A child’s fear of darkness is a fleeting spark, easily quelled. But when men grow to fear the world’s blaze, a deeper tragedy unfolds. Fear spreads like wildfire, devouring truths and leaving scorched ruins behind. It dims even the brightest lights until they smolder beneath a choking haze, casting twisted shadows that linger even in daylight. In this perpetual twilight, we wander amid smoke and ash, where the light itself sears, and each moment of clarity threatens to consume the last of our fragile beliefs.
– The Ember’s Lament by Rhaedan Lyscar
Aslavain: Twenty-Two Days After the Summer Solstice
Lotem strode across the final stretch of black, sandy soil marking the edge of the Demesne of Tir Na Nog, feeling a relief so immense he wasn’t even sure it was real. For weeks, they had endured that cramped stone chamber, deprived of sleep, food, even water, each day dragging by in a haze of fatigue. The air had been thick with frustration, each attempt wringing him dry until he wondered if he’d ever be whole again. But now—now, they were free.
After Sylva announced their intention to leave the trial, they found themselves abruptly outside the obelisk, surrounded by a forest of bone-white trees. It hadn’t taken much convincing for the group to agree that their best course was to leave as soon as they could. Casselia had toled them of a reward from by the Eidolons of Tir Na Nog if they journeyed to the Shrine at the city’s heart, but they agreed: no reward was worth another moment in that place. Two days of steady walking, of resting in the open air, had brought them, renewed and refreshed, to the edge of the Demesne, ready for whatever lay ahead.
As his bare feet met the cool, emerald grasses stretching into the plains, Lotem felt a tension begin to melt away, a weight he hadn’t known he was carrying. With a sudden burst of energy, he broke into a sprint, heedless of his Triumvirate’s distant calls, his long legs eating up the ground beneath him as he ran. Open skies, endless grasslands, herds of wild beasts roaming freely—this was the world he had been raised for, where each breath tasted like freedom.
He let out a whooping laugh, startling Sabel, who gave a surprised mew from his shoulder. He hadn’t had room to run in weeks, and he’d forgotten the sheer pleasure of unbridled speed. When his breath finally came in short gasps, he slowed, then stopped, lifting his arms to the sky with a triumphant roar. A flock of birds scattered from the grass, their wings flashing against the clear blue, rising high above him in a spiral of freedom.
He turned, squinting into the distance to find his companions’ forms, small dots on the horizon. Only now did he realize just how far ahead he’d gone. A flush rose to his cheeks, knowing they could still hear him despite the distance, though, in this moment, he was beyond caring. For once, the distance felt liberating—a gap that let him hold on to his own joy, untouched by the shadows of the trials they’d endured.
When they’d first arrived in Aslavain, Lotem had worried he wouldn’t measure up to Hadrian or Sylva. Now, he was sure of it. How could he compare to Hadrian, a man who wore robes worth more than Lotem’s entire clan’s livestock, fighting with the skill of someone twice his age? And Sylva? The Silkborn woman’s brilliance was unmistakable, her magic something he felt, even without any training of his own. They were stronger than he was—it was simply a fact.
And yet? Lotem found he no longer cared. They had survived the trial together, and his own skills had been just as essential for their victory. He had been needed. The others’ strengths didn’t overshadow his own—they had stood together, each crucial to the whole. The realization settled warmly within him, an ember that dulled his lingering doubts and sparked something close to pride.
Most of all, he had shared his purpose with them, his need for revenge against the Tul. They had listened, their eyes meeting his as he spoke, and in that moment, he had felt understood. They had promised his cause was their own, and it was more than he’d ever dared hope for. That, he realized, was enough.
Lotem resolved to prove himself worthy of their trust, of their respect. And once they defeated the Tul, he would return to Cutra with Hadrian at his side, and they would form the shrine—whatever it took. That was what friends did for one another. The resolve settled within him like a steady weight, grounding him with a purpose clearer than any he’d felt before.
He began making his way back to the group, his feet brushing through the soft grasses. Ten strides from the group, Sabel hissed, their bond flaring with sudden fear. Lotem’s gaze snapped forward just as Alsarana rose from the tall grass, silent and sinuous, like a serpent ready to strike. Lotem’s own growl rose in response, a reflexive reaction as his muscles tensed.
“Whoa, there, big guy—no need to take my head off. I’m just slitherin’ through these grasses, same as you,” Alsarana said, a glint of amusement sparking in his gaze.
“Als,” Casselia called, her tone laced with fond exasperation. “No scaring the candidates as they celebrate escaping Tir Na Nog.”
“But Cass,” Alsarana whined, his coils shifting smoothly through the grass as he turned to face her. “It’s not my fault they find snakes scary; I just look like this.”
“Snakes are actually an instinctive fear for humans,” Krinka said as he approached, panting between words. Lotem still marveled at how this breathless scholar had become a hero of the empire. Even Sylva moved with an effortless stride, seemingly indifferent to the demands of the journey—though Lotem supposed that might just be a Silkborn trait. “Now, I’m not saying you’re a snake, Als—that would be speciesist. Or that instinctive fear excuses rudeness in a civilized empire. But, for what it’s worth, it is worth noting that—”
“I think they understand, Krinka,” Casselia said, rolling her eyes. Lotem smiled, feeling the tension in his muscles ease as her voice carried over the grasses. Once he understood that Alsarana’s antics were harmless, the naga became almost endearing. Casselia and Krinka seemed to know just how to defuse any tension Alsarana stirred up, an effortless balance that made Lotem grateful to be part of their group.
“No,” Lotem said, inclining his head to the naga. “Sabel here was startled, and her fear turned quickly to anger, pouring through our bond like a fire I didn’t see coming.” He scratched the back of his head, a rueful smile on his lips. “[Quick to Anger] is… an adjustment for both of us. The emotion creeps up on me before I even realize it’s there, like a spark I can’t quite control.”
“Fog under the bridge, then,” Hadrian said cheerfully, his eyes widening as he scanned the vast, rolling grasslands. “Did you see those birds earlier? I didn’t realize they came this low to the ground.”
“They need to watch themselves,” Krinka muttered, hands on his hips as he bent over to catch his breath, wiping his brow with a weary hand. “You three need to learn this now—don’t trust anything avian. We call them fowl because that’s what they are. Nasty little creatures.”
Lotem honestly wasn’t sure what to make of that. Birds could be assholes, sure, but so what? They tasted fine and hadn’t caused him any trouble. Even the Axebeaks of the clans—the meanest birds around, as everyone knew—were still useful to the empire. He remembered seeing one tear into a snake as large as Alsarana once with ruthless efficiency. Birds had their purpose.
A bow appeared in Hadrian’s grip with a faint pop, drawing everyone’s attention. “So, should I shoot any birds I see, then?” He asked, half in earnest. “I hadn’t realized the danger we were in.”
“Yes,” Krinka said without a moment’s hesitation.
“No,” Casselia said firmly, casting a mock glare at the scholar before a small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
Hadrian glanced back and forth between them before looking to Lotem, as if he expected the Bal man to have a well-formed opinion on birds. Lotem supposed he did—though that felt like stereotyping. Is this how Alsarana felt?
“No…” Lotem said at last, an amused sigh escaping him as he realized Hadrian was waiting for his answer.
“Sorry, Krinka,” Hadrian said, his tone serious as he turned to the man. “Democracy says I don’t shoot the birds.”
“Why does it always come back to voting with you?” Sylva asked with a good-natured sigh, a hint of fondness in her tone. “Casselia, how much farther to Dornogor now that we’ve reached its demesne?”
“Roughly twenty miles,” Casselia replied, casting her gaze over the gentle slopes of grassland stretching into the hazy distance. “We could reach it by dark if we really pushed ourselves, but…” She looked to Krinka and shook her head. “We’ll camp tonight and celebrate your victory. We haven’t truly had a chance to celebrate escaping the trial, not while we were still in Tir Na Nog’s demesne. If we rest tonight, we should reach the city’s shrine by tomorrow afternoon.”
Lotem felt a thrill race through him at Casselia’s words, his heart quickening. After three weeks of constant danger and exhaustion, they were close—finally close—to what he had envisioned his time in Aslavain would be. He could almost feel the warmth of celebration waiting ahead, like the glow of a distant fire.
“Maybe you should kill a bird or two,” Lotem said, casting Krinka a wide grin. “We can’t really celebrate without a proper meal, and the Balar knows we’ve been missing that long enough. No offense to the trail rations, Casselia, but we can do better.” He thought of his mother’s wildfowl stew, thick and rich, and felt his stomach rumble.
“I thought the energy bars were great!” Hadrian said, with a genuine smile. “I’ve never had anything like them before.”
Lotem was beginning to see just how much Hadrian had yet to experience. Pemmican—dried meat and berries, dense and salty—was hardly a real meal. If Hadrian thought that was exciting, Lotem couldn’t wait to cook him something proper, maybe a thick, savory stew over the fire or roasted game seasoned with wild herbs.
“Dried meat and berries are far from the best these plains have to offer, Hadrian. If you can get me a few birds or a rabbit or two before we set up camp, I’ll show you the true hospitality of the Zherenkhan.” A slow smile spread across his face, the thought of sharing his clan’s food warming him.
Sabel mewed approvingly from his shoulder, the soft sound vibrating against his collarbone. Lotem wasn’t sure if she sensed his focus on food through their bond or simply wanted him to know she was there, sharing in the moment. He gave her a quick, grateful scratch, her warmth grounding him.
As Sylva walked across the open plains of Dornogor’s demesne, stretching endlessly before her, she wondered if she felt even more out of her depth than Hadrian. The Kiel man moved through the grassland with an unguarded sense of wonder, pausing every few minutes to marvel at something new—a patch of wildflowers, an ancient fern, the distant watering hole where a herd of antelopes grazed. Each sight, scent, and sound seemed to fill him with joy, and Sylva, watching him, felt her own uncertainty sharpen in contrast.
Sylva had, of course, read about antelopes, flowers, and ferns in meticulous detail; the Sect would expect no less from one of their best. Yet reading was a far cry from the real thing—the smell of sun-warmed grasses and the vivid colors that shifted with each step. Resolving to stay close to Hadrian, she listened as Lotem and the mentors answered his endless questions, filing each new fact away in her mind as if it might anchor her in this strange, wild place.
Missing potentially relevant information would be unthinkable, of course. But Sylva couldn’t deny, even to herself, that the grassland held a beauty and vitality her elders had never described. Elder Valinsa had dismissed the empire’s plains with a sneer, preparing her for a bland, uninspiring expanse. But the land sprawled out before her in vibrant detail: a cloudless blue sky, rolling grasses spattered with wildflowers, and distant herds moving like shadows against the horizon.
“Do you see that flower?” Hadrian asked, rushing forward to point out a pure white blossom flecked with a deep purple so vibrant it made Sylva blink. She studied it carefully, noting its unfamiliar shape and hue, yet unable to dismiss its quiet beauty.
“A good eye,” Lotem said, stepping closer to the flower, with Sylva following. “We call this flower the Tears of Bashur. I heard from one of the [Druids] that it’s named after an ancient [Paragon].”
“I’ve always wanted to ask,” Hadrian said, his gaze lingering on the flower’s delicate, drooping petals as though they held a secret truth. “Did the Bal truly invade the empire because they were jealous of our flowers?”
“Not… exactly,” Lotem replied, scratching the back of his head, a hesitant glance flicking between Hadrian and the others.
“Not at all,” Sylva interjected, correcting Lotem with a touch of impatience. She wasn’t about to let Hadrian wander around in ignorance; it wouldn’t be proper for one of her teammates to lack a basic understanding of history. If he made comments like that in public, it could reflect poorly on all of them—and Sylva couldn’t have that.
“So they didn’t invade over flowers?” Hadrian asked, his brows knitting together as he tried to piece it together, his gaze flitting between Sylva and Lotem in genuine confusion.
“No, Hadrian, they didn’t go to war for flowers,” Sylva said with a patient sigh. “The Bal couldn’t justify the losses and sacrifices of the Flower Wars over flowers alone, no matter their rarity or mystical qualities. They invaded for the wide, open pastures and the untamed fields stretching between the Fologian Forest to the west and the Valourwash River to the east—thousands of leagues the empire had left wild and empty of civilized life.”
“A reasonable answer,” Krinka said, approaching from behind, his breath heavy and face flushed. “Though the causes of the Flower Wars were far more complex than a mere land dispute.” He paused, hands braced on his knees as he caught his breath. “The Maw of Vorithan was more active in those days, and its influence caused ripples of unease as far south as Lumora, provoking draconian policies from the Scaled Dominion. There’s a strong case that southern pressures forced the nomads northward—right into the empire’s borders, even if previously unoccupied.”
“So where do flowers come into it?” Hadrian asked, his head tilting slightly as he glanced between the group and the pale blossom.
Krinka shrugged, his tone light and unconcerned. “It’s not like we called them the Flower Wars when they were happening. The War of the Savages made the rounds in newspapers, but the elites preferred the term ‘Eldaran Wars.’ It wasn’t until the Treaty of Swallow’s Grace that the term ‘Flower Wars’ became official.”
Hadrian’s confusion didn’t fade at Krinka’s words; if anything, it deepened, his forehead creasing with puzzlement. Sylva sympathized; she remembered her own bewilderment when first learning of the Flower Wars nearly twenty years ago, her mind scrambling to connect the fragments of myth and history.
“They called them the Flower Wars, Hadrian, because the name feels more pleasant,” Krinka continued, a hint of cynicism edging his tone. “The empire wanted to heal the wounds of war, and naming it something as harmless as ‘flower’ made those wounds easier to forget.”
“So the wars weren’t about flowers at all?” Hadrian asked, his brow furrowing as he looked at her, still trying to make sense of it all.
“My people,” Lotem began softly, his voice filling the silence with a low, steady intensity. “We called it the Paradise Wars—before the treaty, at least. The [Shamans] tell of the southern lands in the centuries after the Beast Wars. They speak of starvation in harsh winters that blanketed the land in frost, with beasts hunting the tribes. They speak of the Vorith—the tribes who made the Maw of Vorithan their home and allied with the vulpine children of Vorithan. Fucking foxes.” He spat the curse with a venom Hadrian had seldom seen from him.
“No, Hadrian,” Lotem continued, his gaze fixed firmly on the blossom before them. “My people didn’t invade the empire and wage a decades-long war just to gain access to flowers, no matter how beautiful they may be.” His jaw clenched, and a quiet resolve filled his words, thick with a pride untouched by time.
That is not how the elders described the Flower Wars, Sylva thought with a slight frown. The elders had always presented the Bal as greedy, omitting any mention of the pressures that had driven them north. She could almost hear their voices now, each dismissive tone seared into her memory. She wondered how much of each version was true, certain that both held strands of truth within the tangled web of history.
Sylva didn’t know what the truth of the story was and wasn’t even sure there was a single truth. History, she had found, didn’t have singular causes for events, no matter how much the uneducated masses craved simplicity. The elders had always framed history as a grand fight between good and evil, though Sylva often found that “good” simply meant “Malan” and “evil” was whatever happened to be on the other side.
“The Tears of Bashur may just be worth invading over,” Casselia said with a wry smile, breaking off her side conversation with Alsarana as she joined them. “Krinka, you met Bashur before his death, didn’t you?”
“I did,” Krinka said, his breathing settling into a more normal rhythm as they gathered around the flower. “The skills he bequeathed to the empire were truly remarkable. He had a potent affinity for grief. I’m not surprised to see one of his flowers here; we’re only a few weeks’ journey from the village of Bashurat, where his monument stands.”
“You’ll have to tell the group about his exploits as we travel,” Casselia said, meeting Hadrian’s gaze with a slight smile. “Feel free to pluck the flower if you’d like. I’ve heard putting it behind your ear brings good luck.” Her tone held a playful note.
“Really?” Hadrian’s face lit up, excitement flashing in his eyes. He summoned a knife and, with Lotem’s guidance, carefully cut the flower a finger’s length down the stem. Tucking it behind his ear with a grin, he strode forward beside Lotem, chatting animatedly as he kept his bow summoned and nocked in case a bird dared to rise from the grasses. Once they had walked far enough ahead, Sylva turned to Casselia.
“The Tears of Bashur don’t actually bring good luck, do they?” Sylva asked, her tone edged with a hint of suspicion as she glanced at Casselia.
Casselia’s eyes narrowed slightly, giving Sylva an appraising look. “They don’t,” she replied, a spark of curiosity in her gaze. “Though I am curious how you know the symbolic meaning of a rare flower you’ve never seen.”
“I’m not sure I even knew—not really,” Sylva said, frowning slightly. “When you said it was good luck, it just felt… wrong.”
Casselia frowned, her gaze intent as though trying to unravel a secret hidden within Sylva. “Your instincts warned you of the inconsistency?” she murmured thoughtfully.
“I… guess so?” Sylva replied, her hesitation clear. She disliked the idea of not understanding where her own knowledge came from.
Casselia’s frown deepened, and she glanced back at Sylva briefly before turning to Krinka. “Could that be a result of [Sympathetic Intuition]?”
“It could be,” Krinka said, his breath already coming in heaving gasps, a sound she’d grown used to while traveling with him. “Powerful intuition skills can alert users to falsehoods, and your skill’s focus on sympathetic magic makes you more sensitive to symbolic meanings than most. Though, if that’s the case, your skill is far stronger than we expected, Sylva.”
“Aren’t skills just great,” Alsarana’s voice hissed out of nowhere, startling Sylva. She still couldn’t understand how the naga navigated the tall grasses so silently, his bulk blending seamlessly into the landscape. “You could spend decades studying the omens and symbols of random plants, like Krinka here,” he continued, a sly edge in his voice, “or you could just have the Sulphen whisper sweet nothings in your ear. Why learn anything when your intuition’s as sharp as a cleaver’s blade?”
“So why lie to Hadrian?” Sylva asked, her voice quiet, a slight edge sharpening her tone as she tilted her head toward Casselia.
“I don’t think of it as lying,” Casselia replied with a casual shrug. “I’ve heard it said that a flower behind one’s ear can bring good luck, and”—she gave a slight, dismissive smile—“all symbolism is made up, anyway. Until the Sulphen gets involved, it’s just superstition. If Hadrian believes he’ll have good luck, well, maybe he’ll manifest it and prove the prediction true. If not? Learning not to rely on symbolism is a lesson in itself.”
Has she already lied to me? Sylva couldn’t help but wonder, feeling a shiver run through her.
Hadrian sat cross-legged on a broad stone jutting from the hilltop, as though the hill had long ago shaped this seat just for him. He watched the fire’s dancing flames, the embers glowing white-hot as Lotem placed a metal pot over them. Inside, water bubbled around the three birds Hadrian had brought down along the way, each carefully prepared and surrounded by leaves, roots, and herbs that Lotem assured him would make for the best soup he’d ever tasted.
Hadrian was genuinely eager to try Lotem’s cooking. All afternoon, the Bal man had spoken passionately about his favorite recipes and ingredients, displaying a love for food Hadrian had never encountered before. To him, cooking was a mundane necessity, something everyone did to survive but few enjoyed. He doubted anyone back in Cutra shared Lotem’s zeal—though, with the limited options in the Foglands, it was no surprise.
Hadrian marveled at the ease with which they retrieved the birds he’d shot. In Cutra, any bird that fell too far vanished into the fog, impossible to recover without risking life and limb. This freedom to hunt and retrieve game felt like a luxury.
Nearby, Krinka and Alsarana debated something about swallows and sparrows—a topic Hadrian found hard to care about—while Sylva and Casselia spoke quietly some distance away, Sylva having asked for a private word. The Silkborn had sparked the fire with a whispered incantation, then quickly retreated as the flames took hold, devouring the logs and sticks Alsarana pulled from a bag that seemed endlessly deep.
At last, Lotem declared the soup ready, his eyes bright with satisfaction as he ladled steaming broth into bowls Alsarana retrieved from his bottomless bag. Hadrian took his bowl eagerly, watching steam rise from the golden-brown liquid. The rich aroma of roasted herbs and tender meat filled his senses, more vibrant than any meal he’d known back in Cutra.
He took a deep, satisfying slurp, and as warmth filled him, he tasted a delicate blend of flavors: a savory sweetness from the roots Lotem had added, hints of woodsy herbs, and a pleasant earthiness that lingered on his tongue. Compared to the bland grubs and foraged fruit he was used to, this soup felt like a revelation. He slurped louder than intended, glancing at Lotem to show his appreciation.
Lotem’s approving nod and quick grin reassured him, and Hadrian took another eager sip, savoring the rich layers of Lotem’s skillful handiwork.
“Thank you, Lotem. Now that we have proper food, we can begin with the night’s true purpose,” Casselia began, taking a dainty sip that brought a small smile. “We need to talk about what you can expect in Dornogor.”
“The City of Beasts is not normally my top choice for new candidates,” Casselia continued. “Not only is Tir Na Nog usually a risky venture for reasons I don’t need to explain to this group, but Dornogor rarely hosts contests with prizes that appeal to anyone beyond beast specialists. They often have a few magical beasts worth bonding, and no true shrine of the empire lacks fair rewards in an Aslavain contest, but the rewards rarely justify the risk. This year is different.”
“How?” Sylva asked, her soup forgotten in front of her.
Casselia glanced at Krinka and Alsarana before sighing. “The reward for the contest in Dornogor during the first convergence of the full moons is extraordinarily rare. In roughly four weeks, the Shrine will accept triumvirates to compete for one of three Wyvern eggs.”
Casselia said the word “Wyvern” with a hesitance that told Hadrian it was significant. Was it some sort of bird? He glanced nervously at Krinka, who made his dislike of such creatures abundantly clear during their journey. Why would we want a bird?
“But, the empire doesn’t have any Wyvern breeding stock. I’m certain of that,” Sylva said, casting a suspicious look between Krinka and Casselia. “I’ve read multiple treatises on the strategic importance of Wyvern stock to the Scaled Dominion and how jealously they guard the beasts. Didn’t the Dominion go to war against the Falgore City State three centuries back over stolen eggs?”
“Yes, that’s certainly true,” Krinka said, delighted by Sylva’s knowledge. Casselia looked uncomfortable at his admission, though Hadrian couldn’t guess why.
“It’s true the Scaled Dominion holds a monopoly on the beasts,” Casselia said, “but the empire recently acquired a small stock under… fortuitous circumstances.”
“And you want us, presumably me, to bond with the creature?” Lotem asked, frowning thoughtfully.
“I—we, I should say—think that a Wyvern with access to your skills would be an asset the empire sees only once a generation.”
“Would bonding with this Wyvern give us a chance against the Tul? At least a better one?”
“Without question,” Casselia said. “These are genuine Wyverns bred by the Scaled Dominion for war. Few things would offer the same advantages.”
“What contest do we need to win in Dornogor?” Sylva asked.
“You’ll enter Dornogor’s shrine, a vast region filled with dangerous beasts,” Casselia said. “Inside, you’ll compete against other candidates to capture the best specimen of a specific species. Some years it’s a dangerous predator, other years, something stealthy and elusive. Dornogor’s contest is designed to test your tracking and survival skills.” She glanced at Hadrian. “It also puts you in direct conflict with other candidates, so your fighting skills will matter.”
“In Dornogor,” Krinka interjected, “we’ll focus on honing the relevant skills. We only have a few weeks, but I am confident you all have what it takes to succeed.”
“Which,” Casselia said, interjecting smoothly, “brings us to the rules for our time in Dornogor.”
“Rules?” Sylva asked, her uncertainty clear. Hadrian didn’t understand why; he was used to rules, having grown up surrounded by them. His parents had always said that rules were the guidelines one followed to keep themselves and others safe.
“First,” Casselia continued, brushing past Sylva’s interruption. “Hadrian’s class or his ties to Rovan Khal must not be known outside this group. No one in Dornogor should be able to tell what skills or classes you have.”
“Not unless one of the Blind is present, at least,” Alsarana said with clear excitement. Casselia glared at the naga but sighed.
“Unless one of the Blind is present,” she admitted.
“The Blind?” Hadrian asked, curious.
“The Blind are a native humanoid species,” Krinka said with an eager expression, as though he’d been waiting for the question. “They are by far the rarest, averaging only a few feet in height, with no eyes or organs for sight. Instead, they ‘see’ the Sulphen and souls directly.
“If the Numen are humanity perfected, the Blind are humanity warped by the underground caverns they call home,” Alsarana said in a tone that suggested he was quoting something significant.
“So we shouldn’t reveal that Hadrian is the [Squire of Carven Bone]?” Sylva asked.
“Exactly,” Casselia said, sipping her soup before continuing. “The second rule is to avoid actions that could prompt a duel challenge from another candidate. We are short on time as it is, and a duel is a distraction we can hardly afford.”
“How would we prompt a duel challenge?” Hadrian asked. He’d never been challenged to a duel before, so he felt fairly confident it wouldn’t be a problem. It wasn’t as though he went around trying to fight strangers.
“Als?” Casselia said, turning to the naga, who used the tip of his tail to delicately lift a spoonful of soup to his mouth. He slurped loudly, gave Lotem an appreciative glance, and then rose to his full height.
“As an expert in both issuing and receiving duel challenges, I have excellent advice on this matter,” Alsarana said proudly. Hadrian wasn’t surprised to hear that Alsarana was the most likely of the three mentors to get challenged. It certainly wasn’t Krinka.
“The best way to avoid duels is to avoid offending powerful people.”
“Simple enough,” Lotem said.
“One would think so, wouldn’t they,” Alsarana hissed with obvious excitement. “But no, no, no, that is not at all my experience.” Alsarana turned and gave Hadrian an appraising look. “That robe is going to create jealousy and envy in most candidates who see it, and,” he shot a knowing look at Sylva, “it will drive any Silkborn candidates to… improper action.” Sylva seemed suddenly very interested in the fire, though she kept her distance from it.
“And if someone does challenge us over the robe, can we just decline?” Hadrian asked.
“Yes. You can always decline a challenge, as long as you didn’t offend the challenger,” Alsarana said. “But declining too many challenges may be seen as offensive.”
“Who determines that?” Sylva asked.
“The crowd, of course,” Alsarana smiled, his exposed fangs gleaming in the firelight. “What would be the point of challenging someone privately? Public pressure is often half the reason anyone agrees to a duel.”
“It’s actually one of the more controversial aspects of the Sulphen,” Krinka interjected. “The Sulphen is always watching through the eyes and thoughts of others. Declining too many challenges will cause the Sulphen to slow or halt your progress. The Sulphen wants your power to grow. If you deny enough opportunities to prove it, its dissatisfaction will be made clear—though even that is disputed.”
“Wait,” Sylva said, “if declining duels slows our progress, why not just accept them? Hadrian could beat anyone our age, couldn’t he?”
Hadrian blushed and fidgeted, his focus suddenly on his nearly empty bowl. He wasn’t that much better than most candidates their age, was he? His parents had always reminded him that, no matter how strong he was, there was always someone stronger.
“The negative effects are more chronic than immediate,” Krinka said, shaking his head. “You’ll face plenty of challenges; the City of Justice loves duels. The Sulphen won’t begrudge your preparations for the Dornogor contest, as long as you accept challenges eventually.”
“For now,” Casselia said, “think of it as a temporary restriction until you win the Wyvern and we depart for Ylfenhold.”
Hadrian nodded, noting that Sylva and Lotem nodded too. He didn’t feel any need to pick fights with other candidates—not without good reason. Casselia’s rules seemed fair enough to him so far.
“Third,” Casselia continued, “before agreeing to any formal alliances or agreements with another Triumvirate, you need to get my approval.”
“Why?” Sylva asked suspiciously.
“Respectfully,” Casselia’s gaze drifted to Sylva, then Hadrian, then Lotem in turn. “You are far too naive to make the kind of political judgments that others may force onto you.”
“But—” Sylva began.
“Sylva, you are brilliant,” Casselia said firmly. “But you were raised in a sect and lack practical experience with other cultures or individuals. There will be scions of Dion’s ancient blood, tutored in politics since childhood. With a Wyvern on the line, the only group you can trust is this one.”
Sylva looked frustrated. Hadrian was surprised she didn’t protest further; she accepted Casselia’s statement reluctantly, as though the notion of being unqualified was a personal affront.
“Surely that’s not true of me?” Lotem asked, a heavy crease splitting his brow. “The Zherenkhan trade and interact with travelers from across the empire. I wasn’t as sheltered as Sylva or Hadrian.”
“The Zherenkhan taught you the intricacies of imperial politics and diplomacy, did they? Didn’t realize the herders had broadened their perspective. Very forward-thinking of them.” Alsarana chuckled.
“If you’re skilled enough to negotiate alliances with other Triumvirates, Lotem, we’ll recognize that soon enough and can lift the restriction.” Casselia’s gaze was firm as she looked across the campfire at Lotem. “But for now, trust me on this. You don’t want to end up in a situation where betrayal or deception could threaten your victory. Fair?”
She waited for their grumbled agreement before nodding and continuing with her list of rules. Most of the remaining rules seemed fair enough to Hadrian: “Don’t insult any beasts in Dornogor,” “no theft, murder, or unprovoked assault,” and “don’t bond with any birds.”
Casselia added the last rule with a glance at Krinka, who nodded enthusiastically, as though such a bond had been an imminent threat. Hadrian wondered about that. What had led to Krinka’s grudge against birds? Was a Wyvern not a bird then?
After hours discussing what to expect in Dornogor, Alsarana withdrew the camping equipment from his bag, and they set up camp around the fire. Hadrian wriggled into his sleeping sack, unable to suppress a smile.
Lotem marveled as the landscape shifted, bringing the City of Beasts into view. Long before the city appeared, a massive tree broke the horizon, its trunk reaching skyward, piercing the clouds. Sunlight glinted off its branches, thick with emerald leaves that glowed in the morning light. As they drew closer, a swirling mass of birds filled the branches, their relentless caws echoing over the distance. Krinka grumbled at the noise, but to Lotem, there was beauty in the chaos.
The city came into view, built tightly around the colossal tree, with houses rising beneath the vast canopy’s shadow. Thick branches twisted and sprawled, some dipping low to brush against rooftops, their patterns resembling ancient runes. High above, blood-red flowers bloomed, their polished stone-like petals vivid against the green.
Surrounding the city, vast grasslands stretched in every direction, alive with movement. Herds of bison, deer, wild horses, and elephants roamed the plains, each animal larger than any Lotem had seen in Creation. A smile tugged at his lips as he watched the bison graze, flanked by the great ground sloths that lumbered beside them as silent sentinels. The animals reminded him of home. He missed Warma and Wilson already.
Smoke curled from huts and structures, and as they approached, Lotem took in the diversity of the architecture. He noticed hide tents and Bal-style yurts, their hides stretched taut against wooden frames. Beyond them, he saw buildings of clay, stone, and wood, some covered with an ivory overlay that seemed almost like bone—a material he still puzzled over as an architectural choice.
“You have to teach me about—well—everything!” Hadrian called from behind, jolting Lotem from his thoughts. Lotem turned, meeting Hadrian’s fierce, unguarded smile. Despite the strangeness of this place, the awe in Hadrian’s face lightened Lotem’s mood, turning the unfamiliar into something exhilarating. He found himself smiling back, surprised by how good it felt. Hadrian’s wonder over what was so ordinary to him stirred a warmth he couldn’t quite explain. For a brief moment, Lotem felt lighter, realizing just how much he valued this strange, unexpected friendship.
As they neared the city, the pungent stench of manure faded, replaced by the sweet, heady fragrance of the red flowers. The acrid bite of ammonia and decay gave way to a more pleasant breeze. Lotem almost missed the earthy scent—it reminded him of the great clan gatherings, his favorite part of each year until his brother’s death. Now, he was grateful for the flowers’ scent; it didn’t stir his anger.
Lotem started as he noticed three figures approaching the city from the north. It wasn’t their presence that caught his attention; he had seen dozens of others among the herds or around the village and even spotted a trio climbing the great tree. No, what set this group apart was that they were riding Axe-beaks.
“Well, look at that, Cass. Shansha has picked up another stray,” Alsarana said. Shansha? Shansha Six-Step? Lotem wondered if she had a pair of Bal candidates in training. He hoped so—the Bal wouldn’t falter in the fight against Tul. “Think our trio could take on her team, even if they are riding those birds?”
“I have the utmost confidence in Hadrian, Sylva, and Lotem,” Casselia said loudly, making sure they all heard. “After the hard work they put into escaping the trial, I know they’ll rise to any challenge.”
“Are they approaching… us?” Sylva asked quickly, though they were still no where close enough to justify the rush.
“Another delivery for you, Cass?” Krinka asked between heavy breaths.
Another? They had a delivery in Aslavain already? When—before the trial?
“It could be. We did leave Dornogor in a hurry, Krinka.”
“I miss having those bones,” Alsarana said wistfully. “Cass, do we have the money for me to get new ones?”
Casselia turned to Lotem, ignoring the naga. “That reminds me—you’re in charge of the party’s purse.” She tossed him a plain leather coin pouch, and he caught it, surprised by its lack of weight.
“It’s dimensional—it holds far more than it seems. Just think of the denomination you need as you reach in; you’ll get a sense of what’s inside.”
“And it’s all ours?” he asked, suspicious. In Lotem’s experience, magical bags of money were rarely free.
“Well, don’t go too crazy,” Casselia said, rolling her eyes. “But no pupils of ours will go without proper equipment—and you’re short on gear.”
“But—” he started, glancing at Alsarana.
“Ignore the naga. He has his own money—he just likes to complain.”
“Seconded,” Krinka said.
“Why is he in charge of the purse?” Sylva asked, more confused than upset.
“Sylva,” Casselia said, “have you ever bought something with real coins before?”
“Well—I’ve trained in accounting for almost two decades. I’m an expert in finance.”
“A no, then.” She turned to Hadrian. “Have you?”
“I traded some carved wood pieces to traders once.”
“That’s why Lotem is in charge of the purse,” Casselia said, shaking her head. Lotem found that fair enough. He’d never thought of shopping as a skill, but he liked being better at something than Hadrian and Sylva.
Casselia’s expression grew serious as she gestured toward Alsarana and Krinka. “We’re heading out to intercept that courier. You three go on ahead into the city. Find an inn and secure a stay through the first contest. Look for the Eidolon in charge; it’ll save you any hassle. Beyond that, explore if you wish—but remember the rules from yesterday. Stay cautious, and you should be fine.”