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.
– 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—his Ma had always preached that poor preparation led to poor performance—but 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—one 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—every 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—and 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—at 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—his 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—something 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.
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—this 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—nothing 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—an 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—Tuvashar’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—the 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.
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—not 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—the 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.
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—somehow, amidst the chaos—clinging 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—each 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—that 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—if 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.
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—done 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—restrictions 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—or near enough to it—and 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—a 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—spiraling 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—no 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—a 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—this 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—flush 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.
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—not 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—well 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—after all he had endured, a moment of relief was more than deserved.
“If you touch the orb, it should present you with a choice—to 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—they had earned the right to grow, to wield whatever new strengths awaited them on the other side.
[Combat Art Recognized: Veil of the Fogflare Moth]
[Skill Obtained: Fogbound Perception]
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[Spell Obtained: Threads of Fate’s Binding]
[Skill Obtained: Sympathetic Usurpation]
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[Skill Obtained: Raging Endurance]
[Companion Skill Obtained: Sharpened Claws]
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[Triumvirate Skill Obtained: Bound in Fury’s Triumph]