Chapter Twenty-Eight: Trial of the Maw

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In considering the Beast-kin—those formed by or born shortly after the ascension of the Beast Kings—the question naturally arises: are they people, or are they beasts? Should they be awarded the rights, privileges, and obligations we grant to citizens of our empires, or given no more regard than we would an especially clever dog? Surely, it is sad to kick such a creature—immoral, even—but killing a dog is not murder. Designations matter in the Sul Empire.

It was eventually decided that the risk of ascension was simply too high. No matter their capacity for thought, for joy, for suffering, the Beast-kin are nothing more than beasts. It was for this reason that the Trial of the Harvest was replaced with the Trial of the Maw—a training ground for the murder of ‘beasts.’

– On the Establishment of the Trial of the Maw by the Empress of Threefold Blood

Three days until the Revelry of Stone and Bone.

Lotem sat beneath the great tree, gazing skyward as rolling thunder drowned all but the fiercest beast-calls. He’d lost track of how long the Empress hovered above, her presence pulling clouds inward like threads woven tight. Her song had stirred longing for a beauty he’d never known, only to ignite fury when describing its ruin by the Tul’s kin. At least Ysaril’s memory remained; the Tul would have left nothing. Rage—his constant companion since his brother’s death—rose eagerly, familiar and just.

Althara’s final words pierced the ritual’s awe: allies of the Tul had breached Aslavain—Ratlings. Memory dragged him back to his arrival, to Tir Na Nog, where he had glimpsed the Tul and dismissed it as mere vision. He’d watched rats swarm from a warren and written them off as illusion. Now the doubt gnawed: had it been real? Had he, unknowingly, been the first to see the Ratlings?

Fat raindrops splattered from the canopy in steady cadence. Krinka had said the downpour might last for weeks, lightning staying far away. Yet another rumble rolled across the sky, and Lotem pictured bolts still falling somewhere beyond the horizon—Althara smiting rats with a mere thought, her silhouette framed by a dark‑purple firmament below the widening wall of clouds.

“Lotem, we must find shelter,” Sabel huffed. “This rain is ruining my fur, and I refuse to look mangy before an Empress—she could be watching us right now!”

Lotem sighed and rose, scratching Sabel’s head to reassure her. Nearby, Sylva and Hadrian tore their eyes from the sky to watch him. Sylva looked contemplative, as though trying to fit new facts into a smith’s puzzle. Hadrian was more withdrawn that Lotem would expect, his face drawn in a tight mask that made Lotem suspect there was something he hadn’t been told yet.

“You two need a fire and a moment to think. Come,” Lotem said.

Lotem’s movement caught Casselia’s eye where she whispered with Alsarana and Krinka. She met his gaze, considered, then nodded assent. He set off toward the Mandate headquarters, Hadrian and Sylva following. Sabel’s approving purrs accompanied him, the kitten offering a running commentary on rain‑induced horrors for her fur.

“She called a Revelry of Stone and Bone.”

Sylva’s worried words broke their quiet march, pulling Lotem from Sabel’s chatter. He had always hoped to fight in a Revelry; the Empire’s fiercest weapon against the Tul was every Bal’s dream. Yet none had been declared for nearly a century, and one had never been declared inside Aslavain. An unthinking part of him wanted to cheer—until the implications settled. A Revelry meant war. Almost exactly what he’d wished for.

“What is that?” Hadrian asked. “A… festival?”

“Far from it,” Sylva said in a Krinka-like lecture tone. “A Revelry of Stone and Bone is how the Empire opens true war on the Tul—an imperial summons binding every capable hunter to twelve days of lethal competition. Twelve days to slay monsters. Twelve days in which Sul citizens will die. It’s the beginning of war, Hadrian—burning string, a Revelry always is.”

“Some of my people do treat it like a festival,” Lotem murmured. “The Tulunganar petition the House of Lords for one every year—have since my grandparents’ time. The Empire always says the risk is too high, that innocents would die and all we’d earn is corpses—as if leaving the Tul alive were safer.” He spat into the grass, fists flexing as he forced himself not to outpace his friends.

Hadrian hesitated, eyes flicking anxiously through the rain toward their mentors. “Shouldn’t we wait for Casselia? If it’s as serious as Sylva says…” He paused, swallowing the rest—as though unwilling to voice his true worry.

“They’ll find us when they’re ready,” Sylva said, fingers idly threading her new spellstring. Krinka had gifted it just before the ritual, pausing his barrage of Sabel questions—questions Lotem expected would return once the Empress’s pronouncement stopped eclipsing everything.

“Besides,” she added, “Hadrian needs to speak with you—privately.”

Lotem slowed, catching Hadrian’s gray eyes before the man looked away—nervous. What had happened?

“What—” he started, but Sylva’s sharp look silenced him.

“Headquarters first. Thunder and beast-calls make enough noise—and this deserves privacy anyway.”

“Do you think…” Hadrian hesitated, glancing to Sylva then to Sabel with a nervous look that Lotem found entirely out of place on the man. Hadrian was stable. That was how Lotem had come to see him at least. Even in the depths of Tir Na Nog he had been always quick to smile and ready to try again, to improve himself. Even when Meris had challenged him, Lotem had felt a sense of confusion, but none of the nervousness that now filled his friend. Lotem found he didn’t like the shift.

“Hadrian,” Sylva said, voice firm but concerned, “we’ll find a solution. The Revelry may have changed everything.”

They walked on in silence while thunder rolled from east and south. Near the Mandate building, Lotem spotted Nessa perched on the roof, feet dangling, eyes skyward. At his greeting she slid down with surprising grace, landing lightly and sweeping wet hair from her face.

“Where are your mentors?” Nessa demanded, peering past them as if Alsarana might slither up at any moment. Hands on hips, she narrowed her eyes. “Don’t tell me they’re behind all this.” She waved at the roiling sky and the beasts racing through the streets with sudden fervor.

“Not directly,” Sylva said, “although it seems that Casselia and Hadrian were what drew the Empress here in the first place.”

“Of course they were,” Nessa muttered. “The books were right—decades of silence and boredom, then chaos the moment a [Venerate] arrives. About time, Mandate protect us all. Now,” she said as she turned, opening the door and striding inside, “come in before the rain ruins you. Your poor kitten is drenched.”

“At least someone noticed,” Sabel said primly as Lotem stepped inside, Hadrian and Sylva a few paces behind. Inside, the warmth of the hearth and scent of old leather-bound tomes provided welcome relief from the wet chill. Shadows flickered across walls etched with symbols of warding, each carved rune glowing faintly with magic against the dimness. The kitten judged the distance, leaped from his shoulder to a nearby chair, then sauntered over to curl beside the hearth—contentment purring across their bond.

“Three days,” Nessa said, rummaging for pots and ingredients. “Three days until a Revelry of Stone and Bone. Crazier than a chicken without a head. You’re barely past childhood—certainly not warriors ready for the Empire’s deadliest traditions.”

“We were children before we entered Aslavain—no longer,” Sylva said firmly, taking a seat near the fire. “Not since Tir Na Nog. And this Revelry isn’t even against the Tul.”

“I don’t know much about these Ratlings—I doubt few but Krinka do—but I do know this: no children of the Tul‑Tul‑Tar—may they never return—are inconsequential. If a long‑dead race is back, the stories end badly, and so will this.”

“We fought rats when we first entered Aslavain,” Hadrian said. “One bit Lotem, and he healed without trouble. If we managed then, we can handle them now—I’m confident.”

“Where—Tir Na Nog?” Nessa asked, glancing south as another peal of thunder rolled. She frowned. “You’d think rats would settle in Dornogor—far more hospitable than that forest. Did you ever mention them to your mentors?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Sylva answered the Eidolon’s question. “Not that I’m aware of. It never seemed relevant—during the trial we were busy, and afterward we left so quickly.” She glanced to Lotem and Hadrian, who both nodded. Lotem hadn’t dwelt on the rat encounter; they’d been chased into the obelisk soon after. If anything, it had only confirmed his suspicion that Sylvine granted him [Natural Enemy] out of petty grievance rather than goodwill. Now he reconsidered both the encounter and her gift. He spoke slowly, weighing each word.

“There was a full warren we stumbled on. Are rats not normally a threat in Tir Na Nog? I assumed they were just part of the forest’s ecology.”

“I’m not sure,” Nessa admitted. “Eidolons can’t leave the demesne they’re bound to, and I certainly wouldn’t visit Tir Na Nog in Creation. It was vile even before the Gloombound rose. Never trust a city built on emotion; they lack the stability of a true concept and smell worse than a skunk’s spray most days. Add its intentionally unstable founding, and it’s best to pretend the place doesn’t exist.”

“Would they be involved in all this? The rats seem to be in the south as well as the east,” Hadrian said, settling into a seat. Lotem’s bison‑fur cloak dripped as he hung it by the fire, envious of Hadrian’s dry Fog Robe.

“I wager that many tongues will wag in that direction, but personally? I doubt it. The older Sunborn, Numen, and Gondaran Eidolons of Tir Na Nog are as loyal to the Empire as the rest of us—hard not to be when the Empire’s destruction means our own. Nygmar and a few Gloombound aside, Tir Na Nog will stay loyal, especially now. This is the first Imperial Triumvirate without a Dion representative in centuries; that should go a long way with the dissenters there.”

Lotem wondered about that. He knew of the Nygmar, had even seen some of the frog-like people as they traveled the caravan roads to sell exotic goods. They were strange, sure, but he had never gotten the impression that the Nygmar were any less loyal to the Empire’s cause. If anything, he thought they would be grateful to the Empire. They had been allowed to join the Empire with hardly any bloodshed. How different their entrance must have felt compared with the Bal’s own entrance into the Empire.

Nessa continued, filling the contemplative silence as she began to stir a pot and the smell of local spices began to fill the room.

“No. It’s more likely that the rats expanded into a demesne less likely to call attention to them. It’s like you said—who would question monsters in a forest made from bones? And what threat do large rats pose to the Empire regardless? No, I wager it’s these Ratlings that are the real threat. It’s like with the beasts: the normal creatures are never the problem; it’s the ones touched by a Lord—or, Sulphen forbid, a King—that cause the Empire problems.”

“So we have three days until this Revelry begins, and we are tasked with killing as many of them as we can?” Hadrian asked. “That seems simple, at least. My Pa always said that a simple plan is a safe plan, and that not much is simpler than having enemies to kill.”

Despite Hadrian’s cheerful words, Lotem could sense the same nervous energy under the surface. Hadrian glanced anxiously at the door, clearly desperate for their mentors’ return. Lotem looked to Sylva for explanation, but she avoided his gaze deliberately. The secrecy grated instantly, sharpening his discomfort into a hot flash of anger. Did they not trust him anymore?

“What?” he snapped before he could restrain himself. “You—” he pointed at Hadrian, aware the gesture was more aggressive than he intended but no longer willing to care—“you look like a rabbit caught in the fox’s den, and you have since I got back from training with Alsarana. And you—” he whirled on Sylva—“have only confirmed that something is wrong and that it involves me. Enough with the fucking secrets.”

Lotem felt the tension in the room increase with his words as Sylva shifted in her seat. Then Hadrian smiled and let out a nervous chuckle. The rage fled, leaving Lotem with a momentary pang of regret. He hadn’t meant to snap at them—hadn’t meant to lose his cool. It was becoming a far too common pattern these days, and he hadn’t felt truly in control of his anger in years. He sensed Sabel watching him, but she didn’t comment, and he was grateful for that.

“The Empress asked me to give up my class,” Hadrian began, his hesitation suddenly absent. “She asked me to renounce being Rovan’s squire.” He leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Why?” Lotem demanded. That made no sense to him. Hadrian was capable—more than capable. If anyone was deserving of the title, it was him.

“Meris.” Sylva’s tone was cold, as though she blamed herself for the situation. Lotem could understand that feeling. He had been there with Hadrian; he should have led him away from the story before it had ever gotten to that point—should have intervened more directly when Meris challenged his friend. Sylva hadn’t been there; he had.

“She doesn’t think you can win?”

“She never said that, not exactly,” Hadrian replied glumly. “She said she was opposed because her presence in Dornogor would make it riskier.” Hadrian added softly, “And she said that if I battle Meris, it would hurt my family back in Cutra.”

Lotem stood, his arms flexing as he clenched his fists. His teeth ground together as he tried to understand what Hadrian was saying. He growled the words with an intensity that seemed to take Hadrian aback.

“She threatened your family?”

“Not… not directly, no.”

“So what? You renounce your class, give up on Rovan Khal and whatever else comes with being the [Squire of Carven Bone], and some imperial prick gets all your hard work instead? Bullshit. You earned your title.”

“Not some imperial prick, no.” Sylva entered the conversation with a rueful smile that scraped at Lotem’s nerves. Enough with the secrets. Enough with me falling behind the rest of the group.

“Who?”

“You, Lotem. Althara asked Hadrian to give you his class.”

Lotem froze. Impossible. Maybe if Eseldra Ironbloom had been here, she might have made such a request, but Althara Vandros? No. The Tempest was Malan and had never been someone his tribe thought of as a friend to the Bal. It must be a trick. He wasn’t worthy of such a title. He still questioned whether he was worthy to be in the same Triumvirate as Hadrian and Sylva. His instincts insisted that he still wasn’t an equal part of this team, let alone worthy of the Titan’s notice. He shook his head, denying Sylva’s words.

“Bullshit,” he declared firmly, plowing over Sylva’s insistence. “And if it’s not bullshit? I still won’t take it. I don’t want it. I don’t deserve it. I will not steal from my friend.” he said the words in a tone he hoped carried the finality he felt.

“But—” Hadrian began, but Lotem cut him off.

“I refuse, Hadrian. It’s as simple as that.”

“Refuse an Empress? Boy, are you as mad as an Axebeak?” Nessa’s voice broke through the silence that followed his declaration as she squinted at Lotem. “I always took you to be the most sensical of the bunch—what with Hadrian being from the edge of civilization and Sylva being from the sect—but they at least understand power.” Nessa looked ready to throw a ladle at him, gesturing wildly with the utensil as she spoke.

“Do you think for a second that this is what either of them want? That Hadrian wants his best accomplishment blown away like fog in a storm? Do you think Casselia would stand for some petty politics interfering with her training? The Empress has made a demand, and there is little that can be done aside from honoring it.” She met his gaze firmly. “If the Balar told you to do something for your own good, would you listen to him—even if you didn’t want to?”

Of course I would. Lotem thought. Nessa’s smile curved upwards, and he realized she was right. Althara carried the same weight of authority for Sylva or Hadrian that the Balar did for him—maybe more so. Nessa pounced on his hesitation.

“I thought as much. Empress Vandros is a lightning strike on a clear day; that isn’t disputed. But she is still the Empress, and that carries a weight you can’t simply shrug off.”

“And,” Hadrian inserted with a resigned frown, “Casselia agreed with the Empress.”

The door swung open abruptly, Alsarana slithering in with serpentine elegance, radiating his typical unsettling ease. Casselia followed with measured steps, while Krinka lingered behind, his expression heavy, eyes distant as if burdened by memories he would rather leave forgotten. Casselia looked around, taking in the conversation before choosing a seat nearby.

“Cass,” Alsarana hissed, mock-whispering, “I think they were talking about you.”

“Als, check on the wards, would you? With Sealbearers in town, we should confirm everything is functioning as intended.”

Casselia waited patiently as Als rose upon his coils, inspecting each ceiling beam and carved ward with meticulous scrutiny. Within moments, the naga lowered himself again and nodded his confirmation. Satisfied, Casselia turned toward the gathered group.

“The Empress may have greatly complicated matters with this maneuver. Driven by ambition and whimsy, she’s unearthed problems far beyond her understanding. Ratlings returned—who could have foreseen it?” Casselia shook her head, her frown fading as she refocused on them.

“Hadrian, Lotem, we must discuss our next steps. I’m unsure which path is best, but it’s imperative we move carefully. Sylva, Krinka will be occupied recovering records and answering my questions. I hope you’re comfortable enough with your new implement to proceed without his guidance.”

Sylva nodded quickly in response, earning a gentle smile from Casselia.

“Good. Als, it’s time for you to teach Sylva. The Revelry starts in three days, and she’s our best hope for victory. I can hardly imagine a more fitting time for her training.”

“Three days? Cass, that’s perhaps a bit… ambitious, even for our talents. The Marquis took longer, and he was uniquely qualified.” Alsarana’s gaze flicked briefly to Sylva before returning to Casselia as he shook his head. “Three days simply isn’t enough.”

“The Revelry begins in three days, Als. Every day after is lost ground and a step away from our goals. Besides, you have my permission to use the Trial—there’s scarcely a better opportunity.”

Lotem puzzled over this. Alsarana was bringing Sylva to the Trial of the Hunt? Why? Was she going to catch frogs or do something equally trivial? He didn’t envy her—he’d just endured that nightmare himself. Another thought surfaced, prompting him to speak out.

“You’re teaching her necromancy?” Lotem asked, bewildered. “Why?”

“Oh, dear Lotem,” Alsarana purred mockingly, “you ought to know better by now. I’m an Osteomancer, yes—but that’s my secondary talent.” He flashed Lotem a fanged grin. “No, no, no. I’ll be teaching Sylva extinction magic. What else am I Harbinger for?”

“Before you leave, Als, let’s see what skills today has granted our charges. I suspect it’ll be worth the short delay.”

Lotem wanted to question Alsarana further, startled by the protective instinct urging him to ensure Sylva was treated well. It wasn’t that she needed his protection—if anything, he knew he needed hers. Casselia’s voice interrupted before he could seek clearer answers.

“Sylva first,” Casselia instructed, pausing until Sylva had adjusted herself to avoid falling during the brief sleep. Lotem watched Sylva’s eyes flutter beneath closed lids before a broad smile broke across her face, and her eyes sprang open.

“Three skills—I received three skills!” Sylva’s voice was nearly a shout, the closest Lotem had ever seen her to losing composure. “[Pattern Recognition], [Raven-Wrought Silver Refines My Sight], and a second spell, [Resonance of Drifting Skies].” She glanced eagerly between Krinka and Alsarana. “May I at least try this spell? You’ve insisted I avoid [Threads of Fate’s Binding] until now.”

“Now that you have your implement, that restriction no longer applies,” Krinka replied defensively. “For your long-term potential, it was crucial you first master true incantations rather than immediately resorting to the initial spells offered by the Sulphen. Shortcuts are great for cutting growth short.”

“Krinka, please give us your quick analysis of her new skills,” Casselia said, stepping over to take a glass of the drink Nessa was stirring.

“[Pattern Recognition] is straightforward but valuable; mental enhancement skills are frequently underestimated. [Raven-Wrought Silver Refines My Sight] is a Silkborn-derived ability, emerging from your earlier modification. Observing the Empress’s ritual likely convinced the Sulphen you deserved improved vision relating to magical effects.”

“It doesn’t feel much different than before—maybe just a bit sharper?”

“I don’t know the exact specifics, but I’d wager it enhances your ability to track spellcasting or perceive illusions rather than simply sharpening your regular eyesight. The spell is more intriguing—resonance spells let you shape specific environmental conditions. [Resonance of Drifting Skies] could form banks of fog or cloud-like phenomena. Useful, though training it might prove challenging in this region of the empire.”

Krinka shrugged, as if there wasn’t much more to add. Lotem found none of Sylva’s new abilities particularly impressive—a spell to conjure clouds, improved pattern recognition, sharper eyesight—none felt potent enough considering what lay ahead. He hoped Hadrian had better luck.

“Hadrian, ready?” Casselia asked, waiting for his response. A look of pride filled his eyes as he glanced toward Sylva then smiled at Casselia with a nod. She activated her skill and his eyelids fluttered briefly closed, reopening in an instant.

“Two skills,” he announced with hesitant excitement. “[Lesser Affinity: Fog] and [Lesser Affinity: Fire].”

“That is… unusual,” Krinka observed as Casselia sipped thoughtfully from her clay mug, curiosity evident in her gaze. “Typically, candidates at your advancement stage receive just one affinity skill, usually aligning closely with their class. Not that something is wrong, mind you—just that the Sulphen seems to be prioritizing your combat art over direct class development.”

“We’ll need to practice your control,” Casselia said, meeting Hadrian’s eyes directly. “The sooner you feel in tune with your combat art, the better. Lotem, your turn?”

Lotem took a deep breath, glancing toward Sabel by the fireplace. One of her eyes opened slightly, observing him, yet none of the familiar internal chatter he’d become accustomed to since her recent transformation echoed in his mind. He nodded to Casselia, consciousness briefly fading before the Sulphen’s voice stirred him awake.

[Skill Obtained: Lesser Endurance]

[Skill Obtained: In Dreams Light We Dance]

“Two skills,” Lotem said, noting with surprise the exchanged smiles between Krinka and Casselia. Krinka cleared his throat softly.

“That was your twelfth skill, correct?”

Lotem nodded slowly. It had indeed been his twelfth skill. That mattered somehow, though he still wasn’t certain why.

“And to think,” Alsarana hissed from across the room, “the Bal would be first among us to advance his class. The Sulphen mocks us all.”

“Advance my class?” Lotem asked, startled. “How?”

“Tomorrow, Krinka will prepare you to meet your first [Paragon], Lotem. We’ll address Hadrian’s class situation afterward, this takes priority. The coming days will be quite busy, so let’s get to it.”