Before the Dion Civil War, and the Beast Wars, the Sul Empire lay divided between the Dion lords of the east and the Malan lords of the north. In the thousand years since, the Malan lands have endured largely unchanged, a stark contrast to the east, where Dion dominion fractured under the weight of growing discontent. As outrage surged, the Sunborn and Penitent of Sabahar, the Numen of the Khanate, and the Justicars of Ylfenhold rose in defiance, carving out new provinces of their own. What city better embodies this schism than Tir Na Nog?
– The Rise of Tir Na Nog by Alcar Valentar
“This must be the demesne of Tir Na Nog. The City of Rage,” Sylva announced, her voice a thin veneer over the dread coiling in her gut. “Also known as the City of Revenge… we are not ready for this.” She bit her lip, a silent curse forming in her mind. Casselia. What was the [Venerate] thinking, pulling them here? Dornogor was supposed to be a staging ground, a place of preparation. She hated this—the feeling of peril she hadn’t chosen, the loss of control.
The landscape of Tir Na Nog was a nightmare rendered in dust and decay. Cracks spiderwebbed across the barren earth, and the air tasted of rot. In the distance, the black obelisk stood like a silent accusation against the pale sky. Anger, hot and sharp, warred with a cold knot of fear in her chest. This was not their sanctuary. Here, their carefully laid plans were already unraveling like the broken ground beneath their feet.
“Is that… natural?” Hadrian’s voice held a note of awe that didn’t quite mask his unease as he pointed toward the reflective black obelisk.
“Of course not,” she snapped, then instantly regretted the harshness in her tone. Patience, she told herself. He’s from the treetops; this is new to him. “That’s a Dion-style obelisk,” she said, softening her voice, though it was still tight with unease. “But theirs are usually bone, not obsidian. This one feels… different.”
“People built that? Then it must be our destination. Lucky it’s so easy to spot.”
Lucky, Sylva thought wryly. She doubted they would feel lucky after meeting the denizens of the City of Rage. As if on cue, Hadrian turned his gaze from the obelisk to Lotem, his eyes widening.
“What is that?”
Sylva turned, following Hadrian’s gaze. Lotem was holding an orange kitten in one massive palm, feeding it a piece of dried meat. Her eyebrows shot up. Well now, she thought. That’s unexpected.
A softness entered Lotem’s expression as he looked down at the tiny creature. “This is Sabel,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble.
“A kitten?” Sylva asked, incredulous. “You brought a kitten into Aslavain?”
“Is it dangerous?” Hadrian asked, eyeing the tuft of orange fur as a single, sharp tooth jutted from its mouth.
Lotem looked offended on the kitten’s behalf. “Dangerous? Sabel is only a danger to unattended string.” He glanced at Sylva. “She didn’t have anyone else. I couldn’t leave her, and she promised to behave.”
“She promised?” Sylva echoed in disbelief.
“She sleeps most of the day and stays quiet if I give her jerky,” Lotem clarified with a small smile. “It worked in Sylvine’s throne room. She’s a good girl.”
“And that works?”
“I gave her a piece of meat in Sylvine’s throne room, and she behaved there. Sabel is a good girl; she knows what she needs to do.”
“Leave it to a Bal to bring a stray into Aslavain,” Sylva muttered, but the irritation in her voice was undermined by the reluctant smile tugging at her lips. “Well? You can’t just reveal a fluffball like that and not share.”
“Later. She needs to sleep off the journey,” Lotem said, gently tucking Sabel back into a deep pocket within his cloak. “There will be time, provided you come bearing offerings of meat and ear scratches.”
“Now that we’re clearly out of our depth,” Sylva said, her tone all business, “are you willing to share your skills, Lotem? Circumstances have changed.”
He hesitated before nodding. “I should have earlier. They’re just… not as impressive as yours.”
“No skill is useless,” Hadrian offered, with the simple wisdom of a well-worn saying.
Ambitious, but incorrect, Sylva thought. Some skills were clearly better than others; that was the entire point of Aslavain. But she pushed the thought aside. “Hadrian’s right,” she said, echoing his sentiment. “Every gift has a purpose, even if it isn’t obvious. What did Sylvine grant you?”
“[Enhanced Blood of the Numen],” Lotem admitted, his voice barely a whisper as he clenched his fists. “Though what that truly means, the Balar only know.”
“Numen blood?” Hadrian’s eyes went wide with excitement. “A trader told me stories of your tribes in the Flower Wars! I’ve always wanted to meet one of the great warriors.”
Sylva cut in before Hadrian could derail them completely. “An enhancement boon is nothing to scoff at, Lotem. It will likely purify what remains of the bloodline. I wouldn’t be surprised if you keep growing for a few more years.”
Hadrian stared up at Lotem, who was already a head taller than him, with renewed awe. “Keep growing?”
“It’s just a touch of the blood, from a great-grandmother exiled generations ago,” Lotem mumbled. “Nothing special.”
“Depending on the boon’s strength, it could become special,” Sylva countered. “You could grow to match a pureblood. That is a rare gift, Lotem. Something to be proud of.”
He shifted, uncomfortable, but she saw a flicker of something other than disappointment in his eyes. She counted it as a small victory.
“And your skill?” she prompted gently.
He coughed, looking away. “[Natural Enemy – Rodents],” he admitted quietly, then added in a rush, “I think Sylvine was making a joke about Sabel.”
“Like squirrels?” Hadrian asked. “I hate squirrels.”
“I suppose,” Lotem said. “Or mice. The point is, it’s not exactly a weapon of war.”
“I’m sure it will be useful should we encounter any vermin,” Sylva said, forcing a reassuring tone. It was… underwhelming. A powerful enhancement boon paired with a novelty skill. She filed the information away without further comment.
“Wait,” Hadrian said. “Do our skills work now?”
“They should,” Sylva replied. “Though I think you’re the only one with an active ability, Hadrian.”
“How do I use it? The [Lesser Armory of Bone]?”
Before Sylva could theorize, Lotem spoke. “Just focus on your intent. My mother had a [Cook] skill. If she needed a ladle, she would just focus, and one would appear.”
“Your mother could summon ladles?” Hadrian asked, fascinated.
“And knives. And pots,” Lotem said with a shrug. “It probably works the same.”
Hadrian’s face scrunched in concentration. He extended a hand, and with a faint pop, an ivory bow appeared in his grasp, a simple but elegant weapon wrapped in leather. Another pop produced an arrow of the same material, fletched with thin slivers of bone.
He nocked it with practiced ease. “I knew I’d need to get a bow eventually,” he grinned. “What use is an archer without one? This will do mightily.”
He drew the string taut, aimed at a distant bone-tree, and released. The arrow vanished with a speed that defied her eyes.
“Well, isn’t this touching?” The voice echoed from the canopy above, a garbled, inhuman sound. “Three little birdies, trapped in the web. Defenseless.”
Sylva spun toward the sound as a harsh, cackling laugh echoed through the bone trees.
“Ready to play, birdies? Ready for our game? Game!”
Beside her, Sylva heard another pop, the hiss of a newly summoned arrow, and the sharp twang of the bowstring.
“Close! So close to Old Rutsen!” a mocking voice squawked as a large black raven erupted from the branches, circling erratically. “You shot at a future king, little birdie, a king! You think you can kill me? Maybe. But surviving my forest? Never. Death to the Sul! Death for everyone!”
The raven circled, its taunts echoing through the oppressive quiet.
“We need to move, now!” Sylva hissed, her eyes scanning the shadows. “Its cries will draw everything in this forest to us!”
Another pop and twang sounded from behind her. She turned just in time to see the raven explode in a puff of black feathers, its body tumbling silently to the forest floor.
“There we go,” Hadrian said, lowering his bow with a satisfied grin. “Can’t believe it dodged the first shot.”
I can’t believe he made the second, Sylva thought, a fresh wave of respect warring with her frustration. How could he be so calm?
“Where to now?” Lotem asked, his gaze fixed on the obelisk. “The obelisk?”
Hadrian didn’t wait for an answer, simply striding toward the distant structure. Sylva exchanged a look with Lotem, and they followed. She knew she could handle this forest once she learned to cast spells, but until then, pragmatism dictated she stay close to the one with the bow.
They moved quickly through the oppressive silence, every rustle of the bone-trees setting her nerves on edge. It’s only a few miles, she told herself. If we can just reach the obelisk, we’ll be under the protection of uncorrupted imperial law.
But a cold knot of intuition in her gut told her it would not be that simple.
Lotem’s steps were heavy, each one a silent curse. His parents had warned him Aslavain was a death trap, that a third of all candidates never returned. He had dismissed their fears, citing imperial safeguards. Now, after Old Rutsen’s taunts, he wasn’t so sure. The ivory boughs thickened overhead, casting skeletal shadows. The branches swayed as if in a strong wind, but the air was unnervingly still. Worse, they were covered in thorns the size of skinning knives.
Ahead, Sylva moved easily beneath the thorny branches, her smaller stature an advantage. He, on the other hand, had to constantly duck and weave. She’d said he would keep growing, that his Numen blood might purify. He was still grappling with the idea. It wasn’t that he didn’t want the strength, but it felt like becoming something other than himself. His family wasn’t Numen; their legacy was a diluted thing. To become pureblood… it felt like a betrayal. But, he admitted grimly, it might be what his goal demanded.
He pushed the thoughts away and focused on the forest. A future was a luxury he couldn’t afford until they reached that obelisk.
The Bal were less secretive than other imperial cultures, and his parents had been blunt about the dangers of Aslavain. The true peril typically wasn’t in the trials found within obelisks like the one ahead—those were governed by contracts. The danger was in the spaces between.
“So, what can we expect from a trial?” Hadrian asked, breaking the silence.
“Each demesne has three, under imperial charter,” Sylva explained. “They begin with a Room of Threefold Oaths, where we’re offered a contract binding us to the trial until we succeed or fail.”
“Bind us?”
“Like the [Venerate],” she said. “Their essence is bound to something that allows them to be reborn. The trials work similarly. While we’re under contract, death or lasting injury is… unlikely.”
“Unlikely is the key word,” Lotem interjected. “My clan says it depends on the city. In Quartzall, the City of Peace, mistakes have little consequence. Here, in Tir Na Nog, it’s best to assume the worst.”
“Lotem’s right,” Sylva agreed. “Tir Na Nog is likely to bend the rules to show its displeasure with the empire. If any trial was going to be a trap, it would be one of Tir Na Nog’s.”
“But we can fight to the death without actually dying?” Hadrian asked, with entirely too much excitement for Lotem’s comfort.
“That’s the design,” Sylva said curtly. “It’s not an excuse for recklessness.”
Hadrian grinned, and as they continued through the forest, Lotem found Hadrian’s infectious enthusiasm was making him calmer than he had any right to be. After a long stretch of silent walking, they came to a small hill, clear of the menacing trees. As they climbed, Lotem’s bare foot felt something hard beneath the black soil.
He unearthed a piece of bone as long as his forearm, with a single, knife-length thorn at its tip. “Watch your step,” he called out. This can work as a weapon at least, he thought, gripping it like a short spear.
At the top of the hill, the obelisk was closer, its true, immense scale now apparent.
“Should we rest?” Hadrian asked.
“Rations?” Lotem offered, pulling a packet of jerky from his cloak.
“What kind of meat is this?” Hadrian asked after a moment.
“Bison,” Lotem grinned.
Hadrian chewed thoughtfully. “It’s richer than anything from home. A real treat.”
As Hadrian spoke, a sudden, prickling unease crept over Lotem. Something was wrong.
“Lotem?” Hadrian asked, his brow furrowed with concern. “Everything okay?”
“I’m not sure,” Lotem answered, his gaze sweeping the rocky hilltop. “Something just feels… off.”
A faint pop made Lotem turn. Hadrian already had his ivory bow in hand, an arrow nocked and ready. “It could be nothing,” Lotem said quickly, trying to temper the alarm he felt rising. “But it feels wrong.”
“Wrong how?” Sylva asked, rising from the rock where she’d been resting. The prickling sensation on Lotem’s skin intensified. He gripped the long, thorned bone he’d found, holding it like a crude spear.
He searched for the right words. “Like we’re being watched. The only time I’ve ever felt—” He broke off, striding to the edge of the hilltop and crouching to press his palm flat against the dark soil. After a moment, he breathed a single word: “Vibrations.”
“Lotem?” Hadrian repeated, his bowstring drawn taut.
“Something is burrowing up from below,” Lotem said, his voice low and urgent as he backed away. “Get back. Now.”
Seconds later, a black snout erupted from the soil, nostrils flaring. Lotem’s grip on his spear tightened, his heart hammering against his ribs. The ground heaved and the creature emerged—a rat the size of a wolf, its matted fur caked with dirt. Feral eyes gleamed with hunger, and its incisors, each as long as Lotem’s hand, caught the dim light as it let out a piercing squeal.
It was not alone. The hilltop trembled as two more of the monstrous rodents clawed their way to the surface. All three pairs of eyes locked onto Lotem with an unnatural, hateful intensity. [Natural Enemy – Rodents], he realized with a sinking feeling. His skill wasn’t just a tool; it was a beacon. It was the source of his unease.
Lotem forced a steadying breath, pushing back the rising panic. He took a deliberate step back, positioning himself between Sylva and the advancing rats, his grip tightening on his bone spear. To his left, Hadrian stood poised, his bow held ready, eyes darting between the three creatures.
The nearest rat lunged, a blur of matted fur and bared teeth. Lotem thrust his spear, aiming for its open mouth, but the thorned tip screeched as it glanced off a massive incisor. The point snapped, and he swore as the creature crashed into him.
The impact drove Lotem back, the soil crumbling under his feet. The beast tried to wrestle him down, its jaws clamping onto his hip. He screamed as the incisors sliced through his leathers, a strange, draining cold spreading from the wound. With a roar of effort, he got his hands under the creature, lifted its squirming bulk over his head, and hurled it down the hill. Blood bloomed across his hip as he staggered to his feet.
The remaining rats charged. An arrow hissed past Lotem, striking one beast in the ribs. It yelped and stumbled, and a second arrow immediately followed, sinking into its eye. It collapsed in a heap.
“Lotem!” Hadrian yelled as the last rat leaped. Lotem spun, instinct taking over, and met its charge with a brutal punch to the snout. Bone gave way with a sickening, wet crunch that echoed in the silence, and the rat squealed as it was thrown backward, just in time for Hadrian’s third arrow to silence it for good.
His attention snapped back to the first rat. It was already scrambling back up the hill, undeterred. Hadrian dispatched it with two more quick arrows, and the intense, hateful pressure in Lotem’s mind finally dulled to a faint pulse.
“We need to leave. This is a warren,” Lotem said, the word surfacing in his mind with unnatural certainty. How do I know that? He knew nothing of giant rats, yet he was sure they had stumbled upon a colony. They’re just rats, he tried to tell himself, but his new instincts screamed otherwise.
He glanced at Sylva. She stood frozen behind Hadrian, her eyes wide with shock. For all her Sect’s reputation, she hadn’t been much help. Was she simply unprepared for such sudden violence, or was there less to her than she claimed? In the end, it hadn’t mattered. He suspected Hadrian could have handled all three beasts on his own without breaking a sweat.
“Lotem, your leg,” Sylva said, her voice shaky as she snapped back to the present.
He tested his weight on the injured hip, feeling a deep ache but not the sharp, debilitating pain he expected. He frowned. The bite should have been ragged, deep enough to hit bone. Yet the bleeding had already slowed to a clot, and the leg held his weight.
“I think it’s fine,” he said, starting toward the obelisk with only a slight limp. “We need to go. My instincts are screaming that more are on the way.”
Hadrian fell into step beside him. “Are you sure? I saw its jaws close on you. Those teeth were like daggers.”
“Must have been shallower than it looked,” Lotem lied, a knot of unease tightening in his stomach. If Hadrian had seen it too, then it wasn’t a mistake.
Sylva hurried to join them, and the three moved quickly away from the hill. We survived, Lotem thought as the adrenaline faded, leaving only the dull ache in his hip. It hurts, but that means I’m still alive. He hoped their journey was done with surprises, but he knew better than to say it aloud. No need to tempt fate.
Hadrian moved cautiously, bow ready, arrow nocked. He would not be caught unawares again. The memory of the rat attack gnawed at him, a bitter churn of guilt and frustration. If I had been quicker, Lotem wouldn’t have been hurt. Rationally, he knew he’d killed three of the beasts, but the feeling of failure was a sharp stone in his gut. His father’s words echoed in his mind: “Ensure you’re in a safe spot before you start throwing punches.” He had been a step too slow. Against rats, it had cost Lotem a wound. Against a Simian, it would have cost him his life. The thought made Hadrian shudder.
They walked in silence for what felt like an hour before Sylva spoke, her gaze fixed ahead.
“Hadrian… thanks.” Her voice was unsteady, a rare crack in her composure. “You were incredible back there. I was… well, fighting giant rats isn’t what my Sect prepares you for.” She offered him a tentative, unfamiliar smile.
“I see why Rovan chose you,” Lotem added, his deep voice cutting through Hadrian’s guilt. “I’ve only seen archery like that from the Tulunganar across the Diontel. You turned a deadly fight into a simple skirmish.”
They aren’t mad? A flicker of hope cut through the guilt, but it wasn’t enough. “I should have done better,” he said, the words heavy with regret. “I hesitated, Lotem. That’s why you were hurt. I apologize.”
“Hadrian,” Sylva said, her tone surprisingly sharp. “Modesty has its place, but right now it’s insulting.” She held up a hand to stop his protest. “I stood on a rock and did nothing. Lotem fought one off with a stick. You killed three giant monsters. Without you, we would be dead.”
The words settled over him, chasing away the last of his guilt. He looked at them—the sharp-eyed scholar and the steady plainsman—and realized with a jolt that they were going to become more than just companions. He had never had friends his own age. The warmth that spread through his chest was a new and precious thing, something he knew he would fight to protect.
“Thank you,” Hadrian said, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish grin. “I still should have been faster, Lotem. But you’re right. We made it. How’s the leg?”
“It will hold. The pain is already fading, strangely enough,” Lotem said, before turning to Sylva. “Do you know what those things were?” Hadrian nodded to himself. It was the right question for the right person. Sylva had the knowledge; he had the violence. They each had a role to play.
“Beyond ‘giant rats’? No,” Sylva admitted. “But Nyxol said something before I left.” She cleared her throat, her voice taking on a formal, reciting tone. “The Tul are awakening, and whispers of a new breed of ravenous rats crossing the Diontel River have reached my web.”
“Crossing the Diontel?” Lotem’s voice was suddenly sharp, an intensity in his gaze Hadrian hadn’t seen before. “You think they’re connected to the Tul?”
“It seems too great a coincidence to ignore,” she said. “Once we’re safe, we can ask the [Venerate].”
They fell silent after that, the weight of the implication heavy in the air as they walked on, the obelisk looming ever closer.
Finally, the bone forest thinned, opening into a field of pale, thin grass. At its center, the obelisk towered over them.
“It looks clear,” Hadrian said. “Think we can make a run for it?”
“Lotem, can you jog with that leg?” Sylva asked.
“A slow one,” he grinned. “But my long strides should cover the ground faster than you’d think.”
“I’m not much of a runner, to be honest,” Hadrian admitted, causing both to look at him in surprise.
Lotem’s expression shifted from confusion to understanding. “Ah,” he said. “Not much open ground for sprinting in the canopies, I’d imagine.”
“I can climb a rope faster than a Simian,” Hadrian offered proudly. He wasn’t sure if the confused looks he received in return meant that was a helpful comparison.
“So we hustle to the obelisk?” Sylva asked, re-focusing them.
“Aye,” Lotem and Hadrian said in unison.
“Keep your eyes open,” she warned. “I don’t like being this exposed.”
Hadrian took a deep breath, the open field feeling vast and threatening. At Sylva’s command, Lotem set a brisk, limping pace, his long strides eating up the ground. Hadrian and Sylva fell in beside him, scanning the oppressive silence.
Hadrian kept his eyes on the sky. Lotem had sensed the last threat from the ground; perhaps he could spot one from the air. He saw it a moment later, a pale shape against the horizon, moving toward them.
“There,” he pointed. “Large, pale white, several dozen feet long. I see three figures on its back.”
“Lotem, faster,” Sylva urged. The Bal man broke into a loping jog that Hadrian struggled to match. How fast is he when he’s not injured? he wondered.
“Can you make out anything else?” Sylva called to him.
“I would’ve thought it was a bird,” Lotem gasped.
The shape grew closer, resolving into a serpentine construct of white bone, carried on skeletal wings. “Two humanoids,” Hadrian reported, his breath coming in ragged bursts. “And a black snake. They’re riding a winged bone snake.”
Lotem pushed the pace faster, and Hadrian’s lungs burned as he tried to keep up.
“Sylva, what is that?” he gasped.
“A Dion construct,” she answered, barely winded. A Silkborn trait? Hadrian wondered, his own lungs burning. “Animating bone for flight is incredibly rare,” she continued. “The skies are not safe, and only someone sufficiently advanced could even consider the feat. If they’re hostile, they’re far beyond our capabilities.”
Their desperate dash brought them closer to the obelisk as the bone-serpent began its descent behind them.
“Will we make it?” Sylva shouted, her gaze darting between the obelisk ahead and the descending construct quickly closing in..
“It’ll be close!” Hadrian yelled back. “Should we try to talk to them?”
“No!” Lotem and Sylva yelled in unison.
The construct hit the ground behind them with a deafening clatter of bone on dry earth. Hadrian risked a glance back and saw a figure dismount and give chase, followed by a massive, black-scaled snake that hissed through the grass like a blade being sharpened.
Lotem hit the obelisk first and vanished as his hands connected with the surface. Sylva was a heartbeat behind him. Hadrian threw himself at the black stone, the image of the closing snake and a dark-skinned woman running just behind it burned into his mind.
He found himself standing in the Room of Threefold Oaths, the familiar table at its center. But now, the floor and ceiling were made of the same reflective black obsidian as the obelisk.
“Fuck,” Hadrian swore, gasping for breath. “That was close.”
“We made it,” Sylva breathed, her voice filled with disbelief. “We actually made it.”
