Out of the abyss,
From the earth’s strangling maw,
We claw forth, the unseen brood,
Bound by blood to the Heart’s insatiable call.
Out of the mire,
From the swamp’s foul breath,
We arise, the shadowed swarm,
Thralls to the Heart’s hunger, lurking beneath.
Out of the deep,
From the marsh’s buried womb,
We gather, the ravenous kin,
In grim exaltation, to the Heart’s undying drum.
Out of the silence,
In the stillness of peace,
Our voices writhe, choked with thirst.
The Heart stirs, restless, in the quiet dusk—
A shadow that hungers when blood runs cold,
And waits, ravenous, for war’s hot flood.
– Translation of a Nymgar Brood Chant
Aslavain: Eight Days After the Summer Solstice
The girl moved through the forest of bone with a hesitant, almost mechanical gait, the dyed leather of the Crimson Hand merging seamlessly with the dark soil and the fog-choked landscape, making her appear as just another shadow among many. Alsarana slithered behind her, his onyx scales blending him into the murky gloom, nearly invisible as he tracked her movements. She had triggered one of his outer wards a mile away from their camp, and he had quickly excused himself from the conversation with Casselia and Krinka about the writ to investigate this second nocturnal visitor.
The girl trudged forward, seemingly unaware of the lurking dangers. This part of the forest was relatively safe—at least for now—but she had no way of knowing that. Alsarana had intertwined his Domain with the outer wards, weaving a sense of unease into the very fabric of reality, a subtle deterrent for the less intelligent creatures that roamed these woods. Yet, the girl showed no sign of sensing it.
She carried a war hammer, its heavy head etched with the sigils of Tir Na Nog—a likely gift from her initiation into the Crimson Hand. Alsarana found the choice commendable. Too often, new initiates were captivated by swords and knives before their first real encounter with something truly monstrous. He had seen entire triumvirates crumble against rock elementals, bone horrors, and cavalry charges, all because they clung to weapons suited for duels, not survival. Swords belonged in the arena; hammers were for the world beyond—though, as a necromancer, Alsarana would admit to a personal bias.
As the girl neared the clearing, she halted, her eyes first landing on the obelisk standing sentinel-like in the gloom, then shifting to the small bone hut nestled nearby. Her gaze lingered on the hut, and Alsarana recognized that her purpose here went beyond the trial. Not that it surprised him— the Tir Na Nog exhibition was still months away, and this trial was meant to be nearly impossible for someone new to Aslavain, unless they possessed exceptional talent or rare gifts from the Sulphen. The fact that she chose the Crimson Hand suggested she had neither.
Either she’s here to investigate our meddling, or she’s been sent out here to suffer at the hands of one of the bastards running the place. The Nygmar might revel in such cruelty, but why would she agree to it? He would have to resort to his preferred method of extracting information.
Alsarana slithered through the grasses, positioning himself directly behind the hesitating woman. He raised his body, looming ominously as he spread his hood, channeling a hint of his Aspect into his voice.
“Who dares enter our hidden grove?” he hissed, his tone heavy with the weight of the unseen. The girl spun around, fury sparking in her eyes as she swung her hammer in a wide arc, aimed at human height. Alsarana swayed back, the blow missing his scales by mere inches. “Touchy, touchy. Planning to kill someone tonight?”
“You’re not the first Gloombound to fuck with me; why shouldn’t you be the last?” she snapped. She has fire, this one. I like it. The modern youth lack this—a willingness to commit to violence at the slightest provocation.
“Gloombound? Oh no, no, no,” Alsarana chuckled, his voice low and sinister. “I am no Gloombound. Those wanna-be monsters concern themselves with jump scares, not true terror.” In truth, Alsarana bore no real grudge against the guild; they exploited the same fears that made his [Harbinger] class so effective—they were just far less proficient. At his words, the girl’s grip on her hammer loosened, the tension in her stance easing. She harbors a grudge against the Gloombound. Interesting.
“Then name yourself, stranger.”
“Name myself? Me? The one who dwells in this grove, and not you, the intruder? Are your manners so backward?” He let his jaws part just enough to reveal the tips of his fangs, a drop of venom slipping from one. He felt the girl’s fear spike, her muscles tensing. Good.
“I am Emilia, daughter of—”
“No need for titles; I care not who sired you, Emilia,” he interrupted, relishing the way she bristled. The Malan always hated when he cut short their lineage recitations, their carefully rehearsed rituals. “Why did you come here, Emilia?” he asked, his voice suddenly warm, almost familiar, as though they were old friends reuniting. The sudden shift left her off-balance, her planned retort faltering.
“Why should I tell you?” she asked, her voice hesitant. “Guild business,” she added, the words coming out too late to be convincing.
“They send mere initiates on night missions into unstable demesnes? The Crimson Hand must be desperate. No, you were given a task, perhaps by an Eidolon, with promises of a reward and no true understanding of the risk.” He watched closely as she flinched, confirming his suspicion.
“And if I was?”
“Then I would be open to providing a counteroffer. I suspect that our purposes are not currently aligned, and they very much should be.” We can’t have our actions get back to Tir Na Nog, not formally at least, not yet.
“A counteroffer?”
“Come, we have much to discuss.” He turned and slithered through the grasses toward the hut, certain she would follow—what else could she do? As he reached the door, he flexed his will, and the bone door swung open, revealing Krinka and Casselia, still locked in a heated debate. “We have a guest,” Alsarana announced softly. “She’s been sent to investigate us, I believe. Her name is Emilia, Malan origin.”
“Thank you, Als, I’ll handle it from here.” Casselia exhaled, her demeanor softening as she stood, a gentle smile gracing her lips. She gestured for him to step aside. As Emilia entered, Alsarana moved away, observing as Casselia greeted the girl with practiced warmth, engaging in small talk as though they were old friends. Gradually, the tension Alsarana had so carefully instilled began to melt away under Casselia’s practiced charm.
“So, Emilia, you have ventured far in the middle of the night to reach this trial. Will you share why?”
“Guild business,” Emilia said, her voice firmer than before, as if she had prepared herself for the question.
“Which would be?” Casselia asked, one eyebrow arched, her gaze steady as she patiently waited for an answer.
“I’m not sure I should say.” Emilia glanced around suspiciously, the dawning realization that she had likely been sent to investigate them settling in.
“We wish you the best of luck, then.” Casselia stood smoothly, moving as if to escort Emilia from the hut. Emilia started at the sudden dismissal, freezing in place, her eyes darting between Casselia and the doorway.
“Your companion mentioned a counteroffer?” she asked tentatively, her voice barely above a whisper.
“That was my intention, but if you’re unwilling to share the details of the original offer, we have nothing to discuss. I’m sure we can find a mutually beneficial arrangement, but I’m far too busy to waste time extracting information from you. A full triumvirate of [Venerate] certainly has more to offer than some random Eidolon, but the choice is yours.” Casselia shrugged, gesturing toward the door once more.
“Wait.” Emilia’s voice was frantic, a sudden panic gripping her as she realized what Casselia could offer. “You’re three of the [Venerate]? Truly?”
“Officially named the [Triumvirate of the Broken Crown], and you have my sworn oath on the Sulphen to it.”
“One of the Nygmar asked me to investigate this trial. They said the wards were being tampered with and wanted to know why. They offered me a powerful skill if I brought back information on who was interfering.”
“Now that’s something we can work with, my dear. I’m glad you’ve come around.” Casselia returned to her seat and leaned forward, her full attention now on the candidate. “What do you truly want, Emilia? Why did you enter Aslavain?”
Emilia’s hand moved absently to her chest, as if reaching for a necklace or talisman, before she realized her mistake and refocused on Casselia. “I am an adherent of the Holy Church of the Three, and they’ve sent me to counteract the evils of the Dion.”
A potential [Paladin] working for a Nygmar? What a peculiar cycle this is turning out to be. Alsarana had his own history with the Church of the Three and decided it would be best to let Casselia handle this conversation. He was no ally to the Dion factions—far from it—but the Church had never been adept at distinguishing between necromancers. He made a mental note to check if his bounty with the Church had been lifted; perhaps they had forgotten him entirely.
“And you believed a Nygmar skill would aid you in that?” Casselia’s voice was soft, but her words carried the seed of doubt.
“I need something to make me stand out. Why not a Nygmar skill?”
“I assume you’re not fond of curse magic; the Church of the Three certainly isn’t.” Emilia paled, and Casselia sighed softly. “Perhaps the skill wouldn’t involve curses, but I would be cautious if I were you. Krinka, what are the odds of a skill related to curse magic?” Krinka, who had been standing quietly to the side, hoping to remain unnoticed, startled at the question.
“Roughly two-thirds, likely closer to seven out of ten. The most recent census data shows curse skills account for about that percentage among the Nygmar. That’s in the Province of the Earthen Few, though, if we account for—”
“Thank you, Krinka,” Casselia smoothly cut him off. “I think that’s more than enough for our guest.” She refocused on Emilia, offering a small shrug. “Those odds are the best anyone could provide. How do you feel about your chances?”
“And what? You’ll offer me a better skill just to ignore whatever you’re doing here?”
“A better skill? What do you take us for—some petty Eidolon needing mortals to do their bidding?” Casselia shook her head, genuine disgust evident in her tone. Alsarana knew nothing irked her more than poor training of the next generation. “No. If you want to challenge the Dion, to confront the scions of the Ancient Blood, you need expertise. We can offer you a class—one that will open doors for you to earn your own skills.”
“A class?” She wavered, uncertainty flickering in her eyes. Alsarana knew Casselia had already convinced her; now it was just about getting the candidate to accept her own realization.
“Krinka, what are three classes you’d recommend for someone intending to challenge the dominance of the Dion?” Krinka gave Emilia an appraising look, his gaze narrowing as he took a few moments to compose his thoughts before responding. The girl sat on the edge of her seat, anticipation palpable as she focused on the scholar.
“Do you already have a class?” The girl shook her head, and Krinka gave an approving huff. “Good, good, that keeps cross-synergistic influences to a minimum. You were raised Malan, in the north, correct?”
“In Saralainn.”
“The City of Growth. Fascinating. Did you live in the city proper or in the Eternal Domicile?”
“In the Domicile, but I don’t see how that’s relevant—”
“Hush, child,” Casselia gently interrupted. “Answer him as he asks. Krinka is the best at this, and selecting a class offering is more art than science.” Krinka blushed faintly, and Alsarana made a mental note to tease him about it later.
“First, the [Bane Slayer] class, which focuses on destroying the empire’s enemies. While it’s often used against the Tul, its skills have broader applications. Second, the [Paladin of the Threefold Aspect], which ties directly to your church and mission, though working around the classes restrictions may prove troublesome if we are in a hurry. Third, the [Bone Hunter], specialized in tracking and eliminating necromancers and their constructs. Now—”
“[Bone Hunter]. I’ll accept your offer, whatever it entails, but I want that [Bone Hunter] class.” The girl’s sudden resolve caught Casselia’s attention, and she sent Krinka a look that made it clear she would handle the rest.
“That could be acceptable. Krinka will teach you the secret oath of the Bone Hunters Guild and provide the authority you’ll need for the oath to be accepted. In return, we require three concessions: you will carry a talisman of our making into the trial, you will activate it once inside, and you will report nothing to the Nygmar after completing the trial. Are these terms acceptable?”
A talisman? What’s Cass playing at now? Does she think this will let us form our oaths with the triumvirate? He glanced at Krinka and was surprised to see excitement on the man’s face. If Krinka thinks it will work, then this woman might be our lucky break.
Emilia hesitated, then asked with a curious tone, “What’s the talisman for?”
“We’ve been trying to contact a Triumvirate that’s already entered the trial. A talisman inside the ward scheme could resolve those issues. I swear on my Crest that the talisman won’t directly impact you or your chances in the trial.”
“I accept. Do we need to sign anything?”
“In the eyes of the Sulphen, I accept the terms as previously stated,” Casselia said formally, gesturing for Emilia to repeat the words.
“Umm, in the eyes of the Sulphen, I accept the terms as previously stated.” She sat upright as the soul oath gripped her, the terms etching themselves onto her very soul. For someone like Casselia, the sensation would be barely noticeable; but for a new candidate? Alsarana was impressed by her fortitude as she weathered the internal storm.
“Krinka, help her memorize the oath she’ll need. Alsarana, we need to discuss the talisman.” She paused, then turned back to the scholar. “What type of array do you want?”
Krinka pondered, his gaze flicking to Emilia before settling on Alsarana. “A Barzaminian array should suffice, with an emphasis on sympathetic influence of thoughts. It needs to be at least—” His eyes lifted to the ceiling as he accessed a skill to retrieve the necessary data. “—Master quality, second tier, third if possible.”
Barzaminian? The City of Gems? Why? Proximity to Saralainn? No, that doesn’t fit. If that were the case, we’d use Rahabian style, associated with Saralainn. Master quality as well? That’s going to cost me my most precious bones.
“That’ll deplete my reserves, only one attempt here. Barzaminian, you’re sure?” he asked, glancing at Casselia for confirmation. Krinka nodded, his certainty unwavering.
“I have a specific event in mind, and a Barzaminian array should invoke the history we need, despite its inefficiencies.”
“Als, how long until we can expect you back?”
“For a Barzaminian array of that quality? Twelve hours at least. If I were working with a gemstone or crystal, it’d be quicker, but for something like this? Twelve hours will be cutting it close.”
“Well, Emilia,” Casselia said, turning back to the woman, “we have twelve hours to convince the Sulphen that you’re worthy of the class. Shall we begin?”
A wisp of fire streaked past Sylva, narrowly missing her as she dove out of its path. The searing heat left her momentarily disoriented, her concentration shattered by the close call. Seraphis’s fingers wove intricate patterns in the air, the naga’s golden scales pulsing with an inner light as each motion summoned wisps of fire that coalesced before launching toward Sylva with lethal intent. She prayed Drakar would reach her before the flames did, cold dread settling in her stomach as she recalled the agonizing sensation of fire searing her silken flesh.
Instinctively, she glanced to her left, hoping Hadrian fared better. The Kiel man wielded a simple bone axe, moving with precise agility as he dodged and swayed, evading the Numen’s crushing blows. Drakar’s bone club was a fearsome weapon, capable of smashing through walls with a single swing. Sylva knew that if it connected with Hadrian, their fight would be over in an instant. Yet Hadrian’s focus never wavered; his steps were calculated as he flitted out of reach, pivoting to strike at Drakar’s exposed knee. The Numen dodged effortlessly, his club descending in a powerful arc that shattered the mosaic tile floor as Hadrian rolled out of its path. The impact sent shards of ceramic spraying across the chamber, their jagged edges slicing through the air with a sharp, grating noise.
Before Sylva could fully process the destruction, her vision was consumed by a blinding flash of golden fire. Every nerve screamed as her world dissolved into white-hot agony, the pain so intense it felt as if her very soul were being burned away.
The Radiant Flame had always felt unnaturally hungry to Sylva, as if it sought to consume her entirely, to strip her of life itself. She was beginning to suspect it possessed a will of its own, separate from Seraphis, who had summoned it. The fire gnawed at her animating magics, draining her essence and leaving behind a hollow emptiness she detested almost as much as the pain.
When she awoke, submerged in the pool of water, she allowed herself to float aimlessly for a few minutes, her breath gradually steadying from ragged gasps to smooth, controlled inhalations and exhalations, just as she had been taught. The elders had always extolled the virtues of meditation, insisting it would prove far more valuable than it first appeared. I never imagined I’d be using those breathing exercises to pull myself together after being burned alive repeatedly. Burning string, I never even conceived that this would be necessary at all. I was supposed to be in Eisentor, training in the arcane arts, not trapped in this nightmare of a trial.
At least the Eidolons were helpful this time. Seraphis still holds a grudge, but Drakar seemed willing to overlook it. Is there a division between the two?
The Numen had primarily settled in the Khanate east of the great plains, far removed from the mountain fortresses of Sabahar and the Sunborn. To her knowledge, the two groups had little reason for contact, let alone conflict. The Bal Invasion and the subsequent Flower Wars had never touched the lands north of the Plains of the Dionalsar, and the Sunborn, sworn to battle the Tul, had played little role in the war. In contrast, the Numen of the Bal had fought fiercely in the Flower Wars before eventually accepting the Treaty of Swallow’s Grace.
Yet here they are in Tir Na Nog, with some clear grievance against the Dion—if they can be trusted. Allies by situation rather than true friendship, then. She wondered if she could exploit the division between them. I’ve been assuming that Morvan and Drakar are allies because of their Numen blood; is that actually true, though?
She recalled that Morvan said he was from the Blue Fort, serving the Imperial Rangers, stationed near Ylfenhold to defend against Tul crossings of the Diontel—a far cry from the Imperial Circuits. Drakar, a [Breaker of Bone], claimed to be a Champion of the seventeenth circuit in the Reign of Watchful Eyes. The circuits always had a tenuous relationship with the true military of the empire.
She wasn’t sure how to use the realization that the three Eidolons’ relationships were weaker than they appeared, but as she lay in the pool of water, her breath returning to a natural rhythm, she hoped it would give her an edge. Nyxol only knew they needed every advantage they could get.
Her thoughts drifted back to Drakar’s comments about the nature of her magic. Conviction is at the core of thaumaturgy. So why do I feel so uncertain about what I have conviction in? I don’t believe in the divinity of the Radiant Flame or its seeking flame. I don’t believe in the supposed three aspects of the Sulphen that guide us, or the authority of emotion taught by the Luminaries.
So what do I even believe? I believe in creating a better future for the next generation. I believe in equality and justice, sure—but how does that translate into my thaumaturgy? Doesn’t everyone believe in those things?
She retraced her education, desperately searching for something concrete to anchor herself to. I’ve always felt a connection to the Justicars’ ideals; the teachings of the Veil resonated with me. But conviction in abstract concepts like justice and governance—does that even feel magical? What kind of miracle stems from a belief in justice? She knew they were on a deadline to reach Ylfenhold, the City of the Veil, to gain access to the Cairn of Titans—their only real guidance left. Maybe when we reach the City of the Veil, I can speak with the Justicars and uncover their conviction.
What can I do in the meantime? What did I feel when I cast that incantation? She closed her eyes, trying to recall the fight. Lotem had shared his intention to destroy the Tul, had shared the story of his brother. Anger. I felt anger in that moment, she remembered. I hadn’t realized the true threat of the Tul, hadn’t understood what it was like for the families of the victims. Lotem was right; the empire could end the threat, could unite and drive the Tul from the hills and caverns they call their own. It had been the first time Sylva had heard about the Tul from someone real, not from a distant tome or a long-lost tale.
I entered that fight angry, and I channeled that anger into my magic. She remembered the moment when Seraphis shattered her chant with a single skill, crushing her hopes in an instant. It wasn’t fair. What gave her the right to kill me? What gives any of them the right to do this to us? Tir Na Nog is the City of Rage—maybe it’s time I embraced its namesake.
She let the realization settle within her, solidifying her resolve. Rising from the pool, water cascaded off her silken skin as if repelled by an unseen force. She found Hadrian near the door, bouncing on his toes, eager for another attempt. As she had come to expect, Lotem was nowhere to be seen.
The Bal man’s lack of formal training had become evident over the past week. He moved without the deliberate precision that characterized Hadrian’s every step, and he certainly lacked the formal education of one of the sects. In Sylva’s estimation, Lotem was closer to the average than the exceptional. That was fine by her. The man had a mission that would demand greatness, and she expected he would rise to the occasion eventually. Sylvine, for all her petty cruelty, wouldn’t have chosen Lotem if he didn’t have the potential for greatness.
“Sylva!” Hadrian called out as he noticed her approach. “Do you want to try again? I felt like it was much more manageable with just the two of us. Do you think I could enter alone? Drakar seemed happy to give me guidance; maybe I could get information he wouldn’t share in front of Seraphis.”
She smiled, the excitement in his voice igniting an excitement of her own. They had been closer in that last fight than they had for dozens of attempts, and they were ready to return less than a half hour after their last attempt. If we can maintain this rhythm, we can’t help but improve.
“I’m glad to see you recovered well, Hadrian. I’m not opposed to trying again; there’s not much else to do in this hallway, anyway.”
“I feel like I’m finally getting a handle on his rhythm. That club is brutal to dodge; it reminds me of watching the villagers fight Simians. If one of those four-armed beasts grabs you, it’s over. They danced around them, giving the rest of us an opening. Not that we have backup to take out Drakar from afar, but still, I’ve been focusing on my footwork, and I’m starting to feel like I’m getting the hang of it.” He grinned widely, and Sylva couldn’t help but wonder about Cutra. What kind of village lets children fight Simians? Sheer madness.
“Glad to hear it. If you can handle Drakar, we might actually stand a chance. I think I understand a bit more about my class after that conversation.”
“You find your conviction?”
“Not exactly… but I have a better idea of what might work.”
“You want to try it out?” He glanced at the door, then back at her, excitement in his eyes.
“Let’s give it another shot.”
Lotem emerged from his chamber hesitantly, his steps slow and measured, as if bracing himself for the inevitable frustration of his companions. They had been waiting for hours, seated on the hard stone floor of the hallway, their patience wearing thin. He knew he should have been faster, should have returned as soon as he was able. Skies above, I can’t blame them for being angry. After all, it was his fault they were losing what they both clearly valued most—time.
He stopped abruptly as the chamber door slammed shut, the echo reverberating through the empty hallway. Did they just enter the trial? Without me? The realization hit him like a blow, leaving him momentarily stunned. He hadn’t known they could attempt the trial without him. He hadn’t realized they would, even if it was an option. How long have they been making attempts without me?
A wave of uncertainty washed over him as he stood in the desolate hallway, his gaze shifting between the open doors of the chambers where they had awoken. There was no other explanation—they had left him behind. And he couldn’t really blame them. He had been dead weight, barely holding his own against the beasts summoned by Morvan, let alone the man himself.
Hadrian seemed convinced he could best Drakar in martial combat, as unlikely as that seemed to Lotem. Sylva seemed certain she could master her new class without any guidance, stumbling her way into greatness. And Lotem? He wasn’t even sure he was capable of fighting at all, let alone facing a former Imperial Ranger. Then again, they had been granted classes and skills that could actually help them.
What had the Sulphen given him? A natural enemy to fight, one as far removed from the Tul as he could imagine. A skill to refine his bloodline, as though his actual blood wasn’t good enough. At least he’d received a skill to make him stronger, though he had yet to see how that could help with anything that mattered. It lets me throw the Thunderback, at least.
He sank to the floor, his back pressed against the cold stone wall, his thoughts spiraling deeper into despair. He knew—just knew—that the others would abandon him the moment they had the chance. Sure, they had sworn the triumviral oaths, bound themselves together in a room of threefold oath to work as one. But Sylva had made it clear they were only agreeing to work together while in Aslavain. In one year, would they abandon him?
The sound of a door creaking open startled him from his thoughts. He turned, surprised to see Hadrian emerge only minutes after the door had closed. The man’s fog robe was dry despite the wet footprints marking his path, a testament to his recent return from battle. Lotem braced himself for a look of anger, disappointment, or at least annoyance from the Kiel man. But Hadrian merely smiled.
“Lotem, glad to see you’re back. Is Sabel doing all right?”
Hadrian had been fascinated by the kitten from the moment they met. Suspicious at first, especially after realizing Sabel was a predator, his concern quickly evaporated when the kitten fell asleep on his chest between two of their fights. Since then, Hadrian hadn’t failed to ask about Sabel, treating her as though she were a full member of their team. Lotem liked that about him—the way he respected even a beast.
“She’s doing well. She was napping when I left her, but she’s getting restless without a friend for long periods. Sorry for any delay in my return; she needs companionship, or it’ll be bad for her development.” It wasn’t strictly a lie, or so Lotem told himself, though he knew his delay had as much to do with his fear as with his furry companion.
“Hopefully she’ll have a better space to explore once we beat this part of the trial. Sylva and I had a bit of a breakthrough earlier. Did you know you can attempt the trial on your own or with companions? If I enter without the two of you, I can face Drakar one-on-one; the same goes for Sylva with Seraphis, and probably you with Morvan as well.”
How long have you known you no longer needed me? he wanted to ask. Instead, he simply said, “When did you find that out?”
“Sylva and I went in together for the first time about an hour ago, though time isn’t easy to tell in this place. We went in individually a few minutes ago. She went first, and I followed after. We were hoping to share the news with you.”
Only an hour. Relief washed over him, but it quickly gave way to uncertainty. Just minutes ago, he had been doing his best to avoid conflict, belittling himself for his cowardice. At least when we all went in together, I was necessary. But now? How am I supposed to keep up if they train without me?
“Any luck?” he asked, unsure how to respond to the news.
“Naw, I felt like I was onto something for a moment there. I was imagining myself on the training poles, dodging my Pa’s attempts to drop me, and it just felt right. Then I misstepped, the club connected, and I was back in the pool.” Hadrian shrugged, looking a bit embarrassed.
“The training poles?”
“Oh yeah, the village had this setup with small wooden platforms, about this big,” Hadrian formed a circle with his arms, the size of a large pumpkin. “They started my training by having me run across the field, trying to beat my previous times without falling into the nets below. By the time I was ready for my Ceremony of Loss, I was dodging dulled arrows and avoiding guardians trying to knock me off. Didn’t your tribe have something similar?”
“Nothing like that, though now that I think about it, it does sound similar to the training some of the clan’s riders undergo. Not exactly the same, but training is training, right?” Not that I was ever part of those sessions. I never intended to fight and thought I was good enough already.
“Did you ever participate?” Hadrian asked curiously.
“Once or twice,” Lotem lied, hoping Hadrian wouldn’t notice the hesitation in his voice. “Where’s Sylva?”
“Oh, she should be here soon. I think she likes to meditate between attempts; she usually arrives soonish.”
“And you just… get up ready to fight again?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Hadrian looked momentarily puzzled, then his expression softened. I don’t need your pity, Lotem thought, bristling at the shift. “Sure, losing sucks. Don’t get me wrong, that club will give me nightmares someday. But we only have one year in Aslavain to get better. I didn’t even know if Rovan would accept me, let alone make me the [Squire of Carven Bone]. I can’t let him down. So yeah, I get up after getting knocked down and give it another shot. As long as I’m a little better this time than last, it’s worth it.”
“A little bit better every time.”
“Want to give it a try? Sylva isn’t here yet, but we went without you; I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if we went without her too.”
Lotem took a deep breath, imagining he was exhaling his fears and doubts. If Hadrian can do it, so can I. This time at least.
“Let’s give it a try,” he said, hoping he didn’t sound as nervous as he felt. What is there to fear when I know I’ll be all right in the end?