Among the many cults, churches, and sects scattered across the Sul Empire, none are as feared or as misunderstood as the Penitent of the Gondaran Marsh. Scholars whisper that their burn-scarred flesh—etched with patterns meant to mimic sacred art—forms a grotesque parody of beauty, admired only by the Penitent themselves and the Sunborn who share their reverence for flame. Yet to those unbranded by tradition, these scars appear as nothing short of blasphemy worn on skin.
Theologians claim that the Penitent were cast out for their heretical creed—the worship of a “mundane flame,” unbridled and untamed. Even the Sunborn, who revere fire as divine, recoil at such unorthodox zealotry. Yet in truth, it is neither fire nor flesh that damns the Penitent—it is their failure to kindle trust. Trust, like flame, must be earned. Only time will tell if the Penitent can ever burn bright enough to be deemed worthy of the Sul Empire.
– Meditations on the Northern Tribes by Ayentalar Avelneb, Scholar of Tuvashar
The air tore past Hadrian and Casselia in a dizzying rush—cold, biting, and relentless. He clenched his jaw to stifle a scream, his heart hammering in his chest. Together, they plunged through the dense fog that moments earlier had clung to his robe, while the scent of earth and damp leaves filled his lungs. The wind whipped at his clothes as blurred leaves spun past in a whirl of green and brown, as if the very world were unraveling into motion.
Casselia’s laughter pierced the wind—a wild, unrestrained sound that sent a thrilling shiver through Hadrian’s chest despite his fear. Time warped as they plummeted, each second stretching and twisting like a surreal dream. He braced himself, muscles tensing as his instincts screamed that a harness would suddenly catch him, halting his descent. But in a heart-stopping moment, he realized there was no harness, no safety—only the relentless rush of air and a blur of spinning leaves.
For the first decade of his life, Hadrian had worn a harness that tethered him to the towering branches above Cutra. Every child in the village did—one wrong step meant plunging into the fog that permanently cloaked the forest floor. He remembered slipping dozens of times, his stomach lurching with terror as the world seemed to drop away—only to be yanked back by the harness in a violent jolt that stole his breath and left him suspended in midair.
The jolt never came. Instead, panic surged in Hadrian’s chest and his breath caught as he instinctively braced for impact. His heart pounded—and then, as if in answer, Casselia’s bright, carefree laughter echoed beside him. This wasn’t Cutra. There was no harness at all—only the talisman’s fading magic keeping him aloft. Gradually, his grip slackened, and a shaky laugh escaped him as their fall slowed to a drift, like leaves borne on a gentle breeze. When the talisman in his hand crumbled to dust, its power spent, Hadrian stared in awe at the remnants, marveling at the casual destruction of something once so potent.
Hadrian drew a slow, steadying breath as he scanned the clearing. The crowd at the base of the tree was larger than he’d expected—nearly fifty people clustered in loose groups, some murmuring in hushed tones while others stared openly. Most were candidates his age, clad in sturdy traveling clothes and practical gear that spoke of hopeful ambition mixed with uncertainty. Yet amid them, the Eidolons stood apart, their very presence exuding authority.
Among the crowd, perhaps a dozen Eidolons mingled, each exuding the quiet, assured authority of those accustomed to command. Their clothing was noticeably richer, their postures impeccably straight, and their gazes held a chill that set them apart. The candidates exchanged hushed whispers and nervous glances, as if awaiting a signal. Even without a word, Hadrian could sense that power here belonged to the Eidolons.
From the knot of onlookers, a man stepped forward with deliberate grace, parting the crowd as a prow slices through water. His silver hair gleamed in the dappled light, falling past his shoulders, while a bison fur cloak draped over one side, its dark folds trailing like a mantle of authority. The heavy scent of tanned leather and smoke clung to him—earthy, familiar, and unmistakable. His lean, weathered face bore sharp cheekbones and a hawkish nose, lending him a predatory air. When his pale-gray eyes locked onto Casselia with cool intensity, they seemed to measure, assess, and judge—all without a visible weapon to underscore his silent command.
“The great tree is off limits to both candidates and their mentors—[Venerate] or not,” the man declared, his voice measured yet laced with disapproval. His posture was stiff and formal, as though he did not relish confrontation but was duty-bound to enforce the rule.
Casselia stepped forward with a measured nod and a faint smile at the corner of her lips. Every deliberate, graceful step served as a silent declaration of control. As she began to speak, Hadrian could only marvel at the authority she wielded—her words cutting through the tension like a finely honed blade.
“I am pleased to see that the Eidolons of Dornogor take rules so seriously,” Casselia said, her voice light yet tinged with subtle irony. “It speaks well of you.” She paused, letting her words linger in the air. Then she continued, her gaze flicking steadily toward Hadrian as if sharing a knowing secret: “After my student was tricked into a duel on his very first day here, I had almost assumed that Dornogor had forgotten the rules of hospitality.”
The man’s jaw tightened as his hands curled into loose fists at his sides. Around him, the gathered Eidolons shifted uneasily, their discomfort rippling through the crowd like a wave. Unease twisted in Hadrian’s chest—had the Eidolons made a mistake by allowing Meris to issue that challenge? He hadn’t even thought of the Eidolons as involved; he didn’t recall seeing any of them at all.
“Are we nothing more than shepherds to you?” His voice sharpened, slicing through the murmurs of the crowd. “No mere enforcers of decorum? We do not control the flock here, nor do we restrict youthful competition!”
Casselia’s gaze swept slowly and deliberately over the man, her eyes lingering just long enough to force an uncomfortable shift in his stance. Then, turning to the gathered Eidolons, her expression remained cool and unreadable. When she finally spoke, her voice carried the bite of frost—a quiet, cutting chill that seemed to drain the very warmth from the air. Had Hadrian always known her to be so formidable? Or was this newly imperious side of Casselia something entirely unexpected?
“As an Eidolon of the Sul Empire, you are nothing less than a shepherd for the youth,” Casselia stated, her tone as steady as stone. “That is your charge—to serve your shrine, your empire, and all those placed under your care. And yet, here you are, assigned merely to oversee the youth in Aslavain. Unless you are leading one of the three trials, you remain a shepherd—nothing more.”
Hadrian had never been trained in diplomacy. His parents always said that such skills were best left to scholars and courtiers—an art for those well-versed in the empire’s customs and laws, not for warriors. Yet as he listened to Casselia’s razor-sharp words, his unease grew. Her statements cut through the air with an unforgiving precision, leaving no room for rebuttal. The candidates exchanged nervous glances, while the Eidolons openly wore their displeasure, their eyes growing colder with each syllable.
“You claim”—Casselia continued, her voice unwavering and imperious, leaving no room for interruption—“that this tree is off limits even to the [Venerate]. I say otherwise.” She paused, allowing her words to drape over the assembled crowd like a veil of judgment. “And unless my eyes deceive me, there is no one here with the authority to contradict me.”
Hadrian’s eyes widened as a spark of realization ignited within him. He had never seen Casselia so cold, commanding, and utterly unyielding. Her words cracked through the air like a whip—a force that brooked no argument. Though she stood nearly a head shorter than the Eidolon before her, it was unmistakable who wielded greater power. In that moment, she transcended the role of mentor and assumed the aura of legend—a true [Venerate] of the empire, unshaken in the face of opposition.
“I am a Clawmaster and administrator of the Trial of the Hunt this cycle,” the man announced, his voice rising in frustration. “And I have more than enough authority to—”
His voice trembled with barely contained frustration as his fists curled at his sides—searching for something, anything, to grasp. But before he could shout, Casselia lifted her hand in a silent command that cleaved his anger like a knife through cloth. Her calm, unyielding words then fell over the room with the weight of a falling stone.
“No. You have no authority to command me,” Casselia stated, her voice steady as it cut through the murmurs of the crowd. “I am one of the true [Venerate] of the Empire—there is an Imperial Poem in my name. I’ve trained emperors, slain Beast Kings, conquered Eternal Domiciles; shrined cities have knelt before me.”
Her gaze hardened as she stepped forward deliberately, her presence descending upon the crowd like a rising storm. “You? You’re nothing more than a provincial dog—one who hunted well enough to collar himself. Speak of authority again, and I will remind you what it means to kneel.”
The man shifted his weight, shoulders stiffening in a vain effort to hold his ground, while his gaze darted to the crowd in search of support that never came. His jaw clenched, and tension etched deeper lines into his face as he weighed his options: retreat in disgrace or press forward and risk humiliation.
Casselia remained unmoving, holding his gaze with a calm, unyielding stare as the moment stretched heavy with expectation. Gradually, his resolve crumbled and he looked away. For a heartbeat, her expression softened into one of quiet amusement before she turned her attention to Hadrian, one eyebrow arched in silent command.
Eye contact. The silent command flared in Hadrian’s mind, echoing Casselia’s earlier instruction. He quickly scanned the crowd, his eyes flitting from face to face. Find someone who has a problem with me, he remembered.
A Kiel woman in intricate silk robes met his gaze for a fleeting moment before hastily turning away, her expression tightening as if caught in the act. The way she clutched her robes—knuckles white with tension—betrayed her unease.
Next, a pale-skinned man in a fur cloak woven with finger-like bones met Hadrian’s gaze head-on. His eyes gleamed with a restless, eager energy—excitable yet devoid of malice, offering no real challenge.
Neither was what Hadrian sought.
Hadrian’s gaze drifted past the rest of the crowd until it fixed on a lone figure at the edge of the clearing—a tall, shirtless man clutching a lantern, with a sword sheathed across his back. His skin was a tapestry of scars; brands spiraled across his chest, arms, and neck like molten veins, each mark etched deep as if by ritual. These twisting, coiling patterns told a story of pain and devotion burned permanently into his flesh.
The man’s eyes burned with a steady, unblinking fury—as though he had long awaited Hadrian’s arrival.
This one. The fire-burned man will be my first challenge.
Hadrian held the man’s gaze, its weight pressing down on him like a brand. The scars told a tale of agony endured and a faith unbroken—and in that moment, Hadrian knew he could not afford to underestimate this man.
“The Eidolons of Dornogor have made their stance on duels abundantly clear,” Casselia declared, her voice carrying effortlessly across the clearing. “So here is my offer: every day until the upcoming contest, my triumvirate will stand ready. If any candidate without a [Venerate] mentor manages to defeat my students, we will leave Dornogor—and swear never to return for the remainder of this cycle in Aslavain.”
Locking eyes with the leading Eidolon, Casselia intoned, “I respect nothing except results. Dornogor’s Eidolons claim to be warriors—not mere caretakers. Prove it. Or be content to mind children while true champions rise. If not one among you can train a candidate capable of besting my own, then you have no claim to your title—nor your place in this empire.”
“By whose authority—” he began, his voice rising in frustrated protest as he took a tentative half step forward.
Casselia cut him off with one swift, slashing gesture—her hand a final command that curled as if to grasp the very air, silencing him before he could complete his retort.
“Enough.” With deliberate calm, Casselia turned and fixed her gaze on the scarred, burned man Hadrian had noted earlier. “Ah, a Penitent.” Her voice softened, laced with a mix of curiosity and disdain. “Tell me, burned one—do you fear the fire you worship? Or will you stand against someone trained by the Luminaries and prove that your faith is more than mere ash and char?”
The man straightened, his spine rigid and his features twisted by fury into something sharp and unyielding. Hadrian wondered whether the intensity in the man’s eyes was born of the fires that had scarred him—or if such intensity was simply the price paid by those who scar themselves.
Hadrian’s stomach tightened as he watched Casselia. This wasn’t the mentor he knew—the calm, measured guide who always defused tension with well-chosen words. No, there was now steel in her—a warrior stepping into battle with words as sharp as blades. She clashed with strangers who had done no harm, her authority slicing through the air like a weapon. Hadrian wasn’t sure whether he was awed or unnerved by this change.
The burned man’s voice, though soft, carried through the clearing with unwavering conviction. “Flame destroys. Flame purifies.” He let each steady, deliberate syllable hang in the air before declaring, “But flame does not fear.”
His gaze never wavered from Casselia’s. “I will accept your duel, [Venerate]. And when I have reduced the Kiel to kindling, you will rue the day you mocked my faith.”
“On behalf of my sworn Triumvirate,” Casselia declared, her voice ringing with finality, “I issue this challenge: a duel at noon in the dueling arena—first blood, or surrender.”
“I, Zelvarn of Gulnara, accept your challenge,” he declared, his voice low yet steady. Lifting the lantern in his hand, he tilted it so that the flame flickered against the dark brands etched into his skin. Then, without another word, he turned and strode from the clearing—each deliberate step marking a path known only to him.
Casselia’s gaze swept across the gathered candidates, her expression cold and unyielding. When she spoke, her voice sliced through the murmurs like a sharpened blade.
“If Dornogor’s Eidolons are truly honorable and capable, have your own students step forward. We will issue challenges at noon each day in the arena—win, and they will earn the title of [Squire of Carven Bone].” Her gaze lingered, sharp as ice.
She turned to Hadrian with a nod and a faint, knowing smile. “Come. We have training to do—after all, it takes more than words to tame beasts.”
Hadrian followed her in silence, his mind racing. As the crowd parted for Zelvarn—unwilling to touch him—their lingering gazes fell on his scarred back even after he vanished from sight. In those scars, Hadrian realized, lay power—more than mere pain; they were a testament to what had been earned.
As the crowd began to disperse, their murmurs wove through the clearing like the last wisps of fog on the wind. Yet Hadrian caught more than one lingering stare—curious, calculating, weighing him against what they had seen. He squared his shoulders, vowing silently: Whatever comes next, whoever Dornogor sends against me, I will not falter. I will meet them head-on and earn Casselia’s faith.
Sylva watched Hadrian and Casselia depart the Mandate headquarters, her calm composure masking a tension born of scholarly curiosity and gnawing unease. When the door thudded shut behind them, she forced herself to face Alsarana as he resumed his tale of battling the Nightfeather Vulture Lord. The Eidolon beside her leaned forward, rapt—but Sylva’s attention drifted like smoke from a brazier.
Why did Casselia pull him away? Training? Discipline? Her nails bit into her palms as memories of Meris’ social ambush stung—not just the failure, but the painful realization that she’d become the sort of liability her Sect elders would have whipped raw. Casselia’s rebuke had been kinder than the elders’, yet the shame tasted all too familiar.
Abruptly, she rose and bowed to Alsarana with practiced, Sect-trained precision. “I request leave to walk the city—unless it is deemed perilous.”
The naga’s serpentine sway paused. Before he could respond, Krinka barked, “Nessa? Dangers?”
“So long as you don’t leave the city, it’ll be safe enough,” Nessa replied, her gaze steady on Sylva. After a brief pause, she added, “Keep an eye on the animals, girl—they sense danger better than you think.”
“The birds, better,” Krinka muttered before adding, “Don’t stay out past dark. Training starts early tomorrow—and if my gut’s right, it’ll be eventful.”
“Thank you,” Sylva said with a small nod as she turned toward the door, her steps measured and deliberate.
Lotem rose, with Sabel standing on his bison-fur cloak. “Company?” he asked, his tone light yet inviting.
“Will you be silent?”
His grin answered before he could speak further. They’d nearly reached the door when Alsarana called after them, “No trysts within Triumvirates, children! Youth’s fire burns bright, but—”
Sylva hadn’t even entertained the notion—and was mortified that Alsarana felt the need to mention it. Once the door swung shut, she turned to Lotem, her tone crisp and authoritative.
“Flesh is transient. You lack both the tailoring and the wit to tempt me. Do not, for a second, consider courting me.”
“Thank the Herd,” he drawled. “I’ve no interest in courting a living quilt—you’d only clash with my rustic charm.” He plucked at his cloak with a self-mocking gesture.
“A living quilt?” Sylva’s voice rose, sharper than she’d meant it to be. “You don’t even have an aesthetic.” With a scoff, she gestured at his bison-fur cloak. “Dead animal skin doesn’t count. What’s next—are you going to tell me wool is better than silk?”
“First, wool is superior. Second—” he nodded toward the street ahead, “—weren’t you seeking silence?”
“It was imperative you understood there is no romantic interest between us,” she declared with a huff before muttering, “The elders warned us about human men—enough stories to keep me cautious.”
Lotem’s laughter boomed. “I swear on my father’s herds—no romantic pursuit! It’s bad for teamwork, and you’re just not my type.” Sabel chirped in agreement from his shoulder.
“Now,” Lotem said, “are we heading somewhere specific, or just wandering aimlessly?”
Sylva shrugged. “I was thinking aimless wandering—unless you have somewhere in mind. My eyes are still adjusting after today.”
Sylva’s vision had sharpened—as though the world had come into focus. In truth, she was actually seeing more. Streams of dark, translucent fog swirled around her, drifting like smoke caught in a breeze. She allowed her gaze to follow the shadows as they wove through the streets, their movements both aimless and deliberate.
After a few minutes of silence, Lotem asked, “Did that—needle in the eye—hurt?” Sylva pulled her gaze from the swirling mist and glanced at him.
“The needle doesn’t bother me—it never has. Perks of being Silkborn, I guess.” She paused, her tone flattening. “But the mana potion I dropped in my eye to finish the process? That felt like acid eating through me.”
“So now you can see magic?”
“One doesn’t see ‘magic,’ Lotem. I see the Sulphen’s influence on the world.”
“And that’s not magic?”
“No, it’s not.” Sylva straightened, her posture growing more reminiscent of Krinka as she modulated her tone to imitate the scholar. “Magic, as you call it, is just the byproduct of using the Sulphen. The Sulphen is the soul of the world, and I see the ripples of its influence rather than the Sulphen itself.”
“So you see the Sulphen’s influence?”
“Exactly.”
“And that’s not magic.”
“Exactly.”
“But if you used that same influence you see to cast a spell, that would be magic.”
“I am glad you understand.”
Lotem sighed and muttered, “I should’ve known better than to ask a [Mage] about magic.”
“[Thaumaturge],” she corrected with a faint smile. “Now, let me focus.”
Sylva squinted, her gaze narrowing on a patch of swirling fog ahead. The substance felt primal, tugging at something deep within her, as the strings in her chest tightened. In that moment, Lotem’s distant voice faded into silence—she had asked for quiet, and now nothing else mattered.
The inky substance drifted toward a nearby rooftop, and Sylva’s eyes caught a black lemur with a tail tipped in vivid red—as if dipped in blood. The lemur moved its tail in deliberate, painterly strokes, and the dark mist responded eagerly, swirling and shifting with fervor.
With each stroke of its tail, the black mist surged upward, solidifying and shifting to mirror the lemur’s vivid red tip. On the sixth stroke, the substance flashed crimson—and then vanished. A triumphant screech erupted, soon followed by a cacophony of cries as black-and-white lemurs burst onto the rooftops, their forms erupting into view.
“Sylva,” Lotem said, his voice edged with exasperation. Meeting her eyes, he exhaled in relief before continuing, “Next time, give me a heads-up before you stop in the middle of the street to stare at a monkey. I got halfway down the block before I realized you weren’t there—and then the monkeys started screaming! I thought something was wrong.”
“Lemurs,” Sylva corrected absently, her attention fixed on the creature’s deliberate motions and the burst of magic from the Sulphen. It wasn’t mere chance—this lemur was casting a spell. A basic incantation, perhaps, but unmistakably a spell.
Sylva extended her hand, mimicking the lemur’s gestures with precise intent. The dark mist trembled in response yet refused to coalesce further. It was clear that mere physical mimicry wasn’t enough—the incantation required more than just motion.
Sylva dissected the spell as Krinka had taught her in Tir Na Nog. The lemur’s tail movements formed the incantation, instructing the Sulphen on how to manifest—the Word. The dark mist served as the spell’s fuel, its Sacrifice. Am I lacking the same Will as the lemur? she wondered.
Turning to Lotem, Sylva was startled to find him sitting on the ground, tossing cloth balls for Sabel to chase. He looked up, an eyebrow raised, as though silently urging her to explain what had just transpired.
“Back to the world of the living?” Lotem asked. “You corrected me on lemurs and then went completely silent. So, did you figure out how that spell summoned a whole troop of lemurs?”
“Magic,” Sylva replied with a faint smile. “I’ve been trying to imitate the spell.”
“Now it’s magic,” Lotem muttered, raising an inquisitive eyebrow. “And?”
Sylva shrugged and prepared to try again. Lotem fell silent as she raised her hand, carefully mimicking the lemur’s gestures. This time, she channeled every ounce of her will into the spell—a skill Krinka had always insisted was essential for every true spellcaster to develop their unique way of communicating with the Sulphen.
In northern Malan, choirs sang magic into being—their voices weaving each note into a command for the Sulphen. Meanwhile, the weaving guilds of the Kiel inscribed intricate, silken scripts to express their needs, and the Sulphen obliged. The Dion, for their part, carved their intent into bone or declared their truth aloud, bending reality to their will.
When Sylva first trained in Tir Na Nog, she believed that Imperial Poems were the primary conduits for power. Now, however, she was coming to realize that the Elders had imposed their own methodologies and preconceptions upon her—until Krinka showed her the truth.
What mattered wasn’t the method used to communicate with the Sulphen—it was the authenticity of that method, born from conviction and expressed in a style uniquely her own. Sylva trusted her instincts and acted on what felt right, imposing her understanding upon the world and forging order from chaos.
Sylva’s hand traced the six deliberate gestures the lemur had made. For her, magic was knowable—no mere beast could wield it in ways beyond her reach. Concentrating, she projected the lemurs’ desires—food, warmth, companionship—with each measured stroke.
The dark mist shifted, coalescing into a gathering cloud that surged toward her. As she finished the incantation, a burst of energy left her breathless. In that instant, the mist burned away, and the air erupted with hoots and calls as the lemurs—already close by—erupted into a chaotic ruckus.
“You’ve definitely improved at magic,” Lotem said, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “Only true talent could rival a mighty lemur. Now, can we keep moving? As much as I enjoy resting, we’re in the middle of the street—and these lemurs are a tad too active for my liking.”
“We may continue,” Sylva replied magnanimously, straightening her shoulders. “Though I had no destination in mind.”
“How do you feel about getting a drink?”
“As in, a bar?” Sylva asked, her tone notably flat.
“Exactly. There’s bound to be one nearby—every city has at least one good Bal bar. And Dornogor’s a shrined city; they might even have airag.”
“We have better uses for our time,” Sylva said, her tone as flat as her disinterest in Lotem’s exuberance.
“Like stopping in the street for minutes while I play with Sabel?” Lotem teased. “Bars aren’t just for drinks—they’re about company, conversation, and intel. This town must be buzzing with gossip about the contest. We might even hear something about Meris.”
Sylva glanced back at the rooftops—now swarming with lemurs—and sighed. She could always return to practicing incantations later, but Lotem had a point: intelligence and information were key to success. She was confident in her own smarts, yet they still lacked crucial information. And if she could uncover something new about Meris and his role here, a little frivolity might just be worth it.
“Fine,” she said at last. “One drink—but if they serve airag, you’re explaining its purpose.”
Lotem grinned, adjusting his cloak with a flourish. “You’ll love it. Trust me.”
As they began walking, Sylva cast one last glance at the lemurs on the rooftops, their antics slowly fading into the background. Her mind returned to the spell she had attempted—wondering how else creatures might communicate with the Sulphen, or if this particular lemur was unique. Either way, there was much more to learn.
Lotem absently scratched behind Sabel’s ears as they walked, her purr a resonant hum against his shoulder. Despite the earlier chaos among the lemurs, the kitten remained as unflappable as Wilson or Warma—a fact that both amused and puzzled him. He had braced for her to recoil at the hooting cries, but instead, she responded with a sharp flare of indignation, followed by a smug vigilance to keep the creatures at bay. Her pride brooked no rivals.
He glanced back at Sylva, trailing a few paces behind with the wide-eyed wonder of a scholar dissecting the Sulphen’s influence—or whatever arcane term she preferred. Lotem still didn’t grasp the mechanics of her craft. At least Hadrian’s martial kata was visible, but Sylva? In Tir Na Nog, she’d somehow tethered the Sunborn’s flames to Morvan’s armor, melting the Numen’s defenses. Krinka called it sympathy; Lotem called it a nightmare. Who would don metal armor after that without fearing they’d roast like a hare on a spit?
A distant commotion erupted near the city’s central tree. Lotem tilted his head upward, watching tendrils of fog seep from the canopy like sap, pooling at the trunk’s base. Few could conjure such mist—and even fewer would dare scale that towering growth. None among the Bal, at least.
Trees unsettled him—grotesque monuments to looming peril. Hadrian’s tales of Kiel arboreal cities had curdled his blood. Living suspended in branches? He thanked the gods he was born Bal, where the soil stayed firm underfoot. Slowing his stride, he caught Sylva’s wandering gaze and nodded toward the fog.
“Hadrian and Casselia’s handiwork, no doubt,” he said. “I vote we find a drink and let them scheme in peace. Cass will have some plot brewing—and I’ve had enough scoldings today to last a decade.”
Sylva squinted at the mist-shrouded canopy. “Agreed. That fog reeks of Hadrian’s nostalgia for treetops. But if it stirs trouble, we’ll want to hear every bit of gossip.”
“Bound to be.” Lotem resumed walking, passing a young woman astride a white-haired ox. Her fur cloak and sunburnt skin marked her as kin, and the ox’s pelt draped over her shoulders spoke of hard-won honor. He hailed her warmly, “Cousin! Point us to the nearest drink?”
She turned, her eyes lingering on Sabel before crinkling with recognition. “Cousin! The Tears of the Plains Wolf lies ahead—boasting the best wolf’s heart in Dornogor and airag strong enough to floor a mammoth. Go hungry at your peril.” Her heavy drawl and thick accent lent every word a warm, southern lilt.
“Where do you hail from?” Lotem asked as he approached, extending a hand toward the ox in greeting. “And where did you find this beaut of an ox?”
“Born and raised in Yumakan—the City of Endless Tribute. This is Chuluun,” she said, patting the ox fondly as it let out a braying moo. “I earned her trust during the Trial of the Herds, and even the Sulphen recognized our natural bond. My folks always said I was as stubborn as an ox.” She let out a roaring laugh that made Lotem wonder if she’d already had a drink tonight. “Now, you must’ve found your companion in the Trial of the Hunt—I’ve heard that one’s rough, worse than a lame rabbit on the run if you don’t have a full Triumvirate.”
Trials. The word set Lotem’s pulse racing, memories of Tir Na Nog rushing back. These Trials must be like what they faced there. The thought of returning to such an ordeal made him shudder. It can’t be worse than Tir Na Nog… can it?
“We haven’t had the chance to enter either the Trial of the Hunt or the Trial of the Herd yet,” Sylva said confidently, stepping forward to stand beside Lotem. “What does the Trial of the Herd entail?”
The woman’s eyes narrowed as she scrutinized Sylva, then shifted to Lotem with an incredulous look. “Cousin, you’ve teamed up with one of the Silkborn?” she said, disregarding the original question. Then, turning back to Sylva, she nodded as if to confirm her own assessment.
“Well—” Lotem began, but before he could continue, the woman cut him off.
“No offense miss—”
“Sylva of Clan Strenath,” she interjected crisply.
“I ain’t got nothin’ against you Silkborn,” the woman said with a grin. “After all, who doesn’t appreciate having perfect faces around? Nobody ever complains about beautiful folks—even if you’re fiercer than a hyena in heat. It’s just… surprisin’.”
Lotem could almost feel Sylva’s inner strings tightening with every grammatical misstep the woman made. He recalled encountering UlaanBal speakers—folks from remote, southern tribes far removed from trade centers like Yumakan, the powerful gateway to UlaanThur, the Eternal City of Silk and Spice. He would have expected someone from Yumakan to speak with a polish he was accustomed to. He dismissed the itching thought. Who was he to judge a stranger?
“We are more than just flawless beauty or perfect forms,” Sylva stated, straightening her posture as if that alone could bolster her point.
“And about as humble as my Grams said to expect from sentient clothes. I always knew that robes for skin would make you uppity,” the woman said with a smile that barely eased the tension. “Not to be racist or nothin’.”
Sylva’s eyebrows knit together as she fixed her full attention on the woman. A sudden, unexpected rush of fury pulsed through Lotem—his blood pounding in a rhythm that filled his ears. He paused, trying to pinpoint the cause. He’d expected outsiders to stereotype him for his Bal cloak and heritage—but he’d believed his own people would treat others with more respect.
“Now, now, now,” she stammered, her words tumbling out as she seemed to notice his anger. “I didn’t mean nothin’ by it—honestly. My folks always told me not to rush to judge others who are different, but—well—after his reaction…”
“Meris?” Sylva’s indignation melted into sharp interest. “He was unkind when you spoke to him the way you did to me?”
“Somethin’ like that,” the woman replied, scowling. “Told him he looked good—hard not to when a man’s finer than a chicken plucked for the Festival of Herds. Then he called me uglier than a tangled string! Said he’d rather fuck a pile o’ wool than spend another second near me.”
Judging by Sylva’s reaction, that was a grave insult among the Silkborn. Lotem’s anger began to fade as Sylva questioned the woman about Meris, prying into every detail of his words and behavior. To the Bal woman, her interest might have looked like jealousy, but Lotem knew better. He hadn’t asked Sylva about her history with Meris in the Sect, but it was clear the man hadn’t been a friend. If anything, Sylva seemed ready to kill him for shaming her in front of her mentor or some other Malan nonsense.
When the interrogation ended, Sylva straightened, her usual poise restored.
“If it helps,” Sylva said with a faint smile, “I do not think you’re uglier than tangled string—in fact, I find that implication offensive. String is never ugly, and you certainly don’t resemble it.”
Lotem wasn’t sure Sylva’s remark landed as the compliment she intended. As the woman processed her words, Lotem stepped in, drawing her attention.
“Interested in joining us for a drink at Tears of the Plains Wolf? We just arrived in Dornogor, and you seem to know the way of things here. Airag and food—our treat.”
“Kemrek of Yumakan don’t turn down free airag—I promised it to myself, and I ain’t no liar.”
As Kemrek led them down the street, Lotem introduced himself and made small talk with the Bal woman, while Sylva listened intently and chimed in with her own questions. He learned that Kemrek had been rejected by the Malan and Kiel candidates she was paired with in the Room of Threefold Oaths. Although she didn’t state it outright, Lotem gathered that they had preferred to travel to Kiel lands and the canopy cities of the Fologian Forest. He didn’t blame her for avoiding the treetops—it wasn’t natural for someone from her background to live so high above the ground.
She had chosen Dornogor in hopes of finding an animal companion—a beast she could nurture and eventually bring back to her family once her service to the empire ended. Lotem felt a surge of jealousy as she described her seamless transition from the Room of Threefold Oaths to the portal in Dornogor. Why hadn’t she been taken by the unstable zone, deposited in a forest of bone to be attacked by monsters? Why had she not been locked in a trial that threatened to imprison her for months? Another surge of anger welled up inside him, only to be tempered when Sabel released a feral growl, reminding him to rein in his emotions.
Kemrek appeared ready to ask him a question after Sabel’s growl, but she held her tongue as they turned a street corner and spotted a large, circular tent made of hide, with a thick column of smoke rising from a hole at its apex.
The Tears of the Plains Wolf was easily large enough to hold dozens of people and even from a distance Lotem could tell that the tent was filled from the boisterous laughter and buzz of conversation pouring from the doorway. It reminded him of the traveling merchants that would arrive to host the Zherenkhan with a grand feast to kick off their trade. It reminded him of home.
Lotem paused, taking in the sight and noise coming from the tent before turning to Sylva with as large of a grin as he could muster. She met his gaze and, raising an eyebrow with a faint smile, gestured towards the bar as if to say, ‘lead the way.’ Lotem did, happily striding forwards, his long legs carrying him across the distance in the rush. He scratched Sabels head as he ducked to move through the doorway, just in case there was a surprise inside that would spook the young cat.
At the center of the tent stood a circular bar built around a roaring fire pit and a large stone oven—enough heat radiated to be felt even at the doorway. Yet the heat was secondary to the array of scents permeating the air: a deep, primal aroma of sizzling meat—wolf’s heart seared over open flames if his eyes weren’t mistaken, its iron-rich tang mingling with rendered fat and a whisper of char—filled him with a furious hunger. His eyes darted to a great iron cauldron hanging above the fire, from which the rich, gamey scent of slow-simmered stew competed with that of the meat. The stew, thick with bone broth carrying the marrow’s essence and laced with sharp fermented herbs—a blend of juniper, mugwort, and sweeter, almost floral spices from the Gondaran Marsh just north of Dornogor—completed the sensory feast.
“Why you stoppin’ in the doorway? What are ya, a teen seeing tits for the first time? Move. Move.” Kemrek barked as she pushed past him, a blush creeping onto his cheeks amid the sudden, amused glances from nearby tables—filled with candidates and Eidolons. He shuffled forward while Sylva rested a hand against his back, momentarily freezing his movement.
“Don’t let our foul-mouthed friend worry you,” Sylva said with a gentle smirk. “It’s as clear as glass—you’re just taking in the familiar sights in a place that’s anything but familiar. No one should judge you for that.” She withdrew her hand from his back and strode toward Kemrek, who had already claimed a seat at the bar and was ordering drinks. “Now, enjoy yourself, Lotem. Buy me some of that airag you’re so excited about, and I’ll offer my judgment on its quality. We Malan only appreciate the finest of tastes,” she added with a wink.
By the time they reached the bar, Kemrek already clutched a large clay mug and took a heavy swig, leaving a white film on her lip. Lotem sat next to her and, meeting the gaze of a bartender—a man nearly as tall as Lotem, with thick black hair braided along his back and hide clothing stitched with intricate colored patterns—ordered two mugs for them. Sylva took a seat beside him as the bartender returned, setting the creamy drinks on the counter. Lotem then paid for all the drinks before taking a deep gulp from his own mug.
The milky drink awakened his tongue with a sharp tang and a cascade of fizzing bubbles. Its sweet, grassy undertone spoke of mares grazing on wild herbs—likely from the herds they’d glimpsed as they traveled to Dornogor. Lotem let out a satisfied sigh at the flavor while glancing at Sylva, who stared at her mug as though fearing it might bite her.
“This is made from… milk?” she asked hesitantly. “I knew airag was a Bal drink for herders, but milk? Why would we want to drink liquid from an animal?” She turned the cup in her hands, eyeing the cloudy, fizzing liquid with suspicion. “Doesn’t it spoil?”
Lotem chuckled and leaned back. “It does—that’s why we ferment it.” He gestured at her cup. “Drink it fresh, and it’ll turn your stomach. Leave it to the air, and it becomes something else—sharp, alive, and stronger than plain water. It keeps the body moving and the blood warm in winter.”
She hesitated, sniffing the drink and then looking to Lotem uncertainly. He inhaled deeply, the aroma of sour berries, aged cheese, and fermented grasses drawing a smile to his face. Grinning at her, he set his mug down, crossed his arms, and waited.
“When my parents gave me airag for the first time, I looked just as skeptical—though I suspect I was more used to drinking milk than you are. They told me this: the first sip’s a test, the second’s a promise, and the third means you’re one of us.”
She frowned at him, then—before she could second-guess herself—lifted the cup and took a cautious sip. A sudden, wild cough erupted from her, and she set the mug down with a grimace. Kemrek burst into laughter while the bartender managed a discreet smile.
Lotem stifled a barking laugh as Sylva turned to him with a look of betrayed indignation. “There’s the test,” he remarked.
“Do people drink that for enjoyment?” she asked, glancing back at the mug with confusion. “Why is it fizzy? The flavor isn’t bad, but the texture—like thick water with tickling bubbles—who likes that?”
“People drink airag for strength,” he corrected. “For warmth, for the road—and because the more you drink, the better it gets.” Tapping his mug against hers with a knowing smirk, he took another swig.
She pushed her mug toward him with a shake of her head. “The elders always warned me to be wary of the promises I make in Aslavain—I think this is one I can safely avoid.” Meeting the bartender’s eye, she engaged in a quiet conversation about alternative drink options. The man chuckled good-naturedly as she requested something more to her taste before bustling away. Meanwhile, Lotem savored the flavor of his airag as the bartender muddled berries, mixed syrups, and poured a clear alcohol into a new mug for Sylva. After a sip of the fruity drink, she let out a contented sigh.
“So, Kemrek,” Sylva said after a moment, turning the Bal woman’s attention toward them from a nearby table of candidates she had been eyeing with an almost feral looking hunger. “Has there been anything out of the ordinary in Dornogor over the last few weeks?”
“Aside from that black snake—well, then a skeleton snake that flew off into the distance a few hours after I arrived—nothin’ much.” She paused, then continued, “That was the talk of the town for days. You don’t often see a necromantic construct soaring through the skies. Some of the Dion candidates even looked ready to chase it down before the Eidolons announced it was headin’ to Tir Na Nog. The Dion seem about as interested in meeting the folks of Tir Na Nog as a ruttin’ stage is in asking permission before mounting a doe.”
Kemrek spat onto the dirt floor of the tent, leaning back in her seat and taking a heavy pull of airag. “If the Eidolons hadn’t spoken up, I reckon we’d have seen a chase fit for the old epics, with all the grace of a pack of hounds after a bitch in heat. I figured that would be the end of it. Necromantic snakes are rarer than a raw steak after all, but,” she paused, leaning forwards and whispering almost conspiratorially, “I heard just today that the snake was seen approaching from the south with other Eidolons and a trio of candidates.”
“Kemrek,” she interjected, “do you really think that snake is a mentor to a triumvirate? That must be quite the group. Did you hear anything else about them?”
Lotem wasn’t entirely surprised at how effortlessly Sylva played the clueless traveler, her eyes wide and disbelieving as she listened to Kemrek. Yet the ease with which she misled the woman reminded him that the Silkborn were trained for this. It recalled the smooth, almost casual way Meris had turned the tables on Hadrian and him earlier—and reminded him that, as much as Sylva was his friend, she was still a product of the Sect of Silken Grace with all its Malan rigor.
“Oh, nothin’ too specific about those folks. But now that I think about it, the Eidolons were buzzing when I was on my walk—before you stopped me, I saw a half-dozen Eidolons with candidates trailing behind them as they headed for the shrine.” She paused, noticing the slight furrow in his brows. “The shrine—you know, the tree at the center of the city? It’s big enough to curse us all and tall enough to cast the city into shade at midday. That shrine.”
“And the tree—the shrine, really—aren’t people forbidden from approaching it?” Sylva asked.
“Approach it?”
Kemrek rubbed the back of her neck as she took another swig of airag, then paused to order a refill from the watchful bartender. “You can approach the shrine just fine—the city center is built against one side of the tree, which gives you access. Of course, access is restricted for security until the contest in a few weeks.” She downed another heavy drink and then let out a burp loud enough to startle Sabel, who was intently watching from his perch. “I heard a few Kiel candidates tried to climb the tree the first week here. The Eidolons did not appreciate that at all.”
Lotem met Sylva’s gaze, and the Silkborn woman sighed, rolling her eyes. Nodding as though expecting nothing less from Kemrek’s words, she remarked, “Asking the Kiel to remain on the ground is like asking a fish to make its home in the branches of a tree.”
Kemrek brightened at Sylva’s remark, nodding enthusiastically. “The Kiel wouldn’t know how to live on the ground if it had them on the ground—legs splayed and panting like a bitch in heat.” She paused to take in Sylva’s shocked expression, then burst into a heavy peal of laughter, downing more airag and slapping her thigh as if part of some grand joke. Lotem began to wonder whether she was purposely trying to unsettle Sylva—or if, perhaps, she just had an appetite for crude humor.
“The Bal wouldn’t know decorum if someone bent them over a feast table in front of their ancestors’ bones,” an angry male voice boomed from a table a dozen paces away. Lotem glanced over and saw a pale-skinned man in silken robes, his flushed red face betraying his drunken state. Deciding not to escalate the argument further—since they’d traded insults in good fun and the Kiel man had retorted in kind—Lotem saw no reason to antagonize the man any more.
“Now them’s fightin’ words,” Kemrek declared loudly, a slight slur tinting her speech. Lotem frowned—one airag shouldn’t have gotten her that drunk, not with the tolerance he expected. As Kemrek stood and began moving toward the man, Lotem gently placed a hand on her shoulder to halt her.
“Decorum was never taught in my clan,” Lotem declared, his voice carrying to the tense, watchful crowd. “But I was taught that it’s rude to jump into a stranger’s conversation with insults.”
“You’re the ones who started the insults,” the man retorted, his words slurred by drink. “You Bal think you can be real citizens while the rest of us are forgotten after the invasion. My ancestor—an Eidolon—was enlisted to fight the Bal. He warned me never to trust the veneer of civility. He even said you’re worse than a Dion.”
If Lotem had been hoping to defuse the tension, he knew he failed as a man dressed in armor that resembled chain mail, if the rings of the mail were formed from a a metal pale as ivory, slammed his mug onto the table and rose, hand falling to the sword on his belt. Bone armor and a temper even faster to spark than his own? Lotem had no question that the man was Dion and that he had taken the insult far more seriously than Lotem himself had.
“You have a problem with the Dion?” the man asked, his words laced with a coiled tension that hinted at sudden violence.
“And if I do?” the Kiel man retorted, turning to the Dion before spitting on the floor. “You Dion can pretend you’re heroes—saving the empire from the Tul—but we all know the truth. You failed to stand against the Bal. You failed against the Beast Kings. You failed to keep the Empire from its only civil war. The Dion are cowards, one—”
The Kiel man never finished his sentence as the Dion man closed the distance in a blink. A pale, gauntleted hand lashed upward, striking the Kiel man’s chin and sending him tumbling in a crash that silenced the tavern. The Dion man then slowly scanned the room, glancing at the groaning Kiel man as he struggled to find his bearings before spitting on him.
“Anyone else got something to say about Dion honor?” he demanded, his gaze hard. One of the Kiel man’s companions stood, drawing a wooden knife the deep red of polished hardwood from a sheath on his silken robe. In response, the Dion man returned his grip to his sword’s hilt, clearly ready for sudden violence.
“What. Is. This.” A crisp, firm voice resonated from the tent’s entrance.
Lotem spun, his gaze landing on the man standing in the threshold. Silver hair caught the light like tempered steel, with loose strands shifting as he moved. His face—carved by time and hardship, sharp-cheeked and severe, with lines hinting at weariness or restraint—was framed by a heavy bison-fur cloak draped over one shoulder. Beneath it, layers of worn but well-kept leather and wool added to his imposing aura. His piercing gray eyes swept the room with measured, cold discernment, like a hunter searching for his prey.
The bartender stepped forward and spoke reluctantly, as though cowed by the man before him. “Just a brawl—nothing to worry about, Clawmaster. You know how candidates get after drink. No harm done; I’ve kept an eye on things.”
Lotem wasn’t sure what authority the title “Clawmaster” carried, but judging by the bartender’s reaction, this man was important in the city. That made Lotem even more wary as he took in the furious eyes and tensed fists before him. He realized the man looked furious—though perhaps not solely because of the bar fight—but as someone spoiling for a fight, eager for any excuse to unleash violence. Slowly, Lotem sat back down, hoping to avoid the man’s notice as the Clawmaster stepped further into the tent, his voice nearly a snarl with anger.
“Do you think your time in Aslavain is a game?” he demanded, his bottled fury silencing the room. Pointing to a group of Eidolons finishing their meal, he continued, “Did Dornogor send you here just to laze about and get drunk? Do you think the empire is footing the bill for your existence so you can have a vacation?” The Eidolons paled, but before they could respond, he whirled—almost spitting with rising fury.
“And you,” he said, pointing to the Dion man—who stood frozen, hand still on his sword hilt, towering above the fallen Kiel man he had struck—“do you think drawing blades in a tavern is behavior fit for the next generation of the empire’s champions? Did you expect the Eidolons to simply ignore your blatant rule violations?”
“He—”
“Silence!” the Clawmaster thundered. “If you want to fight your fellow candidates, do it properly in the arena—where at least one Justiciar can ensure you keep what little honor remains.” He strode forward, his gaze sweeping the tent in a slow cadence that raised the hairs on Lotem’s arm. This was not the behavior Lotem expected from an Eidolon of authority. The Clawmaster lashed out at any excuse for conflict, and Lotem resolved not to give him further cause for ire.
“Aslavain is the realm of champions—a relic of the First Empire that knows no equal worldwide,” the Clawmaster declared, his tone suddenly deathly calm. “The Sul Empire’s contract allows any youth to enter for a single year and prove themselves. Each city spends years preparing its Eidolons—investing resources and focus—not just to run trials for your growth, but to stage a contest with rewards grander than any youth could dream of. With the resources committed to Aslavain every year, we could eliminate the Tul, push back the southern raiders harassing the cities along the Grass Belt, lower taxes throughout the empire, and usher in a golden age of trade and prosperity. In short, when I see candidates—or, even worse, Eidolons—wasting that opportunity, it angers me.”
Lotem had never heard someone so important explicitly state the empire’s cost for Aslavain. He had assumed those resources might be better used in the war against the Tul, but hearing it confirmed almost made him feel guilty for getting a drink tonight—even though he knew none of them were slacking off on their duties. In his heart, Lotem was confident that his triumvirate had worked harder than anyone else here; this was the first real break he’d had in weeks. Why, then, did he have to encounter one of Dornogor’s leaders on a warpath tonight of all nights?
“Worse,” the Clawmaster continued, “this cycle’s contest has attracted some of the [Venerate] into Dornogor.” He scanned the tent, then shook his head and clenched his jaw. “Each [Venerate] is measurably more powerful than the Eidolons here, and they all share one thing in common: by contractual obligation, they will train your peers until you have no chance at success. The scions of the [Venerate] intend to claim the contest’s rewards. They plan to grow powerful by beating you down until even the Sulphen recognizes their dominance and rewards them accordingly. If you’re spending your time in Aslavain drinking and fighting outside the arena, you’re already miles behind.”
The Clawmaster nearly shook with fury as he finished his speech. Lotem wondered what had set the man off so intensely. The candidates all knew they’d fallen behind the best in the cycle, and they understood that drinking and bar fights wouldn’t lead to true success. So why was this Clawmaster spelling out obvious facts—as if their failure reflected directly on his own reputation?
“One of those [Venerate]—” he enunciated the title as though it were an insult, “has challenged us, the Eidolons of Dornogor, to prove we can pull our weight in the empire. Every day at noon, her Triumvirate will accept challenges in the dueling arena. Win, and not only will you have the chance to steal the title of [Squire of Carven Bone], but I will personally ensure you’re properly compensated for your achievements.”
Lotem should have known that Casselia—and Hadrian by proxy—were the cause of the man’s fury. He had seen the fog drifting from the great tree and knew that Eidolons and candidates had likely confronted his teammates. Yet he hadn’t expected such a stir so quickly. As he scanned the room, he noticed the shifting crowd at the Clawmaster’s offer. The chance to impress an important Eidolon of the city—and even become champion of one of the Last Immortals—was tempting, and he couldn’t blame anyone for being lured by it.
“Now,” the Clawmaster continued, “I am seeking proper talent to train to compete against this affront. If you are an Eidolon, leave—now. You are not needed here; you have work to do.” He paused, his intense gaze causing all the Eidolons—except the bartender and cook—to rush out, desperate to escape his furious stare. “Candidates, if you believe you have the commitment and power to challenge the scions of a [Venerate], stand now.”
Slowly, candidates began to stand. The most militaristic among them did so quickly, seemingly excited by the prospect, while even the more peaceful candidates eventually rose—none daring to provoke the Clawmaster’s ire. Even Kemrek stood, though Lotem doubted her combat skills would satisfy the man. After a few moments, only Lotem and Sylva remained seated. Lotem felt tempted to stand, but they already had mentors with plans for them. What would happen if they chose to challenge themselves now?
The Clawmaster’s gaze swept approvingly through the room before settling on Sylva and Lotem, his eyes narrowing and his mouth forming a frown. He scanned the room a second time, slowly meeting the eyes of everyone present, then turned back toward them with a scowl.
“Are you not ashamed of your cowardice?” he demanded in a hard tone. “Out of dozens, only you have refused the opportunity for greatness.”
“You think you have the capability to train us?” Sylva replied lightly—as though chatting with a friend rather than addressing an imposing Eidolon. “What gives you the faintest idea that you’re good enough for us?”
Lotem wished he’d spoken up before Sylva did. Intellectually, he knew she was the better diplomat—trained to make deals and navigate rhetorical traps. Yet he wasn’t sure she had the temperament for it; her challenge to the Clawmaster brimmed with an arrogance that still surprised him, as if she truly believed she was superior to the man before her.
Lotem hoped Casselia’s diplomacy would eventually rub off on Sylva—the [Venerate] at least knew how to avoid unnecessary conflict. Yet he couldn’t shake the thought that Casselia’s own style might have sparked their current troubles. Perhaps he hoped that Krinka’s influence would temper Sylva instead.
The Clawmaster’s gaze narrowed and his head tilted slightly in confusion—then, the moment he grasped her implication, his muscles tensed and a rictus of fury returned to his face.
“You dare—” the Clawmaster began, but Sylva stood, turned to thank the bartender, and slid her drink closer to his side of the bar. Ignoring the Clawmaster, she turned to Lotem and met his eyes. Realizing her intent, he finished his airag in one long drink before sliding his own mug next to hers.
“Thank you for the drink,” Sylva said primly to the bartender, loud enough for the entire room to hear. “I’m afraid poor company has driven us out—but I do hope we’re welcome to return in the future.”
“Who do you think you are?” the Clawmaster roared, his fury suddenly unleashed as he stepped closer.
“I am one of the Silkborn of the Sect of Silken Grace. My lineage has more history than Dornogor, and I have more potential than anyone in this rundown, backwater shrine who thinks they can beat the student of a [Venerate] with a week’s coaching by an Eidolon lacking the emotional regulation not to yell at crowds centuries younger than himself. It’s shameful, really.”
Sylva raised her hand imperiously as the Clawmaster began to speak, cutting him off. “Do you think the [Triumvirate of the Broken Crown] are afraid of you and your petty local grievances?” she asked, her tone suddenly curious. She then let out a tinkling laugh—a sound Lotem suspected was meant to provoke. “Our mentors slew Gransa the Suneater and earned an Imperial Poem in their name. When you can barely hold a candle to their honor and glory, you can consider training us. Lotem, come; I suspect we should get a good night’s sleep rather than watch him recruit anyone who dares challenge us.”
As they passed the man on their way out of the tent, the Clawmaster spoke quietly—so quietly that only Lotem and Sylva could hear him. “You will regret this, girl. If you think your mentors can protect you—”
Sylva interjected, her voice loud enough to carry across the room, “Imperial Law—as drafted in the 212th House of Lords, subsection six, paragraph eight—is clear: an Eidolon cannot threaten a candidate in Aslavain unless that candidate has violated a standing law. Tell me, Clawmaster, what law do you claim we’ve broken to justify your threats?”
Sylva stood within arms reach of the man, her gaze locked on the Eidolons. Lotem half expected the man to strike her. If anything, Sylva was the one throwing threats around. Lotem didn’t think she was making up an imperial law, but he still didn’t expect the Clawmaster to break gazes first. The Clawmaster turned away from them with a grunt and a furious, “Go, out of my sight.”
As they stepped out onto the street, Sylva turned to Lotem and smiled. “If every bar experience is that eventful, we need to get drinks more often. That was invaluable.”
“You made an enemy tonight,” Lotem said.
“Casselia made an enemy for us—while I merely stoked the anger. You should know better than most, Lotem: an angry enemy is more dangerous, for anger often blinds rather than illuminates. Now, come; we have mentors to return to and plenty to discuss.”