– The Story of the Radiant Flame, script from a performance by the Golden Troupe in the 22nd year of the Reign of Everflowing Silver.

Aslavain: One Day after the Summer Solstice

Sylva spluttered, icy water erupting from her lungs as she sat bolt upright in the pool, a panic gripping her as she struggled to draw air into her silken lungs. She remembered the club spinning through the air before everything went black from the pain. How long did we manage to survive those three? Ten seconds? Fifteen? The elders would be beside themselves if they had seen such a poor showing.

Sylva clenched her fists at her sides as she forced another rasping breath, coughing up the last of the water with a wet splash. She had tried to decipher the naga’s movements, had even desperately attempted to counter them, but she knew her efforts had likely been in vain. The others hadn’t stood a chance against one of the Eidolons, let alone all three.

The naga had moved her hands in a precise pattern that Sylva recognized as the Sabaharian variant of the imperial script. Her fingers danced in the air, carving invisible symbols as if etching a tablet with a stylus in each of her eight primary fingers. It was one of Sylva’s favorite variations of the script, though it mattered little in the end. She couldn’t decipher much of the naga’s motions, but one thing was clear: her incantation dealt with flame.

Fire. A pyromancer. The thought sent a shudder through Sylva. Of all the elemental disciplines, fire was the most terrifying. A Silkborn could lose a limb to a blade, endure a crushed leg, even survive a great fall with far less risk than a human. She was repairable, eminently fixable, as long as her Lifethread remained intact. But fire… fire didn’t stop at her skin. If it reached her core… Sylva resolved then and there to do everything in her power to avoid that fate.

She had tried to disrupt the naga, mimicking the imperial hand script in a desperate attempt to interfere. On a whim, she had recited the Ode to Deep Waters, a favorite Imperial Poem penned by an adventurer who dared to explore the ocean’s floor. It hadn’t helped. In the end, she had been worse than useless. Lotem had at least managed to distract two of the beasts. Only Hadrian seemed to stand any chance against the Numen, but even the [Squire of Carven Bone] had failed to hold back the giant’s club. There was only one thing left to do.

Sylva rose from the shallow pool, water streaming from her as she strode out. 

“Hadrian, Lotem, are you both awake?” she called out, her voice firm and clear, carrying the authority of someone accustomed to giving orders. She waited for their muttered affirmations before continuing, “When you’re ready to discuss our performance and try again, I’ll be in the central chamber.”

After a brief wait, the two men entered the central hall to find Sylva seated cross-legged, striving for a serene pose as the red and orange light danced in the hallway. Hadrian’s robe shed the water effortlessly, the only sign of his recent dunking his damp hair. Lotem, in contrast, was a soggy mess. His cloak dripped continuously onto the floor, and his thick curly hair had soaked up as much water as it could hold. He looked downcast as he settled next to her, a pool of water forming around him. Sylva hoped she looked more like Hadrian than Lotem.

“Do you want to take your cloak off to dry?” Hadrian asked hesitantly.

“It’s not my first time being wet,” Lotem replied, his tone casual. “Besides, now Sabel can get used to the feeling.”

Sylva focused on Lotem and noticed the sopping wet kitten cradled in his hand, looking even more miserable than the big man. “She jumped into the pool when she saw me and gave us both a fright,” he explained, giving the kitten a stern look. “We should both dry out soon enough.”

Hadrian shifted his position, edging away from the creeping tide of water spreading around the Bal. “Should I be the first to say it?”

“First to say what?” Sylva asked, her curiosity piqued.

“That was so cool!” Hadrian exclaimed. “It was like a real-life fight—real weapons, magic, monsters. We died, but not really. How great is that?”

Sylva blinked, surprised by the optimism following their poor performance in the trial. Frustration edged her tone as she felt the need to state the obvious. “We only survived for a handful of seconds and couldn’t effectively challenge any of our opponents. We failed, and quite poorly at that.”

“Naw, that wasn’t a failure,” Hadrian said firmly, crossing his arms. “This trial is designed for us to die, time and again. It’s meant to test our limits and force us to adapt. Now we know more than we did last time.”

He isn’t wrong, but… failure isn’t acceptable. We have expectations to live up to. How would the elders see this? She pondered that for only a moment, her chest tightening. The elders had a notoriously low tolerance for failure and would be ashamed of her inability to contribute. She was of the Sect of Silken Grace, and the honor of her ancestors was her duty. Memories of past ceremonies, where successes were celebrated and failures harshly reprimanded, flooded her mind.

“I should have done more to protect myself from the beasts,” Lotem said quietly, his eyes downcast. “I wasn’t much help against either, but I could feel a sense of enmity from both. I’m pretty sure they’re rodents.” He shrugged, noticing her quizzical look. “Felt similar to the rats before.”

“Those were also rodents?” Hadrian asked, not waiting for a response before grinning. “A living pinecone and a bloated squirrel—your natural enemies. We’ll slay them soon enough.”

Living pinecone? Bloated squirrel? Those are… inventive descriptions, Sylva thought, suppressing an unexpected smile. She still wasn’t sure what to make of the man and his seemingly endless optimism when violence was on the horizon.

“You were both already dead, but the naga finished her spell,” Hadrian said, his voice tinged with discomfort. “It was… unpleasant.”

“Unpleasant?” Sylva asked, curiosity sparking. Did I understand what the naga was up to correctly?

“My shoes turned into fire,” Hadrian explained, shuddering. “Just my shoes, though I doubt that was her intention.” He ran his hands down his robe, and Sylva couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy. Of course, it was the robe that stopped the spell from overwhelming him. If only I could convince him that its protections would be better used elsewhere… But he’d never go for it. Still, what she wouldn’t give for protection from a spell like that. She could feel the lingering heat in the air, a reminder of her vulnerability that brought an edge of fear before she could master herself.

“Nasty spell,” Lotem muttered, his voice still tinged with lingering fear. “That rodent hit me with some kind of lightning attack. My body locked up just before my death—not that I could focus much with those quills in me.” He grimaced. “I’d really prefer that not to happen again.”

“So we just need to figure out how to stop the naga from turning our clothes into fire, beat the guy with the club, and avoid the pinecone and squirrel?” Hadrian said with a smirk. “Easy enough.”

Sylva was relieved to see that she wasn’t the only one who thought Hadrian was a bit crazy. At least she wasn’t alone in her doubts. Lotem spoke up first, his eyebrows raised in disbelief.

“Easy enough? Hadrian, we didn’t even last half a minute in there…” Lotem’s hands clenched into fists, his voice laced with frustration.

“Yeah. But we get to try again, right?” Hadrian’s smile widened as he saw their reluctant nods, his eyes lighting up with determination. “See? It’s that easy. We just keep trying until we get it right. Of course we failed the first time—we had no clue what was about to happen. This time, we do.” He stood and stretched, a grin plastered across his face.

“Are you sure we shouldn’t discuss our performance the first time?” Sylva asked, her voice tinged with hesitation as she tried to delay their inevitable return to the pyromancer. “We could analyze our skills, maybe come up with innovative solutions. Or find a way to improve our odds before trying again some other way.” Her mind raced with possible strategies, desperate to find a safer approach.

“Do we have enough information for that to be worthwhile?” Hadrian asked, a thoughtful frown crossing his face. Sylva felt a flicker of relief, glad to see that he was taking her idea seriously.

“Do either of you have any ideas to counter their tactics after the first fight?” She waited, but the silence answered for them. I was really hoping one of them would have a solution. “Then we should keep trying until we do. We need an idea of how we want to improve if we’re going to actually get better.”

“More fighting then?” Hadrian asked, excited.

“More fighting, then,” Sylva agreed, forcing herself to sound resolute. It’s just fire, and maybe it won’t even get me this time. She tried to look determined as Hadrian stood.

Lotem’s shoulders sagged as he stood, the weight of their failure pressing heavily on him. “Yeah, let’s go,” he muttered, his voice barely audible. Sylva glanced at Hadrian, noting the determination still burning in his eyes, and took a deep breath. Together, they strode once more to the carved doors, each step a testament to their resolve. The room awaited them, a silent challenge demanding their best.

“Now, Hadrian, I want you to guard me for as long as you can,” Sylva said, her voice firm. “Lotem, are you able to distract the beasts?”

---

As Sylva rested her palm on the pedestal once more, Hadrian took a deep breath and let his mind drift back to the training grounds in Cutra. He missed the feeling of wood beneath his feet, the gentle ridges formed by the rings of the tree rippling outwards from the heart of the folog stump, the lingering scent of sap in the air.

He imagined the lanterns imbued with the flames of ambition hanging equidistant around the stump, their flickering light casting dancing shadows. A trickle of that old emotion stirred within him, sparked by the memory. He didn’t have the real stuff to inspire him today—wasn’t sure he ever would again—but the memory was enough to settle his nerves.

He was going to change the world with these people, and Rovan Khal had given him his blessing. Sylva was uptight and particular—that much was already clear—and Lotem was quiet, unsure of his role in their group. But Hadrian saw potential in both of them, and for the first time, he felt a budding camaraderie he had never experienced before. These were his new friends, and now was his chance to impress them.

“Ready?” Sylva asked, her hand hovering over the crystal ball, poised to invoke the challengers once more.

After receiving a pair of confirmations, she touched the crystal ball, and Hadrian summoned his bow. The familiar weight of the weapon settled into his hands as the doors swung closed behind them. He didn’t know what he would do without the weapons granted by his skill, and once again, he sent a silent thought of thanks to Rovan Khal. The Titan has truly blessed me.

As the three emerged from the sarcophagi, untouched by the prior fight, Sylva called out in a commanding voice, “I demand introductions. If we’re going to fight you repeatedly, we deserve to know who we’re challenging.”

Hadrian thought that was very sporting of Sylva. He hadn’t even considered asking the enemies for anything—didn’t seem like something enemies would offer. But then again, he was used to fighting Simians and the monsters of the Fog Lands, not exactly civilized foes. He felt a surge of gratitude toward Sylva for thinking ahead; he would have hated to come across as rude.

The Eidolons exchanged a hesitant glance before the armored figure called out, “I am Morvan of the Blue Fort, hero of the Night of Crimson Moons. Soldier in the service of the Imperial Rangers before my escalation.”

Now that sounds like a story worth hearing, Hadrian thought. Where was the Blue Fort? What was the Night of Crimson Moons? He’d have to ask the man after he beat him. Tales of valor and mystery like that always sparked his interest.

“I am Drakar, [Breaker of Bone], Champion of the Seventeenth Circuit in the Reign of Watchful Eyes,” the burly figure proclaimed, his voice echoing through the chamber. Champion of the Seventeenth Circuit? Hadrian wondered what kind of battles Drakar had fought to earn such a formidable title.

Hadrian began to shake; he always did before a big fight. His Pa had called it the shivers.

Sylva glanced at him briefly, then quickly returned her gaze to the naga, as though fearing that any lapse in concentration might spell her downfall.

“I am Seraphis, [Priestess of the Radiant Flame], a member of the Oracles of Divine Light,” the regal figure declared, pausing as her eyes scanned the group for a response.

“I am Hadrian of Cutra, the [Squire of Carven Bone],” he declared firmly, standing tall, pride evident in his tone. “Child of Cutra.”

“A [Squire] of the Dion lord?” Drakar’s tone was harsh, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.

“Drakar, you’ll have to share this one.” Seraphis’s eyes narrowed as she looked at Hadrian, her posture tense, as though powers were ready to be unleashed. “We accept no Dion here.” Her words were laced with disdain, hinting at a deeper conflict.

“Sylva of Clan Strenath, an initiate, well graduate now, of the Sect of Silken Grace,” Sylva quickly added, her voice steady as she aimed to steer the Eidolons’ focus away from the brewing tension.

Why do they have so many issues with the Dion? Hadrian wondered. Do they think I’m Dion? Should I correct them?

“At least this one’s from the Heartland,” Seraphis hissed, her eyes still locked entirely on Hadrian.

“I’m not Dion, if it matters,” Hadrian said, not wanting any confusion. His parents had always taught him that honesty would prevail, and the idea of deceiving them didn’t sit right with him, especially if they were angry about a misconception. “I’m from the Fog Lands.” He stood firm, meeting their gazes with unwavering resolve.

All three sets of eyes focused on him with sudden curiosity. “The [Squire of Carven Bone] isn’t from the Dion? Has even the great Rovan realized the flaws of his people?” Drakar’s mighty voice boomed, making Hadrian flinch. “Maybe there’s something to be said for the lad. Still, Rovan is no friend of ours.”

“And you, boy?” Morvan’s eyes shifted to Lotem, his gaze piercing and intense.

“I am Lotem Jarval, son of the Zherenkhan.”

“A halfbreed?” Morvan sneered, his interest fading as his lip curled in disdain. “What a disappointment. I thought you might be of the true blood, not one of the Bal bloodline thieves.”

Lotem bristled at Hadrian’s side, his jaw clenching in anger. Sylva quickly stepped forward, reclaiming the attention of the Eidolons as their least controversial member. “This is a test of approval. Do you have terms or goals we need to achieve to satisfy you? From what I understand, you decide what our goals must be.”

“You must slay us,” Seraphis said, her voice calm and unwavering. “If you were true to the cause of Tir Na Nog, we might let you pass with a sufficient showing, but you are not. You carry none of the rage, the hatred we demand. You were pulled to us, yes, but none of you carry the spark of rage Tir Na Nog demands—not openly, at least.” Her words hung in the air, both a challenge and a judgment.

“You are weak, and Tir Na Nog is not for the weak.” Drakar’s words were final, a harsh judgment that left no room for argument. Morvan whistled sharply, and his two beasts appeared once more, muscles rippling under their fur as they tensed, ready to charge.

“Wait!” Sylva called out, rushing to get the question out before the fight began. Her voice was filled with urgency, almost desperation. “We don’t understand the cause of Tir Na Nog. We didn’t choose this. What is your cause?”

“Our cause? Revenge, lass,” Drakar replied, his voice heavy. “Revenge for wrongs endured. Revenge for wrongs never righted. Revenge for slights that never die.” His words carried the weight of centuries of pain and anger, a cause that drove them forward with unyielding resolve.

“Revenge for family slain?” Lotem asked quietly, his voice tinged with pain. “Revenge for memories lost?”

“Aye. Revenge for that too lad.” 

Hadrian looked to Lotem, expecting to see sadness in the man who seemed more gentle than fierce. But he found none. Lotem stood straight, his gaze locked onto Drakar’s across the chamber. “You’re here to teach us how to be strong enough to extract that revenge?”

“If you are worthy,” Seraphis replied, her gaze serious as she watched Lotem closely. “You seek revenge against the Tul?”

“Aye.” Lotem met their gazes with an intensity Hadrian had only seen when the man was hurling rats. In that moment, Hadrian recognized the fire in Lotem’s eyes—a rare glimpse of the fierce warrior hidden beneath his gentle exterior. He felt a surge of pride for his newest friend. Everyone needed a fight to call their own.

“And what say your companions?” Morvan asked, his gaze shifting to Hadrian. Hadrian barely needed to consider the question. Why would Lotem help him achieve his own goals if he didn’t stand by Lotem in return? Friendship meant standing by each other’s side, no matter the cost—at least, that’s what his Ma had always said.

“Lotem is my friend. His revenge is my revenge. The Tul are monsters, anyway—they deserve to fall.” Hadrian knew that creating a shrine would require expertise and raw power. Why shouldn’t they get strong on the blood of monsters? Especially if those monsters had slain the family of his friend.

“And you?” Morvan asked Sylva, seemingly satisfied with Hadrian’s response.

“A day ago, I would have said the Tul aren’t my fight to pick,” she began, glancing at Lotem before continuing. “But that was before one of my sworn companions spoke of his revenge. Hadrian has the right of it. What use are heroes if they fail to slay the monsters at the gate?” Heroes. I like the sound of that, Hadrian thought.

“Rage requires more than mere words to satisfy, and Tir Na Nog ensures that the rage is as pure as holy flame. Still, your words have been heard; now you must prove why we should take you seriously.”

Drakar smiled for just a moment before he hurtled across the room, his club outstretched.

---

Lotem was having a very bad day. His leg throbbed where the rats had bitten him, and his heart still pounded from being chased by a snake with scales as dark as midnight. Now, he was trapped in a death trial, forced to face three experts in a fight to the death. He had already been impaled and electrocuted today, and it looked like it was about to happen all over again. The memory of searing pain and the smell of burning flesh clung to him, a constant reminder of the agony that awaited.

Drakar lunged forward, his club swinging with such force that it seemed he expected to reach all three of them in a single burst of speed. Lotem wasn’t sure he wouldn’t. He dove sideways, throwing himself in the opposite direction, just in case Drakar decided to hurl his club in Lotem’s direction.

His heart pounded as he moved, his eyes locked on Morvan. A surge of panic washed over him as he saw Morvan speak quietly to the beasts, who lunged forward with their gazes fixed on Lotem. The sound of their claws scraping against the floor sent a shiver down his spine.

Why did Hadrian get a powerful armory skill, and I got something that makes everything we fight want to kill me? Lotem braced himself as the beasts closed in, the crystalline quills of the porcupine catching the golden torchlight as they moved. He swung his fist in a wide arc, hoping to catch one of the beasts with a lucky hit. His heart raced as the rat creature leapt and slid under his hastily thrown punch. Lotem threw himself backward, desperate to dodge the creature as he felt the hairs on his body stand on end, drawn toward the beast. How do I stop a creature that can electrocute me at a touch?

Lotem kicked forward, feeling a brief surge of success as his bare foot connected with the beast, sending all the force he could muster into the strike. The creature flew backward, slamming into the back wall with a sickening thud. But before Lotem could savor the moment, a jolt of electricity thundered through him, locking his muscles for a crucial instant. The acrid smell of singed flesh filled the air, searing into his senses.

Lotem braced himself for the quills to strike again, expecting the bright trails of pain to follow. But the quills never came. Instead, Morvan barked a command in a language Lotem couldn’t understand, and the beast spun toward Hadrian and Sylva, unleashing a wave of quills in their direction. The sound of the quills whistling through the air filled Lotem with dread. His heart sank as he realized the imminent danger they were in.

Sylva took the brunt of the attack, three quills sinking deep into her chest, causing her to collapse with a gasping scream. Pain shot through her as she struggled to breathe. Hadrian had a quill lodged in his shoulder and another in his thigh. He tried to draw his bow, desperate to launch another arrow and keep Drakar on the defensive. But Lotem’s heart sank as he saw Hadrian’s arm refuse to draw the bowstring. Hadrian swore and dropped the bow; it vanished before even hitting the floor, and he gripped a sword in his uninjured hand, his face twisted in pain and frustration.

Drakar’s club flew across the room and collided with Hadrian with a sickening thud that told Lotem something vital within Hadrian had just broken. Hadrian sank through the floor, defeated, and Lotem knew they had lost even before Seraphis finished her incantation.

The golden flame consumed him in a pyre, its searing heat briefly overwhelming his senses. The agony faded quickly as he slumped to the floor and sank through it once more, the cold stone beneath him a stark contrast to the fiery pain.

---

“They used a different skill this time. The Beastmaster issued a command that seemed to change the tide. That wasn’t a complete failure,” Krinka said, leaning back thoughtfully after observing the triumvirate’s failed second attempt to pass the trial.

“Not a complete failure, no. I’d say about 85% failure,” Alsarana replied, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “They spoke to the Eidolons and probably gleaned something useful from the conversation. We’d know for sure if someone—” Alsarana flicked his eyes pointedly toward Krinka, knowing it would irritate the scholar, “had our audio access working.”

“Als, you know as well as I do that Krinka getting visual access is an accomplishment in itself,” Casselia said, her words causing Krinka to brighten. “Though… it would be nice to listen in soon.”

“I’m working on it!” Krinka said with exasperation, throwing his hands up in frustration. “But you told me to prioritize establishing a connection we could speak through. Unless I can somehow rig an Eisentarian array to bypass the Sabaharian wards, I’ll have to choose between audio or the ability to send vocal messages.”

“Then just finagle the Eisentarian array,” Alsarana said, his tail flicking gently, the only sign of his amusement as he riled up his oldest friend. “It can’t be that hard, can it? If the insects can figure it out, surely the greatest [Archivist] in the empire can.” He smirked, clearly enjoying the banter.

“I. Am. Not. A. [Mage],” Krinka said slowly, enunciating each word as if worried Alsarana might miss something important. “I am not a [Wizard]. I am not a [Sorcerer]. I am not a [Thaumaturge]. I can’t just wave my hand and solve problems with magic.” He glared at Alsarana, his irritation evident.

“Have you considered just becoming one of those?” Alsarana asked with a smirk. “I think [Warlock] could be sufficient for you.”

“That… that’s not how any of this works!” Krinka exclaimed, his face reddening with frustration. “And you know that!”

Alsarana caught a warning glance from Casselia before she coughed and held up a hand, cutting off the conversation. “Krinka, don’t let Als get under your skin. You should have centuries of practice ignoring the big snake by now.” She gave Alsarana another pointed look. “Als, don’t pretend you don’t know how this works. You’re one of the best [Necromancers] on the continent and could likely break through the trials’ wards on your own if we were willing to risk a full ritual array.”

“Can I?” he perked up, the hood on either side of his face stiffening, creating the impression of a cobra suddenly interested in the prey in front of it. His eyes gleamed with excitement at the prospect. Casselia never let him do ritual array’s anymore.

“Do you actually have enough bones for an array?” Casselia asked, her curiosity piqued.

“I do have a lot of goblin bones. Like, a lot of goblin bones. So many goblin bones.” Alsarana’s voice carried a hint of pride, though he knew their quality left much to be desired.

“So, no?” Casselia asked, one eyebrow arching in skepticism.

“As much as I adore my gobbo bones, no.” Alsarana dramatically curled deeper into his coils. “They’re tragically not great for rituals. The flesh didn’t live long enough to empower the bones, and they crack under the slightest pressure. But still, they make a lovely collection,” he added with a wistful sigh.

“Can we—” Krinka started, but Alsarana cut him off.

“No, Krinka,” Alsarana said with a hint of exasperation, “I can’t use the trees, bone-made as they are. They belong to Tir Na Nog and would refuse to break the wards here. That’s basic sympathy; you should know this.”

“I wasn’t going to ask that,” Krinka retorted, glaring at him. “I was going to ask if we can get back to the matter at hand.” He muttered under his breath, “Of course I know how sympathy works.”

“So, about the fight. Als, since you clearly have a lot of thoughts today, why don’t you share your analysis?”

“Bonus points to the group for trying again so soon after their last walloping. I didn’t expect another bout for at least a day. But they lose all those points for still being bad at fighting.”

“Specificity, please, Als, you know the drill.”

“As you command, oh great Crownless,” Alsarana uncoiled, rising to tower over the two of them. He knew it wouldn’t intimidate them like it would others, but he had an image to keep. “The weak link is the Bal. His main value in the first fight was distracting the Crystal-Quill and Thunderback. The [Beastmaster] neutralized that with a single skill, ending the fight.”

“And the others?” Casselia prompted, her tone expectant.

“The fighter is competent. His archery kept a steady threat on the naga and forced the Numen warrior to defend her. Not that he has any real chance of winning like this, but he can distract his counterpart for a few seconds,” Alsarana said, tilting his head as though coming to a realization. “Kind of like the Bal in that way, now that I think about it. The Silkborn is harder for me to judge. I don’t follow hand motions very well anymore.” He cast a pointed glance at the wounds where his arms had once been, smirking as Krinka looked away. It wasn’t his fault, but he still held the guilt all these years later.

“Krinka?” Casselia prompted, her gaze shifting to him.

“I’m fairly certain she was attempting to recite the Ode to Deep Waters. It’s actually a solid choice for dampening the Radiant Flame. Her motions were shaky but clearer than before, and the naga’s incantation faltered until Sylva was taken out of the fight,” Krinka said thoughtfully.

“You think Sylva was attempting Imperial Poetry against the naga?” Casselia asked, her brow furrowing. “It could work, the Poems use the grammatical structure of relevant incantations, but the inefficiency at her level would be staggering—unless the poem itself could negate the bleed.”

“The Ode to Deep Waters has a strong affinity for the darkness and pressure of the deep sea. It’s actually a brilliant counter to the Radiant Flame—where even the sun’s light is said to die in the depths. My best guess is she has an intuition skill guiding her, along with two decades of training in the foundations of transmogrification, even if she doesn’t realize it yet,” Krinka explained.

“Do you think she’ll succeed at countering the Sunborn magic anytime soon?” Casselia asked as Alsarana mulled over the new information. A transmogrifier—now that would be an intriguing trainee. We haven’t worked with a specialist in sympathy since the Marquis of Bone incident. I can’t wait to teach her about bone sympathy. His scales almost itched with excitement at the thought.

“Succeed? No, no, no. She might be able to contain an aggressive ritual like the Radiant Flame, but actual success? She has no chance of doing more than delaying the inevitable,” Krinka said, shaking his head decisively.

“So, we’re concluding that the trio can survive for about ten to thirty seconds, with not much better odds than that?” Casselia’s expression shifted to the look Alsarana recognized as her prelude to requesting the impossible. Her eyes focused on the distance, pieces clicking into place as she reached her conclusion. He hoped it involved Krinka.

“Krinka, we need access to the candidates. We’ll brainstorm solutions and see if we can find something workable. We just need enough time to swear the first of our oaths; after that, we’ll be in.” She turned to Alsarana, and he braced himself for her judgment on his free time. “Als, we need someone to watch the candidates. You’ll monitor the sympathetic link full-time. Someone has to keep an eye on them while we’re busy.”

“Can I occasionally roam the bone forest?” he asked, quickly adding, “I found the most beautiful skull earlier, and I’d hate to leave the bones all on their lonesome. It’s for the good of the bones, Cass.”

“Sorry, Als, the bones can wait. I don’t want you to miss a single fight; it could make a difference for the trio. You know that. We’ll need you to make wards in the forest eventually, but not until the children start to slow down.”

“I have to stay here starting now?”

“Starting now.”

Alsarana, the [Harbinger of Extinction], curled up on the bone sofa he’d constructed, looking forlorn as his closest friends delved into the intricacies of ward theory. I never get to have fun anymore.

---