Dragonflies kill their prey in the air, devouring it on the wing. They feast on creatures too small for the world to notice, yet nuisances to those who dwell within it. Mosquitoes, macaw, and moths fall to their swift grace, a pale imitation of the dragons of old who hunted drakes, direwolves, and demons. Though the dragons no longer rule the skies, their legacy lingers in the dragonflies, sovereigns of the Fologian Forest.
– Ecology of the Fologian Foglands: The Legacy of Survival, by Dori Ashspire
Aslavain: Fourteen Days After the Summer Solstice
Casselia stood in the narrow hallway, her gaze steady on the trainees gathered before her. They had weathered six days of relentless training, their resilience a quiet victory. Krinka and Alsarana reported progress—real progress—and even Lotem, though slower to adapt, had begun to show promise. If they kept this pace, they wouldn’t just escape Tir Na Nog—they’d emerge from it stronger, sharpened by the trials they’d faced.
Casselia had been training candidates since her triumvirate joined the [Venerate] during the Beast Wars. In those early centuries, she sometimes questioned whether they had chosen the right path—joining the [Venerate] instead of chasing the lofty goal of becoming [Paragons] of the empire. Yet, even now, she believed they could have reached that pinnacle. That belief had never wavered, though their journey had taken a different turn.
She had no regrets. Had they chosen the path of [Paragons], they would have been long dead by now. Near immortality had suited her better—an opportunity to grow beyond raw power, to see her mentees amplify what she had once thought were her limits. Each new life brought change, and with it, new potential. Who would trade that for fleeting glory?
Sylva sat cross-legged on the stone floor, her posture as poised as a statue. Casselia had long wondered if the Silkborn’s grace came from deep instinct or the rigid upbringing their culture enforced. Either way, the effect was undeniable—noble, controlled, the kind of bearing that drew attention in any crowd. And, of course, their beauty played its part, a feature that Sylva wielded effortlessly.
Hadrian sat to the women’s left with the type of introspective look that she had come to expect from a candidate training extensively with Alsarana. She wasn’t opposed to his probings of their charges trauma, not truly, but she had come to anticipate consequences from the naga’s approach. Alsarana claimed that the man had less trauma eating away at him than anyone else they had mentored—a bold claim indeed—and that he had resorted to using divination to determine the Kiel man’s affinities.
Stranger still, Alsarana had no complaints about Hadrian’s performance over the past six days. His only critique was that Hadrian listened too well—a comment that had made Krinka tease that Alsarana’s standards were slipping. Casselia might have joined in on the joke, if not for the memory of that same smirk when Alsarana had first mentored the Marquis of Bone.
The thought sent a chill down her spine. The Marquis of Bone had been their greatest student—a necromantic prodigy with the potential to rival the founders of the Dion bloodlines. He would have reached unimaginable heights, had it not been for the [Procurator’s] assassins. She’d thought he was safe, still just a child growing into his power. Yet another sin at the feet of the Dion Administrator. This time, she would do better. She had to.
Lotem looked the same as he had for the past several days—terrified and unsure how to handle it. Sabel wasn’t faring much better, the kitten’s energy sapped after nearly a dozen deaths in the trial. Casselia regretted pushing Lotem so hard, but there had been no other choice. In Dornogor, she could have found a true [Beastmaster] to guide him through the basics of the [Guardian] class.
If they hadn’t been forced into this trial, she could have spared him—and the kitten—much of the trauma. For a time, at least. Did I push him to far? she wondered before pushing the thought down.
Her approach had worked. Lotem had gained a powerful skill—one he likely wouldn’t have developed outside of Tir Na Nog. Casselia knew it would be worth the struggle in the end, especially if Krinka could help him acquire a complementary skill before they left. They all needed to escape before the deadline, but if Lotem could claim a true boon from Tir Na Nog, it would make everything they’d endured worthwhile. Soon, she told herself. Soon they’d be free to pursue their true goals.
“You’ve done well,” Casselia said, her voice steady. “Sylva, Krinka reports that you’ve mastered the basic principles of spellcraft to meet his exacting standards.” Sylva nodded, calm and composed, as if she had expected no less from herself.
“Hadrian,” she went on. “Alsarana says you’ve identified your affinity and are beginning to manifest it as a combat art. He’s spoken highly of your dedication and hard work. Be proud—you’re on the path to real progress.”
“Lotem,” she said, pausing until he met her gaze. “The last three days have been hard—unfairly so, I know. But you persevered, and you’ve met my expectations.” He nodded, though his expression remained uncertain, doubt flickering in his eyes. Casselia pressed on, not letting his downcast look sway her.
“It was once tradition,” she began, “for candidates to spend their first twelve days in Aslavain undergoing rigorous training in fundamentals that were denied to non-citizens. After the Flower Wars, that tradition faded as the empire settled into peace.” She gestured to Krinka and Alsarana. “But we hold to the old ways. There’s power in tradition.”
“History and tradition never get enough credit,” Krinka muttered, breaking the silence. Casselia couldn’t help but smile faintly—trust a [Historian] to defend the power of the past.
“You’ve trained for six days and six nights without rest—thanks to the trial suppressing your need for food or sleep. We have six more days left before I expect you to complete it.” Casselia turned to Sylva, confident she would give the answer she was looking for. “Sylva, what do you need to focus on over the next six days to succeed?”
Sylva considered the question for a moment before lifting her gaze to meet Casselia’s. “I need to understand my conviction. Krinka has taught me the framework to express my desires to the Sulphen, but I still don’t know how to properly draw on my conviction to power my spells.”
Casselia raised her brows, surprised. She’s confident enough in her incantations to change course already? Her eyes shifted to Krinka, and her concerns eased slightly—the scholar was nodding in agreement with Sylva’s assessment. Casselia had expected it to take weeks for Sylva to grasp the incantation forms. Most of their candidates took days just to master a single principle to Krinka’s standards—and they never mentored normal candidates. That Sylva had learned six in six days was nothing short of remarkable, intuition skill or not.
“Alsarana, you’ll work with Sylva on conviction,” Casselia instructed, then turned back to Sylva. “You’re familiar with the twelve primary doctrines of the empire, I assume?” She waited for Sylva’s nod before continuing. “Alsarana is an expert on ethical principles. He’ll oversee your training for the next three days.” Sylva glanced at the looming black naga with a flicker of uncertainty but said nothing as Casselia moved on to Hadrian.
“Hadrian, Alsarana tells me you’ve discovered an affinity you believe is relevant.” Casselia glanced briefly at the naga, still unsure if the divination had been correct. Rovan Khal would have known Hadrian’s affinity before naming him a [Squire], and she couldn’t understand what the Titan had been thinking. Usually, immortals chose their [Squire] based on affinity alone. But clearly, Rovan had different plans. “The Fogflare Moth, was it? How do you think you should spend your time developing a combat art?”
Hadrian paused, his brow furrowing in thought. “My parents always said the best way to grow was to find a challenge that pushes you to your limits. Alsarana says I need to fight more like a moth… I’m still figuring out what that means, but I think I should focus on that during training. Opportunities like this trial don’t come often.”
“Agreed,” Casselia said with a nod. “I’ll observe your engagements and give feedback. You’ll learn far more from that than just practicing how to fight ‘moth-like.’”
“What about me?” Lotem asked, his deep voice echoing slightly in the confined space.
“You’ll be working with Krinka.” Lotem visibly tensed, bracing himself for bad news. “Your skill is rooted in anger, and Krinka will help you with the basics of emotional skills. Krinka, see if you can guide Lotem toward developing something that converts or amplifies emotion.” Lotem exhaled, relief loosening his shoulders as he gave a nod.
What is it about scholars that puts people so at ease? Casselia wondered. She had no doubt Sylva would enjoy her lessons with Krinka far more than Lotem.
“And once we’re out of this trial?” Sylva asked, her voice calm but curious. “What comes next?”
Casselia considered dismissing the question and sending them off to train. Normally, she would have. But this group deserved answers. Tir Na Nog had robbed them of the usual adjustment period, and she couldn’t ignore her responsibility in that.
“We’ll travel north to Dornogor,” she said. “It’s the best place for Lotem’s class—anyone with a beast companion should go there. Dornogor’s contest happens early in the cycle, during the first convergence of the twin moons. I expect you to compete—and win—within a month. After that, we’ll head south, staying clear of Tir Na Nog’s demesne, and reach Ylfenhold in time for the Eternal Contest of the City of the Veil.”
“That’s what Rovan wanted, right?” Hadrian asked, his eyes bright with excitement.
“It is,” Casselia confirmed. “During the Eternal Contest, a dozen triumvirates are chosen to enter the Cairn of Titans.”
“What exactly is the Cairn of Titans?” Sylva asked, glancing between Hadrian and Casselia before adding, “Besides just being a mountain, of course.” Casselia’s mind drifted briefly to the Cairn’s dark corridors, the whispered rumors of what lay hidden beneath those stones. No one left unchanged.
“In the true empire? It’s just a mountain—though one riddled with tunnels and secrets,” Casselia replied quickly, cutting Krinka off before he could launch into a lecture. “But here in Aslavain, the Cairn is a Domicile that holds the legacies and remains of every dead Titan.”
“A Domicile?” Hadrian asked, frowning in confusion. Krinka answered before Casselia could respond, a flicker of worry crossing her face before she suppressed it.
“There are three kinds of extraplanar spaces the empire deals with regularly,” Krinka began. “A shrine forms a demesne, which extends the influence of a focal point by linking Creation to Aslavain. Once this demesne becomes its own independent dimensional space, it’s known as a Domicile. Now, when a Domicile—” Before Krinka could launch into another lengthy explanation, Casselia cut him off gently.
“Thank you, Krinka,” Casselia said, her tone firm but polite. “That’s enough to answer Hadrian’s question.”
“So… a Domicile is just an improved shrine?”
“Well, not exactly—” Krinka started, but Casselia silenced him with a pointed look.
“Close enough,” Casselia said with a slight nod. “That’s a fair comparison.”
“The Cairn of Titans,” Lotem said, his gaze narrowing. “If it’s a burial ground, why would we want to go there? Are we grave robbers?” There was a trace of disgust in his voice.
“Not at all,” she replied. “Each Titan left behind unique powers that are still accessible to those they ruled. Even the First Throne is maintained in the Cairn. Out of the dozen triumvirates that enter each year, a few leave with a boon from the Titans who still persist there. The triumvirate with the [Squire of Carven Bone] nearly always emerges with something.”
“Now,” she said, raising a hand to cut off any further questions. “Once we’ve left this trial in Tir Na Nog, we’ll discuss all of this in greater detail. But if we don’t make it out, none of this will matter—there’ll be no competition in Dornogor, Ylfenhold, or the Cairn. We’ll meet again in three days. Let’s get to work.”
“Tell me, Sylva—of all the twelve schools of imperial thought, which do you hold closest to your heart?” Alsarana’s words slithered through the dim room, his smirk sharp as a blade. The cramped space felt like it was shrinking, the stone walls pressing in. Shadows danced across the still pool of water at their feet, the light flickering with every lazy twitch of his tail.
“Must we always see the world through just one lens?” Sylva’s voice wavered slightly, though she masked it with defiance. Years of debates with her fellow students flashed through her mind—imperial law shaped by the twelve schools. The Elders had drilled into her the importance of aligning with their teachings, yet each time she questioned them, she’d felt reprimand instead of recognition. She had learned to ask questions, but never to find her own answers.
No single ethical perspective could ever guide the real world. Sylva had learned that much after years of debate. The Deontologists’ rigid, unwavering commitment to duty felt suffocating, almost inhuman. The Consequentialists reduced lives to cold numbers, their calculations stripping away humanity. Absurdists floated in ambiguity, untethered by any principle. And the Virtuists? They clung to sacred virtues like anchors in a storm, oblivious to the chaos swirling around them. Yet none of it felt… real. None of it fit.
Sylva hadn’t dismissed all their principles—she knew there was truth in each one. Even the Elders admitted as much, though their real concern was ensuring her loyalty to the deontological path. Stray too far, and the reprimands came quick—sharp, stinging reminders that questioning the Empire was not to be praised. They trained her to dismantle rival philosophies with precision, but they had never taught her to question her own. That gnawed at her. Why had she let it go on for so long?
At first, it had seemed unthinkable to compare Alsarana or Krinka to the Elders. But after six days under Krinka’s guidance, the difference was glaring. The Elders silenced dissent—Krinka welcomed it. He reveled in her questions, praised her achievements, and assured her that magic had no single ‘right’ path—only patterns waiting to be bent, reshaped. She had never felt this before: freedom to think, to question. It made her wonder… had she been loyal to the wrong mentors all along?
“I like you already,” Alsarana grinned, exposing his fangs. “Most of you sect-born brats are as rigid as stone. You’d rather break than bend. But morality isn’t stone—it’s bone. It bends, twists, strains, and then… snap.” He tilted his head with an unsettling smirk, eyes gleaming as he watched her, amused by her every reaction.
“Our goal,” Alsarana’s voice dropped to a chilling whisper, “is to find where your moral code breaks—the moment when your bone snaps.” His eyes gleamed. “Conviction is forcing the world to bend before you do.” He let the silence hang, as if the crack of bone echoed in the stillness.
Sylva nodded, though his words didn’t surprise her. She had heard similar ideas before—usually in abstract debates. “And how do you find the breaking point without living through it?” Her voice wavered slightly, curiosity edged with unease. The Pragmatists believed morality was forged in experience, not theory. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that anymore. Hadn’t she always been skeptical of arguments that never felt… real?
“Pragmatism crumbles the moment the unexpected strikes,” Alsarana’s tail flicked across the floor. “Conviction isn’t forged in theory—it’s tested in defense. So, Sylva of Clan Strenath,” he continued, his voice darkening, “shall we unravel the delicate threads of moral personhood? It’s a fitting start, don’t you think?”
Sylva leaned back, trying to steady herself as Alsarana paused. She was still adjusting to the chaos of battle—the rats, the Eidolons. But this? This was supposed to be her battlefield. Morality and principles… Yet, under Alsarana’s gaze, she wasn’t so sure anymore.
“Let me ask you something,” Alsarana’s eyes narrowed, his voice slipping into a cold, lecturing tone. “In the First Empire, only humans were given the privilege of citizenship. Their lives were worth more than all other races. To kill a non-human? No different than slaughtering livestock. So tell me, Sylva—do you think the Empire was right?”
“Even during the First Empire’s reign, it was clear that other races deserved moral standing,” Sylva said, though her voice faltered slightly. History had always been her strength, but this felt different. “The alliances with the draconic thrones, the Arenea—that’s proof enough. The real question,” she continued, eyes narrowing as doubt crept in, “is how the lawbringers decided what counted as sentience.”
“If races as alien as the psychic spiders or the scaled southerners were deemed sentient,” Sylva pressed on, though her voice grew more cautious, “then sentience has to be about more than just superiority. It’s about capacity—thought, feeling, suffering. Any race that shares those traits deserves the same moral code.” She hoped she was right.
“Ah, so sentience justifies moral standing, does it?” Alsarana murmured, his head tilting, forked tongue flicking out to taste the air. “Interesting. Let me share a story—about a Free Holding to the south. Their laws elevated the Numen, declaring them more sentient, based on their intellect. They didn’t strip humanity of sentience—they just claimed the Numen had more of it. Were they wrong?”
Sylva hesitated, her thoughts racing. She knew this was a trap, another snare waiting to snap shut—but still… “No,” she said, more carefully this time. Alsarana’s coils shifted, the movement predatory as he leaned in, his eyes narrowing—not with curiosity, but calculation. She could feel the weight of the trap closing in.
“And why not?” Alsarana’s voice was soft but unrelenting. “The Numen’s memories never fade, their strength dwarfs human frailty, and their emotional clarity is something we can only dream of. Even the Sulphen recognize their nobility. They are to humankind what humans are to mere monkeys. Isn’t sentience just a mask for superior capacity?”
No, she thought, but she bit back the words. She had to be careful. “The Numen might have… more capacity,” she began, her words slow, deliberate. “But that doesn’t strip humans of their thought or moral understanding. The threshold for moral standing isn’t some ceiling that only the strongest can reach. It’s a floor—something we all stand on if we meet the criteria.” Her voice wavered slightly as she finished, doubt creeping in.
“Logical thought and moral capacity?” Alsarana’s voice slithered over the words, wrapping them tight around her like a noose. “That’s the floor you set?”
“At least… in part,” Sylva replied, though her voice was more hesitant now. Her mind raced, scrambling to stay ahead of Alsarana’s traps. Every word felt like another step into quicksand, and she wasn’t sure how much longer she could hold her footing.
“In the Belcarn Principates far to the south, they say dogs—trained by [Houndmasters]—are as intelligent as men, capable of right and wrong. Owning one is illegal—ownership of sentient life is a global taboo.” Alsarana’s tail flicked lazily, his eyes fixed on her like a predator. “So tell me, Sylva—do you agree? Are the Bal tribes nothing more than slavemasters?”
No, that couldn’t be right. “No,” she said, the word escaping her more forcefully than she meant. She paused, heart pounding, knowing whatever she said next, Alsarana would twist. “Most beasts don’t… they don’t reach that level of thought or judgment. Even if some—those touched by sentience—could, that doesn’t mean we should treat them all the same.” Her voice faltered at the end, uncertainty creeping in.
Alsarana’s body quivered, his tail tapping a slow, deliberate beat against the stone floor. His eyes gleamed, cutting into her with unsettling intensity. “Ah, I see now. Sentience is something some species possess, and others lack. Even if an individual meets your criteria, you’ll deny their sentience if their species doesn’t. Is that right?” His voice was soft, mocking, but each word cut like a blade.
Of course not, she thought, but this time her certainty wavered. Why not? Her thoughts spiraled. She’d debated this very issue before—the Elders had always accepted her answers. But now, under Alsarana’s gaze, those answers felt hollow. No one had ever questioned the Silkborn’s superiority. Why would they? The principles she had been taught served the Elders’ interests, not the truth.
“Ahhh.” Alsarana’s hiss dripped with satisfaction as he watched her struggle. “You reject the idea that individual capacity is irrelevant, yet you have no framework for who meets your test for sentience. A Silkborn rejecting universal principles?” His smirk widened, taunting her. “That’s not very deontological, is it?”
“I do have a framework,” Sylva snapped, her voice rising with frustration. “We should judge each individual by their capacities. A dog as sentient as a person deserves the same respect for that capacity—not because its species falls short.” Her breath hitched slightly, the frustration mixing with a creeping desperation.
“You’re not the first to argue that,” Alsarana said, his voice turning cold. “Before the Beast Wars, the Lord of the Simians pleaded for peace with the Malan and Kiel lords as they crept into the Fologian Foglands. The Lady of the Harpies stood before the House of Lords, insisting her thoughts and emotions were no different from ours. Then Apalarakan, that same Simian lord, ascended. His crown grew—and with it, the first Beast King in living memory. His ascension left a quarter of the empire in ruins and sparked wars that rage to this day, almost a thousand years later. Do you know what that kind of destruction looks like, Sylva?” His voice lingered on the devastation, daring her to imagine it.
Sylva had heard of the Beast Wars—second only to the Blood Wars in devastation. The Elders had been vague on the details, but she’d thought she understood the basics. Beasts that grew too powerful manifested crowns, leading their species into madness. But as Alsarana’s words washed over her, her confidence cracked. Could she truly grasp the enormity of what he’d seen? His unblinking gaze made it clear: she couldn’t.
“That’s why the Empire hunts them now,” Alsarana continued, his voice dripping with deliberate menace. “Any beast with the potential to rise above its station is put down. We can’t afford to do anything less, can we?” His words felt like a snare tightening around her throat, giving her no room to escape.
“If their growth threatens the Empire…” Sylva hesitated, the words catching in her throat. She forced herself to continue, though they felt like lead on her tongue. “Then no—I stand by the policy of extermination.” The certainty in her voice unsettled her, even as she said it.
“How very Consequentialist of you,” Alsarana sneered, his tail coiling tighter around the space between them. “So we agree then. If a sentient being poses even the faintest threat, the Empire is justified in striking first. That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it?” His satisfaction was thick in the air, savoring each word like a predator savoring its prey.
Sylva’s jaw clenched as Alsarana twisted her words, weaving her simple answers into something tangled and dangerous. The ground beneath her was shifting, and she could feel the argument slipping from her grasp. But she wasn’t about to let him win so easily. She straightened, forcing herself to steady, determined to reclaim her stance before it was too late.
“If someone is an active threat to others, then… yes,” Sylva replied, trying to sound firm, though her voice wavered. “The Empire is justified in stopping that danger.” She prayed her voice sounded stronger than the doubts swirling in her mind.
“So we do agree!” Alsarana uncoiled in a single fluid motion, his body swaying with a sinister energy. His eyes gleamed, dark with excitement. “I’ve argued for centuries that ethics are nothing more than preemptive assassination. Or murder. Does it even matter? Is it still assassination if you kill someone before they become important? What could be more justified than killing a threat—just in case?”
“What’s the alternative?” Sylva snapped, her voice edged with frustration. “Just stand by and let them die when we could have stopped it? That feels… wrong.” Her head throbbed, the relentless twisting of her arguments leaving her drained. Was there even a right answer anymore? The doubt gnawed at her, deeper than before.
“Good, good, good,” Alsarana murmured, his swaying form finally stilling, like a predator after a satisfying meal. “Now you’re starting to understand. Krinka said you were sharp, though I wasn’t convinced. But now—now you see it. Ethics are about—”
“But—” she began, only to be cut off as Alsarana’s tail flicked a cold stream of water into her face. The shock was like a slap, freezing her words in her throat. She blinked, stunned. “Did you just—” Another flick, another spray of water, and this time she sputtered, anger bubbling up in her chest, hot and undeniable.
“I wasn’t finished,” Alsarana cut in, his voice thick with calm arrogance, the tone too familiar—like the Elders. Sylva’s temper flared, but she swallowed it, barely. He continued, his tone smug. “There are those who treat ethics like a game, a tool for the powerful. The common farmer doesn’t need moral theory, they say. But that’s a dangerous oversimplification. Ethics are the lines we draw—what’s allowed and what isn’t. And for someone like you—someone reaching for conviction beyond gods—you’ll need more than vague ideals. Conviction without proof is delusion.”
He paused, his gaze locking onto hers, daring her to interrupt. Sylva clenched her jaw, biting back the retort that clawed at her throat. She knew this game too well—one misstep and he’d twist her words until they strangled her. She forced herself to stay silent, even as frustration bubbled inside her. Alsarana’s smirk widened, savoring the silence that thickened between them, the air in the cramped chamber pressing down on her.
“So now,” Alsarana’s voice dropped, cold and sharp as a blade, “convince me. Why should I regret exterminating entire species on the brink of ascension, after what I saw in the Beast Wars? Go on, Sylva. Tell me.” His words sliced through the air, a challenge—a dare to defy the horrors he had lived through.
Sylva froze, her anger vanishing as the weight of his words slammed into her. Entire species? The Beast Wars? Her mind spun. A naga, a scholar, a warrior—part of that devastation. All this time, they had never mentioned their triumvirate’s name, never revealed their true title. And she had never asked. Could it be… them? The ones from the legends? Her pulse quickened, a cold dread creeping up her spine as the possibility loomed like a shadow.
“Does your Triumvirate have a formal name?” Sylva asked, her voice barely above a whisper. The weight of the question hung between them, heavy and dangerous. Had she overstepped? She didn’t know. But she had to ask—the truth gnawed at her, an itch she couldn’t ignore.
“Ah, you’re catching on.” Alsarana’s smile widened as he slowly uncoiled, rising to his full height, his head nearly brushing the low ceiling. The space around them seemed to shrink, the air growing thick. “Casselia wondered when you’d put the pieces together. Allow me to introduce us properly—we are the [Triumvirate of the Broken Crown].” His voice rang with a heavy finality, and Sylva’s skin prickled with the weight of the truth.
“That’s… bullshit,” Sylva whispered, but the words felt hollow even as they left her lips. Logic told her he wasn’t lying—every piece fit too perfectly. She had figured it out herself, hadn’t she? But her Lifestring, her emotions, were in chaos. The [Triumvirate of the Broken Crown] were legends—her heroes. She had grown up admiring their deeds. And now one of them stood before her, mocking her with the truth.
“Casselia the Crownless, Krinka the Archivist, and myself—Alsarana the Harbinger—at your service.” He bowed low, with a theatrical flourish, like an actor on stage. His smile stretched wide, wild and unrestrained, delight gleaming in his eyes. “It’s always a pleasure to be remembered,” he added, his voice thick with mocking amusement.
“You… you fought in the Siege of Sabahar. You defended the Sunborn against Gransa, the Suneater. And… you faced the Plaguebringer in the northern mountains. The entire mountain provinces held because of you.” Each word felt like a stone dropping into place, the truth crashing down on her, heavier with each breath. Sylva wasn’t sure whether to laugh at the absurdity or bombard him with the questions that burned inside her, tearing her between awe and disbelief.
“All true,” Alsarana purred, his voice dripping with satisfaction. He tilted his head, preening as if basking in her stunned admiration. “Though you seem to have missed our role in the Flower Wars. The Empire prefers to sweep that under the rug. But don’t worry—your ignorance is forgiven.” His words were casual, but the condescension was razor-sharp.
“But… why are you here?” Sylva’s voice trembled with confusion. “You should be serving the Empire, yet you’re here. In this trial, in Tir Na Nog, training three random citizens? Why? Why bother with us at all?” The awe and disbelief tangled in her words, making the entire situation feel even more surreal, like the ground was slipping out from under her.
“Casselia will explain that in time,” Alsarana said with a dismissive wave, brushing her question aside like an annoying fly. “Now, enough. I’ll ask again: when I led an entire species, with logic and morality, to extinction—solely to prevent their rise—was I wrong?” His tone shifted, razor-sharp, dragging the conversation back to the brutal question that hung like a blade in the air.
Hadrian’s fingers brushed the swirling fog within the orb, the cool mist curling around his skin. He exhaled slowly, steadying himself as the sarcophagus groaned open across the chamber. Drakar emerged with the slow menace of something ancient waking. Behind Hadrian, Casselia stood silent, keeping her word not to provoke the Numen man—a marked contrast to Alsarana’s biting comments. Casselia had spent hours preparing him for this moment, after Sylva and Lotem had been dismissed to their chambers of rebirth. Her training, far simpler than Alsarana’s relentless drills, seemed to carry a different kind of weight.
Alsarana had drilled him until his muscles screamed, forcing him to repeat the same sword thrusts until precision overtook exhaustion. Casselia, on the other hand, favored movements that carried a sense of grace and flair. Wielding a sword with effortless elegance, she showed him how a subtle twist of the wrist could make his blade seem to dance. Her dodges were quick, light, almost playful—reminding Hadrian of a moth fluttering just out of reach. They had even discussed his armory skills, giving him the confidence to shift tactics mid-fight if necessary.
When Alsarana revealed his affinity, it had taken him by surprise. Yet, as he ran a hand over the delicate moth silk of his robe, it made sense. There was comfort in that—his robe, the last piece of home he had from Cutra, now tied to a combat art that echoed those memories. It wasn’t just a garment anymore; it was a link to his past, to who he had been.
He hoped the combat art would finally click. The ‘moth-like’ movements still felt foreign to him—unnatural, as if he was forcing himself into a shape that didn’t quite fit. He was quick, sure-footed, and light, but the style didn’t seem to settle in his bones. It was as though he hadn’t yet earned it. Maybe this fight would change that.
Drakar’s steps faltered when his gaze landed on Casselia. His brow furrowed deeply, suspicion etched into every line of his face. “Where’s the snake?” he asked, his voice edged with distrust.
“No need for concern,” Casselia replied smoothly. “I am one of Hadrian’s sworn mentors, here to ensure your performance meets imperial standards. After all, isn’t that what Eidolons are meant to do during a trial of approval?”
Drakar shifted uneasily, his stance betraying discomfort at Casselia’s words. Hadrian noticed the tension, puzzled by it—Drakar had been helpful so far, certainly more than the Sunborn. Maybe it was the pressure of performing in front of another mentor. Hadrian could relate. Fighting before an audience always felt like fighting two battles at once.
“I’ve done my part,” Drakar said, his voice tight. “Ask the boy—I answered when his questions were fair.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” Casselia said with a faint smile. “Drakar, Champion of the Seventeenth Circuit during the Reign of Watchful Eyes, if I recall correctly?”
Hadrian blinked, surprised. Drakar hadn’t mentioned his full title to her. The fiery-haired Numen squinted at Casselia, his expression tight with the effort of dredging up a memory buried long ago. Have they met before? Hadrian wondered.
“And who are you?” Drakar’s voice came out rough, laced with suspicion.
“You don’t remember me?” Casselia’s voice was soft, almost teasing. “It’s been, what, 680 years since the Reign of Watchful Eyes? Such a pity to see talent like yours wasted here, in this mockery of a shrine. You were unstoppable back then. I expected you to stand with the Rahabian Eidolons—at least they fight where the empire can see.”
To Hadrian, there was a faint sadness in her tone, as though she mourned something long lost. Drakar, however, seemed far from sympathetic.
“Aye, that was the plan.” Drakar spat to the side, the wet sound punctuating his bitterness. “But plans fall apart when the Dion get involved. Better to be an Eidolon, dealing out justice to those responsible, than a gladiator fighting for an empire that’s crumbling.”
Hadrian’s curiosity flared. What had the Dion done to ignite such fury? Was it like Krinka had hinted—assassinations, theft? He resolved to find out.
“What did the Dion do to you?” Hadrian asked, unable to suppress his curiosity.
Both Drakar and Casselia glanced at him, surprised by his interruption. Hadrian didn’t understand why—he was part of this conversation, wasn’t he? After a long, heavy sigh, Drakar finally spoke.
“They tried to kill me before a major tournament,” Drakar growled, his voice raw. “The attack missed me—but it took my husband and our dog. Some things you can’t get past. Some things you can’t forgive.”
Hadrian nodded slowly. He understood the pain of loss. The thought of someone harming his family sent a wave of anger through him. He’d seen his parents fight the Simians and the Brood, battles that could easily turn fatal—but that was different. Assassination? For a game? That was something else entirely. That was wrong.
“It’s unforgivable,” Hadrian muttered, his voice taut with barely restrained anger.
“See what kind of people you’ve allied yourself with, boy?” Drakar said, his tone biting.
“You know as well as I do that Rovan Khal is far removed from the Dion centers of power,” Casselia replied, her voice steady. “I have no love for the Dion—I swear that on my Crest—but Rovan Khal is not of the Ancient Blood.”
“Might as well be,” Drakar huffed, his voice dripping with disdain. “Titan of Carven Bone.”
“Oh, now you take issue with using bone?” Casselia shot back, her eyes narrowing. “Have you forgotten what a mirror looks like after all those centuries in Tir Na Nog?”
Hadrian’s gaze flicked to the club in Drakar’s hand as the Numen’s expression darkened. He tensed, feeling the tension crackle in the air—Drakar looked ready to lunge at any moment. Casselia had sworn she wouldn’t provoke him. Hadrian wasn’t convinced.
“Enough talk,” Drakar growled, his grip tightening on the club. “The past isn’t why we’re here. Come, boy—perhaps today’s the day you succeed and spare me this tiresome chore.”
Hadrian dipped his head in a quick bow, forcing a smile. “Let’s make this count,” he said, determination hardening his voice.
With a thought, the bone sword materialized in his hand, its weight a familiar comfort. He drew in a steadying breath before charging forward. Drakar moved faster than expected, closing the gap in a blink. Hadrian barely had time to throw himself back, the club crashing down where he’d stood moments ago. As he dodged, he focused on Casselia’s lessons.
His aim wasn’t simply to dodge the club—he needed to float, to slip out of its path like a moth escaping a flame. He visualized the narrow training poles he’d balanced on for years, leaping between them with ease. As his foot brushed the stone, he pivoted, feeling the motion flow through him. Drakar’s club missed his chest by inches, and Hadrian countered, swinging his sword toward the Numen’s wrist.
Drakar twisted his club, deflecting Hadrian’s sword with ease as he advanced. Hadrian sprang back, the weightlessness of the Fog Robe almost pulling him out of reach of another bone-shattering strike. Without hesitation, he dropped the sword and called forth a bone knife in each hand.
Hadrian had always favored his bow over throwing knives. Daggers had little use against Simians or most of the Brood—too small, too light. A Slinkai could be taken down just as easily with a well-placed arrow. But his Ma had always insisted that every weapon had its purpose. Now, as Drakar pressed forward with relentless aggression, closing the distance where his bow was useless and his sword too short, Hadrian silently thanked her for those endless afternoons of knife drills.
Instinct took over as Drakar’s club came crashing down. Hadrian danced backward, every step a careful calculation—one misstep, and it would all be over. His feet never stopped moving, pivoting and leaping to evade the heavy strikes. Then, in a sudden shift, Drakar angled his stance, preparing to hurl the club. Hadrian’s eyes narrowed. This was his chance.
Hadrian leaped back, his wrists flicking in the air like a moth’s wings as he let both knives fly. Drakar grunted, twisting the club just in time to deflect one blade. The second knife found its mark, sinking deep into his thigh. A surge of adrenaline shot through Hadrian. Yes—that felt right.
Two more bone daggers appeared in his hands as the knife embedded in Drakar’s thigh dissolved into mist, leaving a trail of blood in its wake. Drakar roared, his fury igniting as he charged forward. The club came sweeping toward Hadrian with terrifying speed, faster than before. A skill? Hadrian barely had time to think as the next onslaught began.
He’d hoped the knife wound would slow Drakar down, sap his strength. But it only seemed to fuel the Numen’s rage. Was it even bleeding anymore? Hadrian’s exhaustion began to creep in. When the club came down in a brutal diagonal arc, he took his chance. He dove into a roll, the air hissing past him as the weapon sliced overhead. In one fluid motion, he thrust upward, once again picturing the flick of moth wings as his daggers found their mark in Drakar’s stomach.
He released the blades and flung himself backward, rolling out of reach before Drakar could retaliate.
Crack.
Pain exploded through Hadrian’s side as the club slammed into his hip, launching him across the chamber. He crashed into the wall with bone-jarring force. Darkness rushed in, and the last thing he heard was the distant murmur of the Sulphen’s voice before everything went black.
[Skill Obtained: Moth’s Grace]
A sharp gasp filled his lungs as he jolted awake, icy water pooling around him. A cough wracked his chest, but with it came a sudden clarity, a new understanding. The door to his chamber creaked open, and Casselia’s voice echoed through the cold, damp air.
“Impressive,” Casselia’s voice carried a note of approval. “Did you unlock a new skill?”
Hadrian sat up slowly, feeling the water drain from his fog robe as he rose to his feet. “[Moth’s Grace],” he said quietly, still processing. “I was so close—I could feel it.”
“Closer than you realize,” Casselia replied, a hint of pride in her voice. “Taking down a full-blooded Numen is no small feat, and Drakar knows his craft well. To wound him at all, let alone as much as you did… let’s just say, I’m impressed.”
Heat crept into his cheeks at her praise. He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Alsarana’s lessons were… helpful.”
“Was it?” Casselia raised an eyebrow, genuine surprise coloring her voice.
“He had me practicing knife strikes while flapping my ‘wings’ for hours on end. I wasn’t sure it would help—swords have always been my thing—but it paid off.” He flashed her a smile. “My Ma always said to trust your mentors. Turns out she was right.”
Casselia returned the smile, then motioned for him to follow. As they stepped into the hallway, Hadrian stopped short, surprised to find Krinka and Lotem standing in the middle of the corridor, their gazes fixed on the ceiling.
“Ah, perfect timing, Casselia, Hadrian,” Krinka called out, her voice brisk. “Hadrian, I need you to climb onto Lotem’s shoulders. We need the coals—or fire—from the brazier near the ceiling. I doubt they would be generous enough to give us fire tinged with true rage, but frustration should be good enough for Lotem.”
“I can get on his shoulders, sure,” Hadrian replied, moving toward Lotem.
“Wait,” Casselia’s voice cut through the air, stopping everyone in their tracks. “And where exactly are you planning to put the fire?” She looked at Hadrian’s empty hands before looking to Krinka and Lotem in turn with a good natured sigh.
“Lotem, grab the torch from your chamber,” Krinka instructed, shifting uncomfortably under Casselia’s scrutiny, embarrassed by the oversight. Lotem returned moments later from a side chamber carrying a torch, its flame flickering with a soft, ordinary orange glow. “Hadrian, up on Lotem’s shoulders now.”
Hadrian glanced at Casselia, who gave him a curt nod. Lotem knelt, and Hadrian climbed onto his shoulders, crouching low for balance as he gripped the wall. Slowly, Lotem rose to his full height. Krinka passed the torch up to Hadrian, and, with a steady hand, he thrust it into the brazier. The moment the flame touched the coals, it shifted—a deep, blood-red glow flared to life. A sudden pang of loss hit Hadrian’s chest, but he pushed it aside, just as he had been taught with the Luminaries’ flame.
Hadrian jumped down from Lotem’s shoulders, landing in a graceful crouch, his fog robe whispering against his skin. He offered Lotem a quick grin. “Thanks for the boost.”
“Hadrian, before they disappear into their training, fetch a few more torches to light with the empowered flames, they could be helpful.”
Hadrian quickly gathered the torches, lighting each with the red flame as instructed by Casselia. He returned one to her chamber while she held the other, her grip steady. Krinka and Lotem made their way back to Lotem’s chamber, but Hadrian could see the frustration building in Lotem with every passing moment. He understood all too well—his own training with the Luminaries’ flame had tested his patience more than once.
Though the flame’s inner workings were common lore in Cutra, Hadrian had never fully mastered its subtle complexities. He had spent endless nights watching the fire’s dance, learning to temper the blaze within his own soul. The ancient Luminaries had long taught that the flame could mirror the heart’s moods through a spectrum of intensities—from gentle, controllable embers to fierce, overwhelming infernos, and even rare, transcendent fires that defied mortal feeling. Today, frustration had merely kindled a small, manageable spark. Had it flared into full-blown anger—a tumultuous, raging conflagration—Hadrian knew his training might have faltered. For Lotem’s sake, he was grateful the fire had chosen only a modest ember.
He looked up and met Casselia’s curious gaze. “The flame didn’t stir you at all?”
“Not in years,” Hadrian replied with a casual shrug. “The mild embers no longer disturb me, and even the more volatile bursts rarely catch me off guard. I’ve yet to witness one of those transcendent fires.” His father’s words echoed in his mind: never hesitate to explain your abilities—if someone doubted them, they weren’t worth your trust.
“Sit,” she instructed, gesturing to the floor as she settled cross-legged, her eyes steady on him. “Tell me about your childhood, Hadrian.”
And so, he began. He spoke of everyone in his village, describing how each person had shaped him. His daily training routine—sunrise to sunset, with every exercise meticulously varied—had honed him. He told her about the raids, the Simians and the Brood, and how his village stood strong against their attacks. He mentioned the absence of other children, and the quiet fear that lingered, the fear of losing them to the citizenship ritual. Finally, he told her his plan, the one that drove him forward: he would change things. He would build a shrine.
Casselia listened in silence, only interrupting now and then to ask for clarity. The minutes passed unnoticed as the flickering frustration in the flame mirrored their quiet conversation. When Hadrian finally finished, she allowed the silence to stretch before speaking. “I hear how hard you’ve worked to get here, Hadrian. I hear your passion for those who have stood by you, and there’s no greater honor than wanting to repay that. I hear your ambition… and I see that you’re capable of even more.”
More than just building a shrine? The thought lingered for a moment before the weight of her words fully sank in: she actually believes in me. He swallowed, then said quietly, “Thank you.”
“Hadrian, do you really understand what it means to be a [Squire]?”
“That Rovan trusts me?”
Casselia blinked, then nodded slowly. “Yes, but it’s more than that.”
“More than that?” Hadrian frowned, uncertain.
“Hadrian, [Squire of Carven Bone] is what we call a transitional class. It’s meant to give you strong foundational skills early on, with a higher chance of evolving into something unique—or rare. After you’ve earned your twelfth skill, your class will evolve into something entirely new. But there’s danger in that, too, if you’re not ready.”
“Why? I thought classes couldn’t be harmful.”
“They can be, but that’s not the main issue here. For a [Squire], the risk is losing your class if someone in Aslavain challenges you fairly—and you lose.”
“What if I beat them?” Hadrian asked, his confidence rising. He knew he could best anyone his age—his parents had said as much, and they were both skilled fighters.
“You’ll gain a new skill—if they were a worthy opponent. But that’s not the point. You can’t expect to win every fight, Hadrian. Skills, classes, items—they can all drastically alter the outcome of a battle if you’re not prepared. One rare or unexpected skill is all it takes to end things quickly.”
“So… should I just avoid challenges, then?”
“Absolutely not. Avoiding them would mean missing valuable opportunities. No, the solution is simpler: we’ll make sure you’re so far ahead of anyone else your age that they won’t stand a chance. Now, let’s go over that last fight and get you ready for the next one.”