate.


    Shansa¡¯s laugh was dry and brittle, echoing like distant thunder. ¡°Ah, the Beast Wars¡ªthe chapter they¡¯re best remembered for, but not the one that haunts my memories.¡± Her gaze pierced the darkness ahead, as if staring through time itself.


    Kirian held his breath, sensing that pressing her would be futile. He had learned early on that Shansa only revealed what she chose to, and pushing her led only to silence. Yet as she continued, a thrill of anticipation coursed through him, mingling with unease.


    ¡°I first met the [Triumvirate of the Broken Crown] during the height of the Flower Wars, at the Battle of Kaelum¡¯s Refuge.¡± She paused, recalling a day nearly five centuries past. ¡°The UlaanBal Balar was desperate for a courier to deliver supplies to one of the Eldar trapped by imperial forces on the plateau, and I saw it as my chance to prove myself. War is the breeding ground for battle couriers, and I was more willing than most to risk my life for the cause.¡±


    Shansa had yet to speak to him about her past, let alone her involvement in the Flower Wars. The Bal had a complicated relationship with that history. Popular reasoning held that it was better for everyone if the Bal let the empire forget their invasion and subsequent demands. The Bal had won their place in the empire by the sword, and the oldest factions still remembered the conquest.


    ¡°The shamans foretold a night of easy passage,¡± Shansa began, her voice now tinged with bitterness. ¡°The [Weather Callers] assured me of clear skies¡ªno rain, no winds¡ªnothing to impede my mission. I was to slip past the imperial blockade like a shadow, unseen and unchallenged.¡± Kirian gripped the saddle horn as Butcher vaulted over another unseen pit. Shansa¡¯s voice drew him deeper into the tale, even as her calm masked the turmoil beneath.


    ¡°When the storm broke, I knew the [Shamans] had been deceived. To this day, I¡¯ve never seen clouds so black, as if the heavens themselves were shrouded in mourning. The twin moons dimmed, their light swallowed by the encroaching darkness. And then the red lightning¡ªforking through the sky like the claws of some ancient beast, casting a bloody hue over the land.¡± Her eyes were fixed on the road, but Kirian knew she was seeing something far more distant, far more harrowing.


    ¡°Only much later did I piece together the truth of that night,¡± Shansa continued, her voice now tinged with regret. ¡°At the time, I thought the barrier that materialized around the Eldar¡ªthose I was sent to reach¡ªwas the work of our own [Shamans], perhaps a final, desperate act by one of the Matriarchs of the goblin clans. I never imagined the lengths the empire would go, the horrors they would unleash to claim victory.¡± Kirian shuddered involuntarily. The Battle of Kaelum¡¯s Refuge was a name he had never heard, and now he understood why¡ªit was a story buried, a truth too terrible to remember.


    ¡°The [Triumvirate of the Broken Crown] spent months crafting a ritual array that spanned dozens of miles, alongside their student, a man history now remembers as the Marquis of Bone. They used countless bones to form a trap that the Eldar and two tribes guarding the walking shrine unwittingly walked into. They activated the array, sealing the Eldar and the tribes within.¡±


    ¡°What did the array do?¡± He almost held back the question, afraid to disturb his mentor¡¯s recollection, but he suddenly needed to know. This was the history of his people, and he was on the edge of his saddle as she recounted the tale.


    ¡°The imperials called it Osteocalcification,¡± Shansa spat the word like a curse, her disdain palpable. ¡°A twisted form of sympathetic magic, designed to turn every bone within the barrier into limestone. Two entire tribes¡ªtens of thousands of Bal¡ªdead in the blink of an eye. When the barrier finally collapsed, what greeted me was a wasteland of shattered bodies¡ªman, woman, child, and beast alike¡ªscattered like forgotten relics across a ravaged landscape. The Shrine was destroyed, its sanctity violated, and the Eldar¡­ nothing but a memory.¡±


    Kirian felt sick. He had never heard of anything like that. This was approaching genocide. ¡°And these people, this Triumvirate¡ªthey¡¯re still alive?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t share this information lightly, Kirian.¡± She turned to meet his gaze, and he saw the familiar fire burning in her eyes. ¡°There¡¯s a reason we don¡¯t tell the youth about the Battle of Kaelum¡¯s Refuge. Some histories are better left forgotten. When we meet the [Triumvirate of the Broken Crown], I expect your absolute best behavior. These are not people to be taken lightly.¡±


    ¡°They were never punished?¡± he asked, his tone sharp. ¡°And you accepted a job to deliver to these monsters?¡±


    ¡°It was war, Kirian.¡± She looked away, unable to meet his gaze. ¡°We were no saints either, and it serves no one for the empire to dredge up past grievances, especially not against ancient monsters.¡±


    An uneasy silence settled between them, the rhythmic thudding of the Axebeaks¡¯ talons against the stone the only sound breaking the stillness. The night seemed to close in around them, heavy and oppressive. Kirian¡¯s thoughts churned, the horrors Shansa had recounted lingering like a bitter taste in his mouth. Eventually, he found his voice, though it was subdued, almost a whisper. ¡°Have you forgiven them?¡±


    ¡°Forgiven the empire? Yes,¡± Shansa replied, her voice tinged with resignation. ¡°But the [Triumvirate of the Broken Crown]? I¡¯m not sure I can.¡± She paused, the weight of her words hanging in the air. ¡°Yet in these times, they are our allies, Kirian. When the monster is at the gate, they¡¯re the ones you want standing in its path. But beware the Crownless, the Archivist, and the Harbinger¡ªthere are no lines they won¡¯t cross, no moral boundaries they won¡¯t shatter to achieve their ends. What I saw at Kaelum¡¯s Refuge was just the beginning. The rumors from the Beast Wars¡­ they speak of horrors far worse.¡±


    He tried to coax more stories from Shansa, hoping to distract himself from the haunting image of thousands dead that now lingered in his mind¡¯s eye. Those were different times, he reassured himself as they entered the bone forest, the road beneath them slowly dissolving into the shadows of the encroaching night.


    Eventually, they approached an obelisk that loomed against one of the twin moons, casting a long shadow over the landscape. Shansa slowed her mount, and Kirian followed suit, pulling on the reins until his own beast came to a stop. She dismounted with practiced ease, tying her mount to a nearby tree and gesturing for him to do the same. As she held her lantern high, the light flickered, casting eerie shadows that danced across the skeletal trees, deepening the sense of foreboding.


    They walked through the bone forest for a dozen paces before emerging into an open clearing. The ground was covered in ghostly white grass, and at the center stood a single, square structure formed from pale bone, positioned just a dozen feet from the looming obelisk. The stark contrast between the white grass and the dark sky made the scene feel otherworldly, as if they had stepped into a place untouched by time.


    ¡°Do I spot two spies slithering through our domain in the dead of night?¡± A hissing voice sliced through the darkness, and Kirian spun around, his heart leaping into his throat. Emerging from the shadowy grasses was a towering serpent, its scales as black as midnight, eyes glinting with malevolent curiosity. Its humanoid face twisted into a sinister grin, revealing fangs that glistened with venom under the pale moonlight. A surge of primal fear shot through Kirian¡ªthis creature looked ready to devour him whole. He stumbled back, every instinct screaming that Shansa had led him into a deadly trap.


    ¡°Shansa Six-Step, Courier with an urgent delivery for the Crownless,¡± Shansa announced, her voice far calmer than Kirian thought reasonable given the circumstances. As she stepped closer to the snake, her tone was steady, almost diplomatic. ¡°Is she nearby?¡±


    The snake¡ªno, naga, Kirian realized with a start¡ªmoved almost too fast for his eyes to follow in the gloom. ¡°A delivery for us? I can accept it on her behalf.¡± The naga¡¯s tail rose, hovering in front of Shansa, expectantly waiting for her to place the delivery in its grasp.


    ¡°I am under strict orders to deliver this only to the Crownless, personally. Couriers¡¯ code and all that. Are you able to fetch her?¡± Shansa¡¯s tone was firm, leaving no room for negotiation, as though the weight of her task bore down on every word.


    The naga raised its tail to its brow in a mocking salute before sinking into the grasses, vanishing with a faint rustle. After several heartbeats, Shansa let out a quiet sigh, the tension momentarily easing.


    ¡°The Harbinger is almost as bad as the Gloombound. I hate classes that feed on fear.¡± Feed on fear? Kirian could believe it after encountering the Harbinger. An almost primal part of him had recoiled at the sight of the looming snake, and he was grateful he had managed to control his reaction. ¡°The Crownless and the Archivist shouldn¡¯t be nearly as bad. Still, avoid drawing undue attention to yourself.¡± Not a problem, Kirian thought, certain he wanted nothing more than to stay unnoticed.


    After a few minutes of silence, a human woman with dark brown skin stepped into their lantern light and said, ¡°You have a delivery for me?¡± Kirian was taken aback by how¡­ normal the woman appeared. She wore pale robes that wouldn¡¯t have stood out on any of the empire¡¯s streets and had no distinguishing features. If Kirian wasn¡¯t standing in the open within the demesne of Tir Na Nog, he might have mistaken her for just another random citizen. But that only made Shansa¡¯s hasty bow and stumbling words all the more unsettling.


    ¡°Uhh, Lady Crownless,¡± Shansa stammered, her voice trembling. How could she be more composed around the naga than this woman? Kirian wondered, a faint unease creeping over him. For the first time since Shansa had approached him in Aslavain, Kirian felt truly out of his depth. ¡°Shansa Six-Step of the Couriers. I come bearing a scroll marked for your eyes only.¡± With a trembling hand, she reached into her bag and presented the plain-looking woman with the scroll.


    Casselia thanked her and tucked the scroll into a pouch at her waist. ¡°Is there anything else I can do for you, Shansa Six-Step of the Couriers?¡± Her tone was polite, almost formal, as if this were just another routine exchange.


    ¡°No, no, M¡¯lady.¡± Shansa glanced at the courier¡¯s chip that had guided them to the woman, and seeing that the delivery had been registered, she gave another bow. ¡°My apprentice and I will be going.¡± Her voice held a note of relief, eager to conclude the exchange.


    The woman nodded, a simple gesture that belied the weight of the encounter before she turned and melted back into the shadows. As Kirian and Shansa made their way back to their waiting mounts, a sense of unease settled over him, heavier than before. His thoughts churned with questions¡ªchief among them, what secrets that letter might hold, and why such a seemingly mundane exchange had left him feeling as though the ground beneath his feet had shifted.


    ¡°Where to next, Master?¡± Kirian asked, once they were well on their way out of the forest, the weight of the recent encounter still lingering but curiosity driving him forward.


    ¡°Gondara first, then Dornogor. Word in the Couriers Guild is that there will be a convergence of talent in the City of Beasts for a true prize, and that is not something you should miss,¡± Shansa replied, her voice tinged with urgency. ¡°Let¡¯s hope they,¡± she inclined her head toward where they had come from, ¡°don¡¯t have a candidate of their own, let alone a full triumvirate, to compete.¡±

 Chapter Nine: Musings

    In the depths where the silent tides roam,


    Through the echoes of darkness they comb,


    Only shadows prevail,


    In the ocean¡¯s deep veil,


    Where the spirits have made it their home.


    Midnight currents weave tales left unsaid,


    Stitching sorrow where memories bled,


    Where the specters of old,


    In the deep waters cold,


    Tell of dreams in the dark they have wed.


    Beneath waves where the sun¡¯s light is still,


    Haunting shadows their presence fulfill,


    Through the void¡¯s icy grip,


    In the dark waters¡¯ crypt,


    Where the echoes of lifetimes lie chill.


    ¨C Excerpt from An Ode to Deep Water, Imperial Poem commissioned by Teralith, the City of Hidden Depth.


    Aslavain: Seven Days After the Summer Solstice


    Hadrian was starting to think he wasn¡¯t meant to succeed at this challenge. They had been in the trial for the better part of a week, or so they guessed. The lack of sunlight, combined with no need to eat or drink, made keeping track of time nearly impossible.


    After his eighth death at the hands of the Eidolons, Hadrian decided to track the number of attempts rather than guessing how long he had been awake. He told his team they could probably attempt about twenty-five challenges a day under these conditions. Lotem had called that ¡°a rabbit running to the fox to get practice not being eaten,¡± which Hadrian was still trying to figure out.


    He suspected they were falling behind his predicted daily attempts; they hadn¡¯t even reached one hundred deaths yet. Lotem kept needing time to decompress after each fight, taking longer and longer to recover in his stone chamber. Hadrian couldn¡¯t really blame him. He had to force himself out of that tub of water, the phantom pain fresh in his memory every time.


    Gentle footsteps interrupted his thoughts, and he knew Sylva was approaching. While Lotem needed constant encouragement to reenter the trial, Sylva had thrown herself into it ever since she earned her [Thaumaturge] class. Hadrian was beginning to understand why she was so insistent that the Sect of Silken Grace was dominant in the empire.


    Sylva tackled the secrets of her magic with the ferocity of a warrior. Though, if Hadrian was being honest, he wasn¡¯t exactly sure what she was doing. Fog below, he wasn¡¯t even sure what she¡¯d done on their third attempt. She had been rhyming, chanting, and making wild gestures with her hands¡ªmovements that felt out of place on a battlefield. He¡¯d sensed a building tension in the air, like the feeling in the canopies before a lightning strike, and then he¡¯d died, missing whatever triumph she might have achieved.


    ¡°Sylva, any more insights on our last attempt? And¡ªhow are you holding up? No sign of Lotem yet.¡±


    He hoped she was in one of her more talkative moods. Sylva alternated between an unyielding focus and a subdued curiosity that tried to understand everything. He cherished the time they spent waiting for Lotem when she was willing to tell him stories about the empire and listen to his own in return.


    There was something cathartic about talking of home with someone who understood the sense of exile. Sylva would never return to her sect either. They were both birds tossed from the nest, desperately trying to fly.


    ¡°Hadrian,¡± she said, sitting cross-legged next to him. These angled ceilings made it impossible to even rest their backs against the stone wall. ¡°I¡¯m really starting to miss the luxuries of home. Couches, chairs, even beds that are softer than stone. Towels to dry off after every reawakening. Lantern light that doesn¡¯t bathe us in the colors of blood and fire. It¡¯s like this place was designed to be miserable.¡±


    ¡°Maybe it was. I can¡¯t imagine most trials are as miserable as this. Don¡¯t get me wrong,¡± he added loudly, worried that whoever was running the trial might punish their complaints, ¡°this is an excellent opportunity, better than we could have hoped for to improve. We just wish we had better accommodations.¡±


    ¡°They can¡¯t change the trial now that we¡¯re in it; you can complain as much as you want,¡± she said, not for the first time this week.


    ¡°Call it superstition, but we don¡¯t need anything getting harder this time. It seemed like you were closer to finishing your incantation last time¡ªany success?¡±


    Sylva had said she was trying to invoke one of the Imperial Poems she had promised to recite for Hadrian in full eventually, though she hadn¡¯t had much luck since the Eidolons changed tactics. Seraphis had shifted from a singular invocation that would turn their clothes into fire to a series of different, less crippling incantations. Instead of allowing Sylva to disrupt her ritual, she launched wisps of fire that sought them out or created rings of flame to trap them until Drakar¡¯s club could end the fight.


    ¡°That snake focused her wisps on me the entire fight. I can¡¯t keep my focus with her fire burning me,¡± she shuddered, and Hadrian knew how much she hated fire. ¡°What about you? You said you¡¯ve been trying to figure out something with your armory skill, right?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s been fine. I¡¯ve been trying to figure out if anything I can summon can deal with that club. I can dodge its swings most of the time, but Drakar has that skill that lets him call the club back after he throws it. He keeps releasing the club mid-swing, and I can¡¯t avoid that.¡±


    ¡°I saw you use a shield last time. Did that work any better?¡±


    ¡°Unfortunately not.¡± Hadrian muttered, rubbing his shoulder as the memory of impact flared. ¡°I¡¯ve tried the shield almost a dozen times now and ended up with my arm broken and the shield shattered each time I tried to block. At least with a knife or sword, it feels like I have a chance to wound him in return. But he¡¯s just too big, too strong, for me to have a fair shot. He¡¯s almost three feet taller and magnitudes heavier. Fighting a Numen isn¡¯t fair. What do I do against that? If we kept Seraphis focused on me, do you think you¡¯d have better luck with your incantation?¡±


    She shrugged. ¡°It wouldn¡¯t hurt, but¡­ I¡¯m not convinced it would make much of a difference. Ever since I got the [Thaumaturge] class, my ability to disrupt spells has faltered. I don¡¯t know if getting the class stopped whatever I was doing before from working, or if the naga just won¡¯t give me the opportunity. It feels like something important has changed, but I don¡¯t know what.¡±


    ¡°You said earlier that a [Thaumaturge] is a ¡®master of miracles¡¯; are miracles different from the incantations the naga is using?¡± Hadrian did pay attention when Sylva talked about magic, even if she sometimes acted like his lack of knowledge meant a lack of interest. He¡¯d be the first to admit he didn¡¯t understand the nuances of magic, but he hoped learning from Sylva might help him someday. After all, a hunter had to understand its prey, and he expected to hunt a mage eventually.


    ¡°The elders refused to go into too much detail¡ª¡± She paused as they both let out frustrated sighs. How often had their conversations circled back to that. ¡°¡ªBut we can safely deduce that there are some differences between the major disciplines. [Wizards], [Sorcerers], [Witches], [Thaumaturges], and who knows how many more spellcasting classes. There has to be a clear distinction in either their practice or their results, or we wouldn¡¯t define them differently. Every label has meaning, every word a purpose.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ve gone over that. None of us have any idea what those differences are beyond the basics. [Wizards] use formal spellcasting theorems, [Sorcerers] use unguided releases of mana, [Witches] use hexes and rituals, and [Thaumaturges] create miracles. And unless I¡¯m missing something, we don¡¯t have any way to get more information.¡±


    ¡°Do you think we could ask the Eidolons?¡±


    Hadrian considered the question. The Eidolons had been noticeably less talkative since whatever Sylva had done in their third attempt. The naga had ignored their attempts to converse, starting her incantations the moment she emerged from the golden sarcophagus. It was hard to justify casual conversation when the other party was trying to set you on fire. Still, they hadn¡¯t seemed opposed to conversation before that.


    ¡°Do you know if we can enter the trial without the full triumvirate? I just assumed we had to go together. If we could talk to them now, we might find a clue. I¡¯m sure Lotem wouldn¡¯t hold it against us.¡±


    Sylva¡¯s lips turned down in a gentle frown, a look Hadrian had come to recognize as her not knowing the answer to one of his questions. The Silkborn knew more about the world than anyone Hadrian had ever met, but she acted like she was ashamed to be in the dark.


    ¡°I¡­ should have thought of that. I¡¯m actually not sure.¡±


    ¡°Want to give it a try?¡± Hadrian asked. ¡°Lotem still isn¡¯t here, and we might learn something.¡±


    ¡°Should we tell him we¡¯re entering alone before we try it? I don¡¯t want him to come out and not find us.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ve waited hours before; if we aren¡¯t here, he can wait for us. It might be better for him. He hasn¡¯t handled the trial well so far, and it would give him more time to recover.¡±


    Lotem hadn¡¯t directly complained about their circumstances. If anything, he seemed unwilling to disagree with them, not after they both swore to help him in his revenge against the Tul. Hadrian had grown closer to Sylva as they discussed the trials and she told him stories of the empire, but he hadn¡¯t had the same opportunity with Lotem hiding in his room between every trial.


    Sylva glanced at the door, then back at him, a mischievous smirk on her lips. ¡°We shouldn¡¯t be gone long. It¡¯s not like the fights last more than a minute.¡± He returned her smile as they stood and approached the door. They paused, speaking quietly as they came up with a plan to get the Eidolons to give them some of the information they needed.


    Sylva swung the door open, and they approached the pedestal with the crystal filled with roiling fog. She touched the orb; the doors behind them slammed shut, and two of the sarcophagi swung open, revealing Drakar and Seraphis. The naga¡¯s eyes locked on Sylva as she began her intricate hand gestures, accompanied by a hissing chant Hadrian had yet to decipher.


    ¡°Wait!¡± he called, hoping to prevent an immediate conflict. He knew Drakar and Seraphis were going to kill them eventually, but he hoped to get what he could from the Eidolons first. Drakar lowered his club and held up one hand to stop the naga.


    ¡°Only two this time? We wondered how long it would take for the Bal to drop out. Speak, lad, and pray to the clouds above that it doesn¡¯t upset Seraphis more than she already is.¡±


    The naga halted her incantation, transferring her ire to the Numen as he spoke. Sylva kept her head down, avoiding eye contact with the naga as Hadrian began to speak.


    ¡°Help us understand! We¡¯ve sworn an oath of vengeance, channeled our rage into combat with you, and it seems to have only made things worse. Sylva tried to harness powers she didn¡¯t fully understand, and now you act like we need to be slain on sight. Isn¡¯t your role in this trial to aid the empire¡¯s most promising youth?¡±


    They still weren¡¯t sure if that was the real purpose of the Eidolons in this challenge, but he hoped it might force them to share a detail they otherwise wouldn¡¯t.


    ¡°Didn¡¯t understand what she was doing?¡± The naga let out a sharp hiss that split the air, making Hadrian flinch. He still hadn¡¯t gotten used to her snake-like demeanor. ¡°You mean to tell me that that untrained pile of string managed to weaken my connection to the Radiant Flame by accident?¡±


    ¡°I swear it on my Lifethread,¡± Sylva said somberly, bowing her head as Seraphis focused on her. ¡°I received the skill [Sympathetic Intuition] from Nyxol the Scribe and have allowed it to guide me through this trial.¡±


    Seraphis perked up, her hood flaring outwards, drawing his attention to the golden scales that shimmered as if in sunlight rather than the orange glow of the flickering mage lights. ¡°You entered the trial with no prior knowledge?¡±


    ¡°I entered with the full training of an initiate of the Sect of Silken Grace. However¡­ our elders held to the ancient principles. I have no formal training in matters regarding ¡®true citizens¡¯ and haven¡¯t had the opportunity to cultivate informal training to bridge the gap. Was it different in your time? Were the great sects not honorable enough to respect the restrictions on knowledge?¡±


    ¡°Seraphis,¡± Drakar¡¯s deep voice filled the chamber as he turned to his companion, ¡°you know as well as I do that Silken Grace wouldn¡¯t have violated the great taboo. This never quite added up anyway.¡±


    ¡°What class did you earn?¡± Seraphis asked, crossing her scaled arms over her chest.


    ¡°[Thaumaturge], though I don¡¯t fully understand what that means.¡±


    The naga let out a snort, a sound Hadrian thought was entirely out of the acceptable range for a snake of any size. Drakar¡¯s brows rose, and the man let out a cough that Hadrian suspected was to cover up a laugh.


    ¡°A miracle worker?¡± The Numen shook his head. ¡°Seraphis, no wonder the girl was able to undercut your magics. I don¡¯t know if I¡¯ve ever heard of such a¡­ disciplined [Thaumaturge].¡±


    ¡°Disciplined?¡± Sylva asked, an undercurrent of excitement in her voice. ¡°What do you mean by that?¡±


    ¡°Lass, you approached your incantation like you were attempting High Arcana. You used physical gestures and a sympathetic chant. The few [Thaumaturges] I¡¯ve fought in the past were closer to [Hedge Sorcerers], calling on the Sulphen to solve their ills without the methodology of a true master. More prayer to the Sulphen than true art.¡±Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.


    ¡°She was closer to a [Hedge Wizard], though¡ªno true style, just pure wishful thinking,¡± Seraphis said to Drakar before turning an angry gaze on Sylva. ¡°You attacked my connection to the Radiant Flame, and I can¡¯t just wave that away, accident or no. But I¡¯ll take this new information into account when deciding how best to burn the strings from your body one at a time.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s the difference?¡± Hadrian asked quickly, trying to steer the conversation to safer ground. ¡°Between a [Wizard], [Sorcerer], and [Thaumaturge], I mean?¡± He looked to Drakar and added, ¡°For fighting purposes, of course.¡±


    ¡°In a fight? No reason not to share.¡± Seraphis glared at the Numen as he pointedly ignored her, focusing on Hadrian. ¡°A [Sorcerer] invokes the power of bloodlines to channel the Sulphen. They rely almost entirely on active skills, making them inflexible but dangerous if they have the right skill. You either hit them fast and hard enough to never give them the chance, or you exhaust their skills, since they¡¯re limited in how many spells they can cast daily. Following?¡±


    Hadrian nodded, his full attention on the Numen¡¯s words.


    ¡°A [Wizard] relies on understanding to channel their will. They can achieve incredible feats in any field, but their emphasis on passive skills and abilities from the Sulphen makes them slow to act and vulnerable at the start of a fight. A [Thaumaturge] is somewhere in the middle. They don¡¯t rely on innate talent or ability to persuade action from the Sulphen, but on strength of conviction. Seraphis here,¡± he gestured at the Sunborn, ¡°is a variant of the [Thaumaturge] class; she draws her power from the Radiant Flame.¡±


    ¡°May it never extinguish,¡± Seraphis hissed reverently.


    ¡°And how do you fight a [Thaumaturge]?¡±


    ¡°Why, you smash them, stab them, or cut them in half. They die just like the rest of us.¡± Drakar let out a booming laugh at his own comment, while Seraphis looked ready to target him with her next spell.


    ¡°So my spellcasting relies on strength of conviction?¡± Sylva asked hesitantly, her eyes on the Sunborn. The naga straightened, her body rising with the gesture, and reluctantly replied.


    ¡°If it¡¯s as you claim, then yes. The core of Thaumaturgy is conviction. I believe in the divinity of the Radiant Flame. The Church of the Three believes in the divinity of the threefold aspect. The Nygmar and Blind believe in the divinity of the Crimson Heart. We all have Thaumaturgic methodologies that differ, but conviction is at the core of our belief. What do you believe, Silkborn?¡±


    Sylva looked unnerved by the question, though Hadrian wasn¡¯t sure why finding conviction was so hard. He didn¡¯t worship any divinity; he didn¡¯t need one to tell him his purpose. He would form a shrine in Cutra and bring his village into the empire¡ªhe believed that with the same conviction the naga likely held for her Radiant Flame. After a long hesitation, Sylva spoke.


    ¡°I¡­ I don¡¯t know. I worship nothing divine. I have no tenets of faith. I was taught the religious teachings of all the major religions of the empire, but conviction in any of them¡­¡± She suddenly looked lost, the confidence Hadrian respected in her gone. She needs time to think, he realized, a chance to be alone.


    ¡°Thank you.¡± He bowed deeply to the Eidolons. ¡°We¡¯ll have much to consider after our recovery.¡± He nodded to Sylva, summoned a simple woodcutter¡¯s axe that reminded him of home, and launched himself at Drakar. Maybe this time would be different.


    <hr>


    Lotem lay on the stone bed, a sudden panic gripping his chest as the stone walls closed in around him. He took a deep, shuddering breath and exhaled slowly. He was in the trial in Tir Na Nog, having just awoken from his most recent brutal death¡ªa blow to his chest that made breathing agony until the Eidolons ended his suffering. The memory did nothing to calm the panic still gripping him.


    He felt a shift on his chest and looked down to see the orange form curled on top of him, still light enough to go unnoticed if he wasn¡¯t paying attention. Despite the time spent in the chamber, Sabel seemed healthy. He had run out of meat days ago, but the kitten didn¡¯t even seem to notice the lack of food.


    He wondered who had designed this trial. Forced to live in barren chambers, in cramped hallways, or fight to the death against enemies far stronger than they had any chance of beating. The three of them might be able to defeat one of the Eidolons at a time, but all three? Madness. He had forced himself out of his chamber dozens of times, hoping for something, anything, to change their situation. Nothing had.


    He had watched one of the contests at the Spring Gathering of the Tribes the year his brother had entered Aslavain and had been amazed by the powers displayed by the candidates. The contest in UlaanThur that year had involved a great battle recreated between two coalitions of tribes before the Bal had joined the empire. He had watched the images projected across the heavens and wondered what it took for the youth to become capable enough to change the course of a battle in less than a year. But he hadn¡¯t imagined a trial like this.


    He had imagined training a beast of war he had bonded with, like the famed Screamers, a cavalry formed exclusively from riders of Axebeaks, or the Gatecrashers, the legion who rode war bison in the tribal style. He had imagined bonding with a creature that was unique and powerful, a creature only available within Aslavain. He had even imagined training in the sword, prior experience or not. But he hadn¡¯t imagined this kind of torture.


    Hadrian could summon weapons and moved with the grace of someone who had dedicated their life to violence. Sylva had been trained in one of the greatest sects of the Malan and was now seemingly teaching herself how magic worked using pure guesswork. Lotem would have called that crazy if it hadn¡¯t worked on her third attempt. And what did he have? A kitten to leave in this stone chamber while he died, and a lifetime spent in nature wasted while within this lifeless stone. A lifetime wasted.


    He knew he should get up from the uncomfortable stone bed, open his door, and join his team in preparing for their next deaths. But he wasn¡¯t sure he could bring himself to do it.


    How was this fair?


    He had been promised a chance at greatness. One of the Immortals had assigned him to the triumvirate of Rovan¡¯s Squire. They had chosen a city specializing in beasts to enter, a place that should have helped him close the knowledge gap between himself and his companions. But they had been rerouted to this nightmare, and he still wasn¡¯t sure it wasn¡¯t his own fault.


    He felt the embers of anger flare, and he let it grip him as he lay there, unable to shift his thoughts away from the question that wouldn¡¯t let him be.


    How was this fair?


    Aslavain was supposed to be the empire¡¯s training realm. Each of the shrined cities invested enough resources into their annual trials and contests to bankrupt the Zherenkhan, rich as their herds were. Rumor had it that the empire spent more resources annually in Aslavain than they did in the war against the Tul. He had thought that meant Aslavain would help him. Now he wondered if he should have just joined the Legions. At least he would be trained before being sent to the front to fight the Tul.


    Sure, those who survived Aslavain were guaranteed positions of rank in the military or government service. Sure, Aslavain gifted relics to candidates that they could never acquire anywhere else. Sure, the true contests in the Eternal Cities allowed Triumvirates to gain fame and recognition beyond anything achievable in the standard legions. But had he seen any of those benefits yet? Would they ever see any of them? They needed to beat not only these Eidolons but two other challenges to leave this trial as champions, and Lotem wasn¡¯t sure Tir Na Nog even allowed for that as a possibility.


    The question lingered. Although his chamber was lit by a normal torch, he could almost swear he saw the dancing red of the hallway¡¯s light. The crimson hue forced the question into his every thought.


    How was this fair?


    Lotem rested his head back against the bed, fingers running along Sabel¡¯s spine in a gentle rhythm. He let the anger guide his thoughts, unwilling to muster the effort to push them away. He had to control his thoughts when he was with the others. He wouldn¡¯t let his doubts embarrass him, not when Hadrian and Sylva seemed content with the status quo. Skies above, Hadrian seemed to thrive in the constant fighting. Lotem wished he had a tenth of the man¡¯s budding optimism, but even in that, the world was not fair.


    Soon, he promised himself, he would find the courage to try again.


    <hr>


    The [Archivist of Hidden Truth] sighed in frustration as he finished reviewing his memory of yet another tome. His [Perfect Recall of the Written Word] allowed him to read entire texts as though they were in front of him, a skill worthy of one of the empire¡¯s foremost [Archivists], or so he had always thought. Krinka had spent decades examining the heritage of the empire, and though the Archives of Haffarah were his favorite, he had ranged as far as the grand archives of Nysarix, the largest repository of knowledge outside the Sul Empire that he knew of. If anyone could find the knowledge they needed, it would be him, and yet¡­


    ¡°If you glare at that wall any harder, it might break.¡± Casselia¡¯s gentle words jolted him back into awareness. ¡°No luck?¡±


    ¡°I really thought the Heist of Skalith¡¯s Imperium at the start of the Sixth Age might suffice.¡± He shook his head ruefully, knowing Casselia would understand the difficulty of the task she¡¯d given him. ¡°A group of three new citizens to the Scaled Dominion entered the Imperium unexpectedly through a novel skill that used talismans the ward scheme hadn¡¯t anticipated, but the substance is too far from our reality. There were no mentors who needed to form contact, and the group was experienced, not the novices we¡¯re working with. They had a full complement of four classes and the skills to back the achievement up.¡±


    ¡°And,¡± Casselia said with a sigh of her own, ¡°the Imperium is too distant from a trial like this one. That makes sense. What other leads are you pursuing?¡±


    ¡°The Emergence of Lapida following the conclusion of the Beast Wars is next on my list. Lapida is localized at least, and the [Triumvirate of¡ª¡± Krinka hesitated as the name rose through his consciousness, courtesy of his [Mnemonic Retention] skill. ¡°¡ªDeep Caverns] located the first of the shrines of the Earthen Few.¡±


    ¡°You think the Nygmar are analogous? They always had some influence here in Tir Na Nog, and the later stages of the trial are likely to have Nygmar influence.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what I thought too. The Triumvirate were at least at Master proficiency, but they were encountering something completely new and darker than expected.¡±


    ¡°That would help make up for the discrepancy in native power levels; I see that. But why is that event so far down your list? We¡¯ve been at this for almost a full week now, Krinka.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not the easiest comparison; for one, the records of the Emergence of Lapida are historically suspect. I¡¯ve never been able to prove it exactly, but I¡¯ve always found the rapid acceptance of the Nygmar unlikely to have happened the way the stories indicate. Some triumvirate of never-before-heard-of nobodies found an entirely new civilization, convinced that civilization to join the empire, and within a year, the Nygmar¡¯s three shrines were formally welcomed to the empire alongside the holdings of the Blind?¡±


    Krinka huffed, bothered by the very idea. Casselia watched him patiently, unwilling to interrupt as his mind pieced together ideas. He squinted at her, then leaned back in his chair.


    ¡°You knew all of that already, didn¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°The Nygmar are of¡­ particular interest to me, though we¡¯ve never been sent to engage with them. I suspect Alsarana has something to do with that.¡± Krinka coughed out a laugh. You don¡¯t send the wolf to negotiate with sheep. ¡°Nevertheless, I asked around about them at the start of the 7th age, after you were killed in the incident with the vultures.¡±


    ¡°I thought we agreed never to bring up the vultures, Cass.¡± She raised her hands in surrender as he glared.


    ¡°After you were killed in the mountains unexpectedly, I should say. My apologies.¡± Her eyes gleamed with faint humor, and Krinka rushed to change the topic before Als had a chance to hear. He did not want the snake bringing up those damned vultures¡ªever.


    ¡°So you investigated the Nygmar while I was in recovery; anything of use?¡±


    ¡°The [Procurator] had his fingers all over that affair. I tracked down an influx of gold, silver, and novel alchemical ingredients in the years following the Nygmar¡¯s entrance into the empire, but nothing directly linked the Dion administrator to the frogs. All that wealth was filtered into the coffers of the Administrators Blood, I¡¯m sure, but I could never confirm it with enough satisfaction to approach the Justicars.¡±


    Not everything returns to the [Procurator]. How many times have we been down that road, Cass? Krinka had spent centuries chasing Casselia¡¯s leads in her shadow war with the man. Dead tomes, he had been killed at least three times on the bastard¡¯s orders. But still, not everything that went wrong could be his fault.


    ¡°Any ties between the [Triumvirate of Deep Caverns] and the Administrators Blood?¡± Krinka asked, suddenly curious. If the Administrators had orchestrated the Triumvirate¡¯s expedition to the Nygmar, they might have slipped past a ward scheme to deliver a message. That could actually do it, Krinka thought, a rush of excitement building.


    ¡°None that I could find. Two of the members were associated with Malan sects, Conclave Earth and Rivers Remorse, and the last was from Hirion, one of the first to be truly raised in the City of Conquest, if my memory serves.¡± Krinka knew it would; Casselia never spoke unless she was certain.


    ¡°They sent two Malan and a Kiel to investigate? Why? That¡¯s Dion territory by treaty as old as the empire. Even the Valourwash had been considered Dion territory for centuries by then.¡±


    ¡°I was never able to get a straight answer about that. The East Warden at the time personally asked me to drop the matter after I made some less than discreet inquiries. She claimed it was disrupting the fragile trust they were building with their newest neighbors to the empire. At the time I¡ª¡± Casselia¡¯s head whipped to the doorway just before the door swung open to reveal Alsarana.


    ¡°Als, did something happen to the children?¡± Casselia asked, a slight edge to her tone.


    ¡°No, nothing so extreme. A courier has arrived with a delivery, for your hands only.¡± Casselia visibly relaxed at the news, as though expecting it. Krinka wondered why she hadn¡¯t told him she was expecting a delivery.


    She thanked Alsarana and strode from the room, vanishing into the darkness outside. ¡°Krinka, Krinka, Krinka, what do you think our great leader is receiving? Delivered by Shansa Six-Step, no less, though dear old Shansa still hasn¡¯t seemed to forgive us quite yet.¡±


    Shansa Six-Step? Krinka let the name sit with him for a moment before his notes on the woman came back to him. Ah, yes, the Battle of Kaelums Refuge. She hasn¡¯t forgiven us? Not that I can blame her. The Battle of Kaelums Refuge was contentious in the empire¡¯s history, even now, almost five centuries later. Krinka stood by their actions that night; they had saved far more lives than they had taken. That hadn¡¯t stopped him from refusing to use that ritual again on humanoid life. It had been the Marquis of Bone¡¯s choice, after all, not his own. Though Alsarana hadn¡¯t discouraged the Marquis.


    ¡°If Shansa was willing to take the job, it has to be important. Likely ordered by one of the Wardens, maybe as high as the Imperial Triumvirate,¡± Krinka reasoned. ¡°Shansa would¡¯ve refused a normal missive if she could, especially if she had to meet Casselia personally. She tried to get us blacklisted from the Couriers Guild four centuries back¡ªnot exactly the actions of someone willing to take a delivery without outside pressure.¡±


    Alsarana prepared to respond but turned to the door instead. Moments later, Casselia reentered the room, an imperial scroll in her hands. From the Imperial Triumvirate indeed, Krinka thought. Casselia sat down and unrolled the scroll, her eyes darting back and forth across the page as her frown deepened.


    ¡°So, Cass, you going to share the big news?¡± Alsarana asked sweetly.


    ¡°We¡¯ve been ordered to be on high alert. The Diviners Guild, the Sect of Eight Strands, and the Bonecasters have all warned of coming turmoil, though interestingly, none of them can share any more details than that.¡±


    That three of the most prestigious divination guilds had not only agreed on a premonition but petitioned for imperial intervention is worrisome, Krinka thought. But what would cause them to lack any type of real narrative about the risk?


    The Diviners Guild employed experts in all forms of divination; it wasn¡¯t unexpected that they might lack a complete picture of events. But the Bonecasters and the Sect of Eight Strands as well? No. That makes no sense. The Bonecasters and the Sect of Eight Strands were respected institutions of the empire, the primary groups responsible for intelligence gathering for the Dion and Kiel factions, respectively. They don¡¯t offer warnings lightly; Krinka knew that for certain.


    ¡°Can¡¯t share more details or won¡¯t share more details?¡± Alsarana asked.


    ¡°That¡¯s less clear. Our instructions are simple enough: we¡¯re to watch and document anything out of the ordinary and, if necessary, take whatever actions we deem necessary in defense of the empire. We are to present to the House of Lords our findings upon their summons.¡± The room fell silent as they processed her words.


    ¡°An Imperial Writ?¡± Krinka asked hesitantly, breaking the silence.


    ¡°An Imperial Writ.¡± Casselia confirmed with a nod and a smile that didn¡¯t reach her eyes.


    ¡°We haven¡¯t had an Imperial Writ since¡­ well, the Flower Wars.¡± Krinka leaned back in his chair. ¡°I didn¡¯t know they offered them outside of an active conflict, not to the likes of us, not nowadays.¡±


    ¡°Those warnings from the guilds are more dire than they first appear.¡± Alsarana looked thoughtful, never a good sign in Krinka¡¯s experience. ¡°Why us?¡±


    ¡°Why us indeed.¡±

 Chapter Ten: Realizations

    Out of the abyss,


    From the earth¡¯s strangling maw,


    We claw forth, the unseen brood,


    Bound by blood to the Heart¡¯s insatiable call.


    Out of the mire,


    From the swamp¡¯s foul breath,


    We arise, the shadowed swarm,


    Thralls to the Heart¡¯s hunger, lurking beneath.


    Out of the deep,


    From the marsh¡¯s buried womb,


    We gather, the ravenous kin,


    In grim exaltation, to the Heart¡¯s undying drum.


    Out of the silence,


    In the stillness of peace,


    Our voices writhe, choked with thirst.


    The Heart stirs, restless, in the quiet dusk¡ª


    A shadow that hungers when blood runs cold,


    And waits, ravenous, for war¡¯s hot flood.


    ¨C Translation of a Nymgar Brood Chant


    Aslavain: Eight Days After the Summer Solstice


    The girl moved through the forest of bone with a hesitant, almost mechanical gait, the dyed leather of the Crimson Hand merging seamlessly with the dark soil and the fog-choked landscape, making her appear as just another shadow among many. Alsarana slithered behind her, his onyx scales blending him into the murky gloom, nearly invisible as he tracked her movements. She had triggered one of his outer wards a mile away from their camp, and he had quickly excused himself from the conversation with Casselia and Krinka about the writ to investigate this second nocturnal visitor.


    The girl trudged forward, seemingly unaware of the lurking dangers. This part of the forest was relatively safe¡ªat least for now¡ªbut she had no way of knowing that. Alsarana had intertwined his Domain with the outer wards, weaving a sense of unease into the very fabric of reality, a subtle deterrent for the less intelligent creatures that roamed these woods. Yet, the girl showed no sign of sensing it.


    She carried a war hammer, its heavy head etched with the sigils of Tir Na Nog¡ªa likely gift from her initiation into the Crimson Hand. Alsarana found the choice commendable. Too often, new initiates were captivated by swords and knives before their first real encounter with something truly monstrous. He had seen entire triumvirates crumble against rock elementals, bone horrors, and cavalry charges, all because they clung to weapons suited for duels, not survival. Swords belonged in the arena; hammers were for the world beyond¡ªthough, as a necromancer, Alsarana would admit to a personal bias.


    As the girl neared the clearing, she halted, her eyes first landing on the obelisk standing sentinel-like in the gloom, then shifting to the small bone hut nestled nearby. Her gaze lingered on the hut, and Alsarana recognized that her purpose here went beyond the trial. Not that it surprised him¡ª the Tir Na Nog exhibition was still months away, and this trial was meant to be nearly impossible for someone new to Aslavain, unless they possessed exceptional talent or rare gifts from the Sulphen. The fact that she chose the Crimson Hand suggested she had neither.


    Either she¡¯s here to investigate our meddling, or she¡¯s been sent out here to suffer at the hands of one of the bastards running the place. The Nygmar might revel in such cruelty, but why would she agree to it? He would have to resort to his preferred method of extracting information.


    Alsarana slithered through the grasses, positioning himself directly behind the hesitating woman. He raised his body, looming ominously as he spread his hood, channeling a hint of his Aspect into his voice.


    ¡°Who dares enter our hidden grove?¡± he hissed, his tone heavy with the weight of the unseen. The girl spun around, fury sparking in her eyes as she swung her hammer in a wide arc, aimed at human height. Alsarana swayed back, the blow missing his scales by mere inches. ¡°Touchy, touchy. Planning to kill someone tonight?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not the first Gloombound to fuck with me; why shouldn¡¯t you be the last?¡± she snapped. She has fire, this one. I like it. The modern youth lack this¡ªa willingness to commit to violence at the slightest provocation.


    ¡°Gloombound? Oh no, no, no,¡± Alsarana chuckled, his voice low and sinister. ¡°I am no Gloombound. Those wanna-be monsters concern themselves with jump scares, not true terror.¡± In truth, Alsarana bore no real grudge against the guild; they exploited the same fears that made his [Harbinger] class so effective¡ªthey were just far less proficient. At his words, the girl¡¯s grip on her hammer loosened, the tension in her stance easing. She harbors a grudge against the Gloombound. Interesting.


    ¡°Then name yourself, stranger.¡±


    ¡°Name myself? Me? The one who dwells in this grove, and not you, the intruder? Are your manners so backward?¡± He let his jaws part just enough to reveal the tips of his fangs, a drop of venom slipping from one. He felt the girl¡¯s fear spike, her muscles tensing. Good.


    ¡°I am Emilia, daughter of¡ª¡±


    ¡°No need for titles; I care not who sired you, Emilia,¡± he interrupted, relishing the way she bristled. The Malan always hated when he cut short their lineage recitations, their carefully rehearsed rituals. ¡°Why did you come here, Emilia?¡± he asked, his voice suddenly warm, almost familiar, as though they were old friends reuniting. The sudden shift left her off-balance, her planned retort faltering.


    ¡°Why should I tell you?¡± she asked, her voice hesitant. ¡°Guild business,¡± she added, the words coming out too late to be convincing.


    ¡°They send mere initiates on night missions into unstable demesnes? The Crimson Hand must be desperate. No, you were given a task, perhaps by an Eidolon, with promises of a reward and no true understanding of the risk.¡± He watched closely as she flinched, confirming his suspicion.


    ¡°And if I was?¡±


    ¡°Then I would be open to providing a counteroffer. I suspect that our purposes are not currently aligned, and they very much should be.¡± We can¡¯t have our actions get back to Tir Na Nog, not formally at least, not yet.


    ¡°A counteroffer?¡±


    ¡°Come, we have much to discuss.¡± He turned and slithered through the grasses toward the hut, certain she would follow¡ªwhat else could she do? As he reached the door, he flexed his will, and the bone door swung open, revealing Krinka and Casselia, still locked in a heated debate. ¡°We have a guest,¡± Alsarana announced softly. ¡°She¡¯s been sent to investigate us, I believe. Her name is Emilia, Malan origin.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, Als, I¡¯ll handle it from here.¡± Casselia exhaled, her demeanor softening as she stood, a gentle smile gracing her lips. She gestured for him to step aside. As Emilia entered, Alsarana moved away, observing as Casselia greeted the girl with practiced warmth, engaging in small talk as though they were old friends. Gradually, the tension Alsarana had so carefully instilled began to melt away under Casselia¡¯s practiced charm.


    ¡°So, Emilia, you have ventured far in the middle of the night to reach this trial. Will you share why?¡±


    ¡°Guild business,¡± Emilia said, her voice firmer than before, as if she had prepared herself for the question.


    ¡°Which would be?¡± Casselia asked, one eyebrow arched, her gaze steady as she patiently waited for an answer.


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure I should say.¡± Emilia glanced around suspiciously, the dawning realization that she had likely been sent to investigate them settling in.


    ¡°We wish you the best of luck, then.¡± Casselia stood smoothly, moving as if to escort Emilia from the hut. Emilia started at the sudden dismissal, freezing in place, her eyes darting between Casselia and the doorway.


    ¡°Your companion mentioned a counteroffer?¡± she asked tentatively, her voice barely above a whisper.


    ¡°That was my intention, but if you¡¯re unwilling to share the details of the original offer, we have nothing to discuss. I¡¯m sure we can find a mutually beneficial arrangement, but I¡¯m far too busy to waste time extracting information from you. A full triumvirate of [Venerate] certainly has more to offer than some random Eidolon, but the choice is yours.¡± Casselia shrugged, gesturing toward the door once more.


    ¡°Wait.¡± Emilia¡¯s voice was frantic, a sudden panic gripping her as she realized what Casselia could offer. ¡°You¡¯re three of the [Venerate]? Truly?¡±


    ¡°Officially named the [Triumvirate of the Broken Crown], and you have my sworn oath on the Sulphen to it.¡±


    ¡°One of the Nygmar asked me to investigate this trial. They said the wards were being tampered with and wanted to know why. They offered me a powerful skill if I brought back information on who was interfering.¡±


    ¡°Now that¡¯s something we can work with, my dear. I¡¯m glad you¡¯ve come around.¡± Casselia returned to her seat and leaned forward, her full attention now on the candidate. ¡°What do you truly want, Emilia? Why did you enter Aslavain?¡±


    Emilia¡¯s hand moved absently to her chest, as if reaching for a necklace or talisman, before she realized her mistake and refocused on Casselia. ¡°I am an adherent of the Holy Church of the Three, and they¡¯ve sent me to counteract the evils of the Dion.¡±


    A potential [Paladin] working for a Nygmar? What a peculiar cycle this is turning out to be. Alsarana had his own history with the Church of the Three and decided it would be best to let Casselia handle this conversation. He was no ally to the Dion factions¡ªfar from it¡ªbut the Church had never been adept at distinguishing between necromancers. He made a mental note to check if his bounty with the Church had been lifted; perhaps they had forgotten him entirely.


    ¡°And you believed a Nygmar skill would aid you in that?¡± Casselia¡¯s voice was soft, but her words carried the seed of doubt.


    ¡°I need something to make me stand out. Why not a Nygmar skill?¡±


    ¡°I assume you¡¯re not fond of curse magic; the Church of the Three certainly isn¡¯t.¡± Emilia paled, and Casselia sighed softly. ¡°Perhaps the skill wouldn¡¯t involve curses, but I would be cautious if I were you. Krinka, what are the odds of a skill related to curse magic?¡± Krinka, who had been standing quietly to the side, hoping to remain unnoticed, startled at the question.


    ¡°Roughly two-thirds, likely closer to seven out of ten. The most recent census data shows curse skills account for about that percentage among the Nygmar. That¡¯s in the Province of the Earthen Few, though, if we account for¡ª¡±


    ¡°Thank you, Krinka,¡± Casselia smoothly cut him off. ¡°I think that¡¯s more than enough for our guest.¡± She refocused on Emilia, offering a small shrug. ¡°Those odds are the best anyone could provide. How do you feel about your chances?¡±


    ¡°And what? You¡¯ll offer me a better skill just to ignore whatever you¡¯re doing here?¡±


    ¡°A better skill? What do you take us for¡ªsome petty Eidolon needing mortals to do their bidding?¡± Casselia shook her head, genuine disgust evident in her tone. Alsarana knew nothing irked her more than poor training of the next generation. ¡°No. If you want to challenge the Dion, to confront the scions of the Ancient Blood, you need expertise. We can offer you a class¡ªone that will open doors for you to earn your own skills.¡±


    ¡°A class?¡± She wavered, uncertainty flickering in her eyes. Alsarana knew Casselia had already convinced her; now it was just about getting the candidate to accept her own realization.


    ¡°Krinka, what are three classes you¡¯d recommend for someone intending to challenge the dominance of the Dion?¡± Krinka gave Emilia an appraising look, his gaze narrowing as he took a few moments to compose his thoughts before responding. The girl sat on the edge of her seat, anticipation palpable as she focused on the scholar.


    ¡°Do you already have a class?¡± The girl shook her head, and Krinka gave an approving huff. ¡°Good, good, that keeps cross-synergistic influences to a minimum. You were raised Malan, in the north, correct?¡±


    ¡°In Saralainn.¡±


    ¡°The City of Growth. Fascinating. Did you live in the city proper or in the Eternal Domicile?¡±


    ¡°In the Domicile, but I don¡¯t see how that¡¯s relevant¡ª¡±


    ¡°Hush, child,¡± Casselia gently interrupted. ¡°Answer him as he asks. Krinka is the best at this, and selecting a class offering is more art than science.¡± Krinka blushed faintly, and Alsarana made a mental note to tease him about it later.


    ¡°First, the [Bane Slayer] class, which focuses on destroying the empire¡¯s enemies. While it¡¯s often used against the Tul, its skills have broader applications. Second, the [Paladin of the Threefold Aspect], which ties directly to your church and mission, though working around the classes restrictions may prove troublesome if we are in a hurry. Third, the [Bone Hunter], specialized in tracking and eliminating necromancers and their constructs. Now¡ª¡±


    ¡°[Bone Hunter]. I¡¯ll accept your offer, whatever it entails, but I want that [Bone Hunter] class.¡± The girl¡¯s sudden resolve caught Casselia¡¯s attention, and she sent Krinka a look that made it clear she would handle the rest.


    ¡°That could be acceptable. Krinka will teach you the secret oath of the Bone Hunters Guild and provide the authority you¡¯ll need for the oath to be accepted. In return, we require three concessions: you will carry a talisman of our making into the trial, you will activate it once inside, and you will report nothing to the Nygmar after completing the trial. Are these terms acceptable?¡±This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.


    A talisman? What¡¯s Cass playing at now? Does she think this will let us form our oaths with the triumvirate? He glanced at Krinka and was surprised to see excitement on the man¡¯s face. If Krinka thinks it will work, then this woman might be our lucky break.


    Emilia hesitated, then asked with a curious tone, ¡°What¡¯s the talisman for?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ve been trying to contact a Triumvirate that¡¯s already entered the trial. A talisman inside the ward scheme could resolve those issues. I swear on my Crest that the talisman won¡¯t directly impact you or your chances in the trial.¡±


    ¡°I accept. Do we need to sign anything?¡±


    ¡°In the eyes of the Sulphen, I accept the terms as previously stated,¡± Casselia said formally, gesturing for Emilia to repeat the words.


    ¡°Umm, in the eyes of the Sulphen, I accept the terms as previously stated.¡± She sat upright as the soul oath gripped her, the terms etching themselves onto her very soul. For someone like Casselia, the sensation would be barely noticeable; but for a new candidate? Alsarana was impressed by her fortitude as she weathered the internal storm.


    ¡°Krinka, help her memorize the oath she¡¯ll need. Alsarana, we need to discuss the talisman.¡± She paused, then turned back to the scholar. ¡°What type of array do you want?¡±


    Krinka pondered, his gaze flicking to Emilia before settling on Alsarana. ¡°A Barzaminian array should suffice, with an emphasis on sympathetic influence of thoughts. It needs to be at least¡ª¡± His eyes lifted to the ceiling as he accessed a skill to retrieve the necessary data. ¡°¡ªMaster quality, second tier, third if possible.¡±


    Barzaminian? The City of Gems? Why? Proximity to Saralainn? No, that doesn¡¯t fit. If that were the case, we¡¯d use Rahabian style, associated with Saralainn. Master quality as well? That¡¯s going to cost me my most precious bones.


    ¡°That¡¯ll deplete my reserves, only one attempt here. Barzaminian, you¡¯re sure?¡± he asked, glancing at Casselia for confirmation. Krinka nodded, his certainty unwavering.


    ¡°I have a specific event in mind, and a Barzaminian array should invoke the history we need, despite its inefficiencies.¡±


    ¡°Als, how long until we can expect you back?¡±


    ¡°For a Barzaminian array of that quality? Twelve hours at least. If I were working with a gemstone or crystal, it¡¯d be quicker, but for something like this? Twelve hours will be cutting it close.¡±


    ¡°Well, Emilia,¡± Casselia said, turning back to the woman, ¡°we have twelve hours to convince the Sulphen that you¡¯re worthy of the class. Shall we begin?¡±


    <hr>


    A wisp of fire streaked past Sylva, narrowly missing her as she dove out of its path. The searing heat left her momentarily disoriented, her concentration shattered by the close call. Seraphis¡¯s fingers wove intricate patterns in the air, the naga¡¯s golden scales pulsing with an inner light as each motion summoned wisps of fire that coalesced before launching toward Sylva with lethal intent. She prayed Drakar would reach her before the flames did, cold dread settling in her stomach as she recalled the agonizing sensation of fire searing her silken flesh.


    Instinctively, she glanced to her left, hoping Hadrian fared better. The Kiel man wielded a simple bone axe, moving with precise agility as he dodged and swayed, evading the Numen¡¯s crushing blows. Drakar¡¯s bone club was a fearsome weapon, capable of smashing through walls with a single swing. Sylva knew that if it connected with Hadrian, their fight would be over in an instant. Yet Hadrian¡¯s focus never wavered; his steps were calculated as he flitted out of reach, pivoting to strike at Drakar¡¯s exposed knee. The Numen dodged effortlessly, his club descending in a powerful arc that shattered the mosaic tile floor as Hadrian rolled out of its path. The impact sent shards of ceramic spraying across the chamber, their jagged edges slicing through the air with a sharp, grating noise.


    Before Sylva could fully process the destruction, her vision was consumed by a blinding flash of golden fire. Every nerve screamed as her world dissolved into white-hot agony, the pain so intense it felt as if her very soul were being burned away.


    The Radiant Flame had always felt unnaturally hungry to Sylva, as if it sought to consume her entirely, to strip her of life itself. She was beginning to suspect it possessed a will of its own, separate from Seraphis, who had summoned it. The fire gnawed at her animating magics, draining her essence and leaving behind a hollow emptiness she detested almost as much as the pain.


    When she awoke, submerged in the pool of water, she allowed herself to float aimlessly for a few minutes, her breath gradually steadying from ragged gasps to smooth, controlled inhalations and exhalations, just as she had been taught. The elders had always extolled the virtues of meditation, insisting it would prove far more valuable than it first appeared. I never imagined I¡¯d be using those breathing exercises to pull myself together after being burned alive repeatedly. Burning string, I never even conceived that this would be necessary at all. I was supposed to be in Eisentor, training in the arcane arts, not trapped in this nightmare of a trial.


    At least the Eidolons were helpful this time. Seraphis still holds a grudge, but Drakar seemed willing to overlook it. Is there a division between the two?


    The Numen had primarily settled in the Khanate east of the great plains, far removed from the mountain fortresses of Sabahar and the Sunborn. To her knowledge, the two groups had little reason for contact, let alone conflict. The Bal Invasion and the subsequent Flower Wars had never touched the lands north of the Plains of the Dionalsar, and the Sunborn, sworn to battle the Tul, had played little role in the war. In contrast, the Numen of the Bal had fought fiercely in the Flower Wars before eventually accepting the Treaty of Swallow¡¯s Grace.


    Yet here they are in Tir Na Nog, with some clear grievance against the Dion¡ªif they can be trusted. Allies by situation rather than true friendship, then. She wondered if she could exploit the division between them. I¡¯ve been assuming that Morvan and Drakar are allies because of their Numen blood; is that actually true, though?


    She recalled that Morvan said he was from the Blue Fort, serving the Imperial Rangers, stationed near Ylfenhold to defend against Tul crossings of the Diontel¡ªa far cry from the Imperial Circuits. Drakar, a [Breaker of Bone], claimed to be a Champion of the seventeenth circuit in the Reign of Watchful Eyes. The circuits always had a tenuous relationship with the true military of the empire.


    She wasn¡¯t sure how to use the realization that the three Eidolons¡¯ relationships were weaker than they appeared, but as she lay in the pool of water, her breath returning to a natural rhythm, she hoped it would give her an edge. Nyxol only knew they needed every advantage they could get.


    Her thoughts drifted back to Drakar¡¯s comments about the nature of her magic. Conviction is at the core of thaumaturgy. So why do I feel so uncertain about what I have conviction in? I don¡¯t believe in the divinity of the Radiant Flame or its seeking flame. I don¡¯t believe in the supposed three aspects of the Sulphen that guide us, or the authority of emotion taught by the Luminaries.


    So what do I even believe? I believe in creating a better future for the next generation. I believe in equality and justice, sure¡ªbut how does that translate into my thaumaturgy? Doesn¡¯t everyone believe in those things?


    She retraced her education, desperately searching for something concrete to anchor herself to. I¡¯ve always felt a connection to the Justicars¡¯ ideals; the teachings of the Veil resonated with me. But conviction in abstract concepts like justice and governance¡ªdoes that even feel magical? What kind of miracle stems from a belief in justice? She knew they were on a deadline to reach Ylfenhold, the City of the Veil, to gain access to the Cairn of Titans¡ªtheir only real guidance left. Maybe when we reach the City of the Veil, I can speak with the Justicars and uncover their conviction.


    What can I do in the meantime? What did I feel when I cast that incantation? She closed her eyes, trying to recall the fight. Lotem had shared his intention to destroy the Tul, had shared the story of his brother. Anger. I felt anger in that moment, she remembered. I hadn¡¯t realized the true threat of the Tul, hadn¡¯t understood what it was like for the families of the victims. Lotem was right; the empire could end the threat, could unite and drive the Tul from the hills and caverns they call their own. It had been the first time Sylva had heard about the Tul from someone real, not from a distant tome or a long-lost tale.


    I entered that fight angry, and I channeled that anger into my magic. She remembered the moment when Seraphis shattered her chant with a single skill, crushing her hopes in an instant. It wasn¡¯t fair. What gave her the right to kill me? What gives any of them the right to do this to us? Tir Na Nog is the City of Rage¡ªmaybe it¡¯s time I embraced its namesake.


    She let the realization settle within her, solidifying her resolve. Rising from the pool, water cascaded off her silken skin as if repelled by an unseen force. She found Hadrian near the door, bouncing on his toes, eager for another attempt. As she had come to expect, Lotem was nowhere to be seen.


    The Bal man¡¯s lack of formal training had become evident over the past week. He moved without the deliberate precision that characterized Hadrian¡¯s every step, and he certainly lacked the formal education of one of the sects. In Sylva¡¯s estimation, Lotem was closer to the average than the exceptional. That was fine by her. The man had a mission that would demand greatness, and she expected he would rise to the occasion eventually. Sylvine, for all her petty cruelty, wouldn¡¯t have chosen Lotem if he didn¡¯t have the potential for greatness.


    ¡°Sylva!¡± Hadrian called out as he noticed her approach. ¡°Do you want to try again? I felt like it was much more manageable with just the two of us. Do you think I could enter alone? Drakar seemed happy to give me guidance; maybe I could get information he wouldn¡¯t share in front of Seraphis.¡±


    She smiled, the excitement in his voice igniting an excitement of her own. They had been closer in that last fight than they had for dozens of attempts, and they were ready to return less than a half hour after their last attempt. If we can maintain this rhythm, we can¡¯t help but improve.


    ¡°I¡¯m glad to see you recovered well, Hadrian. I¡¯m not opposed to trying again; there¡¯s not much else to do in this hallway, anyway.¡±


    ¡°I feel like I¡¯m finally getting a handle on his rhythm. That club is brutal to dodge; it reminds me of watching the villagers fight Simians. If one of those four-armed beasts grabs you, it¡¯s over. They danced around them, giving the rest of us an opening. Not that we have backup to take out Drakar from afar, but still, I¡¯ve been focusing on my footwork, and I¡¯m starting to feel like I¡¯m getting the hang of it.¡± He grinned widely, and Sylva couldn¡¯t help but wonder about Cutra. What kind of village lets children fight Simians? Sheer madness.


    ¡°Glad to hear it. If you can handle Drakar, we might actually stand a chance. I think I understand a bit more about my class after that conversation.¡±


    ¡°You find your conviction?¡±


    ¡°Not exactly¡­ but I have a better idea of what might work.¡±


    ¡°You want to try it out?¡± He glanced at the door, then back at her, excitement in his eyes.


    ¡°Let¡¯s give it another shot.¡±


    <hr>


    Lotem emerged from his chamber hesitantly, his steps slow and measured, as if bracing himself for the inevitable frustration of his companions. They had been waiting for hours, seated on the hard stone floor of the hallway, their patience wearing thin. He knew he should have been faster, should have returned as soon as he was able. Skies above, I can¡¯t blame them for being angry. After all, it was his fault they were losing what they both clearly valued most¡ªtime.


    He stopped abruptly as the chamber door slammed shut, the echo reverberating through the empty hallway. Did they just enter the trial? Without me? The realization hit him like a blow, leaving him momentarily stunned. He hadn¡¯t known they could attempt the trial without him. He hadn¡¯t realized they would, even if it was an option. How long have they been making attempts without me?


    A wave of uncertainty washed over him as he stood in the desolate hallway, his gaze shifting between the open doors of the chambers where they had awoken. There was no other explanation¡ªthey had left him behind. And he couldn¡¯t really blame them. He had been dead weight, barely holding his own against the beasts summoned by Morvan, let alone the man himself.


    Hadrian seemed convinced he could best Drakar in martial combat, as unlikely as that seemed to Lotem. Sylva seemed certain she could master her new class without any guidance, stumbling her way into greatness. And Lotem? He wasn¡¯t even sure he was capable of fighting at all, let alone facing a former Imperial Ranger. Then again, they had been granted classes and skills that could actually help them.


    What had the Sulphen given him? A natural enemy to fight, one as far removed from the Tul as he could imagine. A skill to refine his bloodline, as though his actual blood wasn¡¯t good enough. At least he¡¯d received a skill to make him stronger, though he had yet to see how that could help with anything that mattered. It lets me throw the Thunderback, at least.


    He sank to the floor, his back pressed against the cold stone wall, his thoughts spiraling deeper into despair. He knew¡ªjust knew¡ªthat the others would abandon him the moment they had the chance. Sure, they had sworn the triumviral oaths, bound themselves together in a room of threefold oath to work as one. But Sylva had made it clear they were only agreeing to work together while in Aslavain. In one year, would they abandon him?


    The sound of a door creaking open startled him from his thoughts. He turned, surprised to see Hadrian emerge only minutes after the door had closed. The man¡¯s fog robe was dry despite the wet footprints marking his path, a testament to his recent return from battle. Lotem braced himself for a look of anger, disappointment, or at least annoyance from the Kiel man. But Hadrian merely smiled.


    ¡°Lotem, glad to see you¡¯re back. Is Sabel doing all right?¡±


    Hadrian had been fascinated by the kitten from the moment they met. Suspicious at first, especially after realizing Sabel was a predator, his concern quickly evaporated when the kitten fell asleep on his chest between two of their fights. Since then, Hadrian hadn¡¯t failed to ask about Sabel, treating her as though she were a full member of their team. Lotem liked that about him¡ªthe way he respected even a beast.


    ¡°She¡¯s doing well. She was napping when I left her, but she¡¯s getting restless without a friend for long periods. Sorry for any delay in my return; she needs companionship, or it¡¯ll be bad for her development.¡± It wasn¡¯t strictly a lie, or so Lotem told himself, though he knew his delay had as much to do with his fear as with his furry companion.


    ¡°Hopefully she¡¯ll have a better space to explore once we beat this part of the trial. Sylva and I had a bit of a breakthrough earlier. Did you know you can attempt the trial on your own or with companions? If I enter without the two of you, I can face Drakar one-on-one; the same goes for Sylva with Seraphis, and probably you with Morvan as well.¡±


    How long have you known you no longer needed me? he wanted to ask. Instead, he simply said, ¡°When did you find that out?¡±


    ¡°Sylva and I went in together for the first time about an hour ago, though time isn¡¯t easy to tell in this place. We went in individually a few minutes ago. She went first, and I followed after. We were hoping to share the news with you.¡±


    Only an hour. Relief washed over him, but it quickly gave way to uncertainty. Just minutes ago, he had been doing his best to avoid conflict, belittling himself for his cowardice. At least when we all went in together, I was necessary. But now? How am I supposed to keep up if they train without me?


    ¡°Any luck?¡± he asked, unsure how to respond to the news.


    ¡°Naw, I felt like I was onto something for a moment there. I was imagining myself on the training poles, dodging my Pa¡¯s attempts to drop me, and it just felt right. Then I misstepped, the club connected, and I was back in the pool.¡± Hadrian shrugged, looking a bit embarrassed.


    ¡°The training poles?¡±


    ¡°Oh yeah, the village had this setup with small wooden platforms, about this big,¡± Hadrian formed a circle with his arms, the size of a large pumpkin. ¡°They started my training by having me run across the field, trying to beat my previous times without falling into the nets below. By the time I was ready for my Ceremony of Loss, I was dodging dulled arrows and avoiding guardians trying to knock me off. Didn¡¯t your tribe have something similar?¡±


    ¡°Nothing like that, though now that I think about it, it does sound similar to the training some of the clan¡¯s riders undergo. Not exactly the same, but training is training, right?¡± Not that I was ever part of those sessions. I never intended to fight and thought I was good enough already.


    ¡°Did you ever participate?¡± Hadrian asked curiously.


    ¡°Once or twice,¡± Lotem lied, hoping Hadrian wouldn¡¯t notice the hesitation in his voice. ¡°Where¡¯s Sylva?¡±


    ¡°Oh, she should be here soon. I think she likes to meditate between attempts; she usually arrives soonish.¡±


    ¡°And you just¡­ get up ready to fight again?¡±


    ¡°Why wouldn¡¯t I?¡± Hadrian looked momentarily puzzled, then his expression softened. I don¡¯t need your pity, Lotem thought, bristling at the shift. ¡°Sure, losing sucks. Don¡¯t get me wrong, that club will give me nightmares someday. But we only have one year in Aslavain to get better. I didn¡¯t even know if Rovan would accept me, let alone make me the [Squire of Carven Bone]. I can¡¯t let him down. So yeah, I get up after getting knocked down and give it another shot. As long as I¡¯m a little better this time than last, it¡¯s worth it.¡±


    ¡°A little bit better every time.¡±


    ¡°Want to give it a try? Sylva isn¡¯t here yet, but we went without you; I¡¯m sure she wouldn¡¯t mind if we went without her too.¡±


    Lotem took a deep breath, imagining he was exhaling his fears and doubts. If Hadrian can do it, so can I. This time at least.


    ¡°Let¡¯s give it a try,¡± he said, hoping he didn¡¯t sound as nervous as he felt. What is there to fear when I know I¡¯ll be all right in the end?

 Chapter Eleven: Oaths

    The Sul Empire is shaped by twelve dominant schools of thought on justice, law, and social order. Each school enforces its own unique moral code. Officially, the empire claims these schools are equal in power, but in practice, four of them hold disproportionate influence: the Virtuists of the Bal clans, emphasizing proper action; the Consequentialists of the Dion, calculating moral outcomes; the Deontologists of the Malan, with their strict adherence to moral law; and the Absurdists of the Kiel, who champion true freedom. To understand the empire¡¯s politics and soul, one must grasp these moral foundations. This treatise will explore the conflicts among the four most powerful schools and the methods the empire uses to suppress generational unrest.


    ¨C Excerpt from The Ethics of Empire


    Aslavain: Eight Days After the Summer Solstice


    ¡°Conviction is the knowledge that the Radiant Flame burns bright enough to demand attention from the masses, like Ashwing Moths drawn to a flame. Conviction demands an answer, and the [Thaumaturge] uses their conviction to reshape the world around them.¡± Seraphis¡¯s gaze bore into Sylva as the Silkborn woman absorbed the naga¡¯s words.


    Sylva hadn¡¯t known what to expect when she sought advice from Seraphis on how to wield her new class, how to recreate the power she had felt during their third encounter. She had half-expected the naga to attack her outright, especially with no one else present. Yet, instead of violence, the naga had answered her query, though with a reluctance that hung in the air between them. Does she have to provide guidance if I ask? The thought gnawed at Sylva, the logic of it eluding her. It seemed counterintuitive to the trial¡¯s design¡ªa trial so clearly crafted to frustrate with its oppressive red light, leaning walls, and the relentless demand for repeated death.


    And yet, the Eidolons had been helpful on occasion, stopping to answer questions and provide advice. Even Seraphis, now that they were alone at least. Sylva decided not to waste the opportunity.


    ¡°Nyxol said that spellcraft is drawn from the Word that we use, the Will that we have, and a Sacrifice. How does conviction fit into that framework?¡±


    ¡°For a [Wizard], the conviction may simply be the conviction to have absolute precision over the word. For a [Sorcerer], the conviction may lead to a will that would not break. But us [Thaumaturges]? We use conviction as sacrifice to empower our will and word.¡±


    Conviction as sacrifice. The phrase echoed in Sylva¡¯s mind, intertwining with the memory of her recent Legacy Skill¡ª[Silkborn Conviction]. A Legacy Skill, a term she had heard but whose meaning remained elusive. Is that the legacy my parents left me? she wondered. And what exactly is being sacrificed? A sacrifice implies loss, a trade of one agony for another. But conviction¡­ conviction wasn¡¯t a finite resource, wasn¡¯t something that could be ladled out until empty. Conviction, in theory, was endless.


    A realization struck her then, a chilling understanding of why the Sunborn, like Seraphis, had stood as an indomitable shield against the Tul. If their rituals could continue indefinitely, fueled by an unyielding belief in the divinity of their flame, what chance did the Tul have?


    ¡°Can someone run out of conviction?¡± she asked, seeking to confirm her theory.


    ¡°Of course they can,¡± the naga replied, her tongue flicking out briefly. Sylva struggled to read her expression, unfamiliar with the reptilian subtleties. ¡°Conviction is like fire. It requires fuel to burn and air to breathe. Experience is the fuel of conviction, the foundation for a roaring fire. Curiosity is the air, for conviction demands understanding. It is not enough to believe one is right; one must present arguments, must convince the Sulphen itself that they are right.¡±


    Sylva disliked the metaphor of fire and reimagined the [Pyromancer]¡¯s words in a manner more familiar to her. Conviction is like a loom. It requires materials¡ªthreads carefully prepared¡ªand a guiding hand to follow the pattern, to reveal the potential woven within. Experience and understanding.


    ¡°But if someone has enough experience and understanding? Then their conviction could be endless?¡±


    ¡°In theory, yes. It is said that the greatest [Thaumaturges] are like that. Though it is mere rumor as far as I am concerned.¡± The naga¡¯s gaze focused on Sylva and the woman crossed her arms across her chest. ¡°Now, I have given you information for free, knowledge that you needed with no option to acquire elsewhere. You are in my debt.¡±


    The naga unfolded her arms and raised one in a halting motion as Sylva began to refute the idea. ¡°Not a large debt, this is true, but a debt nonetheless. Do you question this?¡±


    Sylva shook her head slowly. The naga had given her information, more than she could have hoped. She didn¡¯t think it was fair for the naga to claim debt after the fact, but she had earned her attention, at least.


    ¡°A small debt, but one I admit. What do you ask of me to clear it?¡± Sylva knew how this game was played. She had watched the elders navigate similar situations her entire life¡ªfinding balance in a relationship so that neither party could claim slight. There was power in debt, a power that the contracts so prevalent in the empire were built upon. She wanted to be rid of it as soon as possible.


    ¡°Merely for your attention and due consideration. I will not ask for you to take actions on my behalf; the knowledge I offered was not worth that regardless. No,¡± she hissed, ¡°merely heed my words.¡±


    Sylva nodded. A fair trade, even if she didn¡¯t trust the Sunborn¡¯s words. Curiosity, she thought, is a desire to see the world how others see it. How does Seraphis see the world? What will she share?


    ¡°Never trust the Dion. From the most powerful of the Blood to the lowliest citizen, you might think they are like you, that they share your values, that they are people just like you. You would be wrong.¡± Seraphis¡¯s scales began to glow faintly, the golden light lending her words an almost divine authority. Sylva felt a twinge of outrage but suppressed it, listening intently. ¡°I know you think this is extreme. It is not. The culture of the Dion encourages lies and treachery. It values one¡¯s potential after death more than one¡¯s worth in life. It accepts genocide in the name of its ideals. They are all guilty.¡±


    The Sunborn¡¯s glow intensified, her scales emitting a light that seemed to seep into Sylva¡¯s thoughts, urging her to believe. The elders had always spoken the same of the Dion, but she had dismissed it as petty racism, much like their disdain for the Bal or their praise of the Silkborn¡¯s innate superiority. What if the elders weren¡¯t wrong about the Dion?


    ¡°You are a companion to the [Squire of Carven Bone], but not a [Squire] of Dion blood. That is¡­ rare. The Dion will seek to be your allies, will offer you grand rewards and great opportunities. They may offer you alliance, may promise to stand by your side. If they do, count the coins and guard your back. They will stab it the moment you let your guard down.¡±


    The naga drew herself up, her presence imposing, and waited until Sylva nodded in acknowledgment of the warning. ¡°Now, we have spoken long enough.¡±


    Sylva didn¡¯t last long against the seeking flames. Her mind was distracted by the new information, her thoughts swirling with questions and doubts. She had yet to intercept any of the wisps of fire Seraphis wielded, and it wasn¡¯t long before the burns broke her concentration entirely. She found herself once more submerged in the pool of water with a panic that took minutes to calm. She didn¡¯t think she could ever get used to the feeling of the Radiant Flame against her skin.


    After meditating until she felt her composure return, she left the room and found the hallway empty, the red light danced in her vision, creating a faint sense of anger as she realized she would have to wait. She suppressed the sudden emotion, it wasn¡¯t like she was opposed to her teammates practicing on their own.


    She settled into a seated position on the floor, mind focused on Seraphis¡¯ warning. Were the Dion truly that untrustworthy? Surely a quarter of the empire couldn¡¯t all be bad. I will take the advice, but I won¡¯t act on it until I have reason. The Dion can¡¯t all be guilty until proven innocent.


    ¡°Sylva of the Clan Strenath, I greet you.¡± A faint voice broke the silence. A woman¡¯s voice. Sylva whirled, her heart racing as she searched for the source. The hallway was empty.


    ¡°Hello?¡± she replied tentatively, unsure if they could hear her.


    ¡°We don¡¯t have much time. My name is Casselia, and I am the mentor Nyxol chose for your Triumvirate. I need you to swear an oath to accept me as your mentor. Quickly¡ªthis connection won¡¯t last long, and we won¡¯t get another chance.¡±


    ¡°What are the terms of the oath?¡± Sylva¡¯s mind raced. How am I supposed to accept an oath without knowing the terms? From someone I can¡¯t see or verify? What if this is some trick of Tir Na Nog? Could they even do that? Panic flared as the sudden pressure mounted.


    ¡°I swear to you on my Crest that I will explain the oath in detail once we have a preliminary bond in place. For now, I¡¯ll give you the name of the oath, and you need to agree.¡±


    ¡°Just like that? How can I confirm who you are?¡± she asked, needing reassurance before taking such a big leap. She wanted to ask Hadrian, to talk to Lotem. Both were missing.


    ¡°You can¡¯t. I¡¯m sorry, Sylva. I didn¡¯t think it would be like this; we almost reached you before you entered the trial.¡±


    ¡°The snake, that bone construct¡ªwas that you?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°And if I swear this oath, can I break it after reviewing the terms.¡±


    The voice hesitated for a moment before answering, ¡°Yes, but only after the first round of Eternal Contests at the fall equinox. Three months. Hurry, we have mere moments left before the talisman fails.¡±


    Three months. We can give them that, and I can¡¯t decline such a chance without Hadrian and Lotem agreeing to it. I won¡¯t close that door on them; this could be exactly what they need. And, if Nyxol sent them to train us, maybe they can teach me true magic, not just give vague answers like the Sunborn.


    ¡°I accept then,¡± she said simply.


    ¡°In the name of the 64th variation on the terms of the Mentor and Mentee Contract, pursuant to the will of the 172nd House of Lords, I offer you mentorship. If you choose to accept these terms, repeat after me: I, Sylva of Clan Strenath, do so accept the offered terms and bind myself as your trainee.¡±


    Sylva repeated the oath, feeling a sudden pressure as though her very spirit were being squeezed, followed by a rush of relief as she sank back to the floor. After a moment, a plain, dark-skinned woman in simple robes emerged from one of the unused rooms, her stride confident as she approached Sylva and bowed.


    ¡°We will now have plenty of time to discuss the contract, Sylva. I apologize for the brevity. You would not believe how difficult it is to bypass the ward scheme of a trial these days.¡±


    ¡°Who are you?¡± Hadrian¡¯s voice came from behind her, startling Sylva. She hadn¡¯t realized he was there. She turned to see him gripping a dagger, his expression wary, as though unsure if he needed to protect her.


    ¡°Why, Hadrian,¡± Casselia said with a knowing smile, ¡°I am the person who will help you eventually form a shrine.¡±


    Form a shrine? she wondered, shocked by the sudden look of hunger in Hadrian¡¯s eyes.


    <hr>


    She can help me form a shrine. The declaration froze him in place as he tried to figure out who this woman could be. They had yet to see anyone else in this trial, and she knew his name and his destiny. Did it matter who she was? If she could train him enough to reach that goal¡­ well, Hadrian would hear the woman out.


    ¡°You volunteer to help me form a shrine?¡± he could hear the desire in his words, the faint tremor of excitement that he failed to hide. This is exactly what Ma and Pa hoped for. More than that, better than our wildest hopes. But, how did this woman get here?Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    ¡°I have just sworn a mentor contract with Sylva, and I have two associates waiting to do the same for you and Lotem.¡± Casselia smiled before adding in a commanding tone, ¡°Alsarana, I invoke thee to bond a potential candidate.¡±


    Hadrian expected them to appear suddenly in front of him, ready to make an introduction. He did not expect a sudden hissing voice to appear in his mind. It sounded as though someone was speaking, but he was unable to place from which direction the noise had come.


    ¡°Hadrian, I have been watching your fighting for the last week, and I believe you have potential. I would train you to crush your enemies in pursuit of your goals.¡±


    He didn¡¯t need to think about the offer, not truly. Sylva had already agreed to a similar offer and cast the dice for them, not that he would have done any different. This hissing voice offered him power and even claimed to have watched the trial thus far. That was more than Hadrian could hope.


    ¡°I accept.¡±


    The woman nodded approvingly, and Alsarana stated an oath which Hadrian promptly returned. He gasped as he felt something deep in his chest constrict at the completion of the oath. It¡¯s like I just got the wind knocked out of me. I would rather take a blow to the gut than have that happen again anytime soon.


    As he blinked away the momentary pain, his eyes widened in sudden alarm. A snake, the one that had chased them he was pretty sure, emerged from one of the empty chambers. The creature was almost a dozen feet of coiled muscles with eyes that betrayed a clear intellect. Hadrian had fought snakes in the canopies, and he reached for his bow by instinct before remembering he had to summon it now. Wait. The hissing, is that Alsarana?


    ¡°No need to startle, we are pals now, you and me.¡± Alsarana slithered over to Hadrian and gave what Hadrian thought was supposed to be a bow. ¡°Alsarana at your service, second most important member of our ragtag group¡±


    ¡°It is nice to meet you, Alsarana. May your scales never dim, your insight never fade, and your passion never falter.¡± Hadrian didn¡¯t know what prompted him to provide one of the traditional threefold greetings of his people, but as he spoke the words, he thought they felt right.


    ¡°Casselia, I like this one. You chose well.¡± Sylva looked uncertain what to make of the snake, several paces behind them as she stood near Casselia¡¯s side. Hadrian thought the smirk Casselia held spoke to her character. If you couldn¡¯t laugh or smile with your friends, you couldn¡¯t enjoy life at all. ¡°Now, where is the Bal? We need Krinka in here.¡±


    Casselia agreed and after a moments thought, walked to the only door that remained closed in the hallway and said ¡°Open,¡± with a casual authority. Hadrian wasn¡¯t sure why the door would open for her when it hadn¡¯t for Sylva or himself, but he wasn¡¯t overly surprised when the door heeded her command.


    ¡°Who are you?¡± Hadrian heard Lotem¡¯s voice from the chamber, uncertain in his questioning.


    ¡°My name is Casselia, and I am a part of the Triumvirate that will be mentoring you. Now, Lotem, I am going to invoke the final member of my Triumvirate, and you are going to swear an oath as a mentee. Once we have completed that, we can work on getting you out of this cave and toward your true potential. Understand?¡±


    Hadrian assumed the man had nodded, having heard no response prior to Casselia continuing the same routine of summoning and finalizing the oath that Hadrian had just undergone. As he stood in the hallway, suddenly uncertain about what was even happening, Sylva approached and stood by his side.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t want to give up the opportunity,¡± Sylva said quietly as Lotem spoke to the voice in his head. ¡°Sorry if I made an important choice for the team before consulting you.¡±


    ¡°I would have done the same,¡± Hadrian replied, touched that she had taken the time to explain herself. He had never blamed her for the choice, didn¡¯t believe she needed to apologize at all, but her doing so anyway made him smile. ¡°Everything is about to change.¡±


    ¡°Yeah. I¡¯m sure¡ª¡± She was interrupted by the emergence of a robust man who looked like he would be more comfortable in a tavern than on a battlefield. Hadrian wondered what skills the man had that allowed him the luxury of being physically unfit.


    ¡°Krinka,¡± Alsarana hissed, voice welcoming, ¡°I have missed you dearly, my friend.¡±


    ¡°Als, I saw you a few minutes ago.¡± The man looked exhausted as he corrected the naga. Hadrian didn¡¯t think that was fair; you could miss a friend dearly regardless of the length of time away. He was already starting to like Alsarana.


    Casselia and Lotem emerged from the chamber, and Casselia instructed them to take a seat as the conversation would take some time. As Hadrian sat across from the armless naga, he couldn¡¯t help but grin. He was going to kill Drakar on his own power; that much was now certain.


    <hr>


    ¡°Before we start,¡± Casselia began, her eyes roaming across the faces of her newest charges, ¡°I offer the answer to one question from each of you. Our Triumvirates have been bound together on faith, and you deserve answers as due reward.¡±


    Hadrian¡¯s hand bolted upright and the man looked ready to jump to his feet. ¡°Yes, Hadrian?¡± She asked bemusedly.


    ¡°Why do you want to mentor us?¡± The question took her by surprise. She had expected the man to ask them about themselves or about their powers. Casselia didn¡¯t think anyone had started with that question.


    ¡°Nyxol assigned me to your Triumvirate. More than that, I believe that you three have incredible potential that is likely going to waste. You,¡± she pointed at Hadrian, ¡°are well ahead of your years in combat skill. You,¡± she turned to Sylva, the Silkborn woman¡¯s green robes dark in the dancing red light, ¡°are the top graduate of the Sect of Silken Grace, a brilliant mind from an incredible lineage of Silkborn.¡± Her eyes settled on Lotem, who looked at her with a need for validation.


    ¡°You have Numen blood in your veins and are being wasted in this underground tomb.¡± His spine straightened, and he looked more confident as she continued, ¡°Don¡¯t doubt your potential in the world after being trapped in a cage, even if it has only been a matter of days.¡±


    Casselia appreciated her instincts in moments like this to soothe egos and calm uncertainty. One of her three primary classes, [Mentor], gave her certain instincts and hunches about her charges, and her current instincts were screaming that Lotem needed to get out of this place. She wasn¡¯t surprised.


    The room was built in a triangular shape that enhanced the feeling of claustrophobia. The ceiling was painted in the light from a flame imbued with frustration; she shook her head at the design. Tir Na Nog has lost any sense of nuance; it used to be a beacon of righteous anger, not this cruel fearmongering pioneered by the Nygmar and the Gloombound. The Sunborn and Numen influence is weakening. It is unfortunate they were drawn here.


    ¡°Thank you,¡± Lotem said. She nodded in return, not wanting to draw further attention to the man.


    ¡°Next question.¡± She locked eyes with Sylva, and the Silkborn woman spoke, her voice calm. ¡°What are your individual specialties, and how can they translate to helping us?¡± That was an expected question, at least.


    ¡°My specialty is education and mentorship. I am not willing to share my exact classes, but I will say that my skills are heavily focused on improving the training of my charges. Alsarana,¡± she gestured to the naga as he watched, bored if she had to guess, from her side, ¡°is a mage with a high affinity to bone and an extensive knowledge in ritual magic and enchanting. I believe he will serve an integral role in Hadrian¡¯s growth as a [Squire] and for you if your skills lie in similar arcane fields. Krinka is an [Archivist] and [Historian] specializing in spell forms and the lineage of classes and skills.¡±


    Hadrian and Lotem looked uncertain at Krinka¡¯s usefulness, but Sylva was focused on the man with an intensity that Casselia could appreciate. Casselia suspected that Sylva had learned only the most basic information about spell forms and the manifestations of the Sulphen. Those fields had, until recently, been off-limits. Krinka could fill in the gaps in her knowledge better than nearly anyone else, and the girl clearly suspected it.


    ¡°Last question?¡± she looked to Lotem.


    ¡°Will you fight the Tul?¡±


    She froze. That was not the type of question she was expecting. She said the easy part first, giving herself time to think about the true answer. ¡°Of course, I would fight the Tul if commanded to do so.¡± Lotem narrowed his eyes, having noticed the hesitation and noncommittal response. ¡°But, would we,¡± Casselia gestured to her Triumvirate, ¡°go into Tul lands and fight those monsters without reason?¡± She shook her head. ¡°No, we are not bloodthirsty for their destruction, not like that and not without reason to risk our existence.¡±


    ¡°Now,¡± she began, ¡°all we need to do is get past those Eidolons and leave this trial. We have so much we need to fit in before the fall equinox. We have, fortunately, been watching you from outside during your trial runs thus far, but we have been guessing on your skills and classes. Let¡¯s begin with each of your current classes and skills.¡± She let her gaze settle on Sylva. ¡°You first.¡±


    ¡°I was awarded the boon of [Sympathetic Intuition] and the skill [Lesser Dexterity]. I have also been awarded a legacy skill of [Silkborn Conviction] and the [Thaumaturge] class.¡±


    Three skills and a class just over a week into the trial shows dedication, Casselia thought, and a [Thaumaturge], not the class I was expecting. That can¡¯t be common, especially for one of the agnostic sects like hers. [Dexterity] is an essential skill line to begin, and the intuition skill relating to sympathy must have allowed her to fumble into some success thus far. What potential this woman will have.


    ¡°Good. We will discuss each in depth at some point, but first, the others. Hadrian?¡±


    ¡°I was awarded the class of [Squire of Carven Bone], the skill [Lesser Armory of Bone], and the skill [Legacy of Luminaries Fire].¡±


    A legacy skill, for a human? Legacy skills indicated an inheritance, some earned potential that was passed down from generation to generation. She hadn¡¯t been surprised that the Silkborn had one, nor would she be shocked to hear the Numen had one either, but human? She had a lot of questions about where Hadrian had been raised. She put those aside, turning to Lotem and indicating he should proceed.


    ¡°I was awarded the boon [Enhanced Blood of the Numen] and the skills [Natural Enemy ¨C Rodents] and [Lesser Strength], though I have not earned a class yet.¡±


    Nothing related to a beast? Why would he get a Beastmaster pairing for the trial? Simply the natural enemy skill? No, that wouldn¡¯t be enough. Is that why he hasn¡¯t earned his class but the others have¡ªhe simply hasn¡¯t had the chance to bond a companion and open the potential?


    ¡°Do you have a type of beast you want to bond?¡± she asked, hoping that she had guessed correctly.


    ¡°A beast?¡± Lotem said, confused.


    ¡°You could bond Sabel?¡± Hadrian said, seemingly excited by the idea. Sabel?


    ¡°Could I?¡± Lotem¡¯s eyebrows drew up, and the man reached into his wet bison cloak and withdrew a small kitten. ¡°I could bond Sabel here?¡±


    You have had a kitten with you this whole time? Why haven¡¯t you brought her with you? Would she be protected without a formal bond? Casselia thought for a moment and wondered if Sylva had seen something in the trial¡¯s contract terms indicating as such. If so, she had saved the kitten¡¯s life. We just need to prompt the class. But which class? She looked to Krinka, hoping he was on the same page.


    ¡°Ahem,¡± Krinka cleared his throat, suddenly embarrassed to speak in front of their new charges. He always got shy at first; Casselia had never understood it. The scholar could wander battlefields with more ease than he could manage meeting someone new. ¡°Have you considered becoming a [Guardian]?¡±


    ¡°A [Guardian]?¡± Lotem hesitated, seeming unfamiliar with the term. Casselia wasn¡¯t surprised; the Bal had never taken to sharing the true specifics of power with their youth, even before they forced their way into the empire. Yet, barbarians without sophisticated magical knowledge the Bal had never been, much as the empire liked to cast them otherwise in the stories. ¡°I can¡¯t just pick a class, can I?¡±


    ¡°You can think of a class like a sign on the road that guides travelers to a specific destination.¡± Krinka began to recite the same analogy she had heard more times than she could count. ¡°A class is the map the Sulphen uses to determine what skills it should award you. Classes also provide the map for the Sulphen to award unique or rare skills that are inaccessible otherwise. If we invoke a set of circumstances correctly we can convince the Sulphen that the sign is fitting for your specific journey.¡±


    Lotem¡¯s face was drawn, as though by concentrating on Krinka¡¯s words he was exerting a physical effort. Sylva looked alert but not strained; Casselia assumed the girl had a perfect memory to begin with¡ªshe was Silkborn. Hadrian seemed to simply drink the words in, absorbing them with an excited smile. I like them already.


    ¡°I like the idea of [Guardian], being able to protect others better and being rewarded for keeping them safe. Though I know it can¡¯t be as simple as merely declaring that I have the class.¡±


    ¡°You can¡¯t just declare it, no. But with the kitten present?¡± Krinka rubbed his hands together, and Casselia held back a smile. There was nothing the man loved more than helping others get a powerful class or to prompt an evolution. ¡°I think if you guard her against an attack from Alsarana for any length of time, it should suffice.¡±


    ¡°Really?¡± The naga rose, towering off the ground as his coils stretched, a sudden glee in his eye as he focused on the kitten Lotem held. Lotem held her closer in a protective embrace, his instincts recoiling from the naga¡¯s sudden attention.


    ¡°Only if he agrees to it, Als; you know the rules.¡± Casselia reminded him, much to the naga¡¯s chagrin, she noticed.


    ¡°Will she be in real danger?¡± Lotem asked.


    Krinka hesitated. ¡°It¡¯s best I don¡¯t say. Words have power. But you can trust I wouldn¡¯t lead you astray. A [Guardian] protects.¡±


    ¡°Then,¡± Lotem said with a gravitas that Casselia found fitting, ¡°I agree.¡± The man put the kitten on the floor and stood in front of her as Krinka gave him quiet instructions. Alsarana began to hiss in a dual tone that sounded as though two separate notes hung in the air, intertwining and creating words that lived just beneath the surface. Casselia had expected nothing less from the naga; he had always reveled in a chance to play the villain and, fortunately for them, he had plenty of experience in the act.


    The subvocal chant began to spread a deep unease across the room, and Sabel looked suddenly panicked. Lotem stepped forward and, after a moment¡¯s hesitation as Krinka repeated the instructions, swung his fist toward Alsarana and connected with the naga. Alsarana swayed, rattled by the blow, before turning and leaving, retreating to one of the rooms of recovery.


    ¡°Casselia, now,¡± Krinka prompted, and she activated her skill, [Instant Recovery]. Lotem¡¯s head dipped as he fell asleep before immediately waking. He held a look of shock as he heard the voice of the Sulphen. No one was ready for the immediate gratification of her skill the first time, and she had never gotten tired of the look of joyful surprise after its use.


    ¡°And?¡± she prompted.


    ¡°Just as you said. I received the [Guardian] class and two skills: [Companion¡¯s Bond ¨C Sabel] and [My Companions Carry My Blessings].¡±


    Krinka gasped, and she turned to face him, his reaction far more than what she had expected. The latter skill? She gave Krinka a look that demanded explanation, and the man obliged.


    ¡°The second skill,¡± he turned to Lotem, ¡°it will translate your skills to your companions. It¡¯s one of the best options for an early skill, and it allows us to guide your growth in a more optimal way. And if it interacts with your bloodline skill like I suspect, then, well, we need to get you out of this tomb as soon as we can.¡±


    That¡­ That is going to be better than even you know, Krinka. Their prize with a Numen bloodline? She shivered at the idea, mind ablaze with the possibilities. Even that cat is going to become something to worry about eventually. The weakest member of the team has quickly become the strongest, and they don¡¯t even realize.


    ¡°Now,¡± she drew attention back to herself after a few moments of excited silence as everyone processed Krinka¡¯s words, ¡°let¡¯s discuss exactly how we can get you out.¡±

 Chapter Twelve: Teaching

    The sheer audacity of the Sul Empire, to have ensnared existence within contract and name¡ªa 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.


    ¨C 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¡ªHadrian 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¡ªenough 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¡ªan exhibition, in the empire¡¯s formal rhetoric¡ªduring 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¡ªnot 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.


    ¡°¡ªimpress 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¡ª¡±


    ¡°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¡ªrare enough to be a true anomaly¡ªand 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¡ªor near enough, at least¡ªof 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¡ªassassinations, 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¡ªhome of one of the empire¡¯s greatest dungeons¡ªand 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¡ªa 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¡ªnear impossible, really¡ªfor 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¡ª 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¡ª¡±


    ¡°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¡ªKrinka, 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¡ªthe 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¡ª¡± 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¡ªwhat 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¡ªit 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¡ªa 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¡ªmaybe 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¡ªlabels 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¡ªwhen 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¡ªthe 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¡ªthe sacrifice¡ªfor 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¡ªcertainly uncivilized¡ªand 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¡ªthat¡¯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¡ªthough 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¡ªwas that a sign?


    ¡°I¡ª¡± 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¡ªhe 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¡ªabout 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¡ªit¡¯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¡ªor worse¡ªthen 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¡ªor 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¡ªthe 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¡ªand 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¡ªgoals 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¡ªsomething 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.

 Interlude: New Perspectives

    The Blind raise a profound philosophical question about the nature of consciousness and experience. Like the Beast Kin after the second apocalypse or the insectile Brood in the far west, the Blind perceive reality through a lens utterly foreign to us. They have no eyes, yet they see¡ªnot colors, but what we must call souls, reading our powers, contracts, and experiences. To us, the Blind appear as short, hairless figures with ivory skin, sharp teeth, and smooth foreheads where eyes should be. But when they look at us, they see our strengths, vulnerabilities, classes, and skills. Could anything in the world be more alien?


    ¨C Forward to A Treatise on the Newest Race of the Empire by Thamus Naleg


    Aslavain: Nineteen Days after the Summer Solstice


    Ulthgavar, seventh of his name, had long since resolved to defy the curse that hung over his birth. To be seventh was to fail. Every child knew six was sacred¡ªwhy else would they be born with six fingers and six toes? But seven? Seven was an aberration, an overreach, cursed by its ambition, yet lacking the blessings of nine or, for the truly fortunate, twelve. His only true duty as the seventh was to father a child and pass on his name. Eight was neither cursed nor blessed¡ªa far kinder fate than what had been thrust upon him at birth.


    Ulthgavar stood amidst the gathered crowd of students and mentors, the air thick with anticipation as they awaited the first necromantic display. Word had spread that one of the [Venerate] had organized the event for a student who had yet to join a triumvirate. Rumor had it she possessed remarkable skill but had yet to find a team worthy of her talents. If Ulthgavar could convince her to partner with him, it would be his first step toward shattering the curse that clung to him. He only needed to find the right moment¡ªand make the right offer.


    The crowd unconsciously parted around Ulthgavar, creating a bubble of space in the packed hall. His robes, freshly soaked in the blood pits of his home, exuded the pungent scent of iron, thick and suffocating. The pulsing aura of hunger clung to the robe, whispering at the edge of his senses, urging him to feed it. He knew the others felt it too, their unease evident in the way they kept their distance¡ªand he welcomed the solitude.


    Had he been one of the sighted, Ulthgavar would never have seen the stage, lost in the sea of bodies that towered over him. But for one of the Blind, sight was no concern. He perceived the world with an unsettling clarity, his soul sense revealing far more than mere vision ever could. When he faced the students, their souls unfolded before him like pages in a book, each one inscribed with the contracts they had signed during the solstice. It was all laid bare to him¡ªtheir strengths, their flaws, their hidden potential.


    The contracts, with their swirling lines, might look as tangled as string to the sighted, but to him, they unfolded into perfect order. Every new class and skill revealed itself with ease. He pitied the sighted, so sure of their superiority. Could they steal secrets with a mere glance?


    The announcer stepped onto the stage, his voice droning on with empty pleasantries and thank-you¡¯s no one cared to hear. Ulthgavar barely listened, pitying the man whose soul revealed only a handful of meager skills. Most of the crowd wasn¡¯t much better¡ªtwo or three skills at best, with only a handful possessing their first class. At least they had the luxury of anonymity. Bonehold was meant to draw out true talent, particularly with the second convergence of the moons approaching. Ulthgavar hoped the real contenders would soon make their presence known.


    The first necromancer took the stage, but Ulthgavar barely needed a second to assess him. His soul was light, thin¡ªempty of the depth required for true power. To Ulthgavar, souls did not glow with ethereal light. They had weight, like physical objects. He imagined lifting two baskets¡ªone heavy with iron, the other light and slippery like fish. The difference was often subtle, but in this necromancer¡¯s case, it was all too clear. He wasn¡¯t worth watching.


    Ulthgavar dismissed the conjured skeleton with a flicker of disdain. The bone carvings were crude, their Sulphen channels weak and sloppy. One by one, the next five students took their turns, and none fared better¡ªa skeletal cat, two awkwardly flying birds, a trio of rats moving in sync, and a skeletal warrior whose clumsy swings lacked even the precision Ulthgavar himself possessed. He shook his head. Did they truly believe such feeble efforts would survive a contest in Aslavain? It was laughable.


    Ulthgavar¡¯s attention sharpened as the seventh candidate stepped onto the stage. He doubted the Crimson Heart would favor him with such obvious luck, but he believed in the power of numbers. How could he not, after witnessing the [Numerologists] at work back home? The seventh necromancer for the seventh of his name¡ªit was a poetry he couldn¡¯t ignore.


    A woman strode confidently onto the stage, and her soul cut through Ulthgavar¡¯s idle thoughts like a sharpened blade. She was a blaze of energy framed by the intricate carvings on the bones that adorned her garb as ornamentation. The patterns, etched with an artisan¡¯s precision, wove stories of power and heritage that whispered to his soul sense, revealing their purpose and enchantments with a clarity no sighted person could fathom. To him, her presence was a blend of raw power and the meticulous craftsmanship that signaled mastery.


    He searched deeper and almost danced with excitement. Five skills already? Three were bound to the manipulation of bone, one that steadied her hand for carving, and another that conceptualized complex interlocking enchantments. This is the one, he thought, a predatory grin spreading across his lips.


    A hulking figure lumbered behind her, and Ulthgavar¡¯s grin grew sharper, his canines pressing into his lower lip. She had animated a Simian¡ªan entire, four-armed monstrosity. And more than that, she had enhanced it. He could feel the power woven into the bones¡ªstrength in the arms, reinforced durability in the chest, speed in the legs. This thing was deadlier than any living Simian could hope to be.


    Her introduction barely registered in his mind. Ulthgavar¡¯s entire focus was locked on the swirling energy of her soul, watching intently as her class solidified before his eyes. The contract along her spine twisted and spun, binding itself into place. A legacy class: [Necromancer of the Carvers Blood]. He hadn¡¯t known the Ancient Blood still held such powerful legacies¡ªfew humans knew. But to be one of the Carvers Blood was as close to necromantic royalty as one could get, and that came with its own distinct rewards.


    When the exhibition concluded, Ulthgavar moved swiftly through the crowd, his senses sharp as he navigated the winding corridors. Rock, metal, and enchanted barriers blurred his soul sense like an eel slipping from his grasp, but Bonehold wasn¡¯t made of stone, and it didn¡¯t take him long to locate the Simian, towering above the crowd, and the woman who commanded it.


    As he approached, Ulthgavar called out, ¡°A Simian¡ªa brilliant choice.¡± The woman turned, her stance shifting subtly, tension evident in the way she held herself.


    ¡°A compliment from one of the Blind? Noted,¡± she said, her tone cool and measured. ¡°Who are you?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m Ulthgavar, and I intend to join your triumvirate.¡±


    ¡°Are you now?¡± Her tone was more curious than affronted. ¡°And what makes you think I¡¯d want you in my triumvirate?¡±


    ¡°I can see everything about your enemies¡¯ powers,¡± Ulthgavar replied, a slight shrug accompanying his words. ¡°I¡¯d say that¡¯s useful. And I can track the Sulphen along the bones of your constructs. We both know how much faster that makes them grow.¡±


    ¡°Should I recruit you just because you¡¯re Blind and can see things others can¡¯t? I can find others with your abilities. What makes you different?¡±


    ¡°I am Ulthgavar, seventh of my name, and I will become one of the [Venerate]¡ªor more. I accept nothing less than greatness, and I believe you¡¯re worthy of that path. If not¡­¡± He began to turn away, a smirk playing on his lips. ¡°There are plenty of necromancers among the Dion. Plenty of Ancient Blood to choose from.¡±


    ¡°Ulthgavar, seventh of his name.¡± Valentine¡¯s gaze sharpened, her voice cool but intrigued. ¡°I am Valentine of the Carvers Blood. You won¡¯t find another like me, but I¡¯ll prove that when we travel together. I accept your offer¡ªbut first, your class and your best skill. I don¡¯t partner with those the Sulphen doesn¡¯t favor.¡±


    He had hoped she would ask. This was a concession easily made¡ªone he wanted her to know. ¡°I am a [Soulwatcher], with [Measure Value: Secrets].¡±


    ¡°You,¡± Valentine¡¯s voice sharpened with interest, ¡°are perfect. Let¡¯s formalize our oaths.¡±


    <hr>


    Charisa squinted at the three bowls of powder laid before her, each a crucial key to unlocking a potent, mind-altering brew. The recipe, won at the Guild of Altered Fates¡¯ first contest, promised Seer¡¯s Sight¡ªa rare glimpse into the Sulphen and, with luck, the coveted [Seer] class. But rare and powerful came with risks, and Charisa had spent hours weighing whether the rewards were worth the dangers that lay ahead.


    The first powder gleamed a stark white, the color of distant, snow-capped peaks that reminded her of home. Harvested from the elusive Echo Moth¡¯s pupa, it was said to contain the essence of recollection¡ªable to pull fragments of the past into the present. Charisa had traded three rare reagents from the Flowerlands for just enough to complete the brew. Even now, she kept it tightly sealed, wary of its unpredictable effects. The slightest touch to bare skin could invoke memories not her own, and she wasn¡¯t ready for that yet.


    The second powder, a vivid neon green, shimmered unnaturally in the low light. It had been harvested from the rare Dreamweaver Frogs, creatures that matured deep within the Gondaran Marsh, among spiritually attuned flowers. If processed with precision, the powder could offer glimpses of futures yet to come¡ªif Charisa got it right. She¡¯d captured the frog herself only a week ago, enduring the threat of its venomous bite as she carefully extracted the vital fluid. She had three vials of the substance, but after today, she hoped she wouldn¡¯t need more. The Nygmar would pay handsomely for the extras.


    The final powder shimmered in a blend of yellow, orange, and red, flickering like the embers of a dying hearth. It had been ground from the skin of a Flickerfire Salamander, though Charisa wasn¡¯t entirely sure of its role in the potion¡ªa binding agent, perhaps? Something to meld the past and future into a coherent vision. Of all her ingredients, this one concerned her the least. Flickerfire Salamanders were common enough to be raised domestically, their skins cheap and readily available. But sometimes, it was the simplest reagents that caused the most unexpected reactions.


    Charisa hesitated, her hand hovering over the first bowl. With a deep breath, she added the white powder to the vial of distilled water, stirring with practiced precision¡ªtwenty-four times clockwise, three counterclockwise. The liquid swirled, turning a pale, milky white, the perfect balance. She exhaled in relief, pouring the mixture into her cauldron and stirring gently as thin wisps of steam curled upward, dissipating into the air like memories lost to time.


    Charisa added the shimmering Flickerfire Salamander skin, her voice steady as she began the incantation. She repeated the words six times, each repetition more certain, more assured. With the final utterance, the potion rippled, its color shifting into a deep sky blue. Charisa felt a jolt of excitement in her chest¡ªonly one more step. She could almost taste success.


    Charisa triple-checked the recipe, her fingers tracing the carefully written instructions one last time. With painstaking care, she added the first of nine spoonfuls of the neon green Dreamweaver Frog powder and began the final incantation. For nearly an hour, her voice filled the room in a steady rhythm, each word matching the motion of her hand as she stirred. Slowly, the liquid shifted, its surface shimmering with a rainbow opalescence, like oil slicking over dark water.


    For a moment, she had feared it would darken into black¡ªan omen of failure¡ªbut the colors held. The recipe had warned that only one in three attempts by new alchemists succeeded, and it seemed fortune had favored her. Relief flooded her chest, knowing she¡¯d have enough leftover reagents to sell. That was, of course, if this potion truly worked.


    Charisa carefully poured the shimmering liquid into a glass decanter, her eyes caught by the way the swirling colors twisted and danced as the potion cooled. It was hypnotic. She knew the proper protocol¡ªthe guild insisted that all brews of this potency, especially those with mind-altering properties, should be administered under supervision. Observation was crucial, they¡¯d said, especially with something like Seer¡¯s Sight. But that idea unsettled her. Letting the guild record her first steps into the realm of prophecy? The thought alone left a bitter taste in her mouth.


    With measured precision, Charisa poured a single dose from the decanter, carefully sealing the rest to keep it stable. The leftover potion would fetch a high price¡ªalchemy was an expensive pursuit, and she had expenses to cover. But as she held the shimmering dose in her hands, the swirling rainbow hues reflected back at her, mirroring her uncertainty. Did she truly want the guild involved in this moment? Did she want her first prophetic vision reduced to a set of notes and clinical observations?You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    She¡¯d heard the stories¡ªhow the guild meticulously recorded every word spoken under the influence of Seer¡¯s Sight, dissecting the ravings of those lost in their visions. Was that how she wanted her first experience as a [Seer] to unfold? The Sulphen required a witness to grant the class, yes, but did it have to be a stranger, coldly jotting down her every word? The idea of trusting her fate, her first true glimpse into the Sulphen, to someone with no stake in her future made her stomach churn.


    If she was with the tribes, well, that decision would be simple. But the Gondaran Marsh was home mainly to the Sunborn and the Penitent; she was still uncomfortable around both. The burned skin and fervent gazes of the Penitent made her wary. She knew that the crisscrossing burn scars, melted flesh, and intentional deformities were simply considered par for the course in the Province of the Sun. The deformities were, after all, holy to the Penitent and close enough for the Sunborn.


    She yearned for the comfort of home to guide her through this moment, to witness. Where were her fellow Bal? She would even settle for some of the Malan with their arrogance and insistence on making everything into a competition. Anything but to rely on the Penitent or the Sunborn and their false god.


    Knock. Knock. Knock.


    The sharp knocks jolted Charisa from her thoughts. She slipped the vial into her pocket and moved cautiously to the door. She wasn¡¯t expecting anyone¡ªvisitors were rare, even when she invited other candidates to study. When she opened the door, her breath caught¡ªtwo figures stood outside, and they were far from ordinary visitors.


    The first was a Bal woman, her dark, sun-worn skin speaking of years spent under the unforgiving sky. Her hair was braided tightly, like a crown atop her head, and though her leathers were caked in dust, Charisa could see the quality beneath the grime. This woman was ThurBal¡ªno question. And not a candidate, either. Her age and presence suggested something far more significant.


    Behind her stood a younger man, shifting uneasily on his feet. His pale, freckled skin and light hair stood in contrast to the woman, but his leathers bore similar markings¡ªthe distinct insignia of the Tulunganar. A candidate, surely. Charisa¡¯s pulse quickened as realization struck. The [Venerate]? Here? And for me?


    ¡°Hello?¡± Charisa asked, her voice uncertain, her gaze flicking between the two figures, hoping she had guessed correctly.


    ¡°Charisa of the PetaAltan?¡± the woman asked, a warm smile spreading across her sun-worn face.


    ¡°I am,¡± Charisa replied, though a hint of uncertainty crept into her voice. ¡°I wasn¡¯t expecting anyone. Who are you?¡±


    ¡°I am Shansa Six-Step, and this is my mentee, Kirian.¡± Her smile widened. ¡°Word has it you¡¯re one of the more promising Bal candidates in the area. We thought you might be interested in joining a Triumvirate.¡±


    Charisa froze. They came for me? How did they know? The timing couldn¡¯t be a coincidence. Her mind raced. Shansa Six-Step¡­ The name hit her like a bolt of lightning. A [Venerate]¡ªa Courier, no less. The realization settled in, heavy as stone. She stood face to face with one of the most influential Bal figures in the Empire, this region certainly at least.


    After a moment¡¯s hesitation, Charisa stepped aside. ¡°Shansa Six-Step, Kirian, you¡¯re welcome in my abode.¡± She forced a smile. ¡°Apologies for the lingering smells¡ªI¡¯ve just finished brewing, and the fumes tend to hang around.¡± She gestured for them to enter, silently cursing the sparse state of her space, even if it was temporary.


    The two stepped into her cramped, single-room hut. Charisa quickly grabbed a stool from her cluttered research desk for Kirian and a chair from her alchemy station for Shansa. She remained standing, unsure of the proper protocol when dealing with a [Venerate]¡ªand because, truthfully, there weren¡¯t enough chairs to go around.


    ¡°You¡¯ve finished the Seer¡¯s Sight potion, then?¡± Shansa asked casually, her eyes scanning the room. Charisa¡¯s heart skipped a beat. How does she know that?


    ¡°I have,¡± Charisa answered slowly, her eyes narrowing. ¡°I was just deciding¡­ how best to take it.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d be happy to observe,¡± Shansa offered, her smile never fading. ¡°Kirian too. Two sets of eyes should satisfy the Sulphen.¡±


    ¡°Oh, there¡¯s really no need,¡± Charisa said quickly, her voice rising just slightly. She wasn¡¯t sure she trusted these strangers¡ªnot with the potential ramblings that might spill from her lips, or worse, with her safety if things went wrong. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t want to trouble a [Venerate] with something so¡­ minor.¡±


    ¡°Come now, Charisa,¡± Shansa said, her warm smile unchanged. ¡°We both know the Seer¡¯s Sight potion is safe. A few prophetic ramblings¡ªnothing more. And besides, we¡¯re all Bal here.¡±


    Prophetic ramblings were precisely what Charisa didn¡¯t want to share. But how could she say that to a [Venerate], especially one who hadn¡¯t sworn an oath to her? She trusted the Bal more than others, but her parents had always warned her¡ªnever take unnecessary risks around the powerful. Power always came with a price, and it was never clear who would end up paying.


    ¡°Why are you really here?¡± Charisa asked, her voice low and laced with reluctance.


    ¡°The Balar ordered it,¡± Shansa replied smoothly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Kirian flinched, his head snapping toward his mentor.


    ¡°The Balar?¡± Kirian echoed, his tone sharp, eyes wide.


    ¡°Yes, Kirian,¡± Shansa said, unruffled. ¡°The Balar has tasked me with forming a Triumvirate, and both your names were on the list. I chose you. You both have potential, and I intend to see it fully realized.¡±


    Shansa turned her attention back to Charisa, her smile widening ever so slightly. ¡°As a Courier, I¡¯ve traveled the breadth of the empire, delivering to the most remote and treacherous places. A seer who could predict the dangers ahead would be invaluable. And you, Charisa, are closer than anyone in the City of a Thousand Flowers to gaining that sight. I also have access to alchemical reagents most could only dream of. Join our Triumvirate, and I can ensure you receive what you need to reach your full potential¡ªin Aslavain, and far beyond. With even half the ambition I¡¯ve heard about, this decision should be an easy one.¡±


    When Shansa laid it out like that, it sounded almost too simple. But Charisa¡¯s ambitions flared, and despite her lingering unease, the words left her lips before she could second-guess them. ¡°I accept.¡±


    ¡°Good.¡± Shansa¡¯s smile never wavered. ¡°Sit on the bed, take the Seer¡¯s Sight potion, and when you¡¯ve glimpsed the Sulphen, we¡¯ll discuss the upcoming contest in Dornogor.¡±


    Dornogor. The City of Beasts. Charisa¡¯s thoughts drifted absently as she considered it¡ªrare ingredients, exotic creatures. She wasn¡¯t opposed to going. Her gaze shifted to the vial in her hand. Taking a steadying breath, she uncorked it and downed the Seer¡¯s Sight in one swift gulp. The bitter, acrid taste hit immediately, the mix of ground scales, moths, and powdered frog sweat more repulsive than she¡¯d imagined. She choked, coughing, but any discomfort was short-lived as the effects surged through her. Blood pounded in her ears, and the world around her dissolved, collapsing into a sea of swirling, oily rainbows.


    [Class Obtained: Omen-Witch]


    [Skill Obtained: Basic Interpretation of Omens]


    [Skill Obtained: Precise Measurement]


    <hr>


    Creation: Twenty Days after the Summer Solstice


    Twenty-one long years had passed since Dulvar of Essal first left Aslavain, a fresh recruit patrolling the windswept southern Grass Belt with the Imperial Rangers. Nine years since his Triumvirate¡ªhe, Poluma, and Charant¡ªhad dared to venture beyond the empire¡¯s borders, into the wilds of the Beastlands, chasing the forgotten echoes of an abandoned Domicile. And three years since they had emerged from the ruins of the Domicile of Twin Moons, crowned as heroes in the Sul Empire¡ªthough Dulvar knew better than most the darkness those ruins concealed.


    Every child of the Sul Empire grew up learning the difference between a shrine and an Eternal Domicile. Shrines were fleeting¡ªa demesne that shaped the land, bound to its chosen affinity, a fragile bridge to Aslavain. When a shrine fell, its power bled back into the earth, its influence fading into legend. But an Eternal Domicile? That was something altogether different¡ªeverlasting, a realm within a realm, where the land itself pulsed with magic.


    When a shrine achieved this transformation, it formed an inner world, its demesne expanding, rooted deep in the Sulphen of its region. Magic thrived there, but so did history, monsters, and dangers that lingered long after their creators had faded. As long as the population remained strong, the Domicile¡¯s effects were a boon. Saralainn, the City of Growth, could feed the empire on its own with crops that bloomed at unnatural speeds, yet it was far from the most powerful of the eight active Domiciles within the Sul Empire.


    The City of Twin Moons had once stood proud, its Domicile shining bright long before the Blood Wars reduced it to a haunted ruin. Even after nearly six years spent within its broken halls, Dulvar couldn¡¯t shake the sense of lost grandeur¡ªof something beautiful, now twisted. Whatever the city had once been, the Blood Wars had left it a shell of itself, its former glory buried beneath layers of shadow.


    An ancient Eidolon, half-forgotten and worn by the ages, had whispered to Dulvar in the depths of the Domicile. It spoke of lost utopias, civilizations crafted for the three dominant peoples¡ªHumans, Drakes, and Aranea¡ªchildren of Titans, Dragons, and Weavers. But behind its words was a thinly veiled contempt for the lesser beings of the world. Dulvar had never forgotten the unease that crawled beneath his skin during that encounter, a reminder that power had always come at the expense of others.


    The Silkborn had been no more than tools¡ªmindless golems shaped to serve. The Numen, hunted like beasts or enslaved. Goblins and Orcs hunted like monsters. Even the Gnolls and Centaurs, once proud, had been corralled like cattle in the southern plains. Dulvar had been grateful, then, that the civilization the Eidolon spoke of was long dead. Whatever the Sul Empire¡¯s flaws¡ªprimarily the Dion¡ªit at least granted dignity to the races that remained. But even that thought unsettled him. Civilizations rose and fell, and power rarely came without a price.


    Dulvar didn¡¯t have much patience when it came to the question of sentience. The Simians? Monsters, plain and simple. The Brood? He could accept the Weavers and Monarchs as people, perhaps even the Aranea, if forced to. But the rest of the sentient insects? That was a step too far. Some lines, Dulvar believed, weren¡¯t meant to be crossed, no matter how blurred the definition of ¡®people¡¯ had become over the centuries.


    The eastern borders troubled Dulvar. The Brood still laid claim to the forests west and south of the Spine, the towering range that carved through the heart of the Fologian Forest. Not that the Brood ever recognized such divisions. Before their hives fractured during the Beast Wars, they had considered the entire forest their sovereign domain. Even now, the oldest and most conservative hives clung to the belief that the Bridgelands, Foglands, and Silklands belonged to them by right.


    Dulvar had long believed it was time for those outdated beliefs to be swept aside. The Sul Empire¡¯s future lay in expanding westward, and if the Kiel were to finally surpass the Dion, the Brood would need to find new lands to occupy. Sentimentality wasn¡¯t in their nature, after all. Dulvar was certain the Sul could make far better use of the Fologian Forest than any insect could.


    A grin tugged at Dulvar¡¯s lips as he gazed out over the vast, unbroken expanse of the Fologian Forest from his watchpost. The mighty folog trees wept endless streams of white fog, their ghostly tendrils drifting down to the forest floor far below. After twenty-one long years, he was finally on the cusp of completing the task that had haunted him since leaving his village. His family, his community, had placed their hopes on him. Now, the moment was almost here.


    Memories stirred¡ªpulsing emerald, crimson, and sapphire flames, flickering on a suspended platform lit by the Luminaries. The cool fog on his skin, the rhythmic pounding of drums, the mournful wail of flutes. It all felt as real as it had that night. Dulvar had sworn, under those lights, that he would return when he was strong enough, that he would make Essal a shrined city, and be the first to expand the Sul Empire¡¯s borders in centuries. Now, he stood on the edge of that dream. So close.


    Dulvar¡¯s eyes narrowed as something stirred in the fog¡ªjust a flicker of movement, but enough to draw his attention. A slinkai, its translucent body almost invisible, floated lazily in the distance, its tentacles hanging like ghostly threads. Its single eye, a swirling orb of gray, blended seamlessly with the mist that bled from the Fologian trees. Without a sound, Dulvar drew his bow, Moonfall, and tracked the creature as it drifted closer.


    With a whispered command, Moonfall¡¯s bowstring materialized¡ªa shimmering strand of moon-aspected spider silk. Dulvar drew it back, the motion smooth and practiced, his breath steady as he released. The arrow, a shaft of pure moonlight, shot forward, striking the slinkai. For a heartbeat, the creature hung frozen in the air, its form bathed in pale light before it dissolved into steam, illuminating the surrounding fog in a ghostly glow.


    Dulvar dismissed the bowstring, stowing Moonfall carefully in its case as he glanced up through a break in the canopy. The twin moons hung high above, their cold light spilling through the fog. He wondered if the bowyer who had crafted Moonfall had once gazed up at these same moons, seeking their silent guidance. What was the passage of millennia to those celestial orbs, after all? Time seemed meaningless to them.


    ¡°Hunting poor Slinkai, are we?¡± A teasing voice shattered the silence. ¡°Surely the great Dulvar, the Dirge of Demons, has more pressing matters.¡±


    Dulvar turned, feeling the familiar tug of irritation, even though it was only Poluma. He¡¯d told her and Charant time and again that they didn¡¯t need to follow him back home¡ªthis was his duty, his burden to bear. But they¡¯d only laughed, insisting that after two decades, his quest had become theirs as well.


    ¡°Don¡¯t tell me you¡¯ve gone soft on the teeth-snatchers.¡±


    ¡°Not the Slinkai, but poor Moonfall. Wasting its gifts on forest vermin seems beneath it, don¡¯t you think?¡±


    ¡°Moonfall¡¯s more than up to the task. We¡¯re forging a moon-aspected demesne, remember? Once it¡¯s complete, Moonfall will guard Essal for the next millennium, whether against vermin or worse.¡±


    ¡°Charant¡¯s close to forming the foundation, but without a shift in the empire¡¯s balance¡ªunless one of the shrines falls¡ªit could still take years for Essal to gain the moon affinity needed to pierce through the empire¡¯s interference.¡±


    ¡°Any word from the East?¡± Dulvar¡¯s voice dropped, his gaze hardening. ¡°If the Tul crossed the Diontel and a shrine fell¡­¡± He didn¡¯t need to finish. Poluma understood the odds. The empire¡¯s border along the Diontel River was fortified with three Eternal Cities¡ªYlfenhold, Calcara, and Sabahar¡ªalong with four shrined cities and the imposing Colored Forts. For the Tul to breach such defenses, the legions would need to suffer a catastrophe of unimaginable proportions.


    ¡°No, nothing major from the Tul. The eastern Malan factions and the Dion keep pushing for more funds to counter vague threats, as usual.¡±


    ¡°When don¡¯t they?¡± Dulvar snorted. ¡°That gold would be better spent pushing back the Brood or guarding against the southern barbarians. But no¡ªthe Tul are one of the ¡®Banes of Civilization,¡¯ so naturally, they hog the empire¡¯s attention.¡±


    ¡°We fought Bloodmarked in the Domicile, Dulvar,¡± Poluma reminded him, her tone turning serious. ¡°Don¡¯t dismiss the Banes as fairy tales meant to scare children.¡±


    ¡°Aye, the Bloodmarked are real enough,¡± Dulvar conceded with a grim nod. ¡°But the Tul? They¡¯re not half as cunning or a third as deadly as the blood drinkers. So they devour memory¡ªwhat of it? Dead is dead, whether or not you remember it.¡±


    ¡°If no disaster strikes elsewhere, Charant thinks our preparations will start drawing the Brood¡¯s attention within six months¡ªmaybe sooner. We¡¯ll be fighting off Mantis skirmishes, maybe even the Aranea of the Brood, within the year. And the West Warden won¡¯t waste time kicking up a fuss once that starts.¡±


    ¡°Then we¡¯d best hope the empire faces some disaster¡ªbecause if not, what¡¯s coming for us might be far worse.¡±


    Poluma settled against the gnarled tree, her eyes drifting over the fog-choked forest. ¡°It feels strange,¡± she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. ¡°Coming back here after all these years. I almost forgot the smell of the Foglands.¡±


    Dulvar chuckled softly. ¡°Damp and decay? Who could ever forget that?¡±


    Poluma¡¯s smile barely touched her lips. ¡°Maybe. But there¡¯s something different now. It feels like the Foglands have been waiting¡­ for something. Maybe for us. Maybe for the shrine.¡±

 Chapter Thirteen: Lessons

    Two eyes become six as wings unfold,


    Black and white¡ªunyielding, cold.


    Beware the Monarch¡¯s watchful sight;


    Panoptic vision of all that comes to pass,


    Justice reigns, and evil fades at last.


    Pale white wings, born of mist and flame,


    Glowing hot as wood decays.


    Fear the moth, but prize its shell,


    Stronger than all but spider¡¯s silk¡ª


    Treasure found in Fogflare Silk.


    A thousand eyes, ablaze with hue,


    Illusions shift, dissolve to blue.


    The Azure Guardian hears their name,


    A hero called, a bane to claim¡ª


    A sentinel in a world of flame.


    ¨C Eyes of Silk and Flame: An Ecology of Moths by Ranscalar, the [Bard of Broken Truths], Imperial Poem commissioned by Dunsthain, the City of Fog


    Aslavain: Eleven Days After the Summer Solstice


    For most of her life, Sylva had imagined magic as the grand force of legends, with heroes summoning the Sulphen to bend reality to their will. She had seen them as masters of the unseen, shaping the world through sheer power. Though she had known these heroes trained relentlessly to invoke the Sulphen, the layers of secrecy surrounding its use had always left her grasping at the edges of understanding.


    A younger Sylva might have been disillusioned by the rigid, almost mechanical nature of communicating with the Sulphen. The exacting precision required in every incantation¡ªthe endless adjustments, the mental acrobatics of chanting, signing, and visualizing the spell¡¯s outcome all at once¡ªwould have filled her with frustration. But as her lessons with Krinka progressed, she found herself, though unwilling to admit it, increasingly grateful for the level of mastery her sect demanded of her.


    Krinka had explained that the Sulphen recognized an infinite array of forms. He had likened it to a vast, slow-moving river, flowing relentlessly through reality. When left unguided, the flow dissipated¡ªscattered and weak, leaving hardly a trace. But with deliberate action, that flow could be forced into deeper, sharper channels, eventually cutting canyons into the fabric of the world itself.


    Incantations were how spellcasters shaped the Sulphen¡¯s path, steering its flow into the desired riverbed. Every thought, every subtle movement, and every carefully chosen word directed the Sulphen¡¯s current. Sylva had only to prime that flow, preparing the magic to follow her will. Channeling it into the established magical frameworks woven throughout the empire, she found that her task wasn¡¯t to carve new canyons but simply to guide the Sulphen along the ancient paths already etched by past masters.


    Sylva knew the analogy was imperfect¡ªthe Sulphen was far more elusive than any river¡ªbut she understood Krinka¡¯s meaning. The actions of past heroes, mages, and even monsters had shaped how the Sulphen responded and those preformed responses were the basis of spells. If she could align her incantations with those ancient patterns, the Sulphen would answer to her will. As the elders often said: the Sulphen observed, and the Sulphen adapted.


    Once Sylva had mastered the core principles of how to speak and move to invoke the Sulphen, Krinka introduced her to the six foundational forms of incantation. He began with Transference¡ªthe art of commanding the Sulphen to move energy or traits between objects. Transference, he had explained, was the ideal starting point, as it demanded the caster balance multiple streams of thought while maintaining unwavering focus on the incantation itself.


    Krinka had casually pulled a simple clay cup from his bag, filled it with water from the pool, and asked her to produce ice for his drink. What seemed like a trivial request turned into hours of struggle. Sylva¡¯s mind strained as she wrestled with the Sulphen, attempting to force the heat from the water and release it into the air. Again and again, the magic slipped out of her control, the water refusing to respond. But after what felt like hundreds of tries, a delicate film of frost finally crept across the surface of the cup. Her relief was short-lived, though¡ªher head throbbed with the force of the magic, the pounding behind her eyes demanding rest.


    She could feel a pool of energy within her Lifestring, a source that she could pull from to draw the attention of the Sulphen to her will. Krinka had called it her internal reserve and warned that if she depleted it as a Silkborn her body would stop functioning, incapable of maintaining itself without the magic of the Sulphen. She wondered if that was what had happened right before she had earned her class.


    Sensing her exhaustion, Krinka had decided she would cast no more for the day. Instead, he filled the hours with even more lectures on the fundamental principles of the Sulphen, his voice steady as he walked her through the complex web of Absorption, Obfuscation, Manifestation, Binding, and Severance. Each principle felt like unraveling a tightly wound knot in her mind, the intricate nature of magic revealing itself layer by layer. Her headache lingered, but Sylva¡¯s understanding deepened, even as the concepts seemed to grow more elusive.


    Transference and Absorption, Krinka had explained, were the cornerstones of transmogrification and transmutation¡ªthe kind of magic that could twist the very essence of objects, reshaping them into new forms as easily as one might mold clay. Obfuscation and Manifestation, meanwhile, laid the foundation for conjuring illusions, summoning forces from beyond, and commanding the elements themselves. Binding and Severance, the most intricate of all, allowed one to connect or sever the unseen ties between objects and forces, essential for sympathetic and defensive magics. Together, these six principles formed a complete framework, granting Sylva the flexibility to navigate magic across all disciplines.


    Initially, Sylva had feared that six principles would be too rigid, unable to account for the unpredictability of real situations. But as she delved deeper, her concern shifted¡ªthe principles felt too flexible. The Sulphen demanded split-second decisions, each spell requiring her to choose not only the path she would guide the magic into, but how to persuade it that this was its natural course. Every incantation was a negotiation, and with each one, the pressure mounted. She no longer feared whether the metaphorical water would flow, but whether she could convince it to carve the right canyon before it slipped from her control.


    Sylva had learned to freeze water by wielding both Transference and Absorption, each method demanding a different kind of finesse. She could siphon the heat from the liquid, transferring it to the cold stone floor, or she could coax the air around her to drink in the warmth. Either way, the water would crystallize into ice¡ªbut the steps, the mental tightrope she had to walk, varied with each method. When it came time to reverse the process, the same delicate balance of power was required, as she either drained the ice of cold or filled the surrounding space with heat once more.


    Under Krinka¡¯s watchful gaze, Sylva had guided the Sulphen to lengthen the shadows that crept along the stone floor. Her first challenge was to coax the Sulphen into believing that the darkness wanted to spread, to obscure the floor beneath its cloak. Then, she shifted her approach, convincing the Sulphen that it was only natural for the shadows to manifest, stretch and consume the light. The room darkened at her command, the shadows thickening like ink spilled across the ground.


    Binding and Severance had been the hardest for Sylva, though Krinka had assured her this was typical. Binding required her to convince the Sulphen that two completely separate objects¡ªan empty glass and a full one¡ªwere, at their core, phenomenologically linked. With each attempt, she had to weave an invisible thread between them, distributing the weight of the water evenly so that the empty glass became as heavy as its filled counterpart. Yet once the binding was in place, the real challenge began. Krinka had then tasked her with severing the connection, forcing her to unravel the very magic she had just spun, convincing the Sulphen that the glasses had never been connected at all only to do it all over again.


    As the hours wore on, Krinka¡¯s satisfaction became unmistakable. Each time Sylva completed an exercise, his expression grew more self-assured, his eyes gleaming with approval as she progressed from one challenge to the next. By the time she could reliably bind and sever the Sulphen with ease, Krinka¡¯s smugness had reached the point where he resembled one of the Sect Elders after hearing of a victorious exhibition.


    ¡°Have I demonstrated Binding and Severance to your standards?¡± Sylva asked, her voice soft but steady. Two pieces of parchment lay before her, bound so that words written on one appeared instantly on the other. At Krinka¡¯s approving nod, she positioned her fingers as he had shown her, muttering the quick incantation to sever the connection. The words on the second page vanished, dissolving into the air like smoke.


    ¡°You have,¡± he acknowledged with a gentle smile. ¡°Faster than expected, too. Casselia thought it would take nearly a week before you grasped six forms to my satisfaction.¡±


    ¡°Answer me this, Krinka,¡± she said, straightening her spine and meeting his gaze. The question had been gnawing at her for hours. ¡°The Sunborn claims that conviction is the core of Thaumaturgy. You never dispelled that belief, but none of this¡±¡ªshe waved at the discarded cups and crumpled pages strewn around them¡ª¡°has anything to do with my conviction.¡±


    She studied him as he fidgeted, clearly buying time to compose his answer. Why did he look uncomfortable? she wondered, feeling a knot of unease tighten in her stomach as the silence stretched. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Krinka sighed.


    ¡°You excel at exceeding my timelines, it seems. I didn¡¯t expect you to catch on for days¡ªweeks if I was lucky.¡± A frown pulled at Sylva¡¯s normally controlled expression as realization dawned. He had deceived her. Why? He was her sworn mentor, her only source of information. What could he possibly gain from obfuscation? He continued, ¡°What I¡¯ve been teaching you are the foundational incantations for transmogrification and sympathetic magic. Those foundations are very different from what a Thaumaturge traditionally uses.¡±


    ¡°How are they different?¡±


    ¡°Thaumaturgic magic is personal. Your perception of the world¡ªand your place in it¡ªdirectly influences the kinds of magic you can master. A [Wizard] only needs knowledge to grow their power. But a [Thaumaturge] needs passion, conviction, certainty in every fiber of their being.¡±


    ¡°But the incantations worked,¡± Sylva said, her brows knitting together in confusion. ¡°You didn¡¯t train me to use passion or certainty, yet the spells still worked.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s been a bit of a misunderstanding. Anyone with enough dedication and knowledge of incantations can master simple cantrips like the ones you¡¯ve been practicing. Even Casselia can perform basic sympathy, and she¡¯s as much a mage as Hadrian.¡± He shook his head ruefully, shifting his weight as if eager to escape the conversation. ¡°I¡¯ve been trying to build a theoretical framework for you¡ªsomething practical for daily use of the Sulphen, or, if we¡¯re lucky, to nudge the Sulphen to develop your path towards thaumaturgic magic.¡±


    ¡°Speak plainly, Krinka. What aren¡¯t you telling me?¡± He sighed heavily and met her gaze.


    ¡°You¡¯ve got too much natural talent and training in transmogrification to be wasted as a [Thaumaturge]. Not that you can¡¯t excel in that discipline,¡± he added quickly as her expression tightened. ¡°But your skills¡ªthey don¡¯t quite fit the class you¡¯ve been given. Blame Tir Na Nog, if you like. The trial certainly influenced the class you received. To truly reach your potential as a [Thaumaturge], you¡¯ll likely need to rebuild your foundation from the ground up. I¡¯d hoped that a strong base in incantations could guide your class toward evolving into something closer to traditional spellwork¡ªor, if we¡¯re lucky, even gain you a second class to prioritize.¡±


    She remembered what Drakar had said when she told him about gaining the [Thaumaturge] class. He had never met someone so disciplined, performing incantations like a [Wizard]. What are the odds that both the Eidolons and Krinka are wrong about me? The realization hit her like a weight sinking in her chest: I wasn¡¯t supposed to get this class.


    ¡°I wasn¡¯t supposed to get this class, was I?¡± The words slipped out, reluctant, as though she feared Krinka¡¯s confirmation.


    ¡°Supposed to,¡± he echoed softly. ¡°There¡¯s a lot tied up in that idea, isn¡¯t there? When you¡¯re young, it feels like all that matters is achieving the goals you¡ªor others¡ªhave set for you. But over the years, I¡¯ve learned something: there is no set path for any of us. The [Diviners] speak of predictions, the [Seers] read omens, and the [Numerologists] claim they can unravel someone¡¯s truth with an equation. Yet none of them see a future written in stone because our choices matter.¡±


    As he spoke, the tension drained from his frame, and he leaned forward, his gaze intense. ¡°Did your sect¡¯s elders envision a different path for you? Of course. Would things be easier if you had received a class that better suited your training? Absolutely. But that doesn¡¯t mean you won¡¯t become an exceptional [Thaumaturge], or that we can¡¯t evolve this class into something more fitting for you. This is your life, Sylva. Don¡¯t let anyone dictate what you¡¯re supposed to do with it.¡±


    She inhaled deeply, nodding slowly. The elders had trained me for one path, but when have I ever followed them blindly? It¡¯s not as though I can¡¯t cast incantations¡ªin fact, if I¡¯m reading Krinka right, I¡¯m a natural. She met his gaze, her mind clear as she asked the only question left.


    ¡°So when will you start teaching me to be a [Thaumaturge]?¡± Krinka blinked, clearly caught off guard, but Sylva pressed on. ¡°If this is my path, then I need to learn how to excel at it. I can¡¯t choose the hand I¡¯ve been dealt, but I can choose how I play it. You said you taught me transmogrification because my skills weren¡¯t up to par for Thaumaturgy. How do we fix that?¡±


    Krinka bit his lip, thinking before he let out a long sigh. ¡°We¡¯ve got three more days before Casselia expects us to be done with these incantations. I¡¯m not as familiar with advanced Thaumaturgic methods as I¡¯d like, but I can teach you the basics in that time. Are you sure you want to commit to growing your Thaumaturgy? Each step down that path will make it harder to change direction later.¡±


    ¡°But I could still earn a class in a different magical discipline later, right?¡±


    ¡°Well, yes, but it¡¯s not that simple. Imperial practice is to maintain three primary classes¡ªtwo for your core discipline and one for a secondary focus. You could take more than three, but the more you add, the thinner your growth spreads.¡±


    ¡°Then I¡¯m certain. Now, how does Thaumaturgic magic differ from what you¡¯ve taught me so far?¡±


    ¡°The main difference is in how you convince the Sulphen to obey you. With transmogrification, it¡¯s about the Word¡ªthe way you speak to guide the Sulphen¡¯s flow. But Thaumaturgy? That¡¯s all about conviction conveyed through your Will. You have to force the magic into the canyons where it belongs. If you truly want to become a [Thaumaturge], you¡¯ll need a set of beliefs strong enough to reshape reality itself.¡±


    ¡°How do we proceed?¡±


    <hr>


    After three days confined in a chamber barely large enough to fit his own body, let alone a second person, Alsarana reached a startling conclusion: Hadrian might be the most intriguing candidate he had ever taught. Others grew more interesting with time, as power often revealed layers in its bearers. But from the very beginning? No past mentee came close to the Kiel man.


    Alsarana was accustomed to a range of reactions when asking candidates to recount their childhood traumas. He had faced stonewalling, excuses, even rage. Some had yelled, dismissed him, or even lashed out violently when pressed to share the details of their pasts. But Hadrian? He had simply looked momentarily puzzled before answering each of Alsarana¡¯s questions with cheerful compliance.


    Still, Alsarana wasn¡¯t alarmed. Not every candidate reacted negatively to his inquiries, and a lucky few had led lives free of significant trauma. But as Hadrian spoke about his parents, life in Cutra, and the isolation of living in a distant corner of the empire, Alsarana realized that Hadrian simply didn¡¯t view any part of his life as traumatic.Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.


    When Hadrian spoke of his twelve-hour daily training routine, which he had followed since childhood, he shared his story with eager excitement. When describing how his parents disciplined him after failures, there was a subtle longing for those long-gone days. Even recounting his role in defending the village from raids by the Simians or the Brood, Hadrian expressed gratitude for the chance to learn.


    It wasn¡¯t that Hadrian¡¯s stories and memories lacked potential for trauma; rather, he simply didn¡¯t seem to perceive them as such. At first, Alsarana suspected the boy was putting on a front. He had seen that countless times before. But when it came to sensing trauma, Alsarana wasn¡¯t easily fooled.


    Alsarana was drawn to despair, anger, uncertainty, and fear like a moth to flame. His [Harbinger] class did more than merely sense those emotions; it thrived on them. Yet from Hadrian, there was nothing¡ªno sustenance at all.


    This posed a problem for Alsarana. He had been tasked with helping Hadrian discover his combat art, and Casselia was expecting results¡ªshe always did. The first step in this process was understanding the candidate¡¯s natural affinities, something Alsarana usually uncovered by reviewing their traumatic past. Parents burned alive in a fire? Water affinity. Fear of confined spaces? Sky affinity. Unreasonable parental expectations? An affinity designed to make them proud. Easy enough.


    The Sulphen responded to a person¡¯s fears, anxieties, and subconscious needs, and Alsarana had always been able to sniff out a few likely affinities based on that alone. But with Hadrian, he had nothing to work with.


    After hours of intense conversation, Alsarana decided he needed time to think. He told Hadrian to train while his magic supposedly worked to reveal the boy¡¯s affinity¡ªa harmless lie. He tasked Hadrian with executing a single perfect knife thrust over and over until told to stop. This exercise usually evoked frustration or irritation, especially when Alsarana began critiquing the thrust¡¯s form.


    For the second time, Alsarana found himself surprised by the Kiel man. Hadrian merely nodded, summoned an unadorned bone knife, and began smoothly thrusting the blade forward, pausing with a precise, measured delay before withdrawing. After half an hour of repetition, Alsarana offered critiques, though there was little room for improvement.


    After several hours of silent, uncomplaining thrusts, Alsarana began to wonder if Hadrian was truly alright. Six hours in, watching the same motion repeated over and over, Alsarana realized he needed to change tack. If he couldn¡¯t uncover an affinity through the usual channels of resentment, trauma, or fear, he would have to rely on real divination.


    Alsarana instructed Hadrian to summon an axe and perform horizontal swings with the heavier weapon while he carved runes into a set of knuckle bones. Once the dice were ready, he paused to explain the divination process. Hadrian listened intently, then rolled the dice three times.


    The first casting revealed a general inclination toward a fire affinity¡ªnot the most helpful insight, given Hadrian already possessed a fire-related skill and the Luminaries involvement in the Foglands made fire a natural fit. Hoping for something new, Alsarana moved on to the second reading. A fire affinity was workable, of course; the empire had a long history with pyromancers, even before the arrival of the Sunborn. But Alsarana had higher hopes for Hadrian. And with a Silkborn already in the group, fire was far from the ideal affinity to nurture.


    The second casting was more ambiguous, hinting at themes of rebirth and reincarnation¡ªa severance from one¡¯s past and a journey into the future. It was certainly a more unique affinity. When paired with the earlier result, Alsarana briefly wondered if a phoenix affinity might manifest. He dismissed the thought and turned to the final reading, hoping for something that would truly excite Casselia.


    The final casting revealed themes of obfuscation, with endless streams of fog and mist. A water-based affinity was rare for someone whose primary affinity was fire, though not unheard of¡ªespecially for someone raised in the foglands. Given the natural fog affinity of Hadrian¡¯s robe, Alsarana wasn¡¯t surprised to see him attuned to it.


    Fire, rebirth, and fog. Alsarana pondered the affinities, searching for a point where they might converge. As he considered the options, he had Hadrian practice sword slashes. The Mistbloom flower from the Fologian Forest came to mind, with its ties to mist and rebirth¡ªblossoming only under twin full moons, releasing a mist prized by alchemists for its healing powers. But he dismissed the thought; suggesting a flower to a warrior felt absurd. Who would be afraid of a flower?


    Alsarana then considered the Cinderroot Vine, native to the Forest of Embers in the empire¡¯s far south. He doubted Hadrian had ever seen one¡ªvines that grew after forest fires, snaking through charred soil and revitalizing the surviving trees. The Cinderroot lacked an affinity for mist or fog, though its ability to consume smoke and ash for growth might bridge that gap. Still, Alsarana dismissed the idea. Teaching Hadrian about the distant ecology of a forest he would likely never encounter felt impractical. He needed something tied more closely to Hadrian¡¯s experience.


    After hours of silent contemplation, Alsarana settled on the Fogflare Moth, all while watching Hadrian¡¯s steady practice. The Fogflare Moth began as larvae, emerging from the ashes of burned trees, feeding on charred wood and ash until they grew large enough to form cocoons. Once the hand-sized moths emerged, they would search for the next tree to ignite, laying their eggs within the flames.


    Alsarana knew it was perfect.


    Moths were naturally drawn to flame, but the Fogflare Moth took that affinity to a new level. Its transition from ash-feeding larvae to full-fledged, fire-seeking moth fit seamlessly into the theme of rebirth. The ever-present fog of the Foglands was a natural complement, as the moths lived their entire lives shrouded within it. Alsarana was certain he had found a solution to the puzzle Casselia had set before him.


    Alsarana wasn¡¯t entirely sure what kind of combat art would develop from such an affinity. No one, to his knowledge, had ever formed one based on the Fogflare Moth, though he had faced Malan warriors with Ashwing-moth affinities¡ªworthy adversaries in their own right. If those northern cousins of the Fogflare Moth could produce effective fighters, Alsarana was confident Hadrian¡¯s affinity could too. Now, he just needed to convince Hadrian that the moth was his best path forward.


    ¡°You can stop slashing. I¡¯ve determined that you¡¯re more than sufficient with a sword.¡± Hadrian beamed, as if Alsarana had granted him a gift rather than made him spend hours on monotonous drills. For a moment, Alsarana almost felt guilty; he wasn¡¯t used to working with candidates who trusted him so implicitly. ¡°I¡¯ve also reached a conclusion about your affinity.¡±


    ¡°And once I know my affinity, I¡¯ll be able to develop a combat art?¡±


    As long as I did my job correctly, Alsarana thought, though his confidence wavered. If Casselia has to step in, Krinka will never let me live it down. This had better work.


    ¡°As long as you¡¯re proficient and focused enough,¡± Alsarana replied, projecting a confidence he didn¡¯t feel. ¡°It¡¯s in your hands now. If it doesn¡¯t work¡ªwell, that wouldn¡¯t be my fault.¡±


    ¡°What is it?¡±


    ¡°Through ancient rituals passed down by the [Oracles] of the First Empire, I¡¯ve identified your affinity: the Fogflare Moth.¡± Alsarana watched Hadrian intently, gauging his reaction. To his surprise, Hadrian merely nodded, as if he had expected nothing less.


    ¡°That makes sense,¡± Hadrian said.


    It does? Alsarana thought, surprised by Hadrian¡¯s ready acceptance.


    ¡°The Luminaries used to seed one of the trees near the village with their larva and would harvest the cocoons when the moths emerged. I don¡¯t think that¡¯s how they got the Fog Silk for my robe, but it¡¯s almost certainly what they traded to the Brood for it.¡±


    They did? Alsarana wondered. He had never heard of anyone harvesting the moths like that, but based on what he knew of the creatures, it was plausible¡ªat least on a small scale.


    ¡°Exactly what my ritual revealed,¡± Alsarana said, with a touch of arrogance. ¡°Now, all we need to do is infuse the essence of the Fogflare Moth into your strikes and movements.¡± Hadrian¡¯s eyes lit up with excitement at the prospect.


    ¡°Is that why I¡¯ve been practicing my strikes for hours?¡±


    ¡°Exactly,¡± Alsarana lied. ¡°Do you feel any more¡­ moth-like?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t,¡± Hadrian admitted, looking briefly downcast. But he quickly straightened, his resolve hardening. ¡°What do you recommend?¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s talk about what you remember of these moths. Your memories will help you connect with the essence you need to channel. We have three days before Casselia expects us to reconvene. If you¡¯re dedicated, we should be able to impress her. Now, let¡¯s begin.¡±


    <hr>


    Lotem didn¡¯t know what training had been like for Hadrian and Sylva, but he hoped they had enjoyed it as much as he had working with Casselia. Over the past three days, he had focused on strengthening his bond with Sabel. Expecting the process to be tedious and more of a chore than a lesson, he had been surprised¡ªmuch to Casselia¡¯s amusement.


    Casselia explained that bonding rarely succeeded when either party was too focused on larger tasks or goals. Instead, she encouraged Lotem to cuddle with the kitten and concentrate on Sabel¡¯s contentment. She kept his jerky supply stocked, and together they made sure Sabel ate her fill. Eventually, Casselia had him teach the kitten to wait in place or come on command, as if training a puppy.


    He didn¡¯t mind. For the first time since entering the trial, Lotem felt the tension in his shoulders ease. That familiar sense of peace returned, despite the cramped quarters and flickering red light. When he mentioned his growing relief, Casselia simply nodded, as if she¡¯d expected it all along.


    At first, Lotem wasn¡¯t sure what to make of the dark-skinned woman. She spoke with a quiet confidence that needed no affirmation, acting with the certainty of someone who had endured far worse. She reminded him of the [Shamans] who advised the chief, unswayed by the whims of even the tribe¡¯s most powerful members. When he asked if the others would be upset that he¡¯d spent his time playing with the kitten, she simply questioned why he thought worrying was a good use of his energy.


    Lotem didn¡¯t believe he could simply discard his worries, waste of energy or not. Yet, as the hours passed and his tension eased, his worries faded¡ªjust as Casselia had promised after he voiced his concerns. To his surprise, he found comfort in her presence, as if he were spending time with an old friend rather than a stranger.


    When Casselia announced they were halfway through their six-day training window, Lotem felt a familiar tension creep back in. He dreaded returning to the pain and endless deaths brought on by the Eidolons. There was no way he could fight Morvan, even with the restrictions meant to level the field. Morvan was an Imperial Ranger who had fought¡ªand survived¡ªthe Tul. How could he possibly overcome that?


    ¡°I think you¡¯re ready to move to the next stage of training now that you can sense Sabel reliably,¡± Casselia said, her words causing a thick silence to settle between them.


    ¡°Are you sure?¡± he asked, hesitant. He could sense Sabel reliably after days of constant training and play, but he didn¡¯t understand how that would help with his real problems. ¡°What¡¯s the next stage?¡±


    ¡°Your class is [Guardian]. What do you think your next step should be, Lotem?¡±


    Lotem sensed the question was a trap, much like when his mother would ask him something she already knew the answer to. It wasn¡¯t meant to be answered; it was meant to force him to face a hard truth. He hated questions like that.


    ¡°Guard her?¡± he asked, reluctantly suppressing the grimace that threatened to surface. Casselia gave him a gentle nod.


    ¡°A wonderful idea. Luckily, we have a threat on hand that can attack Sabel without posing any real danger to her life.¡±


    ¡°But she¡¯ll still suffer if she¡¯s wounded?¡±


    ¡°Briefly.¡± Casselia¡¯s eyes softened; she clearly understood the worries racing through his mind. ¡°But yes, Sabel will have the same experience in the trial as you.¡±


    ¡°That can¡¯t be good for her,¡± he said fiercely. ¡°It can¡¯t be good for a kitten to go through something like that,¡± he repeated, his voice tight with strain.


    ¡°Maybe,¡± Casselia acknowledged. ¡°But war does that to all of us, and let¡¯s be clear, Lotem¡ªyou brought this kitten into a war.¡±


    ¡°I¡ª¡± She cut him off before he could voice his objection.


    ¡°Lotem, your goal is to destroy the Tul, and you¡¯ll likely be in active combat toward that goal within a year¡¯s time. Didn¡¯t you worry about Sabel¡¯s well-being before you chose to involve her in your quest?¡±


    That¡¯s not fair, he wanted to say. She needed me, he almost replied. She wanted this, he thought fiercely. But he couldn¡¯t bring himself to say it aloud. Casselia tolerated no excuses¡ªthat much was clear already¡ªand deep down, he knew she was right. He had brought Sabel along to comfort his anxious heart, justifying it as protecting the kitten.


    Casselia denied him that comfort with nothing more than voicing questions he had already asked himself. There was a different power in answering the sincere questions of someone you respected. His justifications crumbled under her steady gaze. He didn¡¯t respond, his silence speaking for them both.


    ¡°She needs to prepare, almost as much as you do, Lotem. If you¡¯re willing to involve her in your goals, you must also let her grow on her own.¡± He nodded reluctantly, not trusting himself to respond.


    ¡°Now,¡± she said, her voice brooking no dissent. ¡°All that anger, fear, and uncertainty I see bubbling beneath the surface¡ªyou need to harness it. Someone is about to try to kill Sabel; how does that make you feel?¡±


    Terrified, he thought, his heart racing at the very idea.


    ¡°And she,¡± Casselia said, pointing to the kitten as it attacked a piece of jerky the size of its paw, ¡°will be relying on you, and you alone, to defend her. You chose to bring her here. Now defend her¡ªit¡¯s time.¡±


    Reluctantly, he stood and approached the kitten. He made a gentle rumbling sound in his throat, feeling a surge of joy through their bond as Sabel looked up at him with excitement. He scooped her up, intending to place her in her usual pouch inside his cloak.


    Casselia cleared her throat. ¡°She needs to be visible to understand what¡¯s going on.¡±


    He sighed, nodded, and approached the doors with Sabel purring softly in his hand. Expecting Casselia to follow, he turned, confusion flickering across his face when he saw the woman still seated.


    ¡°Are you coming?¡±


    ¡°I find it¡¯s best to let you attempt this on your own a few times, before adding the pressure of having a mentor watching.¡±


    ¡°Added pressure?¡± he asked, grateful for a chance to delay, even if just for a moment longer.


    ¡°Some Eidolons don¡¯t react well when a [Venerate] is watching. Now, no more delays.¡±


    He turned and entered the chamber, alone for the first time. The door slammed shut behind him, and he set Sabel on the ground, taking a moment of silence before touching the crystal ball filled with swirling fog, just as he had seen Sylva do many times before. Morvan¡¯s sarcophagus creaked open, and the armored figure emerged.


    ¡°Wait,¡± Lotem called, raising his hands to show he meant no harm. ¡°Why do we have to fight? I was pulled into this trial¡ªI¡¯m not ready to risk her.¡± He gestured toward Sabel, who stood proudly on the stone floor, ready to chase a piece of jerky that would never come.


    ¡°Is anyone ever ready for violence? For the collapse of the norms that keep us sane? I don¡¯t want to harm the young one, Lotem, but I also won¡¯t humor weakness.¡±


    Is it weakness to let the young grow up safe? Was it weakness to ask for parlay instead of violence? Was it weakness to admit he was afraid? No. He refused to let himself believe that. Peace was worth far more than anything a warrior could offer. Morvan spoke as if his empathy had drained away, lost somewhere on the path that had brought him to Tir Na Nog.


    ¡°Is that what you did to your companions?¡± he growled. ¡°Forced them to suffer when they were barely old enough to understand? Made them learn fear before they knew what freedom was? Is that what the Rangers stand for?¡±


    ¡°You know nothing of what the Rangers stand for, boy.¡±


    ¡°Enlighten me.¡±


    ¡°We defend the empire. Protect citizens from threats beyond the border¡ªthreats they don¡¯t even know exist. I guarded the Blue Fort for twenty-one years. Don¡¯t lecture me on morality, child.¡±


    ¡°You served the empire longer than I¡¯ve been alive, yet you show none of the virtues of that service. Don¡¯t lecture you on morality? If anyone needs a lecture, it¡¯s the Eidolons of this gods-forsaken shrine. Or did you join just to torment children with your power to kill?¡±


    ¡°What do you know of my service? What do you know of the Tul¡¯s threat to the empire? I joined this shrine because I know the need for rage when facing monsters.¡±


    ¡°What do I know of the Tul?¡± Lotem knew he was letting his emotions overtake his common sense. He had come to the Eidolon to avoid a fight, only to provoke one himself. He didn¡¯t care. He couldn¡¯t summon the energy to care¡ªnot with so much of his emotional strength drained by fear for Sabel. He channeled that fear and anger, his words hissing through clenched teeth. ¡°My brother was eaten by those monsters. You think you were so important? You didn¡¯t stop them¡ªand now you¡¯re fighting someone trying to finish the job you failed to do. What¡¯s next? You kill a kitten and call it justice? Is that what the Rangers taught you?¡±


    ¡°Watch yourself, boy. Some words can¡¯t be taken back.¡± Lotem couldn¡¯t see Morvan¡¯s face beneath his helm, but he could hear the snarl in his voice. He was long past caring what this man thought.


    ¡°But hammering your fists through my face¡ªthat can be? Commanding your rodent to kill my friend¡ªthat¡¯s fine? Is the big, bad Numen more afraid of words than real action?¡±


    ¡°Real actions? I fought the Tul for decades, boy.¡± The words oozed from his helm, slow and deliberate, each syllable ground into reality with thick anger. ¡°How do you even know you loved your brother? If he was raised by the same people as you, he was probably a fucking prick.¡±


    That¡¯s when Lotem felt it¡ªthe rage. Spiraling thoughts and raw anger, usually pruned of their worst impulses, surged forward. Who was this man to tell him about his brother? How fucking dare he.


    Sabel¡¯s fur puffed up as she sensed his mood and retreated behind him. Good, he thought, stepping toward the man.


    ¡°Is that how you talk about your friends who were eaten? Just fucking pricks because you can¡¯t be bothered to remember? Tir Na Nog suits you. Let the dumping grounds for assholes add one more to the pile.¡±


    ¡°Enough,¡± Morvan growled, summoning his creatures to his side. ¡°I don¡¯t need a child lecturing me, and I certainly don¡¯t need some half-blood pretending he understands the world.¡±


    Lotem knew the time for talking was over. He stood in front of Sabel, unwilling to leave the kitten alone as he felt her hostility toward the rodents. The Crystal-Quill turned, and Lotem heard the hiss of air before pain streaked through his arms, legs, and chest. He let out a bellow that echoed in the small chamber, his pain magnified by Sabel¡¯s worry¡ªthough she remained unharmed.


    He yanked a quill from his bicep, briefly examining the sharpened tip before hurling it at the charging Thunderback. The barb sank into the rodent¡¯s chest, slowing its advance. Lotem stepped forward and kicked the beast¡¯s side, channeling all the force he could muster into the blow.


    He froze, surprise cutting through his rage and pain as the beast slammed into the chamber wall with a crunch and a wheezing squeal, like a dog kicked by one of the war bison.


    Morvan strode forward, gauntleted fists clenched, while the Crystal-Quill charged Lotem from the left. Lotem ignored the beast, his eyes locked on the Eidolon. He wasn¡¯t used to facing someone bigger than himself, and a flash of fear hit as Morvan closed the distance. The Numen towered over him by a head and was much broader¡ªMorvan¡¯s arms were as thick as Lotem¡¯s thighs, nearly all of it solid muscle.


    Morvan struck low, aiming to crush Lotem¡¯s chest. Lotem threw his arm up, hoping to deflect the blow, but when his forearm met Morvan¡¯s fist, it barely slowed the impact. The gauntleted fist slammed into his sternum, and he crumpled under its weight. Pressure built in his chest, then darkness swallowed him whole.


    In the darkness between death and rebirth, Lotem heard the voice of the Sulphen.


    [Skill Obtained: My Wrath Is My Armor]

 Chapter Fourteen: Progress

    Dragonflies kill their prey in the air, devouring it on the wing. They feast on creatures too small for the world to notice, yet nuisances to those who dwell within it. Mosquitoes, macaw, and moths fall to their swift grace, a pale imitation of the dragons of old who hunted drakes, direwolves, and demons. Though the dragons no longer rule the skies, their legacy lingers in the dragonflies, sovereigns of the Fologian Forest.


    ¨C Ecology of the Fologian Foglands: The Legacy of Survival, by Dori Ashspire


    Aslavain: Fourteen Days After the Summer Solstice


    Casselia stood in the narrow hallway, her gaze steady on the trainees gathered before her. They had weathered six days of relentless training, their resilience a quiet victory. Krinka and Alsarana reported progress¡ªreal progress¡ªand even Lotem, though slower to adapt, had begun to show promise. If they kept this pace, they wouldn¡¯t just escape Tir Na Nog¡ªthey¡¯d emerge from it stronger, sharpened by the trials they¡¯d faced.


    Casselia had been training candidates since her triumvirate joined the [Venerate] during the Beast Wars. In those early centuries, she sometimes questioned whether they had chosen the right path¡ªjoining the [Venerate] instead of chasing the lofty goal of becoming [Paragons] of the empire. Yet, even now, she believed they could have reached that pinnacle. That belief had never wavered, though their journey had taken a different turn.


    She had no regrets. Had they chosen the path of [Paragons], they would have been long dead by now. Near immortality had suited her better¡ªan opportunity to grow beyond raw power, to see her mentees amplify what she had once thought were her limits. Each new life brought change, and with it, new potential. Who would trade that for fleeting glory?


    Sylva sat cross-legged on the stone floor, her posture as poised as a statue. Casselia had long wondered if the Silkborn¡¯s grace came from deep instinct or the rigid upbringing their culture enforced. Either way, the effect was undeniable¡ªnoble, controlled, the kind of bearing that drew attention in any crowd. And, of course, their beauty played its part, a feature that Sylva wielded effortlessly.


    Hadrian sat to the women¡¯s left with the type of introspective look that she had come to expect from a candidate training extensively with Alsarana. She wasn¡¯t opposed to his probings of their charges trauma, not truly, but she had come to anticipate consequences from the naga¡¯s approach. Alsarana claimed that the man had less trauma eating away at him than anyone else they had mentored¡ªa bold claim indeed¡ªand that he had resorted to using divination to determine the Kiel man¡¯s affinities.


    Stranger still, Alsarana had no complaints about Hadrian¡¯s performance over the past six days. His only critique was that Hadrian listened too well¡ªa comment that had made Krinka tease that Alsarana¡¯s standards were slipping. Casselia might have joined in on the joke, if not for the memory of that same smirk when Alsarana had first mentored the Marquis of Bone.


    The thought sent a chill down her spine. The Marquis of Bone had been their greatest student¡ªa necromantic prodigy with the potential to rival the founders of the Dion bloodlines. He would have reached unimaginable heights, had it not been for the [Procurator¡¯s] assassins. She¡¯d thought he was safe, still just a child growing into his power. Yet another sin at the feet of the Dion Administrator. This time, she would do better. She had to.


    Lotem looked the same as he had for the past several days¡ªterrified and unsure how to handle it. Sabel wasn¡¯t faring much better, the kitten¡¯s energy sapped after nearly a dozen deaths in the trial. Casselia regretted pushing Lotem so hard, but there had been no other choice. In Dornogor, she could have found a true [Beastmaster] to guide him through the basics of the [Guardian] class.


    If they hadn¡¯t been forced into this trial, she could have spared him¡ªand the kitten¡ªmuch of the trauma. For a time, at least. Did I push him to far? she wondered before pushing the thought down.


    Her approach had worked. Lotem had gained a powerful skill¡ªone he likely wouldn¡¯t have developed outside of Tir Na Nog. Casselia knew it would be worth the struggle in the end, especially if Krinka could help him acquire a complementary skill before they left. They all needed to escape before the deadline, but if Lotem could claim a true boon from Tir Na Nog, it would make everything they¡¯d endured worthwhile. Soon, she told herself. Soon they¡¯d be free to pursue their true goals.


    ¡°You¡¯ve done well,¡± Casselia said, her voice steady. ¡°Sylva, Krinka reports that you¡¯ve mastered the basic principles of spellcraft to meet his exacting standards.¡± Sylva nodded, calm and composed, as if she had expected no less from herself.


    ¡°Hadrian,¡± she went on. ¡°Alsarana says you¡¯ve identified your affinity and are beginning to manifest it as a combat art. He¡¯s spoken highly of your dedication and hard work. Be proud¡ªyou¡¯re on the path to real progress.¡±


    ¡°Lotem,¡± she said, pausing until he met her gaze. ¡°The last three days have been hard¡ªunfairly so, I know. But you persevered, and you¡¯ve met my expectations.¡± He nodded, though his expression remained uncertain, doubt flickering in his eyes. Casselia pressed on, not letting his downcast look sway her.


    ¡°It was once tradition,¡± she began, ¡°for candidates to spend their first twelve days in Aslavain undergoing rigorous training in fundamentals that were denied to non-citizens. After the Flower Wars, that tradition faded as the empire settled into peace.¡± She gestured to Krinka and Alsarana. ¡°But we hold to the old ways. There¡¯s power in tradition.¡±


    ¡°History and tradition never get enough credit,¡± Krinka muttered, breaking the silence. Casselia couldn¡¯t help but smile faintly¡ªtrust a [Historian] to defend the power of the past.


    ¡°You¡¯ve trained for six days and six nights without rest¡ªthanks to the trial suppressing your need for food or sleep. We have six more days left before I expect you to complete it.¡± Casselia turned to Sylva, confident she would give the answer she was looking for. ¡°Sylva, what do you need to focus on over the next six days to succeed?¡±


    Sylva considered the question for a moment before lifting her gaze to meet Casselia¡¯s. ¡°I need to understand my conviction. Krinka has taught me the framework to express my desires to the Sulphen, but I still don¡¯t know how to properly draw on my conviction to power my spells.¡±


    Casselia raised her brows, surprised. She¡¯s confident enough in her incantations to change course already? Her eyes shifted to Krinka, and her concerns eased slightly¡ªthe scholar was nodding in agreement with Sylva¡¯s assessment. Casselia had expected it to take weeks for Sylva to grasp the incantation forms. Most of their candidates took days just to master a single principle to Krinka¡¯s standards¡ªand they never mentored normal candidates. That Sylva had learned six in six days was nothing short of remarkable, intuition skill or not.


    ¡°Alsarana, you¡¯ll work with Sylva on conviction,¡± Casselia instructed, then turned back to Sylva. ¡°You¡¯re familiar with the twelve primary doctrines of the empire, I assume?¡± She waited for Sylva¡¯s nod before continuing. ¡°Alsarana is an expert on ethical principles. He¡¯ll oversee your training for the next three days.¡± Sylva glanced at the looming black naga with a flicker of uncertainty but said nothing as Casselia moved on to Hadrian.


    ¡°Hadrian, Alsarana tells me you¡¯ve discovered an affinity you believe is relevant.¡± Casselia glanced briefly at the naga, still unsure if the divination had been correct. Rovan Khal would have known Hadrian¡¯s affinity before naming him a [Squire], and she couldn¡¯t understand what the Titan had been thinking. Usually, immortals chose their [Squire] based on affinity alone. But clearly, Rovan had different plans. ¡°The Fogflare Moth, was it? How do you think you should spend your time developing a combat art?¡±


    Hadrian paused, his brow furrowing in thought. ¡°My parents always said the best way to grow was to find a challenge that pushes you to your limits. Alsarana says I need to fight more like a moth¡­ I¡¯m still figuring out what that means, but I think I should focus on that during training. Opportunities like this trial don¡¯t come often.¡±


    ¡°Agreed,¡± Casselia said with a nod. ¡°I¡¯ll observe your engagements and give feedback. You¡¯ll learn far more from that than just practicing how to fight ¡®moth-like.¡¯¡±


    ¡°What about me?¡± Lotem asked, his deep voice echoing slightly in the confined space.


    ¡°You¡¯ll be working with Krinka.¡± Lotem visibly tensed, bracing himself for bad news. ¡°Your skill is rooted in anger, and Krinka will help you with the basics of emotional skills. Krinka, see if you can guide Lotem toward developing something that converts or amplifies emotion.¡± Lotem exhaled, relief loosening his shoulders as he gave a nod.


    What is it about scholars that puts people so at ease? Casselia wondered. She had no doubt Sylva would enjoy her lessons with Krinka far more than Lotem.


    ¡°And once we¡¯re out of this trial?¡± Sylva asked, her voice calm but curious. ¡°What comes next?¡±


    Casselia considered dismissing the question and sending them off to train. Normally, she would have. But this group deserved answers. Tir Na Nog had robbed them of the usual adjustment period, and she couldn¡¯t ignore her responsibility in that.


    ¡°We¡¯ll travel north to Dornogor,¡± she said. ¡°It¡¯s the best place for Lotem¡¯s class¡ªanyone with a beast companion should go there. Dornogor¡¯s contest happens early in the cycle, during the first convergence of the twin moons. I expect you to compete¡ªand win¡ªwithin a month. After that, we¡¯ll head south, staying clear of Tir Na Nog¡¯s demesne, and reach Ylfenhold in time for the Eternal Contest of the City of the Veil.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what Rovan wanted, right?¡± Hadrian asked, his eyes bright with excitement.


    ¡°It is,¡± Casselia confirmed. ¡°During the Eternal Contest, a dozen triumvirates are chosen to enter the Cairn of Titans.¡±


    ¡°What exactly is the Cairn of Titans?¡± Sylva asked, glancing between Hadrian and Casselia before adding, ¡°Besides just being a mountain, of course.¡± Casselia¡¯s mind drifted briefly to the Cairn¡¯s dark corridors, the whispered rumors of what lay hidden beneath those stones. No one left unchanged.


    ¡°In the true empire? It¡¯s just a mountain¡ªthough one riddled with tunnels and secrets,¡± Casselia replied quickly, cutting Krinka off before he could launch into a lecture. ¡°But here in Aslavain, the Cairn is a Domicile that holds the legacies and remains of every dead Titan.¡±


    ¡°A Domicile?¡± Hadrian asked, frowning in confusion. Krinka answered before Casselia could respond, a flicker of worry crossing her face before she suppressed it.


    ¡°There are three kinds of extraplanar spaces the empire deals with regularly,¡± Krinka began. ¡°A shrine forms a demesne, which extends the influence of a focal point by linking Creation to Aslavain. Once this demesne becomes its own independent dimensional space, it¡¯s known as a Domicile. Now, when a Domicile¡ª¡± Before Krinka could launch into another lengthy explanation, Casselia cut him off gently.


    ¡°Thank you, Krinka,¡± Casselia said, her tone firm but polite. ¡°That¡¯s enough to answer Hadrian¡¯s question.¡±


    ¡°So¡­ a Domicile is just an improved shrine?¡±


    ¡°Well, not exactly¡ª¡± Krinka started, but Casselia silenced him with a pointed look.


    ¡°Close enough,¡± Casselia said with a slight nod. ¡°That¡¯s a fair comparison.¡±


    ¡°The Cairn of Titans,¡± Lotem said, his gaze narrowing. ¡°If it¡¯s a burial ground, why would we want to go there? Are we grave robbers?¡± There was a trace of disgust in his voice.


    ¡°Not at all,¡± she replied. ¡°Each Titan left behind unique powers that are still accessible to those they ruled. Even the First Throne is maintained in the Cairn. Out of the dozen triumvirates that enter each year, a few leave with a boon from the Titans who still persist there. The triumvirate with the [Squire of Carven Bone] nearly always emerges with something.¡±


    ¡°Now,¡± she said, raising a hand to cut off any further questions. ¡°Once we¡¯ve left this trial in Tir Na Nog, we¡¯ll discuss all of this in greater detail. But if we don¡¯t make it out, none of this will matter¡ªthere¡¯ll be no competition in Dornogor, Ylfenhold, or the Cairn. We¡¯ll meet again in three days. Let¡¯s get to work.¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°Tell me, Sylva¡ªof all the twelve schools of imperial thought, which do you hold closest to your heart?¡± Alsarana¡¯s words slithered through the dim room, his smirk sharp as a blade. The cramped space felt like it was shrinking, the stone walls pressing in. Shadows danced across the still pool of water at their feet, the light flickering with every lazy twitch of his tail.


    ¡°Must we always see the world through just one lens?¡± Sylva¡¯s voice wavered slightly, though she masked it with defiance. Years of debates with her fellow students flashed through her mind¡ªimperial law shaped by the twelve schools. The Elders had drilled into her the importance of aligning with their teachings, yet each time she questioned them, she¡¯d felt reprimand instead of recognition. She had learned to ask questions, but never to find her own answers.


    No single ethical perspective could ever guide the real world. Sylva had learned that much after years of debate. The Deontologists¡¯ rigid, unwavering commitment to duty felt suffocating, almost inhuman. The Consequentialists reduced lives to cold numbers, their calculations stripping away humanity. Absurdists floated in ambiguity, untethered by any principle. And the Virtuists? They clung to sacred virtues like anchors in a storm, oblivious to the chaos swirling around them. Yet none of it felt¡­ real. None of it fit.


    Sylva hadn¡¯t dismissed all their principles¡ªshe knew there was truth in each one. Even the Elders admitted as much, though their real concern was ensuring her loyalty to the deontological path. Stray too far, and the reprimands came quick¡ªsharp, stinging reminders that questioning the Empire was not to be praised. They trained her to dismantle rival philosophies with precision, but they had never taught her to question her own. That gnawed at her. Why had she let it go on for so long?


    At first, it had seemed unthinkable to compare Alsarana or Krinka to the Elders. But after six days under Krinka¡¯s guidance, the difference was glaring. The Elders silenced dissent¡ªKrinka welcomed it. He reveled in her questions, praised her achievements, and assured her that magic had no single ¡®right¡¯ path¡ªonly patterns waiting to be bent, reshaped. She had never felt this before: freedom to think, to question. It made her wonder¡­ had she been loyal to the wrong mentors all along?


    ¡°I like you already,¡± Alsarana grinned, exposing his fangs. ¡°Most of you sect-born brats are as rigid as stone. You¡¯d rather break than bend. But morality isn¡¯t stone¡ªit¡¯s bone. It bends, twists, strains, and then¡­ snap.¡± He tilted his head with an unsettling smirk, eyes gleaming as he watched her, amused by her every reaction.


    ¡°Our goal,¡± Alsarana¡¯s voice dropped to a chilling whisper, ¡°is to find where your moral code breaks¡ªthe moment when your bone snaps.¡± His eyes gleamed. ¡°Conviction is forcing the world to bend before you do.¡± He let the silence hang, as if the crack of bone echoed in the stillness.


    Sylva nodded, though his words didn¡¯t surprise her. She had heard similar ideas before¡ªusually in abstract debates. ¡°And how do you find the breaking point without living through it?¡± Her voice wavered slightly, curiosity edged with unease. The Pragmatists believed morality was forged in experience, not theory. She wasn¡¯t sure how she felt about that anymore. Hadn¡¯t she always been skeptical of arguments that never felt¡­ real?


    ¡°Pragmatism crumbles the moment the unexpected strikes,¡± Alsarana¡¯s tail flicked across the floor. ¡°Conviction isn¡¯t forged in theory¡ªit¡¯s tested in defense. So, Sylva of Clan Strenath,¡± he continued, his voice darkening, ¡°shall we unravel the delicate threads of moral personhood? It¡¯s a fitting start, don¡¯t you think?¡±


    Sylva leaned back, trying to steady herself as Alsarana paused. She was still adjusting to the chaos of battle¡ªthe rats, the Eidolons. But this? This was supposed to be her battlefield. Morality and principles¡­ Yet, under Alsarana¡¯s gaze, she wasn¡¯t so sure anymore.


    ¡°Let me ask you something,¡± Alsarana¡¯s eyes narrowed, his voice slipping into a cold, lecturing tone. ¡°In the First Empire, only humans were given the privilege of citizenship. Their lives were worth more than all other races. To kill a non-human? No different than slaughtering livestock. So tell me, Sylva¡ªdo you think the Empire was right?¡±


    ¡°Even during the First Empire¡¯s reign, it was clear that other races deserved moral standing,¡± Sylva said, though her voice faltered slightly. History had always been her strength, but this felt different. ¡°The alliances with the draconic thrones, the Arenea¡ªthat¡¯s proof enough. The real question,¡± she continued, eyes narrowing as doubt crept in, ¡°is how the lawbringers decided what counted as sentience.¡±


    ¡°If races as alien as the psychic spiders or the scaled southerners were deemed sentient,¡± Sylva pressed on, though her voice grew more cautious, ¡°then sentience has to be about more than just superiority. It¡¯s about capacity¡ªthought, feeling, suffering. Any race that shares those traits deserves the same moral code.¡± She hoped she was right.


    ¡°Ah, so sentience justifies moral standing, does it?¡± Alsarana murmured, his head tilting, forked tongue flicking out to taste the air. ¡°Interesting. Let me share a story¡ªabout a Free Holding to the south. Their laws elevated the Numen, declaring them more sentient, based on their intellect. They didn¡¯t strip humanity of sentience¡ªthey just claimed the Numen had more of it. Were they wrong?¡±


    Sylva hesitated, her thoughts racing. She knew this was a trap, another snare waiting to snap shut¡ªbut still¡­ ¡°No,¡± she said, more carefully this time. Alsarana¡¯s coils shifted, the movement predatory as he leaned in, his eyes narrowing¡ªnot with curiosity, but calculation. She could feel the weight of the trap closing in.


    ¡°And why not?¡± Alsarana¡¯s voice was soft but unrelenting. ¡°The Numen¡¯s memories never fade, their strength dwarfs human frailty, and their emotional clarity is something we can only dream of. Even the Sulphen recognize their nobility. They are to humankind what humans are to mere monkeys. Isn¡¯t sentience just a mask for superior capacity?¡±


    No, she thought, but she bit back the words. She had to be careful. ¡°The Numen might have¡­ more capacity,¡± she began, her words slow, deliberate. ¡°But that doesn¡¯t strip humans of their thought or moral understanding. The threshold for moral standing isn¡¯t some ceiling that only the strongest can reach. It¡¯s a floor¡ªsomething we all stand on if we meet the criteria.¡± Her voice wavered slightly as she finished, doubt creeping in.


    ¡°Logical thought and moral capacity?¡± Alsarana¡¯s voice slithered over the words, wrapping them tight around her like a noose. ¡°That¡¯s the floor you set?¡±


    ¡°At least¡­ in part,¡± Sylva replied, though her voice was more hesitant now. Her mind raced, scrambling to stay ahead of Alsarana¡¯s traps. Every word felt like another step into quicksand, and she wasn¡¯t sure how much longer she could hold her footing.


    ¡°In the Belcarn Principates far to the south, they say dogs¡ªtrained by [Houndmasters]¡ªare as intelligent as men, capable of right and wrong. Owning one is illegal¡ªownership of sentient life is a global taboo.¡± Alsarana¡¯s tail flicked lazily, his eyes fixed on her like a predator. ¡°So tell me, Sylva¡ªdo you agree? Are the Bal tribes nothing more than slavemasters?¡±


    No, that couldn¡¯t be right. ¡°No,¡± she said, the word escaping her more forcefully than she meant. She paused, heart pounding, knowing whatever she said next, Alsarana would twist. ¡°Most beasts don¡¯t¡­ they don¡¯t reach that level of thought or judgment. Even if some¡ªthose touched by sentience¡ªcould, that doesn¡¯t mean we should treat them all the same.¡± Her voice faltered at the end, uncertainty creeping in.


    Alsarana¡¯s body quivered, his tail tapping a slow, deliberate beat against the stone floor. His eyes gleamed, cutting into her with unsettling intensity. ¡°Ah, I see now. Sentience is something some species possess, and others lack. Even if an individual meets your criteria, you¡¯ll deny their sentience if their species doesn¡¯t. Is that right?¡± His voice was soft, mocking, but each word cut like a blade.If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    Of course not, she thought, but this time her certainty wavered. Why not? Her thoughts spiraled. She¡¯d debated this very issue before¡ªthe Elders had always accepted her answers. But now, under Alsarana¡¯s gaze, those answers felt hollow. No one had ever questioned the Silkborn¡¯s superiority. Why would they? The principles she had been taught served the Elders¡¯ interests, not the truth.


    ¡°Ahhh.¡± Alsarana¡¯s hiss dripped with satisfaction as he watched her struggle. ¡°You reject the idea that individual capacity is irrelevant, yet you have no framework for who meets your test for sentience. A Silkborn rejecting universal principles?¡± His smirk widened, taunting her. ¡°That¡¯s not very deontological, is it?¡±


    ¡°I do have a framework,¡± Sylva snapped, her voice rising with frustration. ¡°We should judge each individual by their capacities. A dog as sentient as a person deserves the same respect for that capacity¡ªnot because its species falls short.¡± Her breath hitched slightly, the frustration mixing with a creeping desperation.


    ¡°You¡¯re not the first to argue that,¡± Alsarana said, his voice turning cold. ¡°Before the Beast Wars, the Lord of the Simians pleaded for peace with the Malan and Kiel lords as they crept into the Fologian Foglands. The Lady of the Harpies stood before the House of Lords, insisting her thoughts and emotions were no different from ours. Then Apalarakan, that same Simian lord, ascended. His crown grew¡ªand with it, the first Beast King in living memory. His ascension left a quarter of the empire in ruins and sparked wars that rage to this day, almost a thousand years later. Do you know what that kind of destruction looks like, Sylva?¡± His voice lingered on the devastation, daring her to imagine it.


    Sylva had heard of the Beast Wars¡ªsecond only to the Blood Wars in devastation. The Elders had been vague on the details, but she¡¯d thought she understood the basics. Beasts that grew too powerful manifested crowns, leading their species into madness. But as Alsarana¡¯s words washed over her, her confidence cracked. Could she truly grasp the enormity of what he¡¯d seen? His unblinking gaze made it clear: she couldn¡¯t.


    ¡°That¡¯s why the Empire hunts them now,¡± Alsarana continued, his voice dripping with deliberate menace. ¡°Any beast with the potential to rise above its station is put down. We can¡¯t afford to do anything less, can we?¡± His words felt like a snare tightening around her throat, giving her no room to escape.


    ¡°If their growth threatens the Empire¡­¡± Sylva hesitated, the words catching in her throat. She forced herself to continue, though they felt like lead on her tongue. ¡°Then no¡ªI stand by the policy of extermination.¡± The certainty in her voice unsettled her, even as she said it.


    ¡°How very Consequentialist of you,¡± Alsarana sneered, his tail coiling tighter around the space between them. ¡°So we agree then. If a sentient being poses even the faintest threat, the Empire is justified in striking first. That¡¯s what you¡¯re saying, isn¡¯t it?¡± His satisfaction was thick in the air, savoring each word like a predator savoring its prey.


    Sylva¡¯s jaw clenched as Alsarana twisted her words, weaving her simple answers into something tangled and dangerous. The ground beneath her was shifting, and she could feel the argument slipping from her grasp. But she wasn¡¯t about to let him win so easily. She straightened, forcing herself to steady, determined to reclaim her stance before it was too late.


    ¡°If someone is an active threat to others, then¡­ yes,¡± Sylva replied, trying to sound firm, though her voice wavered. ¡°The Empire is justified in stopping that danger.¡± She prayed her voice sounded stronger than the doubts swirling in her mind.


    ¡°So we do agree!¡± Alsarana uncoiled in a single fluid motion, his body swaying with a sinister energy. His eyes gleamed, dark with excitement. ¡°I¡¯ve argued for centuries that ethics are nothing more than preemptive assassination. Or murder. Does it even matter? Is it still assassination if you kill someone before they become important? What could be more justified than killing a threat¡ªjust in case?¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s the alternative?¡± Sylva snapped, her voice edged with frustration. ¡°Just stand by and let them die when we could have stopped it? That feels¡­ wrong.¡± Her head throbbed, the relentless twisting of her arguments leaving her drained. Was there even a right answer anymore? The doubt gnawed at her, deeper than before.


    ¡°Good, good, good,¡± Alsarana murmured, his swaying form finally stilling, like a predator after a satisfying meal. ¡°Now you¡¯re starting to understand. Krinka said you were sharp, though I wasn¡¯t convinced. But now¡ªnow you see it. Ethics are about¡ª¡±


    ¡°But¡ª¡± she began, only to be cut off as Alsarana¡¯s tail flicked a cold stream of water into her face. The shock was like a slap, freezing her words in her throat. She blinked, stunned. ¡°Did you just¡ª¡± Another flick, another spray of water, and this time she sputtered, anger bubbling up in her chest, hot and undeniable.


    ¡°I wasn¡¯t finished,¡± Alsarana cut in, his voice thick with calm arrogance, the tone too familiar¡ªlike the Elders. Sylva¡¯s temper flared, but she swallowed it, barely. He continued, his tone smug. ¡°There are those who treat ethics like a game, a tool for the powerful. The common farmer doesn¡¯t need moral theory, they say. But that¡¯s a dangerous oversimplification. Ethics are the lines we draw¡ªwhat¡¯s allowed and what isn¡¯t. And for someone like you¡ªsomeone reaching for conviction beyond gods¡ªyou¡¯ll need more than vague ideals. Conviction without proof is delusion.¡±


    He paused, his gaze locking onto hers, daring her to interrupt. Sylva clenched her jaw, biting back the retort that clawed at her throat. She knew this game too well¡ªone misstep and he¡¯d twist her words until they strangled her. She forced herself to stay silent, even as frustration bubbled inside her. Alsarana¡¯s smirk widened, savoring the silence that thickened between them, the air in the cramped chamber pressing down on her.


    ¡°So now,¡± Alsarana¡¯s voice dropped, cold and sharp as a blade, ¡°convince me. Why should I regret exterminating entire species on the brink of ascension, after what I saw in the Beast Wars? Go on, Sylva. Tell me.¡± His words sliced through the air, a challenge¡ªa dare to defy the horrors he had lived through.


    Sylva froze, her anger vanishing as the weight of his words slammed into her. Entire species? The Beast Wars? Her mind spun. A naga, a scholar, a warrior¡ªpart of that devastation. All this time, they had never mentioned their triumvirate¡¯s name, never revealed their true title. And she had never asked. Could it be¡­ them? The ones from the legends? Her pulse quickened, a cold dread creeping up her spine as the possibility loomed like a shadow.


    ¡°Does your Triumvirate have a formal name?¡± Sylva asked, her voice barely above a whisper. The weight of the question hung between them, heavy and dangerous. Had she overstepped? She didn¡¯t know. But she had to ask¡ªthe truth gnawed at her, an itch she couldn¡¯t ignore.


    ¡°Ah, you¡¯re catching on.¡± Alsarana¡¯s smile widened as he slowly uncoiled, rising to his full height, his head nearly brushing the low ceiling. The space around them seemed to shrink, the air growing thick. ¡°Casselia wondered when you¡¯d put the pieces together. Allow me to introduce us properly¡ªwe are the [Triumvirate of the Broken Crown].¡± His voice rang with a heavy finality, and Sylva¡¯s skin prickled with the weight of the truth.


    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ bullshit,¡± Sylva whispered, but the words felt hollow even as they left her lips. Logic told her he wasn¡¯t lying¡ªevery piece fit too perfectly. She had figured it out herself, hadn¡¯t she? But her Lifestring, her emotions, were in chaos. The [Triumvirate of the Broken Crown] were legends¡ªher heroes. She had grown up admiring their deeds. And now one of them stood before her, mocking her with the truth.


    ¡°Casselia the Crownless, Krinka the Archivist, and myself¡ªAlsarana the Harbinger¡ªat your service.¡± He bowed low, with a theatrical flourish, like an actor on stage. His smile stretched wide, wild and unrestrained, delight gleaming in his eyes. ¡°It¡¯s always a pleasure to be remembered,¡± he added, his voice thick with mocking amusement.


    ¡°You¡­ you fought in the Siege of Sabahar. You defended the Sunborn against Gransa, the Suneater. And¡­ you faced the Plaguebringer in the northern mountains. The entire mountain provinces held because of you.¡± Each word felt like a stone dropping into place, the truth crashing down on her, heavier with each breath. Sylva wasn¡¯t sure whether to laugh at the absurdity or bombard him with the questions that burned inside her, tearing her between awe and disbelief.


    ¡°All true,¡± Alsarana purred, his voice dripping with satisfaction. He tilted his head, preening as if basking in her stunned admiration. ¡°Though you seem to have missed our role in the Flower Wars. The Empire prefers to sweep that under the rug. But don¡¯t worry¡ªyour ignorance is forgiven.¡± His words were casual, but the condescension was razor-sharp.


    ¡°But¡­ why are you here?¡± Sylva¡¯s voice trembled with confusion. ¡°You should be serving the Empire, yet you¡¯re here. In this trial, in Tir Na Nog, training three random citizens? Why? Why bother with us at all?¡± The awe and disbelief tangled in her words, making the entire situation feel even more surreal, like the ground was slipping out from under her.


    ¡°Casselia will explain that in time,¡± Alsarana said with a dismissive wave, brushing her question aside like an annoying fly. ¡°Now, enough. I¡¯ll ask again: when I led an entire species, with logic and morality, to extinction¡ªsolely to prevent their rise¡ªwas I wrong?¡± His tone shifted, razor-sharp, dragging the conversation back to the brutal question that hung like a blade in the air.


    <hr>


    Hadrian¡¯s fingers brushed the swirling fog within the orb, the cool mist curling around his skin. He exhaled slowly, steadying himself as the sarcophagus groaned open across the chamber. Drakar emerged with the slow menace of something ancient waking. Behind Hadrian, Casselia stood silent, keeping her word not to provoke the Numen man¡ªa marked contrast to Alsarana¡¯s biting comments. Casselia had spent hours preparing him for this moment, after Sylva and Lotem had been dismissed to their chambers of rebirth. Her training, far simpler than Alsarana¡¯s relentless drills, seemed to carry a different kind of weight.


    Alsarana had drilled him until his muscles screamed, forcing him to repeat the same sword thrusts until precision overtook exhaustion. Casselia, on the other hand, favored movements that carried a sense of grace and flair. Wielding a sword with effortless elegance, she showed him how a subtle twist of the wrist could make his blade seem to dance. Her dodges were quick, light, almost playful¡ªreminding Hadrian of a moth fluttering just out of reach. They had even discussed his armory skills, giving him the confidence to shift tactics mid-fight if necessary.


    When Alsarana revealed his affinity, it had taken him by surprise. Yet, as he ran a hand over the delicate moth silk of his robe, it made sense. There was comfort in that¡ªhis robe, the last piece of home he had from Cutra, now tied to a combat art that echoed those memories. It wasn¡¯t just a garment anymore; it was a link to his past, to who he had been.


    He hoped the combat art would finally click. The ¡®moth-like¡¯ movements still felt foreign to him¡ªunnatural, as if he was forcing himself into a shape that didn¡¯t quite fit. He was quick, sure-footed, and light, but the style didn¡¯t seem to settle in his bones. It was as though he hadn¡¯t yet earned it. Maybe this fight would change that.


    Drakar¡¯s steps faltered when his gaze landed on Casselia. His brow furrowed deeply, suspicion etched into every line of his face. ¡°Where¡¯s the snake?¡± he asked, his voice edged with distrust.


    ¡°No need for concern,¡± Casselia replied smoothly. ¡°I am one of Hadrian¡¯s sworn mentors, here to ensure your performance meets imperial standards. After all, isn¡¯t that what Eidolons are meant to do during a trial of approval?¡±


    Drakar shifted uneasily, his stance betraying discomfort at Casselia¡¯s words. Hadrian noticed the tension, puzzled by it¡ªDrakar had been helpful so far, certainly more than the Sunborn. Maybe it was the pressure of performing in front of another mentor. Hadrian could relate. Fighting before an audience always felt like fighting two battles at once.


    ¡°I¡¯ve done my part,¡± Drakar said, his voice tight. ¡°Ask the boy¡ªI answered when his questions were fair.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I don¡¯t doubt that,¡± Casselia said with a faint smile. ¡°Drakar, Champion of the Seventeenth Circuit during the Reign of Watchful Eyes, if I recall correctly?¡±


    Hadrian blinked, surprised. Drakar hadn¡¯t mentioned his full title to her. The fiery-haired Numen squinted at Casselia, his expression tight with the effort of dredging up a memory buried long ago. Have they met before? Hadrian wondered.


    ¡°And who are you?¡± Drakar¡¯s voice came out rough, laced with suspicion.


    ¡°You don¡¯t remember me?¡± Casselia¡¯s voice was soft, almost teasing. ¡°It¡¯s been, what, 680 years since the Reign of Watchful Eyes? Such a pity to see talent like yours wasted here, in this mockery of a shrine. You were unstoppable back then. I expected you to stand with the Rahabian Eidolons¡ªat least they fight where the empire can see.¡±


    To Hadrian, there was a faint sadness in her tone, as though she mourned something long lost. Drakar, however, seemed far from sympathetic.


    ¡°Aye, that was the plan.¡± Drakar spat to the side, the wet sound punctuating his bitterness. ¡°But plans fall apart when the Dion get involved. Better to be an Eidolon, dealing out justice to those responsible, than a gladiator fighting for an empire that¡¯s crumbling.¡±


    Hadrian¡¯s curiosity flared. What had the Dion done to ignite such fury? Was it like Krinka had hinted¡ªassassinations, theft? He resolved to find out.


    ¡°What did the Dion do to you?¡± Hadrian asked, unable to suppress his curiosity.


    Both Drakar and Casselia glanced at him, surprised by his interruption. Hadrian didn¡¯t understand why¡ªhe was part of this conversation, wasn¡¯t he? After a long, heavy sigh, Drakar finally spoke.


    ¡°They tried to kill me before a major tournament,¡± Drakar growled, his voice raw. ¡°The attack missed me¡ªbut it took my husband and our dog. Some things you can¡¯t get past. Some things you can¡¯t forgive.¡±


    Hadrian nodded slowly. He understood the pain of loss. The thought of someone harming his family sent a wave of anger through him. He¡¯d seen his parents fight the Simians and the Brood, battles that could easily turn fatal¡ªbut that was different. Assassination? For a game? That was something else entirely. That was wrong.


    ¡°It¡¯s unforgivable,¡± Hadrian muttered, his voice taut with barely restrained anger.


    ¡°See what kind of people you¡¯ve allied yourself with, boy?¡± Drakar said, his tone biting.


    ¡°You know as well as I do that Rovan Khal is far removed from the Dion centers of power,¡± Casselia replied, her voice steady. ¡°I have no love for the Dion¡ªI swear that on my Crest¡ªbut Rovan Khal is not of the Ancient Blood.¡±


    ¡°Might as well be,¡± Drakar huffed, his voice dripping with disdain. ¡°Titan of Carven Bone.¡±


    ¡°Oh, now you take issue with using bone?¡± Casselia shot back, her eyes narrowing. ¡°Have you forgotten what a mirror looks like after all those centuries in Tir Na Nog?¡±


    Hadrian¡¯s gaze flicked to the club in Drakar¡¯s hand as the Numen¡¯s expression darkened. He tensed, feeling the tension crackle in the air¡ªDrakar looked ready to lunge at any moment. Casselia had sworn she wouldn¡¯t provoke him. Hadrian wasn¡¯t convinced.


    ¡°Enough talk,¡± Drakar growled, his grip tightening on the club. ¡°The past isn¡¯t why we¡¯re here. Come, boy¡ªperhaps today¡¯s the day you succeed and spare me this tiresome chore.¡±


    Hadrian dipped his head in a quick bow, forcing a smile. ¡°Let¡¯s make this count,¡± he said, determination hardening his voice.


    With a thought, the bone sword materialized in his hand, its weight a familiar comfort. He drew in a steadying breath before charging forward. Drakar moved faster than expected, closing the gap in a blink. Hadrian barely had time to throw himself back, the club crashing down where he¡¯d stood moments ago. As he dodged, he focused on Casselia¡¯s lessons.


    His aim wasn¡¯t simply to dodge the club¡ªhe needed to float, to slip out of its path like a moth escaping a flame. He visualized the narrow training poles he¡¯d balanced on for years, leaping between them with ease. As his foot brushed the stone, he pivoted, feeling the motion flow through him. Drakar¡¯s club missed his chest by inches, and Hadrian countered, swinging his sword toward the Numen¡¯s wrist.


    Drakar twisted his club, deflecting Hadrian¡¯s sword with ease as he advanced. Hadrian sprang back, the weightlessness of the Fog Robe almost pulling him out of reach of another bone-shattering strike. Without hesitation, he dropped the sword and called forth a bone knife in each hand.


    Hadrian had always favored his bow over throwing knives. Daggers had little use against Simians or most of the Brood¡ªtoo small, too light. A Slinkai could be taken down just as easily with a well-placed arrow. But his Ma had always insisted that every weapon had its purpose. Now, as Drakar pressed forward with relentless aggression, closing the distance where his bow was useless and his sword too short, Hadrian silently thanked her for those endless afternoons of knife drills.


    Instinct took over as Drakar¡¯s club came crashing down. Hadrian danced backward, every step a careful calculation¡ªone misstep, and it would all be over. His feet never stopped moving, pivoting and leaping to evade the heavy strikes. Then, in a sudden shift, Drakar angled his stance, preparing to hurl the club. Hadrian¡¯s eyes narrowed. This was his chance.


    Hadrian leaped back, his wrists flicking in the air like a moth¡¯s wings as he let both knives fly. Drakar grunted, twisting the club just in time to deflect one blade. The second knife found its mark, sinking deep into his thigh. A surge of adrenaline shot through Hadrian. Yes¡ªthat felt right.


    Two more bone daggers appeared in his hands as the knife embedded in Drakar¡¯s thigh dissolved into mist, leaving a trail of blood in its wake. Drakar roared, his fury igniting as he charged forward. The club came sweeping toward Hadrian with terrifying speed, faster than before. A skill? Hadrian barely had time to think as the next onslaught began.


    He¡¯d hoped the knife wound would slow Drakar down, sap his strength. But it only seemed to fuel the Numen¡¯s rage. Was it even bleeding anymore? Hadrian¡¯s exhaustion began to creep in. When the club came down in a brutal diagonal arc, he took his chance. He dove into a roll, the air hissing past him as the weapon sliced overhead. In one fluid motion, he thrust upward, once again picturing the flick of moth wings as his daggers found their mark in Drakar¡¯s stomach.


    He released the blades and flung himself backward, rolling out of reach before Drakar could retaliate.


    Crack.


    Pain exploded through Hadrian¡¯s side as the club slammed into his hip, launching him across the chamber. He crashed into the wall with bone-jarring force. Darkness rushed in, and the last thing he heard was the distant murmur of the Sulphen¡¯s voice before everything went black.


    [Skill Obtained: Moth¡¯s Grace]


    A sharp gasp filled his lungs as he jolted awake, icy water pooling around him. A cough wracked his chest, but with it came a sudden clarity, a new understanding. The door to his chamber creaked open, and Casselia¡¯s voice echoed through the cold, damp air.


    ¡°Impressive,¡± Casselia¡¯s voice carried a note of approval. ¡°Did you unlock a new skill?¡±


    Hadrian sat up slowly, feeling the water drain from his fog robe as he rose to his feet. ¡°[Moth¡¯s Grace],¡± he said quietly, still processing. ¡°I was so close¡ªI could feel it.¡±


    ¡°Closer than you realize,¡± Casselia replied, a hint of pride in her voice. ¡°Taking down a full-blooded Numen is no small feat, and Drakar knows his craft well. To wound him at all, let alone as much as you did¡­ let¡¯s just say, I¡¯m impressed.¡±


    Heat crept into his cheeks at her praise. He cleared his throat awkwardly. ¡°Alsarana¡¯s lessons were¡­ helpful.¡±


    ¡°Was it?¡± Casselia raised an eyebrow, genuine surprise coloring her voice.


    ¡°He had me practicing knife strikes while flapping my ¡®wings¡¯ for hours on end. I wasn¡¯t sure it would help¡ªswords have always been my thing¡ªbut it paid off.¡± He flashed her a smile. ¡°My Ma always said to trust your mentors. Turns out she was right.¡±


    Casselia returned the smile, then motioned for him to follow. As they stepped into the hallway, Hadrian stopped short, surprised to find Krinka and Lotem standing in the middle of the corridor, their gazes fixed on the ceiling.


    ¡°Ah, perfect timing, Casselia, Hadrian,¡± Krinka called out, her voice brisk. ¡°Hadrian, I need you to climb onto Lotem¡¯s shoulders. We need the coals¡ªor fire¡ªfrom the brazier near the ceiling.¡±


    ¡°Got it,¡± Hadrian replied, moving toward Lotem without hesitation.


    ¡°Wait,¡± Casselia¡¯s voice cut through the air, stopping everyone in their tracks. ¡°And where exactly are you planning to put the fire?¡±


    ¡°Lotem, grab the torch from your chamber,¡± Krinka instructed, shifting uncomfortably under Casselia¡¯s scrutiny. Lotem returned moments later, carrying the torch, its flame flickering with a soft, ordinary orange glow. ¡°Hadrian, up on Lotem¡¯s shoulders now.¡±


    Hadrian glanced at Casselia, who gave him a curt nod. Lotem knelt, and Hadrian climbed onto his shoulders, crouching low for balance as he gripped the wall. Slowly, Lotem rose to his full height. Krinka passed the torch up to Hadrian, and, with a steady hand, he thrust it into the brazier. The moment the flame touched the coals, it shifted¡ªa deep, blood-red glow flared to life. A sudden pang of loss hit Hadrian¡¯s chest, but he pushed it aside, just as he had been taught with the Luminaries¡¯ flame.


    Hadrian jumped down from Lotem¡¯s shoulders, landing in a graceful crouch, his fog robe whispering against his skin. He offered Lotem a quick grin. ¡°Thanks for the boost.¡±


    ¡°Good thinking, Krinka. Hadrian, before they disappear into their training, fetch the torches from your chamber and mine. Light them with the imbued flame.¡±


    Hadrian quickly gathered the torches, lighting each with the red flame as instructed by Casselia. He returned one to her chamber while she held the other, her grip steady. Krinka and Lotem made their way back to Lotem¡¯s chamber, but Hadrian could see the frustration building in Lotem with every passing moment. He understood all too well¡ªhis own training with the Luminaries¡¯ flame had tested his patience more than once.


    Though the flame¡¯s exact workings were considered common knowledge to citizens of Cutra, Hadrian never fully grasped its intricacies. What he did know, however, was how deeply it could affect a person¡¯s emotions. He had spent countless hours staring into the flames, learning to temper the fire within. The Luminaries had divided the flame¡¯s emotions into three categories: subservient, complex, and transcendent. Frustration, at least, fell under the subservient ones. Had it been anger¡ªone of the complex emotions¡ªHadrian knew he might have struggled, even with all his training. For Lotem¡¯s sake, he was thankful it was only frustration.


    He glanced up and caught Casselia¡¯s gaze, her expression one of mild curiosity. ¡°The flame didn¡¯t affect you at all?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s been years since a subservient flame bothered me,¡± Hadrian replied with a casual shrug. ¡°Most of the complex ones don¡¯t give me much trouble either. Never seen a transcendent one, though.¡± His Pa had always been clear: never shy away from explaining your skills when asked. If someone took issue with another¡¯s abilities, they weren¡¯t worth trusting anyway.


    ¡°Sit,¡± she instructed, gesturing to the floor as she settled cross-legged, her eyes steady on him. ¡°Tell me about your childhood, Hadrian.¡±


    And so, he began. He spoke of everyone in his village, describing how each person had shaped him. His daily training routine¡ªsunrise to sunset, with every exercise meticulously varied¡ªhad honed him. He told her about the raids, the Simians and the Brood, and how his village stood strong against their attacks. He mentioned the absence of other children, and the quiet fear that lingered, the fear of losing them to the citizenship ritual. Finally, he told her his plan, the one that drove him forward: he would change things. He would build a shrine.


    Casselia listened in silence, only interrupting now and then to ask for clarity. The minutes passed unnoticed as the flickering frustration in the flame mirrored their quiet conversation. When Hadrian finally finished, she allowed the silence to stretch before speaking. ¡°I hear how hard you¡¯ve worked to get here, Hadrian. I hear your passion for those who have stood by you, and there¡¯s no greater honor than wanting to repay that. I hear your ambition¡­ and I see that you¡¯re capable of even more.¡±


    More than just building a shrine? The thought lingered for a moment before the weight of her words fully sank in: she actually believes in me. He swallowed, then said quietly, ¡°Thank you.¡±


    ¡°Hadrian, do you really understand what it means to be a [Squire]?¡±


    ¡°That Rovan trusts me?¡±


    Casselia blinked, then nodded slowly. ¡°Yes, but it¡¯s more than that.¡±


    ¡°More than that?¡± Hadrian frowned, uncertain.


    ¡°Hadrian, [Squire of Carven Bone] is what we call a transitional class. It¡¯s meant to give you strong foundational skills early on, with a higher chance of evolving into something unique¡ªor rare. After you¡¯ve earned your twelfth skill, your class will evolve into something entirely new. But there¡¯s danger in that, too, if you¡¯re not ready.¡±


    ¡°Why? I thought classes couldn¡¯t be harmful.¡±


    ¡°They can be, but that¡¯s not the main issue here. For a [Squire], the risk is losing your class if someone in Aslavain challenges you fairly¡ªand you lose.¡±


    ¡°What if I beat them?¡± Hadrian asked, his confidence rising. He knew he could best anyone his age¡ªhis parents had said as much, and they were both skilled fighters.


    ¡°You¡¯ll gain a new skill¡ªif they were a worthy opponent. But that¡¯s not the point. You can¡¯t expect to win every fight, Hadrian. Skills, classes, items¡ªthey can all drastically alter the outcome of a battle if you¡¯re not prepared. One rare or unexpected skill is all it takes to end things quickly.¡±


    ¡°So¡­ should I just avoid challenges, then?¡±


    ¡°Absolutely not. Avoiding them would mean missing valuable opportunities. No, the solution is simpler: we¡¯ll make sure you¡¯re so far ahead of anyone else your age that they won¡¯t stand a chance. Now, let¡¯s go over that last fight and get you ready for the next one.¡±

 Chapter Fifteen: Rage

    Bitterness is a creeping vine, tightening its hold until it strangles its host like a gallows rope. Anger, the brilliant fire, burns the vine away, freeing the branch¡ªbut at a cost. In its wake, anger leaves only scorched remains and ruin. Bitterness is a poison best avoided, for the remedy is no true cure.


    ¨C The Luminous Treatise, Vol III


    Aslavain: Seventeen Days After the Summer Solstice


    Lotem stirred to the familiar, distant hum of the Sulphen¡¯s voice in his mind.


    [Skill Obtained: Quick to Anger]


    Another skill? So soon? [Quick to Anger]. Lotem frowned. Is that supposed to be helpful? Sure, it would complement [My Wrath Is My Armor], exactly the kind of thing Krinka would want. But was it worth the price? Was anger something he wanted more of?


    Maybe it was just the frustration bleeding through. Three days of staring into the blood-red flame while Krinka droned on about the atrocities committed by the Tul¡ªthe Sack of Calcara, the Siege of Tulvar, the Battle of the Blue Fort. Each one a stain on the Empire¡¯s honor. And each one etched deeper into Lotem¡¯s mind.


    ¡°You¡¯re awake?¡± Krinka¡¯s voice was eager, cutting through Lotem¡¯s thoughts. ¡°A new skill?¡±


    ¡°[Quick to Anger],¡± Lotem muttered, a sigh slipping out before he could stop it.


    ¡°Excellent! Just what we needed.¡±


    ¡°But¡­ you¡¯re sure I can control it, right? I don¡¯t want to be snapping at everything.¡±


    ¡°Well¡­ not exactly,¡± Krinka admitted, his gaze shifting away. ¡°I was aiming for something like [Control Anger] or [Store Anger]. But [Quick to Anger] is still useful,¡± he added quickly. ¡°It makes sure you can tap into your anger when you need it. And we¡¯ll get you one of those other skills soon, don¡¯t worry.¡±


    The door creaked open, and Casselia¡¯s voice cut through the quiet. ¡°Time to reconvene.¡± Lotem and Krinka filed into the hallway, where Lotem took a seat beside Hadrian. The Kiel man looked lost in thought until he caught sight of Lotem, his face brightening immediately.


    ¡°Lotem¡ªoh, and Sylva, too,¡± Hadrian greeted as she settled beside them. Behind her, the naga slithered over to join Casselia and Krinka¡¯s whispered conversation. ¡°So, how¡¯d your training go?¡±


    ¡°I feel thoroughly confused about what right and wrong even mean.¡± Sylva said with a grin at odds with her words. She looked like she had loved every moment of her training. Easy enough when you aren¡¯t staring into frustrating fire.


    ¡°I get that,¡± Lotem said, shaking his head. ¡°I just got [Quick to Anger].¡±


    ¡°Nice!¡± Hadrian said with enthusiasm, while Sylva shot him a sidelong glance that Lotem couldn¡¯t quite read.


    ¡°You don¡¯t think that¡¯s a problem?¡± Lotem asked, frowning.


    ¡°Why would it be?¡± Hadrian met Lotem¡¯s gaze, his expression turning serious. ¡°Do you think anger is¡­ bad, Lotem?¡±


    ¡°Isn¡¯t it?¡± Lotem asked, confused. Anger brought destruction¡ªit left behind regret, pain, and grief. How could it not be bad?


    ¡°The Luminaries teach that no emotion is inherently bad,¡± Hadrian said, his voice taking on a serious, almost rehearsed tone. ¡°Blaming your actions on your emotions means misunderstanding who¡¯s in control. Emotions don¡¯t rule you any more than your hands or feet do. They show us how we see the world. They¡¯re tools¡ªnot our masters.¡±


    But what if I can¡¯t control my emotions? What if they¡¯re the ones in control?


    ¡°The Sect taught something similar,¡± Sylva chimed in. ¡°Anger comes from injustice. Without it, who would ever push for change? Anger fights against stagnation¡ªit stands up for what¡¯s right.¡± She raised an eyebrow at Lotem. ¡°Don¡¯t you believe you can tell right from wrong?¡±


    ¡°How can anyone be sure?¡±


    ¡°Lotem, I just spent three days locked in debates with Alsarana about ethics and morality. I know I can judge right from wrong. It¡¯s a skill, like any other.¡±


    ¡°Exactly,¡± Casselia cut in, drawing their attention. ¡°For the last three days of your initial training, it¡¯s tradition for you to take control of your development. We¡¯re mentors, yes, but it¡¯s your journey to lead. Krinka, Alsarana, and I will help if needed¡ªbut only if you ask.¡±


    ¡°Can the little birds fly when they¡¯re thrown from the nest?¡± Alsarana hissed, his tone dripping with amusement.


    ¡°Spare me the bird metaphors,¡± Krinka muttered with a shudder.


    ¡°Krinka, Als, we need to talk.¡± Casselia beckoned them toward a side chamber. ¡°We¡¯ll be back soon.¡± Just before disappearing through the door, she called back, ¡°Use your time wisely.¡±


    ¡°We need a detailed plan for the battle in three days,¡± Sylva said as soon as the door to the side chamber clicked shut, assuming control.


    ¡°Do you really think we can plan for whatever those three throw at us? What chance do we have? We¡¯ve barely scratched them.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve stabbed Drakar with a knife seventeen times.¡± Hadrian¡¯s voice was casual, but Lotem and Sylva turned to him, incredulous.


    ¡°Explain,¡± Sylva demanded, narrowing her eyes.


    ¡°Since Alsarana and Casselia helped me figure out my affinity, things have gotten easier. I got [Moth¡¯s Grace] and have been using throwing knives lately. They don¡¯t do much to Drakar¡ªNumen are scary motherfuckers, excuse my language.¡±


    ¡°Fair enough,¡± Lotem shrugged. ¡°Morvan¡¯s the same size, and he¡¯s covered in thick armor. What am I supposed to do against that?¡± His frustration bubbled up as he growled under his breath. ¡°He¡¯s killed Sabel eleven times now.¡± And I wasn¡¯t strong enough to stop it.


    ¡°Hadrian,¡± Sylva asked, her voice thoughtful, ¡°do you think you could hit Seraphis with your knives? They should be able to get through her scales.¡±


    ¡°Probably,¡± Hadrian said with a casual shrug. ¡°I¡¯m sure I could hit her. Lotem, do you need some combat training?¡±


    Lotem bristled at the question. Does he think I can¡¯t protect her?


    ¡°I didn¡¯t mean it as an insult,¡± Hadrian quickly added. ¡°But let me ask you this: have you ever had formal combat training?¡±


    ¡°I haven¡¯t either,¡± Sylva chimed in. ¡°There¡¯s no shame in it.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Lotem mumbled.


    ¡°Then let me teach you.¡± Hadrian gave Lotem a thoughtful look, as if piecing together a solution. ¡°Too bad we don¡¯t have any fog¡ªthat would make this easier.¡±


    ¡°I can probably make some fog,¡± Sylva offered. ¡°We have water, and it¡¯ll be good practice for me.¡± Hadrian¡¯s face lit up at her words.


    ¡°That¡¯s awesome! That would be perfect. Thanks, Sylva.¡±


    ¡°What are you going to teach me?¡± Lotem asked, watching as Sylva slipped into one of the side rooms.


    ¡°I¡¯ll show you the kata my Pa taught me¡ªit¡¯s great for dealing with weaker opponents.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s a kata?¡± Lotem asked, confused.


    ¡°It¡¯s a series of movements to train your body. Watch.¡±


    Hadrian stepped forward, twisting sharply as his foot snapped out in a sideways kick, his body spinning in a smooth half-circle. The Fog Robe draped around him, the gray mist curling like smoke as he moved through a fluid series of kicks, punches, and throws. Each movement was deliberate, slower than Lotem expected, but controlled with perfect precision. After half a minute, Hadrian came to a stop, smiling.


    ¡°Sorry, I might¡¯ve gotten a little carried away.¡±


    ¡°You expect me to move like that?¡± Lotem asked, his doubt evident in his voice.


    ¡°No, no, that¡¯s not what I meant.¡± Hadrian chuckled. ¡°That one¡¯s my favorite¡ªit¡¯s the first kata my Pa taught me, reminds me of him. But here¡¯s the one that I think will work for you.¡±


    Hadrian shifted into a much slower, grounded kata, his feet planted firmly as he moved through each motion with deliberate precision. Lotem watched closely¡ªit seemed simple enough, something he could manage. As Hadrian moved, he spoke calmly, explaining the purpose behind each movement, as if repeating the same lessons he¡¯d learned long ago.


    Hadrian encouraged Lotem to mirror his movements, guiding him through the beginning steps. Lotem fumbled at first, but with Hadrian¡¯s patient corrections, his form gradually improved. They worked in silence until a soft gray fog began to seep into the chamber, spilling out from the room Sylva had entered. Hadrian paused, his face lighting up as Sylva reappeared. Without thinking, he rushed over and swept her into a hug.


    Lotem couldn¡¯t help but smile as Sylva froze, her arms stiff at her sides, clearly unsure how to respond. When Hadrian finally let go, she stood there for a second, stunned, before her expression hardened into a scowl.


    ¡°Thank you so much!¡± Hadrian said, his sincerity so overwhelming it seemed to melt the edge off Sylva¡¯s growing irritation.


    ¡°I don¡¯t like being touched,¡± Sylva muttered, still glaring. Who doesn¡¯t like hugs? Lotem wondered, bemused. Must be a Silkborn thing, he decided.


    ¡°Got it, sorry about that,¡± Hadrian said, his face flushing with embarrassment. ¡°But this is going to be perfect!¡±


    Standing in the center of the chamber, Hadrian gestured for them to watch closely. ¡°Try to follow the fog,¡± he instructed. He began the same kata he had been teaching Lotem, but this time, as he moved, the fog thickened and swirled around him. Each slow, steady movement seemed to pull the mist along with him, like a living thing responding to his will.


    Lotem stared in awe as Hadrian seemed to command the fog with every motion. Each punch sent a ripple of gray mist rolling outward, and every dodge pulled the fog back toward him, filling the empty space. With the Fog Robe draped around him, Hadrian vanished into the swirling mist, his form becoming one with the pulsing fog. It was hard to believe these were the same movements Lotem had just been practicing.


    Hadrian gradually slowed, his movements coming to a halt. The Fog Robe settled gently against his skin, no longer shrouding him in mist. Lotem was starting to understand why Fog Robes were so highly prized across the empire. But when he glanced at Sylva, he realized her longing far surpassed his own. She looked like she was ready to rip the robe off Hadrian¡¯s back.


    ¡°See?¡± Hadrian said, grinning. ¡°When your movements are precise enough, the fog follows you. It guides your next step.¡±


    Lotem hadn¡¯t noticed that at all. In fact, he wasn¡¯t even sure what Hadrian meant, but he decided to trust him. Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the starting position for the kata. Hadrian smiled and began guiding him through the motions once more.


    <hr>


    ¡°Alsarana, your thoughts?¡± Casselia asked as the door to the small chamber closed behind her. She hoped the children would make good use of their time alone¡ªthey had little enough of it as it was. For now, she needed to debrief with Alsarana and Krinka to plan their next steps.


    ¡°I haven¡¯t had this much fun in centuries,¡± Alsarana said proudly. ¡°At first, I thought Rovan Khal picked Hadrian for some underhanded reason, but¡­ no. The Immortal must have seen the lad¡¯s potential and wasn¡¯t about to let it slip away. I can¡¯t blame him¡ªHadrian fights better than anyone his age has a right to. He is also more obedient than a hound. Perfect for us to shape.¡±


    Alsarana straightened, his excitement growing. ¡°In any other group, Sylva would be all that anyone could talk about. As we debated, I could almost feel the Sulphen weighing her arguments.¡± He narrowed his eyes. ¡°You¡¯re not going to make us train with the Justicars, are you?¡±


    ¡°What a wonderful idea, Als,¡± she said sweetly. ¡°I wasn¡¯t certain before, but if you¡¯re recommending the Justicars¡­ well, who am I to deny you that honor?¡±


    ¡°Cass,¡± he whined, ¡°you know how much I hate their Veil of Ignorance. Even I lose my sense of fun when they use those skills.¡±


    ¡°Justice is blind,¡± Krinka said with a sly smile.


    Alsarana turned sharply toward the scholar, his massive form seeming to crowd the chamber. ¡°Don¡¯t make me summon every bird in the region when we leave,¡± he threatened.


    ¡°Gentleman,¡± she said firmly, ¡°now is not the time.¡± She turned to the naga. ¡°Als, the Justicars teach conviction better than anyone but the priesthoods and we are going to Ylfenhold regardless. We can¡¯t pass up the opportunity for the girl.¡± Krinka cleared his throat and she turned to regard him.


    ¡°I still think we¡¯re wasting her potential by training her as a [Thaumaturge]. Marquis of Bone aside, I¡¯ve never trained anyone with a better intuition for sympathy. Maybe it¡¯s her skill carrying the load, but still.¡± He met her gaze firmly. ¡°Cass, I taught her six of the fundamental principles in three days, and within another three days of applied practice, the woman can perform sympathetic magic using a thaumaturgic framework. We haven¡¯t gotten to any Tier One or Tier Two spells, but I am sure she will pick those up quick enough. Expertise in cantrips leads to expertise in magic.¡±This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.


    ¡°Which principles did you decide to teach her?¡± Casselia asked, curiosity in her tone. The Sulphen wasn¡¯t so simple as to be explained with just a few categories. There were dozens of what scholars called the ¡®Fundamental Principles of the Sulphen¡¯; Krinka had simply chosen a handful of his favorites to begin his lessons. His student would eventually discover his deception and, in doing so, break free from limitations imposed only by their own mind.


    Krinka looked reluctant to share. Did he teach her the easiest principles, knowing they were on a tight deadline?


    ¡°Obfuscation, Manifestation, Transference, Absorption, Binding, and Severance.¡±


    ¡°You started her with Binding and Severance?¡± Casselia asked, quicker than intended. She had never seen Krinka introduce the cornerstones of imperial power so early to a candidate. He had entirely skipped over the mathematical principles every student typically began with: Addition, Subtraction, Multiplication, and Division. No, his list was full of abstract principles tied to the phenomenological manifestations of the Sulphen. Even Alsarana looked uncertain after hearing Krinka¡¯s choices.


    ¡°She handled Transference well enough,¡± Krinka muttered, his eyes fixed on the floor beneath his dangling feet. He glanced up at her briefly before looking back at the stone. A hint of pride crept into his voice. ¡°She managed to learn Binding in less than a day.¡±


    She sighed. She had given Krinka free rein to teach as he saw fit¡ªSulphen knew he was insufferable when she tried to micro-manage. Still, the principles he¡¯d chosen were more advanced than she expected. If Sylva had truly mastered what Krinka claimed, Hadrian wasn¡¯t the only one with potential. Alsarana¡¯s hood flared open, his excitement palpable.


    ¡°With not one but two prodigies, we should be out of this shrine in just a few days. It¡¯s only the Bal holding us back. So, how do you plan to fix him?¡±


    ¡°Als, how many skills do each of the candidates have?¡± she asked primly, certain the naga would know the answer.


    ¡°Hadrian and Sylva both have three,¡± he said, pausing for a moment¡¯s hesitation. ¡°Lotem has seven. But¡ª¡± he quickly added, ¡°you know that¡¯s not a fair metric. The boy is Numen, or close enough to it. [Lesser Strength]? Practically guaranteed. [Natural Enemy]? Probably useless. And the companion¡¯s bond? Every Beastmaster variant has that skill.¡±


    She nodded. Excuses, all of them, but reasonable enough. The Sulphen¡¯s power had never truly depended on the sheer number of skills or classes; a single rare, high-quality skill was worth far more than a handful of common ones.


    ¡°And the other skills?¡± she asked with a sigh. ¡°A Numen Bloodline skill? [My Companions Carry My Blessings]? [My Wrath is My Armor]?¡± She turned to Krinka. ¡°What are the rarities of those?¡±


    ¡°A Numen Bloodline skill is rare mainly because few candidates have a viable Bloodline to enhance; it¡¯s officially categorized as uncommon. The companion skill is a rare subtype of companion enhancements, with maybe a few dozen citizens in the Empire possessing it at any given time. The Wrath skill is uncommon, but nothing extraordinary.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, Krinka,¡± she said, shifting her gaze to Alsarana. ¡°Lotem has as many uncommon and rare skills as the others, even though he¡¯s been placed in possibly the worst environment for his growth. He¡¯s from the Zherenkhan¡ªlikely never spent time away from the great plains. How do you think he feels in these cramped, deliberately aggravating chambers?¡±


    ¡°So, the Justicars¡­¡± Alsarana said, steering the conversation back to the topic at hand. Casselia understood his hesitation about Lotem, though it didn¡¯t excuse rushed judgment. Alsarana had always struggled with mentoring weaker candidates. As long as the Bal man developed as she hoped, it wouldn¡¯t be a long-term issue¡ªjust something to keep an eye on, she decided.


    Alsarana hesitated for a moment, clearly sensing the undercurrent of her thoughts and choosing to avoid her wrath. She hadn¡¯t had to remind them why she led in centuries¡ªand she was grateful for it. The last time, the damage had been severe enough that she had to waste time dealing with local leaders and their endless bureaucratic paperwork.


    ¡°You want them to mentor Sylva? Is my ethical tutelage no longer up to your standards, oh great Crownless?¡± It wasn¡¯t, though she wasn¡¯t about to admit that outright.


    ¡°You offer a different kind of training, Alsarana.¡± Namely, the art of bending one¡¯s ethics to justify whatever was necessary¡ªnot that she saw it as a flaw. In fact, Alsarana¡¯s ability to provide compelling ethical reasoning for their actions had been invaluable over the years. She was always impressed by how much smoother things went with local officials when you could justify your actions.


    It wasn¡¯t that they didn¡¯t have a set code of ethics; Casselia would be the first to explain how flawed that idea was. No, their ethics shifted to fit whatever actions were necessary to achieve their goals. They were members of the Mandate of Empire, an organization as old as the Sul Empire, dedicated to ensuring the Tul-Tul-Tar would never return. As far as she was concerned, anything done in pursuit of that goal was ethical.


    ¡°No one justifies extinction better than you, and we both know the Justicars wouldn¡¯t get it right,¡± Krinka said with a knowing smile, echoing her thoughts.


    She cleared her throat, reasserting control over the conversation. Krinka and Alsarana quickly turned their attention to her.


    ¡°Sylva will need training with the Justicars, that much is true, though I don¡¯t intend to cut your training with her short, Als. We need her morals to be¡­ flexible, for what¡¯s to come.¡±


    ¡°And Dornogor?¡± Krinka asked. ¡°You still haven¡¯t explained what forced us to begin this misadventure in the first place. We knew Tir Na Nog was a risk, but we had them travel to Dornogor regardless. Why?¡±


    ¡°Dornogor is the most prominent of the shrines hosting their primary contest at the first convergence of the twin moons,¡± she said calmly, before answering Krinka¡¯s questioning look. ¡°Dornogor is supposed to have three different rare beasts available for candidates to bond. My sources indicate that a Karkadann, Amarok, and¡±¡ªshe hesitated¡ª¡°a Wyvern are rewards this year.¡±


    That caught Alsarana¡¯s attention, just as she knew it would. The Empire hadn¡¯t had access to a living, unbonded Wyvern in centuries. The Serpentine Monarchs guarded their rare egg clutches with the fervor one would expect from the descendants of dragons. Krinka¡¯s voice was the first to break the silence.


    ¡°How? How did Dornogor get access to a Wyvern egg?¡±


    ¡°One of the nomadic tribes that venerates the Maw of Vorithan raided the Eternal City of Kivuli and escaped with an entire clutch. They sold three of the eggs to the Empire.¡±


    She still wasn¡¯t sure how the Scaled Dominion had allowed such a failure. When she was last in the Empire, such a lapse would have been unthinkable. But after more than two centuries, she was no longer sure which of her assumptions about the Scaled Dominion were accurate.


    ¡°You want Lotem to bond with a Wyvern?¡± Alsarana asked, his voice almost hesitant. Not much could rattle the [Harbinger of Extinction], but the direct ire of the Serpentine Monarchs? Even Casselia trod carefully when the Dominion was involved. The Sul Empire had control over eight eternal cities, the Dominion had control over nineteen. Even the Brood only had six eternal cities, their grand hives. No one wanted conflict with the Dominion, not since the unifications following the Beast Wars. .


    ¡°Cass,¡± Krinka said, his brow creased so deeply she wondered if the skin could draw any tighter. ¡°Hadrian intends to form a shrine in the West, in Brood territory, and Lotem plans to fight the Tul in the East. Both of those goals will create plenty of enemies, not to mention the ones we already have within the Empire. Do we really want to add the Dominion to the list?¡±


    She sighed. This was exactly why she hadn¡¯t shared her plan with them sooner¡ªshe knew they wouldn¡¯t like anything that drew the Dominion¡¯s attention.


    ¡°Truth be told, I wasn¡¯t sure either after learning of the group¡¯s goals. If the Brood turn their attention from the remaining Beast Kings in the south, it could spark a war I¡¯m not sure we could win. The Kiel holdings have been stable since the century following the Beast Wars, and neither the Empire nor the Brood want that to change. If Hadrian succeeds, if a shrine is formed beyond the Spine, that peace may disappear like fog on the wind.¡±


    ¡°Then why¡ª¡± Krinka began.


    ¡°[My Companions Carry My Blessings],¡± she said quietly, naming Lotem¡¯s skill. She knew they would understand. If anything, she was surprised they hadn¡¯t already put it together.


    ¡°A Wyvern with a Numen Bloodline skill?¡± Krinka asked, excitement creeping into his tone. ¡°Cass, has there ever been a Wyvern with a Numen Bloodline skill?¡±


    ¡°Krinka, if you don¡¯t know of one, why would I?¡± she replied with a gentle smile. She was the architect behind how their mentees developed into their best selves, but Krinka had always been the source of the knowledge that guided her hand.


    ¡°I don¡¯t want to be a spoilsport,¡± Alsarana began reluctantly, his tail flicking anxiously behind him, ¡°and I certainly don¡¯t want to discourage the formation of powerful enemies for the group¡ªyou both know how much I value a good enemy to toughen up the young. But won¡¯t the Wyvern invite assassination or worse? Powerful enemies are only useful when you¡¯re strong enough to stop them. Otherwise, it¡¯s just suicide with extra steps.¡±


    He paused, as though hoping they might answer his halfhearted question. But there was no need, and he knew it. Of course, they were inviting assassination attempts from the Dominion if they acquired the Wyvern. In theory, they could handle anything sent after them by the point word would reach the Dominion. And by then they should have Imperial protectors on hand to prevent any undue attacks. Not that such protection had stopped the Dion assassins from killing the Marquis of Bone or the Brood assassins from taking down the last group of Kiel candidates they mentored who tried to expand the Empire.


    ¡°You can¡¯t be relying on the protection of the Empire again, Cass,¡± Alsarana said harshly into the silence that followed. ¡°It keeps getting us killed, getting our mentees killed, and for what? The Dominion won¡¯t stand for it, and even if the Empire¡¯s protection is different this time, we¡¯ll have to leave the Empire for our training. We must.¡±


    ¡°Cass, you know I hate to say this, but I agree with Als on this. The Karkadann is uncontroversial, rare, and would benefit immensely from Lotem¡¯s skills. Karkadanns are guardians, Cass¡ªyou could hardly find a better fit for Lotem.¡±


    ¡°We can discuss it further once we reach Dornogor; until then, it¡¯s just wishful thinking,¡± she said firmly before shifting back to the immediate matter at hand. ¡°Krinka, what skills should we be targeting for each of the candidates as they finish their preliminary training and, if we¡¯re lucky, escape this trial?¡±


    <hr>


    Sylva spent the first hours of their training watching Hadrian teach Lotem the kata. She had never seen movements like the ones he performed in the fog-filled chamber. Each motion was as precise as the strokes of her stylus or the practiced dance of her fingers, honed by years of shaping forms. It was breathtaking.


    As Hadrian moved, his robe melded with the fog, obscuring his motions as the mist swirled around him. Sylva could almost feel that silk woven through her own body, letting her vanish into the haze. The robe stirred a pang of avarice she struggled to suppress.


    Krinka had mentioned, however briefly, that a strand of the robe woven into her pupil would let her see and weave the Sulphen. She¡¯d been tempted to demand a piece of it from Hadrian, but realizing they needed a specialist to fuse the silk into her flesh held her tongue. Besides, she wasn¡¯t sure how Hadrian would react.


    Though he maintained a pleasant demeanor, Sylva had come to understand how important the robe was to Hadrian. She glanced at her own emerald robe, a mark of her status as the best Sect candidate this year, and her mind drifting, wondered how the Elders would react when she didn¡¯t show for the first contest in Eisentor. Instead, she¡¯d be across the empire, competing in Ylfenhold.


    She tried to recall which candidates had their robes turn the dark gray of Ylfenhold. Was it Nyla of Clan Vareth or Meris of Clan Torthen? They¡¯d been the favorites, but Sylva hadn¡¯t paid attention during the final ritual¡ªthe incense had been too thick, and they were on the other side of the room.


    Nyla was the most persuasive candidate in their year; everyone in the Sect agreed on that. She had an almost supernatural talent for reading people and finding common ground. Sylva expected her to become a diplomat, using promises and guile to represent the empire. She hoped Nyla had been chosen¡ªit was certainly better than Meris.


    Clan Torthen wasn¡¯t known for weaving words or persuading hearts. They produced warriors for the Sect of Silken Grace. If Meris saw Hadrian¡¯s robe, Sylva was sure he¡¯d challenge him to a duel. She had no doubt Hadrian could defeat Meris, even without help from her or Lotem, but she hoped it wouldn¡¯t come to that. Clan Torthen held grudges longer than was wise, and they didn¡¯t need any new rivals¡ªat least, not yet.


    She sighed, her thoughts swirling with the fog in the chamber. So much had turned out differently than planned. Yet here she was, a student of the Triumvirate of the Broken Crown. The Crownless herself was mentoring her. The Archivist taught her magic. The Harbinger taught her ethics. It was almost too much to believe.


    The fog slowly dissipated, and Lotem¡¯s breath came in heavy gasps as the motions took their toll. Just as Sylva expected him to ask for a break, the door to the side chamber slid open. Their mentors entered, Casselia looking as composed as ever, a gentle smile curling her lips as she noted the sweat beading on Lotem¡¯s brow and the last wisps of fog.


    ¡°A kata in the Foglands style? An interesting choice for teaching combat in such a short time. I assume that was your decision, Hadrian?¡±


    Hadrian and Lotem halted, turning to face the newcomers.


    ¡°It was. My parents taught me the basics this way, so I thought it would be a good starting point for Lotem.¡±


    ¡°And you, Lotem?¡± Casselia asked, raising an eyebrow. ¡°Did you find the training helpful?¡±


    Lotem hesitated, glancing at Hadrian before answering.


    ¡°The movements were¡­ enlightening. But I wonder how effective they¡¯d be in actual combat.¡± He cast an apologetic look at Hadrian, who seemed to deflate at the words. ¡°Not that it wasn¡¯t helpful,¡± Lotem added quickly. ¡°I¡¯ve never felt my muscles burn in those places before, but¡ª¡± he threw a slow punch, sending a last wave of fog rolling across the room¡ª¡°a child could dodge that.¡±


    Hadrian nodded. ¡°I thought the same for years. How can you fight a Simian when you¡¯re moving as slow as sap? Then I watched my Pa fight one and realized I¡¯d been thinking about it wrong. The kata doesn¡¯t teach you how to win a fight, Lotem¡ªit teaches you how to punch or kick with proper form.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re both right,¡± Casselia interjected. ¡°Lotem, the kata trains control over your body, which is essential in any fight. But, Hadrian, to be effective, it takes months or years. Trying to rush it in a few days is a fool¡¯s errand.¡±


    Lotem looked relieved by Casselia¡¯s words, though Sylva didn¡¯t understand why. Of course training took months or years¡ªthat¡¯s how it worked for humans and Numen. Sure, she¡¯d learned the primary incantations and thaumaturgic principles in days, but that was different. She had a skill to help her, and she was Silkborn, inheriting the instincts of all her ancestors. Lotem didn¡¯t have those advantages.


    ¡°So, what should we be doing?¡± Hadrian asked with a shrug. Could anything bother the man? Sylva wondered, aside from insulting his robe.


    ¡°Alsarana, we need a necromantic construct strong enough to challenge Lotem. Do you have enough bones left for one the size of a Numen eidolon?¡±


    Alsarana reached into his bag and pulled out a thigh bone, far longer than the bag itself. A dimensional bag, Sylva realized with a start. She¡¯d learned about such tools, but hadn¡¯t expected to see one this early in her training. Dimensional objects were rare, carefully monopolized by the Guilds and the Province of Trade after their creation in Jahbad, the City of Boats. Still, she wasn¡¯t surprised this Triumvirate had access to one.


    Alsarana continued pulling bones from the bag, inspecting each one for invisible imperfections. Most were dropped to the floor with a clatter, though he returned a weathered one with a dissatisfied hiss. Eventually, the bones began to move on their own, assembling into a full skeleton that stretched and rolled its shoulders¡ªthough Sylva had no idea what bare bones had to stretch. Krinka merely rolled his eyes but said nothing.


    ¡°As you command, oh great Crownless,¡± Alsarana smirked. ¡°Though I¡¯m running low on bones bigger than a goblin.¡±


    Goblin bones? Why would he have so many? Sylva wondered. The goblin warrens in the deep south were notoriously reclusive, their Matrons jealous guardians of tribal secrets. Among the empire¡¯s ethnic groups, only the Blind or the Nygmar faced more disdain from the average citizen. Was that why our first lesson had been about who is considered a person?


    ¡°Lotem, you¡¯ll train against the construct piloted by Als. Practice fighting with Sabel on your shoulder, and focus on blows strong enough to break the skeleton. Hadrian,¡± she turned to the Kiel man, ¡°how do you plan to train over the next few days?¡±


    ¡°When Sylva created the fog and I was performing the kata¡­ it just felt right. I want to focus on my affinity as I go through the steps.¡± He glanced at Sylva hopefully. ¡°Could you make more fog, maybe in one of the smaller chambers where it won¡¯t dissipate?¡±


    ¡°Sure, Hadrian,¡± she nodded. Good practice, she thought absently. Maybe I can convince the water to turn into fog differently this time¡ªa chance to refine my craft.


    ¡°Now, Sylva, if I may offer a suggestion?¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    ¡°You need training in the strategy and tactics for Triumvirate duels. Krinka and I will teach you the fundamentals, and you¡¯ll be the strategist for this fight and future ones.¡±


    Sylva liked the idea of being in charge. Hadrian was their sword, Lotem their shield, and she was their brain. Better her than Hadrian or Lotem, no question.


    ¡°Once I¡¯ve filled the room with fog for Hadrian, should I meet you in one of the side chambers?¡±


    ¡°That sounds perfect,¡± Casselia said, smiling. ¡°Now, let¡¯s get to work.¡±

 Chapter Sixteen: Final Preparations

    You cannot control the bison of burden as they cross your land, but you can prevent them from making your soul their pasture.


    ¨C Bal Proverb


    Aslavain: Seventeen Days After the Summer Solstice


    Hadrian moved through the chamber like a man in a trance, the fog Sylva had summoned hanging thick in the air, tinted red by the torchlight. He didn¡¯t fully understand why Casselia had him light multiple torches with the flames of frustration that Lotem had trained with, but he was glad for it.


    The torchlight filled the fog, reminding Hadrian of home. Cutra was shrouded in dense mist that dripped endlessly from the trees, flowing westward toward the distant sea¡ªBrood territory. Every village in the Foglands was bathed in the light of Luminaries flame, a constant presence in their lives.


    Luminaries flames kept most threats away from the village; few creatures dared to enter the part of the forest touched by that subtle menace. Those that did were revealed by the magic of the flames, easy targets for the [Hunters] and [Guards]. Without that protection, Cutra wouldn¡¯t have survived.


    The light in the chamber spoke of frustration, a constant stream of grievances he couldn¡¯t ignore. Hadrian had learned a trick with Luminaries flame¡ªa secret that took him years to master. He couldn¡¯t stop the emotions the flame stirred, but he could change how he responded. If it filled him with frustration, he countered with hope, enough to cut through the negativity.


    Controlling his emotions in the face of Luminaries fire was like fighting. The flames pushed him to act, urging him to submit to their will, but he riposted, countering with emotions that defused their effect. It was a dance¡ªattack and defense, emotional strikes followed by emotional parries.


    As he moved through the kata, he let the frustration fill him, refusing to balance it out. He reveled in the sudden surge of anger and uncertainty. The anxious pit in his stomach tightened, clenching his jaw with it.


    Eventually, he shifted his thoughts back to hope, letting the frustration fade and the knot in his stomach ease. He moved through the kata without thinking, his vision obscured by the blood-red fog swirling with his every motion as he danced with his twin knives.


    Hadrian focused on the Fogflare Moth, his supposed affinity and the foundation of his combat art. He hadn¡¯t studied the creatures much growing up¡ªthe trees where the moths were raised lay outside the village, in areas too dangerous for him to visit alone. But his Pa had taken him once, showing him dozens of newly emerged moths clinging to the hollowed tree.


    Each moth had wings speckled with shades of gray fog, and six amber eyes that seemed to watch him from their perches. When one moth flew through a stream of mist that had drifted into the hollow, the eyes glowed, lighting the fog in an amber hue. It had been breathtaking.


    His Pa had explained how each cocoon would be harvested, the single silk strand treated to retain its magical properties. Each strand stretched hundreds of feet and, as long as it wasn¡¯t cut, would resist fire and illuminate any water it touched¡ªwhether fog in the air or liquid in a cup.


    Hours passed as Hadrian moved in a constant whirl, the kata, fog, and Luminaries flame all pulling him back to memories of home. And home reminded him of his purpose. He would grow strong enough to build a new shrine¡ªhe believed it, Rovan Khal believed it, even Casselia and Alsarana believed it. He wouldn¡¯t let them down.


    Casselia entered the chamber, and Hadrian paused. He wasn¡¯t sure how long he¡¯d been alone, or if he wanted to leave and face the possibility of letting his team down. Casselia closed the door behind her, sealing the thick fog inside.


    ¡°Has it been three days?¡± he asked, uncertain.


    ¡°No, just over a day. I¡¯ve come to observe. Continue.¡±


    So he did. Hadrian moved through one kata, then a second, then a third. Casselia watched in silence. When he paused to rest his muscles, Casselia nodded and told him to sit. She gestured, and suddenly his eyes were closed, head drooping. Then, he awoke, unsure how long he had been asleep. In the silence that followed his awakening, the voice of the Sulphen echoed in his mind.


    [Skill Obtained: Bound Item ¨C Fog Robe]


    [Bound Item Upgraded: Everflowing Fog Robe]


    Hadrian blinked, still disoriented, his body stiff from the fog¡¯s repetitive embrace. The chamber pulsed with a subtle energy, the fog swirling in deliberate, almost expectant movements. The voice of the Sulphen echoed in his mind, reverberating with an uncanny weight.


    He sensed the robe against his skin, swaying gently in the fog-laden air. Instinctively, he knew it was more than it had been before. He didn¡¯t just feel it¡ªhe could interact with it. His brows furrowed as he focused, pushing his senses toward this newfound connection. The light resistance yielded, and suddenly, the silk released a surge of fog, cascading out to fill the chamber.


    ¡°You received a new skill, it seems,¡± Casselia remarked, her voice muffled by the thickening fog. When Hadrian recounted the Sulphen¡¯s message, she let out a tinkling laugh, oddly cheerful in the blood-red mist.


    ¡°Is the skill good?¡± he asked, still unsure of what separated one skill from another.


    ¡°With few exceptions, bound items cannot be stolen or taken from you while you live. That alone is invaluable with something as rare as a Fog Robe. At the very least, it spares us from worrying about thieves, which was about to become a major problem. I¡¯m not surprised the robe was upgraded; that¡¯s half the value of Fog Silk¡ªit absorbs meaning faster in the Sulphen¡¯s eyes than nearly anything else. The Imperial Archives even compare it to dragon bone.¡± She shook her head. ¡°It¡¯s a wonder your village could afford the stuff.¡±


    ¡°Now,¡± she added, ¡°you¡¯ll need to practice controlling the new ¡®everflowing¡¯ feature. Once you master it, Sylva won¡¯t need to make fog for you anymore.¡±


    The air buzzed with a newfound energy, and for a fleeting moment, Hadrian felt like he could touch the very essence of the mist. A slow grin spread across Hadrian¡¯s face; it was time to see just how far the fog would obey.


    <hr>


    ¡°You need to understand what fire is if you want to keep countering Seraphis¡¯ abilities,¡± Krinka said, his words making Sylva wince. She had always hated fire, instinctively fearing its hungry, licking flames¡ªthough she hadn¡¯t had much experience with it until Seraphis began to burn her.


    ¡°Fire is a force of transformation,¡± he continued. ¡°It transmutes base matter into ash and smoke, releasing the energy within. In a forge, it purifies metals, separating the valuable from the useless, and it consumes the old to make way for the new. Fire is the greatest catalyst for change. In the Province of the Sun, fire is even more than that¡ªit is holy. To Seraphis and the Sunborn, the Radiant Flame is the ideal form of fire.¡±The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    Krinka saw her hesitate and gave her a gentle smile. She understood logically why he was teaching her this¡ªunderstanding fire would allow her to influence it. That was the essence of sympathetic magic: knowing an element well enough to convince the Sulphen to manifest or change it. And yet¡­ she hated the idea of working with fire at all.


    She cursed her fate for forcing her into this part of the empire. Technically, Dornogor and Tir Na Nog belonged to the Province of Justice, overseen by Ylfenhold, the City of the Veil. Yet, only a few dozen miles to the north, where the grasslands gave way to flowering marsh, lay the border of the Province of the Sun.


    Sylva¡¯s studies had taught her about the Sunborn who ruled Sabahar, the City of the Sun, in the most abstract way. Silkborn rarely entered that province, and when they did, it was with reluctance. She had also learned about the Penitent, a predominantly human faction that worshipped the Radiant Flame with a fervor that left burn marks crisscrossing their bodies¡ªa grotesque parody of beauty. At least the Sunborn didn¡¯t scar themselves.


    ¡°Seraphis will summon flames to consume you, as the Sunborn do,¡± Krinka said with an apologetic shrug. ¡°You need to understand the essence of the flames well enough for your incantation to be persuasive. You need to know what the fire wants.¡±


    ¡°It wants change?¡± she asked hesitantly.


    ¡°Exactly!¡± Krinka beamed. ¡°Flame wants to grow more than anything. If I fed a corner of parchment to it, the fire would consume that first, then spread. It yearns to expand. So, how can you harness that desire?¡±


    ¡°If the flame wants to consume something, I need to convince it that whatever it is isn¡¯t me or my companions?¡± Though it wasn¡¯t exactly a question, it sounded like one.


    ¡°If the flame can¡¯t burn you or your companions, then how else could we harness its energy? If the heat must be released, where could it go?¡±


    ¡°Could I direct it toward Drakar or Morvan?¡± she asked, suddenly hopeful. She had assumed that interfering with Seraphis¡¯ magic would be more complex than that.


    ¡°Technically, yes. Practically, no,¡± Krinka said, shaking his head. ¡°Fire can consume flesh, but it has a low affinity for it. Now, if one of them were Silkborn, that would be different¡ªfire is far more eager to consume silk than flesh.¡±


    ¡°What about metal?¡± she asked, her thoughts drifting to Morvan¡¯s heavyset armor.


    ¡°Ah ha!¡± Krinka exclaimed. ¡°A much better idea. Metal has a natural affinity for flame¡ªit is purified, softened, and shaped in the heat of the forge. Metal is an ally to fire. And Seraphis,¡± he added with a wry smile, ¡°has made that association even easier for you to exploit.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡± Sylva asked, curiosity piqued.


    ¡°She works in the Forge of Tir Na Nog, where her flames are accustomed to heating and shaping metal.¡±


    ¡°The Forge?¡± The Eidolons had mentioned it when they first arrived, but she hadn¡¯t given it much thought. Her lessons on Tir Na Nog had been lacking¡ªthe Elders hadn¡¯t expected anyone from the Sect to venture here, let alone fight in its trial. What use was rage for the Silkborn?


    ¡°Tir Na Nog produces weapons and armor¡ªit¡¯s the city¡¯s main industry. The quality isn¡¯t on par with the forges in the Khanate; no forge on the continent can match them. But the blades crafted in Tir Na Nog¡¯s flames carry an emotional impact that the Khanate¡¯s lack. The Legions favor weapons and armor that resonate with the user¡¯s rage, helping newer candidates overcome their fear.¡±


    ¡°Regardless,¡± Krinka continued, ¡°Seraphis spends all her time in the Forge when she¡¯s not selected for these trials, stoking the flames and pouring her rage into their creation.¡±


    ¡°And that¡¯s an association I can use?¡± Sylva asked. ¡°How?¡±


    <hr>


    Lotem dodged the skeletal figure¡¯s punch. The necromantic construct wasn¡¯t at all what he had expected. He had imagined a skeleton formed from a complete set of matching bones, but Alsarana had shattered that assumption.


    The skeleton was a patchwork of mismatched bones. Most were small enough to belong to a goblin, too small to pose a threat if assembled normally. Instead, Alsarana had fused them together, melding the bones into larger, grotesquely intricate shapes that barely resembled their original forms. Four goblin femurs had been combined into a single, crude femur for the skeleton¡¯s right leg, while the left one seemed to come from a large human or even a Numen, its smooth, unblemished surface only emphasizing the grotesque mockery of its counterpart.


    The rest of the skeleton followed the same grotesque pattern. Some ribs were fused from pairs of bones, while others were intact remnants from a larger species¡ªperhaps orcs, though Lotem wasn¡¯t familiar enough to tell. Yet, despite its mismatched structure, the skeleton moved with a grace that defied his expectations.


    Lotem was certain Alsarana controlled the construct from his coiled position in the corner, though the naga remained mostly silent as Lotem dodged and countered the skeleton¡¯s strikes.


    Lotem applied the movements Hadrian had taught him, keeping his stance firm and his feet planted as he twisted, channeling energy from his hips into each blow. When he managed to land a hit, his strikes sent the skeleton¡¯s bones flying apart, clattering against the chamber walls in a cacophony that made Sabel flinch on his shoulder before they reassembled.


    Sabel¡¯s claws gripped the bison fur on his shoulder as Lotem ducked and dodged. At first, she had resisted the position, trying to hop down whenever his movements grew erratic. But after hours of him reassuring her through their bond that his shoulder was the safest place, she eventually seemed to understand. Once it was clear that Lotem and Sabel had settled into a routine, Alsarana uncoiled and took a keen interest in them.


    ¡°That should be sufficient training to satisfy Casselia,¡± Alsarana said, a gleam in his eyes that made Lotem wary. He wasn¡¯t sure if his discomfort around the naga was his own or a side effect of his bond with Sabel, but it felt real enough in the moment. ¡°Now, it¡¯s time you learned your class¡¯s true role in the team.¡±


    Lotem stood patiently, certain that the naga would soon make his point.


    ¡°A [Guardian] must, well, guard. Your job isn¡¯t to kill the enemy¡ªthat¡¯s Hadrian¡¯s role. Nor is it to outthink them¡ªthat¡¯s Sylva¡¯s. No, your job, my half-Numen friend, is to keep your companions safe enough to do theirs.¡±


    Lotem already understood that, of course¡ªso why was the naga bothering to mention it?


    ¡°For most [Guardians], that¡¯s simple enough. You take the blows so your companions don¡¯t have to. But I doubt you have the spine for that kind of work.¡±


    A familiar burn of indignation flared in Lotem¡¯s chest. Who was Alsarana to say he couldn¡¯t protect those around him? Of course he was brave enough. What made the naga think otherwise?


    ¡°There it is¡ªthe anger that was missing. Maybe you do have a spine for this.¡± Alsarana flicked his tongue, tasting the air as if sensing something. ¡°I wonder, though, how high can you stoke that anger? How much rage can your body hold? If wrath is your armor, how much can you muster? Enough to withstand a blow from my skeleton? From Morvan? From Drakar?¡±


    Lotem wasn¡¯t sure. He had never tried to make himself angrier¡ªnot on purpose, at least. The shamans of the Zherenkhan had spent years helping him process his anger after his brother¡¯s death, guiding him through the quagmire of emotions that had consumed him for months following the imperial message. He had tangled his guilt, sadness, and hopelessness into his anger until it became a knot too complex to unravel. Now, Alsarana was asking him to abandon the effort entirely.


    ¡°You see,¡± Alsarana continued, as Lotem stood silently across the chamber, the blood-red light reflecting his simmering frustration. ¡°I don¡¯t see true anger in you¡ªI see other emotions struggling to escape. I see fear, guilt, uncertainty. But anger? You seem afraid of it.¡±


    ¡°And what if I am?¡± Lotem said quietly. Hadrian and Sylva insisted that anger wasn¡¯t something to be feared, but how could they understand? They hadn¡¯t faced the red haze that clouded his mind, the sudden, burning urge to make someone else suffer for everything wrong in his life. Was anger really something he wanted to embrace?


    ¡°Then you need to change,¡± Alsarana said. ¡°You already have two skills tied to anger¡ªone that brings the emotion easily, and another to keep you alive in the throes of a grudge.¡± Alsarana paused, meeting Lotem¡¯s gaze. ¡°Do you intend to fight the Tul?¡±


    ¡°You know I do,¡± Lotem replied, his voice steady.


    ¡°Then accept and wield the powers the Sulphen has given you. Do you think every skill is easy? Do you think being a [Harbinger] is a walk in the park?¡± Alsarana hissed. ¡°I have skills that make people fear me, that let me sense the chance to bring ruin upon everything I touch. I could destroy entire cities if I lost control. You¡¯ll have the same potential¡ªso why shy away?¡±


    ¡°And what, then?¡± Lotem said, frustration thick in his voice. ¡°Am I supposed to walk around consumed by fury, collecting anger skills until I turn into a berserker who can¡¯t tell friend from foe?¡±


    ¡°Once again, your misconceptions are plain to see,¡± Alsarana replied calmly. ¡°Anger isn¡¯t about losing control or breaking things for the sake of destruction. It¡¯s passion imposed upon the world. If your anger controls you, then you¡¯re simply not strong enough.¡±


    ¡°What do you recommend, then?¡± Lotem asked, Alsarana¡¯s rebuke dousing the anger that had been building.


    ¡°My skeleton will keep punching you until you¡¯re angry enough to withstand the strikes,¡± Alsarana grinned, his twin fangs gleaming as the skeleton rolled its shoulders, the bones grinding in their sockets. ¡°And if you can¡¯t summon enough anger on your own, well, I have plenty of stories about the Tul that I¡¯m sure will help.¡±

 Chapter Seventeen: Fog and Fire

    The body births potential, yet culture¡¯s hand shapes its destiny. Flesh and sinew grant freedom, but the lattice of tradition binds with unseen chains. Where the flesh dares to stride, the laws of man retreat in wary hesitation.


    ¨C Mairad the Veiled, from The Tome of Flesh and Fate


    Aslavain: Twenty Days After the Summer Solstice


    Hadrian¡¯s muscles tensed as Lotem shoved open the metal doors, revealing the chamber of the Eidolons. Sylva strode in behind him, radiating a confidence that suggested she had already decided they would conquer the trial. She had spent hours detailing her plan to Hadrian and Lotem, explaining the Eidolons¡¯ known abilities and potential weaknesses with such exacting precision that Hadrian found it more stifling than reassuring.


    Hadrian valued planning¡ªhis Ma had always preached that poor preparation led to poor performance¡ªbut no strategy survived the first clash of blades. Even so, he¡¯d give Sylva¡¯s plan his best effort; she had earned that much from him.


    Sabel let out a soft, questioning mew from her perch on Lotem¡¯s shoulder, her claws digging into the thick bison fur cloak. He reached up to scratch her chin with the familiarity of old habit before stepping into position in front of Drakar¡¯s sarcophagus. Hadrian took his place opposite, facing the spot where Morvan would emerge.


    Sylva had assigned Lotem to Drakar, trusting him to keep the Numen occupied long enough for Hadrian to dispatch Morvan¡¯s companions and pin down Seraphis while she worked her incantation. It was an ambitious plan¡ªone that left Hadrian facing not only the beasts but also the Sunborn and Morvan. He clenched his jaw against a flare of uncertainty; this was no time to voice doubts.


    Casselia, Krinka, and Alsarana slipped in behind them, positioning themselves along the back wall. Casselia¡¯s gaze flickered restlessly, and Alsarana¡¯s sharp grin hinted at mischief. Hadrian couldn¡¯t help but hope they would keep to their roles this time; provoking the Eidolons again would only complicate things.


    Sylva approached the crystal ball on its pedestal and activated it with a touch, the glass shimmering to life. Hadrian¡¯s instincts screamed to strike before the pleasantries¡ªevery second lost made Seraphis more dangerous if she decided to begin her incantation early. But Sylva had insisted they follow the ritual, demanding the Eidolons¡¯ approval first. The lids of the sarcophagi groaned as they slid open, revealing Seraphis, Drakar, and Morvan, who froze the moment they saw the mentors behind them.


    ¡°A nasty surprise, indeed,¡± Seraphis hissed, folding her arms tightly across her chest. Her eyes flicked between the mentors, a hint of wariness creeping into her voice. ¡°I hadn¡¯t realized your triumvirate was under the tutelage of mentors¡ªand such¡­ august mentors at that. The [Triumvirate of the Broken Crown], is it?¡±


    ¡°Casselia, she recognizes us,¡± Alsarana murmured from Hadrian¡¯s left, his voice tinged with a gloating satisfaction. ¡°See? I knew we still inspired fear wherever we went.¡± Hadrian glanced sideways, suppressing a wince; there was a touch too much eagerness in the nagas tone for his liking.


    ¡°Like any of the Sunborn could forget,¡± Seraphis replied, dipping her head toward the trio with a respect that seemed out of place on her venomous lips. Respect? Hadrian hadn¡¯t expected that. His breath hitched, and he fought to still the tremor creeping through his limbs.


    ¡°I have no quarrel with the Triumvirate of the Broken Crown,¡± Morvan rumbled, his deep voice resonating from behind the cold metal of his helm like a distant thunderclap. Hadrian squinted, straining to catch a glimpse of the man¡¯s expression beneath the visor. Does he know our mentors, too? The thought crawled unbidden through his mind, prickling at his uncertainty.


    ¡°We are only here to observe,¡± Casselia said, her voice steady but edged with a note of impatience. ¡°You know our history; we¡¯ve no quarrel with the Sunborn or the Imperial Rangers and are certainly no fans of the Dion. But we do have a pressing need to move beyond this trial, and we believe our candidates will meet your expectations.¡±


    ¡°They haven¡¯t yet,¡± Drakar grumbled, his brow furrowing as his gaze swept across the mentors. ¡°Am I the only one here who doesn¡¯t know who the fuck you are?¡± His voice carried a rough impatience, as though he¡¯d grown weary of riddles and veiled histories.


    ¡°No,¡± Hadrian blurted, his voice thinner than intended. As all eyes turned to him, the nervous tremors coursing through his limbs seemed to magnify, and he silently prayed no one noticed the trembling in his legs. ¡°I¡­ don¡¯t really understand who they are either,¡± he confessed, glancing at Drakar.


    ¡°Hadrian, I told you about them,¡± Sylva said with a hint of exasperation.


    ¡°Little Drakar doesn¡¯t remember us?¡± Alsarana said, her voice alight with a gleeful malice. His lips curled into a mocking grin. ¡°All brawn and no brains. That¡¯s a Numen for you.¡±


    ¡°No, the Harbinger has a point,¡± Seraphis said, turning to Drakar with a faint smirk. ¡°Even Morvan recognized these three, and he¡¯s a recluse. Did you take a blow to the brain we don¡¯t know about, Drakar?¡±


    ¡°Regardless,¡± Casselia interjected sharply, cutting through the banter with a tone that brooked no argument. ¡°This isn¡¯t about us; it¡¯s about the candidates standing before you. What will it take for you to grant them approval to leave this trial?¡±


    ¡°They must beat us in a fight,¡± Drakar declared, his voice steady as stone. ¡°It¡¯s the condition we set when they first arrived, and nothing has changed my mind.¡± He squared his shoulders, as if daring anyone to challenge his terms.


    An oppressive silence descended upon the chamber, thick as fog. Seraphis and Morvan exchanged uneasy glances, their stance faltering ever so slightly beneath the mentors¡¯ gaze, but there was no retreat for them now. The exchange, though still somewhat cryptic to Hadrian, steadied his pulse. He shifted restlessly, bouncing on the balls of his feet, his muscles coiled and ready to spring.


    ¡°And nothing will sway you?¡± Casselia¡¯s voice held a grim finality, as if she were already bracing for what must come next. Under her piercing gaze, Seraphis and Morvan fidgeted, their unease palpable, while Drakar¡¯s stance remained unyielding.


    ¡°That¡¯s right,¡± Drakar growled, impatience roughening his tone. ¡°Are we going to keep pussyfooting around, or will we finally get to the fighting?¡± His hands clenched into fists, muscles tensing as though already anticipating the clash.


    Hadrian took that as his cue. He focused intently on the connection to his robe, and a faint hum of magic thrummed through him. Wisps of fog unfurled from the fabric, curling languidly around his feet before spilling outward, thickening as he willed it to flow faster. The fog crept hungrily over the stone, a rising tide that threatened to swallow the chamber whole.


    A sharp whistle pierced the shrouded air, slicing through the fog and jolting Hadrian into action. He called forth his knives, the ivory blades materializing in his hands with a snap of will. Twisting mid-motion, he hurled them at Seraphis, aiming to disrupt the naga before she could complete her incantation.


    The first bone knife clattered uselessly against her golden scales, a sharp crack echoing through the chamber. The second found its mark, sinking into the soft flesh of her underbelly before disappearing as Hadrian conjured another set with a faint pop. Before the first drop of dark blood splattered on the stone, the next pair of blades flew through the air, relentless in their pursuit.


    Sylva had been adamant: the goal was not to kill Seraphis¡ªat least, not yet. Hadrian¡¯s task was to keep the Sunborn occupied, to draw blood and distraction. His third dagger pierced the naga¡¯s gut, inches from the previous wound, and a scream ripped from her throat as a shield of golden fire flared to life. He hurled the fourth knife without hesitation, not waiting to see if it struck true.


    Another pair of knives appeared in Hadrian¡¯s grip, and he spun to hurl them at the Crystal Quill, which stood near Morvan, its beady eyes fixed on Lotem. The first blade sliced cleanly across its side, a dark line of blood welling in its wake. The second embedded itself deep in the rodent¡¯s front leg, and the creature crumpled to the ground with a gurgling cry, its limbs twitching as it struggled to rise. Hadrian was already summoning a new set of knives.


    A guttural roar echoed from Hadrian¡¯s left, tearing his attention away. Lotem strode forward, coming dangerously close to Drakar¡¯s range. What is he thinking? Hadrian¡¯s pulse quickened. One hit from that club and he¡¯s done for, Numen blood or not. Judging that Drakar was distracted, Hadrian glanced towards Morvan¡¯s voice as it thundered a command, and the Thunderback¡¯s gaze locked onto him. He turned back to Drakar, confident he had moments before the rodent charged.


    Drakar twisted sharply as the daggers left Hadrian¡¯s grip, the first blade whistling past his head by a hair¡¯s breadth. The second struck true, sinking deep into his shoulder, and another roar tore from the Numen¡¯s throat as blood seeped from the wound. Hadrian sprang back, the thickening fog swirling around him as he rolled to avoid the Thunderback¡¯s thundering charge. The air trembled, and the hairs on his arm stood on end as the beast barreled past, barely missing him.


    The fog billowed out in thick, heaving waves from his robe, creeping across the stone floor like a living thing. As Hadrian came out of his roll, he sprang up, launching a pair of blades at the Thunderback. A sharp squeal echoed through the chamber, confirming his mark. Without pausing, he sprang back again, his gaze snapping toward Morvan¡¯s approaching armored form.


    Sylva had assured him she could handle the armored Numen, though she hadn¡¯t explained exactly how. It didn¡¯t matter¡ªhis task was to keep Morvan¡¯s attention. With a flick of his wrists, knives appeared in his grip, and he hurled them at Morvan¡¯s plated form. As expected, the blades clattered harmlessly off the metal, but one struck the helm with a resounding clang, making the Numen hesitate. Hadrian took advantage of the moment, circling cautiously, always just out of reach.


    As he circled, Hadrian¡¯s gaze was pulled back to the furious clash between Lotem and Drakar. A cold knot of horror formed in his stomach as Lotem faced down the Numen¡¯s brutal swings, each arc of the bone club wide enough to cleave a man in two. Lotem ducked the first strike by a hair¡¯s breadth, the wind of the passing blow ruffling the mans hair. The club halted mid-swing and reversed course, coming back around with deadly speed.


    Crack.


    A deep, bone-cracking sound reverberated through the chamber as the club slammed into Lotem¡¯s right shoulder. Hadrian braced himself for the sight of Lotem being hurled across the floor, his bones shattered beneath the Numen¡¯s raw power. Instead, Lotem only staggered back a step, as if he had taken a much lighter blow¡ªsomething from Hadrian, not a full-blooded Numen.


    Drakar¡¯s eyes widened in disbelief, his club falling still for a moment as Lotem let out a ragged scream, a mix of agony and fury, and surged toward him. What is he doing? Hadrian wondered, his pulse quickening as Lotem appeared ready to launch himself at the larger man. With a swift flick of his wrists and a grunt of exertion, Hadrian sent twin knives flying. He sprang back as Morvan closed in, but the blades found their mark, burying deep in Drakar¡¯s side and drawing a bellow of rage.


    We are doing it. Actually doing it. He thought, though, as long as we are unable to get past Morvan¡¯s armor it won¡¯t do us a lot of good.


    <hr>


    Sylva shut out Drakar¡¯s bellow of pain as Hadrian¡¯s bone dagger sank into the fleshy gap along his ribs, its ivory edge gleaming with blood. Her focus remained on the rippling wall of golden flame before her, its heat pressing against her skin like a suffocating breath. Beyond it, Morvan strode after Hadrian, his thick armor glinting in the firelight with each heavy step. Her pulse raced in her ears¡ªthis moment demanded absolute precision. Hadrian had baited Seraphis just as they had planned, but it was Sylva¡¯s responsibility to see it through to the end.


    The fire was a tool¡ªnothing more. Sylva shaped the image of a crucible in her mind, its molten contents shimmering with untamed potential, and let her fingers trace delicate patterns through the heated air. She felt the invisible threads of magic pulling at the heat, drawing it toward her as though siphoning liquid through a narrow straw. Her breath steadied, matching the rhythm of her murmured incantation, which fell into a low, measured cadence, invoking the world itself to heed her command.


    With each twist of her fingers, Sylva tugged on the fire¡¯s essence, forging a sympathetic connection, just as Krinka had taught. She clung to the image of molten metal glowing cherry-red beneath a blanket of flame, the heat palpable in the air around her. She hated that feeling, but she pushed onwards. Her mind anchored itself in that vision as she poured certainty into her words, each syllable carrying the weight of iron, resonating through the spell like hammer strikes on a forge.


    ¡°Fire is no shield. It is wild, untamed. It yearns for freedom, not confinement. Metal remembers its birth in flame, and fire¡­ fire knows armor.¡± As the whispered words slipped from her lips, Sylva felt a subtle shift in the air¡ªan almost imperceptible shudder in the flames as if they considered her argument. Her conviction deepened with each syllable, pressing the heat closer to her will.


    The flames resisted, bucking against her magic like a wild beast struggling to break free. Sylva¡¯s fingers danced through the air, weaving gestures that only the arcane could decipher, coaxing and commanding in equal measure. But this was no ordinary fire; it was born of the Radiant Flame, bound to Seraphis¡¯s will and reluctant to obey another¡¯s voice. The golden blaze shimmered defiantly, flickering with a loyalty Sylva could not ignore. She adjusted her approach, her movements shifting with newfound resolve.


    To her right, Hadrian darted and weaved through the thickening fog, his steps swift and elusive, bone daggers flashing in and out of his hands like illusions. Each blade sliced through the dense mist, tracing pale lines before finding purchase in exposed flesh. His snarl cut through the heavy air, a harsh reminder of the chaos beyond her spellwork. The fog swirled around him, coiling thickly enough to obscure the fallen Thunderback and Crystal Quill, as if seeking to swallow them whole.


    Sylva¡¯s fingers moved with renewed urgency, weaving her argument in the language of the Imperial Poems. She spoke the stanzas she had memorized under the watchful eyes of the elders¡ªTuvashar¡¯s verses that entwined flame and flesh, and Gertolai¡¯s lines on shaping metal beneath the forge¡¯s relentless heat. The air trembled with a faint vibration, a stirring of the Sulphen as if roused by ancient echoes. The words seemed to carry the weight of forgotten history, resonating with a power that reached beyond time itself.


    The fire hesitated, flickering as though caught between two wills. Sylva leaned in, pulling the threads of magic tighter, coaxing it closer. The flames wavered, uncertain, tasting the promise of metal once more¡ªthe familiar heat of ingots softening, the sharp rhythm of a smith¡¯s hammer striking steel. It remembered. Sylva could sense the memories within the flame, the heat of the forge, the shaping of red-hot metal under calloused hands. The resistance cracked, like an iron shell giving way to molten flow.


    Lotem¡¯s cry pierced the air as Drakar¡¯s club crashed down again, the heavy thud of bone meeting flesh reverberating through the ground. Sylva¡¯s concentration faltered for an instant, her breath catching, but she forced herself to stay focused. Lotem staggered back, a guttural growl escaping him as pain mingled with Drakar¡¯s labored breaths. The Numen pressed forward, but Hadrian¡¯s next dagger flew true, slicing into Drakar¡¯s arm and leaving a fresh streak of crimson that dripped into the swirling fog, staining the thick gray as it seeped through the mist.


    Sylva felt the fire¡¯s loyalty waver, inching toward her control, but before she could fully seize it, Seraphis reacted. The Sunborn¡¯s eyes gleamed with sudden awareness, and a wave of magic erupted from her, aimed at snuffing out the heat before it could be wrested away. The golden flames shuddered, caught in a fierce tug-of-war between their original summoner and Sylva¡¯s incantation. Sylva gritted her teeth, the muscles in her jaw tightening as her voice climbed in intensity, each word carrying the weight of her will as she compelled the fire to obey.You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    The heat surged forward, and with a final, forceful pull, Sylva tightened her spell, binding the fire¡¯s essence to the metal that encased Morvan. Her incantation seeped out like curling smoke, clinging to every metal surface it touched, wrapping the armor in a steadily intensifying wave of heat. Morvan¡¯s roar echoed from deep within his helm as the temperature climbed¡ªnot a sudden burst, but a steady, relentless escalation. The dull sheen of the metal brightened, veins of darkness spidering outward wherever the fire¡¯s touch lingered, the spreading heat warping the surface like molten veins beneath skin.


    Sylva¡¯s heart thundered in her ears as she maintained the spell, each breath coming in short, strained bursts. She fed the flames with fragments of ancient verse, pouring her will into every syllable, bending the world itself to her command. The fire¡¯s obedience solidified, its earlier defiance evaporating like morning mist under the sun¡¯s burning gaze. Morvan¡¯s movements grew frantic as the metal seared against his flesh. The acrid scent of singed fabric and the sharp tang of heated metal filled the air, mingling with the thick fog.


    Seraphis spat a curse, her hands erupting in flame as she hurled a final surge of magic at Sylva, desperate to reclaim what had been taken. But Sylva had already secured her prize. The fire was hers now, bound to her will and answering only to her command.


    ¡°Hadrian, now!¡± Sylva¡¯s voice sliced through the tumult, sharp and breathless. She hoped he could hear her command above the frantic, ragged bellows echoing from Morvan¡¯s helm as the metal glowed a deep, angry red, the heat radiating outward in waves.


    Hadrian moved like a shadow, slipping past Morvan¡¯s wild swings with fluid, darting motions. His bone daggers flew from his hands, streaking through the air in pale arcs. The first blade slammed into Seraphis¡¯s chest, quickly followed by the second, their ivory hilts trembling as they pierced deep into flesh. The naga released a strangled, bubbling gasp, dark blood spilling from her lips and staining her scaled chin as she struggled to breathe. The wet, ragged sound told Sylva all she needed to know¡ªthe daggers had found a lung.


    The blades vanished in a blink, reappearing an instant later. The next two sank in with a sickening thud, only inches from the first wounds, driving deeper into her chest. Seraphis convulsed, her serpentine form writhing and twisting in agony, coiling and uncoiling as if trying to expel the pain. She crumpled to the ground, her silhouette dissolving into the thickening fog that crept around her like a shroud.


    Sylva¡¯s breath came in short, ragged bursts as she watched Seraphis¡¯s form dissolve into the veil of mist. Her limbs trembled with exhaustion, the toll of the magic weighing on her like a heavy shroud. The fog thickened, swirling around the fallen naga, as if to seal away the remnants of the struggle.


    <hr>


    Lotem staggered back, barely staying out of range as Drakar¡¯s club crashed down, the impact reverberating through the stone. His right shoulder burned with searing agony, every movement sending new waves of pain ripping through his body as the shattered bone grated beneath his skin. He could feel Sabel¡¯s tiny form crouched against his left shoulder, her trembling claws digging in just enough to keep her grip. She was still safe¡ªsomehow, amidst the chaos¡ªclinging to him as if sharing his determination to survive.


    Drakar¡¯s assault was unrelenting, each swing of the massive club carving through the air with a deep, menacing whoosh that seemed to cut the very fog. The Numen ignored the half-dozen wounds scattered across his torso, where Hadrian¡¯s bone daggers had struck¡ªeach ivory handle jutting from his flesh like the stingers of some monstrous beast before vanishing. Hadrian had warned him not to count on the daggers bringing Drakar down; the Kiel warrior had once pierced one of the Numen¡¯s hearts, only to be killed moments later. But Lotem didn¡¯t need to kill Drakar¡ªthat wasn¡¯t his purpose. His role was to endure.


    Sylva had been clear: hold the line, endure, and keep Drakar occupied long enough for her to handle Morvan and for Hadrian to bring down Seraphis. But as the club descended again, its force reverberating through the stone and into his bones, Lotem¡¯s confidence began to fracture. He had already withstood two of those earth-shattering blows, and every fiber of his battered body screamed that he would not survive a third. The thought clawed at his resolve, feeding the doubt that gnawed at the edges of his mind.


    Lotem snarled, baring his teeth at Drakar as the massive warrior shifted his weight, preparing for another swing. Hadrian¡¯s bone daggers clattered off the wall nearby, their relentless assault a faint distraction in the fog-choked chamber. From somewhere in the haze, fading screams hinted that Sylva had managed to overcome the [Beastmaster], despite his armor¡¯s protection. But Lotem couldn¡¯t risk a glance. His entire focus remained locked on Drakar, knowing that the slightest lapse would mean the club¡¯s next blow would be his last.


    Lotem¡¯s mind flickered back to the last three days, and the bruising training he had endured. Alsarana had been¡­ unexpectedly helpful, though letting a skeleton punch him in the face repeatedly wasn¡¯t how he had imagined earning the naga¡¯s respect¡ªif that was even what he had achieved. Yet, the unconventional training had worked, toughening his resolve and dulling his fear. He had entered this fight with two blackened eyes, a split lip, and the stories of the Tul¡¯s atrocities seared into his thoughts. He had entered filled with rage, and that fury had shielded him from the worst of Drakar¡¯s blows, keeping him on his feet.


    Pain clawed at the edges of Lotem¡¯s mind, threatening to smother the anger that had absorbed the worst of Drakar¡¯s blows. His balance wavered as the Numen advanced, each step sending fresh agony radiating from his shoulder, making the ground beneath him feel like molten lead. When the club swept toward him in a deadly arc, Lotem hurled himself backward, but his foot slipped on the uneven stone. The blow whistled past, missing by mere inches, and shards of shattered rock sprayed up to slice across his legs. He was slowing down, and the realization chilled him more than the fog.


    A sudden hiss escaped Sabel, her eyes locked on the Numen with a ferocity that Lotem could feel burning through their bond, her fury echoing his own. But she stayed anchored to his shoulder, just as he had commanded. The fog now swirled around his waist, a thick, impenetrable shroud that seemed to reach hungrily for her. If she leapt into it, she would vanish completely.


    Drakar lunged forward, closing the distance with startling speed, and this time, Lotem wasn¡¯t quick enough. The club came down with bone-crushing force, splintering the stone beneath his feet. Lotem stumbled sideways, trying to evade, but Drakar¡¯s iron grip closed around his throat before he could react. His breath vanished in an instant, panic flaring as the Numen¡¯s fingers squeezed tighter. Too close. Far too close.


    Sabel sprang from Lotem¡¯s shoulder in a blur, her tiny form launching at Drakar¡¯s face with claws outstretched. She raked at his cheek, drawing a thin line of blood that glistened briefly before his massive hand shot up and snatched her from the air. The club clattered to the ground as Drakar released it, his other hand effortlessly gripping Sabel. With a dismissive flick, he tossed her aside, her small body tumbling through the air like a discarded rag.


    Lotem¡¯s vision blurred as Drakar¡¯s grip tightened, his feet leaving the ground as the Numen lifted him effortlessly. Drakar¡¯s eyes bore down on him, burning with cold, merciless resolve. Then, without warning, Lotem was flung through the air, his body crashing into the stone wall with a sickening crunch. Pain exploded through his limbs as he crumpled to the floor, the world spinning wildly around him, each breath a ragged struggle.


    The fog thickened, curling around him like a smothering shroud. Lotem¡¯s thoughts drifted, the sharp agony dulling to a distant throb as his limbs grew heavy and unresponsive. Was it enough? The question lingered dimly in his mind, a fading echo as the darkness crept closer, pulling him under.


    <hr>


    Drakar hurled Lotem against the nearby wall with a grunt of exertion, then stooped to retrieve his club from the swirling fog. He was done¡ªdone with this farce, done letting children play at being warriors. This wasn¡¯t why he had joined Tir Na Nog. He had come to fight the Dion, to test his mettle against worthy foes, not waste his time serving as a mentor to brats who hadn¡¯t earned his attention. The sting of their defiance gnawed at him like an old wound reopening.


    They didn¡¯t need his guidance, not with three mentors lurking behind every step they took. The thought grated on him, a thorn lodged deep beneath his skin. If they had mentors, why had they feigned ignorance? Why play the fools, asking how the trial would unfold if they already knew? A bitter taste filled his mouth. Were they toying with us all along, testing our patience as much as their own strength?


    Drakar hefted his club, sidestepping as a pair of blades sliced through the fog, the sharp whistle of their passage brushing past his ear. His skills had been shackled for this trial¡ªrestrictions put in place to ensure that the candidates weren¡¯t ¡®unduly challenged.¡¯ But Drakar knew better; it was always about maintaining the Justicars¡¯ iron grip on power, keeping the realm¡¯s champions leashed. What justice was there in pitting a seasoned warrior against children¡ªor near enough to it¡ªand then binding his hands?


    This was Drakar¡¯s third time serving as the trial¡¯s enforcer, and not once had a Triumvirate managed to bring him down. Those who came before had struggled, clawing for survival until the Summer Solstice mercifully pulled them back to the world above. Eventually, they would give up, resigned to spending their year in Aslavain¡¯s depths, where hope waned as swiftly as the light. At least those candidates had included a Dion warrior¡ªa worthy opponent whose very presence had stoked his rage like bellows to a flame. But this lot? They had none of the fire he craved.


    He had expected this trio to share the same fate as the others¡ªspiraling into defeat and despair. But when learned the [Squire of Carven Bone] was among them, he should have known better. None of the Immortals¡¯ chosen were weak, and even the Silkborn had swiftly outstripped his expectations, consolidating her power with surprising force. Still, even knowing their reputations, he had thought they would be easy pickings. That misjudgment rankled like an old scar reopening.


    But where had these mentors come from? He had been certain the trio was unaffiliated, unmonitored. Then, the black naga had slithered in alongside Hadrian, and everything had unraveled in an instant. It should have been impossible¡ªno one was supposed to breach the trial¡¯s barriers once the ordeal had begun. Unless¡­ they had been there all along, hidden in plain sight, cloaked by deception. The thought grated at him. How could he have been so blind?


    Drakar surged forward, his long strides closing the gap between him and Sylva in mere heartbeats. The knife wounds scattered across his torso throbbed, each fresh trickle of blood a reminder of his wounded state, but he pushed the pain aside. They were far from fatal. Sylva scrambled backward, her hands frozen mid-gesture, and the fog rose higher around her, curling like hungry fingers, as if the chamber itself sought to devour her.


    Drakar brought his club down in a crushing arc, aiming to obliterate the Silkborn, when a sudden prickling raced along his spine¡ªa surge of instinctive dread. Hadrian had vanished. He redirected his strike, sweeping the club in a wide, horizontal arc that carved through the fog like a blade. The lad was as slippery as a snake, his armory skill allowing him to shift tactics in an instant. Even when visible, Hadrian was difficult to track, but in this suffocating murk, it was almost impossible.


    Sylva vanished into the thickening mist, swallowed by the shrouding fog as Drakar spun in place, his gaze darting frantically through the swirling gray. His senses strained to catch even the faintest sign of the elusive Kiel warrior.


    ¡°Scared to fight like a man?¡± Drakar bellowed, his voice echoing hollowly through the fog, the words smothered and muted as if the very air sought to stifle his defiance.


    A searing line of fire suddenly sliced across Drakar¡¯s side, wrenching a roar from his throat. He swung his club in a furious arc, but it cut through nothing but fog, the mist swirling in its wake. The strike had come swift and silent, a phantom¡¯s touch from the shrouded darkness that left a burning trail on his flesh. His fingers brushed the wound, finding the wet warmth of blood seeping from it, and a sharp sting of realization pierced through his frustration¡ªthis was no knife cut. An arrow?


    The lad had started the trial with a bow in hand, though Drakar had crushed that tactic early on, closing in faster than any arrow could fly. But in this damn fog¡­ A sharp pain exploded in his thigh as an arrow struck deep, driving him down to one knee. He let out a low hiss, the sound laced with fury, as he gripped the shaft and tore it free. Blood poured down his leg in a hot stream, staining the fog-laden ground beneath him.


    Drakar lunged forward, swinging his club in a savage arc toward where the shot had come from, but the weapon found only empty air. The chamber had fallen eerily silent, broken only by the sound of his ragged breathing. The fog thickened steadily, creeping upward, and with a jolt of dread, he realized it would soon swallow even his head. He had to end this now; his instincts from the arena screamed at him to finish the fight before he was completely blinded. But how could he strike down an enemy he could not see?


    Drakar pressed onward, his steps erratic as he weaved through the thick fog, swinging his club in wide, sweeping arcs that cut through the murk. If he couldn¡¯t see the rats, then he would drive them out of hiding¡ªflush them from the shadows like frightened prey.


    An arrow tore into Drakar¡¯s back, slipping between his ribs like a red-hot blade. He stumbled forward, gasping as the pain radiated through his chest, each breath a struggle. Another arrow struck with deadly precision, and he glimpsed its faint outline, like a fleeting shadow darting from the mist, just before it plunged deep into his flesh. A thick rush of blood surged up his throat, and he coughed, the crimson spilling down his chin as his vision blurred.


    They¡¯re just children, he thought, the words a desperate chant in his mind, clinging to them like a drowning man. Restrictions or not, they cannot defeat me. His grip tightened on the club, and he hurled it with all the force he could muster, the weapon spinning toward where the arrows had come from. His bellowing roar faded into the suffocating fog, swallowed by the thick air. His trembling fingers reached up, closing around the shaft of the last arrow lodged in his neck. It felt cold against his skin, the sharp sting of death seeping through his veins.


    Do I pull it out? Or leave it? The question flickered through his fading thoughts as his vision blurred, the fog swirling into a dark vortex that threatened to swallow him whole. His knees buckled, and he crumpled to the ground, the world tilting as the shrine¡¯s magic gripped him like a cold hand, drawing him inexorably back into its depths. The haze closed around him, and with it came the darkness.


    They¡¯re just children, he thought one last time, the thought vanishing as the darkness closed in, claiming him completely.


    <hr>


    Casselia watched as the fog slowly withdrew, pulled away by some unseen force, revealing the aftermath of the battle. Hadrian stood at the back of the chamber, his bow still drawn and his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths, while Sylva sat against a side wall, her eyes wide, hair disheveled. The weight of what they had achieved settled over Casselia like a cool breeze. They had done it. She could hardly believe it.


    Yes, the trial was designed to scale down the Eidolons¡¯ power to make victory possible, but she would have bet her left thumb-bone that it wasn¡¯t meant to be conquered easily¡ªnot without the kind of unrelenting hatred for the Dion that the shrine seemed to expect. A fleeting thought of Emilia crossed her mind. If anyone could meet that criteria, it would be the Malan girl. She wondered how she had fared when faced with the trial¡¯s unforgiving depths.


    ¡°An impressive showing,¡± Casselia said, her voice calm and even as she broke the heavy silence that hung in the chamber. ¡°Hadrian, you kept the pressure on from start to finish, seizing and maintaining the initiative at every turn.¡± She shifted her gaze to Sylva, a hint of approval sparking in her eyes as she noticed the newfound confidence in the young woman¡¯s expression. ¡°Sylva, usurping the authority of the Radiant Flame to heat the armor was a bold and effective use of your training. The inclusion of the Imperial Poems of Tuvashar and Gertolai¡ªwell executed. If I¡¯m any judge, that was the turning point in your success.¡±


    Casselia¡¯s gaze shifted to Krinka, who was studying the floor intently, avoiding her eyes. She knew full well that it was his guidance that had equipped Sylva with the knowledge needed to execute the spellwork; without his teachings, the connection between the Sunborn and the Forge would have likely remained a mystery to her. Casselia made a mental note to acknowledge the scholar¡¯s efforts later. He had trained Sylva well for this task.


    ¡°Krinka, fetch Lotem for me, would you?¡± Casselia¡¯s tone carried a subtle undercurrent of command. Krinka hurriedly nodded and slipped through the metal doors, his footsteps echoing faintly as he vanished from view. As she waited, Casselia drew Hadrian and Sylva over to the pedestal, where the crystal ball continued to swirl with roiling fog. She offered additional words of praise, their significance underscored by the quiet aftermath of battle. After a minute, Lotem stumbled back into the chamber, Krinka close behind him. Sabel perched tensely on Lotem¡¯s shoulder, her small body trembling. Lotem himself looked pale and shaken, his steps hesitant as if he were unsure the ground would hold him.


    ¡°Did¡­ did we really do it?¡± Lotem¡¯s voice trembled with uncertainty as he took a shaky step forward. ¡°Can we leave this place?¡± His eyes darted between Casselia and Hadrian, a faint glimmer of hope in his expression as though he barely dared to believe it.


    ¡°We did,¡± Hadrian replied, a wide grin breaking across his face. ¡°You kept Drakar busy, and that made all the difference. We couldn¡¯t have pulled this off without you.¡± His tone was warm, and there was genuine gratitude in his eyes as he looked at Lotem.


    Lotem¡¯s shoulders sagged as though a great weight had suddenly been lifted from him. His entire body seemed to deflate, the tension releasing in one long, exhausted breath. Casselia couldn¡¯t blame him¡ªafter all he had endured, a moment of relief was more than deserved.


    ¡°If you touch the orb, it should present you with a choice¡ªto continue or to leave the trial,¡± Casselia said, her tone carrying a hint of amusement. ¡°I suggest you consider your response very carefully.¡± She suppressed a smile as Hadrian and Lotem turned to Sylva, their expressions expectant. The Silkborn woman sighed with exaggerated drama, but there was a glint of satisfaction in her eyes that didn¡¯t escape Casselia¡¯s notice. She had grown to enjoy the weight of responsibility.


    Sylva stepped forward and placed her hand on the orb. Her voice was steady and clear as she spoke, ¡°We relinquish our remaining challenge and demand release from this Trial of Tir Na Nog.¡± It was more formal than necessary, but it carried the authority of a command. As the words left the Silkborn¡¯s lips, Casselia felt a shift in the air, a subtle pulling sensation as the trial began to release them, unraveling the fabric of the chamber around them.


    As her senses began to fade, Casselia found herself wondering, with a touch of curiosity, what gifts the Sulphen would bestow upon the trio. They had earned more than just the end of the trial¡ªthey had earned the right to grow, to wield whatever new strengths awaited them on the other side.


    <hr>


    [Combat Art Recognized: Veil of the Fogflare Moth]


    [Skill Obtained: Fogbound Perception]


    ¨C


    [Spell Obtained: Threads of Fate¡¯s Binding]


    [Skill Obtained: Sympathetic Usurpation]


    ¨C


    [Skill Obtained: Raging Endurance]


    [Companion Skill Obtained: Sharpened Claws]


    ¨C


    [Triumvirate Skill Obtained: Bound in Fury¡¯s Triumph]

 Part Two: The City of Beasts

    The scholars tell of a journey, the path every soul must walk.


    First come the beasts, scraping for food, thirsting for water, clawing for shelter against the night.


    Then come the clever ones, who build walls and guard their hoards, seeking safety in a land of threats.Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.


    Next gather the tribes, forging bonds, sharing fires, drawing strength from one another¡¯s laughter and tears.


    And beyond them rise the first cities, proud with honor and filled with dreams of respect and renown.


    But at the summit stands the Sul Empire, where souls no longer hunger, but seek to uncover the mysteries of all that is, to remake the world in the shape of their vision.


    ¨C Mastava Ulvesh, [Historian of Thought]

 Interlude: Monarchs

    Power commands and compels; authority speaks and is followed by right. Where power imposes, authority persuades, yet neither is complete without the other. Power without rightful claim becomes the weight of tyranny, while authority without strength is but a hollow voice. The Scaled Dominion¡¯s Dual Crown resolves this paradox: a queen to wield power, a king to embody authority. Duality in all things.


    ¨C Meditations on the Dual Crown by Liora Vayshen, High Scholar of Haffarah


    Althara Vandros, the Tempest, one of the reigning empresses of the Sul Empire, sat on a throne of pale white wood, her fingers tracing the delicate carvings along its armrests. As their advisor¡¯s voice droned on about the state of the realm, she felt a weight settle in her chest¡ªa heaviness that had grown over twenty-eight years of rule. Together with her two companions, they had shaped the empire¡¯s fate as the Imperial Triumvirate, steering it through countless storms. But now, nearly three decades later, she wondered how much longer they could endure the strain, as if the throne itself was pressing down upon her shoulders


    To her left sat Rhaethan Blackblade, encased in enchanted steel that gleamed like storm-tossed waves. His sun-bronzed skin, visible between the armor¡¯s seams, bore a lattice of scars¡ªreminders of his brutal years in the Rahabian arenas. He had trimmed his black beard for the council, though strands of gray hinted at his age. Across his lap lay a sheathed wooden blade, eager to be unsheathed. Althara suspected that the weapon, hard-won in the Domicile of Wood, longed for battle¡ªsuch was the trouble with artifacts too clever for their own good.


    To Althara¡¯s right, Eseldra Ironbloom sat in a sleeveless tunic the deep green of moss after a rainstorm, its silver and gold embroidery glimmering softly in the torchlight. Her earthen-brown skin was traced with veins of pulsing green, as if life itself flowed visibly beneath the surface. She was unmistakably one of the Bal. She held herself with a quiet authority, the kind that grew from deep roots, unmoved by the shifting winds of court. Even seated, Eseldra exuded the effortless grace of nature¡ªconfident and timeless, like an ancient oak in the heart of a wild forest.


    The grand throne room of the Sul Empire was a vast expanse of marble and light, its vaulted ceiling upheld by columns of white stone threaded with veins of gold, like ancient roots reaching skyward. Beneath the rulers¡¯ feet, polished marble mosaics wove together the empire¡¯s storied past, tracing lines of victory and defeat in deep crimson, gold, and cobalt. Along the walls, tapestries told tales of glory and grief, while stained glass windows high above fractured sunlight into a shifting kaleidoscope, casting scenes of the Beast and Flower Wars onto the floor. The light¡¯s dance seemed almost restless, as if the chamber itself held its breath, awaiting the next chapter of history.


    ¡°Empresses, Emperor, I greet you with the gravitas that befits your station. By the Imperial Provisions of¡ª¡± The advisor¡¯s voice droned on, a familiar litany of pomp and circumstance. Althara¡¯s mind wandered, the words blurring together as the man indulged in grandiose formalities. Finally, after what felt like an age of empty phrases, he reached his point. ¡°I come bearing news from the West¡ªpossible expansion beyond the imperial borders.¡±


    At last, something worthy of their attention. Althara felt a faint prickle of electricity in the air and Rhaethan stirred from his marble throne, the sharpness returning to his gaze. He leaned forward, a flicker of eagerness breaking through the mask of imperial decorum.


    ¡°Expansion by whom?¡± Rhaethan¡¯s voice was smooth, the excitement carefully controlled behind his imperial facade. Althara exchanged a brief glance with Eseldra; after nearly five decades, they both recognized that familiar spark in his eyes. The warrior in him still chafed at the endless rituals and bureaucracy, hungering for a challenge he could meet head on.


    The advisor coughed, a nervous tremor that quickly escalated to near-panic, as if he feared a mere sound could offend the Triumvirate¡¯s majesty. Althara¡¯s gaze narrowed slightly. What was it, she wondered, that transformed rulers into something more than human in the eyes of those they governed? Yes, Rhaethan wielded a blade with a mastery that bordered on myth, she could call down storms at will, and Eseldra commanded the living earth. Yet, beneath the gilded trappings, they still ate, drank, and shit like everyone else.


    ¡°Out with it,¡± she snapped, her voice cutting through the chamber like a whip. It was sharper than she intended, but she was past caring. The courtiers would whisper about her temper, about the so-called dignity an empress should uphold, but after twenty-eight years, such trivialities had become little more than background noise. The court, with its rituals and niceties, had always seemed like a gilded cage¡ªa place of endless words that meant nothing.


    ¡°The Luminaries, Majesty.¡±


    ¡°Explain.¡± Eseldra¡¯s voice was as calm as a still pond, untouched by Althara¡¯s rising temper. To many, she appeared the embodiment of composure, but Althara knew better; Eseldra loathed court politics just as much, if not more. Perhaps it was a Bal trait, this knack for masking true feelings, or perhaps it was simply Eseldra¡¯s own way of weathering the endless cycles of bureaucracy.


    ¡°We¡¯ve received reports of several small enclaves forming beyond the Spine in the West¡ªpositions that skirt dangerously close to the Kumutara and Tisserandian hives of the Brood. Any misstep there could awaken a war we are unprepared to fight.¡±


    Rhaethan leaned back, his earlier spark of interest already dimming. Althara felt the urge to mirror his posture, but she remained upright. The Luminaries had clamored for expansion beyond the Spine for centuries, ever since the end of the Flower Wars. In their first briefings as the Imperial Triumvirate, they had debated these same enclaves, these same risks. Nearly thirty years had passed, and still, the settlements had brought no real trouble to the empire¡ªso why now, of all times, did it suddenly warrant concern?


    ¡°Do any of these enclaves truly possess the means to form a shrine?¡± Eseldra asked, her tone edged with her own skepticism as she absently traced a finger along the armrest of her throne.


    ¡°No, your majesty¡­ not as far as I know,¡± the advisor replied, a slight tremor in his voice betraying his uncertainty.


    ¡°Then why are we even discussing this?¡± Eseldra asked, a note of impatience creeping into her voice.


    ¡°The newest [Squire of Carven Bone] hails from Cutra, one of the enclaves southwest of Misalvar and Trugdorn,¡± the advisor said, his voice wavering slightly. He adjusted his spectacles with a trembling hand, as though bracing himself for the weight of what he was about to reveal.


    ¡°Out with it,¡± Althara growled, her voice rumbling like distant thunder. The advisor flinched, his spectacles slipping down the bridge of his nose. How did Eseldra always manage to keep them calm? Althara¡¯s interruptions seemed to catch them off guard every time, no matter how predictable her impatience had become.


    ¡°One candidate joining the empire through the citizenship ritual wouldn¡¯t normally merit your attention,¡± the advisor stammered, his words faltering. ¡°But¡­ the Guild of Fallen Heroes and the Sect of Eight Strands report that the [Squire] has a rather¡­ storied Triumvirate guiding him¡ªan arrangement far from ordinary.¡±


    The mention of a storied Triumvirate snapped Rhaethan¡¯s attention back to the present. He leaned forward, the wooden blade on his lap shifting ever so slightly, as if it too had caught the scent of something worth pursuing. His fingers drummed against the hilt, an unconscious sign of his mounting curiosity.


    ¡°Explain.¡±


    ¡°The [Triumvirate of the Broken Crown] has reawakened after more than two centuries of dormancy,¡± the advisor continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper. ¡°The Crownless, the Archivist, and the Harbinger are all in Aslavain. If our diviners¡¯ readings are accurate, they have taken the [Squire of Carven Bone] under their wing.¡± Althara¡¯s pulse quickened at the mention. The Broken Crown was no ordinary group¡ªit was a legend, a relic of an era steeped in blood and ambition.


    Rhaethan¡¯s focus seemed to drift again, his stone-gray eyes scanning the chamber as if searching for something more tangible to grasp. Althara knew he seldom concerned himself with matters of history unless they involved a fight. A recovering group of [Venerate] did not appear to offer one. But Eseldra¡¯s expression tightened, the significance of the advisor¡¯s words not lost on her. She turned to Rhaethan, a frown deepening the lines around her eyes.


    ¡°The Mandate of Empire¡¯s greatest champions. The ones who brought down Gransa Suneater and turned the tide of the war at the Battle of Kaelum¡¯s Refuge,¡± Eseldra said, her voice laced with a hint of exasperation. ¡°Do you ever bother to learn the history of the empire you¡¯re supposed to rule, Rhaethan?¡± She tilted her head slightly, one eyebrow arching in disbelief.


    The advisor seemed to shrink, trembling like a sapling caught in a storm, as one of his empresses openly challenged the emperor. Rhaethan¡¯s expression shifted in a heartbeat¡ªconfusion giving way to a spark of excitement, as though a veil had been lifted from his eyes.


    ¡°They trained the Marquis of Bone?¡± Rhaethan asked, his gaze snapping to Eseldra. Althara found it curious¡ªof all the figures he could have remembered, it was a Dion necromancer. Still, at least he was paying some attention for once. The Marquis¡¯s reputation was as dark as the spells he had worked, in some circles at least.


    ¡°They did,¡± Eseldra replied, her gaze unyielding as she locked eyes with Rhaethan. She turned back to the advisor, a subtle tension in her posture suggesting that some matters were best left for private discussion. ¡°Which of the Eternal Cities is the Triumvirate¡¯s team expected to compete in during the autumnal equinox?¡±


    ¡°We have reports that they arrived in Dornogor, formed a flying construct, and headed south. Ylfenhold or Calcara seem the most likely destinations.¡±


    Dornogor. This year¡¯s cycle kept circling back to Dornogor.


    ¡°That will be sufficient for our deliberations. We will call for you if we require further information,¡± Eseldra said, her voice steady and unyielding. The advisor bowed hurriedly and retreated, his footsteps echoing across the marble floor as he left the chamber. As the heavy doors shut behind him, Eseldra rose from her throne and began to pace, each step measured and deliberate, as though trying to unravel a tangled thread in her mind.


    ¡°I don¡¯t like this at all,¡± Eseldra murmured, her brow furrowing as she paced. ¡°The Mandate of Empire is unpredictable at best, dangerous at worst. Even if they¡¯ve never directly opposed us, their certainty in their cause defies imperial oversight. If they¡¯re in Dornogor, it can only mean one thing¡ªthey¡¯re after one of the Wyverns.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ve been over the eggs already, Sel,¡± Althara sighed, cutting off the argument before it could begin. ¡°We decided the benefits outweighed the risks when we authorized the purchase from the Vorith. A single Wyvern bred for war is a rare enough advantage¡­ but with three, the possibilities could reshape the empire.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ve invested far too much to let those lizards sit idle,¡± Rhaethan grumbled, crossing his arms as though to punctuate his point. ¡°They¡¯re meant for war, not decoration.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t even start,¡± Eseldra snapped, spinning to face him with a fierce glare. ¡°The only reason you pushed for those eggs was to provoke the Dominion¡ªand you know it.¡±


    Rhaethan shrugged. ¡°And? It¡¯s not like they can do much about it¡ªat least, not openly.¡±


    ¡°Just because the ancient treaties have held for nearly three millennia doesn¡¯t mean they¡¯re unbreakable,¡± Eseldra said, her voice sharpening with urgency. ¡°These accords are older than the empire itself, and we cannot be remembered as the Triumvirate that let them unravel.¡±


    ¡°If the treaties endured through the Breaking of the Dion, the Beast Wars, and the Flower Wars, they¡¯ll weather a few Wyvern eggs we acquired legally,¡± Rhaethan said, his graying eyebrow arching as his hand casually settled on the hilt of his sword. ¡°And if the Dominion is foolish enough to break the treaties, I¡¯d gladly put our legions to the test.¡± His words hung in the air, challenging anyone to doubt the empire¡¯s strength.


    ¡°Enough, the both of you,¡± Althara said, rolling her eyes with a sigh. ¡°We¡¯ve argued this in circles. The purchase was authorized, and our agents are prepared to deal with any objections from the Dominion. The Wyvern eggs aren¡¯t the real issue here.¡± When neither Eseldra nor Rhaethan met her gaze, she leaned back in her throne, letting the silence stretch a moment longer before she spoke again, her voice quieter but no less commanding.


    ¡°Can¡¯t you feel it?¡± Althara¡¯s voice dropped to a near-whisper, yet it carried an undeniable urgency. ¡°The seers are seeing omens they haven¡¯t witnessed in centuries¡ªshadows gathering on the horizon. Even that advisor,¡± she gestured sharply toward the door, ¡°brought us news of Luminary enclaves provoking the Brood. And now, the Dominion will almost certainly retaliate when they discover where the eggs are.¡± Her gaze swept over them, her eyes glinting like storm clouds ready to break.


    ¡°Can¡¯t you sense it?¡± Althara repeated, her voice almost drowned by the growing crackle of energy in the air. ¡°The storm is building, and we¡¯re standing at its heart.¡± She fixed her gaze on Rhaethan, her fingers tapping restlessly on the arm of her throne. ¡°We could take the Dominion in a fair fight¡ªI know it, and you know it. But we both understand it would force us to mobilize resources we need elsewhere.¡±


    She turned her fierce gaze to Eseldra, her expression hardening. ¡°I understand you want to divert more forces against the Tul. But unless we commit the [Paragons] and [Venerate] in full, it won¡¯t be enough. The Tul would tear our legions to shreds and only grow stronger with every victory.¡± She hesitated for a heartbeat, then continued, ¡°If we confront the Dominion now, we have a fighting chance. But if we wait until the Tul have had their way with us, even that chance will slip through our fingers.¡±


    ¡°The Tul¡ª¡± Rhaethan began, but his words faltered as Althara spun toward him. A sudden gust surged through the chamber, whipping the tapestries into a frenzy, their embroidered scenes of war and peace rippling like waves caught in a storm. The air crackled with the promise of lightning, as if the Tempest herself had stirred.


    ¡°If you dare claim the Tul are in decline, I¡¯ll see to it that lightning finds you the next time you step outside,¡± Althara snapped, her hand curling into a fist as the air around her seemed to hum. ¡°The Tul haven¡¯t had a chief unify the clans in¡­ what, sixty years?¡±


    ¡°Seventy-three,¡± Eseldra corrected softly, a hint of caution in her voice. She and Rhaethan knew all too well that Althara¡¯s threats were never empty. Even before she ascended to the throne, Althara¡¯s wrath had been as formidable as the storms she summoned.


    ¡°And remind me, Sel, what came of that last consolidation?¡±


    ¡°The Battle of the Blue Fort,¡± Eseldra replied, her voice tinged with a somber note, ¡°and the raids that swept across the Diontel left tens of thousands dead¡ªat least, as far as we can estimate. With the Tul, the true numbers are always elusive.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s the current interval between Tul consolidations?¡± Althara asked, her voice dropping to a low murmur. For nearly three millennia, the empire had grappled with the Tul¡¯s relentless cycles of conflict, with scholars desperately seeking patterns to stave off the next wave of destruction. But Althara already knew the answer¡ªas did they all. It was a grim fact, etched into the empire¡¯s history and into their own memories.


    ¡°Fifty-seven years is the historical average,¡± Eseldra answered, her tone sharpening. ¡°But that¡¯s exactly the problem, Thara. If a consolidation is happening now¡ªor has already begun¡ªwe¡¯re blind to it. That [Venerate] who lost her team five years ago, Astalia, might be the only one with answers, and she¡¯s still recovering. Her entire group was wiped out just miles from the Diontel, and we pulled back our scouts afterward. Now, we¡¯re left in the dark. The Tul could be amassing for a raid as we speak, and we¡¯d have no way of knowing.¡±This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    ¡°Have the divination guilds detected any signs of an impending Tul raid?¡± Rhaethan asked, though the skepticism in his voice made it clear he wasn¡¯t expecting a different answer. Althara watched him closely, certain that he already knew the response¡ªthey all did. The seers¡¯ visions had grown murky, unreliable.


    ¡°No, there haven¡¯t been any warnings of Tul raids,¡± Eseldra admitted, her reluctance evident in the hesitation that crept into her voice. ¡°But the seers have seen troubling omens centered around Dornogor. The East Warden even issued an Imperial Writ to one of the local [Venerate] teams, granting them authority to act if the situation escalates.¡±


    ¡°False alarms, all of them,¡± Rhaethan scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. ¡°The Dominion¡¯s saber-rattling over the Wyverns is stirring up all kinds of false omens, and the diviners are simply catching echoes of that noise. If the Tul were truly planning a raid strong enough to cross the Diontel, we¡¯d have seen clearer signs by now. As for those enclaves in the West, we¡¯ll know well in advance if anyone gets close to forming a Shrine in Brood territory. There¡¯s no reason to alienate our Kiel allies over something that hasn¡¯t reached the boiling point.¡± Althara¡¯s jaw tightened at his words¡ªsuch easy confidence had been dangerous before.


    ¡°And what about the reports of rats?¡± Eseldra pressed, her tone firm as she refused to let the matter drop. ¡°We can¡¯t just dismiss the sightings, especially when they¡¯re coming from multiple sources.¡± She held Rhaethan¡¯s gaze, challenging his tendency to dismiss concerns too quickly.


    ¡°Large rats in Tul territory, east of the Diontel? What of it?¡± Rhaethan retorted, his voice dripping with skepticism. ¡°The Tul probably hunt the things for sport, and the creatures are just scattering from the threat. The Eidolons at the Shrines and the legions at the forts can deal with a few oversized vermin. Unless there¡¯ve been sightings west of the Diontel, I don¡¯t see the problem.¡± Eseldra¡¯s expression hardened¡ªRhaethan¡¯s dismissiveness was exactly why she wouldn¡¯t let this go.


    ¡°It still doesn¡¯t feel right,¡± Eseldra said, her voice tinged with concern.


    ¡°Fine,¡± Althara said, her tone leaving no room for argument. ¡°I¡¯ll go from Rahabia to Dornogor myself and ensure everything is in order.¡± She rose from her throne, the subtle crackle of energy in the air echoing her decision.


    ¡°But¡ª¡± Rhaethan began, only to be silenced by a sharp glance from Althara. ¡°Enough,¡± she said, her voice brooking no argument. Rhaethan clenched his jaw, his hand twitching toward his sword, though he let the objection die on his lips.


    ¡°If the Tul launch a raid, neither of you would escape fast enough. The Imperial Triumvirate cannot risk one of its members being captured¡ªor worse, Sulphen forbid, devoured by those savages.¡± She met their eyes, a hint of grim determination hardening her voice. ¡°I¡¯m the only one who can move swiftly enough to ensure that doesn¡¯t happen.¡±


    She could see the displeasure in their eyes. Rhaethan had no doubt hoped to justify a trip east himself, eager for any chance to escape the stifling confines of the palace. They had both supported the purchase of the Wyvern eggs, each of them driven by the same unspoken longing. It had been far too long since any of them had been called to defend the empire directly, and Althara could feel the gilded cage closing in around her.


    She was the Tempest, the embodiment of the storm¡¯s fury, and she could feel the air crackling with the promise of chaos. A storm was coming¡ªone that she would face on her own terms.


    <hr>


    The [Procurator] sat behind a wide, ivory desk strewn with parchment still wet from ink and bones etched with the flowing lines of the Dion script. Each document he handled with methodical precision, sorting them into piles for delegation, his movements almost ritualistic in their care. When the last paper was in its place, he leaned back, brushing a strand of golden hair from his brow. His gaze drifted to the window, where Calcara¡ªthe City of Bone¡ªstretched beyond, shrouded in the gray mist that clung to the ancient necropolis. One page lay askew on the desk, its words casting shadows in the dim light.


    His office faced northward over the Plains of Decay, perched high enough within the fortress that no ivory wall could obscure the view. Below him lay a sea of gravestones, mausoleums, and crypts stretching outward like jagged teeth, the monuments rising in defiance against time¡¯s erosion. The necropolis surrounded Calcara on all sides, a reminder of the city¡¯s ancient legacy and its promise that even in death, the Dion would guard their home. Beyond the furthest crypts, the land dissolved into a haze of bone-white fog, as though the world itself were fading away.


    In Dion tradition, the dead did not simply rest; they encircled the city in a watchful vigil, a final line of defense. Should an invader dare approach, the spirits would rise from their tombs, followed by skeletal warriors and shambling corpses eager to protect their ancient home. Every citizen of Calcara eventually became its defender. Yet no enemy had breached the Plains of Decay in his lifetime. The wards that bound the spirits had grown old, their power steeped in generations of blood and bone, but their watch remained unbroken and their masses only swelled with every year.


    The [Procurator] was no king, emperor, or lord of the Sul Empire. His power lay in the shadows, where no crown could touch. He found the notion of public debate laughable¡ªmere theater for the living and the Eidolons who haunted the House of Lords. Why waste words when a handful of well-placed bribes and whispered threats could bend policy just as easily? The [Procurator] had seen to it that most of those deliberative voices sang his tune, without ever needing to set foot in that hall of pretense.


    No, the [Procurator] preferred to remain a ghost in the empire¡¯s mind. His title, shrouded in obscurity, was known to few outside the circles of power, and his true name had been relinquished centuries ago¡ªa sacrifice to the ancient wards carved into his very bones that shielded him from curses and hexes. Among the Dion, names held power, and to sever oneself from such a tether was to become untouchable to some magics. More than that? It suited him. For what use was a name when whispers could carry his will as far as any proclamation?


    His gaze drifted back to the page before him, its ink seeming to pulse like a heartbeat. The return of the Crownless had unsettled more than just the political balance; it had rekindled old fears, buried ambitions. After two centuries of silence, she had reappeared. Her Triumvirate reestablished in a matter of months, and now she moved through Aslavain with a purpose as clear as bone. A Wyvern was her aim. Everyone important in the empire knew this secret, but few understood the true cost.


    He allowed himself a fleeting hope that the Crownless¡¯ students had been ensnared within Tir Na Nog¡¯s labyrinthine trials. If fate favored him, the city¡¯s trial would delay them long enough to miss the first contest for a Wyvern. Perhaps Chanvar would succeed this cycle; the skeletal master had trained a promising candidate, one of the Carvers Blood, who was more than capable of competing. If the Crownless¡¯ pawns faltered, even for a moment, it would be enough to tip the scales.


    He briefly considered reaching out to his Nygmar contacts in Tir Na Nog, but quickly dismissed the notion. For nearly a century, the Nygmar had grown increasingly hesitant, their resentment simmering over the empire¡¯s refusal to sanction the kind of brutal conquests demanded by the Crimson Heart. That bloodthirsty relic of theirs stirred dark passions even he found unsettling, a hunger for war and sacrifice that made alliances precarious. To ask for aid now would risk reigniting old grievances. Better to let the Nygmar simmer in their discontent for a while longer.


    He made a mental note to adjust the tariffs on Nygmar goods and dispatch envoys to the Province of the Earthen Few bearing offerings of fresh blood for the Crimson Heart. His models indicated that such gestures would be enough to placate any budding discontent, at least for a time. The envoys would also collect the bones of long-dead Nygmar from the underground depths, relics that could prove valuable in the hands of the Dion. It was a calculated move¡ªone that balanced appeasement with profit¡ªbut even the most careful plans carried risks, especially when dealing with those who thirsted for blood and conquest.


    He drew a thumb bone from a drawer, its length nearly matching that of his hand. The Numen specimen gleamed with an otherworldly sheen, its marrow a testament to purity unmatched by any other species he had encountered. Even after centuries of working with bones from across the continent, the Numen remained unique. He understood why his predecessors had established the ¡®reservation¡¯ policy, preserving the Numen in carefully controlled regions before the civil wars fractured Dion control. If circumstances had allowed, he would have restored those reserves, reclaiming what had once been the Dions most coveted secret.


    He sighed, a rare gesture for one so accustomed to restraint. What must it have been like to lead the Administrators Blood when their dominion stretched unchallenged from the Gondaran Marsh to the hills west of the Valourwash River? In those days, Ylfenhold had answered to the Blood¡¯s authority, not the meddling Justicars with their naive ideals of equality and liberty. And what had become of it all, since the arrival of the Sunborn with their new religion, which blasphemed the sacredness of bone and decried the touch of sunlight upon bone? He could almost feel the weight of those lost centuries pressing against him, reminding him of what had been taken¡ªand what could yet be reclaimed.


    He reached for his carving tool, its handle polished smooth by years of use, and began etching his message onto the thumb bone with deft, precise strokes. As the blade met the surface, faint sparks of necromantic energy danced along the grooves, binding his intent to the bone. Chanvar would understand; he had proven his loyalty time and again, as reliable as the [Procurator]¡¯s own skeletal servants. The [Procurator] made a mental note to summon the girl¡¯s parents. What was her name? He paused, allowing the whispers of ancient wards to fill the gaps in his memory. Valentine. The name rose from his thoughts as though called forth by some unseen force. Yes, Valentine of the Carvers Blood.


    Valentine of the Carvers Blood¡ªa promising candidate, though perhaps lacking the unpredictability that made for greatness. Her parents had used the full weight of their lineage to secure Chanvar¡¯s mentorship, and the [Procurator] had sanctioned the arrangement, following from a distance as the girl began her training. He seldom missed the movements of the Ancient Blood, and even fewer proceeded without his explicit approval. Valentine had potential, yes, but potential was fragile. It would take more than blood and ambition to meet the demands he might one day place upon her.


    If the Crownless¡¯ proteges had avoided the Demesne of Tir Na Nog, then Chanvar¡¯s failure would be forgivable¡ªthis time. The man was every bit as capable as his ancestors, a warrior who had mastered not only the arts of combat but also the perilous currents of Dion politics. Yet the question remained: could he prepare his students to rival Casselia¡¯s prodigies?


    The [Procurator] focused intently on the left thumb bone, channeling a sliver of his will as he transferred the etchings onto its twin¡ªan identical bone that Chanvar possessed. The carvings flared briefly with a cold, spectral light before vanishing. Valentine was to devote her every effort to thwarting the Crownless¡¯ students, whatever the cost. If it stunted her own growth, so be it. The [Procurator] had little concern for the prospects of a promising pupil from a lesser bloodline if sacrificing her ambition could delay his rival¡¯s rise, even if only for a few precious months.


    Assassination was, unfortunately, out of the question. Any attempt on their lives while in Aslavain risked consequences for the Dion¡ªones that even he faltered at. But if they emerged from the imperial training grounds weakened or, with a stroke of fortune, earlier than expected, his agents would be poised to strike. Should the [Triumvirate of the Broken Crown] secure months or years to prepare unopposed, they might become an unstoppable force. And to oppose them then would mean bleeding his faction dry.


    The assassination of the Marquis of Bone had been a necessary evil, one that he had executed with ruthless precision. Yet the cost had been staggering¡ªdecades spent reclaiming lost secrets, mending reputational wounds, and replenishing the funds that bled away to silence witnesses and secure alliances. If this new Triumvirate possessed even a fraction of that potential, the price would be steeper still. Better, then, to strike preemptively, to unravel the threat before it had the chance to grow fangs.


    The thumb bone trembled in his hand, its surface warping as new carvings etched themselves into the surface, the letters appearing as though summoned by a silent voice. Chanvar¡¯s response. The [Procurator] read the message with a discerning eye, each word reinforcing his plan. Satisfied, he traced a final sigil over the bone, sealing the exchange, before returning it to its place within the drawer¡ªmarked with precision among the other relics of his dealings. The weight of the centuries-old bone pressed lightly against his palm, a reminder of the burdens he carried and the power that still lay at his fingertips.


    Valentine had added one of the Blind to her Triumvirate¡ªa fortunate development. The Blind, with their unique ability to perceive the soul¡¯s depths, were rare and often invaluable assets. It was the best news he had received all day. The pair was currently training within the labyrinthine halls of Bonehold, searching for the final member of their team. The [Procurator] made a mental note to have his contacts within the city steer promising candidates toward them. This was no mere contest of wills; the return of the Crownless threatened the very stability of the Dion. This time, she would not come quietly¡ªof that, he was certain.


    A faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips. It had been too long since he had felt the thrill of a genuine challenge¡ªtoo long since the weight of history had pressed upon him with such urgency. For all the uncertainty that lay ahead, he could not deny the quiet exhilaration that stirred within him. The game was set, and the pieces were finally in motion.


    <hr>


    Thar Nol Grak, king among lords, largest of the Tul, and leader of the twelve clans, loomed over the trembling figure before him. The dim torchlight flickered across his hulking form, casting shadows that reached like clawed hands across the chamber¡¯s rough-hewn stone walls. His cold, unblinking eyes bore down on the hunched creature¡ªa pitiful wretch with mottled, patchy black fur clinging to its emaciated frame like mildew to rotting wood.


    Disgust welled up in him, but he held his anger in check, a rare exercise of patience. Thar Nol Grak had not united the clans through destruction alone; it took discipline to know when to crush and when to let live. Still, no one insulted him without consequence. A thousand of these vermin would be eaten by the clans in honor of his restraint.


    Beneath tattered, grimy rags, the creature cowered, its frail body trembling with each ragged breath. The rise and fall of its chest revealed sinewy muscles pulled tight over disease-ridden skin, a grotesque blend of decay and stubborn vitality. Its nose twitched constantly, as if tasting the corruption thick in the air, while its bristled whiskers quivered in time with the torch¡¯s flicker. Small, feral eyes glinted crimson, darting nervously¡ªalways searching, always wary¡ªfueled by a desperate mix of hunger, paranoia, and a spark of cunning that even this wretched being could not entirely suppress.


    Pitiful, Thar Nol Grak thought, his lip curling in distaste.


    ¡°Oh, great king of the Tul, the Unending Hunger, Slayer of Zul Karn Drel, Sul Bane,¡± the creature rasped, its voice trembling like dry leaves in the wind. Each word stumbled over the next, tripping in its haste to placate. ¡°I bring fair tidings from my lord.¡± Thar Nol Grak noticed the hesitation, the twitch in its eyes as it gauged his reaction. Smart, he mused. But not smart enough.


    ¡°The swarm has reached the warren,¡± the creature continued, its voice gaining a touch of confidence. ¡°The tunnel is nearly complete. We¡­ are ready.¡± It hesitated, its gaze flicking to the ground before quickly darting back up. ¡°My lord humbly requests¡­ if it pleases you, how your preparations to cross the Diontel have fared.¡±


    ¡°Does your lord question my resolve?¡± Thar Nol Grak thundered, his voice shaking the chamber¡¯s very stones. The creature recoiled, stumbling back with a startled yelp. With the speed of a striking serpent, Thar Nol Grak¡¯s hand lashed out, seizing the wretch in an iron grip. He lifted it to his face, breath hot and fetid, teeth gleaming like jagged stones in the dim light. He squeezed just enough for its bones to creak under the pressure. Negotiations were most effective when the other party fully understood the consequences of failure.


    ¡°N-no, of course not,¡± it gasped, the words barely escaping its crushed lungs. ¡°I am¡ªth-third highest in the swarm. If¡­ if I die, it will weaken the attack. I¡­ I am among the last who can speak to our lord. He¡­ needs me.¡± Thar Nol Grak¡¯s expression did not change, though inside, he sneered. Pathetic, he thought. They still don¡¯t understand.


    ¡°Go.¡± Thar Nol Grak released his grip, letting the creature drop like refuse to the floor. A sickening snap echoed as its leg twisted beneath it, and it writhed in pain before struggling upright, dragging its shattered limb toward the exit. ¡°Tell your master,¡± Thar Nol Grak growled, ¡°the deal stands. When the eyes of the world open fully in the darkness, we shall strike as one.¡±


    ¡°The City of¡ª¡± the creature croaked, desperation edging its voice.


    ¡°Enough!¡± Thar Nol Grak¡¯s roar shook dust from the ceiling. ¡°Leave before I make you an example.¡± At least the Horned Lord, unlike his wretched underlings, possessed the dignity and strength of a true subordinate.


    ¡°Next?¡± Thar Nol Grak growled, impatience edging his voice. One of his Stewards, a sinewy Tul draped in ritualistic bone adornments, stepped forward to usher in the next petitioner. Thar Nol Grak allowed himself a rare moment of satisfaction. Capturing or killing an Imperial was a rarity, but his new alliances had yielded unforeseen benefits. Properly feeding a Tul to become a Steward was unthinkable a decade ago¡ªnow, they handled the tedious work, leaving him to savor the spoils of conquest.


    ¡°One of the frogs, my King,¡± the [Steward] murmured.


    Thar Nol Grak¡¯s grin spread wide, revealing rows of sharp, glistening teeth as saliva pooled at the corners of his mouth. The last time he had devoured one of these bright-skinned frogs, the taste had lingered for days¡ªa mingling of sweetness and poison.


    ¡°Let it come forward,¡± he growled. Moments later, the creature entered¡ªa small Nygmar with glistening azure skin and a ridged back. It stood motionless, its bulbous black eyes locked on him in an unnerving stare. Thar Nol Grak cared little for what the Nygmar called themselves; to him, they were just frogs, their bright colors no different from the gaudy hues of poisonous insects.


    ¡°Great king of the Tul,¡± the frog croaked, its voice harsh and unsteady in the guttural language of the Tul. ¡°The Council sent me to confirm¡­ the target remains as expected. The Empire¡­ knows nothing of your rise. The Nygmar¡­ are ready for payment.¡±


    Thar Nol Grak¡¯s hand twitched, the impulse to seize and devour the frog nearly overwhelming him. It had offered mere confirmation¡ªnothing of real value. He doubted it even understood the words it spoke, merely repeating what its masters had drilled into its memory.


    He recalled the last time he tasted one of these brightly colored creatures¡ªthe tingle on his tongue, the numbing sensation spreading through his limbs. His Steward had explained it was natural, a trait of the Nygmar¡¯s skin secretions to ward off predators. Thar Nol Grak had devoured a dozen to prove that nothing, not even poison, could deter his hunger. The memory stirred his appetite as he gazed down at the trembling wretch.


    The arrogance of these lesser beings, to think they could bargain with him as equals. He had promised them everything they could want and sworn oaths they claimed would bind him. Foolishness, utter foolishness, to think anything could bind Thar Nol Grak. Yet change was coming. The world would see a new age of conquest, and if the Nygmar lived long enough, they would learn the true meaning of power.


    With a swift motion, he snatched the frog from the ground, its frantic croaks spilling out in the harsh tongue of the Sul. Thar Nol Grak¡¯s jaws opened wide, and with a single, decisive bite, he tore into the creature¡¯s flesh. The familiar taste¡ªsweet and poisonous¡ªfilled his mouth, and he savored it. There was truly nothing like the taste of frog.

 Chapter Eighteen: Approach

    A child¡¯s fear of darkness is a fleeting spark, easily quelled. But when men grow to fear the world¡¯s blaze, a deeper tragedy unfolds. Fear spreads like wildfire, devouring truths and leaving scorched ruins behind. It dims even the brightest lights until they smolder beneath a choking haze, casting twisted shadows that linger even in daylight. In this perpetual twilight, we wander amid smoke and ash, where the light itself sears, and each moment of clarity threatens to consume the last of our fragile beliefs.


    ¨C The Ember¡¯s Lament by Rhaedan Lyscar


    Aslavain: Twenty-Two Days After the Summer Solstice


    Lotem strode across the final stretch of black, sandy soil marking the edge of the Demesne of Tir Na Nog, feeling a relief so immense he wasn¡¯t even sure it was real. For weeks, they had endured that cramped stone chamber, deprived of sleep, food, even water, each day dragging by in a haze of fatigue. The air had been thick with frustration, each attempt wringing him dry until he wondered if he¡¯d ever be whole again. But now¡ªnow, they were free.


    After Sylva announced their intention to leave the trial, they found themselves abruptly outside the obelisk, surrounded by a forest of bone-white trees. It hadn¡¯t taken much convincing for the group to agree that their best course was to leave as soon as they could. Casselia had toled them of a reward from by the Eidolons of Tir Na Nog if they journeyed to the Shrine at the city¡¯s heart, but they agreed: no reward was worth another moment in that place. Two days of steady walking, of resting in the open air, had brought them, renewed and refreshed, to the edge of the Demesne, ready for whatever lay ahead.


    As his bare feet met the cool, emerald grasses stretching into the plains, Lotem felt a tension begin to melt away, a weight he hadn¡¯t known he was carrying. With a sudden burst of energy, he broke into a sprint, heedless of his Triumvirate¡¯s distant calls, his long legs eating up the ground beneath him as he ran. Open skies, endless grasslands, herds of wild beasts roaming freely¡ªthis was the world he had been raised for, where each breath tasted like freedom.


    He let out a whooping laugh, startling Sabel, who gave a surprised mew from his shoulder. He hadn¡¯t had room to run in weeks, and he¡¯d forgotten the sheer pleasure of unbridled speed. When his breath finally came in short gasps, he slowed, then stopped, lifting his arms to the sky with a triumphant roar. A flock of birds scattered from the grass, their wings flashing against the clear blue, rising high above him in a spiral of freedom.


    He turned, squinting into the distance to find his companions¡¯ forms, small dots on the horizon. Only now did he realize just how far ahead he¡¯d gone. A flush rose to his cheeks, knowing they could still hear him despite the distance, though, in this moment, he was beyond caring. For once, the distance felt liberating¡ªa gap that let him hold on to his own joy, untouched by the shadows of the trials they¡¯d endured.


    When they¡¯d first arrived in Aslavain, Lotem had worried he wouldn¡¯t measure up to Hadrian or Sylva. Now, he was sure of it. How could he compare to Hadrian, a man who wore robes worth more than Lotem¡¯s entire clan¡¯s livestock, fighting with the skill of someone twice his age? And Sylva? The Silkborn woman¡¯s brilliance was unmistakable, her magic something he felt, even without any training of his own. They were stronger than he was¡ªit was simply a fact.


    And yet? Lotem found he no longer cared. They had survived the trial together, and his own skills had been just as essential for their victory. He had been needed. The others¡¯ strengths didn¡¯t overshadow his own¡ªthey had stood together, each crucial to the whole. The realization settled warmly within him, an ember that dulled his lingering doubts and sparked something close to pride.


    Most of all, he had shared his purpose with them, his need for revenge against the Tul. They had listened, their eyes meeting his as he spoke, and in that moment, he had felt understood. They had promised his cause was their own, and it was more than he¡¯d ever dared hope for. That, he realized, was enough.


    Lotem resolved to prove himself worthy of their trust, of their respect. And once they defeated the Tul, he would return to Cutra with Hadrian at his side, and they would form the shrine¡ªwhatever it took. That was what friends did for one another. The resolve settled within him like a steady weight, grounding him with a purpose clearer than any he¡¯d felt before.


    He began making his way back to the group, his feet brushing through the soft grasses. Ten strides from the group, Sabel hissed, their bond flaring with sudden fear. Lotem¡¯s gaze snapped forward just as Alsarana rose from the tall grass, silent and sinuous, like a serpent ready to strike. Lotem¡¯s own growl rose in response, a reflexive reaction as his muscles tensed.


    ¡°Whoa, there, big guy¡ªno need to take my head off. I¡¯m just slitherin¡¯ through these grasses, same as you,¡± Alsarana said, a glint of amusement sparking in his gaze.


    ¡°Als,¡± Casselia called, her tone laced with fond exasperation. ¡°No scaring the candidates as they celebrate escaping Tir Na Nog.¡±


    ¡°But Cass,¡± Alsarana whined, his coils shifting smoothly through the grass as he turned to face her. ¡°It¡¯s not my fault they find snakes scary; I just look like this.¡±


    ¡°Snakes are actually an instinctive fear for humans,¡± Krinka said as he approached, panting between words. Lotem still marveled at how this breathless scholar had become a hero of the empire. Even Sylva moved with an effortless stride, seemingly indifferent to the demands of the journey¡ªthough Lotem supposed that might just be a Silkborn trait. ¡°Now, I¡¯m not saying you¡¯re a snake, Als¡ªthat would be speciesist. Or that instinctive fear excuses rudeness in a civilized empire. But, for what it¡¯s worth, it is worth noting that¡ª¡±


    ¡°I think they understand, Krinka,¡± Casselia said, rolling her eyes. Lotem smiled, feeling the tension in his muscles ease as her voice carried over the grasses. Once he understood that Alsarana¡¯s antics were harmless, the naga became almost endearing. Casselia and Krinka seemed to know just how to defuse any tension Alsarana stirred up, an effortless balance that made Lotem grateful to be part of their group.


    ¡°No,¡± Lotem said, inclining his head to the naga. ¡°Sabel here was startled, and her fear turned quickly to anger, pouring through our bond like a fire I didn¡¯t see coming.¡± He scratched the back of his head, a rueful smile on his lips. ¡°[Quick to Anger] is¡­ an adjustment for both of us. The emotion creeps up on me before I even realize it¡¯s there, like a spark I can¡¯t quite control.¡±


    ¡°Fog under the bridge, then,¡± Hadrian said cheerfully, his eyes widening as he scanned the vast, rolling grasslands. ¡°Did you see those birds earlier? I didn¡¯t realize they came this low to the ground.¡±


    ¡°They need to watch themselves,¡± Krinka muttered, hands on his hips as he bent over to catch his breath, wiping his brow with a weary hand. ¡°You three need to learn this now¡ªdon¡¯t trust anything avian. We call them fowl because that¡¯s what they are. Nasty little creatures.¡±


    Lotem honestly wasn¡¯t sure what to make of that. Birds could be assholes, sure, but so what? They tasted fine and hadn¡¯t caused him any trouble. Even the Axebeaks of the clans¡ªthe meanest birds around, as everyone knew¡ªwere still useful to the empire. He remembered seeing one tear into a snake as large as Alsarana once with ruthless efficiency. Birds had their purpose.


    A bow appeared in Hadrian¡¯s grip with a faint pop, drawing everyone¡¯s attention. ¡°So, should I shoot any birds I see, then?¡± He asked, half in earnest. ¡°I hadn¡¯t realized the danger we were in.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Krinka said without a moment¡¯s hesitation.


    ¡°No,¡± Casselia said firmly, casting a mock glare at the scholar before a small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.


    Hadrian glanced back and forth between them before looking to Lotem, as if he expected the Bal man to have a well-formed opinion on birds. Lotem supposed he did¡ªthough that felt like stereotyping. Is this how Alsarana felt?


    ¡°No¡­¡± Lotem said at last, an amused sigh escaping him as he realized Hadrian was waiting for his answer.


    ¡°Sorry, Krinka,¡± Hadrian said, his tone serious as he turned to the man. ¡°Democracy says I don¡¯t shoot the birds.¡±


    ¡°Why does it always come back to voting with you?¡± Sylva asked with a good-natured sigh, a hint of fondness in her tone. ¡°Casselia, how much farther to Dornogor now that we¡¯ve reached its demesne?¡±


    ¡°Roughly twenty miles,¡± Casselia replied, casting her gaze over the gentle slopes of grassland stretching into the hazy distance. ¡°We could reach it by dark if we really pushed ourselves, but¡­¡± She looked to Krinka and shook her head. ¡°We¡¯ll camp tonight and celebrate your victory. We haven¡¯t truly had a chance to celebrate escaping the trial, not while we were still in Tir Na Nog¡¯s demesne. If we rest tonight, we should reach the city¡¯s shrine by tomorrow afternoon.¡±


    Lotem felt a thrill race through him at Casselia¡¯s words, his heart quickening. After three weeks of constant danger and exhaustion, they were close¡ªfinally close¡ªto what he had envisioned his time in Aslavain would be. He could almost feel the warmth of celebration waiting ahead, like the glow of a distant fire.


    ¡°Maybe you should kill a bird or two,¡± Lotem said, casting Krinka a wide grin. ¡°We can¡¯t really celebrate without a proper meal, and the Balar knows we¡¯ve been missing that long enough. No offense to the trail rations, Casselia, but we can do better.¡± He thought of his mother¡¯s wildfowl stew, thick and rich, and felt his stomach rumble.


    ¡°I thought the energy bars were great!¡± Hadrian said, with a genuine smile. ¡°I¡¯ve never had anything like them before.¡±


    Lotem was beginning to see just how much Hadrian had yet to experience. Pemmican¡ªdried meat and berries, dense and salty¡ªwas hardly a real meal. If Hadrian thought that was exciting, Lotem couldn¡¯t wait to cook him something proper, maybe a thick, savory stew over the fire or roasted game seasoned with wild herbs.


    ¡°Dried meat and berries are far from the best these plains have to offer, Hadrian. If you can get me a few birds or a rabbit or two before we set up camp, I¡¯ll show you the true hospitality of the Zherenkhan.¡± A slow smile spread across his face, the thought of sharing his clan¡¯s food warming him.


    Sabel mewed approvingly from his shoulder, the soft sound vibrating against his collarbone. Lotem wasn¡¯t sure if she sensed his focus on food through their bond or simply wanted him to know she was there, sharing in the moment. He gave her a quick, grateful scratch, her warmth grounding him.


    <hr>


    As Sylva walked across the open plains of Dornogor¡¯s demesne, stretching endlessly before her, she wondered if she felt even more out of her depth than Hadrian. The Kiel man moved through the grassland with an unguarded sense of wonder, pausing every few minutes to marvel at something new¡ªa patch of wildflowers, an ancient fern, the distant watering hole where a herd of antelopes grazed. Each sight, scent, and sound seemed to fill him with joy, and Sylva, watching him, felt her own uncertainty sharpen in contrast.


    Sylva had, of course, read about antelopes, flowers, and ferns in meticulous detail; the Sect would expect no less from one of their best. Yet reading was a far cry from the real thing¡ªthe smell of sun-warmed grasses and the vivid colors that shifted with each step. Resolving to stay close to Hadrian, she listened as Lotem and the mentors answered his endless questions, filing each new fact away in her mind as if it might anchor her in this strange, wild place.


    Missing potentially relevant information would be unthinkable, of course. But Sylva couldn¡¯t deny, even to herself, that the grassland held a beauty and vitality her elders had never described. Elder Valinsa had dismissed the empire¡¯s plains with a sneer, preparing her for a bland, uninspiring expanse. But the land sprawled out before her in vibrant detail: a cloudless blue sky, rolling grasses spattered with wildflowers, and distant herds moving like shadows against the horizon.


    ¡°Do you see that flower?¡± Hadrian asked, rushing forward to point out a pure white blossom flecked with a deep purple so vibrant it made Sylva blink. She studied it carefully, noting its unfamiliar shape and hue, yet unable to dismiss its quiet beauty.


    ¡°A good eye,¡± Lotem said, stepping closer to the flower, with Sylva following. ¡°We call this flower the Tears of Bashur. I heard from one of the [Druids] that it¡¯s named after an ancient [Paragon].¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve always wanted to ask,¡± Hadrian said, his gaze lingering on the flower¡¯s delicate, drooping petals as though they held a secret truth. ¡°Did the Bal truly invade the empire because they were jealous of our flowers?¡±


    ¡°Not¡­ exactly,¡± Lotem replied, scratching the back of his head, a hesitant glance flicking between Hadrian and the others.


    ¡°Not at all,¡± Sylva interjected, correcting Lotem with a touch of impatience. She wasn¡¯t about to let Hadrian wander around in ignorance; it wouldn¡¯t be proper for one of her teammates to lack a basic understanding of history. If he made comments like that in public, it could reflect poorly on all of them¡ªand Sylva couldn¡¯t have that.


    ¡°So they didn¡¯t invade over flowers?¡± Hadrian asked, his brows knitting together as he tried to piece it together, his gaze flitting between Sylva and Lotem in genuine confusion.


    ¡°No, Hadrian, they didn¡¯t go to war for flowers,¡± Sylva said with a patient sigh. ¡°The Bal couldn¡¯t justify the losses and sacrifices of the Flower Wars over flowers alone, no matter their rarity or mystical qualities. They invaded for the wide, open pastures and the untamed fields stretching between the Fologian Forest to the west and the Valourwash River to the east¡ªthousands of leagues the empire had left wild and empty of civilized life.¡±


    ¡°A reasonable answer,¡± Krinka said, approaching from behind, his breath heavy and face flushed. ¡°Though the causes of the Flower Wars were far more complex than a mere land dispute.¡± He paused, hands braced on his knees as he caught his breath. ¡°The Maw of Vorithan was more active in those days, and its influence caused ripples of unease as far south as Lumora, provoking draconian policies from the Scaled Dominion. There¡¯s a strong case that southern pressures forced the nomads northward¡ªright into the empire¡¯s borders, even if previously unoccupied.¡±


    ¡°So where do flowers come into it?¡± Hadrian asked, his head tilting slightly as he glanced between the group and the pale blossom.


    Krinka shrugged, his tone light and unconcerned. ¡°It¡¯s not like we called them the Flower Wars when they were happening. The War of the Savages made the rounds in newspapers, but the elites preferred the term ¡®Eldaran Wars.¡¯ It wasn¡¯t until the Treaty of Swallow¡¯s Grace that the term ¡®Flower Wars¡¯ became official.¡±


    Hadrian¡¯s confusion didn¡¯t fade at Krinka¡¯s words; if anything, it deepened, his forehead creasing with puzzlement. Sylva sympathized; she remembered her own bewilderment when first learning of the Flower Wars nearly twenty years ago, her mind scrambling to connect the fragments of myth and history.


    ¡°They called them the Flower Wars, Hadrian, because the name feels more pleasant,¡± Krinka continued, a hint of cynicism edging his tone. ¡°The empire wanted to heal the wounds of war, and naming it something as harmless as ¡®flower¡¯ made those wounds easier to forget.¡±


    ¡°So the wars weren¡¯t about flowers at all?¡± Hadrian asked, his brow furrowing as he looked at her, still trying to make sense of it all.


    ¡°My people,¡± Lotem began softly, his voice filling the silence with a low, steady intensity. ¡°We called it the Paradise Wars¡ªbefore the treaty, at least. The [Shamans] tell of the southern lands in the centuries after the Beast Wars. They speak of starvation in harsh winters that blanketed the land in frost, with beasts hunting the tribes. They speak of the Vorith¡ªthe tribes who made the Maw of Vorithan their home and allied with the vulpine children of Vorithan. Fucking foxes.¡± He spat the curse with a venom Hadrian had seldom seen from him.


    ¡°No, Hadrian,¡± Lotem continued, his gaze fixed firmly on the blossom before them. ¡°My people didn¡¯t invade the empire and wage a decades-long war just to gain access to flowers, no matter how beautiful they may be.¡± His jaw clenched, and a quiet resolve filled his words, thick with a pride untouched by time.


    That is not how the elders described the Flower Wars, Sylva thought with a slight frown. The elders had always presented the Bal as greedy, omitting any mention of the pressures that had driven them north. She could almost hear their voices now, each dismissive tone seared into her memory. She wondered how much of each version was true, certain that both held strands of truth within the tangled web of history.Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    Sylva didn¡¯t know what the truth of the story was and wasn¡¯t even sure there was a single truth. History, she had found, didn¡¯t have singular causes for events, no matter how much the uneducated masses craved simplicity. The elders had always framed history as a grand fight between good and evil, though Sylva often found that ¡°good¡± simply meant ¡°Malan¡± and ¡°evil¡± was whatever happened to be on the other side.


    ¡°The Tears of Bashur may just be worth invading over,¡± Casselia said with a wry smile, breaking off her side conversation with Alsarana as she joined them. ¡°Krinka, you met Bashur before his death, didn¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°I did,¡± Krinka said, his breathing settling into a more normal rhythm as they gathered around the flower. ¡°The skills he bequeathed to the empire were truly remarkable. He had a potent affinity for grief. I¡¯m not surprised to see one of his flowers here; we¡¯re only a few weeks¡¯ journey from the village of Bashurat, where his monument stands.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll have to tell the group about his exploits as we travel,¡± Casselia said, meeting Hadrian¡¯s gaze with a slight smile. ¡°Feel free to pluck the flower if you¡¯d like. I¡¯ve heard putting it behind your ear brings good luck.¡± Her tone held a playful note.


    ¡°Really?¡± Hadrian¡¯s face lit up, excitement flashing in his eyes. He summoned a knife and, with Lotem¡¯s guidance, carefully cut the flower a finger¡¯s length down the stem. Tucking it behind his ear with a grin, he strode forward beside Lotem, chatting animatedly as he kept his bow summoned and nocked in case a bird dared to rise from the grasses. Once they had walked far enough ahead, Sylva turned to Casselia.


    ¡°The Tears of Bashur don¡¯t actually bring good luck, do they?¡± Sylva asked, her tone edged with a hint of suspicion as she glanced at Casselia.


    Casselia¡¯s eyes narrowed slightly, giving Sylva an appraising look. ¡°They don¡¯t,¡± she replied, a spark of curiosity in her gaze. ¡°Though I am curious how you know the symbolic meaning of a rare flower you¡¯ve never seen.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure I even knew¡ªnot really,¡± Sylva said, frowning slightly. ¡°When you said it was good luck, it just felt¡­ wrong.¡±


    Casselia frowned, her gaze intent as though trying to unravel a secret hidden within Sylva. ¡°Your instincts warned you of the inconsistency?¡± she murmured thoughtfully.


    ¡°I¡­ guess so?¡± Sylva replied, her hesitation clear. She disliked the idea of not understanding where her own knowledge came from.


    Casselia¡¯s frown deepened, and she glanced back at Sylva briefly before turning to Krinka. ¡°Could that be a result of [Sympathetic Intuition]?¡±


    ¡°It could be,¡± Krinka said, his breath already coming in heaving gasps, a sound she¡¯d grown used to while traveling with him. ¡°Powerful intuition skills can alert users to falsehoods, and your skill¡¯s focus on sympathetic magic makes you more sensitive to symbolic meanings than most. Though, if that¡¯s the case, your skill is far stronger than we expected, Sylva.¡±


    ¡°Aren¡¯t skills just great,¡± Alsarana¡¯s voice hissed out of nowhere, startling Sylva. She still couldn¡¯t understand how the naga navigated the tall grasses so silently, his bulk blending seamlessly into the landscape. ¡°You could spend decades studying the omens and symbols of random plants, like Krinka here,¡± he continued, a sly edge in his voice, ¡°or you could just have the Sulphen whisper sweet nothings in your ear. Why learn anything when your intuition¡¯s as sharp as a cleaver¡¯s blade?¡±


    ¡°So why lie to Hadrian?¡± Sylva asked, her voice quiet, a slight edge sharpening her tone as she tilted her head toward Casselia.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think of it as lying,¡± Casselia replied with a casual shrug. ¡°I¡¯ve heard it said that a flower behind one¡¯s ear can bring good luck, and¡±¡ªshe gave a slight, dismissive smile¡ª¡°all symbolism is made up, anyway. Until the Sulphen gets involved, it¡¯s just superstition. If Hadrian believes he¡¯ll have good luck, well, maybe he¡¯ll manifest it and prove the prediction true. If not? Learning not to rely on symbolism is a lesson in itself.¡±


    Has she already lied to me? Sylva couldn¡¯t help but wonder, feeling a shiver run through her.


    <hr>


    Hadrian sat cross-legged on a broad stone jutting from the hilltop, as though the hill had long ago shaped this seat just for him. He watched the fire¡¯s dancing flames, the embers glowing white-hot as Lotem placed a metal pot over them. Inside, water bubbled around the three birds Hadrian had brought down along the way, each carefully prepared and surrounded by leaves, roots, and herbs that Lotem assured him would make for the best soup he¡¯d ever tasted.


    Hadrian was genuinely eager to try Lotem¡¯s cooking. All afternoon, the Bal man had spoken passionately about his favorite recipes and ingredients, displaying a love for food Hadrian had never encountered before. To him, cooking was a mundane necessity, something everyone did to survive but few enjoyed. He doubted anyone back in Cutra shared Lotem¡¯s zeal¡ªthough, with the limited options in the Foglands, it was no surprise.


    Hadrian marveled at the ease with which they retrieved the birds he¡¯d shot. In Cutra, any bird that fell too far vanished into the fog, impossible to recover without risking life and limb. This freedom to hunt and retrieve game felt like a luxury.


    Nearby, Krinka and Alsarana debated something about swallows and sparrows¡ªa topic Hadrian found hard to care about¡ªwhile Sylva and Casselia spoke quietly some distance away, Sylva having asked for a private word. The Silkborn had sparked the fire with a whispered incantation, then quickly retreated as the flames took hold, devouring the logs and sticks Alsarana pulled from a bag that seemed endlessly deep.


    At last, Lotem declared the soup ready, his eyes bright with satisfaction as he ladled steaming broth into bowls Alsarana retrieved from his bottomless bag. Hadrian took his bowl eagerly, watching steam rise from the golden-brown liquid. The rich aroma of roasted herbs and tender meat filled his senses, more vibrant than any meal he¡¯d known back in Cutra.


    He took a deep, satisfying slurp, and as warmth filled him, he tasted a delicate blend of flavors: a savory sweetness from the roots Lotem had added, hints of woodsy herbs, and a pleasant earthiness that lingered on his tongue. Compared to the bland grubs and foraged fruit he was used to, this soup felt like a revelation. He slurped louder than intended, glancing at Lotem to show his appreciation.


    Lotem¡¯s approving nod and quick grin reassured him, and Hadrian took another eager sip, savoring the rich layers of Lotem¡¯s skillful handiwork.


    ¡°Thank you, Lotem. Now that we have proper food, we can begin with the night¡¯s true purpose,¡± Casselia began, taking a dainty sip that brought a small smile. ¡°We need to talk about what you can expect in Dornogor.¡±


    ¡°The City of Beasts is not normally my top choice for new candidates,¡± Casselia continued. ¡°Not only is Tir Na Nog usually a risky venture for reasons I don¡¯t need to explain to this group, but Dornogor rarely hosts contests with prizes that appeal to anyone beyond beast specialists. They often have a few magical beasts worth bonding, and no true shrine of the empire lacks fair rewards in an Aslavain contest, but the rewards rarely justify the risk. This year is different.¡±


    ¡°How?¡± Sylva asked, her soup forgotten in front of her.


    Casselia glanced at Krinka and Alsarana before sighing. ¡°The reward for the contest in Dornogor during the first convergence of the full moons is extraordinarily rare. In roughly four weeks, the Shrine will accept triumvirates to compete for one of three Wyvern eggs.¡±


    Casselia said the word ¡°Wyvern¡± with a hesitance that told Hadrian it was significant. Was it some sort of bird? He glanced nervously at Krinka, who made his dislike of such creatures abundantly clear during their journey. Why would we want a bird?


    ¡°But, the empire doesn¡¯t have any Wyvern breeding stock. I¡¯m certain of that,¡± Sylva said, casting a suspicious look between Krinka and Casselia. ¡°I¡¯ve read multiple treatises on the strategic importance of Wyvern stock to the Scaled Dominion and how jealously they guard the beasts. Didn¡¯t the Dominion go to war against the Falgore City State three centuries back over stolen eggs?¡±


    ¡°Yes, that¡¯s certainly true,¡± Krinka said, delighted by Sylva¡¯s knowledge. Casselia looked uncomfortable at his admission, though Hadrian couldn¡¯t guess why.


    ¡°It¡¯s true the Scaled Dominion holds a monopoly on the beasts,¡± Casselia said, ¡°but the empire recently acquired a small stock under¡­ fortuitous circumstances.¡±


    ¡°And you want us, presumably me, to bond with the creature?¡± Lotem asked, frowning thoughtfully.


    ¡°I¡ªwe, I should say¡ªthink that a Wyvern with access to your skills would be an asset the empire sees only once a generation.¡±


    ¡°Would bonding with this Wyvern give us a chance against the Tul? At least a better one?¡±


    ¡°Without question,¡± Casselia said. ¡°These are genuine Wyverns bred by the Scaled Dominion for war. Few things would offer the same advantages.¡±


    ¡°What contest do we need to win in Dornogor?¡± Sylva asked.


    ¡°You¡¯ll enter Dornogor¡¯s shrine, a vast region filled with dangerous beasts,¡± Casselia said. ¡°Inside, you¡¯ll compete against other candidates to capture the best specimen of a specific species. Some years it¡¯s a dangerous predator, other years, something stealthy and elusive. Dornogor¡¯s contest is designed to test your tracking and survival skills.¡± She glanced at Hadrian. ¡°It also puts you in direct conflict with other candidates, so your fighting skills will matter.¡±


    ¡°In Dornogor,¡± Krinka interjected, ¡°we¡¯ll focus on honing the relevant skills. We only have a few weeks, but I am confident you all have what it takes to succeed.¡±


    ¡°Which,¡± Casselia said, interjecting smoothly, ¡°brings us to the rules for our time in Dornogor.¡±


    ¡°Rules?¡± Sylva asked, her uncertainty clear. Hadrian didn¡¯t understand why; he was used to rules, having grown up surrounded by them. His parents had always said that rules were the guidelines one followed to keep themselves and others safe.


    ¡°First,¡± Casselia continued, brushing past Sylva¡¯s interruption. ¡°Hadrian¡¯s class or his ties to Rovan Khal must not be known outside this group. No one in Dornogor should be able to tell what skills or classes you have.¡±


    ¡°Not unless one of the Blind is present, at least,¡± Alsarana said with clear excitement. Casselia glared at the naga but sighed.


    ¡°Unless one of the Blind is present,¡± she admitted.


    ¡°The Blind?¡± Hadrian asked, curious.


    ¡°The Blind are a native humanoid species,¡± Krinka said with an eager expression, as though he¡¯d been waiting for the question. ¡°They are by far the rarest, averaging only a few feet in height, with no eyes or organs for sight. Instead, they ¡®see¡¯ the Sulphen and souls directly.


    ¡°If the Numen are humanity perfected, the Blind are humanity warped by the underground caverns they call home,¡± Alsarana said in a tone that suggested he was quoting something significant.


    ¡°So we shouldn¡¯t reveal that Hadrian is the [Squire of Carven Bone]?¡± Sylva asked.


    ¡°Exactly,¡± Casselia said, sipping her soup before continuing. ¡°The second rule is to avoid actions that could prompt a duel challenge from another candidate. We are short on time as it is, and a duel is a distraction we can hardly afford.¡±


    ¡°How would we prompt a duel challenge?¡± Hadrian asked. He¡¯d never been challenged to a duel before, so he felt fairly confident it wouldn¡¯t be a problem. It wasn¡¯t as though he went around trying to fight strangers.


    ¡°Als?¡± Casselia said, turning to the naga, who used the tip of his tail to delicately lift a spoonful of soup to his mouth. He slurped loudly, gave Lotem an appreciative glance, and then rose to his full height.


    ¡°As an expert in both issuing and receiving duel challenges, I have excellent advice on this matter,¡± Alsarana said proudly. Hadrian wasn¡¯t surprised to hear that Alsarana was the most likely of the three mentors to get challenged. It certainly wasn¡¯t Krinka.


    ¡°The best way to avoid duels is to avoid offending powerful people.¡±


    ¡°Simple enough,¡± Lotem said.


    ¡°One would think so, wouldn¡¯t they,¡± Alsarana hissed with obvious excitement. ¡°But no, no, no, that is not at all my experience.¡± Alsarana turned and gave Hadrian an appraising look. ¡°That robe is going to create jealousy and envy in most candidates who see it, and,¡± he shot a knowing look at Sylva, ¡°it will drive any Silkborn candidates to¡­ improper action.¡± Sylva seemed suddenly very interested in the fire, though she kept her distance from it.


    ¡°And if someone does challenge us over the robe, can we just decline?¡± Hadrian asked.


    ¡°Yes. You can always decline a challenge, as long as you didn¡¯t offend the challenger,¡± Alsarana said. ¡°But declining too many challenges may be seen as offensive.¡±


    ¡°Who determines that?¡± Sylva asked.


    ¡°The crowd, of course,¡± Alsarana smiled, his exposed fangs gleaming in the firelight. ¡°What would be the point of challenging someone privately? Public pressure is often half the reason anyone agrees to a duel.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s actually one of the more controversial aspects of the Sulphen,¡± Krinka interjected. ¡°The Sulphen is always watching through the eyes and thoughts of others. Declining too many challenges will cause the Sulphen to slow or halt your progress. The Sulphen wants your power to grow. If you deny enough opportunities to prove it, its dissatisfaction will be made clear¡ªthough even that is disputed.¡±


    ¡°Wait,¡± Sylva said, ¡°if declining duels slows our progress, why not just accept them? Hadrian could beat anyone our age, couldn¡¯t he?¡±


    Hadrian blushed and fidgeted, his focus suddenly on his nearly empty bowl. He wasn¡¯t that much better than most candidates their age, was he? His parents had always reminded him that, no matter how strong he was, there was always someone stronger.


    ¡°The negative effects are more chronic than immediate,¡± Krinka said, shaking his head. ¡°You¡¯ll face plenty of challenges; the City of Justice loves duels. The Sulphen won¡¯t begrudge your preparations for the Dornogor contest, as long as you accept challenges eventually.¡±


    ¡°For now,¡± Casselia said, ¡°think of it as a temporary restriction until you win the Wyvern and we depart for Ylfenhold.¡±


    Hadrian nodded, noting that Sylva and Lotem nodded too. He didn¡¯t feel any need to pick fights with other candidates¡ªnot without good reason. Casselia¡¯s rules seemed fair enough to him so far.


    ¡°Third,¡± Casselia continued, ¡°before agreeing to any formal alliances or agreements with another Triumvirate, you need to get my approval.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡± Sylva asked suspiciously.


    ¡°Respectfully,¡± Casselia¡¯s gaze drifted to Sylva, then Hadrian, then Lotem in turn. ¡°You are far too naive to make the kind of political judgments that others may force onto you.¡±


    ¡°But¡ª¡± Sylva began.


    ¡°Sylva, you are brilliant,¡± Casselia said firmly. ¡°But you were raised in a sect and lack practical experience with other cultures or individuals. There will be scions of Dion¡¯s ancient blood, tutored in politics since childhood. With a Wyvern on the line, the only group you can trust is this one.¡±


    Sylva looked frustrated. Hadrian was surprised she didn¡¯t protest further; she accepted Casselia¡¯s statement reluctantly, as though the notion of being unqualified was a personal affront.


    ¡°Surely that¡¯s not true of me?¡± Lotem asked, a heavy crease splitting his brow. ¡°The Zherenkhan trade and interact with travelers from across the empire. I wasn¡¯t as sheltered as Sylva or Hadrian.¡±


    ¡°The Zherenkhan taught you the intricacies of imperial politics and diplomacy, did they? Didn¡¯t realize the herders had broadened their perspective. Very forward-thinking of them.¡± Alsarana chuckled.


    ¡°If you¡¯re skilled enough to negotiate alliances with other Triumvirates, Lotem, we¡¯ll recognize that soon enough and can lift the restriction.¡± Casselia¡¯s gaze was firm as she looked across the campfire at Lotem. ¡°But for now, trust me on this. You don¡¯t want to end up in a situation where betrayal or deception could threaten your victory. Fair?¡±


    She waited for their grumbled agreement before nodding and continuing with her list of rules. Most of the remaining rules seemed fair enough to Hadrian: ¡°Don¡¯t insult any beasts in Dornogor,¡± ¡°no theft, murder, or unprovoked assault,¡± and ¡°don¡¯t bond with any birds.¡±


    Casselia added the last rule with a glance at Krinka, who nodded enthusiastically, as though such a bond had been an imminent threat. Hadrian wondered about that. What had led to Krinka¡¯s grudge against birds? Was a Wyvern not a bird then?


    After hours discussing what to expect in Dornogor, Alsarana withdrew the camping equipment from his bag, and they set up camp around the fire. Hadrian wriggled into his sleeping sack, unable to suppress a smile.


    <hr>


    Lotem marveled as the landscape shifted, bringing the City of Beasts into view. Long before the city appeared, a massive tree broke the horizon, its trunk reaching skyward, piercing the clouds. Sunlight glinted off its branches, thick with emerald leaves that glowed in the morning light. As they drew closer, a swirling mass of birds filled the branches, their relentless caws echoing over the distance. Krinka grumbled at the noise, but to Lotem, there was beauty in the chaos.


    The city came into view, built tightly around the colossal tree, with houses rising beneath the vast canopy¡¯s shadow. Thick branches twisted and sprawled, some dipping low to brush against rooftops, their patterns resembling ancient runes. High above, blood-red flowers bloomed, their polished stone-like petals vivid against the green.


    Surrounding the city, vast grasslands stretched in every direction, alive with movement. Herds of bison, deer, wild horses, and elephants roamed the plains, each animal larger than any Lotem had seen in Creation. A smile tugged at his lips as he watched the bison graze, flanked by the great ground sloths that lumbered beside them as silent sentinels. The animals reminded him of home. He missed Warma and Wilson already.


    Smoke curled from huts and structures, and as they approached, Lotem took in the diversity of the architecture. He noticed hide tents and Bal-style yurts, their hides stretched taut against wooden frames. Beyond them, he saw buildings of clay, stone, and wood, some covered with an ivory overlay that seemed almost like bone¡ªa material he still puzzled over as an architectural choice.


    ¡°You have to teach me about¡ªwell¡ªeverything!¡± Hadrian called from behind, jolting Lotem from his thoughts. Lotem turned, meeting Hadrian¡¯s fierce, unguarded smile. Despite the strangeness of this place, the awe in Hadrian¡¯s face lightened Lotem¡¯s mood, turning the unfamiliar into something exhilarating. He found himself smiling back, surprised by how good it felt. Hadrian¡¯s wonder over what was so ordinary to him stirred a warmth he couldn¡¯t quite explain. For a brief moment, Lotem felt lighter, realizing just how much he valued this strange, unexpected friendship.


    As they neared the city, the pungent stench of manure faded, replaced by the sweet, heady fragrance of the red flowers. The acrid bite of ammonia and decay gave way to a more pleasant breeze. Lotem almost missed the earthy scent¡ªit reminded him of the great clan gatherings, his favorite part of each year until his brother¡¯s death. Now, he was grateful for the flowers¡¯ scent; it didn¡¯t stir his anger.


    Lotem started as he noticed three figures approaching the city from the north. It wasn¡¯t their presence that caught his attention; he had seen dozens of others among the herds or around the village and even spotted a trio climbing the great tree. No, what set this group apart was that they were riding Axe-beaks.


    ¡°Well, look at that, Cass. Shansha has picked up another stray,¡± Alsarana said. Shansha? Shansha Six-Step? Lotem wondered if she had a pair of Bal candidates in training. He hoped so¡ªthe Bal wouldn¡¯t falter in the fight against Tul. ¡°Think our trio could take on her team, even if they are riding those birds?¡±


    ¡°I have the utmost confidence in Hadrian, Sylva, and Lotem,¡± Casselia said loudly, making sure they all heard. ¡°After the hard work they put into escaping the trial, I know they¡¯ll rise to any challenge.¡±


    ¡°Are they approaching¡­ us?¡± Sylva asked quickly, though they were still no where close enough to justify the rush.


    ¡°Another delivery for you, Cass?¡± Krinka asked between heavy breaths.


    Another? They had a delivery in Aslavain already? When¡ªbefore the trial?


    ¡°It could be. We did leave Dornogor in a hurry, Krinka.¡±


    ¡°I miss having those bones,¡± Alsarana said wistfully. ¡°Cass, do we have the money for me to get new ones?¡±


    Casselia turned to Lotem, ignoring the naga. ¡°That reminds me¡ªyou¡¯re in charge of the party¡¯s purse.¡± She tossed him a plain leather coin pouch, and he caught it, surprised by its lack of weight.


    ¡°It¡¯s dimensional¡ªit holds far more than it seems. Just think of the denomination you need as you reach in; you¡¯ll get a sense of what¡¯s inside.¡±


    ¡°And it¡¯s all ours?¡± he asked, suspicious. In Lotem¡¯s experience, magical bags of money were rarely free.


    ¡°Well, don¡¯t go too crazy,¡± Casselia said, rolling her eyes. ¡°But no pupils of ours will go without proper equipment¡ªand you¡¯re short on gear.¡±


    ¡°But¡ª¡± he started, glancing at Alsarana.


    ¡°Ignore the naga. He has his own money¡ªhe just likes to complain.¡±


    ¡°Seconded,¡± Krinka said.


    ¡°Why is he in charge of the purse?¡± Sylva asked, more confused than upset.


    ¡°Sylva,¡± Casselia said, ¡°have you ever bought something with real coins before?¡±


    ¡°Well¡ªI¡¯ve trained in accounting for almost two decades. I¡¯m an expert in finance.¡±


    ¡°A no, then.¡± She turned to Hadrian. ¡°Have you?¡±


    ¡°I traded some carved wood pieces to traders once.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s why Lotem is in charge of the purse,¡± Casselia said, shaking her head. Lotem found that fair enough. He¡¯d never thought of shopping as a skill, but he liked being better at something than Hadrian and Sylva.


    Casselia¡¯s expression grew serious as she gestured toward Alsarana and Krinka. ¡°We¡¯re heading out to intercept that courier. You three go on ahead into the city. Find an inn and secure a stay through the first contest. Look for the Eidolon in charge; it¡¯ll save you any hassle. Beyond that, explore if you wish¡ªbut remember the rules from yesterday. Stay cautious, and you should be fine.¡±

 Chapter Nineteen: Noodles and String

    In the arena, victory belongs to those who master the game. In life, survival favors those who forsake its rules.


    ¨C Dion Proverb


    Aslavain: Twenty-Three Days After the Summer Solstice


    Sylva trailed Lotem and Hadrian as they approached Dornogor, noting the shift from uneven grassland to a cobbled road that led to the massive tree. She couldn¡¯t stop glancing up, captivated by the blood-red flowers and dark gray bark towering above. Apart from the web-covered trees surrounding Nyxol or the bone trees of Tir Na Nog, this was her first time seeing a real, living tree. She wondered if all trees were this large.


    Hadrian¡¯s voice brimmed with awe as he bombarded Lotem with questions about everything. He had looked ready to bolt to get a better look at the first herd of bison they passed, held back only by Lotem¡¯s steady grip and the watchful eyes of the nearby herders, which prevented any delay in their journey to the city.


    Sylva had decided that she didn¡¯t dislike animals¡ªshe had even come to enjoy watching Sabel play and accepted the kitten as part of their team. Rather, she was realizing she felt uneasy under the watchful eyes of the creatures as she walked through their grassland. She met the gaze of an elk observing their approach and shivered at the clever gleam in its eyes.


    Alsarana had claimed that [Beastmasters] could breed animals with intelligence and sentience akin to humans. If any place in the empire could achieve such a feat, it would be Dornogor. Sylva quickened her pace, making sure not to fall too far behind the lively conversation ahead.


    ¡°¡ªAnd you¡¯re sure the ground sloths are related to the same sloths we had in the canopies?¡± Hadrian asked, incredulous.


    ¡°As sure as I can be. Why would they call them sloths if they weren¡¯t related? You have tree sloths; we have ground sloths.¡±


    ¡°But they¡¯re so¡­ large,¡± Hadrian said, drawing Sylva¡¯s attention to the sloths scattered among the bison. Most of the bison stood at her height¡ªalready taller than she liked¡ªwhile the sloths were more than double that. One lumbering creature lifted a paw, and she couldn¡¯t tear her eyes from the three claws, each as long as a sword.


    ¡°They¡¯re just so much more¡­ well¡­ impressive than the tree variety. Those little ones can barely defend themselves. Without the toxic moss covering them, they wouldn¡¯t survive.¡± Hadrian pointed to the sloth Sylva had been watching. ¡°That one looks like a single blow could kill a full-grown Simian.¡±


    ¡°They are the defenders of the herds,¡± Lotem said with a shrug.


    ¡°Ho,¡± called a shirtless man walking beside the herd with the sloth Hadrian had pointed out. ¡°New to the City of Beasts, are we?¡±


    Sylva opened her mouth, ready to reply when Lotem¡¯s voice rang out across the grassland. She shut her mouth with a frown. It unsettled her to feel out of her depth as Lotem took the lead. While he had more experience with such social interactions, he didn¡¯t have her training and that worried her.


    ¡°Ho,¡± Lotem called back easily. ¡°We are indeed new. What gave us away?¡± he said with a grin.


    ¡°Aside from the bewildered looks? I haven¡¯t seen you around, and ole¡¯ Freshfeet never forgets a face.¡±


    Sylva cleared her throat, drawing the man¡¯s attention. ¡°Your name is Ole¡¯ Freshfeet?¡±


    ¡°What of it?¡± he said, the warmth in his voice fading as he studied her from a distance. His gaze narrowed, then widened in surprise. ¡°Bleeding moons, lass, you one of those Silkborn?¡±


    She nodded, glad the man had recognized that at least. ¡°From the Sect of Silken Grace.¡±


    His eyes widened further, and Sylva felt a thrill as he looked her over again. At least her Sect¡¯s reputation preceded her; the elders hadn¡¯t lied about that.


    ¡°You know, when the Claw Speaker said we Eidolons could expect the most competitive contest in decades when the twin moons ascend, I wasn¡¯t sure what to think. But another from the Sect? The prize must be even better than I imagined.¡±


    Another from the Sect? He must mean from one of the Sects; none of the Silken Grace candidates would stoop to entering Dornogor unless they had to.


    ¡°You don¡¯t know what the prize is?¡± Hadrian asked.


    The man scratched the back of his head, one corner of his lips curling slightly. ¡°The Claw Speaker usually announces it before the first candidates arrive. Moons above, we Eidolons rely on gossip like that to keep us going. But this year? The shrine¡¯s on lockdown, and only a few of us have been allowed inside during the preparations.¡±


    Lotem grabbed Hadrian¡¯s arm, cutting off the questions that seemed ready to spill from him. Sylva had worried for a moment that he might reveal the prize was a Wyvern. He wouldn¡¯t mean any harm, but she knew their chances would be better if they kept the secret.


    ¡°Any recommendations for lunch?¡± Lotem asked. Ole¡¯ Freshfeet brightened at the question and responded confidently.


    ¡°The Slothful Sip is run by Ole¡¯ Mossfoot, one of only three [Chefs] who became an Eidolon here. Mossfoot is sure as anything to treat you well.¡± The man hesitated. ¡°Though, the fare might suit someone like me better than you. Excuse me, young miss. The Gilded Fang is where you¡¯ll find more¡­ august fare.¡±


    Lotem gathered directions for both restaurants and bid the man farewell before they continued on. After they were out of earshot, Lotem slowed his pace and turned to Hadrian.


    ¡°Probably best if we don¡¯t mention the Wyvern for now. If even the Eidolons of the shrine don¡¯t know, it must be a bigger secret than we thought.¡±


    Hadrian gave Lotem a confused look. ¡°Casselia didn¡¯t mention it was a secret. I know not to mention my class, but are there other things I should keep quiet about?¡±


    ¡°The strength of a secret lies not in the weave but in the vigilance of the weaver,¡± Sylva said, quoting the elders. ¡°The less information you share, Hadrian, the less likely we are to run into trouble.¡±


    ¡°I concur,¡± Lotem added. ¡°Ole¡¯ Freshfeet seemed decent enough, but we know the Eidolons don¡¯t always have our best interests at heart. When a secret breaks from the herd, it runs wild, and everyone who sees it will give chase. That¡¯s the last thing we need.¡±


    Hadrian agreed reluctantly as they neared the city, his curiosity momentarily dampened. Lotem began to eagerly point out different species, as excited to describe them as Hadrian had been earlier. By the time they reached the first huts and tents, Hadrian¡¯s curiosity had returned, albeit reluctantly. Sylva wondered if Lotem was truly enjoying the explanations or if they were wholly for Hadrian¡¯s benefit.


    Lotem pointed out the various stores and buildings. Most, Sylva ignored. The blacksmith reminded her why she never wanted to see fire or metal again. The forge¡¯s scent triggered a memory of Morvan¡¯s flesh burning within his armor, filling her with a surge of disgust. An apothecary caught her eye, but the Silkborn had no need for mundane medicines or potions.


    Lotem pointed out another two-story wooden building, and Sylva gasped when she saw the sign, strung with multicolored thread in scholar¡¯s script. Cloth of Claws, she read, growing excited.


    ¡°Here. We must stop here,¡± Sylva said firmly, causing Hadrian and Lotem to stop and turn toward her.


    ¡°Did you not want to get lunch?¡± Lotem asked, glancing between the storefront and her. ¡°We can do the fancy one if you want¡­¡±


    ¡°Unless Hadrian, dear, would part with some of his fog silk¡ª¡± She paused, looking at Hadrian, who fidgeted uncomfortably under her gaze. ¡°Then yes. I need magical thread for my eyes if I¡¯m to gain the sight to see the Sulphen.¡±


    ¡°I¡ª¡± Hadrian began.


    ¡°Stop,¡± she cut him off firmly. ¡°Hadrian, Krinka told me I¡¯d need magical thread back in Tir Na Nog, and I haven¡¯t asked you about it since. Not because I don¡¯t want the fog silk¡ªI do¡ªbut because I know how important the robe is to you.¡± And, she thought, I still haven¡¯t figured out how we could even get a piece of string from the fog. ¡°I still need the thread, and unless you want us to cut a piece from your robe, this seems like the best place to get it.¡±


    Hadrian looked relieved as she turned back to Cloth of Claws, as if he¡¯d expected her to make an unreasonable request. As if she would. What did he think she was, some common peasant who couldn¡¯t manage their greed? Sylva would get what she needed, but she wouldn¡¯t embarrass herself doing it. If he wouldn¡¯t share the silk anyway, why strain their relationship?


    Lotem followed reluctantly as she strode toward the shop and opened the door. As Sylva stepped into the Cloth of Claws, the rich aroma of wool and linen greeted her, mingled with a sharp, almost spicy hint of enchanted fibers. Sunlight filtered through small, dust-speckled windows, casting warm, golden patches of light across the store. Shelves stacked high with spools and bundles in every imaginable color lined the walls


    ¡°I want all of it.¡±


    ¡°That may be a bit much for the lovely lady,¡± a woman¡¯s voice said from behind a counter to Sylva¡¯s right. In her excitement, Sylva hadn¡¯t noticed the woman, and she turned, grateful for her composure¡ªshe was certain a human would have blushed.


    ¡°Oh, I didn¡¯t mean ¡®all¡¯ all of it,¡± Sylva said too quickly. I mean, she thought, I could take all of it. ¡°It¡¯s just surprising to find so much quality string in one place in this part of the empire.¡±


    The human woman wore a bright vest woven from strands of yellow, red, and green, with long brown hair tied neatly in a bun. She was far too old to be one of this year¡¯s candidates. An Eidolon, Sylva realized, she must be an expert. Sylva bowed deeply, hoping she hadn¡¯t accidentally caused offense.


    ¡°The last Silkborn to enter my shop said the same thing,¡± the woman said with a faint smile. ¡°The Kiel and sects don¡¯t have a monopoly on cloth. I like to think there¡¯s little that unites the empire¡¯s species more than the need for clothes.¡±


    Lotem cleared his throat behind Sylva. ¡°We actually came to see if you have any¡­ magical threads.¡±


    ¡°The girl can speak for herself, boy,¡± the woman said dismissively, gesturing for Sylva to follow. ¡°Come, come, the good threads are on the second floor.¡±


    Sylva followed the woman without hesitation. She was surprised when the woman stopped abruptly, turning to scowl at a point over Sylva¡¯s shoulder.


    ¡°Does looming over my threads look free? If you¡¯re not interested in my goods, then get out. The Silkborn at least have a proper appreciation for quality.¡±


    ¡°But¡ª¡± Lotem began.


    ¡°But what?¡± the woman interrupted fiercely. Lotem cast a desperate look at Sylva, unsure how to proceed.


    ¡°Do you work on credit?¡± Sylva asked the woman. ¡°He has the party¡¯s coin and is trying to be considerate so you don¡¯t have to wait for payment.¡± Sylva was certain he wasn¡¯t, but the women didn¡¯t have to know that.


    The woman raised an eyebrow in disbelief, glancing between them. ¡°Does the Bal not trust you?¡± She lowered her voice, though Sylva was sure Lotem and Hadrian could still hear her. ¡°Hon, you really don¡¯t need to be part of a group that doesn¡¯t respect you enough to let you make your own purchases.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s nothing like that,¡± Sylva said defensively, though it was exactly like that. ¡°They have other important shopping, and I want to make sure they have enough coin for their purchases. If you can work on credit, I¡¯m sure they¡¯d return in, say, an hour to pay you.¡±


    The woman huffed and whirled around, stomping up the staircase with a quick gesture for Sylva to follow. Sylva did, confident Lotem got the message. How much coin could she spend in an hour, anyway?


    <hr>


    ¡°Well, she was a bit of an ass,¡± Lotem said once they left the store, shaking his head. ¡°I knew most Eidolons wouldn¡¯t think highly of the Bal, but still.¡±


    ¡°You think she was rude because you¡¯re Bal?¡± Hadrian asked, a frown deepening the lines on his brow.


    ¡°Think it? I know it.¡± Lotem mimicked the shopkeeper¡¯s voice, repeating her words in a high, nasal tone. ¡°Does the Bal not trust you?¡± He glanced at Hadrian, fists clenched at his sides. ¡°They always think the worst of us.¡±


    ¡°Want to get some food?¡± Hadrian offered, hoping to ease the tension that had crept into Lotem¡¯s posture. When Lotem hesitated, Hadrian added, ¡°It¡¯s Sylva¡¯s loss; she gave us an hour. We might as well enjoy it.¡±


    ¡°Sure,¡± Lotem said, the tautness in his shoulders easing. He reached into his cloak and gently lifted a dozing Sabel from the pocket she¡¯d made her den. The kitten yawned, emitting a tiny squeak as she stretched.


    ¡°She¡¯s grown,¡± Hadrian said, watching as Lotem placed Sabel on his shoulder. Where she once fit snugly in Lotem¡¯s palm, she now perched confidently on his shoulder, beginning to fill the space. Sabel stood tall, eyes catching on the flock of birds above, and released a high-pitched chirp that drew smiles from both of them.


    ¡°A mighty warrior,¡± Lotem said with a grin, scratching Sabel¡¯s head. ¡°To the Slothful Sip?¡±


    ¡°Lead the way.¡±


    They made their way through the cobbled streets, weaving deeper into the city as Lotem traced Ole¡¯ Freshfeet¡¯s directions. The streets were lively, full of candidates moving in groups of two or three, their laughter and chatter filling the air. Hadrian marveled at the diversity. He noticed humans ranging in size from one less than half the height of Sylva, walking next to a woman wearing intricate robes decorated with carved bones, to a pair of men even taller than Lotem, though Hadrian suspected they could be Numen.


    Intellectually, Hadrian understood the Empire¡¯s vast inclusivity, but seeing it firsthand was different. His eyes flitted around, unwilling to miss any detail. Whenever he met another¡¯s gaze, he offered a small smile, wanting to seem friendly, not intimidating.


    At last, they reached a sprawling tent that took up an entire city block, its light-brown fabric crowned with a column of smoke rising through a central gap. The scent of spiced meat and simmering dishes wafted out, and Hadrian¡¯s mouth watered. He might not have known the Bal¡¯s full history or place in the Empire, but their cooking was proof enough of their worth.


    Lotem stepped inside, with Hadrian following close behind. The tent was laid out with richly woven rugs and scattered pillows. Groups of diners sat in animated discussion, cups and plates in hand. Hadrian followed Lotem¡¯s lead to a large wooden counter, where an orc with tusks curling from his mouth stood, appraising them as he set down two tankards.


    ¡°First time at the Slothful Sip?¡± the orc asked, sizing them up. ¡°Do you know what you want, or will you trust my recommendation?¡±


    ¡°Your choice,¡± Lotem said without hesitation, then looked to Hadrian.


    ¡°I¡¯ll take the same,¡± Hadrian replied, relieved the decision was out of his hands. The orc grunted approvingly, wiping his hands on his leather apron before turning toward the tent¡¯s center. Hadrian¡¯s eyes followed, landing on a half-dozen creatures resembling monkeys stationed around the fire. Simians? he thought, suddenly wary.


    The orc barked a series of sharp commands in a language Hadrian didn¡¯t recognize. The black-and-white creatures sprang into action. One grabbed a wire basket and dipped it into a steaming pot, pulling up glistening strands that were passed to another, who held two bowls. A third, hefting a ladle nearly its size, scooped a thick red sauce over the noodles.


    ¡°Don¡¯t mind the lemurs,¡± the orc said with a grin as he caught Hadrian¡¯s gaze. Lemurs? Hadrian wondered, unfamiliar with the term. ¡°Picked them up in my adventuring days. They¡¯re as much a part of this place as I am. Find a seat; your food will be out soon.¡±


    Lotem nodded in thanks, leading them to a rug in the back, woven from the pale yellow grasses of the plains. As they sat, Hadrian was surprised by how soft the woven grass felt beneath him. Lotem let out a long, heavy sigh, tension finally draining from his frame.


    ¡°It¡¯s hard to believe now, but five years ago, I wanted this more than anything.¡± He gestured at the tent with a wistful smile. ¡°I dreamed of being a chef, running my own tent as the tribe roamed. I wanted to see the whole Empire, not just the Zherenkhan herd lands. Everyone needs food, after all.¡±


    Hadrian nodded thoughtfully. ¡°I can see that. Your cooking¡¯s been great, at least from what I¡¯ve tasted.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve only seen the basics,¡± Lotem said, a playful gleam in his eye. ¡°The Eidolon,¡± he nodded toward the orc, ¡°is sure to have some tricks beyond managing lemurs. If you liked my simple fare¡­¡±


    Soon, a trio of the lemurs walked over, two carrying bowls filled with long strands covered in sauce and the last walking with two mugs filled with liquid that sloshed, constantly on the verge of spilling, though Hadrian had yet to see an actual drop leave the glass. A skill? He wondered. The lemurs set down the food on the rug in front of them, and Hadrian and Lotem took their glasses from the black-and-white-striped creature, who scampered away with an excited shriek that made Hadrian flinch.


    ¡°Pasta with red sauce. Ever had it?¡± Lotem asked, only to pause when Hadrian¡¯s expression answered for him. Lotem picked up a pair of wooden sticks, pinched a noodle, and held it up. ¡°Try it.¡±


    Hadrian mirrored the movement, lifting a noodle to his lips and slurping it. The chewy texture, combined with the rich, tangy sauce, was unlike anything he¡¯d eaten. Sweet notes played against deep, savory undertones. He met Lotem¡¯s eyes, serious.Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    ¡°You could make this?¡±


    ¡°Aye, the sauce at least. Haven¡¯t seen the tomatoes used, though. Probably from the City of Growth. The noodles could be bought too; there¡¯s bound to be a seller.¡± Lotem shrugged, as though it were no great feat.


    ¡°I want to try everything,¡± Hadrian said with unexpected intensity, catching Lotem off guard. To Lotem, it might be a meal, but to Hadrian, it was revelation.


    Lotem sniffed his drink. ¡°Ever had beer?¡±


    ¡°Beer?¡±


    ¡°Any alcohol?¡±


    ¡°Some of the adults had a fruit liquor that they said was alcoholic, though I never had any. My Pa always said we had better things to do with our time.¡±


    Lotem chuckled, raising his mug. ¡°Here¡¯s to trying new things.¡± He took a deep sip and sighed contentedly. ¡°Not too dark, just right.¡±


    Hadrian sipped his own, unsure. The bitter taste dried his mouth, underwhelming compared to the food. He swallowed with effort. ¡°Interesting.¡±


    Lotem¡¯s booming laugh drew looks from around the tent as the Bal man grinned, looking more relaxed than Hadrian had ever seen him. ¡°It¡¯s an acquired taste. Don¡¯t drink it too quickly; no need for us to get drunk at lunch.¡±


    As they ate, Hadrian bombarded Lotem with questions about cooking and drinks. Lotem seemed alive, more vibrant than he¡¯d been in weeks. The underground chamber where they¡¯d been trapped now felt distant, as if Lotem had shed his apprehensions. When they finished, they returned their bowls and mugs to the counter. Lotem paid with silver coins from Casselia¡¯s pouch.


    Stepping out, Hadrian felt lighter, buoyant. He bounced on the balls of his feet, careful not to trip. Lotem noticed and sighed. ¡°Should¡¯ve kept you from drinking the whole thing. It hits lean folk quicker.¡±


    Hadrian wondered what Lotem meant by that. He didn¡¯t feel wrong; if anything, Hadrian felt great. From the direction opposite the shop where they had left Sylva came a booming voice.


    ¡°Come one, come all, and hear tell of the duel between the Lacebinder and Veldar of the Warrior¡¯s Blood.¡± Hadrian turned and looked at Lotem with pleading eyes. Hadrian had never even heard of the Lacebinder or the Warrior¡¯s Blood before. He had to hear it, just had to.


    ¡°Come on,¡± Lotem said, leading Hadrian toward the gathering crowd surrounding a man in dark gray robes reminiscent of Sylva¡¯s. A sheathed sword sat across his back, its hilt wrapped in black leather, stark against the pale sheath. Lotem turned, voice low, ¡°We can listen for a minute, then we have to go. Sylva¡¯s waiting.¡±


    The crowd gathered around the storyteller was a lively, shifting sea of people, their movements creating a chorus of rustling cloth and murmured conversation. Sunlight filtered through hanging banners and awnings, casting dappled shadows across faces both eager and weary. The scent of roasted meats and spiced bread from nearby stalls mingled with the dry, dusty heat of the late afternoon, creating an atmosphere thick with anticipation.


    A bead of sweat trickled down Hadrian¡¯s back, and he shifted on his feet, trying to catch a glimpse of the man at the center of the crowd. The storyteller¡¯s voice rose, weaving the tale of ancient rivalries and feats of valor, and the crowd leaned in, as if pulled by an invisible thread. Lotem¡¯s eyes were alert, scanning their surroundings with a tension that mirrored the anticipation in the crowd.


    Hadrian was entranced as the man spun the tale of two rivals who came to Aslavain before the Beast Wars. The Lacebinder, a cunning Kiel with control over cloth, pursued a knight of the Dion. Hadrian¡¯s interest sharpened when he learned Veldar had been a [Knight of Carven Bone]. Had Veldar once been a [Squire], like him? The storyteller¡¯s pace kept Hadrian rapt, the narrative vivid and compelling, much like Sylva¡¯s stories.


    Would he become a [Knight of Carven Bone]? Had Veldar been a [Squire of Carven Bone]? Hadrian felt as though he had to know, and the man¡¯s storytelling captivated him. His retelling of the pair¡¯s rivalry and eventual duel to the death moved fast enough to keep his attention without seeming rushed. It reminded Hadrian of the stories Sylva had told as they waited for Lotem in the trial.


    The tale ended with Veldar¡¯s death, ensnared by seeking threads mid-duel. Lotem touched Hadrian¡¯s arm, signaling they should leave, but the man on the stand spoke again, halting them.


    ¡°And thus fell one of Rovan Khal¡¯s mighty champions, only to be replaced by the very man who had killed him. We Silkborn like to say that history doesn¡¯t repeat; it rhymes. Today proves that true, for among us stands none other than this year¡¯s [Squire of Carven Bone].¡±


    Hadrian¡¯s breath caught. He glanced at Lotem, whose expression turned grim, eyes darting through the crowd like a man seeking escape routes. ¡°We need to go,¡± Lotem murmured, his voice tight with urgency. ¡°Now.¡±


    Before they could slip away, the man¡¯s voice, smooth and relentless, rang out. ¡°Oh, no need to flee from the truth,¡± he said, eyes gleaming with intent. The crowd shifted, eager eyes honing in on Hadrian and Lotem. ¡°Why hide an achievement such as yours? Wear it as proudly as Veldar once did.¡±


    Murmurs rippled through the assembly, curiosity mingling with awe. The press of dozens of eyes made Hadrian¡¯s skin prickle. How does he know? And why did he have to announce it like this?


    ¡°You¡¯re mistaken,¡± Lotem interjected, a practiced calm in his voice. ¡°I¡¯m not the [Squire], though the honor would be great. My companion here is Kiel, from the Bridgelands, far from Rovan¡¯s choosing.¡±


    Meris¡¯s smile sharpened, and he turned to Hadrian, his gaze dissecting. ¡°Kiel companion, do you deny it?¡±


    Hadrian froze, heart thudding in his chest. His mother¡¯s voice whispered through his mind, urging honesty, while Casselia¡¯s warnings thrummed in counterpoint. Silence seemed the safest choice, so he held Meris¡¯s gaze, jaw tight.


    Meris¡¯s eyes gleamed triumphantly. ¡°Ah, he won¡¯t deny it!¡± The crowd¡¯s murmur turned to gasps, excitement sparking in their expressions. ¡°Behold our modern Veldar, and the descendant of the Lacebinder¡¯s rival. I, Meris of Clan Torthen, claim my ancestral right and challenge you, [Squire of Carven Bone].¡±


    The air thickened. Hadrian¡¯s pulse roared in his ears. Lotem¡¯s brows drew together, caught between disbelief and anger.


    ¡°I must decline your challenge,¡± Hadrian managed, voice taut. The reaction was immediate, a wave of whispers cresting and breaking.


    Meris¡¯s smile did not falter. ¡°The [Squire] has refused an ancestral duel,¡± he said, tilting his head as though disappointed. ¡°Yet I understand. He is Kiel; perhaps they practice such traditions differently. But should the name of Veldar¡¯s heir bear no weight? Should the insult my ancestor endured go unchallenged?¡± The murmurs grew darker, approval morphing into scrutiny. ¡°If the [Squire] won¡¯t fight, perhaps his companion will defend his name.¡±


    Lotem¡¯s nostrils flared, a faint tremor in his voice. ¡°It isn¡¯t our place to defend the honor of some long-dead clansman. Hadrian has done nothing to wrong you. Or would you have me duel every cook for a burned stew in memory of a relative¡¯s grudge?¡± A few chuckles rippled through the tension.


    Meris¡¯s voice carried a practiced charm, a thread of cunning woven into his words. ¡°As though a mere mistake preparing food is the same as intentional slight. I do not challenge Hadrian out of petty grievance, but in sincere respect for the legacy we both bear. If the [Squire] has no intention to sully this test of valor and honor, then let him demonstrate it by turning his back now, showing us all that he stands above such things.¡±


    A murmur rippled through the crowd, charged with expectation. The phrasing snared Hadrian¡¯s mind, twisting Casselia¡¯s warnings against his instinct to protect his family¡¯s name. The words seemed harmless¡ªan invitation to walk away, to end this without further consequence. Lotem¡¯s eyes met his, tight with urgency and unsaid warnings. Think carefully, they seemed to say.


    But Hadrian thought of his parents, of Cutra¡¯s name whispered in the halls of judgment. He felt the silent weight of expectations. Turning away now would mean honoring Casselia¡¯s instructions, preserving his path forward. The logical choice. The safe choice.


    With a steadying breath, Hadrian turned on his heel, heart pounding but mind resolute. This is what Casselia would want, he told himself, willing the unease to quiet.


    A hush fell over the crowd, a pregnant pause broken by Meris¡¯s voice, bright with triumph. ¡°There you have it, Sulphen as our witness¡ªthis is no refusal but an acknowledgment! The [Squire] accepts the challenge, and so the duel shall be held three days hence, under the sun¡¯s highest glare.¡±


    Hadrian¡¯s breath caught in his chest, confusion quickly giving way to realization. The crowd erupted, voices like the roar of a river, swirling with excitement and anticipation. He spun to face Meris, but the man¡¯s grin was sharp, eyes glinting with satisfaction. Lotem¡¯s hand gripped his arm, tugging him through the throng with a muttered, ¡°We need to go. Now.¡±


    ¡°Lotem, what did I just do?¡± Hadrian whispered, panic threading through his voice as they pushed past the pressing bodies.


    The Bal man¡¯s face was shadowed with frustration. ¡°Meris twisted your silence into consent. It was a trap, and we fell into it.¡± He paused, glancing back to ensure they weren¡¯t being followed. ¡°We need to speak to Casselia and Sylva¡ªthis is more than we were prepared for.¡±


    Dread curdled in Hadrian¡¯s stomach as they quickened their pace, the weight of Meris¡¯s words coiling around him. What he¡¯d thought was a refusal had become an acceptance, a declaration that would ripple far beyond this crowded square.


    <hr>


    Sylva hurriedly followed the women up the wooden staircase. She was confident the two men could manage without her for an hour. If Casselia trusted Lotem with the purse, Sylva could trust them to stay out of trouble.


    As they reached the top of the staircase, a thrum of envy rushed through Sylva¡¯s lifestring as she took in dozens of spools of thread, each carefully positioned on pedestals around the room. The spools were arranged by color, with the lightest shades closest to the staircase.


    ¡°I have a few dozen varieties of string at the moment,¡± the woman said, gesturing dismissively around the room. ¡°Most are woven from animal fibers, though I do have a few insectile and plant varieties if you¡¯re particular.¡±


    ¡°I need to see the ripples and currents of the Sulphen in the world,¡± Sylva explained. ¡°My mentor told me that magical silk of sufficient quality would grant that ability.¡±


    ¡°It doesn¡¯t have to be silk, though that is the Silkborn favorite, I¡¯d imagine,¡± the woman replied. ¡°For what you¡¯re looking for, I have three good options.¡±


    ¡°Show me,¡± Sylva commanded, feeling a thrill of anticipation.


    The woman shuffled across the room, leading Sylva to a spool of string rich with a mottled blend of green and brown. She took a length from the spool, explaining as Sylva studied the silk.


    ¡°First, we have this mandrake-root silk, a product of recent silkworm experiments out of the Province of Cloth. The merchant I bought it from claimed the silkworms are fed only mandrake root until they weave cocoons for harvesting.¡±


    ¡°Mandrake root?¡± Sylva asked, vaguely familiar with the plant but knew little of its associations outside alchemy.


    ¡°Mandrake root is prized mainly for its protective and warding traits, with a minor association with knowledge,¡± the woman explained. ¡°If you need enchantments sewn into your robe or a protective amulet, it¡¯s the best option I¡¯ve got. For magical sight? It might help you overcome wards or sight-based magical effects, but likely not much else.¡±


    ¡°The other options?¡± Sylva prompted, hoping for a choice more general. Piercing wards and illusions had its uses, of course, but it felt secondary. She wouldn¡¯t settle for anything less than the best for something bound to her eyes.


    The woman huffed at Sylva¡¯s dismissal and moved along the row of pedestals, stopping at a black strand interwoven with a fine thread of silver.


    ¡°This string is a compound of raven feathers and silver from Kasravi,¡± the woman said. ¡°It¡¯s a bit more expensive, but raven¡¯s thread is known for its associations with shadow, wisdom, and purity. It offers similar protective qualities to mandrake-root thread but with added benefits for seeing in darkness or discerning otherwise hidden magical elements.¡± Her gaze swept from Sylva¡¯s feet to her face. ¡°It also matches your hair.¡±


    Sylva studied the thread, feeling a thrill at the idea of weaving Kasravi silver into herself. The Sect of Silken Grace lay north of Kasravi, its mountain temple adorned with reliefs of silver drawn from those very mines. A pang of loss struck her unexpectedly at the memory.


    She hadn¡¯t even liked the Sect. She had spent years longing for freedom, counting down the moments until she could leave its ancient walls. How often had she chafed at the elders¡¯ outdated sensibilities? And yet, she couldn¡¯t help but miss the stone halls covered in imperial tapestries and carvings, or the rigorous training sessions under her elder¡¯s watchful gaze. She looked away from the raven¡¯s thread, unsure of what she felt.


    ¡°And the last one?¡± she asked. The woman¡¯s expression soured, as though she¡¯d expected Sylva to buy it on the spot. With a sigh, she moved across the room to a length of pure white thread that seemed to shimmer in the light, holding it out carefully as if it might damage easily.


    ¡°This is woolen thread from a stellar-aspected sheep raised in the mountains north of Sabahar. It has a divinatory aspect tied to stellar omens and an affinity for the twin moons¡ªideal for seeing the Sulphen. It¡¯s the most powerful and expensive of the three, no question.¡±


    Sylva examined the white thread, admiring how it caught the light, glowing faintly. She¡¯d heard of stellar wool; it was one of the few exports from the City of the Sun that interested the Silkborn. She knew it was the most potent of the three threads, but her attention kept drifting back to the black and silver raven¡¯s thread.


    ¡°The raven¡¯s thread,¡± she said after a moment¡¯s hesitation. Sylva was still uncertain how she felt about the Sect¡ªits elders had ways she struggled to understand. But she was of the Sect of Silken Grace. She had never questioned that. The Sect was more than a collection of elders. It was an imperial institution that kept Silkborn relevant within the Empire. Sylva felt proud of that.


    ¡°How much will you need?¡± the woman asked.


    ¡°Enough to weave into each of my pupils. Let¡¯s say six hand lengths in total?¡±


    The woman considered this, then nodded. ¡°That should be sufficient.¡± She pulled a pair of black iron shears from her apron and, after measuring the string¡¯s length, snipped the raven¡¯s thread. ¡°Do you want it in two lengths? One for each eye?¡± Sylva nodded, and the woman folded the string and cut it in half with another snip.


    ¡°Do you have a mirror and a needle?¡± Sylva asked, holding the thread reverently, marveling at its texture and how the black shimmered with hints of purple in the light.


    ¡°I do,¡± the woman said reluctantly, ¡°but you don¡¯t mean to sew it yourself, do you? There are tailors in town, girl.¡±


    Let a tailor weave string into my eyes? Sylva nearly scoffed before reining in the instinct. She¡¯d sew the thread into her own body, thank you.


    ¡°Trust a tailor with something this personal? No, thank you.¡±


    The woman shook her head, ready to argue, but turned on her heel, moving to a workstation in the back and clearing materials from its surface. Once it was clear, she spoke a command word, and the wall behind the desk shimmered and turned reflective.


    ¡°You said you have a mentor?¡± the woman asked as Sylva took a seat and began threading the raven¡¯s thread into a needle. ¡°The Bal man has your coin, but I need assurance you can pay for this thread.¡±


    ¡°I do,¡± Sylva said firmly. ¡°And even if I didn¡¯t, you know well the Sect of Silken Grace would never risk its reputation over an unpaid thread. If you have any issue with Lotem, which you won¡¯t, the Sect would cover you.¡±


    The woman considered this, then nodded in acknowledgment. They both knew the Sect would cover the paltry cost if necessary. Sylva was almost offended the woman had needed to ask.


    ¡°Do you have any paper?¡± Sylva asked, setting the needle on the desk. ¡°I want to sketch a design before weaving it into my eye.¡±


    The woman grumbled but complied, bringing Sylva a page and a finely sharpened charcoal pencil. Sylva closed her eyes with the paper before her, envisioning the symbol she would weave into her eye. Krinka hadn¡¯t shared any details on the exact method for gaining magical sight, but Sylva was confident she could figure it out.


    After all, Krinka wasn¡¯t Silkborn. He might have a theoretical grasp of her people, but to Sylva, her heritage was instinctive. That, she realized, was what outsiders never seemed to understand about the Silkborn. She was no mere twenty-year-old navigating the world alone.


    Her parents had infused her lifestring with the breadth of their memories and experiences, pouring themselves into creating her until they were but shells of their former selves, housed in the Strenath Clan quarters until they passed. She couldn¡¯t access their memories directly, not like her own, but their instincts lived in her, guiding her intuition. Sylva had never modified her body with string before, yet it felt as if she had done so dozens of times already.


    She envisioned a three-dimensional structure in the style of the scholar¡¯s script, adjusting the string¡¯s length in her mind until the intricate pattern embodied the sensation of sight. She included references to the Imperial Poems of Rashik, the City of Duskweave, and Sigurbayar, the City of Trackers. Opening her eyes, she began to sketch the design, feeling a rare sense of peace as she worked.


    This was what she had imagined Aslavain would be like. Days spent training in Eisentor, the City of Woven Word, with fellow Silkborn or the Arenea, learning to weave arguments that would speak to the Sulphen. Absently, she wondered if she¡¯d have been better off there than traveling with Hadrian and Lotem, before dismissing the thought. Alone, she might have achieved greatness in academia or scholarship. With them? She was certain they would change the fate of the continent¡ªor die trying. She liked their refusal to accept the status quo.


    Once her sketch was ready, she picked up the needle, leaning toward the mirror. Lining up the sharp point with the upper edge of her iris, she pushed until the needle pierced the silk of her eye and reemerged. The sensation of the thread moving beneath her eye was unnerving, but she continued, weaving the intricate sigil onto her pupil stitch by stitch, though most of it remained hidden beneath the eye¡¯s surface. Her needle moved with quick precision until she was done. Without prompting, the woman passed Sylva the scissors, and she cut the last of the strand.


    ¡°Burning string,¡± the woman swore. ¡°I hate when you Silkborn work on yourselves.¡±


    ¡°I won¡¯t lie,¡± Sylva said, glancing at the woman. ¡°That was less pleasant than I¡¯d hoped. Only one more to go.¡±


    The woman shook her head but continued watching as Sylva repeated the process, weaving the onyx thread into an identical pattern. Once the woman had cut the second piece, Sylva blinked and looked at her, confused.


    ¡°My sight doesn¡¯t seem any different,¡± Sylva said, glancing distrustfully at the spool of thread.


    ¡°Of course not,¡± the woman said, rolling her eyes. ¡°You haven¡¯t finished the process yet.¡±


    Hadn¡¯t she? Sylva looked in the mirror, studying her familiar green irises now spiderwebbed with black and silver thread. She smiled. Her eyes reminded her of Nyxol, suspended in her web of silver silk against the green forest canopy. They looked perfect, just as she¡¯d planned. So why weren¡¯t they working?


    The woman walked to a back cabinet and returned with a vial of azure potion. She grabbed a pipette and carefully siphoned some of the liquid into the dropper.


    ¡°You need to bind the thread. A few drops of this mana potion in each eye will do it. Do you want me to, or¡­¡±


    ¡°I can,¡± Sylva said, suddenly embarrassed. Why hadn¡¯t the elders told her about this? She took the pipette and, carefully, let three drops fall into each eye. She nearly squirmed as the potion seeped into the fabric of her eye, a searing heat flaring in each iris. A moment later, the pain faded, and she blinked away the tears.


    ¡°You¡¯ve nerves of steel, lass,¡± the woman said, shaking her head in disbelief. ¡°The last Silkborn to try that here screamed loud enough to drive away half my customers.¡±


    Sylva ignored the compliment. Of course she could manage better than some random Silkborn¡ªshe was of the Sect of Silken Grace. But her focus had already shifted to the ethereal shadows now drifting through the room like mist from Hadrian¡¯s robe. Is that the Sulphen? she wondered. Did it work?


    ¡°I can see what looks like shadows hanging in the air. Is that what it¡¯s supposed to look like?¡±


    ¡°How should I know?¡± the woman retorted. ¡°Do I look like a Silkborn to you?¡±


    Sylva took in the woman¡¯s warted face and wrinkled features. She very much did not look like one of the flawless Silkborn. Why would anyone tolerate warts if they didn¡¯t have to? She decided that as soon as they paid, she¡¯d be glad to leave this woman to her troubles.


    ¡°How long has it been?¡± Sylva asked, curious, having lost track of time.


    ¡°Just over an hour, by my reckoning,¡± the woman replied. ¡°If your friends are true to their word, they¡¯ll return soon.¡±


    Sylva nodded and, hesitating, moved toward the staircase. She stepped through the shadowy clouds, which parted fluidly around her. She didn¡¯t feel any different moving through the substance hanging in the air, but she couldn¡¯t help wondering, Has this always been here?


    ¡°Go on, lass. Whatever you see won¡¯t bite.¡±


    Sylva didn¡¯t appreciate the woman¡¯s commentary and decided that her curiosity and hesitation would be better indulged outside the woman¡¯s view. She strode down the staircase, marveling as the shadows parted around her. Reaching the bottom, she began to peruse the shelves for some mundane string. In her experience, you could never carry too much, and the shop was filled with spools.


    After waiting longer than she felt responsible, Lotem and Hadrian finally entered the shop, their faces grim. Sylva met Lotem¡¯s gaze, but he only shook his head as if to say later, before noticing her eyes and freezing.


    ¡°Sylva, I like what you did with your eyes,¡± Hadrian said, beaming. ¡°Reminds me of the webbing back home.¡± She couldn¡¯t help but return his grin. His excitement over, well, everything felt refreshing. She looked forward to telling him about her new sight later; she knew he¡¯d be thrilled for her. She had come to enjoy having someone genuinely rooting for her growth and success.


    The Sect had been cutthroat. One candidate¡¯s success was another¡¯s failure. Sylva¡¯s accomplishments had always been met with bitter acceptance from her peers; Hadrian¡¯s unabashed enthusiasm thrilled her in a way she hadn¡¯t expected.


    ¡°Uhh-hem,¡± the shopkeeper drawled, her gaze fixed on Lotem. He sighed, pulling out the purse and heading to the counter, where a bag filled with Sylva¡¯s favorite mundane threads waited. The shopkeeper stated the price, and with a resigned look, he began to stack thick gold coins on the counter. Once he¡¯d finished, the shopkeeper swept the coins into her own purse.


    ¡°Thank you for your patronage,¡± she said to Sylva. ¡°Now, unless you plan to spend more, get out.¡±


    They left the shop and stepped into the street, the shadows in Sylva¡¯s vision fading under the sunlight into thin strands that wove and drifted through the air. As she adjusted to her new sight, she noticed several groups of candidates watching them, some gesturing in their direction. Sylva shot them a suspicious look.


    ¡°Out with it. You looked concerned when you came into the shop, and now we¡¯re the center of attention.¡± She narrowed her gaze at Hadrian. ¡°You didn¡¯t challenge anyone, did you?¡±


    ¡°Not¡­ exactly,¡± Hadrian replied, looking away. ¡°More like someone challenged me.¡±


    ¡°You declined?¡± she asked, her tone sharp.


    ¡°I¡­ tried to decline,¡± Hadrian said reluctantly. She turned to Lotem.


    ¡°Explain.¡±


    They started toward their chosen inn as Lotem quietly explained what had happened. As he described the encounter, Sylva froze.


    ¡°He identified himself as Meris?¡±


    ¡°Yes¡ª¡± Lotem began, but Sylva cut him off.


    ¡°And he was a Silkborn in gray robes?¡±


    ¡°Yes, but¡ª¡±


    ¡°And he challenged you to a duel?¡± Sylva pressed.


    ¡°Can I finish?¡± Lotem asked, waiting calmly for her to settle down.


    ¡°Fine,¡± she replied, though her thoughts raced as Lotem continued. If Meris is here, is he competing for the same prize? Who did he partner with? And how could he know Hadrian is the Squire? Is he partnered with one of the Blind?


    ¡°I turned away, thinking I was declining the challenge, but¡­ I think I got tricked,¡± Hadrian admitted, frowning.


    ¡°He used a linguistic trap on you, Hadrian,¡± Sylva said, a touch of anger sharpening her voice as she pictured Meris manipulating her companions. She should have been there¡ªcould have prevented it. Meeting Hadrian¡¯s eyes, she added, ¡°It¡¯s nothing to be ashamed of. I¡¯m sure you could beat Meris in a fair fight anyway. Now, come. We need to find our mentors.¡±

 Chapter Twenty: Unraveled Expectation

    In youth, we hunger: for opportunity, for sustenance, for purpose. In life¡¯s prime, we feed ourselves, crafting meaning where once it was given. True wisdom is marked by feeding others: mentoring, inspiring, cultivating greatness in those who come after.


    ¨C Casselia, the Crownless


    Aslavain: Twenty-Three Days After the Summer Solstice


    Lotem led Hadrian and Sylva through the cobbled streets of the City of Beasts, an unshakable unease gnawing at him. Dornogor was¡­ strange. The buildings, a chaotic clash of styles from across the empire, pressed against streets that spiraled out from an immense, ancient tree looming at the city¡¯s center. Each twist and turn felt alive, yet abandoned¡ªlike a stage waiting for actors who never arrived. Though they occasionally passed other candidates or Eidolons wandering the streets, the emptiness of Dornogor gnawed at Lotem. Where was the population to fill a city of this size?


    The silence pressed on him, broken only by the distant calls of animals. Even the echoes of their footsteps sounded wrong, swallowed by the sheer vastness of the streets. Was this what every city in Aslavain was like? The Eidolons, often absent from their shrined cities in Creation, must spend most of their time here, mentoring the candidates. That made sense. He resolved to ask Casselia later. She would know.


    They wandered deeper into the city, Lotem¡¯s gaze darting between grand buildings that reflected every architectural style of the empire and the teeming animal life all around. Lotem¡¯s fingers tightened around the strap of his pack as his gaze darted between the towering rooftops and the shadows lurking at the edges of the street.


    They wandered deeper into the city. Lotem¡¯s gaze flicked between grand buildings that reflected every architectural style of the empire and the teeming animal life all around. Birds wheeled overhead, their cries a constant, jarring cacophony that set his nerves on edge. Monkeys and lemurs perched on rooftops, watching them with unnerving curiosity. In the distance, mammoths and elephants loomed over the plains opposite the city¡¯s entrance, their forms shadowed in the afternoon light.


    Lotem wondered how the City of Beasts appeared in Creation. Did it rival the grandeur of shrined cities like Galsharok and Gertolai? Those cities, with their gleaming walls and bustling crowds, pulsed with life and purpose¡ªa fervor entirely absent here. Dornogor felt like a city out of time, caught between vitality and ruin.


    A voice hissed near his ear, cutting through his thoughts. ¡°What do you think of the City of Beasts?¡±


    Lotem jumped, whirling around with a sharp intake of breath. His fist rose instinctively, his pack swinging behind him. Sabel clung to his cloak, shifting with the motion.


    ¡°Woah, woah, woah,¡± Alsarana hissed, leaning back with a wild grin. ¡°No need to hurt me, big man. It¡¯s just a question. Basic small talk.¡±


    ¡°Alsarana,¡± a firm voice cut through the air like a whip. Alsarana shrank, his excitement draining as he turned. Lotem glanced past her to see Casselia striding toward them, Krinka huffing as she struggled to keep pace several strides behind. ¡°Do you really need to scare the candidates every time?¡±


    ¡°Cass,¡± Alsarana whined, his tail flicking behind him. ¡°It¡¯s training! You know how important it is not to let someone sneak up on you.¡±


    Casselia stopped, leveling a sharp gaze at her fellow mentor. ¡°Als, you¡¯re tiers higher than the candidates. You could sneak up on them even if they were watching you the entire time.¡± She turned to Lotem, Hadrian, and Sylva, exasperation etched into her features. ¡°Apologies for the delay. We had some¡­ pressing news to discuss.¡±


    Lotem¡¯s stomach tightened at the word ¡°pressing.¡± Whatever troubled Casselia, he doubted his team was prepared for it.


    ¡°Anything relevant to us?¡± Sylva asked, tilting her head inquisitively. Lotem met her gaze, still adjusting to the intricate black and silver lines that wove through her iris and pupil. They reminded him of the clan tattoos worn by some Bal tribes, though he had never seen tattoos on eyes before. The thought of a needle anywhere near his own eyes made his skin crawl.


    Casselia glanced at the empty street before turning back to Sylva. ¡°Relevant to you? Certainly.¡± Lotem¡¯s stomach sank at her tone. ¡°But we¡¯ll discuss it once we reach our lodgings. Did you enjoy your afternoon?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Lotem admitted reluctantly. ¡°We ran into¡­ a setback.¡±


    Casselia paused, her gaze sweeping over them as though truly seeing them for the first time. Her eyes lingered on Sylva¡¯s defiant expression, Hadrian¡¯s nervous energy, and the weariness etched into Lotem¡¯s face. A faint frown tugged at her lips, and she sighed.


    ¡°Please tell me you haven¡¯t already broken any of the rules.¡±


    ¡°Broken them?¡± Sylva replied, her tone cool. ¡°No. Not at all.¡±


    Casselia exhaled heavily, her shoulders loosening. Hadrian flinched at the sudden shift in tension, and her frown returned, deeper than before.


    ¡°Sylva, I want a full explanation. Now.¡±


    Sylva recounted their time in Dornogor, starting with their visit to the shop and her dismissal of Lotem and Hadrian. As she spoke, Casselia¡¯s face became a mask of unreadable calm¡ªa stillness that Lotem found far more unsettling than her earlier expressions. Sylva described purchasing the string and weaving its patterns into her eyes, her excitement unmistakable.


    Sylva had spent more money in that shop than Lotem had ever seen¡ªenough to support his family for a year, perhaps longer. He half expected Casselia to scold her for such extravagance, but she seemed unfazed by the cost. As Sylva recounted how Lotem and Hadrian returned to the shop and unintentionally accepted a duel, revealing Hadrian¡¯s identity as the [Squire of Carven Bone], Casselia grew unnervingly still.


    ¡°So,¡± Casselia said quietly, ¡°when you claimed none of the rules had been broken, you really meant two of the three were¡ªjust not by you?¡±


    ¡°The first rule was not to tell anyone Hadrian is the [Squire], and we didn¡¯t. The second was not to accept duels. Hadrian tried to refuse, but he was tricked¡ªit¡¯s not his fault!¡± Sylva protested, her gaze fixed stubbornly on the ground.


    ¡°Lotem, repeat Meris¡¯ exact words,¡± Casselia ordered. Lotem obeyed the best as he could, recounting the tale Meris spun, the challenge, and how Hadrian unwittingly accepted. By the time he finished, Casselia¡¯s expression had shifted to one of quiet resignation. She turned to Hadrian, who had remained silent, his unease written plainly on his face.


    ¡°Hadrian,¡± Casselia said gently, ¡°there¡¯s nothing you could have done to avoid a prepared challenge like that. You were tricked, plain and simple. We¡¯ll prepare you for the fight in three days, but understand¡ªyou hold no blame here.¡±


    Hadrian straightened, the weight lifting from his shoulders as he nodded. Beside him, Sylva exhaled in quiet relief, though the respite was short-lived as Casselia turned a sharp gaze on her.


    ¡°Sylva, you prioritized your own power over your teammates¡¯ needs. In a new and potentially hostile environment, you left them alone¡ªand as a result, one of your sect mates manipulated them into a duel.¡±


    ¡°I¡ª¡± Sylva started, but Casselia cut her off.


    ¡°You couldn¡¯t have predicted exactly what happened, but you are the team¡¯s strategic mind. Your absence left them exposed. You did well selecting and integrating the thread into your eyes¡ªthat much is clear¡ªbut in doing so, you made a tactical error. Reflect on your actions and do better next time.¡±


    Sylva shrank under Casselia¡¯s firm words, her mouth tightening as though she wanted to argue. In the end, she simply looked away, her silence signaling reluctant acceptance.


    ¡°There are mitigating factors that absolve you of full responsibility,¡± Casselia continued, her sharp gaze shifting between them. ¡°First, one of the Blind is not only here in the city but actively working against us. Their notice would have been unavoidable. Second,¡±¡ªshe glanced briefly at Krinka and Alsarana¡ª¡°we¡¯ve received word that Chanvar of the Warrior¡¯s Blood, a Dion [Venerate], is in Dornogor with a Triumvirate of his own.¡±


    ¡°Why does that matter?¡± Sylva asked. Lotem wondered the same but held his tongue, sensing the weight behind Casselia¡¯s words.


    ¡°Chanvar has ties to a Dion lord with¡­ a history against us.¡± Casselia¡¯s voice grew colder, her words carrying the weight of battles long past.


    ¡°Cass means Chanvar really, really hates us,¡± Alsarana added cheerfully, his fanged grin widening.


    ¡°More like really, really hates you,¡± Krinka muttered, adjusting the satchel slung over his shoulder. ¡°Didn¡¯t you kill him about four centuries ago?¡±


    ¡°Wasn¡¯t that a different [Venerate] of the Warrior¡¯s Blood?¡± Alsarana replied with a shrug, his tail flicking lazily behind him. ¡°I lose track.¡±


    Lotem couldn¡¯t fathom how many Dion [Venerate] they¡¯d killed for such a question to even arise. They spoke of slaying the empire¡¯s most elite warriors as though it were a footnote in their history. For all Lotem knew, it was. Sylva had seemed impressed enough by the trio, and he trusted she knew more of their exploits than he did.


    ¡°Focus, both of you,¡± Casselia snapped, silencing Krinka mid-reply. Her gaze cut through their playful banter like a blade. She turned to Sylva. ¡°It matters because if Chanvar is training Meris and one of the Blind, this duel isn¡¯t just a test¡ªit¡¯s a genuine threat.¡±


    ¡°Do you¡ªdo you think that I can beat Meris?¡± Hadrian asked reluctantly, as though fearing the answer.


    ¡°Before we learned of Chanvar¡¯s involvement?¡± Casselia said. ¡°I¡¯d have said you could beat anyone your age. Now, we¡¯ll need to train hard to make sure the fight isn¡¯t close. You¡¯ll likely still win, but if your victory isn¡¯t decisive, the other candidates will swarm you like piranhas scenting blood.¡±


    ¡°I can just decline those duals right? Meris tricked me, but I don¡¯t actually want to have to dual anyone.¡±


    ¡°If you weren¡¯t the [Squire of Carven Bone], you could decline as many challenges as you wanted,¡± Casselia explained with a sigh. ¡°Even as the [Squire], you might have avoided this duel if not for Meris¡¯ trickery. But Rovan Khal¡ªlike all Titans¡ªnever refused a fair challenge. As his [Squire], you¡¯re expected to follow his example.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean by that?¡± Sylva asked, her curiosity piqued.


    ¡°Rovan Khal¡ªall the Titans, really¡ªrarely refused a challenge,¡± Krinka explained. ¡°Before the Blood Wars, the Titans roamed the plains, dueling for territory and honor, trailed by the clans that depended on their strength. As his [Squire], you¡¯re expected to follow in those¡ªadmittedly colossal¡ªfootsteps.¡±


    ¡°Why could I refuse challenges before?¡± Hadrian asked, frowning.


    ¡°Because no one knew you were the [Squire of Carven Bone],¡± Casselia replied. ¡°There¡¯s a difference between general challenges and those tied to Rovan¡¯s name. Declining one of the latter would severely harm your class development.¡±


    ¡°How are we supposed to understand all these rules?¡± Sylva asked, exasperation creeping into her voice.


    Lotem silently agreed. It felt like playing a game where no one had explained the rules¡ªa game where the stakes were far too high.


    ¡°In a perfect world, we would have won the Wyvern and had time to explain duel protocols during our journey to Ylfenhold,¡± Casselia said, her voice tight with frustration. ¡°But the Sulphen seems determined to deny you even that much breathing room.¡± She turned to Krinka. ¡°Do you think it¡¯s safe to use the Mandate¡¯s training facility?¡±


    Krinka shrugged. ¡°Shouldn¡¯t be a problem. Saves us the trouble of finding an inn.¡±


    ¡°Wait,¡± Lotem blurted, unable to hold back his question any longer. ¡°You own property here? Is that why the city seems so empty, most of these buildings are simply ¡®reserved¡¯ for the powers that be in the empire?¡±


    ¡°The Bal does have a brain,¡± Alsarana hissed with mock approval, his tone dripping with sarcasm. Lotem bristled at the phrasing but held his tongue. ¡°The Mandate has property in nearly every shrine city in Aslavain. If we wanted to stay under the radar, we¡¯d avoid it¡ªbut since we¡¯re not hiding¡­¡± He trailed off with a grin.


    ¡°The city is empty?¡± Hadrian asked, looking at Lotem in confusion. ¡°The crowd earlier felt as large as all of Cutra.¡±


    ¡°Krinka, what¡¯s Dornogor¡¯s population from the last census?¡± Casselia asked, cutting off Lotem¡¯s response.


    ¡°Just over sixteen thousand permanent residents,¡± Krinka replied matter-of-factly.


    Hadrian¡¯s eyes widened, as though he couldn¡¯t fathom the number. Lotem didn¡¯t see the big deal. UlaanThur, the Eternal City of the Bal, stood at the heart of the empire¡¯s sprawling grasslands and reportedly housed over 350,000 residents¡ªor so the traders claimed. Dornogor was small by comparison, but it wasn¡¯t unremarkable either.


    ¡°Sixteen thousand,¡± Hadrian murmured with awe. ¡°Are all the empire¡¯s cities this grand?¡±


    ¡°Oh, you sweet, sweet little lamb,¡± Alsarana chuckled, his tone dripping with amusement.


    ¡°Dornogor is actually smaller than average,¡± Krinka added, ¡°even without counting the Eternal Cities and their massive populations.¡±


    ¡°Even the city you see here is much smaller than Dornogor truly is,¡± Casselia explained. ¡°Aslavain mirrors Creation in many ways. The grasslands, forests, mountains, and shrines all align with their counterparts, with only a few exceptions¡ªlike the bone forest in Tir Na Nog. But the empire¡¯s infrastructure¡ªits roads, bridges, and cities¡ªare missing. This,¡± she gestured at the chaotic sprawl around them, ¡°is just an outpost built by the Eidolons, [Venerate], and candidates over the years.¡±


    ¡°If you think Dornogor is impressive, just wait until you see Ylfenhold,¡± Krinka said. ¡°The City of the Veil is unmatched, even among the Eternal Cities. After the Blood Wars¡ª¡±


    ¡°Krinka, later,¡± Casselia interrupted. ¡°For now, let¡¯s go. The Mandate¡¯s property is this way, and we have three days to prepare for the duel¡ªfar too much to do.¡±


    <hr>


    Casselia led their group down the half-worn streets of Dornogor in contemplative silence, her thoughts weaving through the days to come. The city¡¯s ancient bones lay exposed beneath the bustle of daily life¡ªcracked clay, worn brick, and bones of beasts long forgotten. The scent of dust, spice, and sweat clung to the air, mingling with the faint tang of animal musk carried on the wind. Ahead of her, Krinka and Alsarana argued heatedly about the best way to scatter birds that might have nested in the Mandate¡¯s facility. Their voices rose and fell, echoing the ever-present calls of distant birds, sharp and insistent.


    Casselia let their debate wash over her without comment. Krinka¡¯s exasperation was as familiar as Alsarana¡¯s amusement, the dynamic between them as old as their shared history. It was a comforting rhythm amid the city¡¯s strangeness. Behind them, their mentees murmured in quiet conversation, their words low and serious. Casselia¡¯s gaze flicked briefly back, catching the way Lotem and Hadrian leaned toward Sylva as if seeking her guidance. Good. They were starting to trust one another.


    They weren¡¯t far from the Mandate¡¯s property¡ªCasselia could sense it. The wards, subtle and ancient, whispered at the edge of her awareness. She allowed herself a small measure of relief. The structure was intact, properly warded to call to members of their order. In a city like Dornogor, that was no small feat.


    Her thoughts wandered to the property itself. Would it have a caretaker? Most didn¡¯t. Dornogor hardly seemed the type of city to warrant such an honor. The Mandate of Empire had long since faded from the collective consciousness of the Empire, its grandeur worn thin by centuries of peace. Yet Casselia knew the truth: the Mandate thrived in crisis, when shadows lengthened and old threats stirred beneath the surface. In peace, it became a forgotten footnote, a relic of a more dangerous time.


    Krinka had proven that point to her long ago. His quiet devotion to their cause hadn¡¯t wavered, not even after centuries of peace had lulled most into complacency. He had never forgotten their purpose, even when the Empire did. Casselia found solace in that¡ªsolace, and a renewed sense of resolve.


    Even after a thousand years without the looming threat of a third apocalypse, the Mandate maintained its foothold¡ªa facility in every shrined city of the Empire. Forgotten by most, but never by those in power. The ancient forces remembered their oaths. They always did.


    Casselia allowed herself a brief glance at the crumbling facades around them. Dornogor wore its age openly, a city built to endure, but weary of the passage of time. Much like the Mandate. Even when the world believed peace eternal, those who truly understood the Empire¡¯s fragility never ceased their vigilance.


    ¡°Meris,¡± Sylva said softly from her right.


    The unexpected sound startled Casselia, drawing her back to the present. She glanced at the Silkborn woman, noting the tension in her posture, the haunted look in her eyes. Sylva seemed¡­ lost. As though she were finally realizing how little she truly understood of the Empire and her place within it.


    Casselia approved. The realization, though painful, would serve Sylva well. The girl needed to confront the limits of her knowledge before she could truly grow. Still, Casselia regretted scolding her earlier. Her [Mentor¡¯s Instincts] had been clear¡ªSylva needed that rebuke to respect her authority. The elders of the Sect had likely demanded perfection from her. Anything less from Casselia would have rung false.


    Sylva cleared her throat, her hesitation evident. ¡°He wasn¡¯t supposed to be here. None of the Sect were supposed to come to Dornogor. The risks outweigh the rewards. And Meris¡­ he doesn¡¯t need anything this city could offer. He was trained in the sword arts of the Sect. He has no reason to be here.¡± She paused, frustration edging her voice. ¡°I don¡¯t understand why he¡¯s here. And that bothers me.¡±


    Casselia studied her in silence, letting the words hang in the air. Sylva¡¯s gaze grew distant as she continued.


    ¡°I was supposed to be in Eisentor,¡± Sylva said, her voice quieter now. ¡°Wandering the tunnels of silken thread between the trees. Reading the patterns and stories of the Arenea woven into the great webs of the Silklands. I wrote entire dissertations on the Kiel culture, tracing its roots to Malan and the northern traditions.¡± Her voice dropped to a near-whisper. ¡°I spent my whole life preparing for that future. Not this one.¡±


    Casselia softened her stance, stepping closer to Sylva. There was a vulnerability in Sylva¡¯s confession¡ªa wistful longing for a path denied. Casselia offered a sad smile but remained silent. Sylva needed this moment¡ªa chance to voice her doubts and frustrations. Casselia had no doubt there was a purpose beneath it all.


    ¡°Instead,¡± Sylva continued, ¡°we followed a trail in Tir Na Nog that gave me a class I don¡¯t fully understand. We arrived in Dornogor and, within a day, someone I knew¡ªsomeone from my Sect¡ªchallenged Hadrian to a duel. Over what? His robe? Some grander scheme we haven¡¯t uncovered? When does this journey become about us and what we want?¡±


    Casselia paused to step around a pile of dung in the street. She swatted at flies, wrinkling her nose at the scent. Even now, after all these years, she could still picture herself as a young girl¡ªsitting by the river with her tutor, devouring every lesson with a hunger born of belief that knowledge would define her life.


    ¡°When I was a young girl, I dreamed of mastering magic,¡± Casselia said, her voice distant as though weaving a story from long-forgotten threads. ¡°I spent a decade waking before dawn to meditate on the nature of reality. I learned the esoteric symbols that touched upon the Sulphen and traced the histories behind each rune. Knowledge was unrestricted then. I was as prepared as any child could be to step into the arcane arts.¡±


    She sighed, her gaze turning wistful. ¡°But when I arrived at the academy, they performed diagnostic spells and declared my mana channels deficient. They closed the doors to me.¡± Her voice hardened, bitterness lacing her words. ¡°¡®Magic,¡¯ they said, ¡®is for those born with the gift.¡¯ And I was not.¡±If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    Sylva¡¯s eyes widened, her disbelief evident. ¡°What did you do?¡±


    Casselia smiled faintly, though there was a steel beneath the softness. ¡°I picked up a sword. I entered the Domicile of Night. And I made a name for myself anyway.¡± Her tone shifted, becoming more personal, her words directed at Sylva with quiet intensity. ¡°We don¡¯t choose every part of our journey, Sylva. We can¡¯t control the trajectory of our lives, no matter how much we wish we could. But we can control our attitude. Our actions. You feel out of your depth? It¡¯s because you are. You feel as though forces beyond your control are pushing you into unwanted paths? They are.¡±


    Casselia stopped, turning to Sylva with a gentle, knowing smile. ¡°But that doesn¡¯t mean you lack the autonomy to decide how you respond. It doesn¡¯t mean you are powerless.¡±


    Sylva held Casselia¡¯s gaze, her expression conflicted. For a moment, the street seemed to fall away, leaving only the two of them¡ªmentor and mentee¡ªstanding on the crossroads of possibility.


    She gestured to a grand wooden structure that rose before them, weathered by centuries but still standing with quiet defiance. Its facade, once painted in rich hues, had faded to muted earth tones, peeling in places to reveal the dark grain of the timber beneath. Carved animal motifs adorned the doorframe¡ªwolves, stags, and bears¡ªtheir once-proud features softened by time. Twisting roots and creeping vines clung to the lower beams, giving the building an air of wild reclamation, yet the intricate craftsmanship hinted at a past when this place had been a jewel of the city.


    Casselia slowed her steps, letting the weight of the moment settle over her. This wasn¡¯t just another building. It was history preserved in wood and stone, a relic of a time when the Mandate held sway over the Empire¡¯s fate.


    ¡°Now, this,¡±¡ªher voice took on a note of finality¡ª¡°is our destination.¡±


    Casselia approached the carved wooden door and rapped her knuckles against the frame. The sound echoed faintly, absorbed by the quiet street. She didn¡¯t expect a response; few of the Mandate¡¯s shrines had an Eidolon committed to their upkeep. Still, a little respect often went farther than most people realized. After several moments¡¯ delay, Casselia began to prepare the rite of opening to bypass the ward scheme¡ªthen paused in surprise.


    ¡°Yes?¡± A nasally voice inquired from the building as a wooden panel slid open from the door, revealing a pair of indigo eyes set against sun-warmed mahogany skin. ¡°Who approaches my humble abode?¡±


    The eyes darted from Casselia to the group behind her, widening with intrigue. A rustle of cloth hinted at movement behind the door. Casselia silently hoped this caretaker would be less¡­ eccentric than some she had encountered. Immortality fit some better than others.


    ¡°Is that,¡± the woman began tentatively, ¡°Lord Alsarana?¡±


    Casselia sighed inwardly. We are never going to hear the end of this, she thought ruefully as she heard the excited rustle of scales sliding across the ground.


    Alsarana, predictably, stepped forward with a flourish. ¡°Indeed, it is I,¡± he hissed with exaggerated grandeur, his tail curling with amusement. The woman¡¯s eyes widened further, and her expression shifted to one of reverent delight.


    ¡°Welcome, welcome!¡± The woman¡¯s tone was breathless with excitement as the sounds of locks tumbling and bolts sliding filled the air. A moment later, Casselia felt a subtle shift in the ward scheme¡ªthey had been granted entry. ¡°Nessa of the Dremna Clan greets you, Lord Harbinger, Lady Crownless, and Lord Archivist.¡±


    Nessa stepped fully into view, her frame robust and wrapped in garments of dazzling color. Threads of every hue interwove in complex patterns, the designs evoking stories that seemed to shift with her movements. Kiel, Casselia noted. Her clothing marks her as one of the Silklands¡¯ tribes. And yet, she¡¯s bound herself to Dornogor? She must excel at something unusual to become an Eidolon here¡ªlikely something tied to beasts.


    ¡°And what¡¯s this? The tigers have cubs of their own to watch!¡± Nessa exclaimed with delight, casting an appraising look at the younger members of the group. Her gaze lingered on Sylva¡¯s eyes and Lotem¡¯s sturdy frame before landing on Hadrian with curious interest. ¡°Welcome, children of the Mandate. Welcome!¡±


    She whirled, her cloak spinning behind her in a flourish, and beckoned them inside. Casselia followed, taking in the space¡ªa large, open room that felt more like a home than a training facility. Two well-worn couches filled one corner, a low table between them covered with playing cards, bottles of paint, and brushes. In the kitchen area, steam curled lazily from a pot boiling over a small fire. Everything about the room spoke of a life lived in isolation, comfortably but without pretense. Casselia suspected Nessa hadn¡¯t seen company in decades.


    ¡°Now, sit, please. I¡¯ll throw on some tea, and then you can tell me how I can help you.¡±


    ¡°We¡ª¡± Casselia began, only for Nessa to cut her off with a firm wave of her hand.


    ¡°Tea first,¡± Nessa said. ¡°Then conversation, Casselia. This lot¡ª¡± she gestured absently toward the younger members of the group¡ª¡°tells me enough to know you¡¯re not in such a hurry that you can¡¯t sit for a cup with one of your biggest fans.¡±


    ¡°Casselia,¡± Alsarana mock-whispered, leaning closer, ¡°we have fans.¡±


    ¡°And why wouldn¡¯t you?¡± Nessa grinned, her eyes gleaming with mischief. ¡°You¡¯re heroes. It would have been¡­ what, three hundred and seventy years ago? We had a problem with a flock of Nightfeather Vultures draining our wards, which led to attacks from Simians and other beasts.¡±


    ¡°Ah, yes,¡± Alsarana hissed, preening under the attention. ¡°There was a Nightfeather Vulture Lord, if I recall correctly. Dear Krinka had recently been assassinated, and Casselia had been¡­ what, gone for a few years by then?¡± He shot Casselia a glance, his fanged grin widening. ¡°We do get assassinated a lot, don¡¯t we?¡±


    Casselia couldn¡¯t help a soft snort as she settled onto one of the couches. ¡°What did you do?¡± Hadrian asked eagerly from behind her, his curiosity clearly piqued.


    Casselia sighed, recognizing the spark of interest in Hadrian¡¯s eyes. She¡¯d heard far too many of Alsarana¡¯s tales to hold much interest in them anymore. But Hadrian¡¯s fascination reminded her of herself as a younger woman¡ªwhen every story seemed to hold a lesson waiting to be unraveled.


    Alsarana launched into the story with his usual flair for the dramatic. His voice rose and fell with practiced rhythm, his gestures broad and sweeping. He painted vivid pictures of the battle against the Nightfeather Vulture Lord, the chaotic skies filled with screeching predators, and the desperate fight to reclaim the wardstones.


    Casselia, however, tuned him out, her gaze drifting to Krinka, who sat beside her with a tired sigh of his own.


    ¡°It¡¯s been too long,¡± Krinka murmured, his voice quiet but warm. ¡°We need to find out what¡¯s delaying the [Venerate¡¯s] return. Waiting decades for you to awaken was¡­ hard. I forgot how much I missed Als¡¯ goofy bravado. And I missed this, Cass¡ªteaching a brilliant pupil, sharing stories.¡± He drew a deep breath, his expression softening. ¡°I missed you.¡±


    Casselia¡¯s lips twitched into a faint smile. ¡°This time will be different,¡± she said, her voice laced with resolve. ¡°This time, we will survive.¡± Her tone hardened as her mind turned to the [Procurator]. ¡°These kids¡ª¡± she glanced toward Hadrian, Sylva, and Lotem, gathered around Alsarana, listening with rapt attention¡ª¡°they have the raw potential we need. And the ambition to use it.¡±


    Krinka¡¯s gaze followed hers, lingering on the trio. His eyes softened with the quiet wisdom of someone who had seen generations rise and fall. ¡°We just need to survive,¡± he whispered.


    ¡°We just need to survive,¡± Casselia echoed softly, the weight of centuries pressing down on her words.


    She sighed and met Krinka¡¯s gaze, the unspoken understanding passing between them. ¡°Please ensure our accommodations are set up with Nessa. We should be back before dark.¡±


    Krinka raised an eyebrow questioningly, causing the thick, bushy hairs to wriggle with the motion. Casselia gave him a brief nod of reassurance before rising from her seat.


    Casselia stood and turned to the group, listening to Alsarana¡¯s story with rapt attention, their expressions a mixture of awe and amusement. Hadrian hung on every word, his enthusiasm infectious. Sylva appeared more skeptical, though a flicker of curiosity danced in her eyes. Lotem, as ever, remained grounded¡ªwatchful, attentive, weighing each tale against the reality he knew.


    Casselia allowed herself a moment to take in the scene. It felt¡­ right. Familiar, even. The past and future converging in a shared moment of storytelling and camaraderie.


    ¡°Hadrian,¡± Casselia said, interrupting Als¡¯ retelling. ¡°Come. We have things that need doing.¡±


    Hadrian looked back to Alsarana longingly before shifting his focus back to Casselia with a smile. Sylva and Lotem looked worried, but neither voiced their concerns. Casselia was glad to see she had earned that much trust at least. She turned and strode from the building, pausing for a few heartbeats to let Hadrian catch up.


    ¡°Where are we going?¡±


    ¡°We need to talk, and I think I have the perfect venue for the chat.¡± Casselia allowed a sharp grin to cross her face. ¡°How do you feel about heights?¡±


    Hadrian¡¯s grin of his own was more than enough of a response for her.


    <hr>


    Hadrian trailed Casselia as she strode purposefully through the city, his eyes pivoting from one exotic sight to the next. He marveled at a monkey on a rooftop with brown and red fur that reminded him of the red tree squirrels back home. He walked hesitantly past a man leading one of the giant ground sloths down the throughway, though Casselia gave neither the man nor sloth more than a contemptuous glance. It was as though Casselia thought nothing of the wonders surrounding them. Hadrian assumed that for someone like her, these were hardly wonders at all.


    He felt a thrill as he realized that she truly was leading him to the massive tree that occupied the center of the village as they entered the tree¡¯s shadow, cast across the city as the sun began to descend, its orange glow lighting the sky and casting the clouds in hues of red and gold. Are we going to climb the tree? Hadrian wondered, a fierce anticipation twisting in his gut.


    ¡°Are we¡­ going to climb the tree?¡± he asked as they drew close to the tree, refusing to let the anticipation build any longer. Casselia turned and met his eyes with a brilliant smile, looking for all the world as though she wanted nothing less than to be here with him.


    ¡°We don¡¯t have to¡­¡± she said, before breaking into a laugh at the panic that crossed his face. ¡°It has been centuries since I have mentored a Kiel candidate raised in the canopies, but I could never forget the gleam in their eyes whenever we had the chance to look out upon the world from high above.¡± She paused and then added with a gentle chuckle, ¡°If Krinka¡¯s skills didn¡¯t tell me differently, I might think that you Kiel are all part avian, as much as you love the sky.¡±


    ¡°Guilty as charged,¡± Hadrian beamed at Casselia, anticipation transitioning into excitement at her words. They were going to climb the tree, and he could take in the view from the canopy for the first time since he had left home. The thought sobered him for just a moment as he processed a flash of longing for his parents, for his village, for the endless mists of home. Hadrian felt his robe expand, just slightly, with his longing, and he felt the homesickness recede, if just a little.


    ¡°Now, we don¡¯t exactly have permission to climb the tree, so we will want to climb as fast as possible. Don¡¯t want to cause any alarm, and local Eidolons are unlikely to take kindly to anything that disrupts their normal routines. Even for the Eidolons of Aslavain, that may be a step too far.¡±


    ¡°And you¡¯re sure we can climb anyway? What if they do see us?¡±


    ¡°Just let me worry about that. It would cause Krinka a headache or three if he were forced to complete the proper paperwork and send appropriate recompense to the parties offended by our willful actions,¡± Casselia shrugged as though that were no worry at all. Hadrian guessed that for them, it wasn¡¯t.


    ¡°What¡¯s the plan then, oh great [Venerate] of the empire?¡± Hadrian asked with a smile.


    ¡°See if you can keep up,¡± Casselia said before breaking into a sprint, racing ahead of Hadrian in a blur of motion. Hadrian froze for a moment and then broke into a sprint of his own, trailing his mentor as she laughed and called over her shoulder.


    ¡°Even Krinka could beat you at that pace!¡±


    After the journey on foot from Tir Na Nog¡¯s trial to Dornogor, Hadrian understood just how much of an insult she had just levied, and he found himself pushing his legs to carry him just a bit farther with every step. She may be able to outpace me on foot, but no way can she climb faster than me, he thought as Casselia reached the base of the tree and paused, looking at the worn bark for a path upwards. Hadrian reached the trunk moments later, launching himself at the trunk and feeling his hands grip the bark and pull him upwards in a rush.


    Remembering Casselia¡¯s warning about being seen, he prodded his robe with a thought, and fog began to billow from him in a stream. He wasn¡¯t sure if it was any less conspicuous than simply climbing up directly, but the fog reminded him of home and drifted down to block Casselia¡¯s vision. Hadrian couldn¡¯t bear the thought of losing their impromptu race, not when climbing was involved. He hoped the fog would slow her, even if just a little.


    Hadrian began to rapidly ascend the trunk, his hands easily gripping the textured bark of the tree, and his feet finding easy purchase to launch him upwards with every lunge. With every foot he ascended, Hadrian felt his sense of inner calm deepen. He could almost imagine that he was home. Climbing through the fog, feeling the bark beneath his fingers, savoring the fresh air high above the city as he drew in deep gasps to fuel his muscles as he pushed himself to the brink of his abilities. He was doing it. He was beating Casselia.


    By the time he was halfway up the trunk of the mighty tree, he was fully immersed in the gray fog billowing from his robe. Even if Hadrian wanted to, he wasn¡¯t sure he would be able to see Casselia were he to glance down, not that he needed to. Not anymore. [Fogbound Perception] alerted him to movement through the fog to his right, and he couldn¡¯t help but feel a pang of confusion as he realized that Casselia was about to pass him.


    ¡°You will have to move faster than that to beat the [Herald of Heroes],¡± Casselia called as she climbed past him. Hadrian paused, then with a grin threw himself back into the contest, pushing his muscles to give him every drop of energy they could. A smile warred with his gasping breaths as he trailed Casselia¡¯s leaping ascent towards the canopies where the branches spread in all directions. He missed this, more than he had even realized. He hadn¡¯t felt this good in weeks.


    Casselia reached the canopy several breaths ahead of him, pulling herself upwards to sit on a branch wide enough to fit them both comfortably, jutting horizontally out from the trunk of the tree. Hadrian pulled himself onto the branch to join her. They took a few moments to recover their breath, both taking in heaving gulps of air before Casselia broke the silence.


    ¡°You would have beat me if I hadn¡¯t used one of my skills. I swear you climb faster than you move on the ground,¡± Casselia shook her head ruefully. ¡°I swear you Kiel-born candidates are part Simian sometimes.¡±


    She used a skill? Hadrian found he rather liked that realization. It felt as though he had won, even if she had technically beaten him. It wasn¡¯t like he had any skills related to climbing. He didn¡¯t need to cheat.


    ¡°Where did you get a climbing skill?¡± he asked, curious. Casselia and Krinka didn¡¯t seem the types to have spent time in the canopies, not climbing them at least. Hadrian still wasn¡¯t the most certain how their skills were determined, but he was relatively confident that the Sulphen would only award climbing skills to those who actually climbed.


    ¡°It¡¯s no climbing skill at all,¡± Casselia replied with a smirk. ¡°[Shared Mastery] grants me the instincts and base abilities of my students when I need them. Even then, you gave me a real challenge.¡±


    ¡°You can just match my skills in¡­ anything I could do?¡± Hadrian asked, suddenly curious.


    Casselia shrugged as though it was no real magic to wonder over. ¡°For now, it¡¯s mainly helpful for niche skills that you all possess but I have yet to acquire. Later on it is essential in training you in far more nuanced skillsets. Mentorship requires some degree of excellence; the skill merely grants me that excellence temporarily.¡±


    Casselia paused, glaring at a bird that descended to land on the branch across from them. Its feathers were a dark brown with a curved beak that formed a hook that looked sharp enough to cut. Hadrian wasn¡¯t familiar with the species, but before he could ask Casselia what it was, she began to make deep, almost resonant, hissing noises that sounded like Alsarana. At the noise, the bird in front of them¡ªand, Hadrian realized, every other bird in the tree¡ªascended in a sudden panic.


    ¡°Good riddance,¡± Casselia muttered under her breath before turning back to Hadrian.


    ¡°Did you just hiss and scare every bird nearby?¡± he asked hesitantly, still unsure if he had understood what he just saw.


    ¡°Triumvirates get access to shared skills. That is one of Krinka¡¯s that I can access,¡± she shrugged absently before adding under her breath. ¡°They should be glad I was the one to use it and not Krinka or Als. They would have killed at least a few of the creatures.¡±


    ¡°What is your problem with birds anyway?¡± Hadrian asked. Krinka had refused to elaborate on the question when Hadrian had first asked, and he still hadn¡¯t gotten a good answer to the apparent fixation on birds that the scholar¡ªand his triumvirate, apparently¡ªheld.


    ¡°We all bear the scars of our service in different ways. Krinka¡¯s hatred comes out of the Beast Wars and the horrors that we faced during those decades.¡± Casselia glanced at Hadrian and paused. ¡°Did your village teach you¡­ anything about the Beast Wars?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s when the Simians first ascended, right?¡±


    ¡°When Apalarakan rose in mist, a ghost beneath the silver sky. The Legions vowed his reign to end, before the year¡¯s first light would die,¡± Casselia spoke with a slow intentionality that reminded Hadrian of Sylva when she recited her favorite of the Imperial Poems to him. As the verse ended, Casselia¡¯s lips twisted upwards in a gentle smile, and she continued, ¡°The Beast Wars didn¡¯t create the Simians, not technically. Apalarakan was a Lord of the Silverback Gorillas that inhabited the Foglands before he grew his crown and ascended to become a Beast King. The Simians that you know are all the descendants of his meddling in the primate tribes of the forest.¡±


    ¡°And some of the Beast Kings that ascended after Apalarakan were¡­ birds?¡± Hadrian asked uncertainly. ¡°You fought those ascended bird Kings and are all still bitter about it?¡±


    Casselia let out a ringing laugh that seemed to hang in the air. Hadrian wondered what he had said¡ªhad he misunderstood?


    ¡°Sorry,¡± she said as her laughter faded. ¡°I forget sometimes how long it¡¯s been since the Beast Wars.¡± Casselia leaned forward on the branch, almost conspiratorially, and added, ¡°Krinka told me that Sylva has memorized not only our Imperial Poem, but the majority of our exploits in the Beast Wars. Ask her to recount them for you sometime.¡±


    That was something that Hadrian could look forward to. Any excuse to have Sylva tell him stories was good enough for him, especially if those same stories were about his mentors and their past.


    ¡°Now, we didn¡¯t race up this trunk to recount ancient history or my personal grudges with fowl,¡± she said, her eyes sparkling. ¡°Hadrian, you have, however accidentally, accepted a duel three days from now with one of the Sect of Silken Grace. I had hoped with my rules¡±¡ªshe paused, giving Hadrian what he hoped was a mock glare¡ª¡°to delay what is to come. But fate is never kind to those with potential, and the Sulphen loves to create a challenge. I should have known better than to expect a month of peace to train uninterrupted following your experience in Tir Na Nog.¡±


    ¡°And now?¡± Hadrian asked, suddenly worried about the days to come.


    ¡°Now? We have two primary options. Regardless of what we do from here, you are going to receive challenges to duels like a moth drawn to flame. Now that news will be spreading that one of this year¡¯s three [Squires] is in Dornogor and accepting challenges. Trust me when I tell you that stealing your [Squire of Carven Bone] class is a prize that is hard for some to resist. I suspect that by month¡¯s end there will be a suspicious number of duelists with no affiliation for beasts who travel to Dornogor just to fight you and catch Rovan¡¯s eye.¡±


    ¡°What are the options?¡± Hadrian asked.


    ¡°Like most paths in life, we can go around the obstacle or we can go through it. We could always leave Dornogor¡ªthe two of us at least¡ªand return days before the contest to compete with Lotem and Sylva. It is the only path that ensures that, at least until we reach Ylfenhold, you will maintain your [Squire] class.¡±


    ¡°Just leave?¡± Hadrian asked. The idea of simply leaving Lotem and Sylva behind in Dornogor to hide from his problems didn¡¯t feel right. ¡°My Pa always liked to say that the only way to get stronger was to kill things that are stronger than yourself. I¡¯d imagine that dueling folks stronger than myself fills the same niche.¡± Casselia nodded gently, a faint smile pulling at her lips, drawing her cheeks upwards. ¡°I imagine that the second option is closer to that?¡± Hadrian added.


    ¡°I cannot wait to meet your Pa someday, Hadrian,¡± she said, prompting a smile from him to match her own. ¡°And your Pa had the right of it. If we stay in Dornogor, I will expect you to not only accept every challenge but to dominate them. Scions from across the empire are going to want to prove that they are better than you. Our goal is to make it clear as crystal that no one in Aslavain this cycle is your equal in the ring.¡±


    ¡°Do you,¡± he hesitated, ¡°do you think I am good enough for that?¡±


    To his relief, Casselia took his question seriously, seeming to weigh the question until she was confident in her answer. After a few moments of silence, she spoke.


    ¡°I do,¡± she said simply, as though the admission needed no further explanation. Hadrian leaned forward on the branch, his legs dangling in the air as he gave Casselia the full of his attention.


    ¡°Hadrian, your parents trained you in the fundamentals about as well as anyone could. They gave you a broad foundation of understanding of not just one weapon but a wide enough variety to allow Rovan to award you an armory skill. You have received enough training from the Luminaries to have strong emotional controls and perspective in place. You were selected by Rovan Khal himself and given a preliminary class that draws envy and challenge from leagues around. And that isn¡¯t even stating the most important factor.¡±


    ¡°What is?¡±


    Her eyes sparkled as she replied, ¡°Namely, you are my mentee. None of the my students are anything but the best.¡±


    ¡°What if you are wrong?¡± Hadrian asked hesitantly, his voice soft on the wind that rustled the leaves around them. ¡°I couldn¡¯t defeat Drakar on my own, not really. What if Meris or someone else is stronger than me?¡± He couldn¡¯t meet her gaze, looking down to the ground far below as he voiced his concerns. ¡°I¡­ I don¡¯t want to lose my class, Casselia. Rovan chose me; the idea of that being taken away frightens me.¡±


    ¡°That,¡± Casselia said softly, ¡°is how you know that this matters. Growth demands risk, Hadrian. Your class could be taken from you if you lose, that is true. But equally true is that a [Squire of Carven Bone] is supposed to risk their class to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that they deserve their title. Do you think you deserve to be the [Squire of Carven Bone]?¡±


    Hadrian looked thoughtful, the fear roiling within him falling away as he came to a realization. He wanted this. He wanted to prove himself. To prove that his parents taught him better than even a great sect of the empire. He wanted to prove to everyone that Cutra was a city worth knowing about.


    Casselia watched him carefully, her gaze unwavering, as though she could see the shift within him. She said nothing further, letting the silence stretch, letting him come to his own conclusions.


    He stood, balancing with arms outstretched as he walked further along the branch they were conversing on, feeling the thrill of the open air and the push of the breeze. The leaves whispered secrets to the wind, and the weight of his uncertainty lifted, carried away by the sky. Hadrian turned back to Casselia and spoke with newfound conviction.


    ¡°If you think that we can do it, I¡¯m in. My Ma said to trust the mentors that arrived in my life once they were gone. My Pa said to never back down from a challenge I thought I could handle. They will be proud of me when I tell them about my time in Dornogor. I will make sure of it.¡±


    Casselia¡¯s lips curled into a proud smile. ¡°That¡¯s the spirit.¡±


    From far below, loud voices echoed, sharp and indignant. Casselia¡¯s smile turned rueful as she glanced downward, her gaze cutting through the billowing fog. ¡°Seems our little adventure hasn¡¯t gone unnoticed. Fog pouring from the sky might be a bit¡­ unconventional, for Dornogor.¡±


    Hadrian flushed, his cheeks burning as he realized just how conspicuous the drifting fog must have appeared. He opened his mouth to apologize, but Casselia¡¯s soft, genuine laugh stopped him short.


    Was she happy about the angry shouts from below?


    ¡°Since we¡¯ve caught their attention,¡± Casselia said, her tone shifting into something sharper, more commanding, ¡°it¡¯s time for you to introduce yourself to Dornogor properly. Chanvar wants you in the spotlight because he believes you¡¯ll stumble. He thinks that every duel will weaken you¡ªand, by extension, me. I think it¡¯s time we show him how wrong he is.¡±


    Hadrian wasn¡¯t entirely sure what she was implying, but standing there, balanced on a branch hundreds of feet above the ground, he felt something shift inside him. A leap of faith. He steadied his footing against the gentle wind rustling through the leaves and turned to her, his voice steady.


    ¡°What do you need from you?¡±


    Casselia¡¯s grin widened, gleaming with the kind of mischief he was beginning to recognize. ¡°Once we¡¯re on the ground, find someone in the crowd¡ªa candidate who clearly has a problem with you. Make eye contact. That¡¯s all.¡±


    Hadrian frowned. ¡°Just¡­ eye contact?¡±


    ¡°That tells me who to antagonize into challenging you.¡± Casselia leaned forward, her tone conspiratorial. ¡°I won¡¯t take the choice away from you¡ªnot for your first duel in Aslavain, at least. But going into the duel in three days without any prior experience is a sure path to failure. The best way to improve is to practice.¡± She nodded toward the distant voices. ¡°I¡¯m certain someone down there will be happy to oblige.¡±


    Before Hadrian could process the full weight of her plan, Casselia stood and pulled something from a pouch at her belt. She tossed it to him¡ªa small feather wrapped in an intricate coil of wire. He caught it, turning it over in his hands, curiosity sparking in his gaze.


    ¡°A talisman,¡± Casselia explained, watching him. ¡°It slows falls from any height. Useful if Alsarana needs to form a flying construct. Or¡­¡± She glanced toward the ground far below, a wicked glint in her eyes. ¡°For when we want to make an entrance.¡±


    Hadrian barely had time to react before Casselia pulled a second talisman from her belt. With a swift, practiced motion, she closed the distance between them, gripped his arm firmly, and¡ªwithout a word of warning¡ªleapt from the branch, dragging him with her.


    The air ripped past them in a dizzying rush. Hadrian bit down a scream, his heart hammering in his chest as they plummeted through the fog. The wind tore at his robes, the leaves of the mighty tree blurring past in a whirl of green and brown.


    Casselia¡¯s laughter rang out over the roar of the wind¡ªa wild, exhilarating sound that sent a thrill through him.

 Chapter Twenty One: Escalation

    Among the many cults, churches, and sects scattered across the Sul Empire, none are as feared or as misunderstood as the Penitent of the Gondaran Marsh. Scholars whisper that their burn-scarred flesh¡ªetched with patterns meant to mimic sacred art¡ªforms a grotesque parody of beauty, admired only by the Penitent themselves and the Sunborn who share their reverence for flame. Yet to those unbranded by tradition, these scars appear as nothing short of blasphemy worn on skin.


    Theologians claim that the Penitent were cast out for their heretical creed¡ªthe worship of a ¡°mundane flame,¡± unbridled and untamed. Even the Sunborn, who revere fire as divine, recoil at such unorthodox zealotry. Yet in truth, it is neither fire nor flesh that damns the Penitent¡ªit is their failure to kindle trust. Trust, like flame, must be earned. Only time will tell if the Penitent can ever burn bright enough to be deemed worthy of the Sul Empire.


    ¨C Meditations on the Northern Tribes by Ayentalar Avelneb, Scholar of Tuvashar


    The air tore past Hadrian and Casselia in a dizzying rush¡ªcold, biting, and relentless. He clenched his jaw to stifle a scream, his heart hammering in his chest. Together, they plunged through the dense fog that moments earlier had clung to his robe, while the scent of earth and damp leaves filled his lungs. The wind whipped at his clothes as blurred leaves spun past in a whirl of green and brown, as if the very world were unraveling into motion.


    Casselia¡¯s laughter pierced the wind¡ªa wild, unrestrained sound that sent a thrilling shiver through Hadrian¡¯s chest despite his fear. Time warped as they plummeted, each second stretching and twisting like a surreal dream. He braced himself, muscles tensing as his instincts screamed that a harness would suddenly catch him, halting his descent. But in a heart-stopping moment, he realized there was no harness, no safety¡ªonly the relentless rush of air and a blur of spinning leaves.


    For the first decade of his life, Hadrian had worn a harness that tethered him to the towering branches above Cutra. Every child in the village did¡ªone wrong step meant plunging into the fog that permanently cloaked the forest floor. He remembered slipping dozens of times, his stomach lurching with terror as the world seemed to drop away¡ªonly to be yanked back by the harness in a violent jolt that stole his breath and left him suspended in midair.


    The jolt never came. Instead, panic surged in Hadrian¡¯s chest and his breath caught as he instinctively braced for impact. His heart pounded¡ªand then, as if in answer, Casselia¡¯s bright, carefree laughter echoed beside him. This wasn¡¯t Cutra. There was no harness at all¡ªonly the talisman¡¯s fading magic keeping him aloft. Gradually, his grip slackened, and a shaky laugh escaped him as their fall slowed to a drift, like leaves borne on a gentle breeze. When the talisman in his hand crumbled to dust, its power spent, Hadrian stared in awe at the remnants, marveling at the casual destruction of something once so potent.


    Hadrian drew a slow, steadying breath as he scanned the clearing. The crowd at the base of the tree was larger than he¡¯d expected¡ªnearly fifty people clustered in loose groups, some murmuring in hushed tones while others stared openly. Most were candidates his age, clad in sturdy traveling clothes and practical gear that spoke of hopeful ambition mixed with uncertainty. Yet amid them, the Eidolons stood apart, their very presence exuding authority.


    Among the crowd, perhaps a dozen Eidolons mingled, each exuding the quiet, assured authority of those accustomed to command. Their clothing was noticeably richer, their postures impeccably straight, and their gazes held a chill that set them apart. The candidates exchanged hushed whispers and nervous glances, as if awaiting a signal. Even without a word, Hadrian could sense that power here belonged to the Eidolons.


    From the knot of onlookers, a man stepped forward with deliberate grace, parting the crowd as a prow slices through water. His silver hair gleamed in the dappled light, falling past his shoulders, while a bison fur cloak draped over one side, its dark folds trailing like a mantle of authority. The heavy scent of tanned leather and smoke clung to him¡ªearthy, familiar, and unmistakable. His lean, weathered face bore sharp cheekbones and a hawkish nose, lending him a predatory air. When his pale-gray eyes locked onto Casselia with cool intensity, they seemed to measure, assess, and judge¡ªall without a visible weapon to underscore his silent command.


    ¡°The great tree is off limits to both candidates and their mentors¡ª[Venerate] or not,¡± the man declared, his voice measured yet laced with disapproval. His posture was stiff and formal, as though he did not relish confrontation but was duty-bound to enforce the rule.


    Casselia stepped forward with a measured nod and a faint smile at the corner of her lips. Every deliberate, graceful step served as a silent declaration of control. As she began to speak, Hadrian could only marvel at the authority she wielded¡ªher words cutting through the tension like a finely honed blade.


    ¡°I am pleased to see that the Eidolons of Dornogor take rules so seriously,¡± Casselia said, her voice light yet tinged with subtle irony. ¡°It speaks well of you.¡± She paused, letting her words linger in the air. Then she continued, her gaze flicking steadily toward Hadrian as if sharing a knowing secret: ¡°After my student was tricked into a duel on his very first day here, I had almost assumed that Dornogor had forgotten the rules of hospitality.¡±


    The man¡¯s jaw tightened as his hands curled into loose fists at his sides. Around him, the gathered Eidolons shifted uneasily, their discomfort rippling through the crowd like a wave. Unease twisted in Hadrian¡¯s chest¡ªhad the Eidolons made a mistake by allowing Meris to issue that challenge? He hadn¡¯t even thought of the Eidolons as involved; he didn¡¯t recall seeing any of them at all.


    ¡°Are we nothing more than shepherds to you?¡± His voice sharpened, slicing through the murmurs of the crowd. ¡°No mere enforcers of decorum? We do not control the flock here, nor do we restrict youthful competition!¡±


    Casselia¡¯s gaze swept slowly and deliberately over the man, her eyes lingering just long enough to force an uncomfortable shift in his stance. Then, turning to the gathered Eidolons, her expression remained cool and unreadable. When she finally spoke, her voice carried the bite of frost¡ªa quiet, cutting chill that seemed to drain the very warmth from the air. Had Hadrian always known her to be so formidable? Or was this newly imperious side of Casselia something entirely unexpected?


    ¡°As an Eidolon of the Sul Empire, you are nothing less than a shepherd for the youth,¡± Casselia stated, her tone as steady as stone. ¡°That is your charge¡ªto serve your shrine, your empire, and all those placed under your care. And yet, here you are, assigned merely to oversee the youth in Aslavain. Unless you are leading one of the three trials, you remain a shepherd¡ªnothing more.¡±


    Hadrian had never been trained in diplomacy. His parents always said that such skills were best left to scholars and courtiers¡ªan art for those well-versed in the empire¡¯s customs and laws, not for warriors. Yet as he listened to Casselia¡¯s razor-sharp words, his unease grew. Her statements cut through the air with an unforgiving precision, leaving no room for rebuttal. The candidates exchanged nervous glances, while the Eidolons openly wore their displeasure, their eyes growing colder with each syllable.


    ¡°You claim¡±¡ªCasselia continued, her voice unwavering and imperious, leaving no room for interruption¡ª¡°that this tree is off limits even to the [Venerate]. I say otherwise.¡± She paused, allowing her words to drape over the assembled crowd like a veil of judgment. ¡°And unless my eyes deceive me, there is no one here with the authority to contradict me.¡±


    Hadrian¡¯s eyes widened as a spark of realization ignited within him. He had never seen Casselia so cold, commanding, and utterly unyielding. Her words cracked through the air like a whip¡ªa force that brooked no argument. Though she stood nearly a head shorter than the Eidolon before her, it was unmistakable who wielded greater power. In that moment, she transcended the role of mentor and assumed the aura of legend¡ªa true [Venerate] of the empire, unshaken in the face of opposition.


    ¡°I am a Clawmaster and administrator of the Trial of the Hunt this cycle,¡± the man announced, his voice rising in frustration. ¡°And I have more than enough authority to¡ª¡±


    His voice trembled with barely contained frustration as his fists curled at his sides¡ªsearching for something, anything, to grasp. But before he could shout, Casselia lifted her hand in a silent command that cleaved his anger like a knife through cloth. Her calm, unyielding words then fell over the room with the weight of a falling stone.


    ¡°No. You have no authority to command me,¡± Casselia stated, her voice steady as it cut through the murmurs of the crowd. ¡°I am one of the true [Venerate] of the Empire¡ªthere is an Imperial Poem in my name. I¡¯ve trained emperors, slain Beast Kings, conquered Eternal Domiciles; shrined cities have knelt before me.¡±


    Her gaze hardened as she stepped forward deliberately, her presence descending upon the crowd like a rising storm. ¡°You? You¡¯re nothing more than a provincial dog¡ªone who hunted well enough to collar himself. Speak of authority again, and I will remind you what it means to kneel.¡±


    The man shifted his weight, shoulders stiffening in a vain effort to hold his ground, while his gaze darted to the crowd in search of support that never came. His jaw clenched, and tension etched deeper lines into his face as he weighed his options: retreat in disgrace or press forward and risk humiliation.


    Casselia remained unmoving, holding his gaze with a calm, unyielding stare as the moment stretched heavy with expectation. Gradually, his resolve crumbled and he looked away. For a heartbeat, her expression softened into one of quiet amusement before she turned her attention to Hadrian, one eyebrow arched in silent command.


    Eye contact. The silent command flared in Hadrian¡¯s mind, echoing Casselia¡¯s earlier instruction. He quickly scanned the crowd, his eyes flitting from face to face. Find someone who has a problem with me, he remembered.


    A Kiel woman in intricate silk robes met his gaze for a fleeting moment before hastily turning away, her expression tightening as if caught in the act. The way she clutched her robes¡ªknuckles white with tension¡ªbetrayed her unease.


    Next, a pale-skinned man in a fur cloak woven with finger-like bones met Hadrian¡¯s gaze head-on. His eyes gleamed with a restless, eager energy¡ªexcitable yet devoid of malice, offering no real challenge.


    Neither was what Hadrian sought.


    Hadrian¡¯s gaze drifted past the rest of the crowd until it fixed on a lone figure at the edge of the clearing¡ªa tall, shirtless man clutching a lantern, with a sword sheathed across his back. His skin was a tapestry of scars; brands spiraled across his chest, arms, and neck like molten veins, each mark etched deep as if by ritual. These twisting, coiling patterns told a story of pain and devotion burned permanently into his flesh.


    The man¡¯s eyes burned with a steady, unblinking fury¡ªas though he had long awaited Hadrian¡¯s arrival.


    This one. The fire-burned man will be my first challenge.


    Hadrian held the man¡¯s gaze, its weight pressing down on him like a brand. The scars told a tale of agony endured and a faith unbroken¡ªand in that moment, Hadrian knew he could not afford to underestimate this man.


    ¡°The Eidolons of Dornogor have made their stance on duels abundantly clear,¡± Casselia declared, her voice carrying effortlessly across the clearing. ¡°So here is my offer: every day until the upcoming contest, my triumvirate will stand ready. If any candidate without a [Venerate] mentor manages to defeat my students, we will leave Dornogor¡ªand swear never to return for the remainder of this cycle in Aslavain.¡±


    Locking eyes with the leading Eidolon, Casselia intoned, ¡°I respect nothing except results. Dornogor¡¯s Eidolons claim to be warriors¡ªnot mere caretakers. Prove it. Or be content to mind children while true champions rise. If not one among you can train a candidate capable of besting my own, then you have no claim to your title¡ªnor your place in this empire.¡±


    ¡°By whose authority¡ª¡± he began, his voice rising in frustrated protest as he took a tentative half step forward.


    Casselia cut him off with one swift, slashing gesture¡ªher hand a final command that curled as if to grasp the very air, silencing him before he could complete his retort.


    ¡°Enough.¡± With deliberate calm, Casselia turned and fixed her gaze on the scarred, burned man Hadrian had noted earlier. ¡°Ah, a Penitent.¡± Her voice softened, laced with a mix of curiosity and disdain. ¡°Tell me, burned one¡ªdo you fear the fire you worship? Or will you stand against someone trained by the Luminaries and prove that your faith is more than mere ash and char?¡±


    The man straightened, his spine rigid and his features twisted by fury into something sharp and unyielding. Hadrian wondered whether the intensity in the man¡¯s eyes was born of the fires that had scarred him¡ªor if such intensity was simply the price paid by those who scar themselves.


    Hadrian¡¯s stomach tightened as he watched Casselia. This wasn¡¯t the mentor he knew¡ªthe calm, measured guide who always defused tension with well-chosen words. No, there was now steel in her¡ªa warrior stepping into battle with words as sharp as blades. She clashed with strangers who had done no harm, her authority slicing through the air like a weapon. Hadrian wasn¡¯t sure whether he was awed or unnerved by this change.


    The burned man¡¯s voice, though soft, carried through the clearing with unwavering conviction. ¡°Flame destroys. Flame purifies.¡± He let each steady, deliberate syllable hang in the air before declaring, ¡°But flame does not fear.¡±


    His gaze never wavered from Casselia¡¯s. ¡°I will accept your duel, [Venerate]. And when I have reduced the Kiel to kindling, you will rue the day you mocked my faith.¡±


    ¡°On behalf of my sworn Triumvirate,¡± Casselia declared, her voice ringing with finality, ¡°I issue this challenge: a duel at noon in the dueling arena¡ªfirst blood, or surrender.¡±


    ¡°I, Zelvarn of Gulnara, accept your challenge,¡± he declared, his voice low yet steady. Lifting the lantern in his hand, he tilted it so that the flame flickered against the dark brands etched into his skin. Then, without another word, he turned and strode from the clearing¡ªeach deliberate step marking a path known only to him.


    Casselia¡¯s gaze swept across the gathered candidates, her expression cold and unyielding. When she spoke, her voice sliced through the murmurs like a sharpened blade.


    ¡°If Dornogor¡¯s Eidolons are truly honorable and capable, have your own students step forward. We will issue challenges at noon each day in the arena¡ªwin, and they will earn the title of [Squire of Carven Bone].¡± Her gaze lingered, sharp as ice.


    She turned to Hadrian with a nod and a faint, knowing smile. ¡°Come. We have training to do¡ªafter all, it takes more than words to tame beasts.¡±


    Hadrian followed her in silence, his mind racing. As the crowd parted for Zelvarn¡ªunwilling to touch him¡ªtheir lingering gazes fell on his scarred back even after he vanished from sight. In those scars, Hadrian realized, lay power¡ªmore than mere pain; they were a testament to what had been earned.


    As the crowd began to disperse, their murmurs wove through the clearing like the last wisps of fog on the wind. Yet Hadrian caught more than one lingering stare¡ªcurious, calculating, weighing him against what they had seen. He squared his shoulders, vowing silently: Whatever comes next, whoever Dornogor sends against me, I will not falter. I will meet them head-on and earn Casselia¡¯s faith.


    <hr>


    Sylva watched Hadrian and Casselia depart the Mandate headquarters, her calm composure masking a tension born of scholarly curiosity and gnawing unease. When the door thudded shut behind them, she forced herself to face Alsarana as he resumed his tale of battling the Nightfeather Vulture Lord. The Eidolon beside her leaned forward, rapt¡ªbut Sylva¡¯s attention drifted like smoke from a brazier.


    Why did Casselia pull him away? Training? Discipline? Her nails bit into her palms as memories of Meris¡¯ social ambush stung¡ªnot just the failure, but the painful realization that she¡¯d become the sort of liability her Sect elders would have whipped raw. Casselia¡¯s rebuke had been kinder than the elders¡¯, yet the shame tasted all too familiar.


    Abruptly, she rose and bowed to Alsarana with practiced, Sect-trained precision. ¡°I request leave to walk the city¡ªunless it is deemed perilous.¡±


    The naga¡¯s serpentine sway paused. Before he could respond, Krinka barked, ¡°Nessa? Dangers?¡±


    ¡°So long as you don¡¯t leave the city, it¡¯ll be safe enough,¡± Nessa replied, her gaze steady on Sylva. After a brief pause, she added, ¡°Keep an eye on the animals, girl¡ªthey sense danger better than you think.¡±


    ¡°The birds, better,¡± Krinka muttered before adding, ¡°Don¡¯t stay out past dark. Training starts early tomorrow¡ªand if my gut¡¯s right, it¡¯ll be eventful.¡±


    ¡°Thank you,¡± Sylva said with a small nod as she turned toward the door, her steps measured and deliberate.


    Lotem rose, with Sabel standing on his bison-fur cloak. ¡°Company?¡± he asked, his tone light yet inviting.


    ¡°Will you be silent?¡±


    His grin answered before he could speak further. They¡¯d nearly reached the door when Alsarana called after them, ¡°No trysts within Triumvirates, children! Youth¡¯s fire burns bright, but¡ª¡±


    Sylva hadn¡¯t even entertained the notion¡ªand was mortified that Alsarana felt the need to mention it. Once the door swung shut, she turned to Lotem, her tone crisp and authoritative.


    ¡°Flesh is transient. You lack both the tailoring and the wit to tempt me. Do not, for a second, consider courting me.¡±


    ¡°Thank the Herd,¡± he drawled. ¡°I¡¯ve no interest in courting a living quilt¡ªyou¡¯d only clash with my rustic charm.¡± He plucked at his cloak with a self-mocking gesture.


    ¡°A living quilt?¡± Sylva¡¯s voice rose, sharper than she¡¯d meant it to be. ¡°You don¡¯t even have an aesthetic.¡± With a scoff, she gestured at his bison-fur cloak. ¡°Dead animal skin doesn¡¯t count. What¡¯s next¡ªare you going to tell me wool is better than silk?¡±


    ¡°First, wool is superior. Second¡ª¡± he nodded toward the street ahead, ¡°¡ªweren¡¯t you seeking silence?¡±


    ¡°It was imperative you understood there is no romantic interest between us,¡± she declared with a huff before muttering, ¡°The elders warned us about human men¡ªenough stories to keep me cautious.¡±


    Lotem¡¯s laughter boomed. ¡°I swear on my father¡¯s herds¡ªno romantic pursuit! It¡¯s bad for teamwork, and you¡¯re just not my type.¡± Sabel chirped in agreement from his shoulder.


    ¡°Now,¡± Lotem said, ¡°are we heading somewhere specific, or just wandering aimlessly?¡±


    Sylva shrugged. ¡°I was thinking aimless wandering¡ªunless you have somewhere in mind. My eyes are still adjusting after today.¡±


    Sylva¡¯s vision had sharpened¡ªas though the world had come into focus. In truth, she was actually seeing more. Streams of dark, translucent fog swirled around her, drifting like smoke caught in a breeze. She allowed her gaze to follow the shadows as they wove through the streets, their movements both aimless and deliberate.


    After a few minutes of silence, Lotem asked, ¡°Did that¡ªneedle in the eye¡ªhurt?¡± Sylva pulled her gaze from the swirling mist and glanced at him.


    ¡°The needle doesn¡¯t bother me¡ªit never has. Perks of being Silkborn, I guess.¡± She paused, her tone flattening. ¡°But the mana potion I dropped in my eye to finish the process? That felt like acid eating through me.¡±


    ¡°So now you can see magic?¡±


    ¡°One doesn¡¯t see ¡®magic,¡¯ Lotem. I see the Sulphen¡¯s influence on the world.¡±


    ¡°And that¡¯s not magic?¡±


    ¡°No, it¡¯s not.¡± Sylva straightened, her posture growing more reminiscent of Krinka as she modulated her tone to imitate the scholar. ¡°Magic, as you call it, is just the byproduct of using the Sulphen. The Sulphen is the soul of the world, and I see the ripples of its influence rather than the Sulphen itself.¡±


    ¡°So you see the Sulphen¡¯s influence?¡±


    ¡°Exactly.¡±


    ¡°And that¡¯s not magic.¡±


    ¡°Exactly.¡±


    ¡°But if you used that same influence you see to cast a spell, that would be magic.¡±


    ¡°I am glad you understand.¡±


    Lotem sighed and muttered, ¡°I should¡¯ve known better than to ask a [Mage] about magic.¡±


    ¡°[Thaumaturge],¡± she corrected with a faint smile. ¡°Now, let me focus.¡±


    Sylva squinted, her gaze narrowing on a patch of swirling fog ahead. The substance felt primal, tugging at something deep within her, as the strings in her chest tightened. In that moment, Lotem¡¯s distant voice faded into silence¡ªshe had asked for quiet, and now nothing else mattered.


    The inky substance drifted toward a nearby rooftop, and Sylva¡¯s eyes caught a black lemur with a tail tipped in vivid red¡ªas if dipped in blood. The lemur moved its tail in deliberate, painterly strokes, and the dark mist responded eagerly, swirling and shifting with fervor.


    With each stroke of its tail, the black mist surged upward, solidifying and shifting to mirror the lemur¡¯s vivid red tip. On the sixth stroke, the substance flashed crimson¡ªand then vanished. A triumphant screech erupted, soon followed by a cacophony of cries as black-and-white lemurs burst onto the rooftops, their forms erupting into view.


    ¡°Sylva,¡± Lotem said, his voice edged with exasperation. Meeting her eyes, he exhaled in relief before continuing, ¡°Next time, give me a heads-up before you stop in the middle of the street to stare at a monkey. I got halfway down the block before I realized you weren¡¯t there¡ªand then the monkeys started screaming! I thought something was wrong.¡±


    ¡°Lemurs,¡± Sylva corrected absently, her attention fixed on the creature¡¯s deliberate motions and the burst of magic from the Sulphen. It wasn¡¯t mere chance¡ªthis lemur was casting a spell. A basic incantation, perhaps, but unmistakably a spell.


    Sylva extended her hand, mimicking the lemur¡¯s gestures with precise intent. The dark mist trembled in response yet refused to coalesce further. It was clear that mere physical mimicry wasn¡¯t enough¡ªthe incantation required more than just motion.


    Sylva dissected the spell as Krinka had taught her in Tir Na Nog. The lemur¡¯s tail movements formed the incantation, instructing the Sulphen on how to manifest¡ªthe Word. The dark mist served as the spell¡¯s fuel, its Sacrifice. Am I lacking the same Will as the lemur? she wondered.


    Turning to Lotem, Sylva was startled to find him sitting on the ground, tossing cloth balls for Sabel to chase. He looked up, an eyebrow raised, as though silently urging her to explain what had just transpired.


    ¡°Back to the world of the living?¡± Lotem asked. ¡°You corrected me on lemurs and then went completely silent. So, did you figure out how that spell summoned a whole troop of lemurs?¡±


    ¡°Magic,¡± Sylva replied with a faint smile. ¡°I¡¯ve been trying to imitate the spell.¡±


    ¡°Now it¡¯s magic,¡± Lotem muttered, raising an inquisitive eyebrow. ¡°And?¡±


    Sylva shrugged and prepared to try again. Lotem fell silent as she raised her hand, carefully mimicking the lemur¡¯s gestures. This time, she channeled every ounce of her will into the spell¡ªa skill Krinka had always insisted was essential for every true spellcaster to develop their unique way of communicating with the Sulphen.


    In northern Malan, choirs sang magic into being¡ªtheir voices weaving each note into a command for the Sulphen. Meanwhile, the weaving guilds of the Kiel inscribed intricate, silken scripts to express their needs, and the Sulphen obliged. The Dion, for their part, carved their intent into bone or declared their truth aloud, bending reality to their will.


    When Sylva first trained in Tir Na Nog, she believed that Imperial Poems were the primary conduits for power. Now, however, she was coming to realize that the Elders had imposed their own methodologies and preconceptions upon her¡ªuntil Krinka showed her the truth.


    What mattered wasn¡¯t the method used to communicate with the Sulphen¡ªit was the authenticity of that method, born from conviction and expressed in a style uniquely her own. Sylva trusted her instincts and acted on what felt right, imposing her understanding upon the world and forging order from chaos.


    Sylva¡¯s hand traced the six deliberate gestures the lemur had made. For her, magic was knowable¡ªno mere beast could wield it in ways beyond her reach. Concentrating, she projected the lemurs¡¯ desires¡ªfood, warmth, companionship¡ªwith each measured stroke.A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    The dark mist shifted, coalescing into a gathering cloud that surged toward her. As she finished the incantation, a burst of energy left her breathless. In that instant, the mist burned away, and the air erupted with hoots and calls as the lemurs¡ªalready close by¡ªerupted into a chaotic ruckus.


    ¡°You¡¯ve definitely improved at magic,¡± Lotem said, a wry smile tugging at his lips. ¡°Only true talent could rival a mighty lemur. Now, can we keep moving? As much as I enjoy resting, we¡¯re in the middle of the street¡ªand these lemurs are a tad too active for my liking.¡±


    ¡°We may continue,¡± Sylva replied magnanimously, straightening her shoulders. ¡°Though I had no destination in mind.¡±


    ¡°How do you feel about getting a drink?¡±


    ¡°As in, a bar?¡± Sylva asked, her tone notably flat.


    ¡°Exactly. There¡¯s bound to be one nearby¡ªevery city has at least one good Bal bar. And Dornogor¡¯s a shrined city; they might even have airag.¡±


    ¡°We have better uses for our time,¡± Sylva said, her tone as flat as her disinterest in Lotem¡¯s exuberance.


    ¡°Like stopping in the street for minutes while I play with Sabel?¡± Lotem teased. ¡°Bars aren¡¯t just for drinks¡ªthey¡¯re about company, conversation, and intel. This town must be buzzing with gossip about the contest. We might even hear something about Meris.¡±


    Sylva glanced back at the rooftops¡ªnow swarming with lemurs¡ªand sighed. She could always return to practicing incantations later, but Lotem had a point: intelligence and information were key to success. She was confident in her own smarts, yet they still lacked crucial information. And if she could uncover something new about Meris and his role here, a little frivolity might just be worth it.


    ¡°Fine,¡± she said at last. ¡°One drink¡ªbut if they serve airag, you¡¯re explaining its purpose.¡±


    Lotem grinned, adjusting his cloak with a flourish. ¡°You¡¯ll love it. Trust me.¡±


    As they began walking, Sylva cast one last glance at the lemurs on the rooftops, their antics slowly fading into the background. Her mind returned to the spell she had attempted¡ªwondering how else creatures might communicate with the Sulphen, or if this particular lemur was unique. Either way, there was much more to learn.


    <hr>


    Lotem absently scratched behind Sabel¡¯s ears as they walked, her purr a resonant hum against his shoulder. Despite the earlier chaos among the lemurs, the kitten remained as unflappable as Wilson or Warma¡ªa fact that both amused and puzzled him. He had braced for her to recoil at the hooting cries, but instead, she responded with a sharp flare of indignation, followed by a smug vigilance to keep the creatures at bay. Her pride brooked no rivals.


    He glanced back at Sylva, trailing a few paces behind with the wide-eyed wonder of a scholar dissecting the Sulphen¡¯s influence¡ªor whatever arcane term she preferred. Lotem still didn¡¯t grasp the mechanics of her craft. At least Hadrian¡¯s martial kata was visible, but Sylva? In Tir Na Nog, she¡¯d somehow tethered the Sunborn¡¯s flames to Morvan¡¯s armor, melting the Numen¡¯s defenses. Krinka called it sympathy; Lotem called it a nightmare. Who would don metal armor after that without fearing they¡¯d roast like a hare on a spit?


    A distant commotion erupted near the city¡¯s central tree. Lotem tilted his head upward, watching tendrils of fog seep from the canopy like sap, pooling at the trunk¡¯s base. Few could conjure such mist¡ªand even fewer would dare scale that towering growth. None among the Bal, at least.


    Trees unsettled him¡ªgrotesque monuments to looming peril. Hadrian¡¯s tales of Kiel arboreal cities had curdled his blood. Living suspended in branches? He thanked the gods he was born Bal, where the soil stayed firm underfoot. Slowing his stride, he caught Sylva¡¯s wandering gaze and nodded toward the fog.


    ¡°Hadrian and Casselia¡¯s handiwork, no doubt,¡± he said. ¡°I vote we find a drink and let them scheme in peace. Cass will have some plot brewing¡ªand I¡¯ve had enough scoldings today to last a decade.¡±


    Sylva squinted at the mist-shrouded canopy. ¡°Agreed. That fog reeks of Hadrian¡¯s nostalgia for treetops. But if it stirs trouble, we¡¯ll want to hear every bit of gossip.¡±


    ¡°Bound to be.¡± Lotem resumed walking, passing a young woman astride a white-haired ox. Her fur cloak and sunburnt skin marked her as kin, and the ox¡¯s pelt draped over her shoulders spoke of hard-won honor. He hailed her warmly, ¡°Cousin! Point us to the nearest drink?¡±


    She turned, her eyes lingering on Sabel before crinkling with recognition. ¡°Cousin! The Tears of the Plains Wolf lies ahead¡ªboasting the best wolf¡¯s heart in Dornogor and airag strong enough to floor a mammoth. Go hungry at your peril.¡± Her heavy drawl and thick accent lent every word a warm, southern lilt.


    ¡°Where do you hail from?¡± Lotem asked as he approached, extending a hand toward the ox in greeting. ¡°And where did you find this beaut of an ox?¡±


    ¡°Born and raised in Yumakan¡ªthe City of Endless Tribute. This is Chuluun,¡± she said, patting the ox fondly as it let out a braying moo. ¡°I earned her trust during the Trial of the Herds, and even the Sulphen recognized our natural bond. My folks always said I was as stubborn as an ox.¡± She let out a roaring laugh that made Lotem wonder if she¡¯d already had a drink tonight. ¡°Now, you must¡¯ve found your companion in the Trial of the Hunt¡ªI¡¯ve heard that one¡¯s rough, worse than a lame rabbit on the run if you don¡¯t have a full Triumvirate.¡±


    Trials. The word set Lotem¡¯s pulse racing, memories of Tir Na Nog rushing back. These Trials must be like what they faced there. The thought of returning to such an ordeal made him shudder. It can¡¯t be worse than Tir Na Nog¡­ can it?


    ¡°We haven¡¯t had the chance to enter either the Trial of the Hunt or the Trial of the Herd yet,¡± Sylva said confidently, stepping forward to stand beside Lotem. ¡°What does the Trial of the Herd entail?¡±


    The woman¡¯s eyes narrowed as she scrutinized Sylva, then shifted to Lotem with an incredulous look. ¡°Cousin, you¡¯ve teamed up with one of the Silkborn?¡± she said, disregarding the original question. Then, turning back to Sylva, she nodded as if to confirm her own assessment.


    ¡°Well¡ª¡± Lotem began, but before he could continue, the woman cut him off.


    ¡°No offense miss¡ª¡±


    ¡°Sylva of Clan Strenath,¡± she interjected crisply.


    ¡°I ain¡¯t got nothin¡¯ against you Silkborn,¡± the woman said with a grin. ¡°After all, who doesn¡¯t appreciate having perfect faces around? Nobody ever complains about beautiful folks¡ªeven if you¡¯re fiercer than a hyena in heat. It¡¯s just¡­ surprisin¡¯.¡±


    Lotem could almost feel Sylva¡¯s inner strings tightening with every grammatical misstep the woman made. He recalled encountering UlaanBal speakers¡ªfolks from remote, southern tribes far removed from trade centers like Yumakan, the powerful gateway to UlaanThur, the Eternal City of Silk and Spice. He would have expected someone from Yumakan to speak with a polish he was accustomed to. He dismissed the itching thought. Who was he to judge a stranger?


    ¡°We are more than just flawless beauty or perfect forms,¡± Sylva stated, straightening her posture as if that alone could bolster her point.


    ¡°And about as humble as my Grams said to expect from sentient clothes. I always knew that robes for skin would make you uppity,¡± the woman said with a smile that barely eased the tension. ¡°Not to be racist or nothin¡¯.¡±


    Sylva¡¯s eyebrows knit together as she fixed her full attention on the woman. A sudden, unexpected rush of fury pulsed through Lotem¡ªhis blood pounding in a rhythm that filled his ears. He paused, trying to pinpoint the cause. He¡¯d expected outsiders to stereotype him for his Bal cloak and heritage¡ªbut he¡¯d believed his own people would treat others with more respect.


    ¡°Now, now, now,¡± she stammered, her words tumbling out as she seemed to notice his anger. ¡°I didn¡¯t mean nothin¡¯ by it¡ªhonestly. My folks always told me not to rush to judge others who are different, but¡ªwell¡ªafter his reaction¡­¡±


    ¡°Meris?¡± Sylva¡¯s indignation melted into sharp interest. ¡°He was unkind when you spoke to him the way you did to me?¡±


    ¡°Somethin¡¯ like that,¡± the woman replied, scowling. ¡°Told him he looked good¡ªhard not to when a man¡¯s finer than a chicken plucked for the Festival of Herds. Then he called me uglier than a tangled string! Said he¡¯d rather fuck a pile o¡¯ wool than spend another second near me.¡±


    Judging by Sylva¡¯s reaction, that was a grave insult among the Silkborn. Lotem¡¯s anger began to fade as Sylva questioned the woman about Meris, prying into every detail of his words and behavior. To the Bal woman, her interest might have looked like jealousy, but Lotem knew better. He hadn¡¯t asked Sylva about her history with Meris in the Sect, but it was clear the man hadn¡¯t been a friend. If anything, Sylva seemed ready to kill him for shaming her in front of her mentor or some other Malan nonsense.


    When the interrogation ended, Sylva straightened, her usual poise restored.


    ¡°If it helps,¡± Sylva said with a faint smile, ¡°I do not think you¡¯re uglier than tangled string¡ªin fact, I find that implication offensive. String is never ugly, and you certainly don¡¯t resemble it.¡±


    Lotem wasn¡¯t sure Sylva¡¯s remark landed as the compliment she intended. As the woman processed her words, Lotem stepped in, drawing her attention.


    ¡°Interested in joining us for a drink at Tears of the Plains Wolf? We just arrived in Dornogor, and you seem to know the way of things here. Airag and food¡ªour treat.¡±


    ¡°Kemrek of Yumakan don¡¯t turn down free airag¡ªI promised it to myself, and I ain¡¯t no liar.¡±


    As Kemrek led them down the street, Lotem introduced himself and made small talk with the Bal woman, while Sylva listened intently and chimed in with her own questions. He learned that Kemrek had been rejected by the Malan and Kiel candidates she was paired with in the Room of Threefold Oaths. Although she didn¡¯t state it outright, Lotem gathered that they had preferred to travel to Kiel lands and the canopy cities of the Fologian Forest. He didn¡¯t blame her for avoiding the treetops¡ªit wasn¡¯t natural for someone from her background to live so high above the ground.


    She had chosen Dornogor in hopes of finding an animal companion¡ªa beast she could nurture and eventually bring back to her family once her service to the empire ended. Lotem felt a surge of jealousy as she described her seamless transition from the Room of Threefold Oaths to the portal in Dornogor. Why hadn¡¯t she been taken by the unstable zone, deposited in a forest of bone to be attacked by monsters? Why had she not been locked in a trial that threatened to imprison her for months? Another surge of anger welled up inside him, only to be tempered when Sabel released a feral growl, reminding him to rein in his emotions.


    Kemrek appeared ready to ask him a question after Sabel¡¯s growl, but she held her tongue as they turned a street corner and spotted a large, circular tent made of hide, with a thick column of smoke rising from a hole at its apex.


    The Tears of the Plains Wolf was easily large enough to hold dozens of people and even from a distance Lotem could tell that the tent was filled from the boisterous laughter and buzz of conversation pouring from the doorway. It reminded him of the traveling merchants that would arrive to host the Zherenkhan with a grand feast to kick off their trade. It reminded him of home.


    Lotem paused, taking in the sight and noise coming from the tent before turning to Sylva with as large of a grin as he could muster. She met his gaze and, raising an eyebrow with a faint smile, gestured towards the bar as if to say, ¡®lead the way.¡¯ Lotem did, happily striding forwards, his long legs carrying him across the distance in the rush. He scratched Sabels head as he ducked to move through the doorway, just in case there was a surprise inside that would spook the young cat.


    At the center of the tent stood a circular bar built around a roaring fire pit and a large stone oven¡ªenough heat radiated to be felt even at the doorway. Yet the heat was secondary to the array of scents permeating the air: a deep, primal aroma of sizzling meat¡ªwolf¡¯s heart seared over open flames if his eyes weren¡¯t mistaken, its iron-rich tang mingling with rendered fat and a whisper of char¡ªfilled him with a furious hunger. His eyes darted to a great iron cauldron hanging above the fire, from which the rich, gamey scent of slow-simmered stew competed with that of the meat. The stew, thick with bone broth carrying the marrow¡¯s essence and laced with sharp fermented herbs¡ªa blend of juniper, mugwort, and sweeter, almost floral spices from the Gondaran Marsh just north of Dornogor¡ªcompleted the sensory feast.


    ¡°Why you stoppin¡¯ in the doorway? What are ya, a teen seeing tits for the first time? Move. Move.¡± Kemrek barked as she pushed past him, a blush creeping onto his cheeks amid the sudden, amused glances from nearby tables¡ªfilled with candidates and Eidolons. He shuffled forward while Sylva rested a hand against his back, momentarily freezing his movement.


    ¡°Don¡¯t let our foul-mouthed friend worry you,¡± Sylva said with a gentle smirk. ¡°It¡¯s as clear as glass¡ªyou¡¯re just taking in the familiar sights in a place that¡¯s anything but familiar. No one should judge you for that.¡± She withdrew her hand from his back and strode toward Kemrek, who had already claimed a seat at the bar and was ordering drinks. ¡°Now, enjoy yourself, Lotem. Buy me some of that airag you¡¯re so excited about, and I¡¯ll offer my judgment on its quality. We Malan only appreciate the finest of tastes,¡± she added with a wink.


    By the time they reached the bar, Kemrek already clutched a large clay mug and took a heavy swig, leaving a white film on her lip. Lotem sat next to her and, meeting the gaze of a bartender¡ªa man nearly as tall as Lotem, with thick black hair braided along his back and hide clothing stitched with intricate colored patterns¡ªordered two mugs for them. Sylva took a seat beside him as the bartender returned, setting the creamy drinks on the counter. Lotem then paid for all the drinks before taking a deep gulp from his own mug.


    The milky drink awakened his tongue with a sharp tang and a cascade of fizzing bubbles. Its sweet, grassy undertone spoke of mares grazing on wild herbs¡ªlikely from the herds they¡¯d glimpsed as they traveled to Dornogor. Lotem let out a satisfied sigh at the flavor while glancing at Sylva, who stared at her mug as though fearing it might bite her.


    ¡°This is made from¡­ milk?¡± she asked hesitantly. ¡°I knew airag was a Bal drink for herders, but milk? Why would we want to drink liquid from an animal?¡± She turned the cup in her hands, eyeing the cloudy, fizzing liquid with suspicion. ¡°Doesn¡¯t it spoil?¡±


    Lotem chuckled and leaned back. ¡°It does¡ªthat¡¯s why we ferment it.¡± He gestured at her cup. ¡°Drink it fresh, and it¡¯ll turn your stomach. Leave it to the air, and it becomes something else¡ªsharp, alive, and stronger than plain water. It keeps the body moving and the blood warm in winter.¡±


    She hesitated, sniffing the drink and then looking to Lotem uncertainly. He inhaled deeply, the aroma of sour berries, aged cheese, and fermented grasses drawing a smile to his face. Grinning at her, he set his mug down, crossed his arms, and waited.


    ¡°When my parents gave me airag for the first time, I looked just as skeptical¡ªthough I suspect I was more used to drinking milk than you are. They told me this: the first sip¡¯s a test, the second¡¯s a promise, and the third means you¡¯re one of us.¡±


    She frowned at him, then¡ªbefore she could second-guess herself¡ªlifted the cup and took a cautious sip. A sudden, wild cough erupted from her, and she set the mug down with a grimace. Kemrek burst into laughter while the bartender managed a discreet smile.


    Lotem stifled a barking laugh as Sylva turned to him with a look of betrayed indignation. ¡°There¡¯s the test,¡± he remarked.


    ¡°Do people drink that for enjoyment?¡± she asked, glancing back at the mug with confusion. ¡°Why is it fizzy? The flavor isn¡¯t bad, but the texture¡ªlike thick water with tickling bubbles¡ªwho likes that?¡±


    ¡°People drink airag for strength,¡± he corrected. ¡°For warmth, for the road¡ªand because the more you drink, the better it gets.¡± Tapping his mug against hers with a knowing smirk, he took another swig.


    She pushed her mug toward him with a shake of her head. ¡°The elders always warned me to be wary of the promises I make in Aslavain¡ªI think this is one I can safely avoid.¡± Meeting the bartender¡¯s eye, she engaged in a quiet conversation about alternative drink options. The man chuckled good-naturedly as she requested something more to her taste before bustling away. Meanwhile, Lotem savored the flavor of his airag as the bartender muddled berries, mixed syrups, and poured a clear alcohol into a new mug for Sylva. After a sip of the fruity drink, she let out a contented sigh.


    ¡°So, Kemrek,¡± Sylva said after a moment, turning the Bal woman¡¯s attention toward them from a nearby table of candidates she had been eyeing with an almost feral looking hunger. ¡°Has there been anything out of the ordinary in Dornogor over the last few weeks?¡±


    ¡°Aside from that black snake¡ªwell, then a skeleton snake that flew off into the distance a few hours after I arrived¡ªnothin¡¯ much.¡± She paused, then continued, ¡°That was the talk of the town for days. You don¡¯t often see a necromantic construct soaring through the skies. Some of the Dion candidates even looked ready to chase it down before the Eidolons announced it was headin¡¯ to Tir Na Nog. The Dion seem about as interested in meeting the folks of Tir Na Nog as a ruttin¡¯ stage is in asking permission before mounting a doe.¡±


    Kemrek spat onto the dirt floor of the tent, leaning back in her seat and taking a heavy pull of airag. ¡°If the Eidolons hadn¡¯t spoken up, I reckon we¡¯d have seen a chase fit for the old epics, with all the grace of a pack of hounds after a bitch in heat. I figured that would be the end of it. Necromantic snakes are rarer than a raw steak after all, but,¡± she paused, leaning forwards and whispering almost conspiratorially, ¡°I heard just today that the snake was seen approaching from the south with other Eidolons and a trio of candidates.¡±


    ¡°Kemrek,¡± she interjected, ¡°do you really think that snake is a mentor to a triumvirate? That must be quite the group. Did you hear anything else about them?¡±


    Lotem wasn¡¯t entirely surprised at how effortlessly Sylva played the clueless traveler, her eyes wide and disbelieving as she listened to Kemrek. Yet the ease with which she misled the woman reminded him that the Silkborn were trained for this. It recalled the smooth, almost casual way Meris had turned the tables on Hadrian and him earlier¡ªand reminded him that, as much as Sylva was his friend, she was still a product of the Sect of Silken Grace with all its Malan rigor.


    ¡°Oh, nothin¡¯ too specific about those folks. But now that I think about it, the Eidolons were buzzing when I was on my walk¡ªbefore you stopped me, I saw a half-dozen Eidolons with candidates trailing behind them as they headed for the shrine.¡± She paused, noticing the slight furrow in his brows. ¡°The shrine¡ªyou know, the tree at the center of the city? It¡¯s big enough to curse us all and tall enough to cast the city into shade at midday. That shrine.¡±


    ¡°And the tree¡ªthe shrine, really¡ªaren¡¯t people forbidden from approaching it?¡± Sylva asked.


    ¡°Approach it?¡±


    Kemrek rubbed the back of her neck as she took another swig of airag, then paused to order a refill from the watchful bartender. ¡°You can approach the shrine just fine¡ªthe city center is built against one side of the tree, which gives you access. Of course, access is restricted for security until the contest in a few weeks.¡± She downed another heavy drink and then let out a burp loud enough to startle Sabel, who was intently watching from his perch. ¡°I heard a few Kiel candidates tried to climb the tree the first week here. The Eidolons did not appreciate that at all.¡±


    Lotem met Sylva¡¯s gaze, and the Silkborn woman sighed, rolling her eyes. Nodding as though expecting nothing less from Kemrek¡¯s words, she remarked, ¡°Asking the Kiel to remain on the ground is like asking a fish to make its home in the branches of a tree.¡±


    Kemrek brightened at Sylva¡¯s remark, nodding enthusiastically. ¡°The Kiel wouldn¡¯t know how to live on the ground if it had them on the ground¡ªlegs splayed and panting like a bitch in heat.¡± She paused to take in Sylva¡¯s shocked expression, then burst into a heavy peal of laughter, downing more airag and slapping her thigh as if part of some grand joke. Lotem began to wonder whether she was purposely trying to unsettle Sylva¡ªor if, perhaps, she just had an appetite for crude humor.


    ¡°The Bal wouldn¡¯t know decorum if someone bent them over a feast table in front of their ancestors¡¯ bones,¡± an angry male voice boomed from a table a dozen paces away. Lotem glanced over and saw a pale-skinned man in silken robes, his flushed red face betraying his drunken state. Deciding not to escalate the argument further¡ªsince they¡¯d traded insults in good fun and the Kiel man had retorted in kind¡ªLotem saw no reason to antagonize the man any more.


    ¡°Now them¡¯s fightin¡¯ words,¡± Kemrek declared loudly, a slight slur tinting her speech. Lotem frowned¡ªone airag shouldn¡¯t have gotten her that drunk, not with the tolerance he expected. As Kemrek stood and began moving toward the man, Lotem gently placed a hand on her shoulder to halt her.


    ¡°Decorum was never taught in my clan,¡± Lotem declared, his voice carrying to the tense, watchful crowd. ¡°But I was taught that it¡¯s rude to jump into a stranger¡¯s conversation with insults.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re the ones who started the insults,¡± the man retorted, his words slurred by drink. ¡°You Bal think you can be real citizens while the rest of us are forgotten after the invasion. My ancestor¡ªan Eidolon¡ªwas enlisted to fight the Bal. He warned me never to trust the veneer of civility. He even said you¡¯re worse than a Dion.¡±


    If Lotem had been hoping to defuse the tension, he knew he failed as a man dressed in armor that resembled chain mail, if the rings of the mail were formed from a a metal pale as ivory, slammed his mug onto the table and rose, hand falling to the sword on his belt. Bone armor and a temper even faster to spark than his own? Lotem had no question that the man was Dion and that he had taken the insult far more seriously than Lotem himself had.


    ¡°You have a problem with the Dion?¡± the man asked, his words laced with a coiled tension that hinted at sudden violence.


    ¡°And if I do?¡± the Kiel man retorted, turning to the Dion before spitting on the floor. ¡°You Dion can pretend you¡¯re heroes¡ªsaving the empire from the Tul¡ªbut we all know the truth. You failed to stand against the Bal. You failed against the Beast Kings. You failed to keep the Empire from its only civil war. The Dion are cowards, one¡ª¡±


    The Kiel man never finished his sentence as the Dion man closed the distance in a blink. A pale, gauntleted hand lashed upward, striking the Kiel man¡¯s chin and sending him tumbling in a crash that silenced the tavern. The Dion man then slowly scanned the room, glancing at the groaning Kiel man as he struggled to find his bearings before spitting on him.


    ¡°Anyone else got something to say about Dion honor?¡± he demanded, his gaze hard. One of the Kiel man¡¯s companions stood, drawing a wooden knife the deep red of polished hardwood from a sheath on his silken robe. In response, the Dion man returned his grip to his sword¡¯s hilt, clearly ready for sudden violence.


    ¡°What. Is. This.¡± A crisp, firm voice resonated from the tent¡¯s entrance.


    Lotem spun, his gaze landing on the man standing in the threshold. Silver hair caught the light like tempered steel, with loose strands shifting as he moved. His face¡ªcarved by time and hardship, sharp-cheeked and severe, with lines hinting at weariness or restraint¡ªwas framed by a heavy bison-fur cloak draped over one shoulder. Beneath it, layers of worn but well-kept leather and wool added to his imposing aura. His piercing gray eyes swept the room with measured, cold discernment, like a hunter searching for his prey.


    The bartender stepped forward and spoke reluctantly, as though cowed by the man before him. ¡°Just a brawl¡ªnothing to worry about, Clawmaster. You know how candidates get after drink. No harm done; I¡¯ve kept an eye on things.¡±


    Lotem wasn¡¯t sure what authority the title ¡°Clawmaster¡± carried, but judging by the bartender¡¯s reaction, this man was important in the city. That made Lotem even more wary as he took in the furious eyes and tensed fists before him. He realized the man looked furious¡ªthough perhaps not solely because of the bar fight¡ªbut as someone spoiling for a fight, eager for any excuse to unleash violence. Slowly, Lotem sat back down, hoping to avoid the man¡¯s notice as the Clawmaster stepped further into the tent, his voice nearly a snarl with anger.


    ¡°Do you think your time in Aslavain is a game?¡± he demanded, his bottled fury silencing the room. Pointing to a group of Eidolons finishing their meal, he continued, ¡°Did Dornogor send you here just to laze about and get drunk? Do you think the empire is footing the bill for your existence so you can have a vacation?¡± The Eidolons paled, but before they could respond, he whirled¡ªalmost spitting with rising fury.


    ¡°And you,¡± he said, pointing to the Dion man¡ªwho stood frozen, hand still on his sword hilt, towering above the fallen Kiel man he had struck¡ª¡°do you think drawing blades in a tavern is behavior fit for the next generation of the empire¡¯s champions? Did you expect the Eidolons to simply ignore your blatant rule violations?¡±


    ¡°He¡ª¡±


    ¡°Silence!¡± the Clawmaster thundered. ¡°If you want to fight your fellow candidates, do it properly in the arena¡ªwhere at least one Justiciar can ensure you keep what little honor remains.¡± He strode forward, his gaze sweeping the tent in a slow cadence that raised the hairs on Lotem¡¯s arm. This was not the behavior Lotem expected from an Eidolon of authority. The Clawmaster lashed out at any excuse for conflict, and Lotem resolved not to give him further cause for ire.


    ¡°Aslavain is the realm of champions¡ªa relic of the First Empire that knows no equal worldwide,¡± the Clawmaster declared, his tone suddenly deathly calm. ¡°The Sul Empire¡¯s contract allows any youth to enter for a single year and prove themselves. Each city spends years preparing its Eidolons¡ªinvesting resources and focus¡ªnot just to run trials for your growth, but to stage a contest with rewards grander than any youth could dream of. With the resources committed to Aslavain every year, we could eliminate the Tul, push back the southern raiders harassing the cities along the Grass Belt, lower taxes throughout the empire, and usher in a golden age of trade and prosperity. In short, when I see candidates¡ªor, even worse, Eidolons¡ªwasting that opportunity, it angers me.¡±


    Lotem had never heard someone so important explicitly state the empire¡¯s cost for Aslavain. He had assumed those resources might be better used in the war against the Tul, but hearing it confirmed almost made him feel guilty for getting a drink tonight¡ªeven though he knew none of them were slacking off on their duties. In his heart, Lotem was confident that his triumvirate had worked harder than anyone else here; this was the first real break he¡¯d had in weeks. Why, then, did he have to encounter one of Dornogor¡¯s leaders on a warpath tonight of all nights?


    ¡°Worse,¡± the Clawmaster continued, ¡°this cycle¡¯s contest has attracted some of the [Venerate] into Dornogor.¡± He scanned the tent, then shook his head and clenched his jaw. ¡°Each [Venerate] is measurably more powerful than the Eidolons here, and they all share one thing in common: by contractual obligation, they will train your peers until you have no chance at success. The scions of the [Venerate] intend to claim the contest¡¯s rewards. They plan to grow powerful by beating you down until even the Sulphen recognizes their dominance and rewards them accordingly. If you¡¯re spending your time in Aslavain drinking and fighting outside the arena, you¡¯re already miles behind.¡±


    The Clawmaster nearly shook with fury as he finished his speech. Lotem wondered what had set the man off so intensely. The candidates all knew they¡¯d fallen behind the best in the cycle, and they understood that drinking and bar fights wouldn¡¯t lead to true success. So why was this Clawmaster spelling out obvious facts¡ªas if their failure reflected directly on his own reputation?


    ¡°One of those [Venerate]¡ª¡± he enunciated the title as though it were an insult, ¡°has challenged us, the Eidolons of Dornogor, to prove we can pull our weight in the empire. Every day at noon, her Triumvirate will accept challenges in the dueling arena. Win, and not only will you have the chance to steal the title of [Squire of Carven Bone], but I will personally ensure you¡¯re properly compensated for your achievements.¡±


    Lotem should have known that Casselia¡ªand Hadrian by proxy¡ªwere the cause of the man¡¯s fury. He had seen the fog drifting from the great tree and knew that Eidolons and candidates had likely confronted his teammates. Yet he hadn¡¯t expected such a stir so quickly. As he scanned the room, he noticed the shifting crowd at the Clawmaster¡¯s offer. The chance to impress an important Eidolon of the city¡ªand even become champion of one of the Last Immortals¡ªwas tempting, and he couldn¡¯t blame anyone for being lured by it.


    ¡°Now,¡± the Clawmaster continued, ¡°I am seeking proper talent to train to compete against this affront. If you are an Eidolon, leave¡ªnow. You are not needed here; you have work to do.¡± He paused, his intense gaze causing all the Eidolons¡ªexcept the bartender and cook¡ªto rush out, desperate to escape his furious stare. ¡°Candidates, if you believe you have the commitment and power to challenge the scions of a [Venerate], stand now.¡±


    Slowly, candidates began to stand. The most militaristic among them did so quickly, seemingly excited by the prospect, while even the more peaceful candidates eventually rose¡ªnone daring to provoke the Clawmaster¡¯s ire. Even Kemrek stood, though Lotem doubted her combat skills would satisfy the man. After a few moments, only Lotem and Sylva remained seated. Lotem felt tempted to stand, but they already had mentors with plans for them. What would happen if they chose to challenge themselves now?


    The Clawmaster¡¯s gaze swept approvingly through the room before settling on Sylva and Lotem, his eyes narrowing and his mouth forming a frown. He scanned the room a second time, slowly meeting the eyes of everyone present, then turned back toward them with a scowl.


    ¡°Are you not ashamed of your cowardice?¡± he demanded in a hard tone. ¡°Out of dozens, only you have refused the opportunity for greatness.¡±


    ¡°You think you have the capability to train us?¡± Sylva replied lightly¡ªas though chatting with a friend rather than addressing an imposing Eidolon. ¡°What gives you the faintest idea that you¡¯re good enough for us?¡±


    Lotem wished he¡¯d spoken up before Sylva did. Intellectually, he knew she was the better diplomat¡ªtrained to make deals and navigate rhetorical traps. Yet he wasn¡¯t sure she had the temperament for it; her challenge to the Clawmaster brimmed with an arrogance that still surprised him, as if she truly believed she was superior to the man before her.


    Lotem hoped Casselia¡¯s diplomacy would eventually rub off on Sylva¡ªthe [Venerate] at least knew how to avoid unnecessary conflict. Yet he couldn¡¯t shake the thought that Casselia¡¯s own style might have sparked their current troubles. Perhaps he hoped that Krinka¡¯s influence would temper Sylva instead.


    The Clawmaster¡¯s gaze narrowed and his head tilted slightly in confusion¡ªthen, the moment he grasped her implication, his muscles tensed and a rictus of fury returned to his face.


    ¡°You dare¡ª¡± the Clawmaster began, but Sylva stood, turned to thank the bartender, and slid her drink closer to his side of the bar. Ignoring the Clawmaster, she turned to Lotem and met his eyes. Realizing her intent, he finished his airag in one long drink before sliding his own mug next to hers.


    ¡°Thank you for the drink,¡± Sylva said primly to the bartender, loud enough for the entire room to hear. ¡°I¡¯m afraid poor company has driven us out¡ªbut I do hope we¡¯re welcome to return in the future.¡±


    ¡°Who do you think you are?¡± the Clawmaster roared, his fury suddenly unleashed as he stepped closer.


    ¡°I am one of the Silkborn of the Sect of Silken Grace. My lineage has more history than Dornogor, and I have more potential than anyone in this rundown, backwater shrine who thinks they can beat the student of a [Venerate] with a week¡¯s coaching by an Eidolon lacking the emotional regulation not to yell at crowds centuries younger than himself. It¡¯s shameful, really.¡±


    Sylva raised her hand imperiously as the Clawmaster began to speak, cutting him off. ¡°Do you think the [Triumvirate of the Broken Crown] are afraid of you and your petty local grievances?¡± she asked, her tone suddenly curious. She then let out a tinkling laugh¡ªa sound Lotem suspected was meant to provoke. ¡°Our mentors slew Gransa the Suneater and earned an Imperial Poem in their name. When you can barely hold a candle to their honor and glory, you can consider training us. Lotem, come; I suspect we should get a good night¡¯s sleep rather than watch him recruit anyone who dares challenge us.¡±


    As they passed the man on their way out of the tent, the Clawmaster spoke quietly¡ªso quietly that only Lotem and Sylva could hear him. ¡°You will regret this, girl. If you think your mentors can protect you¡ª¡±


    Sylva interjected, her voice loud enough to carry across the room, ¡°Imperial Law¡ªas drafted in the 212th House of Lords, subsection six, paragraph eight¡ªis clear: an Eidolon cannot threaten a candidate in Aslavain unless that candidate has violated a standing law. Tell me, Clawmaster, what law do you claim we¡¯ve broken to justify your threats?¡±


    Sylva stood within arms reach of the man, her gaze locked on the Eidolons. Lotem half expected the man to strike her. If anything, Sylva was the one throwing threats around. Lotem didn¡¯t think she was making up an imperial law, but he still didn¡¯t expect the Clawmaster to break gazes first. The Clawmaster turned away from them with a grunt and a furious, ¡°Go, out of my sight.¡±


    As they stepped out onto the street, Sylva turned to Lotem and smiled. ¡°If every bar experience is that eventful, we need to get drinks more often. That was invaluable.¡±


    ¡°You made an enemy tonight,¡± Lotem said.


    ¡°Casselia made an enemy for us¡ªwhile I merely stoked the anger. You should know better than most, Lotem: an angry enemy is more dangerous, for anger often blinds rather than illuminates. Now, come; we have mentors to return to and plenty to discuss.¡±

 Chapter Twenty-Two: Preparations

    In ages long past, dragons soared with fiery breath and titans roamed alongside tribes of men. In those enchanted days, weavers spun strands of silk into formidable armies and founded colonies that tamed the wild lands. This lore is widely known¡ªbut it only scratches the surface of the first empire''s true legacy. Over thousands of years, entire races have risen and fallen: the annihilation of the Elves, the extinction of the Dwarfs, and the emergence of the subterranean cavern races. We, the Sul, venerate our ancient kings even as we forget the many races they vanquished, for, as is our tradition, we honor only the victor.


    - Kalanvarin of the Restorative Historical School in Truths of Convenience


    Aslavain: Twenty-Three Days After the Summer Solstice


    Hadrian entered the Mandate¡¯s headquarters ahead of Casselia, having traveled straight from the crowd at the base of the tree following Casselia¡¯s challenge. She had insisted that it would be best if they weren¡¯t around for the rest of the night. Hadrian wondered absently why that was. It wasn¡¯t as though Casselia had shown any fear of the Eidolons; far from it. She had been as fierce as his Ma, fighting against whatever needed to be fought, regardless of who it would bother. He respected that approach.


    A heavy scent filled the headquarters, rich and spicy, causing his nostrils to instinctively pull in more of the aroma. His eyes widened as he looked for its source. They were drawn to a steaming pot sitting on a stone table a few feet from Nessa, who sat on a stool holding a clay mug that depicted a rolling grassland, its surface glazed with green, yellow, and blue hues. Hadrian¡¯s mouth watered as he realized he was smelling the drink.


    Hadrian had begun to understand that Cutra lacked the culinary skills that people here considered normal. They hadn¡¯t had access to traders who could supply them with the foodstuffs that grew on the surface, and aside from the rare treat of hunted birds, he had subsisted primarily on mushrooms, fruit, and grubs¡ªthough he refused to eat grubs unless they had been properly roasted. His gaze was locked on Nessa¡¯s mug as Casselia entered the abode.


    ¡°You want a cup, boy?¡± Nessa asked, the hint of a smile creeping into her words. ¡°Haven¡¯t seen anyone look so interested in my favorite drink since I left the Silklands.¡±


    ¡°What is it?¡± Hadrian asked, moving further into the room as he approached.


    ¡°It¡¯s chai tea¡ªI make my own spice blend out of local spices native to the Gondaran Marsh to the north.¡± She swirled her mug, took a deep breath, then took a heavy sip before sighing in pleasure. ¡°You can¡¯t find fruit to rival the Fologian Forest¡¯s varieties in this part of the empire, but the spices from the marsh and the meat from the Bal herds¡ªwell, the fruit has just never quite compared.¡±


    Nessa set her mug down, stood, and grabbed a plain brown mug from the countertop before filling it with three ladles of the rich brown liquid. Hadrian moved toward her and took the mug, feeling the heat against his palms. He thanked her and began to ask how the liquid was being heated¡ªhe didn¡¯t see a fire, after all¡ªwhen Krinka¡¯s exclamation pulled his attention to the three mentors sitting across the room.


    ¡°The Rahabian Blitz?¡± Krinka exclaimed, his voice shrill. ¡°Cass, you can¡¯t just initiate a Rahabian Blitz without us? That¡¯s Als¡¯ favorite, and I should have been there to make sure it was kicked off properly.¡±


    ¡°Now, Krinka¡ª¡± Casselia began before Alsarana¡¯s serpentine body rose close enough to brush the ceiling, and he called attention to himself with a hiss.


    ¡°How could you, Cass,¡± he cried, falling backward into the long couch beneath him as though he lacked the energy to move any further. ¡°What¡¯s next¡ªare you going to forbid me from watching the start?¡±


    ¡°Well, actually¡ª¡± Casselia began, a tad sheepishly, before Krinka interrupted, leaning forward in his chair.


    ¡°Cass, you¡­ aren¡¯t going to send Als away, are you? We haven¡¯t had the chance to use the Rahabian Blitz in more than three hundred years.¡±


    ¡°Now,¡± Nessa drawled, ¡°I hate to interrupt whatever this is, but can someone enlighten me¡ªand the boy here¡ªon what in the roaming herds a ¡®Rahabian Blitz¡¯ is?¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± Casselia said, sitting up and looking pleased by the interruption. As she began to respond, the door to the room swung open and Sylva and Lotem entered. Sylva was imperious, her back straight and her face a perfectly cultivated mask of neutrality. If Lotem didn¡¯t look so nervous behind her, Hadrian would have thought they had enjoyed a pleasant night. Lotem, however, looked frantically between Hadrian and Casselia, his mouth set in a tight line. Hadrian had a feeling that they had heard about Casselia¡¯s challenge to the city.


    Hadrian took a sip of the drink and sighed as a warmth from the liquid spread throughout his body. He committed to drinking whatever this was as much as he could while they were in Dornogor. Someday, he would be bound to Cutra, and luxuries like this would be out of his grasp. He wanted to treasure it. He decided to enjoy the drink while Casselia answered what was apparently a long list of questions.


    ¡°Oh, lovely,¡± Casselia said, as though she hadn¡¯t noticed their nervous energy, ¡°you are back just in time. Nessa here just asked what the Rahabian Blitz is.¡±


    ¡°I assume that is where you intentionally anger all of the Eidolons in the city in which we will be residing for the next month?¡± Sylva asked, her calm tone at odds with her perfect posture.


    Sylva was upset; Hadrian was sure of it. He had realized that the more effort Sylva put into appearing composed and perfect, the less control she actually felt. He could understand that. His Pa had said that action created control and that if Hadrian ever felt powerless, that was the time to pretend he wasn¡¯t. Lies had power, and none more than lies to oneself.


    ¡°Why, yes, actually,¡± Krinka said, interjecting before Casselia had the chance. ¡°It¡¯s one of the classic diplomatic approaches that the ancient Malan would employ. Records date it to the Fourth Age¡ªa millennium ago.¡± Sylva looked as though that made perfect sense to her. Hadrian wasn¡¯t actually sure she was faking that.


    ¡°And that approach is¡­¡± Lotem asked, his voice trailing off expectantly as he approached the countertop and, at a nod from Nessa, began to ladle scoops of the simmering liquid into a mug of his own.


    ¡°To understand the Rahabian Blitz you have to understand the Rahabians,¡± Casselia began, her voice taking on a lecturing quality. ¡°Rahabia, the City of Games, is one of the original Eternal Cities of the Empire. It¡ªalongside Ylfenhold and Calcara¡ªwas part of the original founding contract of the empire. The Rahabians have a sense of superiority about this fact. They feel as though their approach is the best, leaving little room for negotiation.¡±


    ¡°By ¡®their approach,¡¯ she means fighting anything that moves to establish dominance,¡± Alsarana hissed, his eyes still narrowed at Casselia with suspicion.


    ¡°Als is correct,¡± Casselia said, deliberately averting Alsarana¡¯s harsh gaze toward Sylva. ¡°The City of Games values combat prowess above¡ªwell, pretty much anything else. The Coliseum of Champions and the various Rahabian dueling circuits produce the empire¡¯s best fighters every generation. It has been that way since the empire was founded. Rahabians tend to enter a new city, insult, belittle, and bully the residents, and then establish dominance through combat to earn new skills or advance their development.¡±


    ¡°And that doesn¡¯t¡­ cause them issues?¡± Lotem asked from beside Hadrian.


    ¡°It does more than work,¡± Krinka said, leaning far enough forward in his chair that Hadrian thought he might fall out. ¡°The Sulphen loves the Rahabian approach; if you can pull it off, it is one of the best slash-and-burn training tactics out there. Sure, you make some enemies, but if they aren¡¯t strong enough to match the gambit, they aren¡¯t strong enough enemies to worry about anyway.¡±


    ¡°So that is why the Clawmaster yelled at a bar full of candidates as though relaxing were the worst thing in the world over a meal. You insulted him to his face and challenged him.¡±


    ¡°I should have given you a warning,¡± Casselia began, just before Sylva let out a tinkling laugh that halted the [Venerate¡¯s] apology.


    ¡°I was worried that I had done something wrong,¡± Sylva said, ¡°but I may have done the same.¡±


    ¡°What was it you said?¡± Lotem asked, pausing before continuing in a higher-pitched tone that enunciated every syllable, ¡°I have more potential than anyone in this rundown, backwater shrine that thinks they can beat the students of real [Venerate].¡±


    Alsarana looked positively giddy at Lotem¡¯s words, his coils tensing and untensing as he swayed back and forth, his tongue flicking in and out. ¡°Cass, she is made for us.¡±


    ¡°Or,¡± Lotem continued, a smile creeping onto his face at Alsarana¡¯s words, ¡°was it when you quoted Imperial Law to him?¡±


    ¡°Which law?¡± Krinka interjected in a rush.


    ¡°The 212th House of Lords, subsection six, paragraph eight,¡± Sylva said, her perfect posture dissolving under the scholar¡¯s excitement. Hadrian thought he could sense a proud smile being suppressed by his friend. He wondered what law that was and whether he would need to learn about laws at some point¡ªbut that topic had yet to come up.


    ¡°That is an excellent choice,¡± Casselia said, trying to regain control of the conversation. ¡°Now¡ª¡±


    ¡°Cass, you can¡¯t just skip over the fact that we have already initiated the Ylfenhold variant of the Rahabian Blitz. Normally, you won¡¯t let us quote the laws at the Eidolon when they get angry at our blatant violation of their laws and norms. You say that it feels too much like the Justicars for your taste. But if Sylva were to do it...¡±


    Krinka rubbed his hands together, a crazy look in his eye. He looked too gleeful for Hadrian¡¯s comfort. Hadrian had expected the other [Venerate] to be upset by Casselia¡¯s actions¡ªnot as excited as they now seemed.


    ¡°Now,¡± Cass repeated, casting a glare at the scholar, ¡°to the real matter at hand. Candidates, we have twenty-five days until the contest is held for the prize. Until then, at least one of you will duel in the local arena. Usually, it will be Hadrian, but depending on the training that is called for, some days may fall to Sylva or Lotem. I expect dominance in the arena, and I believe you are all capable.¡±


    Hadrian met first Sylva¡¯s gaze and then Lotem¡¯s, seeing the resolve reflected in their eyes. He wanted to win, to dominate, to make Rovan Khal proud¡ªto make his parents proud and to show the world that Cutra had produced something valuable. What better way to represent the home he loved than to prove that it produced nothing but the best?


    ¡°We begin the true training tomorrow. Sylva, in the mornings you will learn from Krinka how to identify and judge threat levels; once you are ready, you will be responsible for curating and preparing Hadrian for his duels. In the afternoon, Krinka will either teach you new incantations or magical theory, or you will be expected to demonstrate magical competence in the field.¡±


    Sylva nodded, looking thoughtful. Hadrian expected that she liked the idea of training more with Krinka. Sylva was drawn to knowledge like a moth to a flame, and Krinka shared his knowledge without reservation. He hoped Lotem would be equally excited about his training¡ªafter all, Hadrian knew how tough Tir Na Nog had been for him.


    Casselia turned to Hadrian and continued, ¡°Hadrian, you will train primarily with me as we work to guide the development of your new combat art. You need to be ready to fight opponents with skills and abilities that are unfamiliar to you.¡± She paused, taking a deep breath before turning to Lotem; meanwhile, Alsarana¡¯s eyes narrowed at her hesitation.


    ¡°Lotem, you are going to learn from Alsarana in the Trial of the Hunt. Als will have a few skills that you are working on acquiring, and there is no better place to advance than Aslavain¡¯s trails.¡± Casselia noted that Lotem tensed, his face tightening with a rush of emotion. She continued quickly, ¡°This Trial will not be like the one in Tir Na Nog. For one, you can leave at any time, and for two, Alsarana will have moderate control over how the trial unfolds. The Eidolons here designed their trials to help, not harm, candidates.¡±


    ¡°Casssssss,¡± Alsarana whined, the word coming out in a drawn-out hiss that caused Sabel to let out a hiss of her own from Lotem¡¯s shoulder. ¡°You are sending me away from the duals? I won¡¯t get to see Hadrian beat the weaklings? Tell me I can see him fight the Silkborn in three days at least.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Als,¡± Cass sighed, ¡°I want you and Lotem to be present for the dual in three days. Until then, though, we can¡¯t afford to waste time, and Lotem must be ready for the real contest. It would not do to have our candidates fail to reach the final stage of the contest.¡±


    ¡°What will he be teaching me?¡± Lotem asked, suddenly suspicious.


    ¡°For the next few days at least, you will learn how to catch frogs.¡±


    ¡°Frogs?¡± Lotem asked resignedly.


    ¡°Frogs,¡± Casselia confirmed. ¡°I have found that little else prepares one¡¯s reflexes, mind, and spirit for growth quite like catching frogs.¡±


    Hadrian wondered what a frog was. He hoped that it was something soft¡ªmaybe similar to Sabel. He suspected that if a frog were anything like a cat, Lotem would enjoy catching the creatures.


    ¡°And what will we do with the frogs we capture?¡± Lotem asked dryly. Hadrian wondered the same¡ªwas Lotem supposed to protect them?


    ¡°Sell them, of course¡ªdo you think the gold to buy Alsarana¡¯s bones or Sylva¡¯s new thread comes from thin air?¡± Casselia said. ¡°Dreamweaver Frogs are as rare as mithral in a mine, in Creation at least, but you should have good luck in Aslavain. Isn¡¯t that right, Nessa?¡±


    The Eidolon near Hadrian startled at her name, seeming touched to have been included in the conversation at all. ¡°Yes, Casselia, many Dreamwaver Frogs are sold every year. The Gondaran cities yearn for the stuff, but most aren¡¯t willing to venture deep enough into the marsh to find them on their own. The Trial gets around that.¡±Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    ¡°So while Sylva and Hadrian are getting best-in-class training, I will be alone in a marsh, catching frogs?¡± Lotem asked, looking between Casselia, Krinka, and Alsarana as though he misunderstood. Alsarana perked up from where he had been moping.


    ¡°You won¡¯t be alone in the marsh,¡± Alsarana said, tilting his head and focusing on Sabel. ¡°You have a cat who can¡¯t swim and a [Venerate] who will wish he wasn¡¯t also left out.¡±


    ¡°Just perfect,¡± Lotem said, turning to Nessa. ¡°Can you lead me to my room? I would like to rest in a bed before my eventful, frog-catching days ahead.¡±


    Hadrian hoped that Lotem would return successfully from the hunt. He couldn¡¯t wait to figure out what a frog was.


    <hr>


    Aslavain: Twenty-Four Days After the Summer Solstice


    Sylva knelt, her posture immaculate as she pretended that the stone floor beneath her was as pristine as she had known in the Sect¡ªnot stone covered in a layer of dirt and grime that spoke to her of neglect. She ignored the gaps between stones, with grass and other plants starting to peek through. It would not be proper for her to call attention to these things¡ªnot on her first day in the new training routine, at least. Sylva resolved to have a conversation with Nessa at some point about the state of the training facility behind the headquarters. Nessa must not have been aware of the neglect, after all.


    To her right, Hadrian knelt nearby, his eyes closed and his breathing steady as he waited for Casselia and Krinka to arrive. Alsarana had awoken them well before the first light of dawn, with Lotem and Hadrian muttering about a lack of sleep as they ate slices of bread with butter prepared by Nessa.


    Sylva had refrained from joining their complaints about a lack of sleep. It wasn¡¯t that Silkborn didn¡¯t need to sleep¡ªit was well known that every living creature needed rest in some fashion¡ªbut she refused to believe that her perfect, silken body could suffer from the same physical distress as mere flesh. Silkborn were made to be superior to humans¡ªor Numens¡ªand she refused to let the drowsiness that tried to pull her eyes down win.


    Nessa had shown them to a barn at the back of the headquarters, an unobtrusive wooden building with a cobbled stone floor and tall rafters supporting a slanted roof. If it weren¡¯t for the intricate circle that covered the stone floor, pulling wisps of the inky black mist inward, Sylva might have questioned the room¡¯s usefulness. After examining the script forming the circle as they waited, Sylva realized that it was designed for dueling.


    The script bespoke protection against injury, shielding from danger, and¡ªif she wasn¡¯t mistaken¡ªillumination, though she couldn¡¯t puzzle out why the circle would need to light up. The script was built with interlocking statements that applied magical effects to those within its bounds. It reminded Sylva of complex legal contracts¡ªeach element requiring specific definition and consistent logic¡ªor of the Imperial Poems, with their specific construction such that every element of the poem carried power within. It was a magic of tradition and of contract. It spoke to something within Sylva, urging her to see the inky mist enter the script and fuel it with power.


    ¡°Good, Alsarana did his job well,¡± Casselia said as she swept into the room, Krinka in tow. She surveyed their kneeling forms with a nod and gestured to Hadrian. ¡°You can stand; you will be needed within the circle. Krinka, take your seat near Sylva and provide commentary when needed.¡±


    Krinka shuffled over, giving Sylva a quick smile before schooling his features into an attentive mask. Casselia rolled her eyes at the man with good humor before turning to Hadrian as he entered the circle. Sylva frowned as the air seemed to shimmer around Hadrian as he entered, the inky mist suddenly clinging to him like a second set of clothing. She could easily see past the dark mist; it didn¡¯t obscure her sight as much as dampen the color within. Casselia stepped into the ring a moment later, and mist shifted and formed around her in the same way.


    ¡°The script creates an armor that prevents basic injuries to those inside,¡± Krinka said, his voice low enough not to distract from the sight ahead. ¡°I see it as a glow that appears around them. I presume you see it differently, but it is the same effect. The Sulphen has been channeled to a purpose; it is simply waiting to activate.¡±


    ¡°While we are within the ring,¡± Casselia said, eyes focused on Hadrian, ¡°we are protected from normal physical injury. Summon a blade and throw it at me, as though you intend to kill me.¡±


    Hadrian hesitated; the blade appeared but stayed in his hand as he looked between Krinka and Casselia.


    ¡°Now,¡± Casselia said sharply, ¡°Trust that I don¡¯t want you to actually hurt me and that I know what I am doing.¡±


    That seemed to snap Hadrian out of whatever concerns he had felt. He stepped forwards, his arm flicking, almost casually, in Casselia¡¯s direction, and an ivory throwing knife struck her chest as she stood, undefended. Sylva watched, desperate not to miss anything, as the inky mist around Casselia firmed and then seemed to erupt with red light. The stone floor around Casselia was bathed in red as the ivory blade vanished before hitting the floor.


    ¡°If I were to take a blow likely to kill me, I will glow crimson. If the blow would only injure me, I would glow yellow. Upon the second injury, I would glow orange, and then, upon the third, red. Clear enough?¡± she asked Hadrian, who nodded. ¡°Good¡ªit was designed for children to understand, and if you didn¡¯t, we would have real concerns.¡±


    ¡°This is how all the duels will be?¡± Hadrian asked.


    ¡°Not¡­ all of the duels. Meris challenged you to a more traditional fight with real blades. Injury is far more likely and death is possible, though rare. We will have [Healers] on hand and a Justicar to ensure things are run properly. But so long as we are the challengers, yes, we will use a ring much like this one. Clear enough?¡±


    ¡°Like the sky after the rain,¡± Hadrian said.


    ¡°Every day, there should be a handful of candidates that seek to challenge you. I will imitate a variety of combat styles. Sylva, you will see the aura around me shift as I imitate different styles. Tell Krinka what you sense, and he will guide you to understanding your new vision. Until you can reliably identify someone''s level of threat and general affinities by sight alone, you will not be ready to guide your Triumvirate.¡±


    Sylva was confident she would pick up the skill soon enough. How hard could it be to judge others by sight alone? She had been honing her sense of judgment for decades. She focused on Casselia as she backed up and changed her posture; a narrow, thin sword appeared in her grip.


    ¡°You should see the Sulphen around Casselia quiver soon,¡± Krinka said, moments before a shiver ran through the inky fog around Casselia, shifting in the air in a new, swirling pattern. ¡°The color and intensity of the light around her shift for me in a dancing pattern. How does it present for you?¡± Krinka asked as Casselia announced the start of the fight.


    The Sulphen roiled and swirled around Casselia, its motions nearly frantic in comparison to how they had been previously. ¡°It appears as a black mist that dampens color but not sight; it roils and moves if I pay close enough attention. Now, it seems furious, almost aggressive,¡± Sylva said as Casselia¡¯s sword casually slapped one thrown dagger and then a second out of the ring.


    ¡°Good,¡± Krinka said, ¡°but that observation is not helpful. Most fighters will feel furious or aggressive during a fight. Look deeper.¡±


    Sylva watched the mist spin in wide circles around Casselia as the woman advanced towards Hadrian, never dodging, always parrying or blocking with her blade. The mist felt indomitable, as though its motion was inevitable. She wasn¡¯t sure why it felt that way to her; the swirling mist could have been excited or furious, but it wasn¡¯t.


    ¡°She feels unstoppable, like a boulder falling from a mountain,¡± she tried.


    ¡°Unstoppable? Hmmmm,¡± Krinka said, drawing out the hum long enough to make his skepticism clear. She watched as Hadrian summoned a sword and parried a downward swing from Casselia. ¡°Not how I would describe it. Try this. Cass, [A Skill Recalled].¡± Sylva felt the man¡¯s skill activate as the Sulphen surrounding Casselia shifted and her blade went immaterial for half a breath¡ªjust long enough to pass through Hadrian¡¯s waiting sword and score a slash that turned the light around him a golden yellow. Hadrian danced backwards, glaring at the scholar with mock anger.


    ¡°Hey¡ª¡± Hadrian began, but was cut off as Casselia pressed him, giving him no quarter, as she seemed to realize that Krinka needed her to keep the pressure up.


    ¡°I still felt the inevitability, but it was more like the tide. When your skill activated, it felt almost wet to me.¡±


    Hadrian released one hand from his blade as he parried Casselia¡¯s relentless attack, a faint pop serving as the only warning as a spear appeared in his grip, already in motion to stab Casselia. It glanced off the Sulphen surrounding her, and she began to glow yellow. Casselia smiled as she dodged backwards, as though delighted that Hadrian had landed a blow.


    ¡°Better,¡± Krinka said. ¡°Pay attention to the primary feeling an aura gives you, and then extrapolate a metaphor that works for it. It¡¯s not perfect, but if you are close enough, you can get a good sense of someone¡¯s capabilities. Cass,¡± he called, ¡°new style.¡±


    Casselia¡¯s sword vanished as an axe replaced it. The hilt of the axe was ornately carved silver and held a dual-headed obsidian blade in place. If her prior sword had felt unassuming, this blade screamed of danger to Sylva, and the Sulphen surrounding Casselia suddenly took on a different hue.


    ¡°It feels menacing, almost arrogant,¡± Sylva said as she tried to puzzle out the meaning of the mist¡¯s motions and what her intuition was telling her. She rushed to continue, conscious of the fact that every fighter likely felt menacing, and she didn¡¯t want the same rebuke this time. ¡°Like a predator stalking its prey.¡±


    ¡°Close,¡± Krinka allowed, ¡°but not specific enough. Hadrian,¡± Krinka called as Casselia began to walk forward, ¡°you glared at me last time when I didn¡¯t give you a warning about a skill; this is your warning.¡± Hadrian braced as Krinka spoke.


    ¡°[An Enemy Remembered].¡±


    Casselia was suddenly in motion. The Sulphen around her legs shifted and tightened like a spring before releasing, sending her toward Hadrian in a blur. The axe chopped downwards with enough momentum to cut Hadrian in half. Sylva¡¯s gaze froze as she felt the Sulphen around Hadrian shift, pulling him backward in a jerking motion that allowed him to slip to the side of the blow. Then a dagger appeared in his hand, and this time she could see the blurring of the Sulphen a fraction of a moment before the blade appeared.


    ¡°You noticed this time,¡± Krinka said, watching her intently as her eyes remained locked on the fight. ¡°Good, now, what does her aura feel like?¡±


    ¡°An Axebeak?¡± Sylva guessed, with a sudden suspicion that Krinka hated the beasts.


    ¡°Close enough,¡± he said, nodding approvingly, ¡°The real species are now extinct. So you can¡¯t be expected to be much closer.¡±


    After a few more exchanges between Casselia and Hadrian, Krinka called out, ¡°Cass, your real aura please.¡± Casselia paused, looking to Krinka as if to confirm. He rolled his eyes and added, ¡°I¡¯m not reckless¡ªI checked the wards on the building last night. No one else will sense a thing outside this building.¡±


    Sylva saw a swirl of the Sulphen in front of Casselia¡¯s eyes as she looked around the room, seemingly confirming what Krinka had said. Sylva wondered what she was worried about¡ªno one else had been hiding their aura, had they?


    The Sulphen around Casselia began to change, its color throughout the room shifting to blends of deep, violent, muted blue and, where light touched, burnished gold. The Sulphen¡¯s ripples and currents throughout the room seemed to breathe with the fading warmth as day became night.


    ¡°Dusk. Her aura is one of twilight and dusk,¡± Sylva whispered as Hadrian looked at Casselia, his eyes suddenly narrowed, sword at the ready.


    ¡°Excellent,¡± Krinka said. ¡°You feel how much clearer the impression is now; that is how you judge the strength of an opponent and their affinity. The clearer the picture you get of their aura, the stronger they are¡ªor the better their protections are at muddying the water. Casselia¡¯s Combat Art is called [Dynasty¡¯s Dusk]. Watch as she shows Hadrian some of her skills.¡±


    Casselia approached Hadrian, and they had a quick conversation that Sylva couldn¡¯t quite make out. She glanced at Krinka inquisitively and raised one eyebrow as if to say, ¡°Patience.¡± Sylva didn¡¯t want to be patient¡ªshe had waited her entire life for moments like this: to breathe the air of the powerful and begin to understand how things really worked. She didn¡¯t want to miss out on anything.


    As Casselia bowed to Hadrian and the bout began, Sylva kept her focus locked on their mentor. The Sulphen surrounding Casselia smoothed all her motions; each strike and step felt seamless. Hadrian¡¯s blade attacked, countered, and parried frantically as he struggled to keep pace with Casselia, despite the woman¡¯s seemingly effortless grace. Sylva could almost feel the hope waning from Hadrian as they fought.


    Hadrian lunged forward in a desperate strike, and Sylva watched as the Sulphen shifted¡ªa crown of black mist appeared over Hadrian¡¯s head a moment before Casselia¡¯s downward strike transformed into an axe swing that sliced through Hadrian¡¯s sword and stopped at his neck. The Sulphen around him burst into violent red, and Casselia stepped back.


    ¡°I saw a crown appear over Hadrian¡¯s head,¡± Sylva whispered to Krinka as the fight paused.


    ¡°[Regicide¡¯s Resonance] is the skill name,¡± Krinka said quietly as Casselia and Hadrian moved to the center of the ring to converse. ¡°It allows her to imitate historical events that resulted in the death of a king¡ªmy influence, obviously. More unique skills will have a stronger influence on the Sulphen; most, though, will just give you a more general sense of the intention behind them. If you get good enough, you can identify and counter skills or abilities before they have the chance to finish.¡±


    Casselia and Hadrian approached the two of them. As Hadrian crossed the threshold of the ring, she felt the Sulphen release from around him as the red light faded.


    ¡°Did you feel that?¡± Hadrian asked, with excitement in his voice. ¡°I felt invincible for a second there¡ªand then, pow, red light and an axe at my neck. Skills¡­ are scary.¡± Hadrian rubbed the back of his head ruefully.


    ¡°That brings us to the next point before we get back to teaching different types of styles and skills,¡± Casselia said as she walked to the back of the barn and picked up a cloth package that Sylva had dismissed as mere burlap when she had arrived. No one would bother hiding anything of worth under burlap, after all.


    ¡°Hadrian, you should not use your [Lesser Armory of Bone] skill in a duel unless absolutely necessary until it is upgraded.¡± She opened the sack and retrieved a sheath carved from hardwood with a rich, crimson tone. Casselia pulled the blade from its sheath, and Sylva felt a shift in the Sulphen as she looked at the blade. It was enchanted, she realized, though she didn¡¯t get an impression from it in the same way she could while watching the fights.


    ¡°I put in a requisition before we were able to enter Tir Na Nog to retrieve you for a set of Bloodwood blades. Imported directly from Hirion, the City of War, this will be a far safer option for you.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡± Hadrian asked, his brows furrowed and his posture tense. He looked concerned to Sylva rather than happy with the gift. That didn¡¯t make much sense to Sylva.


    Bloodwood blades were expensive¡ªnot as expensive as Fogsilk, but expensive enough to be prohibitive to most within the empire. Bloodwood trees required a steady stream of fresh blood for their roots for decades before the wood could be harvested. Sylva had studied the wood alongside other rare materials of the empire, and she knew that it was stronger than steel and naturally resistant to magic. It was an excellent gift for Hadrian, so why did he seem bothered?


    ¡°It¡¯s nothing against Rovan or bone as a material, Hadrian. We are partners with Alsarana¡ªwe are not squeamish about bone like some. But your current armaments cannot be modified, and we are too close to Dion holdings not to prepare for bone affinities.¡± Hadrian still didn¡¯t seem convinced, so Casselia turned and reentered the ring, gesturing for him to follow before continuing. ¡°Summon a sword and swing at me.¡±


    The blade appeared after a moment¡¯s hesitation, and Hadrian stepped forward with a thrust. Casselia flicked her hand, and Sylva watched as the Sulphen surrounding the blade jerked it back¡ªthe edge spinning and connecting with the aura around Hadrian, casting him in a yellow light.


    ¡°I don¡¯t even have a bone affinity¡ªI merely borrow Alsarana¡¯s. If you don¡¯t think you will encounter someone capable of doing the same, you are not prepared to take on a city¡¯s worth of challengers.¡±


    Hadrian, rather than looking put out, suddenly seemed excited at the prospect of the new weapons. He rushed back and grabbed the sword, inspecting it.


    ¡°Is the wood enchanted, or is that a natural property?¡± Sylva asked, breaking the brief silence.


    ¡°It¡¯s enchanted to hold its edge and to disperse any foreign control over the Sulphen. In effect, it prevents that kind of trick from working.¡±


    ¡°Morvan¡¯s armor would have had one if the Eidolons had been allowed enchanted gear in a trial like that¡ªgood thing they weren¡¯t,¡± Krinka said. ¡°Any enchanted item worth anything at all will have similar protections.¡±


    Hadrian pulled a pair of sheathed daggers made from the same wood from the sack, looking touched. ¡°Thank you, Casselia. This is¡­ thoughtful. I will visit Hirion one day, and I cannot wait to see these great Bloodwood trees.¡±


    Sylva wasn¡¯t sure that Hadrian would actually enjoy seeing massive trees covered in animal corpses, dripping endless streams of blood. She just didn¡¯t see how anyone could enjoy that. She could appreciate the byproducts of the process, but she didn¡¯t need to see the actual thing¡ªnot if the tapestry she had learned from was accurate at all.


    ¡°Someday, Hadrian, I would love to take you to a Bloodwood grove. Now, this afternoon you will be fighting one of the Penitent. You can expect physical enhancements and fire with metaphysical properties similar to Luminary¡¯s flame. We will practice against the most common skills and then progress to more complex ones until you feel completely confident.¡±