Chapter 32


    Ghostly Splendor


    The metallic forest pulses around me, its alien geometry twisting with each blast of energy that tears through the clearing. My ribs throb, a constant reminder of the battle with Castor. But it is the Skathrith''s presence that threatens to overwhelm me—its hunger, its rage, its desire to consume everything in sight.


    Eat. Eat. Eat.


    The whispers crescendo as the five attackers draw closer, their weapons casting sharp lines of light through the shadows. Each step they take is measured, coordinated. They mean to end this quickly.


    I could give in. Let the blade''s power surge through me, tear them apart as it yearns to do. The temptation burns in my veins, a fire that promises both salvation and destruction.


    But there is another way. I feel it in the strange stillness that emanates from where Binah stands, her pale form unmoved by the chaos around us. Her violet eyes hold mine across the clearing, and in them, I see something beyond the violence the Skathrith demands.


    "Show me," I say, my voice cutting through the hum of charged weapons and shifting metal. "Show me what you can do."


    Binah''s head tilts, that familiar, subtle movement that always seems to precede something significant. The forest appears to hold its breath as she takes a step forward, her movement causing ripples in the very fabric of space around her.


    The clearing falls silent as Binah steps forward, and my breath catches at the sight. Her movements transcend mere practice or skill—they are Ath''rihn in its purest form. Each step flows like water over stone, precise yet effortless. My mother''s training floods back to me: Wave of Stillness bends reality around Binah''s form, Whispering Reed guides her between the metallic trees. The perfection of it stings—hours of practice in our garden feel clumsy in comparison.


    Her hand rises, pale fingers catching the artificial light. The nearest attacker''s spear snaps upward as if struck, its energy core dying with a sputter. Before he can recover, another charges with a war cry that dies in his throat. Binah shifts into Moonlit Reflection, her body turning like smoke in a breeze. The attacker pitches forward, his balance stolen by forces I can barely perceive.


    The metallic branches above us creak and groan. A third attacker raises his weapon, but Binah''s control extends beyond our immediate space. A branch whips down, deflecting his shot before his finger can fully squeeze the trigger. The energy blast dissipates harmlessly into the canopy.


    The fourth rushes in low, weapon extended. Binah does not even look his way. Invisible threads snag his legs mid-stride, and he crashes to his knees with a sound of confusion and pain. His arms flail outward, caught in a puppeteer''s web I cannot see but whose effects ripple through the air around us.


    Each movement links to the next in an unbroken chain of cause and effect. This is not combat—it is choreography where only one dancer knows the steps.


    The grace of her movements hits me like a physical blow.


    Each step, each turn—they are not responses but predetermined points in space, as if she is dancing through a moment that has not arrived yet. My throat tightens as I watch her dodge an attack before the attacker even thinks to strike.


    The forms flow through her like water. Ocean''s Heart, the most challenging of the water sequences, appears effortless in her execution. My muscles ache with phantom memory—hours spent in our garden, Mother''s gentle corrections, the burn of holding each position until it became perfect. Or what I thought was perfect.If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    Binah moves like I once did, before the weight of the trials crushed that purity from me. Before the Skathrith''s hunger corrupted my movements with its violent need. The revelation strikes hard: she has my semblance. The ability to perceive time''s flow, to exist between moments—but there is more. Those threads she wields, invisible but devastating, pluck at something in my memory.


    A flash of darkness. Cold water. Threads binding my arm as blades—


    I slap myself across the face, hard enough to leave my cheek stinging.


    Not now.


    I cannot afford to lose myself in those memories, not here, not when—


    The sharp pain centers me, anchors me to this moment. I force my attention back to Binah''s display of mastery, even as my chest constricts with a mixture of awe and bitter envy.


    The final attacker''s weapon casts an eerie glow across the metallic trees as he charges forward. Binah shifts her weight, dropping into Iron Roots with such perfect form that my chest aches. Each movement mirrors my mother''s teachings with impossible precision.


    Her transition into Falcon''s Dive is fluid, crossing the space between them in a heartbeat. Her hand rises toward the boy''s throat, and I see the familiar flex of her fingers—the same gesture that preceded devastation in our previous encounters.


    But something catches my eye. The attacker''s face, illuminated by his weapon''s glow, is young. Too young. His eyes shine with raw fear, and suddenly I am back in the waters of Nenuphar, feeling threads tighten around my arm as other children surround me with blades.


    "Enough!"


    My voice cuts through the clearing, sharper than intended.


    The pain in my ribs flares as I straighten, but I ignore it.


    Binah turns to face me, her expression calm and untroubled, as if she had not been about to unleash devastating force on a youth no older than I. The serenity in her face makes my stomach turn.


    "Armigers," I say, taking a step forward despite my body''s protest. "They''re just Armigers."


    Binah''s hand drops to her side, releasing whatever invisible hold she had on the boy. He crumples to his knees, his weapon clattering against the metal ground. His shoulders shake as he draws ragged breaths, and I see tears tracking down his face.


    The five of them huddle together now, their weapons scattered across the metallic ground. Without the charged spears casting their eerie glow, I see them clearly for the first time. Their shaved heads and lean builds speak of months of harsh training.


    My chest tightens as understanding dawns. "You''re going through the Crucible," I say, keeping my voice steady despite the exhaustion that weighs on me.


    One of them—older than the rest, though still young—steps forward. His face is ashen, caught between trying to appear strong and failing to hide his fear. "You''re not supposed to be here," he manages, the words coming out shaky. "This trial—it''s for us."


    I nod slowly, my jaw clenching as pieces click into place. These are not trained killers or hardened warriors. They are initiates, like I am, thrown into the meat grinder of the Crucible''s endless trials.


    The recognition sits heavy in my gut.


    Their fear, their desperation—I have felt it all before.


    We are all just pieces being moved across a board.


    Binah watches silently from the shadows as I look at these boys, really look at them. They are not my enemies. They are reflections of what I am, what countless others have been. Just children trying to survive a system built to break them.


    As the Armigers retreat into the metallic forest, I hesitate. Their fear hangs in the air, thick and tangible, like the whispers of the Skathrith coiling through my mind. I watch them disappear into the strange forest, their footsteps swallowed by the hum of this living, alien place.


    But something is not right. I feel it—beneath my feet, in the subtle vibrations of the metallic ground, in the faint resonance of the Skathrith pulsing above me. This is not over. The next trial is waiting, and it will not let any of us—Armigers or otherwise—face it alone.


    Binah stands beside me, her violet eyes as inscrutable as ever. She tilts her head slightly, waiting for me to act. I do not move. My gaze remains fixed on the path the Armigers took, my jaw clenched tight.


    “Together,” I murmur under my breath, the word foreign on my tongue. Then louder, firmer: “They will need us.”


    I step forward, my eyes tracing the faint trail left by the boys. The forest shifts around me, alive with whispers and the promise of another test. Binah follows silently, her presence steady and grounding.


    The metallic clearing ahead bends and flickers, the shapes of alien creatures flickering at the edges of my vision. The Armigers are closer than I expected. Their panicked shouts pierce the stillness, pulling me onward.