In rolling rocky hills they dwell, the Tul with eyes of flame,
Amidst the stones and jagged cliffs, their dark desires inflame.
They feast on memories’ tender threads, each thought they do reclaim,
And twisted beasts roam by their side, sharing in their shame.
These beasts of warped and wicked form, with Tul they haunt the night,
Their hunger keen for human minds, they stalk with ghastly might.
A shepherd’s tale, a child’s first word, devoured out of sight,
In those bleak hills, where echoes fade, consumed by primal blight.
Beware the stony crags at dusk, where Tul and beasts abide,
They gorge on memories rich and sweet, in shadows they reside.
For when the stars are dim and cold, and darkness spreads its tide,
The Tul and their corrupted kin will feast on what you hold inside.
– Ransalcar the [Bard of Broken Truths]
Aslavain: One Day after the Summer Solstice
Lotem burst from the pool with a heaving gasp, his lungs aflame as he expelled the icy liquid in harsh, desperate coughs. The Eidolons had killed them with terrifying ease once again. The searing memory of the golden flame scorched his mind, an agony unlike any he had ever known. A muffled sob escaped him, the pain and fear twisting inside, a knot of despair. As he dragged himself from the pool, he became aware of Sabel’s distressed howls, the kitten drenched and shivering with indignation.
With a start, he realized that Sabel had jumped down from the raised platform of the bed, caught by a wave of water when he had abruptly sat up. At least this time she hadn’t plunged directly into the pool. He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly, trying to expel the lingering memory of that golden fire. Moving with deliberate care, he lifted Sabel back onto the bed, his hands trembling as he gently stroked her damp fur. For several minutes, he focused solely on her, offering pieces of jerky from his cloak, grounding himself in the familiar comfort of her presence.
He heard Sylva’s voice calling for him outside his room, no doubt deep in discussion with Hadrian about the last fight. But he didn’t care. He needed a moment to himself, a moment to soothe his little companion back into slumber. A thought gnawed at him: should he have left her behind, safe in his parents’ care? Would she be better off without me? The worry coiled tight in his chest, squeezing his heart with doubt.
Once Sabel had finally settled back into sleep, Lotem stood slowly, whispering the command to open the door as he slipped away. The soft hiss of the door closing behind him seemed to echo his lingering doubts. In the center chamber, he found Sylva and Hadrian seated on the unadorned floor, deep in a robust discussion, their voices a low hum in the otherwise silent space.
“Lotem,” Hadrian called out, worry etched clearly in his voice, “are you all right? You were the last one standing in that last bout, and we got worried when you didn’t come out right away.”
“Just needed a few moments to settle Sabel back down. She got splashed when I woke up,” Lotem replied, his voice carrying only half the truth. Yes, he had needed to calm Sabel, but more than that, he needed time to wrestle with the doubts gnawing at him. They had been in Aslavain for less than a day, and already the weight of their situation was pressing down on him like a boulder.
His parents had always warned him that he wasn’t suited for Aslavain, that no gift from the empire came without strings, without a price to pay. But he had never imagined that the cost would be dying in agony, only to be reborn to face it again and again. How cruel the empire’s generosity could be, a gift wrapped in suffering.
If he understood Sylva correctly, they wouldn’t be able to leave these chambers until they had earned the approval of the very same people who kept killing them. How did that make sense? How was that fair?
The torchlight around them was a red-orange hue that cast the room in a light that reminded him of the blood moons that always came after the wildfires in the hills. The flames flickered ominously, casting unsettling shadows that seemed to dance with cruel intent. Between the oppressive light and the sloping walls that pushed him toward the center of the room, Lotem was beginning to hate this place.
“Glad to hear Sabel is doing all right, the little cutie,” Sylva said with a lightness that Lotem knew was forced. She had been impaled by those quills, and he could only imagine the pain she had endured. A faint anger stirred within him at the memory. “We were just strategizing for the next attempt. Hadrian thinks if we can keep the pinecone—” she glanced at the Kiel man with a soft, strained smile “—occupied, we might stand a better chance.”
“Makes sense,” Lotem replied, though uncertainty tinged his words. “It seems to favor attacking me, but Morvan was able to command it somehow.”
“We were just talking about that,” Hadrian said with a frustrated sigh. “I wish Morvan wasn’t wearing that blasted armor, though at least he stayed back and just watched last time. I’m not sure my bow will be able to get through it if he does attack.” He scratched the back of his head, a rueful expression crossing his face. “I’ve never really fought anything armored before. The closest I’ve come was during the occasional raid by the mantis factions of the Brood back in Cutra, but the village never let me join the defense. They always said it was ‘citizens’ work,’ not for someone like me.”
“We’ll circle back to that later, Hadrian. The fact that your village had to skirmish with the Brood is… concerning. But now isn’t the time.” Sylva turned her attention to Lotem, her tone steady and authoritative. “Lotem, we were just finishing up our review of the fight. Do you need us to go over everything, or are you good to continue from here?”
“I think you can continue from here.” He forced the words out, even as questions clawed at the back of his mind. How are you not more upset about this? How are you not struggling right now? He almost asked, almost let the doubts spill out, but he smothered them down. Maybe I wasn’t ready for this, but I can’t back down now. What good would giving up do? We’re trapped, and there’s no way out but through.
“We were just discussing Hadrian’s idea to engage Drakar up close. He thinks part of the problem is that Drakar isn’t being pressured enough by his arrows, and once their beasts engage, we lose any chance of victory.”
How is she so calm right now? How are they not furious? Why am I the only one struggling here?
“I’ve been trying to counter Seraphis’ incantation, though honestly, I’m not entirely sure what I’m doing. I think it’s working—the fact that her spell only fully takes hold after my concentration breaks seems to be proof of that. At least, I hope it is.”
“It was effective until you vanished,” Lotem said, unable to keep the anger from his voice. “That naga’s fire… it was pure agony.”
“Yeah, it burned my feet pretty badly too.” Hadrian’s expression darkened momentarily, as though the memory of the fire clung to him like a shadow. But then he forced a smile, as if to push the darkness away. “But it doesn’t hurt anymore. Isn’t that amazing?”
“Being burned alive?” Lotem asked, incredulous.
“Well, no. Not that part,” Hadrian admitted with a wince. “But the idea that we can experience that kind of pain—agony, even—just for a moment, and then be brought back, renewed. This place is teaching us how not to die. We just need to get good enough to learn the lesson.”
“And what a lesson it is,” Sylva added, her tone thoughtful. Then she turned her gaze to Lotem. “How’s your leg holding up, Lotem? I meant to ask after the first fight, but things got a little hectic.”
Lotem frowned, remembering how the rat had bitten through his leathers during their travels. His leg had felt mostly fine since, but he hadn’t checked the wound since they entered the trial. His frown deepened as he prodded the site, feeling the thick scab that had formed. This wound is less than a day old, yet it looks like it’s been healing for weeks. Was I wrong about how bad it was earlier? he wondered, confusion and concern gnawing at him.
“It’s healed up pretty well,” he said after a moment of thought. “The flesh is mending, and the wound barely bothers me anymore.”
“But you still have the wound?” Sylva asked.
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”
“We’ve died and been reborn twice today. Don’t you think it’s strange that our bodies, our Lifethreads, even our clothes are fully restored, but your wound remains?” Sylva touched her chest absently, as if recalling the pain of the quills that had pierced her. “I was impaled by those quills—my Lifethread severed—and yet, here I am, completely whole. So why hasn’t your wound healed?”
Lotem paused, caught off guard by the validity of her question. He let the silence stretch as he mulled over her words. “My leg was already healing before we even entered the trial. It might have been this far along before our first fight. But honestly, I have no idea why it’s healing so fast.”
“Numen heal much faster than humans; they’re almost as resilient as my own people,” Sylva pointed out. “But you’ve never healed this quickly before, have you?”
Lotem thought back to the countless cuts and scrapes he’d endured growing up on the plains. None of them had healed like this. He shook his head slowly. “The Numen blood runs thin in my veins. I’m several generations removed from the source.”
“You were generations distant from the source,” Hadrian interjected. “But that was before. [Enhanced Blood of the Numen]—that’s one of your skills now, right?”
“It couldn’t have that much of an impact, could it?” Lotem asked hesitantly, leaning back against the cold stone wall. He wasn’t familiar with the skill—or with many skills, really. His family weren’t fighters; they were herders, and their skills and classes had always reflected that way of life. The imperial taboo against discussing the Sulphen and its manifestations with non-citizens had spread to the Bal tribes centuries ago, leaving him with only the scant knowledge his parents had shared. Not nearly enough, he thought bitterly.
Sylva shrugged. “It could. Especially if that’s the boon Sylvine gave you. Hadrian got his armory skill from Rovan, and I got my intuition skill from Nyxol—both of which are definitely useful. It’s unlikely Sylvine would give you two skills that won’t help. Though I’m still not convinced your natural enemy skill is something to worry about.”
“Really?” he asked, struggling to process Sylva’s words. He hadn’t given much thought to his skills before. He’d assumed they were a joke—a dragon’s idea of a cruel laugh. She’d noticed his Numen heritage and decided that would define him. She’d noticed Sabel and made a rodent joke. Had he misunderstood everything?
“No skill is useless. I told you that when we first arrived, and I meant it.” Sylva’s voice was firm, her eyes locking onto his with unwavering certainty. “Lotem, none of the Immortals give useless gifts. Not to the chosen triumvirates, at least.” She gestured toward Hadrian, who was idly tracing the edge of a bone knife. “That dummy over there made sure of it. Sylvine didn’t slight you.”
“Hey!” Hadrian objected, but the moment Sylva’s gaze sharpened on him, he quickly looked away, his protest fizzling out.
“You were chosen as a companion to a [Squire] of one of the Immortals. You’re the companion of the top initiate from the Sect of Silken Grace this year. You were chosen for a reason, Lotem, and I refuse to believe otherwise.”
Lotem hadn’t realized how much he needed to hear that. Sylva’s words settled something deep inside him, easing the tension he hadn’t even noticed building. “Thanks,” he said quietly, nodding to Sylva as her gaze softened. “But what if I don’t know why she would have chosen me?”
“Hadrian,” Sylva said, her eyes still holding Lotem’s. “Why did Rovan Khal choose you to be his squire?”
“He said I amuse him with my formality and impossible dreams,” Hadrian replied with unmistakable pride. Formality? Lotem almost laughed at the thought—Hadrian, who was currently twirling a knife he’d summoned just to play with, being formal? “He told me I have the potential to become something new. That we have the potential to become something new.”
“Lotem, things are changing in the empire. Nyxol believed we’re on the brink of another calamity—something like the Blood Wars or the Beast Wars. She wanted us to be ready to make a difference when that time comes.”
“Rovan said something similar,” Hadrian added, his voice taking on a seriousness Lotem hadn’t heard before. “He talked about the rise of ancient threats and how only a few, like the Mandate of Empire, still take them seriously.”
Ancient threats… like the Tul? Is that why I’m partnered with them—because I want to destroy the Tul? For the first time since they arrived in the Room of Threefold Oath, Lotem felt like he might actually have a place with his team. He decided to trust his teammates; they had likely already begun piecing things together after that last fight. After a deep silence, he spoke.
“Five years ago, my brother left for Aslavain, determined to win glory for our clan. My parents begged him to stay, warned him of the dangers. I wish I could remember his response.” Lotem’s voice faltered, the memory hazy and tinged with pain.
Sylva’s gaze stayed on him, her expression softening with empathy. Hadrian stilled, his hands pausing their restless motion with the knife. Lotem felt a small wave of relief, the words beginning to flow more easily as he sensed their patient attention.
“I woke up, had breakfast with my parents, and then went to tend the herd, just like any other day. Then the news came from the Imperials. A hawk, its plumage dark as shadow and a crimson beak, fell from the sky. It landed on Warma’s back, and I remember worrying it might be attacking us. But then I saw the letter attached to its leg. That’s when I knew something was wrong.”
He paused, the image caught in his memory like an insect trapped in amber. He could still recall the growing sense of dread, the creeping unease as he tried to grasp what was happening.
“I rushed home with the letter, and my uncle, a trader, read the missive aloud.” He swallowed, his chest tightening. “When he said my brother had died across the Diontel, my first thought was, ‘I don’t have a brother.’” He lowered his head, unwilling to see their reactions, to face their judgment.
“That’s the worst thing about the Tul. They don’t just take lives—they take your memories too. They steal your ability to mourn. I don’t remember my brother. When I try to recall days we spent roaming the plains together, I can remember the sights, the hikes we took. But he’s not there.”
“I’ve sworn to end them.” He let the spark of anger grow, feeding it with the fear of being hunted through that nightmare forest, the memory of agony, and the certainty that more was coming. He fed it with his fear for the days ahead. His voice came out deep and harsh as he finally shared the anger he had carried for years.
“The Tul are devouring us day by day, and the empire seems content to let it happen. The imperial factions bicker over petty disputes while they pour enough treasure into Aslavain each year to end the war with the Tul. They united to defeat the Beast Kings. They united to fight my people to a standstill. Where is that anger now? Our people are being consumed, and those in power barely seem to care.”
“What was it Sylva said?” Hadrian asked, his light tone at odds with the tension in his muscles. “What good are heroes if they can’t slay the monsters at the gate? Your quest is worth our efforts, and I think we have a lot to show the empire before we’re through.” Lotem couldn’t help but envy the confidence that seemed to come so naturally to Hadrian. Is this what Rovan saw in him? he wondered, feeling the thumping rage in his chest grow as the red light deepened, the flickering from the ceiling casting ominous shadows.
“I stand by my words. Lotem, when we’re free from Aslavain, I swear I’ll join you in your cause.” Sylva’s brow furrowed, and her lips tightened as if she were wrestling with a thought. She looked… angry, Lotem realized, as if she were coming to a new understanding. “I need to do… something productive. Come.” She rose abruptly and strode toward the chamber doors, her movements decisive, the expectation clear that the two men would follow as she slammed the doors open.
The Sect of Silken Grace was a name whispered with reverence throughout the empire, a beacon of excellence known for producing scholars, mages of all varieties, and linguists of unparalleled caliber. Every initiate, Silkborn by birthright, began their training within days of their Lifestring’s creation. For Sylva, those twenty years had been an unending cycle of discipline, study, and relentless pursuit of perfection. She had mastered the ancestral tongues of the UlaanBal and ThurBal, deciphered, and with the aid of arcane tools, even replicated the guttural speech of the Brood. Imperial scripts, with all their countless variations, were mere threads in the vast tapestry of her knowledge.
She had meticulously copied the texts of the empire’s twelve foundational philosophies, her mind wrestling with their labyrinthine questions of law, morality, and justice. Arithmetic, taught in the cold, precise manner of the Trade Guilds, was another string in her bow. Sylva was, in her own estimation, brilliant. Yet, in this crucible of stone and fire, that brilliance now felt like a hollow word.
So why do I feel so useless? Sylva’s thoughts churned with frustration she could barely contain. The rats had nearly overwhelmed her. These Eidolons loomed like insurmountable mountains. Burning string, what good is all my training, my life, if I fail here? Nyxol had chosen her for a reason—hadn’t she? Determination, cold and sharp, surged within her as she strode to the pedestal, her fingers brushing the crystal ball. The three sarcophagi swung open, their ancient occupants stirring to life, but Sylva had no intention of giving them a moment’s respite. In the chaos of battle, every heartbeat mattered.
Seraphis, the naga, had started both prior encounters with the same ritual—carving a story into the air with swift, precise motions, each finger stroke weaving an invisible tapestry. Sylva suspected it was an Imperial Poem, and the realization made her pause.
She had, after all, committed each of the sanctioned Imperial Poems—over two hundred in total—to memory. These verses, commissioned to honor triumvirates who had served imperial authority with distinction, were the empire’s most revered works. To have one’s deeds immortalized in such a way was the highest honor, coveted even by the [Venerate]. So why, then, was Seraphis dedicating herself to such a recital in the midst of battle?
What do we know? Sylva’s mind raced. The naga’s incantation turns her target’s garments into golden flames, undoubtedly linked to the Radiant Flame of the Sunborn. And yet, my instincts—the instincts that Nyxol imparted—urge me to recite the Ode to Deep Water. My hands begin the motions almost unconsciously. Has my presence somehow disrupted Seraphis’ spellwork? Could this be the skill Nyxol granted me—[Sympathetic Intuition]?
She was done playing the role of counter to Seraphis. That approach had failed, leaving her with a bitter taste she refused to swallow again. She would not be relegated to merely negating the enemy’s power. She had trained for this—prepared for the moment when she could unleash her own magic, create something truly great. She would not be found wanting.
Her fingers hovered in the air before her, poised as if at one of the great looms where she had spent countless hours in training. In her mind’s eye, she saw the threads, each interwoven with the next, forming a complex, beautiful tapestry. The imperial hand scripts had always seemed unnecessary to her—a skill to communicate without sound, to trace imaginary lines in the air. They were like playing an invisible instrument, relying on tactile memory and the precision of unseen threads. She had cursed the elders countless times for criticizing her lack of finesse, for demanding perfection in every stroke. That was nearly a decade ago. Sylva hadn’t struggled with the scripts, written or otherwise, in years.
As Morvan whistled and his beasts materialized, Sylva’s focus sharpened. She let her intuition guide her fingers, her concentration honed to a razor’s edge. Nyxol had taught her that true magic required an iron will, a clear word, and a sacrifice to fuel the spell. The will and the word she could provide, but the sacrifice remained elusive. Still, she pressed on.
She smiled as clarity struck. The Ode to the Triumvirate of the Broken Crown was among the Imperial Poems commissioned after the Beast Wars. The verse she recited now recounted the second battle with Gransa the Suneater, the harpy-turned-Beast King who had ravaged the legions of the Sixth Age. Gransa, who had nearly driven the Sunborn to extinction after shattering the wards of Sabahar, had haunted their collective nightmares. The choice was apt, almost poetic. Gransa had been the bane of the Sunborn, a terror to their Radiant Flame.
Sylva began to chant, her voice steady and resonant, each word reinforcing the incantation her fingers wove. “In the epoch of twilight, the age of night, Sabahar, the City of Sun and Light, bathed in celestial, radiant gleam, met its end in a harpy queen’s dream.” The air grew thick with tension, her words vibrating with palpable energy and she could almost imagine the Sulphen turning its focus to her.
Seraphis’ eyes widened, her movements becoming frantic as she recognized the pattern Sylva was creating. Morvan barked a command, and his beasts immediately redirected their focus from Lotem to Sylva, their eyes narrowing with predatory intent.
Lotem roared a challenge, swiftly closing the distance between himself and the creatures with powerful strides. Hadrian surged forward, an axe materializing in his grip as he clashed with Drakar, deftly sliding beneath the massive club.
Sylva quickened her pace, her voice rising with urgency. “Gransa the Suneater, Queen of the Air, descended with shadows, spread despair. Her flock of harpies, a legion of night, their cries like dirges, a terrifying sight.” The chamber darkened, the edges of the room blurring as the air grew cold. Sylva could almost hear the harpies’ cries, their wings beating in rhythm with her pounding heart.
Hadrian grunted as Drakar’s club slammed into him, sending him skidding across the stone floor. His axe flew from his grip, clattering to the ground as he quickly rolled to his feet, summoning another weapon with a flick of his wrist. He slashed at Drakar’s legs, but the giant sidestepped, countering with a powerful punch that Hadrian barely managed to evade.
Lotem reached the porcupine-like beast just as its quills exploded outward. He screamed, shielding Sylva with his own body, then gritted his teeth and hurled the writhing creature at Seraphis. The naga ducked just in time, the spined beast crashing into the wall with a sickening thud.
“Wings dark as void, hearts black with spite, talons tearing through the purest light, magic dissolved in her ravenous maw, Gransa, the Suneater, the Queen of Sky’s Law.” The room seemed to shudder under the weight of her words, the shadows coalescing into dark, winged forms. Sylva’s heart raced with wild energy, a thrill she had long sought but never quite grasped—until now.
Seraphis faltered, her eyes narrowing as she felt the power gathering in the chamber. She abandoned her incantation, locking her gaze onto Sylva with fierce intensity. “[The Radiant Flame Knows No Equal],” she hissed, her words imbued with an authority that Sylva felt more than heard. The darkness retreated, the shadows dissolving as if banished by the naga’s will. Sylva’s power slipped away, the spell unraveling with terrifying swiftness. A skill, Sylva realized, panic rising within her. She struggled to regain the momentum, to grasp the energy that had just been within her reach.
Desperately, she tried to weave the next verse. “A decade she waged this relentless fight, turning golden walls to ashen night, the sun, a ghost, behind clouds it lay, its warmth siphoned, its vigor decayed.” But the words fell flat, the power she had wielded only moments ago now a distant memory. This isn’t how it’s supposed to happen, she thought, a feral sense of injustice clawing at her insides. I should be in Eisentor, learning from the greatest scholars, mastering the ancient forms of magic. I should be receiving the tutelage I was promised. I’m not ready for this.
She had been chosen by Nyxol to accompany one of the year’s Squires, promised a mentor among the [Venerate] to guide her through Aslavain’s trials. But that had been ripped away, stolen by the Eidolons who had crafted this shrine—a trap, an unforgiving crucible. It wasn’t fair. She wasn’t ready. But now… now she knew what true power felt like, and she refused to let it slip away.
Sylva began again, softly at first, her focus narrowing as she blocked out the chaos around her. She no longer recited any imperial verse, no sanctioned poem or inherited incantation. She had no skills to invoke, no class to lean on. She simply spoke the words that felt right, words that flowed from the deepest recesses of her being.
“By light of day and moon of night, We curse thee, naga, with endless blight, Your scales of gold, your eyes of flame, Shall dim and darken, shamed in name.”
The air around her quivered, and she poured every ounce of her anger, her sense of injustice, her shame into the incantation. She didn’t care about the imperial forms, the sanctioned scripts. She would make her own magic, by force of will alone.
“In the heart of earth, where fire sleeps, In depths unknown, where silence weeps, We bind thee, Serpent, in realms below, In caverns cold, where sun won’t glow.”
Lotem’s leg connected with the lightning beast in a powerful kick, sending it tumbling across the floor, but its electric charge froze his muscles in place. Morvan seized the opportunity, tackling Lotem to the ground and pummeling him with gauntleted fists. Sylva’s lips tightened at the sight, her fury growing as she funneled it into the incantation, feeling the power surge within her.
“By breath of wind and whisper of star, By ocean’s depth and land afar, Your power wanes, your might undone, In shadows lost, your spirit gone.”
Drakar stepped back, dodging Hadrian’s strike, and with a grunt, hurled his massive club toward Sylva. Hadrian lunged, deflecting the club’s path, but the force knocked him off balance. Drakar’s punch connected with Hadrian’s head, sending him sprawling across the floor.
Alone.
I’m alone. The realization struck her with a cold, sharp clarity. She poured her terror into the incantation, felt the spell surge against her control, trying to break free. But Sylva’s will was ironclad. This was her magic, and it would bow to her.
“Seraphis, Sunborn, feel the curse, In every pulse, in every verse. Your light consumed, your strength undone, By ancient vow, by setting sun.”
Sylva’s chant ended as she collapsed, her body drained of all strength. Every muscle trembled with exhaustion, every nerve frayed to its limit. But she had done it. She had performed real magic—she had created, not just countered. Whether the spell would work when they reentered the challenge, she didn’t know. She didn’t care. She had felt the power, and it had answered her call.
Drakar loomed over her, his eyes assessing her with a calm, almost paternal gaze, the massive club resting loosely in his hand. “That was a good showing, lass. Be proud of it. But know this—it will not happen again. Seraphis underestimated you. She won’t make that mistake twice.” The club descended, and all went black.
In the darkness that swallowed her, before the world returned with a gasp of air and a pounding heart, she heard the voice:
[Class Obtained: Thaumaturge]
[Legacy Skill Obtained: Silkborn Conviction]