Before the rise of the Lord of Chains, the Master of Blood and Flesh, the dread Tul-Tul-Tar, three immortal races reigned. The Titans, giants among beings, ruled the great plains and the empires of mankind with unwavering might. Perched within their halls of stone, the Dragons lorded over their realms, each a sovereign of its own domain. The Weavers, in their seclusion, were devoted to the creation of new intelligent races, weaving the fabric of life with their ancient magics.
The Blood Wars and the ensuing Breaking of Chains heralded the downfall of these ancient powers. By the start of the Fourth Age, the immortal races were all but extinct, their vast empires shattered. Survivors, once lords of creation, were now fugitives or prisoners bound to shrines, their direct influence over the world severed.
From the ashes of this turmoil, the Sul Empire emerged, its foundations laid in the Contract of Empire penned by Nyxol the Scribe in the final days of the Blood Wars. It has since stood under the guardianship of Sylvine ruling from her emerald throne, and Rovan Khal, with his legions of bone. In desperation the three reluctant allies forged a new kind of contract, a new magic born from the old.
– Excerpt from The Last Immortals by Alchess Transalara
Lotem felt the shift: a flash of golden light and the familiar, gut-wrenching lurch of translocation. His thoughts raced. Would Sylvine be as imposing as a storm gathering over the plains? Could she sense the companion hidden beneath his cloak? He swallowed against the acid rising in his throat. This single encounter would determine his future; he could not afford a single mistake.
The small form nestled against his chest stirred, the first movement in hours. A faint wriggle beneath his cloak. Lotem subtly craned his neck, hoping the thick wool concealed the motion. He prayed she would stay quiet until this was over.
He stood in an immense hall, a space so vast a herd of bison could roam its cliff-like walls. Lotem was no [Mason]; his people, the Bal, lived in yurts of bone and hide, and the floor—a cold ocean of white stone veined with gold and silver—felt alien beneath his feet. This place was nothing like the industrial Khanate cities he’d seen, choked with the acrid smoke of progress. This was built for pure majesty. Pillars of storm-gray stone rose to a high dome that cradled a perfect reflection of the heavens, where silver points of light shimmered like captured stars. The air, thick with the musty scent of ages, seemed to press in on him.
His thick cloak, smelling of the herds and open plains, shifted on his shoulders. The small form pushed against his chest again, more insistent this time. He palmed a piece of jerky from his pocket, brought it to his chest, and made a quiet hushing sound deep in his throat, turning his body as if to better marvel at the room. Sabel’s tiny teeth took the offering, and she settled once more. Only then, hoping Sylvine hadn’t noticed, did Lotem allow his gaze to settle on the dragon.
It was time. He began the long walk toward the emerald-scaled dragon, whose throne glowed like a beacon in the shadows. Each slow, methodical step echoed like a drumbeat against the stone, marking a moment he knew would be seared into his memory forever.
The dragon, last of her kind in the Sul Empire, watched his approach with casual grace. Her ancient eyes, flickering with an inner flame, seemed to hold the stories of fallen empires. Her wings, the color of new spring grass, were folded neatly against her back, and her sinuous tail coiled around the base of the emerald throne.
After passing the last of the twelve pillars, he stopped and bowed deep from the waist, his back nearly parallel to the ground. Bow or kneel? He wasn’t sure what greeting Sylvine preferred, and could only hope he had chosen correctly.
“Your greeting is acceptable, Lotem of the Zherenkhan,” a slithering voice echoed, its origin impossible to place. “I welcome you to the halls of empire. You may greet the throne.” Lotem raised his head. The throne was empty. The dragon was gone. Unfazed, he kept his voice steady as he addressed the vacant seat.
“I greet the Emerald Throne, the Final Haven of Queens, a jewel among stones, the seat of the Sovereign of Realms. I stand before you to claim my entrance into Aslavain and forge a triumvirate, as is my right.”
He wasn’t sure if greeting the throne was the correct decision, but it was a calculated risk. It was an appeal to her pride and her sense of theater. If the Sovereign chose to become invisible, she could hardly fault him for addressing the most visible symbol of her power.
“Your right?” the voice hissed, seeming to come from the air itself. “It seems the so-called barbarians have finally learned the language of empire.”
Amusement or malice? Lotem detected notes of both in her tone. He clung to the hope that her invisibility was a test, not a threat, remembering tales of far worse greetings she had granted his ancestors.
“Yet, you are not purely of the wilds, are you? I sense Numen blood in you—a giant’s legacy, however diluted. You lack their true advantages, of course. Only one heart beats within your chest. Good.”
Lotem wasn’t surprised. His Numen heritage, though three generations removed, had always marked him with uncommon height. He stood two hands shorter than his father but still towered over his peers. Two hearts… that was a trait of the pure-blooded. He hoped the topic would keep her distracted from the smaller, far more fragile life hidden against his ribs.
“So you demand the empire’s rights,” the voice continued, its amusement fading. “Rights forged in the blood of my people, under duress. Obligation binds me to grant them—the druids would complain endlessly if I were too spiteful. Still… why do you believe you deserve my gift? A portion of my authority?”
Lotem considered his response. He wanted to tell her of Wilson and Warma, the bison who answered his whistle and slept outside his yurt. He wanted to speak of the small, warm companion curled against his chest even now. But those were treasures from a life he had already left behind, not skills for Aslavain. That life was gone.
The silence stretched, thick and heavy. Lotem remained perfectly still, focusing on his breathing, waiting for the ancient mind to cycle through its impatience. At last, a whispering hiss slithered through the chamber, less a direct address and more like thoughts given voice. “Rovan has chosen a squire of his own this year… some boy, not even of the true empire, in need of… qualified companions. A boy destined for failure, perhaps? In need of allies… yes, I think you will work well together.
“Touched by the Numen?” the voice mused. “Rovan cannot complain. Not when his squires have always been pure-blooded. Maybe he will even give my squire a worthy companion this time. But…”
The echoing words faded, and the chamber fell utterly still. Sylvine was on her throne again, looking as though she had never moved. Perhaps, in her mind, she hadn’t.
Without waiting for his answer to her earlier question, she blinked her silver eyes, which glowed against her emerald scales, and fixed him with a snakelike focus. “Now, enlighten me, Lotem of the Thurbal. Why are you here?”
“My brother was taken… devoured by the Tul,” Lotem said, his voice trembling with a rage he could barely contain. “I seek revenge. I want to make the Tul pay for every life they have stolen, and reclaim a memory I know is lost forever.”
“Revenge and an impossible task.” A low rumble, like stones grinding together, came from her chest. “The Numen blood runs true in you. It was always their way to take on tasks larger than themselves. Good. Do you fear the Tul, Lotem?”
He did not dare lie to the immortal who held his fate in her claws. He let the silence stretch, marshalling his courage, choosing his words as a hunter chooses his footing on a cliff edge. Only when he had his answer did he speak.
“Does a mouse fear the cat? Does a deer fear the wolf? To not fear the Tul would be stupidity. The only question is whether I have the courage to fight them anyway. A sparrow cannot overcome a hawk on its own, but in a triumvirate, one is never alone. We will take them on together.”
“An idealist with an impossible task. You are precisely what I need. Admittance to Aslavain is granted. But know this: if you fail to form a triumvirate with the pair you are assigned, I will personally ensure your regret is long and exquisite. Understood?”
“Thank you, Sovereign.” The words escaped him on a single breath. She was admitting him. Not only that, but if he understood her ramblings, she was placing him with the year’s most promising initiates—perhaps even with the squire of Rovan Khal himself. What kind of person, he wondered, earned such a title?
“Now, for my boon.” She narrowed her slitted eyes, examining him as if for the first time. Her lips peeled back from rows of pale teeth, and she let out a hissing, huffing sound. It was, Lotem realized with a jolt, a laugh. It did nothing to settle his nerves. “Tell me,” she purred. “Did you bring a kitten into my hall?”
He froze. Every muscle went rigid. Sylvine, the famously inattentive, was watching him with undisguised amusement. Of all the years for her to pay attention, it had to be his. In the hanging silence, he knew there was only one path forward: the truth.
“Sabel,” he said, the name a quiet admission. “She had no one else, Sovereign. She asked to come with me. I… I could not leave her behind.”
“It is not often,” Sylvine mused, “that I experience something new. Immortality is a thief of novelty. To bring an untrained beast here, with the intent to fight the Tul… the sheer, wonderful arrogance of it is inspiring. Yes. I have chosen well for you.”
The tension began to bleed from his muscles. He bowed his head. A question sprang to mind, and before he could stop himself, he asked, “Am I truly the first to bring a companion on this journey?”
“The first?” Another huffing laugh. “Hardly. I have seen candidates carry full-grown cairn wolves in their arms. I once denied entry to a Silkborn with an entire fire ant colony on her back. But a newborn cat?” She shook her massive head. “Not even one of the saber-toothed cubs that might grow into a threat. Just… a cat. Is it even trained?”
“She will be,” Lotem said, a defensive edge to his voice. “When she’s old enough to do more than sleep. For now, she deters mice. I haven’t seen one in months.”
“For the novelty alone, you deserve a worthy boon. If you are to serve with a [Squire of Carven Bone], you cannot be an embarrassment—Rovan has only just stopped whining about my last choices, and the thought of his booming complaints gives me a headache. But first… answer me this, Lotem of the Thurbal. What do you truly want?”
The playful tone was gone. The words carried a gravitas that was truly ominous, and Sylvine studied him with a focus that belied all her earlier rambling. This, he knew, was the real test.
He took his time. He let the silence stretch, sorting through vengeance, grief, and duty. He thought of his brother’s face, of the smoke from Tul raids against a summer sky. He would not rush this. The answer had to be perfect. It had to be true.
“The empire is at war, though many choose to forget. We do not fight a civilized race that honors the accords; we fight a Bane of Civilization. The Tul were made to oppress and to inspire fear. They do not deserve to exist. My brother died in this forgotten war. I want to make the Tul afraid again.”
“Spoken like a Numen of old.” The approval in her voice was unmistakable. “You will complement that [Squire of Carven Bone] wonderfully. Rovan would have adored you.”
With those final words, the world dissolved. He felt the pull of translocation, the flash of gold, the familiar twisting in his gut. But this shift was different. It stretched the moment between heartbeats into an eternity. In the black, inky silence between worlds, a voice spoke—not to his ears, but directly into his mind. It was androgynous, without accent or origin, the pure, distilled voice of the empire itself.
[Boon Granted: Enhanced Blood of the Numen]
[Skill Obtained: Natural Enemy – Rodents]
The shift began not with a lurch, but an embrace of hammered gold. Sylva smiled, the memory of the ivory needle a phantom ache in her fingertip. In that single, sacrificial act, choice had become chain, and fate a thread newly woven into the empire’s great loom. Citizenship was the key; now she had to prove herself worthy of the lock it was meant to turn.
To be chosen as Nyxol’s squire was the true prize—a singular honor granted by each immortal once a year. The thought was a spark of heat beneath her calm, a dangerous ambition. She was, by any sect metric, the ideal candidate. Yet she had seen enough rivals fall to know that overt confidence was a weight, not a lever. Arrogance was a flaw in the weave, and she intended to be flawless.
The gold dissolved, leaving an afterimage of light against a canvas of emerald and bark. She stood on a circular platform of dark wood, suspended high in a forest canopy by a thousand near-invisible strands of silk. It was a place she knew intimately from study—the Woven Court of Nyxol, rendered in countless tapestries. But no weaving could capture the scale, the impossible grace of it. Knowledge was a map, not the territory itself.
She turned, her gaze tracing the threads toward the web’s heart. An unfamiliar breeze stirred the air, cool and rich with the scent of damp earth and living wood. It was a chaotic perfume, so different from the sterile, incense-heavy halls of the sect. Here, insects hummed and leaves rustled with an unscripted rhythm—the sound of the world breathing on its own terms.
A smile touched her lips before she could master it—a flash of pure, uncalculated awe. At the center of the web sat the figure from the tapestries, the weaver of the contract itself. Nyxol. The name was a silent bell in her mind. A sudden, sharp awareness of her own form pricked at her. She smoothed a non-existent wrinkle from her sleeve, her sect’s obsession with flawlessness asserting itself even here.
Enthroned upon her masterpiece of silk, Nyxol was a living monument of elegance and power. Her eight legs were poised upon the delicate threads, each slight shift sending ripples through the web that seemed to resonate with the forest itself. Her exoskeleton was a mosaic of obsidian and deep indigo, glistening as if wet with starlight. To Sylva, this being was not monstrous; it was the embodiment of perfection. The arachnid form held an unquestionable rightness, a harmony of function and terrifying grace her sect had always strived to emulate.
Like shards of the night sky, Nyxol’s eyes gleamed with brilliance. To Sylva, she was beautiful; there was something unquestionably right about the arachnid form before her.
“Queen of Silk, Monarch of Woven Shadows, Architect of the Aranea, it is an honor to stand before you,” Sylva said. Her voice was a steady, practiced thread, betraying none of the awe churning within her. She stood tall, spine straight. The Silkborn did not kneel to the Queen of Silk.
“Sylva. It is a delight.” The voice came not from Nyxol’s fangs, but from the web itself. The immortal drew one leg across a taut strand, like a musician stroking a harp string. The silken threads vibrated, and the words rose from all around Sylva, resonant and clear. “I have been reviewing the patterns you have left upon the world. I expect great things.”
Reviewing the patterns? Sylva’s composure tightened. The greatest Weavers could read the threads of fate, plucking premonitions from the future. The Sulphen could alter memory itself—the Tul were a testament to that horror. But to gaze back upon a life already lived, to read the past as if it were a scroll laid bare… that was a power of a different order. The needle, she realized. The essence it took from me… it left a trail for her to follow.
“A keen mind.” The web hummed with approval as Nyxol’s legs danced across the strands. “The Sect of Silken Grace has woven you well. The Sulphen sees through all eyes, and every action leaves an imprint on the world’s memory. Your offering—your essence—simply gave me the thread to pull, allowing me to unravel the tapestry of your life.”
This was more than the simple observation of the Sulphen, the passive system that Nyxol had harnessed to reward public deeds and ignore private ones. That was a known mechanic of the world. Nyxol was claiming the ability to collate and comprehend that infinite flood of information personally. The sheer scope of such a power sent a tremor through Sylva’s carefully constructed understanding of the world.
“Not all of them, sadly. That would make eternity far more palatable,” the web answered, a clear note of amusement in its tone. “I can only review the petitions of those who stand before me, seeking entry to Aslavain. Happily for us, you are doing precisely that.” The amusement in the web’s vibrations faded, replaced by a deeper, more somber hum.
“The world is shifting, daughter.” The web’s hum was heavy now, filled with concern. “I feel the tremors in every thread. The Tul stir in their long slumber. From the south, whispers of expanding empires reach me. From the west, the Brood forge new weapons that fray the balance of power. Even the nomads of the plains, long quiet, begin to move.” Nyxol paused, letting the weight of the words settle. “The strings of fate have not quivered with such violence since the years before the Bal Invasion. Do you understand what this means?”
“You believe a new age is dawning,” Sylva said, her voice quiet, “and that the Empire is unprepared.” As she spoke, the hope rekindled within her, sharp and bright: to be Nyxol’s chosen champion in this coming storm. To be her squire. The thought was a thrill that straightened her spine.
“Destiny’s web is never clear,” Nyxol’s voice resonated, laced with the memory of ancient failure. “But I see the patterns forming. I have been wrong before, but I will not be caught unaware again. Not after the Lord of Chains. Not after the Beast Kings. When Apalarakan, Transalas, and Gransa ascended, we were not ready. This time must be different.”
Nyxol’s great form leaned forward, all eight of her eyes fixing on Sylva. Her legs continued their delicate work on the webs, plucking out each word with chilling precision. “Rovan has seen this truth as well. The empire needs champions. I have never dictated the fate of my children; the Silkborn choose their own path. Therefore, I offer you a choice, Sylva of Clan Strenath. Rovan has selected his squire. Will you join their triumvirate? Will you lend your strength to the [Squire of Carven Bone]?”
The offer struck her like a physical blow. Companion to a squire. Not the squire herself. The distinction was a chasm. A position in that triumvirate was a great honor—objectively, more than she could have hoped for. But the bright, fierce dream of being chosen, of being first, fractured within her. The disappointment was sharp, a taste like metal on her tongue. Her training asserted itself, forcing the emotion down, smoothing her expression into one of polite consideration.
She would accept, of course. One did not refuse the Queen of Silk. But she allowed herself a silent moment to mourn the future that had just vanished. Perhaps, she thought, a new calculation already forming, this squire will have the wisdom to choose Eisentor. The sect’s command, at least, could still be obeyed.
She composed herself, the brief mourning period over. Excellence was demanded of her, and she would demand it of her companions in turn. This was the purpose for which she was woven. She met Nyxol’s gaze and inclined her head, her smile perfectly measured. “I accept your offer, Queen of Silk. The only honor I have ever sought is the chance to prove my worth. To serve alongside a squire is such a chance.” She paused, her tone shifting to one of polite inquiry. “May I ask about my future companions? The squire, or the one chosen by Sylvine?”
“Could I tell you of them? Yes.” The web’s hum was dismissive. “But I shall not. My words are heavy. They knot the threads of fate. It is forbidden to unduly influence a child of the empire.” The implication was clear: Sylva would form her own conclusions.
Sylva’s lips thinned. Undue influence. The Elders had used that phrase for years, a silken curtain drawn across any true teaching of power. It was a convenient excuse to keep their students grasping at theory while never allowing them to practice. She understood the doctrine, but chafed against its limitations.
Nyxol’s legs twitched, a motion Sylva couldn’t decipher. The web strummed again. “Know this. Rovan has chosen the squire, but I have chosen your mentors. They will forge you into a weapon. In Dornogor, the City of Beasts, one of the [Venerate] awaits. Her name is Casselia, of the Mandate. She and her own champions will ensure your triumvirate does not fail.”
The word struck Sylva with more force than the denial of the squireship. Dornogor. Her mind raced, discarding months of meticulous planning. Her lists, her maps, her curated selection of shrines—all useless. The City of Beasts was a brutish outpost, dangerously close to the Tul and the contested Diontel River. It was nowhere near Eisentor, the City of the Woven Word, her promised destination. It was on the wrong side of the continent, the wrong side of her entire life’s plan.
Her shock warred with cold calculation. The offer was a cage, but it was gilded. A [Venerate] mentor. Casselia of the Mandate. One of the true elite, whose soul was woven into the empire itself. To be trained by such a being was an honor beyond reckoning. To refuse was impossible. The Elders would have to understand. She had no choice. Her path was no longer her own. Still, the thought echoed, a frantic, looping thread: Dornogor?
“Dornogor is… her confirmed location?” Sylva asked, her voice tight with the effort of keeping the dismay from it.
“Casselia has made her choice. Her reasons are her own to share.” The web’s tone was final, cutting off any further debate. “That is enough about matters beyond your control. You have accepted a great task. Name your boon, daughter of silk.”
A boon. Her hand drifted to the sleeve of her robe, to the small, knotted bundle of notes she had so carefully prepared. She had hoped to ask for something specific to a life in Eisentor, but the core request remained valid. Her path had been violently diverted, but her purpose had not. Here, at least, she could assert some small measure of control.
“I wish to weave,” Sylva stated, her voice regaining its strength. “Not just silk, but the very threads of reality. I have spent my life learning the grammar of the empire. I ask for a boon that will let me speak its language with power.”
“A worthy ambition,” the web hummed. “I will not grant you a shortcut, daughter of silk. I will grant you a foundation. Remember this: true weaving requires three things. The Will, an iron conviction that can force reality to bend. The Word, the precision to command it without error. And the Sacrifice, for no thread is ever given for free. Your power will be measured by the strength of your belief. Do not let it waver.”
“A final question,” Nyxol’s voice resonated, and all eight eyes focused on her with unnerving intensity. “What do you truly want?”
To be powerful, was the immediate, honest answer in her mind. To be indispensable. She crushed the thought. It was true, but it was the foundation, not the structure.
She met the immortal’s gaze. “I seek knowledge, Queen of Silk. My creators wove me for a purpose, and I will not dishonor their work. I will learn the intricacies of magic, of society, of justice—and then I will re-weave them. I will build a world with less cruelty, and I will tame its chaos.”
Nyxol dipped her head, a gesture of profound acknowledgment. “You will make ripples, Sylva. Go.” A final, ironic note hummed from the web. “You are free. Treasure it.”
The golden light bloomed, warm and insistent, pulling at her. Sylva planted her feet, her will a sudden, sharp anchor against the tide of translocation. For a single, defiant heartbeat, she held her ground. “Queen of Silk,” she said, forcing the words into the dissolving world. “Thank you.”
Then the light consumed her, and in the silent rush between worlds, a new thread was woven into her soul.
[Boon Granted: Sympathetic Intuition]
[Skill Obtained: Lesser Dexterity]
The golden light did not release him gently. It swelled to a blinding intensity and then vanished, dropping him onto soft earth. His stomach heaved with the shift, and he knelt, swallowing hard against a fresh wave of nausea.
He pushed himself up, blinking away the haze that clung to his vision. The world resolved into an endless expanse of green and gold, a plain that stretched to a horizon so distant it seemed to curve with the sky itself. His breath caught in his throat. This was it. The audience with Rovan Khal. His journey had begun.
The air tasted of rain-soaked earth and wind, a wild scent utterly alien to the damp mists of Cutra. He looked down. A carpet of vibrant green covered the ground, swaying in the breeze. Grass, he thought, the word a whisper of disbelief. He stared, mesmerized, then tentatively reached down, his fingers brushing against the cool, living blades.
For the first time in his life, there was nothing between the soles of his boots and the earth itself. The thought was so staggering, so fundamental, that it left him breathless.
He knew who waited for him on this endless plain. He had grown up on tales of the three immortals, and while he respected the power of the dragon Sylvine and the weaver Nyxol, it was the Titan of Carven Bone he had always revered. Taking a deep, grounding breath of the clean air, he finally raised his eyes from the grass.
“Settle, little one.” The voice was not behind him, but all around him, a resonance as deep and vast as the plains themselves. It was a voice of immense age and authority. “Welcome. You have asked to enter Aslavain in the service of the empire. A choice that will define you.”
Hadrian’s head snapped up. Seated on a simple throne of bone that seemed to have grown from the earth itself was the figure from the hearth-tales: Rovan Khal. The sight stole the air from his lungs. The immortal was immense, a colossus of bone and ancient sinew, draped in a toga as white as fresh snow. A helm carved from the skull of some great, horned beast obscured his face, its surface etched with designs that pulsed with a faint, inner light. Hadrian was suddenly, painfully aware of his own disheveled state—the lingering sickness, the dust on his knees. He felt small, unprepared, a child standing before a mountain.
“You hesitate,” Rovan remarked, his voice rumbling. Hadrian’s awe-struck silence was clearly being mistaken for uncertainty. “Hesitation has no place here. You requested an audience to discuss Aslavain, and I have granted it. If the trial is too much, there is the Civilian Corps. The Legions. There are other paths.” The immortal paused, waiting for a response that didn’t come. Hadrian remained silent, frozen by reverence and the fear of giving offense. Finally, a note of exasperation entered the deep voice. “Boy, are you mute?”
“Rovan Khal, Ancient One, Father of the Dion, Titan of Carven Bone,” Hadrian began, his voice tight with nerves, “I am not mute.”
Silence.
“And?”
Permission granted, Hadrian launched into the formal address his parents had drilled into him. “Oh King of Calcara, Breaker of the Tul-Tul-Tar, First King of Bone—my ambition is to enter Aslavain, forge a triumvirate, and one day ascend to create a shrine for my home, Cutra.”
A deep chuckle rumbled from within the great helm. “A cat prowling among lions. You seek to build a Shrine beyond the empire’s borders?”
“Sovereign of Skulls, Wielder of the Wraith Blade, King of the Unbroken Plains, I do.”
“And do you understand what that entails? The consequences of such an act?”
Hadrian considered the question with the solemn intensity it deserved. He knew the goal: grow strong enough to “pierce the veil between worlds.” The exact meaning of the phrase was a mystery, a problem for a future, stronger Hadrian to solve. His parents’ teaching had been simple: be stronger tomorrow than you are today. The consequences? He knew those too. His village would be saved. Children would not be exiled. The empire would grow. What other consequence could possibly matter?
“Oh, Patriarch of–”
“Skip the titles,” Rovan said, a clear note of exasperation in his voice. Hadrian shifted, uncomfortable.
“Truthfully, I don’t understand the mechanics of Shrines, not like you would. I don’t know all the consequences. But I know that my entire village raised me for this purpose. I will connect them to the empire and make my family proud. I will make that dream come true, no matter what stands in my way.”
“And the Brood, who claim your forest? The Dion, who oppose any western expansion while the Tul remain? The Malan, who value their own trade above all? Your goal is not without powerful enemies.”
The names were just sounds to Hadrian, distant factions in a world he didn’t know. They were obstacles, like a treacherous branch or a sudden storm, to be overcome or endured. Why should the politics of strangers matter more than the needs of his home?
“What of them?” he asked, his voice ringing with a conviction that surprised even himself. “The Brood, the Dion, the Malan—they can all stand in my way. I will not falter. This is my purpose.” Speaking the words aloud made them feel solid, real, like stone in his hand.
A deep, booming laugh echoed across the plain, so loud it made Hadrian’s ears ring. “I like you, Hadrian of Cutra,” Rovan roared. “You are ignorant to the point of foolishness, but sometimes, ignorance is a boon. I claim you. You will be my squire in Aslavain. Bring honor to my name, and in time, you will be far more.”
The words washed over him, incomprehensible. Chosen? By his hero? Was he truly to be Rovan Khal’s… squire?
“Yes, Hadrian?” The voice was gentler now, amused. “Speak freely. You are mine now.”
“Why me?” The question was a whisper. “No one from Cutra has succeeded in a decade. My village needs hope, but… to be your squire? It’s more than I ever dared to want.”
“Why you?” Rovan’s tone was blunt. “You are not the cleverest candidate this year. Nor the strongest. You have no powerful sect or guild to back you. By all accounts, you are utterly unprepared for what lies ahead.”
The words were harsher than any physical blow. Hadrian felt his newfound hope wither and die. He was not good enough. He had misunderstood. He hung his head.
“But a storm is coming, little one. A storm like the empire has not seen in centuries. We need more than tournament champions. We need heroes. Why you? Because your foolish dreams amuse me. Your ignorance delights me. And because you have the potential to be something new, something the empire has forgotten how to make. I want you on my side when that potential is realized.”
Hadrian felt as light as the mist, as if the grass beneath his feet was the only thing tethering him to the earth. Rovan Khal had seen him—not his flaws, but his purpose—and embraced it. The moment was a forge, reshaping his entire world.
“Thank you,” he managed, his voice thick. “I… thank you.” He met the immortal’s gaze, his awe now tempered with a new, sharp certainty. “What do you need me to do?”
“The sects squabble, forgetting the ancient threats. You will not. You will join one of Nyxol’s chosen, a [Venerate] from the Mandate of Empire—one of the few who remember their oaths. As my squire, the Cairn of Titans in Aslavain will be open to you, but only after you prove yourself in an Eternal City. Claim what is inside. You will have your chance at a Shrine, Hadrian, but do not let that distant goal blind you to the trials directly ahead.”
The words were still echoing when the golden light returned, pulling him from the endless plain. He was no longer just Hadrian of Cutra, a boy with an impossible dream. He was a squire. He was chosen. And as the world dissolved, a new power settled into his bones.
[Class Obtained: Squire of Carven Bone]
[Boon Obtained: Lesser Armory of Bone]
[Legacy Skill Obtained: Legacy of Luminaries Fire]
