Two eyes become six as wings unfold,
Black and white—unyielding, 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—
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 sentinel in a world of flame.
– 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. Even as she had heard tales of the heroes’ painstaking training, the enigma of the Sulphen always left her reaching for its hidden depths.
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—the endless adjustments, the mental acrobatics of chanting, signing, and visualizing the spell’s outcome all at once—would 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—scattered 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.
She understood the limits of the river analogy; the Sulphen was far more capricious than any natural stream. Yet the image held true enough—the deeds of ancient heroes and even of fearsome monsters had set the precedent for how the Sulphen would respond. Aligning her incantations with these age-old patterns meant that the magic, in time, would heed her call. As the elders often murmured: the Sulphen observes, and the Sulphen adapts.
Once she had mastered the basic lexicon of spellcraft, Krinka introduced her to the six foundational forms of incantation. He began with Transference—the art of channeling energy or attributes between objects. “Transference is your ideal starting point,” he had said, “because it demands that you balance multiple streams of thought while maintaining unwavering focus.”
To illustrate, Krinka casually produced a simple clay cup from his bag, filling it with water from a nearby pool. “Make ice for my drink,” he instructed. What began as a seemingly trivial exercise soon stretched into hours of trial and error. Sylva’s mind strained as she wrestled with the Sulphen, her every attempt met by water that refused to yield. Slowly, a delicate film of frost crept across the cup’s surface—a small triumph amid countless failures. The moment of relief was tempered by a throbbing ache behind her eyes, a reminder of the taxing nature of the magic.
Within her Lifestring, she sensed a pool of energy—a hidden reserve that drew the Sulphen toward her will. Krinka called it her internal reserve, warning that depleting it as a Silkborn might render her body incapable of sustaining itself without magical support. The thought made her wonder if past failures had cost others more than just time.
Sensing her fatigue, Krinka ended the practical exercises for the day and filled the remaining hours with lectures on the fundamentals of magic. He guided her through the intricate web of Absorption, Obfuscation, Manifestation, Binding, and Severance. Each principle unfolded like a tightly woven knot, and with every explanation, the nature of magic revealed itself more deeply—even as her headache lingered in the background.
Transference and Absorption, he explained, were the cornerstones of transmogrification and transmutation—the arts of reshaping objects as one might mold clay. In contrast, Obfuscation and Manifestation were the keys to conjuring illusions and summoning forces from beyond, while Binding and Severance allowed the caster to forge, and then unmake, the unseen connections between objects. Together, these six principles formed a complete framework, granting Sylva the flexibility to traverse the vast disciplines of magic.
At first, Sylva had worried that such rigid principles might constrain the unpredictable nature of real magic. But as she practiced, the initial rigidity melted away into a sense of fluidity—a flexibility that demanded split-second decisions and subtle negotiations with the Sulphen. It was no longer a question of whether the metaphorical water would flow, but whether she could persuade it to carve the right canyon before slipping away.
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—but 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 careful supervision, Sylva then attempted a more nuanced challenge. Her task was to command the Sulphen to extend the shadows creeping along the stone floor. First, she had to convince the magic that the darkness desired to spread, to cloak the floor in obscurity. Then, with a subtle shift in intent, she persuaded the Sulphen that the shadows should stretch and consume the light. Gradually, the room succumbed to her will, the shadows thickening like ink spilled across parchment.
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—an empty glass and a full one—were, 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.
As the hours wore on, Krinka’s quiet satisfaction became palpable. With every successful exercise, his expression grew more assured, his eyes gleaming with approval as Sylva advanced from one challenge to the next. When she finally mastered both binding and severance with reliable precision, his smug demeanor softened into one of paternal pride.
“Have I demonstrated Binding and Severance to your standards?” Sylva asked softly, her voice steady despite the exhaustion. Two pieces of parchment lay before her, each magically tethered so that words penned on one appeared instantly on the other. At Krinka’s nod, she placed her fingers in the precise formation he had taught her and murmured the incantation. In an instant, the words on the second page dissolved into thin air.
“You have,” he replied with a gentle smile. “Faster than expected, too. Casselia believed it would take nearly a week before you mastered these six forms.”
Sylva’s gaze sharpened as she straightened her spine. A question that had gnawed at her for hours bubbled to the surface. “Answer me this, Krinka: the Sunborn claim that conviction is the heart of Thaumaturgy. You never dismissed that belief, yet none of this,” she gestured at the scattered cups and crumpled pages, “seems to involve personal conviction over rhetorical persuasion.”
Krinka fidgeted, buying time to collect his thoughts. His discomfort was evident, and a knot of unease tightened in her stomach as she waited. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he sighed.
“You exceed my timelines more often than not it seems. I never expected you to catch on so quickly—days, maybe weeks if I were optimistic.” A frown crept onto Sylva’s face as the truth sank in. He had deceived her. Why would her sworn mentor, her sole source of guidance, hide something so crucial? He continued, “What I’ve been teaching you are the foundational incantations for transmogrification and sympathetic magic. They differ greatly from the art of Thaumaturgy.”
“How are they different?” she pressed.
“Thaumaturgic magic is deeply personal. It is not enough to know the incantations; a Thaumaturge must have passion—a conviction that resonates through every fiber of their being. A [Wizard] grows through knowledge alone, but a [Thaumaturge] wields power through certainty.”
“But the incantations worked,” Sylva countered, her brows furrowing. “You didn’t train me in passion or certainty, yet the spells responded.”
“There’s a misunderstanding,” Krinka admitted. “With enough dedication and knowledge, anyone can perform basic cantrips. Even Casselia—who is as much a mage as Hadrian—can execute simple sympathy. I have been trying to build a practical framework for you, something for daily use of the Sulphen, or perhaps to guide your path toward true thaumaturgic magic.”
“Speak plainly, Krinka. What aren’t you telling me?” Her tone was resolute.
He hesitated, then said, “Your natural talent in transmogrification is too potent to be confined to a single class. The trial you underwent influenced the class you received, but it may not reflect your true potential as a [Thaumaturge]. A strong foundation in incantations can eventually evolve your practice into something that mirrors traditional spellwork—or even earn you a secondary class.”
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 ches.
“I wasn’t supposed to get this class, was I?” she whispered, both to him and to herself.
“Supposed to be,” he echoed softly. “There is much tied up in that idea. In youth, we believe only in the goals others set for us, but I have learned that no path is written in stone. The [Diviners] predict, the [Seers] interpret omens, and the [Numerologists] claim to decode fate with equations—but none see a future as malleable as ours.”
As the tension in the room eased, Krinka leaned forward, his gaze intense. “Did your sect’s elders plan a different path for you? Certainly. Would it be easier if you received a class that perfectly suited your training? Absolutely. But that does not mean you will not become an exceptional [Thaumaturge], or that we cannot evolve your class into something more fitting. This is your life, Sylva—don’t let anyone dictate what you are meant to become.”
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—in 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 do you start teaching me to be a [Thaumaturge]?” she asked, eyes locked on his. “If this is my path, I must learn to excel at it. I cannot change the hand I’ve been dealt, but I can choose how to play it. You taught me transmogrification because my skills weren’t quite right for Thaumaturgy. How do we change that?”
Krinka bit his lip and, after a long pause, exhaled slowly. “We have three more days before Casselia expects us to finish these incantations. I am not as versed in advanced Thaumaturgic methods as I would like, but I can teach you the basics. Are you certain you want to commit to this path? Each step taken toward Thaumaturgy makes it harder to change course 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—two 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?”
He paused, his eyes steady as he chose his words. “With transmogrification, it is all about the Word—the precise language that guides the Sulphen’s flow. But Thaumaturgy? That is the magic of Will. You must force the Sulphen into the channels where it belongs, backed by beliefs strong enough to reshape reality itself.”
Sylva’s gaze did not waver. “So how do we proceed?”
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.
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—no 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—she 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—a 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—not 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—a 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—especially 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—blossoming 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—vines 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—worthy 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—well, 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—at 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.”
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—much 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—just 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—and survived—the 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—you brought this kitten into a war.”
“I—” 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—that much was clear already—and 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—you 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—it’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—I’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—threats 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—not 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—and 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—that can be? Commanding your rodent to kill my friend—that’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—the 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—though 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—Morvan’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]