《The Shattered Empire》


 Prologue

    Memories spill from my mind like dross, unbound by the sequence of time.


    Each flash more vivid than the last, a collision of past, present, and moments yet to unfold. Through the dark water, hair-like roots twist and writhe, their embedded eyes watching, unblinking. My own eyes burn for the sight of them, and, for an instant, the pain is fiercer than the ache in my chest.


    Too many. Much too many for such a short life.


    I am only six.If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    They float above me like the bubbles of air that have already escaped my mouth, brighter than the purple-azure light filtering through Nenuphar''s floating blooms. My vision blurs, then I am thrust back to the darkness of my birth, an event marked by pain and a desperate struggle for life. It is a memory enveloped in shadows, a room devoid of warmth, where my first cries were swallowed by the throbbing light.


    Then, just as swiftly, my mind catapults forward. I see glimpses of impossibly bright stars, fragmented and disjointed by squinted eyes. My lungs burn as horror seeps into my bones. Images flicker: a glowing figure, a floating citadel, a sky torn asunder.


    Amidst this temporal chaos, a constant remains¡ªthe sensation of pain. It binds these disparate times together until I remember...


    I remember everything.

 Chapter 1 - Presentiment

    Chapter 1


    Presentiment


    The future haunts me. It hangs above me as a ghostly specter, scaling the remnant of the World Eater, a pitted monument of the Second Shattering. Its flickering details solidify the farther I flee from the Sacral Enclosure of House Azure, until it becomes my only point of focus.


    ¡°Janus . . . Janus!¡± cry my unseen caretakers and would-be jailors.


    The specter flounders before arresting his descent on a protrusion. He hangs swaying, a hook that rips the very breath from my lungs. Slender. Empyreal. Decked in the royal regalia of my ancient House. Brown and golden. . . .


    The youth looks back and down.


    His face is my face.


    Everything roils upon this realization, lines of forces dividing then dancing to a madman''s murmurs, until I''m the one dangling from the monument, the one looking back and down at my past self.


    It is happening again. I am drifting.


    Cold metal bites my fingers. Dawn air nips at my sandaled feet. I cling to these sensations, but my pulse thunders, trying to drag me into the temporal maelstrom.


    "No," I whisper. "Not today."


    Eyes closed. Breath held. I turn inward to where the Inner Hell waits. Mother told me that each of us carries a version of the Hells inside us¡ªnot to wield but to contain. For optimates, those outer Hells are a source of power. For me, my Inner Hell devours what I dare not feel.


    Fear pounds against my ribs. The Inner Hell''s threshold stretches endless before me, dark as a starless sky. Iron and silk against my mind. I grasp its edge. Push everything down into that hungry dark.


    It resists. Pulls. Hungers for more than I offer. But I am stronger. One harsh thrust of will, and the gate slams shut. The abyss stares back, patient and eternal.


    Calm floods in, chilling and pure. My heartbeat slows, steadying against the emptiness. The fear is distant now, trapped within the depths. Nothing is stronger than what we choose to contain, my mother once said.


    I open my eyes. Here, in this moment, I am clear, untouchable.Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators!


    Ready.


    I press onward toward the peak. My ascent rises at a brutal angle, until at last I conquer the crest. The cold air bites, thin and bracing, as I take in the view.


    Malkiel unfolds like a living puzzle around me, its borders shifting in a rhythm only the trained eye can follow. The Dularch-Temple rises behind me, suspended in the liminal space between House Azure and House Vermilion. Its white spires pierce upward into impossibility, marking the boundary between the two great Houses that have ruled since time immemorial.


    House Azure spreads before me, its ethereal architecture a stark contrast to House Vermilion''s distant crimson walls. Pale blue stone shimmers in the dawn light, creating an illusion of transparency, as if the entire palace floats on morning mist. Delicate spires reach skyward; thin sheets of fabric drift between them, casting ever-changing shadows across the grounds below.


    The palace gardens unfold in careful geometry, each courtyard a study in quiet contemplation. Here, a fountain flows in impossible slowness, its water catching light like liquid crystal. There, beneath gossamer canopies, meditation gardens offer sanctuary. And everywhere, subtle engravings of the qilin¡ªour house''s symbol¡ªreveal themselves only to those patient enough to look.


    I gaze up at the veiled skywalk connecting the palace''s main towers, a transparent bridge where I''ve spent countless hours watching the tesseract''s eternal dance. From this height, it looks delicate as spider silk.


    For one breath, I let myself imagine it¡ªstanding here, looking out over Malkiel as Blue Dularch, coruler of this labyrinth of realms as my father had before me. The statues of fallen rulers watch, silent witnesses to my ambition.


    A cold horror creeps beneath the vision. Those mighty Dularchs, reduced to stone. For all their power, they too were...


    My nails bite my palms. The Inner Hell holds my fear, and in this moment, I hold only purpose.


    Today¡­


    Movement catches my eye¡ªa nest tucked in the shadowy crags, woven from metal and twigs. Two pale eggs tremble within, cracking like ice in spring.


    I move closer. Hold my breath. They shimmer faintly, like illusions caught in the corner of my eye. They are not truly here, I know¡ªechoes, creatures conjured by the strange layers of Malkiel, apparitions that live on the edge of unreality.


    But in this moment, they are as real as anything.


    Shells split and shatter, revealing ghost-chicks with dust-gold feathers. They shiver in the dawn, their tiny, skeletal forms barely clinging to existence.


    The larger one strikes. Beak flashing. The smaller recoils, then fights back. They battle for space, for life, though they are nothing but echoes.


    I feel something stir in me, truth rising like bile.


    The weak are consumed.


    A gust of air pulls my gaze upward. There, floating beside me and the dead World Eater, is a figure¡ªCyra, my elder sister.


    She hovers like a phantom against the strange sky, her robes billowing as she stares through me. At only ten years old, she holds a presence far beyond her years. Platinum hair frames her oval face, catching light like a halo around practiced serenity. The bronze torq at her throat marks her as an optimate, worn like she was born to it.


    "Little brother," she says in way of greeting, stepping down beside me. "Today isn''t for games of Shadows and Seekers."


    Anger flares, white and hot. Not at her words¡ªat her presence. What it represents. I hide it behind curved lips.


    "If not now, then when?" I reply.


    "Are you afraid?"


    I lower my gaze. The nest holds only one translucent form. It prances, fragile wings quivering as it steps around the empty space where its sibling fell, oblivious yet victorious.


    "Fear?" The word tastes hollow. "What''s that?"

 Chapter 2 - Touchstone

    Chapter 2


    Touchstone


    In Malkiel, even the air tastes of judgment.


    Eunuchs line the path to the Sacral Enclosure. Each face a mirror of my fears. Each throat bearing the silver qilin of House Azure. Each wrist or neck marked with the dark stain of Nullification. Uncle Darius stands among them, the Mark stark against pale skin¡ªmy skin, our shared blood betrayed in every feature. Three steps away, Cousin Matthias keeps his vigil. Three summers since his trial. Three summers since he joined these ranks of the severed.


    Cyra moves ahead, slipping into the shadows of the Sacral Enclosure. Her steps are smooth, unhesitating, drawing me past our fallen kin. Their muted robes ripple in the ethereal light. Distant. Serene. Uncle Darius catches my eye¡ªviolet-gray meets violet-gray. A prophecy, perhaps. A warning. His gaze holds no judgment, no mercy¡ªonly that perfect, hollow serenity that House Azure demands of its servants.


    The walls twist at impossible angles, pulling in directions that logic cannot follow. Geometry built by something other than human hands. Cyra does not flinch. I do, if only inwardly.


    Each step fractures me further. Tripartition¡ªthey call it. The feeling of being split in three. Three versions of myself, all grasping for control. The first whispers of duty and House Azure''s expectations, the second echoes with my mother''s Netniem blood and its urge for perfection, and the third... the third speaks only of survival, raw and desperate. Each one pulling me in different directions, each one certain its path is right. I focus on Cyra''s back, on her steady stride. She is my anchor in this shifting space.


    Memory pulls me back. Minutes ago. The Dularch-Temple.


    <hr>


    Cyra''s fingers moved with practiced ease, lighting the incense. Smoke curled upward, a pale offering to our father''s statue. Sweet myrrh and bitter herbs mingled with the temple''s ancient air¡ªprayers turned to scent, memories to smoke. The vast chamber echoed with whispered chants, an endless tide of devotion.


    "In the shadows of creation, where dimensions collide, The Great Autarch beckons, with arms open wide..."


    Leocian Ragnos. His likeness towered above us, carved from pale stone. That piercing gaze¡ªthe one that could see through flesh and bone, into the marrow of our ambitions. The soft brush of ceremonial robes against stone mixed with the rhythmic prayers.


    "The Ingress, a refuge, a sanctuary of grace, For those who seek solace, in the Autarch''s embrace..."


    I stood there, uncomfortable in my own skin. My mother''s Netniem blood runs deep. More than just my veins. Despite my platinum hair, despite my height, I am nothing like him. A pale shadow against his magnificence.


    I squared my shoulders. Pretended at strength. Cyra saw through it. She always does.


    Without warning, she pulled me close. Her warmth seeped through, a shield against our father''s cold judgment. Behind us, the chants continued their eternal cycle.If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    "In the heart of the cosmos, the whispers of the divine, Echo through the ages, a beacon for those who pine..."


    "Whatever happens, you''re my brother." Her voice steady. Certain. Unshakeable.


    "Even if I''m destined to become an... an armiger?" Even to her I could not speak my true fear out loud.


    Eunuch.


    She met my eyes. "Yes. Even if you become a shitty blade swinging idiot."


    Sacrilege. Open defiance. And in that moment, more precious than any blessing.


    <hr>


    The present snaps back into focus. Around us, the edges of the Sacral Enclosure press in. Watching. Judging. I swipe at my eye. No weakness allowed here. Not now.


    Grandmother Elethra emerges from shadow. Silver hair cascading. Sharp face carved with wisdom and authority. Her robes absorb light, making the darkness deeper. Her eyes cut like blades.


    "You''re late." Her voice cracks like stone against stone.


    Cyra meets her gaze. Unflinching. "We are here, Grandmother. And we''re going in."


    Something flickers across Grandmother''s face. Surprise? Annoyance? It vanishes before I can name it. She shifts. Just enough to let us pass. Her judgment follows like a blade at our backs.


    The chamber opens wide. Cold stone beneath my feet. Light fractures across polished floors. My cousins wait¡ªall six years old, drowning in oversized regalia that marks their bloodline.


    I stumble. A phantom force jerks my ankle. Laughter echoes. My eyes find Talon and Enna, the golden twins of House Azure; their matching angular faces and pale golden hair are a testament to pure bloodlines. Where Talon carries our grandfather''s grace, Enna wields her semblance like a knife¡ªeach small torment a reminder of my place. Or rather, my lack of one.


    She smirks at me. Another tug at my ankle¡ªanother show of her power. Her warning.


    Cyra stands with the Chatelaines now. Their hushed voices carry across stone. Chatelaine Kassandra''s auburn hair does nothing to soften the burning hatred in her gaze¡ªa mother''s fury directed at me, though I cannot remember why. Each time her eyes find mine, something dark and painful stirs in the locked corners of my mind. They watch. They wait. They wonder if I will fail. I will not.


    The Veilstone waits on its pedestal. Dark as a starless sky. High-Exarch Oshen stands beside it, masked and terrible. The hollowed eyes of his mask seem to hold the Autarch''s judgment, ancient and absolute. His presence turns the air heavy with ceremonial weight, each movement deliberate as though the Autarch himself watches through those dark sockets.


    His staff strikes stone. "Talon of House Azure. Present yourself to the Veilstone."


    My cousin moves with practiced grace¡ªevery step precise, as though he''s rehearsed this moment a thousand times. His pale golden hair catches the light as he approaches the stone. No hesitation. No fear. Pure Azure blood flows through his veins, unmarred by foreign weakness.


    His palm meets the Veilstone''s surface. For a moment, nothing. Then¡ªlight. Pale blue ripples across the stone''s dark face. Talon''s eyes close, his expression serene. When they open again, there''s triumph there. Pride.


    High-Exarch Oshen''s voice carries the weight of ceremony. "The Veilstone accepts. You may take your place among the worthy."


    Talon steps back, head high. Enna''s smirk grows wider. Their eyes find me, measuring, judging.


    The staff strikes stone again. "Step forward, Janus of House Azure. Present yourself to the Veilstone, and let it weigh your worth."


    I move. Each step measured. Deliberate. Cyra''s warmth fades from my back as I approach the stone. Its surface shifts with symbols I cannot read but feel in my bones.


    My palm presses against the Veilstone''s surface. The cold seeps through my skin, but there''s something else¡ªa resonance that hums through my bones, pulling me deeper. The stone''s darkness spreads before my vision like spilled ink, and suddenly I''m falling, though my hand hasn''t moved.


    The chamber around me blurs. High-Exarch Oshen''s masked presence fades into shadow. Even Cyra''s steadying presence dims, replaced by something vast and ancient. The Veilstone isn''t just testing me¡ªit''s drawing me into itself, into a place between reality and dream.


    My last coherent thought is of Cyra''s words: Whatever happens, you''re my brother. Then the darkness takes me completely.

 Chapter 3 - Path of the Eater

    Chapter 3


    Path of the Eater


    I am on the stairs, though I do not remember stepping onto them. They spiral upward and downward, stretching through impossible space. Something unseen draws me upward, something that tastes like copper on my tongue.


    Reality pulses around me. Metallic. Alive. Movement flickers¡ªquick and sharp¡ªat the edges of my sight. I turn, and they are there: figures that should not exist, their limbs bending wrong, faces fluid as mercury. Blue-green light ripples across their forms, like sunlight through deep water, but harder. Colder. More precise.


    The creatures notice me. Their heads tilt. A sound cuts through the silence¡ªclick, click, click¡ªlike obsidian knives against glass. Their approach is both fluid and broken, a dance of impossible angles. Their eyes catch the light, throwing it back at me in fractured patterns. Then comes the pressure against my mind: not words, but shapes, symbols, images, that slip from my grasp as soon as I try to catch them.


    Who are you?


    The question burns like frost. More shapes press against my consciousness, symbols that slice and fade, leaving ghost-wounds behind.


    Why are you here?


    They gather closer. Their chittering echoes off the rippling walls¡ªa sound like grinding gears wrapped in silk. Their limbs twist into patterns that pull at something deep within me, something that recognizes their joy at my presence. I am their answer. Their revelation.


    Then¡ªshift.


    Their faces crack. Curiosity bleeds into fear, sharp and sudden as a blade between ribs. They pull back, their movements jerky now, desperate. Metal scrapes against stone as they speak, their alien whispers rising and falling like broken glass in my ears.


    You should not be here.


    Erratic and broken, symbols splinter in my mind.


    You do not belong.A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    They retreat, but their eyes stay fixed on me. Accusing. Knowing. I reach out¡ªa gesture of peace, of understanding¡ªbut they scatter like mercury dropped on stone. Their forms twist, reality bending around them until they are barely holding together. Blood wells in their eyes, thick and dark, tracking down faces that no longer make sense.


    One steps forward. Its hand trembles as it reaches for me, then snaps back as if burned. A single word cuts through my mind, sharp enough to draw blood:


    "Eater."


    The word ignites something in me. Ancient. Hungry. Not mine, but woven into my marrow. The creatures scream¡ªa symphony of clicking metal and breaking glass. They try to flee, but power surges through me, invisible chains dragging them back.


    One lunges. Desperate. Terrified.


    My hand rises without thought. My fingers curl around something essential, something inside it. The creature freezes. Horror twists its face into new geometries. Then¡ª


    Rupture.


    Dark liquid pulses from its mouth. Veins blacken around its eyes, bulging, bursting. Its form collapses inward, folding into geometries that should not exist. The others watch, screaming, but they cannot look away. Cannot escape.


    Power floods me. Warm. Raw. Natural as breathing.


    The creature shudders one final time. What remains is barely matter¡ªa quivering mass of flesh and possibility. The others stagger back, blood streaming from their eyes, that word echoing in their broken voices:


    "Eater... Eater... Eater..."


    Another attacks. Desperation made manifest. The force rises in me again, hungry and familiar. I reach out. The creature stops mid-air, its essence unraveling like torn silk. As it collapses, I feel its power flowing into me, filling spaces I never knew were empty.


    The survivors flee upward, their movements fractured and wrong. All except one. Smaller than the others, it stays. Sorrow fills its bleeding eyes as it points toward the dark throne above. Its final message cuts deep:


    "Is this what you are?"


    The creature dissolves into mist. Shadows curl around the throne, pulling me forward. The power inside me resonates with the darkness, harmonizing with a vision of myself seated there. Empty. Cold. Complete.


    I kneel before the throne. The stone surface reflects a truth I do not want to see: myself, but wrong. This version of me wears shadows like a crown. My eyes¡ªwinter stone, devoid of light. Power radiates from my future self, but something vital is missing. Something warm.


    The reflection''s lips move. The words come like ice in my veins:


    To rule is to consume.


    Shadows tighten their grip. The alien whispers persist: Eater... Eater... But another voice cuts through, warm and clear as summer light. Whatever happens, you''re my brother. Cyra''s words, a spark against the endless dark.


    I stare at my reflection. At the throne. At the hollow victory it promises. Power pulses in my blood, demanding action. But doubt holds me still, suspended between hunger and humanity.


    In that hesitation, reality fractures.


    The throne dissolves. The shadows retreat. I stand alone on the stairs, silence pressing against my skin. The vision fades like morning frost, leaving only the cold touch of the Veilstone beneath my palm and Cyra''s voice, steady and real.


    But the whispers remain, etched into my bones:


    Eater.

 Chapter 4 - The Talk

    Chapter 4


    The Talk


    I stand rigid in the austere chamber, fixing my gaze on a point in the shadows beyond my grandmother''s shoulder. Chatelaine Elethra towers before me, her spine as unyielding as the stone pillars surrounding us. Dim light filters through narrow windows, casting long shadows across her face, deepening the severity of her expression. Her eyes scour me, leaving no part unjudged.


    "Do you even realize what you''ve done?" Her voice slices through the silence. Cold. Sharp. Final. "The eyes of the Exarchs are upon us. First it was your father breaking with tradition by spurning the Rite of Fidelity, now this madness you summoned in that chamber."


    Her gaze strips away every layer until I feel exposed to the bone. She steps closer, her words measured, each one carrying the weight of a curse she''s finally willing to name.


    "For your father''s sake, I turned a blind eye to the rumors. Told myself you were merely... different." Her lips curl with disdain. "Balah-Born. That''s what they call you, isn''t it? A demon. A Hunger from Outside."


    Demon. The word lands with a chill, stirring something deep and instinctual¡ªa sensation I cannot name, dark and ancient.


    Her voice lowers, venomous. "No one, nothing, should survive in the Balah, let alone be born there. Yet you... You emerged from that place, as if drawn from the depths of something that shouldn''t exist." She lets out a sharp breath. "A Hunger," she whispers, her voice taut with disgust, "something foreign that took root in human flesh."


    The accusation settles like frost across my skin. I keep my face still, but inside, something writhes.


    "They say you''re not truly Janus. That you''re only a vessel for something from Outside¡ªa parasite cloaked in my grandson''s skin." Her eyes narrow to slits. "They say that whatever Janus Ragnos was supposed to be was devoured long ago, that you are nothing but a demon wearing his face."


    The words strike like physical blows. Alien. Heavy. Chilling me to my core.


    "Do you know how much it has cost me to protect you all these years?" She moves closer still, her presence suffocating. "How many times I silenced the whispers that claimed you were a Hunger, that you brought with you an insatiable appetite for power and ruin?"


    Her gaze bores into me. Each word falls like a lash. "You carry an instability within you, a danger to House Azure itself. And now, after what happened in the Veilstone chamber..." She lets the implication hang. "The rumors only grow louder."


    She leans in, her voice harsh. "If you cannot master this... strangeness... within you, we will cast you out. Do you understand me?"


    The Veilstone''s whisper echoes back: Is this what you are? The word mingles with my grandmother''s accusations, and suddenly they are one and the same¡ªa truth I have been running from, a destiny I cannot escape.


    The cold, harsh present of my grandmother''s lecture recedes. In its place, the thick silence of the Veilstone chamber returns. The oppressive quiet. Strange whispers. The weight of that memory overtakes me, pulling me back into its grasp.


    <hr>


    I staggered backward, yanking my hand from the Veilstone. Cold lingered in my fingers, burrowing beneath the skin. The vision clung¡ªtwisted creatures, blood-dark eyes, that hollow throne burning in my mind. Eater. The word slipped through my thoughts like a jagged whisper, as if the stone itself had branded it into me.If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    The world felt distant. Wrong. The chamber''s unnatural stillness pressed against me, heavy after the chaos within. My legs wavered, mind reeling as I tried to reconcile vision with reality.


    Confusion. Dread. A cold weight sank in my stomach as I steadied myself. I blinked hard, trying to see past the images seared into my mind, but they clung like shadows, flickering just beyond sight. Those terrified faces. Their blood-dark eyes. An accusation. A prophecy. Something I could not escape.


    Then I felt it¡ªeyes. Sharp and watching.


    I looked up. The gathered scions stared back, their gazes piercing through the silence. Some studied me with cold curiosity, like a specimen pinned for examination. Others wore disdain, barely veiled. A few¡ªthese unsettled me most¡ªlooked afraid, their eyes darting between me and the Veilstone as if expecting it to crack open and spill out horrors.


    My heart thudded. Each beat amplified the feeling of exposure. Raw. Vulnerable. As though the Veilstone had scraped away something essential.


    A hand clamped down on my arm. High-Exarch Oshen towered over me, white robes pooling like fog, his expression hidden behind the hollow-eyed mask of the Autarch. That void-like gaze pierced straight through, as if sifting through the vision still swirling in my mind.


    "What did you see, boy?" His voice cut sharp and quiet through the silence.


    I tried to pull back, but his grip only tightened. My mouth went dry. The creatures'' faces, their terror, the shadowed throne¡ªit all tangled in my mind, refusing to form into words.


    "I... I don''t know," I managed, barely a whisper.


    His fingers dug deeper. "Don''t play games with me." A growl beneath the words. "The Veilstone has never glowed so bright."


    The scions pressed closer, their whispers urgent, waiting.


    "I... I¡­" Desperation crept into my voice before I could banish it. "Nothing."


    Oshen''s silence stretched, the mask''s hollow eyes drilling into me with judgment as cold as winter rain.


    "Release him," commanded a voice.


    The gathered scions parted.


    Titus strode in, his presence commanding instant silence. Double pupils flashed in his blue eyes¡ªthe mark of an eidolon¡ªeach iris containing twin dark centers that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. The gold torq gleamed at his throat, its surface etched with intricate patterns. Power radiated from the Codicil imprinted on his forehead, an intricate design centered around a stylized third eye.


    His alien gaze made the High-Exarch''s grip feel suddenly fragile.


    "Let him go, Oshen." My uncle''s voice carried calm authority. "Now."


    A heartbeat passed. Oshen''s mask remained fixed on me, his fingers tightening once more before finally releasing. He stepped back, though that hollow gaze never wavered.


    "Of course, my Qilin." Smooth words, cold with implication. "But House Azure would do well to remember the importance of transparency when it comes to such... tests."


    I stood still, arm tingling where his grip had been. Gratitude mixed with resentment in my chest. Titus''s intervention felt less like protection, more like an assertion of control¡ªover both Oshen and me.


    Titus studied me, his expression impossible to read. Cool. Calculated. The scions murmured, their whispers pressing in from all sides. Strange. Different. Demon.


    <hr>


    Pain explodes across my cheek, snapping me back to the present. The taste of copper fills my mouth. Grandmother''s hand hangs in the air between us, her rings catching the dim light.


    "You dare ignore me?" Her voice trembles with fury. Silver hair catches the light as she straightens, drawing herself up like a storm gathering force. "You will heed me when I speak. Or were you planning your next display?"


    The sting spreads across my face, but I keep still. Keep my expression blank. Any reaction would only feed her rage.


    "You will not attend the Festival of Retrospection tonight." Each word falls like a gavel strike. "I will not have you creating another scene, not during the most sacred night of our calendar. Your... peculiarities have already cast enough shadows on House Azure."


    I taste blood. The Festival of Retrospection¡ªwhere even the Blue Dularch humbles himself before the people. Where judgment and mercy dance their ancient steps. And I am to be excluded, hidden away like a shameful secret.


    "Your uncle may tolerate your strangeness," she continues, ice crystallizing in each syllable, "but I will not risk you tainting tonight''s ceremonies. Not after what happened with the Veilstone. You will remain in your quarters until dawn."


    I hold my silence. Any response would be poison in her hands, any defense twisted into further proof of my unworthiness. So I keep my face still, swallowing down the bitterness that rises like bile.


    Two more days, I tell myself. And I will be gone from this place forever.

 Chapter 5 - Ripple Across Water

    Chapter 5


    Ripple Across Water


    The stone arcs through the air on a perfect trajectory. Splash. Ripples disturb the pond''s mirror surface, distorting the reflection of House Azure''s spires above. I select another stone, smooth and flat. Perfect for skipping.


    Three versions of myself flicker in my mind: four-year-old-me lying on my back as I stare up at cousin Septimus, present-me standing where he once stood, future-me... I push that one away. Not now. Focus on the stone.


    My grandmother''s words echo. Demon. Hunger. Vessel. The stone flies from my hand, too hard, too angry. It plunges straight down. No skips. No grace. Just fury.


    I reach for my Inner Hell, trying to lock away the rage. It fights back, slipping through my grasp like water. Another stone. Another throw. Each one a battle between control and chaos.


    "Your form is getting sloppy."


    Cyra. I do not turn. Do not need to. Her presence fills the space behind me, warm and steady as sunlight.


    "Shouldn''t you be preparing for the Festival of Retrospection?" The words come out sharper than intended.


    She moves beside me, her silver-blue robes shimmering in the light. "And miss watching you assault innocent pond water?" A pause. Her voice shifts, grows softer. "I was younger than you when they came."


    They? The Nihil?


    The stone in my hand grows heavy. The Second Shattering. She never speaks of this.


    "I remember the screams first. Then the silence." Her words fall like stones into still water. "The way the air itself seemed to die. Have you ever heard a world go quiet, Janus? It''s not natural. Nothing should be that still."


    I turn to her. Her eyes are distant, seeing something beyond the pond, beyond now.


    "Mother grabbed me. We ran. Through corridors that shouldn''t exist, through spaces that hurt to look at. The Nihil were everywhere and nowhere. Just... emptiness that moved." She wraps her arms around herself. "I saw what they did to people. How they... unmade them. Turned them inside out. Not just their bodies. Their souls."


    My throat tightens. The stone cuts into my palm.


    "I still dream about it sometimes. The unmaking. The silence." Her eyes find mine, sharp and present. "So when I see you here, throwing stones because grandmother called you names..." A small, sad smile touches her lips. "Well, any burden feels heavier with perspective, doesn¡¯t it?"


    I let the stone fall. It hits the ground with a dull thud.


    "Cyra, I¡ª"


    "Young master. Optimate Cyra."


    Darius. His violet-gray eyes¡ªso like my own¡ªcatch the light as he approaches. The Mark of Nullification stands stark against his neck, a reminder of different paths and choices.


    He bows, precise and formal. "Dularch Titus requests your presence. Immediately."


    Cyra straightens, mask sliding back into place. But her words linger, heavy as stones in deep water.


    "Of course," I say, my voice carefully neutral. "We wouldn''t want to keep him waiting."


    Darius''s eyes hold a flicker of sympathy as he turns to lead us. He knows, as we do, that a summons from Titus Ragnos is rarely cause for celebration.


    Cyra''s hand brushes mine as we follow. A silent reminder: whatever comes next, we face it together.This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    Above us, House Azure''s spires pierce the sky like frozen lightning, watching. Always watching.


    Darius leads us along a winding path that shifts and blurs with shadows until we emerge into the harsh light of day. The Grand Causeway stretches before us, a span of ivory marble linking House Azure with the Dularch-Temple.


    Uncle Titus stands at the head of the gathering, his ceremonial armor gleaming under the sun. The Chatelaines flank him in their formal robes¡ªa sea of silver and blue that ripples with each breath of wind. Behind them, the other scions who passed their testing stand proud, their faces masks of serenity I wish I could mirror.


    My skin prickles. So many eyes. So many thoughts of¡ª


    "Stand tall," Cyra whispers, taking her place beside me. "Let them look."


    I drop into a deep bow before Uncle Titus, arms crossed in the formal gesture of House Azure. "My Qilin, I present myself as¡ª"


    "Did you intend to keep us waiting all day?" His voice cuts through my greeting like steel through silk.


    The words catch in my throat. "Chatelaine Elethra... she forbade me from attending the Festival."


    "Who rules here?" Titus''s eyes bore into mine. "Me or her?"


    Ice spreads through my chest. The wrong answer could shatter more than just this moment. "You do, my Qilin."


    "Then take your place."


    I move to the back of the gathering, where the lesser scions stand. The marble feels cold beneath my feet, even through my boots. The sun beats down, but I cannot feel its warmth.


    Cyra glides forward to stand beside our uncle, her robes whispering against the stone. She takes the position reserved for the High-Chatelaine¡ªthe space where Mother should be. The empty air beside her feels like an accusation.


    The other scions shift slightly, creating a pocket of space around me. Talon and Enna, the golden twins, stand on either side of the group, their eyes flicking to me with a mix of hostility and disdain.


    I lock my spine straight and keep my eyes forward, fighting the urge to look at Cyra for reassurance.


    We proceed down the Grand Causeway toward the Dularch-Temple. As we approach, the air changes¡ªthicker, more charged. The neutral ground between House Azure and House Vermilion holds a certain gravity, a reminder of both unity and rivalry.


    Within the grand halls of the Dularch-Temple, tension and ceremony blend. The air itself seems to buzz with the weight of tradition and expectation.


    Meeting us in the central chamber is Helena Urisius, the High-Chatelaine of House Vermilion. Her platinum-blond hair, braided with red and black gems, catches the light, and her piercing double pupils survey us with a mixture of intensity and curiosity. Her presence is commanding, wrapped in ceremonial robes that speak of power and elegance.


    Helena offers a sharp smile as she addresses Titus, her words dripping with mockery. "Titus, the time has come once again to watch you bleed."


    Titus, unphased by her jab, maintains a facade of mocking sweetness. "Helena, your concern is always touching. Shall we proceed with the formalities?"


    Behind her stand several boys my age, first sons of the Grandmasters of the Hundred Conclaves. These sons are sent to House Vermilion as part of the Rite of Fidelity, much like the first daughters sent as brides to House Azure. Their expressions are a mix of resolve and uncertainty, aware of the heavy responsibilities placed upon them.


    My gaze locks onto a pair of striking blue eyes among the group. Penelope. Her platinum-blond hair falls in waves around her graceful, watchful face. Time seems to stop as our eyes meet. Something within me shifts¡ªa pull, a pang.


    By her side stands Castor, his athletic build and intense blue eyes mirroring his sister¡¯s. He assesses us with a barely concealed arrogance, a smirk playing on his lips.


    The High-Chatelaine''s double pupil eyes snap back to me, her interest sharpening. "And who do we have here? Is this Leocian''s and Kaelenya''s git?"


    "Helena!" Titus barks. His voice slices through the sudden exclamations. He grabs Cyra''s arm, forestalling her lunge forward. "Direct your insults at me if you must, or at minimum save them for those who''ve entered Nenuphar."


    All eyes are drawn to me.


    My throat tightens.


    Am I so hated?


    A smirk tugs at Helena''s lips. "Forgive me, Titus. The joyousness of this day has made me lose all sense of propriety."


    The temple air crackles with tension. Uncle Titus''s face contorts, a mask of barely contained fury as he spins away from Helena. His shoulders bunch beneath his ceremonial armor, and the Codicil on his forehead blazes to life¡ªa web of light that spreads across his skin like liquid fire.


    Words spill from his mouth like living lava. Incomprehensible. Alien. The language is ancient, powerful, meant only for those who bear the full mark of the Codicil. Each syllable pulses with raw energy, making my teeth ache and my bones hum.


    The air splits.


    Reality tears itself apart before us, edges curling like burning paper. Through the widening gap, I glimpse the surface of New Larin¡ªour adopted home since the Second Shattering. Frost-covered earth stretches toward a horizon painted in shades of amber and gold. The portal''s edges ripple and dance, distorting the boundary between here and there.


    The assembled crowd draws back. Even Helena''s smirk falters as the portal stabilizes, its presence a reminder of the raw power the Codicil grants its bearer. The words of power may be beyond my understanding, but their effect is undeniable.


    I catch Cyra''s eye. Her face is tight with concern, but there''s something else there too¡ªcalculation. She sees what I see: Uncle Titus losing control, letting Helena''s barbs pierce his carefully maintained composure. It''s unlike him to react so strongly, to waste power on such a display.


    The portal pulses, waiting.

 Chapter 6 - Festival of Retrospection

    Chapter 6


    Festival of Retrospection


    I step through the portal. Reality warps and bends, folding in on itself like origami made of light and shadow. My stomach lurches as dimensions compress and expand around me. The sensation is familiar yet alien¡ªlike being turned inside out while remaining perfectly still.


    Colors blur and stretch. The temple''s polished floors melt into streaks of light that spiral through impossible geometries. For a heartbeat, I exist everywhere and nowhere, my consciousness scattered across the infinite spaces between spaces.


    The world snaps back into focus. Frozen air burns my lungs as my feet touch the ceremonial platform high above New Larin''s frost-covered ground. The wind whips around us, carrying the scent of pine and snow from distant forests.


    In the distance, Malkiel rises like a dream made manifest. Its spires pierce the darkening sky, their crystalline surfaces refracting the last rays of sunlight in prismatic cascades. The city''s geometry is stable upon the surface of New Larin, its tesseract nature hidden behind a mundane facade.


    A dark speck mars the purple-tinged clouds¡ªtoo large for a bird, too deliberate for debris. I squint, but it vanishes behind a bank of clouds.


    Below, multitudes fill the gathering grounds. Among them, the Eidolon Grandmasters of the Hundred Conclaves stand in their designated circle, their gold torqs gleaming with earned power. The Heart Guard and Temple Guards of the Thousand Assembles form the inner ring, their black-silver and white-silver armor gleaming like liquid metal. Beyond them, the imposing figures of the Void Sentinels stand perfectly still in their fuligin uniforms that seem to devour the dying light, their mere presence causing the crowds to shift uneasily away.


    High-Exarch Oshen stands at the platform''s edge, his Mask of the Autarch reflecting the dying rays of the sun. The hollow eyes of his mask reveal nothing, but his stillness speaks volumes.


    More figures emerge from the portal behind me. The children of House Azure stream through, taking their positions with practiced precision. Helena Urisius and her entourage from House Vermilion arrange themselves on the opposite side of the platform, maintaining the delicate balance of power.


    The dark shape reappears, larger now. Its movement speaks of purpose rather than nature, descending on an angle that cannot be coincidence.


    "Remember to breathe," Cyra whispers beside me. Her hand brushes mine, a ghost of contact. "Your face is doing that thing again."


    I release the tension in my jaw, conscious now of how tightly I''d been clenching it. "What thing?"


    "That murder-the-world thing. We''re here to observe, nothing more."


    Movement catches my eye. Penelope''s gaze meets mine for a moment, beguiling and remote. Her lips curve into a sad smile.


    Uncle Titus emerges last, the portal sealing behind him like a wound healing in reverse. His Codicil still glows faintly on his forehead, a reminder of the power he used to bring us here. He moves to stand beside the High-Exarch, and the air itself seems to hold its breath, waiting for what comes next.


    The shape in the sky has doubled in size, its silhouette becoming clearer against the darkening heavens. My heart quickens as I recognize the angular design of a military vimana.


    Cyra leaves my side, joins the Chatelaines circling Uncle Titus. Their movements are precise, ritualistic. Each piece of armor they remove carries weight beyond its metal¡ªsymbols of power stripped away to reveal vulnerability beneath.


    The clasps click open one by one. Pauldrons first, then vambraces, each piece handed off with reverence to waiting attendants. The chest plate comes last, its removal exposing Titus''s flawless torso.Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    Incense smoke coils around us as the Exarchs pace in measured steps. Their cylinders swing in perfect rhythm, releasing ash-colored plumes. The scent is sharp and sacred¡ªancient resins that spark memories of the Dularch-Temple.


    The first notes of the Exarch''s dirge rise above the wind. Their voices blend in haunting harmony, each word carrying the weight of ages:


    "In the tapestry of time, threads intertwine,


    The legacy of the Autarch, in every star does shine..."


    The melody wraps around us like a physical thing. It speaks of loss and perseverance, of shattered worlds and enduring hope. The song pulls at something deep inside me, an ache I cannot name.


    Above, the vimana emerges fully from the clouds¡ªa Vritraha war fortress, its obsidian hull drinking in what remains of the sunlight. Massive beyond comprehension, it descends with the inexorable patience of an approaching storm. Energy cannons along its flanks pulse with gathering power, and its troop deployment bays yawn open like hungry mouths.


    The gathered masses stand motionless, their attention fixed on the ritual before them, unaware of the darkness growing overhead. Even the wind seems to quiet, as if nature itself pays respect to this ancient hymn.


    Bare-chested, Titus drops to his knees, his face lifted to the darkening sky. Does he see it? Does he know what approaches?


    The High-Exarch''s voice carries across the platform, resonating through his mask. "We gather here, as our ancestors did, to remember that even the mightiest must bow before truth." His Staff of the Eternal Watch strikes the ground with each emphasis. "The Festival of Retrospection binds us to our past and guides our future."


    Wind snaps at his midnight-colored robes as he paces behind Titus. "In these moments, we witness power laid bare, stripped of pretense. For what is strength without wisdom? What is authority without accountability?"


    The mask turns toward the assembled crowd. "Look upon your Blue Dularch. See how he kneels, not in weakness, but in recognition of a power greater than himself."


    My uncle remains motionless, his breathing steady despite the bitter cold against his exposed skin. Ice crystals form in his platinum hair.


    An Exarch approaches Oshen, hands him a whip. Metal gleams along its length¡ªcruel barbs that makes my breath hiss. The weapon seems to drink in the shadows, its edges hungry for flesh.


    The Vritraha''s shadow falls across the platform like a shroud, yet still the ceremony continues. Its hull now blocks out half the sky, weapon ports sliding open with mechanical precision. The deep thrumming of its engines resonates in my bones.


    "Dularch Titus Ragnos," Oshen''s voice cuts through the wind. "Are you prepared to acknowledge your failures before the people of Malkiel? To accept judgment for choices made in pride or haste?"


    The whip uncoils like a serpent awakening.


    "I, Titus Ragnos, kneel before the eternal Autarch, humbled by my transgressions," Uncle Titus intones, his voice steady despite the biting cold. "I confess that pride blinded my duty to the sacred trust of the Archives. In seeking glory through expansion, I forsook preservation. For this, I seek the Autarch''s infinite mercy."


    The whip cracks, a sound sharp as splitting ice. Blood sprays onto the pristine platform, bright and steaming. I flinch, but Uncle Titus does not stir. His flesh knits together, a shimmer of dimensional energy rippling across his back as his Zarath draws from countless alternate selves.


    "I confess my failure to uphold the honor of Malkiel in diplomacy with the Yeshong emissaries." Another confession. Another crack. The bloodstain deepens, but Titus¡¯s posture remains unyielding.


    The High-Exarch moves with precision, his mask a void that reflects nothing of his intent. Yet his posture betrays a dark fervor¡ªhis shoulders taut, his grip firm, the whip striking with an eagerness that borders on zeal. I recall his fury at the Veilstone and the interruption Titus forced upon him.


    "I confess to letting my vendettas poison the affairs of state." Titus¡¯s words falter under the weight of the next blow. The whip carves deep, tearing flesh, though the wounds vanish as alternate timelines bleed through¡ªghostly scars surfacing only to disappear.


    The High-Exarch¡¯s whip falls faster now, its cracks echoing like thunder over the gathered crowd. "The Autarch demands unflinching truth, Dularch," Oshen declares, his voice sharp as a blade, cutting through the cold. "Surely there are graver sins shadowing your soul?"


    Titus breathes deeply, his exhalations forming clouds in the frozen air. When he speaks again, his voice is softer but carries the weight of centuries. "I confess to failing those who looked to me for protection. To letting fear grip my hand when wisdom should have guided it. For this, too, I beg absolution."


    The whip descends with a force that shakes the air, and this time I swear I hear the faintest hint of a laugh beneath Oshen¡¯s mask. It is not joy, but a chilling satisfaction¡ªa predator savoring its quarry.


    A surge of violet energy cascades over the Vritraha¡¯s hull, streaking toward us like a vengeful storm. The air vibrates, heavy and sharp, as if the entire world braces for impact. The ground beneath the platform trembles. The scent of ozone thickens, mingling with the tang of incense.


    For a fleeting moment, everything stands still. The whip freezes mid-swing. The Exarchs halt their chant. The crowd holds its collective breath, eyes fixed upward at the descending wrath of the sky.


    And then¡ª

 Chapter 7 - Mayhems Kiss

    Chapter 7


    Mayhem''s Kiss


    Chaos erupts.


    A flash of blue light blazes across Titus''s forehead as his codicil ignites. His voice slices through the air, tearing reality apart. A massive portal rips open above our heads, its twin materializing behind the Vritraha''s hull.


    The war fortress''s energy beam lances down¡ªstraight through the portal. Metal screams. The redirected blast punches through the Vritraha''s own armor, splitting the fortress in half.


    Burning debris rains from the sky. The platform beneath my feet bucks and tilts. Feminine shrieks pierce the air as people scramble for stable ground. I grab the nearest railing, my knuckles white against the metal as the world tips sideways. Cyra stumbles into me, her fingers digging into my arm.


    The broken Vritraha plummets, its massive bulk blocking out the sun. Wind from its descent whips my hair across my face. The platform groans under the strain, listing further. More screams echo across New Larin as the fortress crashes toward the ground below.


    The world fractures.


    I grip the railing, but suddenly I''m ten steps to the left. Then I''m diving forward. Then backward. My body multiplies across space, each version living out a different choice. I watch myself sprint across the platform, roll under falling metal, shield others with my body. I see my skull cave in beneath a twisted beam. I see my spine snap as I fall wrong. I see myself survive. I see myself die.


    The visions stack and blur, reality bleeding between what is and what might be. My head pounds with the weight of countless possibilities, each one vivid and real and happening all at once.


    Then I see her.


    Penelope lies broken beneath a sheet of burning metal, her platinum hair spread like a halo around her head. Her eyes stare upward, empty and fixed. The image burns into my mind, repeating across every timeline, every possibility. She dies. She always dies. The certainty of it claws at my chest.


    My blood boils. The rage rises hot and unexpected, drowning out the cacophony of fractured time. I don''t understand this fury, this desperate need to prevent her death. We''re barely more than strangers. Yet seeing her lifeless body ignites something primitive inside me, something that screams against the very idea of her ending this way.You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    Noo! A thought, raw and violent.


    It anchors me in the present, pulling the scattered pieces of myself back together.


    The timelines snap together like a fist closing. The endless possibilities collapse into a single, crystalline moment of clarity. Everything else falls away¡ªthe screaming crowd, the burning fortress, even my own scattered fears. There is only now. Only this.


    I plant my feet against the tilting platform. "Move!" I shove Cyra hard, sending her stumbling backward. She catches herself against a support beam, safely clear of the falling debris. One thread secured.


    Penelope stands motionless twenty feet away, her face upturned to the rain of twisted metal. The perfect stillness of her posture strikes me as wrong¡ªlike a painting in the middle of a storm. Time stretches thin. I see the jagged pieces falling, calculate their trajectories with desperate precision.


    My body moves before thought catches up. I sprint across the lurching platform, my boots finding purchase on the smooth metal. The world narrows to the space between us, to the closing gap I must cross. A burning shard of hull plummets past my shoulder, close enough to sear the air.


    Penelope''s eyes meet mine, wide with a fear that finally breaks through her frozen mask. The platform groans, tilting further. My muscles burn as I push harder, faster. The distance evaporates with each stride.


    My fingers stretch toward her arm. The metal storm descends.


    I slam into Penelope, wrapping my arms around her as we hit the frost-covered earth. Hard. The impact knocks the wind from my chest. Something massive crashes behind us. Heat and sparks wash over my back. Shrapnel peppers my exposed skin like angry wasps.


    There is a ringing in my ears. The screech of metal against metal. There is a pounding in my breast. The thumb of organ against flesh.


    Penelope stares up at me. Her platinum hair spreads across the frost-covered ground, just like in my vision. But her eyes are alive now, filled with confusion and something else I cannot read.


    This close, I notice a small scar above her left eyebrow that I have never seen before.


    I flop onto my back, the chill of the earth seeping through my clothes. The broken Vritraha fills the sky above me, its massive bulk turning day to night. The air smells of burning metal and ozone.


    A dark shape launches from the falling fortress, trailing smoke like a comet. The figure twists impossibly through the air, their movements too fluid to be natural. Even at this distance, I see the telltale shimmer of double pupils catching the light.


    Eidolon. An eidolon.


    Black shapes materialize from the crowd below¡ªsix Void Sentinels rising as one. Gold torqs gleam against void-black fabric. Their fuligin uniforms make them look like tears in reality itself as they streak across the sky.


    The fortress plummets like a dying star.


    The impact hits with devastating force. The shock wave slams into me as I try to sit up. My head cudgels the dirt. Pain blooms, crimson and pure.


    I groan.


    Exhaustion slaps me anew. My limbs feel like lead, each breath shallow and ragged as I watch the flickering glow of battle through half-lidded eyes. The roar of flames and clash of eidolons fade to a dull hum. Snow swirls around me. Ash drifts lazily from the sky.


    Anger. Terror¡ªall of it bleeds into weariness.


    I close my eyes.

 Chapter 8 - First Baptism

    Chapter 8


    First Baptism


    The Temple of Loss looms around us, its ancient walls etched with the history of countless sacrifices. Pale light filters through the high windows, casting long shadows across the gathered initiates. The air hangs heavy with incense and anticipation.


    My mind drifts to the chaos of last night¡ªthe Vritraha fortress splitting the sky, the platform tilting beneath our feet, the desperate rush to save Penelope. The memory of her eyes meeting mine lingers, that moment of confusion and something else I still cannot name. My body aches from the impact, from the shrapnel that peppered my skin, but the physical pain feels distant now, overshadowed by what lies ahead.


    I stand at the edge of the waters of Nenuphar, my bare feet inches from where the stone floor meets dark liquid. Azure flowers drift across the surface, their delicate petals a deceptive mask for what lurks beneath. The water stretches into shadow, endless and patient.


    Penelope shifts beside me, her presence a reminder of the fates I changed. Her eyes stay fixed on the water, but I catch the slight tremor in her hands. To my left, Castor radiates the same arrogant confidence he always carries, though his jaw clenches tight enough to betray his own unease.


    The golden twins, Talon and Enna, stand opposite us. Their matching expressions are unreadable, but there''s something predatory in the way Enna watches us all. Her fingers twitch occasionally, as if plucking invisible strings.


    None of us speak. The weight of tradition and expectation presses down, making even breathing feel like an act of defiance. The carved murals surrounding us tell the story of the First Shattering in silent warning - figures frozen mid-leap into their own dark waters, forever caught between certainty and oblivion.


    A drop of water echoes somewhere in the darkness. The sound ripples through the chamber, through my bones. The nenuphar flowers bob gently, their roots reaching down like grasping fingers into the depths.


    Five children on the edge of revelation. Five futures balanced on the knife-edge of tradition. The waters of Nenuphar wait, ancient and hungry, for us to prove our worth or drown in the attempt.


    I flex my fingers, fighting the urge to retreat into my Inner Hell. This is what I have trained for. This is what I must endure. Yet as I stare into those dark waters, I cannot shake the feeling that something stares back.


    The High-Exarch''s golden mask catches the light, hollow eyes fixed upon us from his position on the black dais. His white robes shimmer with an inner radiance that makes the shadows deeper, more absolute. The Staff of the Eternal Watch pulses with each word he speaks, its crystal tip drawing patterns in the air.


    "Before you stands the weight of your heritage, the pain of your ancestors, and the promise of your future. This is not merely a ritual; it is a covenant with Malkiel itself. The First Shattering taught us this¡ªcreation demands sacrifice."


    His voice fills the temple, reaching every corner where hundreds of children stand in reverent silence. My spine straightens under that hollow gaze. The mask turns, surveying us all, yet I feel its attention lingering on me longer than the others.


    "When the Nihil came, our ancestors faced obliteration. The House Absolute, for all its might, could not stem the tide of destruction. They fled into the Balah¡ªthat sea between realities. There, in that crucible of chaos, Malkiel was born."


    The crystal in his staff flares, projecting images of the exodus onto the temple walls. Figures run through dimensional tears, pursued by darkness. The mural behind him seems to move in concert with his words, the carved figures writhing with remembered pain.The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.


    "Three factions emerged from that crossing: Malkiel, Netnaim, and Yeshong. Each forever changed by their passage through the void. But it was Malkiel alone who understood the true price of survival."


    I feel Penelope tense beside me at the mention of Netnaim. My mother''s people. The High-Exarch''s words carry weight, each syllable another stone added to the burden we must bear. The waters of Nenuphar ripple, as if responding to the ancient story.


    The High-Exarch¡¯s voice dips lower, a resonance that seems to vibrate through the temple''s stonework, pulling us deeper into his story.


    ¡°Today, each of you stands where the first Malkielites stood, on the threshold of revelation and annihilation. Nenuphar will judge your worth. Its waters hold your fears, your failings, your truths. What you see beneath the surface is not an illusion but a mirror.¡±


    A murmur rises from the gathered children behind us. Hundreds of us stand in loose, pale robes, our feet bare against the cold stone floor. The robes flutter faintly, whispering like ghosts. The High-Exarch¡¯s gaze sweeps over us, silencing the stir.


    ¡°For the chosen, this baptism is only the beginning. For the rest¡­¡± His pause hangs in the air, pregnant with unspoken finality. ¡°Remove your robes.¡±


    I unclasp the ties at my shoulders, the fabric slipping to the ground like a discarded skin. My companions do the same. The cold air bites at my bare flesh, but the unease radiating from the crowd behind us feels sharper. I do not look back. I cannot.


    The High-Exarch steps aside, and with a sweep of his staff, the nenuphar blooms spread across the water, parting like a curtain. For the first time, I glimpse what lies beneath.


    The waters churn with fleeting, shadowed shapes¡ªfaces, limbs, indistinct forms that emerge only to dissolve into ripples. The depths whisper in tones I can almost understand, the words curling around my thoughts like tendrils. Something ancient stirs there, waiting.


    ¡°Step forward,¡± the High-Exarch commands.


    Penelope exhales sharply but takes her first step toward the water. She is ahead of me, her movements hesitant yet determined. I catch a glimpse of her profile¡ªher chin set with a defiance that does not quite mask her fear.


    ¡°Don¡¯t drown, Penelope,¡± Talon says from his place in the formation, his voice a mocking lilt. Enna elbows him hard enough to make him flinch, though she says nothing.


    Castor watches the exchange with narrowed eyes, his jaw tight. ¡°Save the jokes for when we¡¯re on the other side,¡± he mutters, barely loud enough for us to hear.


    Penelope glances back at me, her expression unreadable. ¡°See you on the other side, Janus,¡± she says, and then she is gone, diving into the black water.


    The nenuphar closes over her like a shroud, rippling faintly. I do not know if I should follow immediately or wait for the others. My heart pounds, not with fear of the water but with the cacophony of voices building in my head. Fragments of time flicker at the edges of my vision¡ªPenelope breaking the surface, gasping; Talon screaming silently as he is dragged down; Castor staring into the void, his expression blank.


    I close my eyes and force the visions back. My fingers flex involuntarily, itching to reach for the Inner Hell. But no¡ªI cannot rely on that now. The nenuphar would know.


    When I step forward, the water grips me immediately, pulling me down. It¡¯s colder than I expected, a deep, bone-shaking cold that numbs my body even as my mind screams against it. I try to move, to swim, but there is no resistance beneath me. Only the void.


    The water closes over my head, and darkness swallows me whole. Pale roots twist through the murk like spider silk, brushing against my skin. I push deeper, fighting the instinct to surface.


    Eyes open in the darkness. Not just one or two, but hundreds, thousands¡ªunblinking and ancient. They fix upon me with crushing judgment, and I feel the weight of every prejudiced stare I''ve ever endured in House Azure. The roots coil around my ankles, soft as silk but strong as steel.


    Balah-born.


    The thought pierces my mind, and I cannot tell if it is the eyes speaking or my own fears given voice. The roots tighten, and I remember Cyra''s words: "The longer you endure, the stronger your torq becomes."


    I force myself deeper, even as the eyes bore into me. Their gaze strips away pretense, peeling back layers of carefully constructed control. They see the anger I have buried, the shame I have hidden, the desperate need to prove myself worthy of House Azure despite my mixed blood.


    The cold seeps into my bones, but I push through it. Through the shifting shadows, I catch glimpses of movement¡ªPenelope and Castor, their pale forms drifting like ghosts in the distance. The roots between us wave like seaweed in a current, creating an ever-shifting maze.


    My lungs burn. The eyes watch, waiting for weakness, for the moment I will break. But I will not give them the satisfaction. I am more than their judgment, more than the sum of their prejudices. I let the pain fill me, feed me, drive me deeper into the abyss.


    The roots part before me as I swim toward the distant figures of the twins, each stroke a defiance against the crushing pressure of those ancient, knowing eyes.


    My right arm jerks violently, fingers splaying against my will. The movement halts my forward progression, leaving me suspended in the dark water. A familiar sensation crawls across my skin¡ªinvisible threads pulling at my muscles, wrapping around my joints like a puppet''s strings.


    I know this touch. Felt it back in the Sacral Enclosure.

 Chapter 9 - Death’s Embrace

    Chapter 9


    Death¡¯s Embrace


    Enna''s Semblance.


    This is why my arm spasms. The realization hits harder than a knee to the groin. I glance behind me. Through the murk of Nenuphar''s roots and watching eyes, I strain to spot her, but she remains hidden.


    My arm jerks again, a puppet''s paroxysm.


    I see them now¡ªsix shapes cutting through the depths with unnatural grace. Enna leads, her golden hair a pale banner in the murk. Talon flanks her right, while four others spread wide to box me in.


    My heart hammers my breast. I meet their eyes and freeze. There is nothing there. No rivalry, no competition¡ªjust cold intent. Hunters stalking prey.


    Panic claws up my throat. They are going to kill me. Right here, under sacred waters, they will make it look like an accident. The perfect crime masked by tradition¡ªwho would question a death during the brutal First Baptism?


    My eyes burn. I need air, need to think, need¡ª


    Instinct kicks through the floor of my being. I thrash forward. If they want me dead, they will have to earn it. I will not go quietly into the abyss.


    Each stroke is a battle against Enna''s invisible grip. My lungs scream for air, but I glimpse Penelope''s pale form ahead, Castor''s broad shoulders cutting through the murk beside her.


    The threads around my arm constrict, yanking me back like steel cables. My muscles spasm and twist, fighting my commands. I grit my teeth against the pain as my own flesh betrays me.


    A flash of crystalline light catches my eye. Through the tangle of roots and watching eyes, I see Talon raise his hands. The water between them freezes, condensing into a gleaming blade that catches what little light filters through the depths. He passes it to our cousin Marius, whose face is a mask of cold purpose as his fingers close around the hilt.


    My mind rebels at the sight. Each kick grows weaker as Enna''s power spreads through my arm, turning it numb and useless. The distance between me and safety stretches like an endless void while my pursuers close in with predatory grace.


    The ice blades glitter in more than one hand.


    A promise of a swift but brutal end.


    Ahead, Penelope''s head snaps around. Her eyes find mine, widening as she takes in the scene behind me. Recognition flashes across her features¡ªshe sees the trap closing around me, sees the ice blades coming to claim blood.If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    I try to call out, but only bubbles escape my lips. Enna''s threads dig deeper into my flesh, spreading their paralyzing grip down my side.


    Penelope''s face hardens into sharp angles. Her jaw sets, determination blazing in her eyes as she starts to turn back toward me. Hope flutters with nascent life.


    Castor''s hand clamps around her arm. Shakes his head. Ripples dance through my watery tomb. Hope stillborns.


    Our eyes lock again. The desperation in her gaze mirrors everything I cannot voice¡ªthe fear, the betrayal, the silent plea for help. For one suspended moment, we share the same helpless rage against forces too powerful to fight.


    Then something in her expression breaks. Her shoulders slump. She turns away, following Castor toward the surface, leaving me to face what comes next alone.


    I twist in the water, facing my attackers. Marius lunges forward, ice blade glinting. My free hand snaps up to block, but too slow¡ªthe crystalline edge slices across my side. Pain explodes through my body, hot and sharp even in the cold depths. Red clouds bloom in the murky water.


    Enna''s threads slither around my legs like hungry serpents. Each tendril tightens, crushing movement from my muscles. I try to kick, to writhe away, but my body refuses to obey. The water grows thick with my own blood.


    My mind fractures, splintering between blind panic and white-hot rage. I reach for the futures, desperate to find a path through this trap. But the timelines slip away like smoke, leaving me stranded in this singular, terrible moment. My gift abandons me when I need it most.


    Mother''s voice drifts through my fading consciousness. A memory surfaces¡ªher lap beneath my head, fingers gentle in my hair. The soft melody of a Netniem lullaby washing over me like warm rain. The scent of night-blooming flowers, sweet and pure.


    "Rest now, little Qilin," she would whisper between verses. "The darkness cannot touch you here."


    But darkness touches me now, pressing in from all sides as my lungs burn for air. Mother''s song feels so far away, drowned by the thunder of my failing heart.


    Blades of black ice flash through murky water, each cut precise and ritualistic. My cousins take turns, their movements choreographed like some twisted dance. Slice. Stab. Slice again. Blood clouds drift upward in crimson ribbons.


    Pain explodes across my chest as Marcus drives his blade between my ribs. The cold crystal parts flesh with surgical efficiency. Behind him, Lucia''s blade opens my thigh, and the last targets my shoulder.


    Through the haze of agony, I see Talon''s face. His teeth gleam white in a predator''s grin, bubbles escaping as silent laughter ripples through the water. His lips move, forming a word¡ªa name. Septimus.


    My heart stutters. Revelation hangs on the threshold of understanding. This is not about my mother''s bloodline.


    Enna floats above, her face a stone mask as she puppets my limbs. Her threads bite deeper, grinding bone against bone. Each new wound is placed with surgical precision, designed to break me piece by piece.


    My lungs burn. Agony blurs everything¡ªpast, present, future bleeding together like my wounds. I try to summon that familiar rage, that core of defiance that has carried me through every slight and insult.


    But as Marcus''s blade slides between my ribs again, something inside me cracks. The weight of water, of blood, of failure crashes down. I am four years old again, crying out in the dark.


    Mommy. Bubbles escape my lips, carrying away what is left of my pride. Mommy, please... make them stop.


    But Mother is not here. She cannot save me from this darkness, this betrayal carved in ice and malice. Just like she could not save me two years ago.


    Something begins to unravel. I feel the ribbons of blood as if they are still a part of me.


    Only I can save me.

 Interlude 1 - Brother is a Monster

    Interlude 1


    Brother is a Monster


    Azure petals drift atop Nenuphar''s dark waters, their fragile beauty hiding the abyss below.


    Cyra stares into their stillness, waiting for ripples to bring her brother back¡ªor swallow him forever. The Temple of Hope rises before her, its domed ceiling catching the morning light, a beacon of faith and foreboding. The air holds a sacred serenity, broken only by the soft whispers of waiting matrons.


    "The waters accept who they will," a female whispers nearby, her voice trembling with barely contained fear.


    "My daughter completed her baptism in mere minutes," another responds, voice threaded with pride and disappointment.


    Cyra''s jaw tightens, but she maintains her composure, channeling the quiet dignity she learned at her mother''s knee. Kaelenya''s lessons echo in her mind: "Stand tall, even when they whisper. Strength lies in silence and grace."


    The waiting women cluster in small groups, their robes rustling as they shift from foot to foot. Their murmured conversations blend into a constant hum of anxiety and anticipation. Some clutch at ceremonial tokens, others press their hands to their hearts.


    A ripple passes through the assembled crowd as the water''s surface shivers. Cyra''s fingers curl into her palms, her nails leaving crescent marks in her skin. The prayers she learned as a child rise unbidden to her lips, though she keeps them sealed behind a carefully neutral expression.


    Cyra catches Helena''s approach in her peripheral vision¡ªa flash of crimson and obsidian cutting through the sea of cyan robes. The High-Chatelaine of House Vermilion moves with practiced grace, her gold torq gleaming like a badge of supremacy. A swan strutting among ducklings.


    "Such a solemn vigil." Helena''s voice carries across the space between them, smooth as silk wrapped around a naked blade. "I always envied the way your mother made brooding seem funereal. It¡¯s a talent you¡¯ve inherited, though with¡­ less poetry, I fear."


    Cyra maintains her stance, shoulders straight, gaze forward. "Every baptism carries its own weight, High-Chatelaine."


    "Indeed." Helena steps closer, her crimson robes brushing against the stone floor. "Where is she by the way? Your mother?" She pauses, savoring the stillness. "Some say she is rarely in House Azure these days. High-Chatelaine in name only, perhaps?"


    Cyra¡¯s fingers tremble imperceptibly at her side, but her expression remains neutral. "Mother carries her responsibilities where they matter most. A skill I imagine you would find difficult to comprehend, tethered as you are to petty intrigues."


    Helena¡¯s lips curve upward, a smile as brittle as frost. "How dutifully you defend her. Though one must wonder¡ªwhen one¡¯s absence becomes habitual, does it not reflect a certain... disregard for her heirs?" She leans in, lowering her voice just enough for only Cyra to hear. "Or perhaps she knows there is little left worth defending."


    "It must sting, Helena. To spend a lifetime chasing a love that was never yours, only to watch him give his heart¡ªhis everything¡ªto someone else." Cyra''s tone softens to a whisper, razor-sharp in its precision. "You mistake love¡¯s quiet strength for absence. It would be unwise to confuse the two."Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.


    Helena¡¯s laugh sparkles like broken glass. Jagged. Sharp enough to cut. "What a wicked little tongue you have, my dear. How about I take it with me when I leave this place?"


    The air between them crackles with unspoken tension. Matrons draw back, forming a subtle circle around their confrontation, their whispers silenced by the sharp edges of the exchange. Helena¡¯s double pupils gleam like twin abysses, dark holes in azure seas.


    "You could try," Cyra says, her lips lifting in a hooking smile.


    Nenuphar''s surface breaks into concentric rings, flowers parting as two figures emerge. Penelope and Castor, their platinum hair darkened by water, streaming rivulets down their faces. Gasps echo across the empty space before the temple.


    Their new bronze torqs catch the light, pulsing with a steady, warm glow. Penelope helps steady her brother as they wade toward the shore, their movements precise despite the exhaustion evident in their shoulders.


    Helena''s transformation strikes Cyra as remarkable. The High-Chatelaine''s mask of cold superiority dissolves into pure maternal joy. She rushes forward, ceremonial towels clutched in her hands, all pretense forgotten as she embraces her children. "My darlings, my brave ones," she coos, wrapping them in the thick fabric. "Tell me everything. Were you afraid? Did you feel it? The power of the House Absolute?"


    Their voices overlap as they describe their experiences, Helena hanging on every word. The pride radiating from her seems to fill the space, infectious in its intensity. Around them, the other mothers relax visibly, their own fears easing at this display of success.


    "House Vermilion proves its strength again," Chatelaine Kassandra whispers, and approving murmurs ripple through the crowd. The air lightens with collective relief, as if Penelope and Castor''s emergence has broken some invisible tension.


    Cyra notes how the other families draw closer, offering congratulations, their earlier wariness forgotten in this moment of shared celebration. Even those who had been whispering about her moments ago now beam at the twins, caught up in the triumph of young Optimates completing their sacred trial.


    The celebrations around Penelope and Castor fade as Helena leads them into the Temple of Hope.


    Minutes tick by without further movement from the waters.


    Cyra''s stomach twists as she watches the surface grow unnaturally still, the flowers settling into a perfect, undisturbed pattern. The sunlight seems to dim, casting longer shadows across the dark pool.


    Janus. Where are you?


    Cyra''s nails dig deeper into her palms. Each heartbeat feels like thunder in her chest as she counts the seconds, then minutes. The nenuphar flowers should be moving, disturbed by the initiates below. Instead, they form an unbroken blanket across the water, as if nothing living stirs beneath.


    Don''t you dare¡­


    The silence grows thick, pressing against her ears. No splashes. No gasps for air. No triumphant emergence of new Optimates. Just the weight of dozens of held breaths and the soft, steady drip of fear.


    Kassandra clutches her ceremonial tokens tighter, the metal clicking against her rings. Another Chatelaine draws her robes closer, as if warding off a chill.


    The nenuphar flowers explode upward, water spraying in all directions. Talon breaks through the surface with a sound that is more animal than human¡ªa scream raw and guttural. His platinum hair clings to his skull as he thrashes, tearing at the floating flowers, ripping petals loose in his desperate climb to the shore.


    ¡°Talon!¡± Kassandra¡¯s voice cracks with panic as she rushes forward. Other matrons follow, their hands reaching for his flailing limbs. Crimson streaks the water, petals floating like tiny funeral shrouds. His eyes dart wildly, unseeing, his lips shaping broken words: ¡°He¡­ it was¡­ no, no, no.¡±


    Cyra sways on her feet, her vision blurring. She knows that look, has felt it spread across her own face before. Janus¡ª


    No. Not again. This cannot be happening again.


    The nenuphar flowers scatter like startled birds. Something launches upward with explosive force, water and light blinding the crowd. Cyra lowers her arm, her breath catching in her throat. A brown-skinned boy floats above the waters, his limbs limp, his head tilted back as though held by invisible strings. Water coils around his throat, shimmering, transforming.


    Bronze. Silver. Gold.


    And then something impossible.


    White-gold.


    Cyra stares up at her brother, the brother she knows is a monster¡ªthe monster Mother says she must love.

 Interlude 2 - Broken Canticle of the Necropolis

    Interlude 2


    Broken Canticle of the Necropolis


    Dark truths pulse at the edge of understanding.


    Kynar lies sprawled across the cold cell floor, his gaze fixed on the void above. Pinpricks of vermillion light blink in and out of existence where the invisible ceiling ends¡ªthe Balah.


    Trapped in a box-shaped cage.


    His breath is unlabored. His pale skin, unbroken. And yet, he is injured¡ªpoisoned by an illness that stains his Zarath with patches of midnight corruption. Torment presses against his mind, a discordant symphony that sets his teeth on edge.


    It¡ªthe pain¡ªthe song speaks of emptiness, of spaces between spaces where something ancient dwells.


    The metallic wall of his prison ripples.


    Kynar sits up, his torq rattling against his throat. Defunct. Bound.


    The wall dissolves, its geometric patterns folding inward like intricate wings. Titus Ragnos steps through, his platinum hair aflame with flickering light. The air hums faintly, charged with the weight of his presence¡ªrepelled, perhaps, by the authority he exudes.


    "Titus," Kynar greets, standing. A kennel of joy kindles at the sight of his old friend, but it sputters then dies under the wrath that burns in the Dularch¡¯s gaze. "What''s wrong?"


    Titus¡¯s expression hardens. ¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Kynar replies, tilting his head. ¡°I¡¯ve rarely seen your face marred by such contentiousness.¡±


    "Where are we?"


    "What? I don''t¡ª"


    "Where do we stand?" Titus gestures around him.


    Kynar blinks, his gaze drifting to the walls and the Balah above¡ªthe pinprick universes blooming and dying in their endless cycle. Horror claws at his thoughts as realization dawns.Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    The Necropolis.


    The city of ruin beneath Malkiel, where the most damned criminals are held. Kynar takes a halting step back. Shame girdles his breast.


    Titus¡¯s voice cuts through his spiraling thoughts. ¡°You tried to murder me,¡± he says, cold and measured. ¡°Why?¡±


    No. No. No.


    Kynar¡¯s back presses against the wall. His breath catches.


    He tries to focus on Titus''s face, but his vision blurs.


    Something within shatters, and memories burst through like jagged shards: clouds torn apart by his Vritraha¡¯s passage; energy cannons charging, their glass muzzles warping reality; screams swallowed by the splintering of light and shadow.


    Titus¡¯s lips move, but Kynar cannot hear the words.


    The only sound is the mewling of something alien¡ªthe song rising from the depths of his mind. It has been there all along, whispering, cooing, and now it surges.


    The melody consumes him, filling his skull with impossible harmonies¡ªnotes that should not exist. His legs buckle, and he crashes to the floor, his body spasming. The inner corruption spreads, dark spots stretching across a living thread.


    ¡°Forgive me, my Qilin,¡± Kynar whispers. He blinks back tears, his gaze fixed on the swirling Balah. ¡°It is only now I understand. Once, you spoke to me about the box. Do you remember?¡±


    Titus steps closer, his expression unreadable, his voice steady. ¡°I remember.¡±


    ¡°You said we are all born and die in a box.¡± A hollow chuckle slips from Kynar¡¯s lips, ragged and uneven. ¡°For us Malkielites, our box is a cube. A hyper-dimensional cube, but a box nonetheless.¡±


    Titus¡¯s voice sharpens. ¡°What does this have to do with anything?¡±


    Kynar''s laugh builds, unsteady and bitter. ¡°Tradition. History. These are our walls¡ªthe bars of our gilded cage. Honor. Duty. Merely the locks that keep us confined.¡±


    Titus tilts his head, a flicker of something¡ªconfusion, perhaps curiosity¡ªcrossing his gaze.


    Tears spill freely now as Kynar¡¯s laugh shifts into something darker, wilder. ¡°You think me mad, don¡¯t you, cousin? I see it in your eyes. But you¡¯re wrong. Madness is what optimates fear. We are Eidolons¡ªthings even the Hells cannot touch.¡±


    Titus¡¯s voice hardens. ¡°Is it not madness to repeat truths already known? To drape yourself in riddles as if they are revelations?¡±


    Kynar¡¯s tone drops, soft and dangerous. ¡°You don¡¯t understand, Titus. I stand outside. Outside the box.¡± He takes a halting step forward. ¡°You once asked me to fathom what that would mean. And now I am your answer, made flesh.¡±


    Titus¡¯s breath catches, a faint crack in his controlled exterior. He turns sharply, his back to Kynar, his shoulders rigid.


    ¡°I am the Autarch!¡± Kynar¡¯s voice rises, a crescendo of defiance and despair. ¡°I am the Nihil!¡±


    Titus does not look back, but his steps falter as he nears the dissolving doorway. The faint hum of the Balah grows louder, lashing air like wild and murderous winds, drowning the moment in its bizarre rhythm.


    Kynar stares after him, trembling, straining against a sense of overwhelming pleasure.


    As the walls ripple closed behind Titus, Kynar¡¯s voice cuts through the rising hum, a broken canticle.


    ¡°Prepare yourself, my Qilin. Doom approaches.¡±

 Interlude 3 - The Quiet Knife

    Interlude 3


    The Quiet Knife


    Once again, the time has come to murder a child.


    Darius stalks through the shadows of House Azure. He hates how ordinary it all feels¡ªhates the way his fellow eunuchs greet him with smiles and nods. It should not be this way. Killing should not come so easily. Not after what it cost him all those years ago.


    The hidden knullknife burns at his side.


    His steps do not falter. He keeps to the edges of the corridors, silent and deliberate. The faint rustle of silk drifts from unseen spires above, the sound merging with the soft hum of glowglobes stationed at even intervals along the hall. Their azure light pools on the pale stone, casting faint, rippling shadows that seem to move in time with his thoughts.


    Ahead lies the quarters of Janus Ragnos, his target. The boy he must kill. A simple enough task: enter silently, kill quickly, and leave no trace.


    And yet, tension tightens Darius¡¯s throat.


    Perhaps it is the thread of memory tugging at him¡ªthe smell of ash and blood from so long ago.


    He remembers the pit at the Crucible, the cold steel of the blade pressed into his hand, the shouts of the overseers above. Boys his age, boys he knew, forced to fight for survival. The weak would fall, and the strong would ascend. That was the way of things.


    He should have been strong.


    Instead, he faltered.


    The first boy lunged, his blade catching Darius¡¯s cheek, and in that moment, something in him broke. His own blade refused to move. The overseers had dragged him from the pit, bleeding but alive. Alive, and unworthy. The Exarchs had spared his life, though they stripped him of everything else¡ªhis bloodline, his future, his manhood.


    Now, all that remains is duty. And this knife.


    The door to Janus¡¯s quarters looms ahead, its polished surface gleaming faintly. Darius slows his steps, drawing in a slow breath. He has killed boys before. This should be no different.The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    I have no choice.


    Yet, deep down, something in him protests.


    It¡¯s this or death.


    Darius pauses in a small alcove nearby. The knullknife comes free from its hidden sheath with a faint whisper, its dark blade swallowing the light. He presses the blade¡¯s flat edge against his forehead, closing his eyes as he recites the words he has spoken countless times before:


    ¡°For the purity of Malkiel. For the will of the Autarch. For the One Path.¡±


    The blade is cold against his skin, grounding him. He pulls it away, glancing at his reflection in its flawless surface. The Mark of Nullification on his neck feels heavy tonight.


    Malkiel had demanded his sacrifice, and he had failed her tests.


    Yet the echoes of the pit never leave him.


    The room is dark when he steps inside, the door creaking faintly as it closes behind him. Darius moves with practiced silence, his footsteps lighter than a whisper on the smooth stone floor.


    The air here is heavy, unnaturally so. The faint glow of a glowglobe resting on the bedside table pulses in rhythm with his heartbeat. Darius¡¯s breath catches for a moment, his grip on the knife tightening.


    The boy¡¯s bed is empty.


    Something is wrong.


    The room seems to shift around him, the walls bending in ways they should not. He steps back instinctively, his eyes scanning for movement, for any sign of Janus.


    A ripple in the corner of the room stops him cold.


    The air twists, reality bending like glass caught in flame. A figure materializes¡ªno, unfolds¡ªfrom the darkness. The distortion wraps around her like a living shroud, her outline bleeding at the edges as if she exists in multiple places at once.


    Kaelenya. High-Chatelaine Kaelenya.


    Darius¡¯s breath catches. The stories never capture her true beauty¡ªthe way her presence fills the room like smoke, how her double-pupiled eyes pierce through him with otherworldly clarity. Her dark hair shifts and blurs, refusing to settle like a living waterfall.


    The knife grows heavy in his hand.


    ¡°High-Chatelaine, I¡­¡± he begins, only for his voice to fail him.


    His knees hit the stone floor. His throat constricts.


    She watches him without moving, without speaking. Those eyes¡ªviolet depths within depths. Death. He sees death in her gaze.


    ¡°I can explain,¡± he says, his voice cracking. The Mark of Nullification burns against his skin, a reminder of his own failures, his own sacrifices. Yet before her gaze, even that seems to fade into insignificance.


    Kaelenya¡¯s lips lift into the faintest of smiles. ¡°Explain? What¡¯s there to explain, Darius? You brought my son a gift.¡±


    The knullknife clatters to the ground.


    Darius shudders on the cold stone, his breath ragged, his hands trembling. The Mark of Nullification seems to sear his soul, a cruel reminder.


    Her throat bears no torq, no sigil of power¡ªshe needs none.


    Doomed. I''m doomed.


    Her voice is weapon enough.


    Darius flees the room, the echoes of her voice following him like a shadow. The corridor swallows him, the glowglobes casting pale light on his retreating form.


    He has failed. Again.


    And for the first time in years, he wonders if the strength he lost in the Crucible was not weakness at all¡ªbut the last piece of himself worth saving.

 Chapter 10 - Semblances

    Chapter 10


    Semblances


    Answers elude me.


    I rub my temple, pulling away from the tome with a sigh. The faint glow of a glowglobe flickers overhead, its light catching the edges of a cracked spine before me. Words begin to blur, ancient ink merging into indecipherable patterns that my tired eyes can no longer untangle.


    Before me lies a table stacked high with books and scrolls, their presence a quiet testimony to my desperation. The air here is thick, laden with the scent of old parchment and something metallic, like blood. Dust clings to the corners of every surface, undisturbed by the faint currents of air that swirl in from the vaulted ceilings above.


    I have been here too long. But I do not have the luxury of stopping.


    My questions demand¡ª


    A soft sound pulls my attention¡ªjust the scrape of movement, but enough to make me glance over my shoulder. Something¡ªno, someone shifts in the periphery of my vision, someone I do my best to pretend I cannot see. My grip tightens on the edge of the table, a source of silent reassurance.


    I am not mad. I am not!


    ¡°Long night, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    The voice startles me. I snap my head around to find a figure emerging from the shadows: a wizen eunuch with a hunched posture and robes the color of ash. His eyes glint faintly in the dim light, sharp despite his frail demeanor. In one hand, he carries a tray with a simple clay cup of water, which he sets on the table without asking.


    ¡°You look parched,¡± he says. ¡°I¡¯ve been watching you strain over those books for hours now.¡±


    I do not respond immediately, my eyes narrowing as I try to gauge his intent. The librarian. Of course. I had expected someone to notice me eventually, though I had hoped it would not be tonight.


    ¡°Thirsty?¡± he presses, his voice mild, as if it were a genuine question.


    Reluctantly, I nod, reaching for the cup. The water is colder than I expect, the taste sharp as it slides down my throat.


    He watches me as I drink, his eyes flickering to the white-gold torq that lies about my neck. ¡°You know,¡± he begins, leaning on his cane, ¡°if you just told me what you were looking for, I could help. The library has more than its share of secrets, but it¡¯s no use floundering in them alone.¡±


    I meet his gaze, careful to keep my expression blank. ¡°I¡¯m fine.¡±


    ¡°Are you?¡± His tone is light, almost teasing, but something about the way he says it makes me pause.


    Silence stretches between us, heavy and uncomfortable. He does not move, does not look away, as if waiting for me to give something away. Finally, I break the tension with a question.


    ¡°What are Semblances?¡±


    The words leave my mouth before I fully realize I have spoken them. I hear the faint quaver in my voice, the weight of my own doubt wrapped in the question.


    The librarian tilts his head, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly. For a moment, he says nothing, as though weighing how much he is willing to tell me¡ªor how much I deserve to know.


    ¡°Ah,¡± he murmurs finally. ¡°That is the question, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    His gaze flicks to the pile of books in front of me, his mouth curling into a faint smile. ¡°You¡¯ll find no shortage of answers here, though I¡¯m not sure any of them will satisfy you. But let me simplify it for you: a Semblance is truth. Yours, to be exact.¡±


    I blink at him, the words hanging in the air like smoke.


    ¡°Truth,¡± I echo, unable to keep the disbelief from my voice. ¡°That doesn¡¯t tell me anything.¡±You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    ¡°Doesn¡¯t it?¡± he counters, his tone maddeningly calm. ¡°Semblances are as unique as the souls who wield them. For most, they are gifted by the torqs¡ªthough a lucky few develop them before the First Baptism. But for all, they are shaped by conflict, by ambition, by every little thing you think you¡¯ve hidden away. Your Semblance will be a reflection of your essence, whether you like it or not. And sometimes¡­¡± His voice trails off, his gaze flickering toward the shadows in the corners of the room. ¡°Sometimes, truth is the last thing we want to face.¡±


    The silence that follows feels deafening, the weight of his words settling into the pit of my stomach like lead.


    ¡°How do you control it?¡± I ask, the words sharper than I intend.


    The librarian chuckles softly, a sound that holds no real mirth. ¡°Control? There¡¯s no control, not in the way you¡¯re thinking. A Semblance is as much a part of you as your own heartbeat. You don¡¯t tame it; you understand it. Anything less, and it will devour you.¡±


    The blood drains from my face. A blade that cuts both ways¡ªthe phrase from the scroll rises unbidden in my mind, sharper now, more menacing.


    ¡°Careful, boy,¡± he says, his voice dropping into something softer, something almost tender. ¡°Some truths aren¡¯t meant to be uncovered so soon. And power without understanding is a dangerous thing.¡±


    He turns before I can respond, shuffling back into the shadows from which he emerged.


    I sit there for a long moment, staring at the spot where the librarian disappeared. The weight of his words presses down on me, heavy and suffocating. I glance down at the book in front of me, at the passages I had highlighted and underlined, but the words no longer make sense.


    What is my truth?


    The question haunts me as I push the book away, the faint hum of the glowglobes above suddenly too loud, too oppressive. The air feels thicker now, colder. Shadows curl in the corners of my vision, tugging at the edges of my thoughts like unwelcome whispers. I grip the edge of the table again, grounding myself, refusing to let them unravel me.


    Then I feel her.


    I do not see her at first¡ªnot directly. But the moment she steps into the periphery of my sight, I know she is there. My pulse quickens, my breath hitching despite my best efforts to stay calm. She does not move, not really, but her presence is palpable, a weight that presses against my senses.


    I turn slowly, knowing what I will see but hoping, somehow, that I will not.


    She stands just beyond the edge of the glowglobe¡¯s reach, her pale, alabaster skin catching faint fragments of light. Her hair is a stark white cascade, almost translucent in the dimness, flowing like a veil around her face. And her eyes¡ªpurple, impossibly deep, twin mirrors of Mother''s own.


    She does not speak. She never speaks.


    I have grown used to her silence, but it does not make her presence any easier to bear. She has been following me since I awoke in the Temple of Hope, always just out of reach, just beyond the edges of reality. No one else can see her.


    ¡°Why are you here?¡± I whisper, the words slipping past my lips before I can stop them. My voice is raw, quieter than I meant it to be, and the room swallows the sound like a hungry void.


    She does not answer. She does not move.


    I swallow hard, the tightness in my chest threatening to spill over. ¡°You are not real,¡± I say, as much to convince myself as to address her. ¡°You are just a¡­ figment. A side effect. You are not real.¡±


    Her expression does not change, but her head tilts ever so slightly, as though questioning my words. The movement is subtle, almost imperceptible, but it feels louder than any accusation she could have spoken.


    I stand abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor as I push it back. My pulse thunders in my ears, drowning out the silence, drowning out everything but the sight of her.


    ¡°Leave me alone,¡± I murmur, my voice trembling. I hate the sound of it, the weakness in it.


    She steps forward.


    I freeze. She has never approached me before, never crossed that invisible boundary between us. My breath catches as she glides closer, her movement as silent as a shadow, her violet eyes locked on mine. She stops just a hand¡¯s width away, her gaze boring into me, unblinking, unreadable.


    ¡°What... who are you?¡± My words, though my voice sounds strange to my ears.


    Her hand rises slowly, pale and delicate, until her fingertips brush against my forehead. The touch is ice and fire all at once, searing through my thoughts, piercing into a place I did not know existed. My mind reels as something foreign and yet familiar takes root.


    A name.


    Binah.


    The word blooms in my thoughts, sharp and clear, as though it has always been there, waiting to be uncovered. I blink, and she is gone, standing once more where she had been moments before, her gaze as steady and unrelenting as ever.


    She tilts her head, her expression calm, almost patient, before lifting a hand and beckoning. The motion is slow, deliberate, and it holds a weight that presses against my chest, tightening with every passing second. Then she turns, her white hair flowing like smoke, and begins to walk away.


    I remain frozen, my thoughts caught in a storm of confusion and fear. She does not look back as she moves, her figure fading into the shadows of the library. But even as the darkness swallows her, I know she is waiting.


    Waiting for me to follow.


    The question burns in my mind, heavier than any I have faced tonight: Do I follow her? Do I trust her?


    I glance at the scattered books on the table, their words meaningless now, drowned out by the single, undeniable truth that pulses in my thoughts.


    Binah.


    The library feels emptier without her, the silence heavier. My hand tightens into a fist, my nails digging into my palm. I force myself to take a step forward, then another, my heart pounding in my chest.


    I do not know where she will lead me, or if I will regret following her. But I cannot stay here.


    Not anymore.

 Chapter 11 - Limits of Control

    Chapter 11


    Limits of Control


    The library is deathly still as I follow behind her.


    Hanging lights cast shadows that seem too deep, too alive. Books and scrolls surround us like silent witnesses, their forgotten knowledge as impenetrable as the air clinging to my skin. I have spent hours here, searching for answers, but now I realize I have been blind to the one with the truth.


    Binah.


    She moves, stepping lightly into the space behind one of the shelves, her white hair catching the dim light. My chest tightens as she reaches out and presses her hand to the wall, her fingers trailing over the surface as though reading invisible glyphs.


    The wall shifts.


    I cannot describe it any other way. The stone itself seems to sigh, rippling outward before splitting apart with a low groan. Dust spills from the edges, caught in the faint light as the hidden door reveals itself. A cold wind flows out from the darkness beyond, carrying with it the faintest trace of decay and something else¡ªsomething sharp and electric, like the charge before a storm.


    Binah steps back and looks at me. Her gaze is steady, patient, but there is something in the tilt of her head, the subtle rise of her chin. A challenge.


    I do not move.


    ¡°What?¡± I say, my voice harsher than I intended. My heart is pounding, a rapid staccato that I struggle to quiet. ¡°You cannot expect me to ¡­ not without an explanation.¡±


    She does not answer. Of course she does not answer. Her silence is her only constant, and it grates against my fraying nerves. Still, she waits, her figure framed by the dark portal, the abyss calling to me like a whispered threat.


    I take a step forward, then stop.


    My fingers clench into fists.


    Doubt floods me, mingling with the loss I have been trying to bury since the First Baptism. My temporal sight is gone. The future I used to glimpse, the paths I could weigh and consider, are closed to me now. Binah is all I have left of it, this strange and maddening embodiment of my semblance.


    But she does not feel like mine.


    Her lips curve into a wicked little smile. Then she is gone, dashing through the opening.


    I close my eyes, forcing a deep breath. The air tastes of parchment and stone, grounded and real. When I open my eyes, she is still not there.


    ¡°Wait,¡± I say, though my voice shakes.


    I glance back at the books, their spines etched with knowledge I could not decipher, and wonder if the truth I seek lies buried beyond this portal¡ªor if it will bury me instead.


    The first step is the hardest. The dark swallows me as I cross the threshold, the faint light of the library vanishing behind me. My fingers brush against the stone walls, cold and damp beneath my touch, as the passage narrows around me. The air grows heavier, thick with an ancient weight that presses against my senses. My breaths come shallow and quick, echoing back to me in the oppressive silence.The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    Binah walks ahead, her pale figure barely visible in the gloom.


    Her steps make no sound, her presence both a guide and a taunt. I want to speak, to demand answers, but the words die in my throat. The deeper we go, the more the air changes, the faint metallic scent giving way to something sharper, almost acrid.


    The corridor twists and dips, narrowing so sharply that my shoulders almost brush the walls. My fingers trail along the damp stone, seeking reassurance in the cold solidity of the path. Then I see it¡ªa hallway splitting off from the main passage, sloping sharply downward.


    It draws me in an instant. The walls of the hallway shimmer faintly, their surface shifting like water caught in the moonlight. A low hum vibrates through the air, barely audible but strong enough to tingle in my bones. The air smells different here, sharper, heavier. I take a step toward it, my pulse quickening.


    ¡°Binah,¡± I murmur, but she is silent behind me.


    I glance back to find her standing motionless, her head tilted ever so slightly. Her violet eyes catch the faint light of the passage, glinting like polished glass. She does not stop me, nor does she step aside. She simply watches.


    The hallway seems to beckon. It curves downward, vanishing into shadow, but there is something in the way it feels¡ªsomething familiar and foreign at once.


    The air shifts.


    It is subtle at first, like the faintest hum at the edge of hearing. I stop, one foot poised above the sloping floor of the strange hallway, and the sound swells¡ªa melody, low and mournful, threading through the stone like veins of light.


    It is beautiful.


    No, it is more than that. It calls to something inside me, something buried deep, tangled in the roots of my being. The notes rise and fall in an impossible harmony, each one brushing against the edges of thought, teasing at half-formed memories. It feels ancient and alive, as if the song has always been here, waiting to be heard.


    I take another step toward the hallway, drawn by the sound. The floor slopes downward into darkness. The melody grows louder, but it is not coming from one direction. It is everywhere and nowhere¡ªemanating from the hallway ahead and the hollow space inside my chest at once.


    My pulse quickens. The song is not just a sound. It is a presence, vast and overwhelming, pressing against the edges of my thoughts. I feel its weight as surely as I feel the air in my lungs, the cold stone beneath my feet. It whispers of ruin, of something broken and forgotten, and yet it does not frighten me. It fills me.


    My hand brushes the wall as I lean forward, my breath catching. The hum in the air shifts, sharpening, resonating through the core of my being. My fingers twitch against the stone, the rhythm pulling at me, demanding that I step closer. I do not know what lies at the end of this hallway, but I feel its pull as surely as gravity.


    Eater.


    The impact catches me before I even realize Binah has moved.


    Pain explodes across my jaw, snapping my head to the side. The blow sends me stumbling back, and I slam into the wall, the sharp bite of stone cutting through the haze. I clutch at my face, my breath ragged as I blink away the stars dancing across my vision.


    ¡°What the¡ª¡± I start, but the words die as I look up.


    Binah stands before me, her pale figure framed by the faint glow of the hallway behind her. Her fist is still clenched, her knuckles faintly pink from the strike. Her violet eyes burn, sharp and unyielding, and for a moment, I see something in them I have never seen before. Not anger. Something colder. Absolute.


    She does not wait for me to recover. She steps between me and the hallway, her movements deliberate, cutting off my view of the shimmering walls. Her head tilts slightly, the gesture quiet but commanding, and she raises one hand, pointing down the main passage we had been following.


    My chest heaves as I straighten, the song fading from my mind like a dream slipping through tiny fingers. The hum in the air lingers, faint and teasing, but Binah¡¯s presence eclipses it. Her gaze is fixed on me, sharp as a blade, and I know with a sudden, sinking certainty that she will not let me pass.


    I glance past her, my heart aching as I catch one last glimpse of the sloping hallway. The light flickers faintly, the melody almost imperceptible now, but it tugs at me still. I can feel it fading, pulling away like a tide retreating from the shore. My hands clench into fists, the ache in my jaw forgotten as I fight the urge to push past her.


    But Binah does not move. Her silence is a wall, impenetrable and absolute. Her outstretched hand is a command I cannot defy.


    With a sharp breath, I turn away, the weight of her gaze pressing into my back as I step toward the main passage. The melody is gone now, swallowed by the heavy stillness of the stone. But its echo lingers, a faint thread of loss twining through my thoughts.


    I glance over my shoulder once, catching a glimpse of Binah standing motionless before the hallway, her figure a pale shadow against the faint shimmer of light. Then I turn back and walk into the dark.

 Chapter 12 - The Rot Within

    Chapter 12


    The Rot Within


    Binah moves ahead of me, silent as ever, her pale figure barely visible in the dim glow that seems to emanate from the walls themselves.


    The path narrows, the smooth stone giving way to jagged edges carved with shifting glyphs. I reach out instinctively, letting my fingertips brush the surface, and immediately regret it. The glyphs ripple at my touch, their shapes writhing like living things before settling into patterns that feel like a language I should understand but do not.


    ¡°Where are you taking me?¡± My voice sounds too loud in the oppressive silence, but I cannot stop myself from asking.


    Binah does not respond. Yet her head tilts slightly, as though acknowledging my question, but she does not slow. The sound of her steps¡ªsoft and measured¡ªis the only answer I receive.


    The passage ends abruptly at a smooth, unmarked wall. For a moment, I think we have reached a dead end, but Binah steps forward, placing her hand flat against the stone. The air shifts, carrying with it a faint vibration that hums through my bones. The wall ripples like water, the stone dissolving to reveal a door-shaped void of perfect blackness.


    Binah turns her head slightly, her violet eyes catching the faint light of the corridor. No words are exchanged, yet her meaning is clear. Follow.


    I take a deep breath and step through.


    The air beyond the door is warmer, richer, and it carries with it the faint scent of human presence. I emerge into a narrow corridor, its walls carved with intricate patterns that seem to glow faintly, though no light source is visible. Binah moves ahead, her pace quickening, and I hurry to keep up.


    The corridor opens into a wide chamber, and I freeze as my eyes take it in.


    Below me lies the Stratarchy.


    It is vast and imposing, an amphitheater carved from black stone that gleams faintly in the low light. Rows of elevated platforms encircle a central dais, where Titus stands. The insignia of House Azure¡ªthe Qilin¡ªlooms behind him, etched into the back wall in intricate detail. The air hums faintly, a subtle vibration that seems to come from the stone itself.


    I step closer to the edge of the chamber, peering through a lattice screen that conceals me from view. Officials stand below, each draped in dark robes, their torqs catching the faint light as they move. Titus stands at the center, his presence commanding, his voice carrying through the chamber with a calm authority that makes my chest tighten.


    ¡°Something is rotten in Malkiel.¡±


    Titus¡¯s voice rings out, commanding silence. The faint hum of the Stratarchy seems to pause with him, the stone walls absorbing the sound as if they too are listening. Below the dais, the gathered officials stiffen, their faces shadowed by the faint glow of their torqs. A flicker of unease passes through the assembly, glances exchanged like whispers in the dark. No one speaks.


    ¡°The attack at the Festival of Retrospection should have been unthinkable,¡± Titus continues, his tone sharper than a drawn blade. ¡°An Eidolon gone mad. Do you comprehend the weight of those words? Kynar, forged in the fires of discipline, tempered by the Zarath and the Collegium, shattered like fragile glass. And yet, do you think that was the disease?¡±


    He steps forward, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. His gaze sweeps the room, cold and assessing. ¡°No. It was the symptom.¡±


    The silence is shattered by faint murmurs, hesitant whispers that ripple through the assembly like a gathering storm. One of the officials, their head bowed low, takes a tentative step forward. ¡°My Qilin, are you suggesting that¡ª¡±


    ¡°I am suggesting nothing.¡± Titus¡¯s voice slices through the air, cutting off the question before it can fully form. He straightens, his shoulders squared, his presence filling the vast chamber. ¡°I am stating what you all already know but refuse to face. The rot is here. Within our walls. It festers in our institutions, our traditions, and yes, even in us.¡±


    The officials¡¯ discomfort becomes palpable, the weight of his words pressing down on them as they avert their gazes. Titus¡¯s voice hardens, the edge of command laced with something more¡ªdisdain.Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.


    ¡°Kynar was not a lone aberration. He was proof that something in Malkiel has faltered. Proof that we have allowed weakness to creep into the very heart of our power.¡±


    My breath catches. Titus¡¯s words seem to carry a weight beyond the moment, beyond the walls of this chamber. My grip on the lattice tightens, my knuckles whitening as I watch him. There is something terrifying in the clarity of his voice, in the undeniable truth of what he says.


    One of the officials, a woman with silver streaks in her hair, raises her head. Her voice trembles slightly, though she tries to keep it steady. ¡°My Qilin, the Mere and the Collegium¡¯s methods remain the most rigorous¡ª¡±


    The Mere. The mention of it sends a jolt through me. Tomorrow, I will leave for that place.


    "Lies!" Titus shouts, cutting her off. ¡°You speak to me of rigor? Our forebears would laugh at what we have become.¡±


    He pauses, letting the silence stretch, the weight of his words settling over them like a shroud. Then, with a short, bitter laugh, he continues, ¡°Today alone, I have had half a dozen mothers come weeping to me about deaths during the First Baptism. Deaths during the First Baptism! Imagine it.¡± He lets the words hang in the air, his voice dripping with disdain. ¡°What is this if not proof of how far we have fallen?¡±


    The officials stir uneasily, their unease bleeding into the room like a rising tide. Titus steps forward, his shadow stretching across the chamber, and his voice drops to a dangerous calm.


    ¡°We have seen what happens when weakness is allowed to grow and fester. Madness. Destruction. A single crack, and the entire foundation begins to crumble.¡±


    Another official bows deeply, their voice careful. ¡°What would you have us do, my Qilin?¡±


    The question lingers in the air, the words fragile against the rising tension. Titus lets it hang, his gaze sweeping across the room as if weighing each of them in turn. When he speaks, his voice is quieter, but it carries no less authority.


    ¡°We will go back to the old ways.¡± His words fall like stones into a still pool, rippling through the chamber. ¡°We excise the rot. No longer will our young be protected. No longer will weakness find shelter within our walls.¡±


    His gaze sharpens, and he raises his hand, pointing toward the assembled officials. ¡°Wherever we find it. In our enemies. In our allies. In ourselves. It will be purged.¡±


    The silence is deafening, the air in the chamber heavy with unspoken fear and resolve. Titus lowers his hand, his tone softening, though it remains unyielding. ¡°Ambition without discipline is dangerous, yes¡ªbut so is fear disguised as caution.¡±


    He takes a breath, his expression unreadable, and his voice rises again, carrying the weight of a command that cannot be refused. ¡°We act. We rise. Or we fall.¡±


    The words echo through the Stratarchy, resonating in the stone itself, and for a moment, no one moves.


    From my vantage point, I cannot breathe. The lattice feels like a lifeline beneath my fingers, the pressure of my grip the only thing keeping me tethered. Titus¡¯s words ring in my ears, undeniable in their clarity, and the weight of them settles over me like a mantle I am not sure I am ready to bear.


    Below, the officials bow in unison, their voices murmuring an oath I cannot hear. One by one, they retreat, their robes whispering against the stone as they vanish into shadowed corridors.


    And then, the chamber is empty.


    Titus remains on the dais, unmoving. The silence stretches, a heavy thing that seems to press against the stone itself. Slowly, his tired eyes lift, scanning the shadows, and come to rest exactly where I hide.


    Shock jolts through me, sharp and electric. For an instant, I cannot breathe, my hand frozen on the lattice. Can he see me? The question burns through my mind, absurd and impossible, but the weight of his gaze does not falter.


    I stumble back, away from the peephole, my pulse hammering in my ears. The air seems to crackle around me, as though the very stones hum with awareness. Then a shadow moves behind me, and before I can turn¡ª


    A thick palm grips my shoulder.


    It is not a pull, but a forceful shove, spinning me around. I stagger, my boots skidding against the smooth stone, disoriented as a towering figure looms before me. Titus. Here, in the narrow corridor. My chest tightens, my breath catching.


    How?


    He says nothing at first, his face unreadable. His hand still rests on my shoulder, impossibly steady, holding me in place with ease. His gaze is sharp, heavy, and the weight of it freezes me.


    ¡°Eavesdropping?¡± His voice is low, almost calm, but there is no mistaking the edge beneath it. ¡°Bold, even for you.¡±


    ¡°I¡ª¡± My voice falters, my throat dry. ¡°I was not¡ª¡±


    ¡°Spare me.¡± He cuts me off with a gesture, his tone clipped. ¡°If you wanted to know what I am planning, perhaps you should have asked.¡±


    The Codicil on his forehead begins to glow. The silvery-white mark, usually faint against his skin, blazes to life with a cool blue radiance, the light pulsing subtly in time with each breath. The intricate geometric patterns surrounding the almond-shaped third eye illuminate, revealing designs that seem to shift and rearrange, mirroring the shifting architecture of Malkiel itself. It is a sight both mesmerizing and terrifying, a tangible manifestation of his authority.


    Titus¡¯s lips part, and words spill forth¡ªnot words, not truly, but sounds ancient and incomprehensible. Each syllable reverberates through the air, the Codicil¡¯s glow intensifying with every utterance.


    The corridor groans, and space fractures behind him. The air splits, tearing apart with a screech that reverberates deep in my bones. The portal that forms is not a clean thing; its edges burn and twist, curling like the edges of scorched parchment. Through it, I glimpse another world: a vast, frostbitten plain under a bleeding sky of amber and gold.


    The portal pulses, its edges alive, rippling as if eager to devour. Without warning, Titus grips my arm, his fingers unyielding as stone. The stones beneath us crack as the power surges through him, raw and terrifying.


    With a single motion, he pulls me forward, and the portal devours us. The last thing I see is the Codicil on his forehead, its patterns blazing with impossible complexity, before we are swallowed whole.

 Chapter 13 - The Path Ahead

    Chapter 13


    The Path Ahead


    The portal spits me out.


    One is struggle enough, but traveling through two, back-to-back, is too much. My head spins. The world¡ª


    I stumble forward, my boots catching on the edge of a thick rug. I lurch sideways, barely catching myself on a nearby chair, my heart pounding as the room twirls around me. The air here feels different¡ªwarmer, heavier, laced with the faint scent of polished wood and stone. I glance around, trying to orient myself.


    The chamber is opulent yet austere, a contradiction that feels entirely deliberate. Banners of deep azure hang from the walls, each adorned with the insignia of the Qilin. The floor is black stone, polished to a mirror sheen, interrupted only by the massive rug beneath my feet¡ªa sprawling mosaic of intricate patterns that seem to ripple under the flickering light of the sconces. To one side stands a wide table, its surface strewn with star maps, reports, and a single ceremonial dagger, its blade catching the light.


    Titus strides past me as if I am not there, his presence somehow shrinking the room despite its size. He moves to the table, placing his hands flat on its surface as he leans over the maps, his back to me. The silence stretches, heavy and oppressive, until I can no longer bear it.


    A palm presses against my back.


    Binah¡¯s palm. Its touch radiates an eerie calmness that knots my stomach tighter.


    ¡°My Qilin¡ª¡± I begin, the words spilling out unbidden.


    ¡°Quiet.¡± His voice cracks through the air like a whip, sharp and unrelenting. He does not look at me, his attention still on the table. ¡°You were in the Necropolis. Reckless. Foolish. Yet here you are, standing before me. Alive.¡± His gaze lifts, sharp and unrelenting. ¡°Do you understand how many foolish youths that place has swallowed?¡±


    I open my mouth to respond, but the words die before they form. How can I explain? Can I blame Binah? Even if I could, would it matter?


    My hesitation earns a faint, disdainful snort.


    ¡°No. You do not,¡± he says, straightening. ¡°How you got there is irrelevant. What matters now is that you never enter again.¡±


    The warmth of Binah¡¯s palm vanishes.


    From the corner of my vision, I catch her movement. She steps toward the table, her focus shifting to the star maps. My breath falters as I track her movements, her silence heavy with intent.


    Titus lets the silence linger before speaking again. This time, his tone is different¡ªsofter, reflective. ¡°But I would be remiss if I did not acknowledge your survival of the First Baptism. A rare feat in itself.¡±


    I blink, startled by the shift. His hand moves to a decanter on the table, its crystal surface catching the light. He pours a small measure of a dark amber liquid into a pair of glasses. The scent of it¡ªa blend of spice and smoke¡ªwafts through the air.Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.


    Titus picks up one of the glasses, his eyes meeting mine as he gestures for me to take the other. ¡°Manhood is not given, Janus. It is earned, blood by blood, step by agonizing step. And you, like your father before you, have taken your first step.¡±


    My hand shakes slightly as I reach for the glass. I do not drink, not immediately. The weight of his words presses against me.


    ¡°Your father,¡± he continues, his gaze distant, ¡°was a legend. He emerged from the First Hell with a silver torq. A feat that had not been accomplished in a century. But you¡­¡± His eyes flick to my neck, where the white-gold torq rests against my skin. ¡°You wear what no one else has earned in living memory.¡±


    I stiffen under his scrutiny. The torq feels heavier now, its presence a constant reminder of what I cannot fully understand. Pride and doubt war within me, each vying for dominance.


    ¡°To survival,¡± Titus says, raising his glass. The toast is curt, deliberate. I follow his lead, taking a hesitant sip. The liquid burns as it slides down my throat, leaving a heat that lingers in my chest.


    The moment passes, and Titus¡¯s demeanor shifts again. The warmth of his reflection fades, replaced by his usual commanding presence. He begins to circle me, his hands clasped behind his back, his steps measured and deliberate. ¡°Tomorrow, you leave for the Mere. The first true test of your worth. Many break there. Some rise. Few survive intact.¡±


    I swallow hard, my pulse quickening. The mention of the Mere sends a fresh wave of anxiety coursing through me, yet it is Binah who holds my attention. Her pale figure halts before the desk, her fingers hovering just above the star map, tracing invisible lines across its surface.


    ¡°I see something in you, Janus,¡± Titus continues, his voice steady. He stops to my left, his presence bearing down on me. ¡°A fire that has not yet been snuffed out. That makes you dangerous¡ªand useful.¡±


    His words hang in the air, sharp and unyielding, and I feel a flicker of something I cannot name. Hope, perhaps. Or dread.


    Titus returns to the table, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of the ceremonial dagger. ¡°You aspire to power,¡± he says, his voice softer now, almost contemplative. ¡°That much is clear. I will show you the way.¡±


    My breath catches, and I feel my heart pounding in my chest. He turns to face me fully, his expression unreadable. ¡°Achieve Primarch status at the Mere. Prove that your ambition is not hollow. Do that, and I will ensure your ascension to Polemarch of House Azure.¡±


    The words are thunderous. Polemarch. The enormity of the offer leaves me momentarily speechless. My lips part to speak, but Titus¡¯s expression darkens, and his tone hardens.


    ¡°Do not mistake this for charity. The path I offer you is treacherous, and it will demand everything of you. Discipline. Strength. Sacrifice.¡± He steps closer, his gaze a blade that pierces me to the core. ¡°You will rise, Janus, or you will break. And if you break, you will fall farther than you can imagine.¡±


    The weight of his words presses down on me, suffocating. My voice trembles as I force out a question I am not sure I want answered. ¡°What if¡­ what if I am not ready?¡±


    Titus¡¯s eyes narrow, his lips a thin line. ¡°Then you will break. And Malkiel does not weep for the broken.¡±


    I bite back the lump rising in my throat, forcing myself to meet his gaze. Shame burns beneath my skin, but so does defiance. I will not let him see me falter, not here.


    He steps back, his demeanor shifting once more to cold detachment. ¡°Rest tonight,¡± he says, his tone dismissive. ¡°Tomorrow, the Mere awaits. Remember what I have told you, Janus. And remember: there are no second chances.¡±


    With a sharp gesture, he turns back to the table, his attention already on the maps. The door to the chamber creaks open, the sound echoing through the stillness. My feet remain rooted as I struggle to process everything he has said, everything he expects of me.


    ¡°Go,¡± Titus says without looking up. The word carries the finality of a hammer striking stone.


    I turn stiffly, my movements mechanical. But as I reach the door, something compels me to glance back.


    Binah¡¯s finger trails over the star map. My eyes catch the faint glow of New Larin¡ªthe third planet from the sun, our home. But her finger does not rest there. It moves lower, pausing over the fourth planet.


    Cythraen.


    The name ignites a memory, sharp and vivid: a splinter group, my mother¡¯s people. My pulse quickens as questions flood my mind, too many to voice. Binah¡¯s gaze flicks toward me, unblinking, before she turns back to the map.


    I step into the corridor, the sound of the door closing behind me as final as a tomb¡¯s seal. Cythraen burns in my thoughts, its name refusing to fade.

 Chapter 14 - What We Run From

    Chapter 14


    What We Run From


    I walk through the faintly illuminated hallways near my uncle Titus''s chambers in House Azure. The night air feels oppressive, as if the palace holds its breath. I feel Binah¡¯s presence before I see her, the faint weight of her gaze pressing against my thoughts like a phantom.


    She steps into my path, her pale figure stark against the dark stone. Her violet eyes glint, unblinking, and though she says nothing¡ªas always¡ªthe meaning is clear. She wants me to follow.


    But I do not.


    "No¡­" I whisper, the word sharp in the stillness. My pulse quickens. I force myself to meet her gaze. ¡°No more adventures.¡±


    Her head tilts, her expression unreadable, but I sense her disapproval like a shadow draped over my shoulders. For a moment, I think she might try to stop me, but then she steps aside.


    I press forward, ignoring prick of her eerie gaze.


    I am not a leaf. She is not the wind. I go where I will.


    And at this moment, I feel like taking the scenic way home, away from the judging eyes of the eunuchs and maids that populate the hallways of the Chatelaines¡¯ quarters. The air grows quieter as I step into the more desolate corridors, the paths less trodden.


    Walls seem closer than they should be, archways stretch taller, and the silence presses against my ears. The usual hum of life is absent¡ªno footsteps, no whispered voices, only the faint creak of ancient stone.


    Titus¡¯s words echo in my mind. "Manhood is not given, Janus. It is earned, blood by blood, step by agonizing step¡­" My hands clench at my sides. I do not want to think about it any longer, yet something of those words call to me.


    This is why they hate me. Because I am better.


    The thought burns bright and defiant, but it is fleeting.


    The corridor ends, and I find myself descending a shallow incline into an open space between courtyards. The air grows fuller, tinged with a faint copper tang. My steps falter. My breath catches.


    At the center of the courtyard stands a ceremonial tree, its gnarled branches twisting skyward like skeletal hands. Draped across one of the branches is a figure. A breeze I cannot feel sways the form gently, the motion unnatural, almost mocking.


    I take a step forward, my body moving before my mind can stop it. The figure becomes clearer¡ªa flash of deep purple against the pale bark. My stomach churns as recognition dawns.


    Darius.


    The name rises unbidden, a jagged memory clawing its way to the surface. I see him as he was¡ªhis booming laugh, the warmth of his hand on my shoulder, the stories he told of the Crucible. Now, his body hangs lifeless, his arms limp, the hands bruised and scraped as though he had fought to¡­


    I cannot finish the thought. My throat tightens. Bile rising. I force myself closer, my eyes locking onto the silken noose wrapped about his neck.


    A sound breaks the stillness¡ªfootsteps, faint but drawing closer. Voices, low and urgent, echo through the courtyard. Panic surges through me, cold and sharp.


    I step back, the scrape of my boots on stone sounding deafening. My breath is shallow and ragged. The shadows seem deeper now, closing in. The tree looms larger, its twisted branches stretching toward me like claws.


    I turn and run.


    The corridors of House Azure blur around me, their pageantry twisting into a living maze. My heart thunders in my breast. A scream splits the air, high and shrill, and my legs burn as I push myself to run faster.


    Binah saunters beside me, her steps a colorless parody of my own. Her gaze flicks to me once, her expression unreadable¡ªa silent mockery of my fear.The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.


    Shame crawls my face, worms its way into my heart.


    The path bends sharply, and at last, I see the faint glow of my quarters ahead. It is a sliver of light in the suffocating darkness, a promise of safety I cannot trust but cannot ignore.


    I burst into my chambers, slamming the door shut behind me. My chest heaves as I collapse against the door, the cold surface grounding me as I struggle to catch my breath. The faint hum of the palace is gone, replaced by the hammering of my heart.


    ¡°Janus.¡±


    The voice cuts through the noise like a musical note. I freeze, my breath catching in my throat. Slowly, I lift my head.


    She stands in the center of the room, her figure bathed in the faint brightness of the glowglobes. Her dark hair cascades over her shoulders, and her violet eyes¡ªthe same as Binah''s and Cyra''s¡ªgleam with quiet intensity.


    ¡°Mother.¡±


    The word escapes me, raw and trembling. Relief surges through me, only to be consumed by a burning anger. My fists clench at my sides as I take a halting step forward.


    Kaelenya tilts her head, her expression unreadable. ¡°You are safe,¡± she says, her voice steady. ¡°Good.¡±


    Safe. The word feels hollow, meaningless in the wake of what I have seen. In the wake of what I have done. My voice rises, sharp and unsteady. ¡°Where have you been? You left me. Abandon me on¡ª¡±


    ¡°Stop.¡± Her tone is calm, but it carries a weight that halts my words. She steps closer, placing a hand on my shoulder. ¡°I am here now. That is what matters.¡±


    Kaelenya moves to the small table by the window, her fingers brushing against its surface. She turns, holding something in her hands¡ªa curved dagger, its blade etched with faintly glowing runes.


    ¡°This is yours,¡± she says, offering it to me. ¡°A knullknife. A gift to celebrate your entrance into manhood.¡±


    I take the knife, its weight unfamiliar but comforting. The hilt feels warm against my skin, pulsing faintly with an energy I cannot name. The blade, curved and dark as obsidian, shimmers faintly under the light, its surface etched with runes that seem to breathe.


    A chill crawls down my spine as realization dawns. ¡°A knullknife,¡± I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper. ¡°One of the few weapons that can permanently harm an Eidolon.¡±


    Kaelenya nods, her gaze steady.


    I turn the knife over in my hands, its weight suddenly heavier, more significant. My reflection warps in the blade¡¯s dark surface, and for a moment, I see more than my own face¡ªsomething shadowed, something distant.


    Her voice cuts through my thoughts. ¡°Has Cyra showed you how to access your torq?¡±


    The question jolts me, sharp and unexpected. My fingers tighten on the hilt of the knife, and I force myself to meet her gaze. ¡°No,¡± I say, the word clipped.


    Kaelenya¡¯s expression does not change, but I catch the faintest flicker of something¡ªdisappointment? No, something deeper, harder to name. ¡°And why do you think that is?¡±


    I hesitate, the words bitter in my mouth. ¡°She said she had to return to the Mere. But I think it''s because she fears me.¡±


    Her brows draw together, and she steps closer, her hand brushing lightly against my cheek. ¡°Do not say that,¡± she says, her voice soft but firm. ¡°Your sister does not fear you, Janus. She loves you.¡±


    ¡°Then why¡ª¡± I stop myself, my voice catching. The knot in my chest tightens. ¡°Why does she look at me like I am¡­ a monster?¡±


    Kaelenya¡¯s hand lingers for a moment before falling away. Her gaze remains steady, unyielding. ¡°Your sister has much weighing on her thoughts. This will be her final term, and your Father''s legacy flows through her veins just as it does your own. But that does not diminish how deeply she cares for you..¡±


    Her words hang in the air. I want to believe her, but the memory of Cyra¡¯s hesitant gaze, her abrupt parting, refuses to leave me.


    Kaelenya steps back, her hand brushing the hair from my face. ¡°Close your eyes,¡± she says softly. ¡°Focus on the inside of your forehead.¡±


    I nod slowly, my eyelids shutting. The room falls away, and pinpricks of colored light bloom and die in the inner darkness. A distant, low hum rises, like the roar of a distant seashore. The chaos resolves into shapes, forms, and finally, meaning.


    The void fills with faint letters etched in light.


    Name: Janus Ragnos.


    True Name: Morvayn.


    Rank: White-Gold.


    Attributes: Dormant.


    Shadow Roots: [12/1000].


    My breath catches, the words lingering in the darkness before fading back into nothingness. The silence that follows feels loud, deafening.


    I open my eyes slowly, meeting Kaelenya¡¯s calm, expectant gaze. ¡°What¡­ what does it mean?¡± I ask, my voice barely steady.


    Her lips curve into the faintest smile, though her eyes remain serious. ¡°It means, Janus, that you have much to learn¡ªand much to overcome.¡±


    She rests a hand lightly on my shoulder. ¡°This is only the beginning. You will grow into your torq and the truth it holds. But for now, let it guide you¡ªslowly. You are not yet ready to wield all that it offers.¡±


    Her words settle over me, heavy with implication, but I nod, the weight of the knullknife grounding me in the moment. Morvayn. The name pulses in my thoughts, both alien and familiar.


    Kaelenya steps away, moving toward the door with deliberate grace. ¡°Rest, Janus,¡± she says, her tone softening. ¡°Tomorrow, you will need your strength.¡±


    She pauses at the threshold, glancing back. ¡°And remember, your sister¡¯s love is not so easily lost. Give her time.¡±


    The door closes softly behind her, leaving me alone with the knife in my hands and the faint echo of her words.


    I glance at the blade, its runes still faintly pulsing. Morvayn. White-Gold. Shadow Roots. Questions burn in my mind, but the answers feel as distant as the stars beyond the shifting geometry of Malkiel.


    With a deep breath, I place the knife on the table beside me. Its presence lingers, a weight that presses against my thoughts, even as I lay back and close my eyes. The hum from the torq vibrates faintly beneath my skin, a constant reminder of the path ahead.


    What lies beyond Dormant? The question lingers as sleep pulls me under, and for the first time in years, I dream of fire.

 Chapter 15 - Leave-taking

    Chapter 15


    Leave-taking


    The water beneath the gondola ripples softly as we glide forward, the air heavy with the croaks of unseen frogs. The Exarch at the prow, his silver mask gleaming in the faint light, guides the vessel with a practiced hand. His white vestments contrast starkly against the murky waters and the dense shadows of the waterway.


    I sit alone on the gondola. Across the waters, I can glimpse other gondolas, each also piloted by an Exarch, ferrying children towards the Mere. Along the shore, the matrons stand in a somber line, Chatelaines and High-Chatelaines at the front, their faces shrouded with pride and sorrow. Mother is among them, her dark hair flowing down her back like a river of night.


    In a nearby gondola, I spot Castor and Penelope Urisius, their platinum-blond hair unmistakable even in the dim light. Castor stands tall and confident, his gaze forward, while Penelope¡¯s sharp, watchful eyes briefly meet mine before she looks away, her expression unreadable. Their presence sends a shiver down my spine. This journey will be a trial not just of skill, but of character and resolve.


    Binah is with me, her presence barely a sensation at the edge of my mind. She sits still, her violet eyes watching me intently, her form drifting in and out of solidity against the backdrop of the predawn sky. It is unsettling, and yet I feel her presence distinctly¡ªlike a shadow that will not leave.


    The Mere is our destination.


    The tales of this place are legendary, whispered among the children of House Azure with a mixture of awe and terror. As the gondola pushes forward, the water around us thickens with reeds, their tops crowned with clinging fog.


    The Exarch¡¯s silence is unnerving, but it also leaves room for my thoughts, which are not a solace. My mother¡¯s whispers, the murmurs of the other matrons, faintly reach across the waterway, mingling with the muted croaks and the splash of frog legs.


    I glance back once, as our gondola passes beneath a stone archway, its surface engraved with ancient glyphs that seem to shimmer in the half-light. The matrons stand like stoic sentinels, their eyes following us until we are swallowed by the shadows and the dense foliage.


    The air grows colder as we move deeper, the water¡¯s surface now dotted with luminescent lilies, their glow casting eerie reflections across the gondola. Ahead, a massive structure looms into view¡ªthe entrance to the Mere. The stone edifice rises high, intricate carvings snaking up its sides, the mouth of the academy a dark, gaping maw that promises both knowledge and peril.


    I feel the weight of my destiny heavily, the significance of this moment pressing against my chest like a physical force. Binah¡¯s eyes shift to the imposing structure as well, and for a moment, it feels as if she might speak¡ªor perhaps it is just my overactive imagination hoping for some form of guidance.


    But the silence stretches on, filled only with the rhythmic splashing of the gondola¡¯s progress and the distant, indistinct murmur of the other children. The Exarch rows steadily, his masked visage unreadable, leading us inevitably toward whatever trials and teachings await within the stone corridors of the Mere.


    In the murky light, I can make out the silhouettes of elaborate spires and towers, the school sprawling like a slumbering beast across the rocky terrain. Windows glint here and there, flickers of light promising the stirrings of life within the academy¡¯s depths. This place, storied and feared, will be my proving ground. Here, I will either rise or fall.


    The gondola angles sharply as we near a broad set of stairs descending into the water. The Exarch slows our approach, guiding us in as Binah and I prepare to disembark. The Mere stands before us. My heart hammers in my chest, my pulse quickening with a mix of fear and anticipation.


    I step onto the stone platform, the splash of water echoing in the stillness. Behind me, Binah follows soundlessly, her presence a constant, though inscrutable, companion. The Exarch nods curtly and turns the gondola around, ready to fetch more of the arriving students.


    Castor and Penelope disembark from their gondola not far from us. Castor¡¯s assertive stance contrasts with Penelope¡¯s quietly strategic demeanor as they step onto the platform. Castor¡¯s sardonic smile finds me, a silent challenge that stirs my competitive spirit, while Penelope¡¯s assessing gaze is as beguiling as ever.Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.


    Penelope¡¯s arms tighten briefly around me, her breath a warm summer breeze against my ear. ¡°I am glad you survived,¡± she says, her voice catching, before retreating as though burned.


    "What?" Confused, I blink at her fleeing back.


    Shaking my head, I gather my resolve. Before me, the great doors to the Mere swing open, casting a golden light across the murky waterway.


    I step forward into that light, into the unknown, with Binah¡ªa silent shadow¡ªby my side.


    As I cross the threshold, the sheer scale of the Mere unveils itself. The interior is a cavernous atrium, the ceiling arched like the ribcage of some ancient leviathan. Columns of polished onyx stretch upward, adorned with shifting glyphs that pulse faintly with power. The air is tinged with a metallic scent, the hint of arcane forces at work.


    Other students begin to gather, stepping from their gondolas and taking in the same awe-inspiring sight. Their faces mirror my own mix of wonder and apprehension. Some cluster in groups, others stand alone, trying to grapple with the overwhelming realization of where they now stand.


    Binah remains close, her presence both comforting and unnerving. The paleness of her form contrasts starkly with the murky grandeur surrounding us. She says nothing, as usual, but her eyes roam the space with the same haunting curiosity.


    An Exarch, distinguishable by his intricate silver mask, stands at the center of the atrium. His voice, though soft, carries effortlessly across the space. ¡°Welcome, initiates, to the Mere. You stand at the threshold of greatness, at the entrance to your destiny.¡±


    He gestures grandly to the soaring space around us. ¡°Here, you will be tested, shaped, and refined. The path will be arduous, the trials severe. But should you persevere, you will emerge as the elite of Malkiel.¡±


    The words hang heavily in the air, weighty with promise and threat. The Exarch¡¯s eyes, though hidden, seem to pierce through each of us, gauging our resolve.


    ¡°Proceed now through the Path of Reflection,¡± he instructs, pointing to a wide corridor lined with mirrored walls. ¡°Here, you will confront yourselves before you confront your true lessons.¡±


    The initiates begin to move, some with tentative steps, others with false bravado. I fall in line, my heart pounding against my ribcage. The mirrors reflect not just our physical forms but distort them¡ªelongating, shrinking, twisting. They seem to mock our mortal vulnerabilities, throwing our uncertainties into sharp relief.


    As I walk, I catch glimpses of my reflection shifting into versions of myself that never were¡ªolder, younger, wounded, victorious. In one mirror, I see the creature from my earlier vision, the hollow future self on the dark throne, staring back with lifeless eyes. I force my gaze ahead, refusing to be ensnared by the phantoms of possibility.


    Ahead, the corridor opens into the Oculus Atrium, a circular courtyard with a transparent dome above. Through it, the night sky is visible, constellations etched starkly against the dark expanse. In their distant patterns, I find a flicker of hope, a reminder of the endless possibilities that lie beyond these walls. It is a symbol, they say, of enlightenment and the enduring pursuit of knowledge.


    Statues of legendary figures line the atrium, their stone gazes watching us pass. The stories of their trials and triumphs come to life in my mind¡ªthe tales of those who walked these very halls and left indelible marks on Malkiel¡¯s history.


    Binah shifts beside me, her gaze lingering on the statues. Her presence feels heavier here, as though the weight of history presses against her as well. Her silence is a constant companion, her eyes echoing the voiceless advice I can almost but never quite grasp.


    The initiates gather at the center of the atrium, forming a cautious circle. The Exarch from earlier steps forward again, his presence commanding. ¡°You have traversed the Path of Reflection,¡± he announces. ¡°Now, you stand at the heart of the Mere. Here, you will declare your intent and embrace the path you have chosen.¡±


    He turns slowly, extending a hand to each initiate in turn. ¡°What say you? Will you commit to the trials ahead? Will you embrace the legacy you have been given?¡±


    A murmur spreads through the group, growing stronger as one by one, the initiates step forward, voicing their commitments. I wait, feeling the weight of the knullknife against my side, the hum of the torq upon my skin.


    When my turn comes, I step forward with a resolve I summon from deep within. ¡°I commit,¡± I say, my voice firm. ¡°I will embrace my legacy and the path ahead.¡±


    The Exarch nods solemnly, his gaze inscrutable behind his mask. ¡°Welcome, initiates. Welcome to the Mere.¡±


    The ceremony complete, we are guided through an open doorway.


    I make my way down the dimly lit corridor, feeling the cold stone beneath my feet. A sudden, familiar presence halts me in my tracks¡ª


    Talon stands before me.


    His eyes lock onto mine, wide and unblinking, his breath shallow and ragged. He takes a step back, then another, his movements jerky, like a puppet with tangled strings. My pulse quickens. A cold knot forms in my stomach.


    Why? Why does he gaze at me so?


    I have not seen him since the attack at the Festival of Retrospection. Wait.


    That cannot be true.


    A sharp ache flares at the base of my skull, hot and insistent, as though something buried deep inside me is trying to claw its way free. My hand rises instinctively, rubbing the back of my neck, but the pressure only makes it worse.


    Images flicker through my mind, fragmented and unwanted, like jagged shards of broken glass.


    Cold water. Enna¡¯s threads binding muscles like twine. The sting of ice blades slicing into my skin, precise and merciless. Blood spiraling in the dark, blooming like crimson flowers. Talon¡¯s face, twisted with malice then, now contorted with fear.


    My vision blurs, reality mingling with the flashbacks of that brutal attack. Talon does not move, his eyes wide and filled with horror. Urine pools at his feet, the acrid smell breaking through the haze of my memories. His terror is palpable, a mirror of the panic I now remember I once felt¡ªbut his fear feels heavier, as though it knows something I do not.

 Chapter 16 - Eyes Above, Shadows Below

    Chapter 16


    Eyes Above, Shadows Below


    ¡°Ew, he peed himself!¡±


    The words cut through the silence like lightning across a rain filled horizon. Talon freezes in place, his face pale and slack. For a moment, there is nothing¡ªjust the sound of heavy and uneven breathing.


    Then it begins.


    Laughter rising, sharp and cruel, swelling into a tidal wave of mockery.


    The sound deafens.


    Talon''s face crumples¡ªtears streak down his cheeks. With a choked sob, he turns and flees back where we came from, the thud of his retreating footsteps fading into the distance.


    I watch him go, an uneasy knot tightening in my chest.


    My hands curl into fists.


    The dining hall yawns wide and empty before me, its silence thick and oppressive. The faint echoes of Talon¡¯s retreating sobs still cling to the air, mingling with the memory of his terror. My chest tightens as I step inside, the press of the other Initiates easing as they spread out across the narrow table at our level.


    I lower myself into the seat nearest to the edge of the table, away from the others. The space feels immense and wrong, the emptiness stretching upward like a gaping maw. The tiers above us remain vacant, their polished stone surfaces gleaming faintly in the dim light. They seem to watch me, expectant and waiting.


    The table fills slowly with Initiates, but no one dares sit near me. They gather in uneasy clusters farther down the bench, whispering to one another in low, hurried tones. Their glances flick toward me, quick and uncertain, as though they are afraid I might hear them¡ªor that I might look back.


    I close my eyes briefly, drawing a deep breath. I need to lock away the whispers, the fear, the isolation. I direct these unwanted emotions into my Inner Hell, the mental vault where my darkest thoughts are banished. Slowly, I feel a semblance of calm return.


    When I open my eyes, Binah is there.


    She sits across from me, her violet eyes locked on mine, her form more solid than ever before. I did not see her arrive, nor did I hear the scrape of a chair. She simply exists, her presence filling the space with a weight that chills the air around me.


    Her translucent form flickers faintly, but this time the edges are sharper, as though she¡¯s becoming more real. My heart skips a beat at the realization¡ªhas she fed upon what I¡¯ve cast into my Inner Hell?


    The other Initiates do not seem to notice her. To them, I am still alone.


    I look down. My plate is empty.


    Around us, the eunuchs move silently through the hall, their measured grace both mesmerizing and unsettling. Their faces are smooth, emotionless, their movements deliberate as they place dishes in front of the other Initiates.


    It is their mouths that catch my attention.


    When one bends close to set a plate farther down the table, I glimpse the dark hollow where a tongue should be. My stomach twists, and I glance away quickly, my gaze flicking to Binah instead. Her eyes remain fixed on me, unblinking.


    The plate before me remains empty, but the faint pang of hunger stirs in my chest. I force myself to focus on the polished surface of the table, trying to ignore the weight of her gaze and the whispers of the Initiates farther down.


    The scrape of a chair shatters the uneasy silence. A wiry boy settles into the seat beside me, his sandy hair falling into his face as he glances around nervously. He does not seem to notice Binah, even as she shifts slightly, her form flickering at the edges.


    ¡°Hey,¡± he says, his voice pitched low. ¡°Mind if I sit here?¡±


    I tense, my fingers tightening on the edge of the table, but I do not respond. He settles in fully, his movements hesitant, his gaze darting between me and the Initiates farther down the bench.


    ¡°My name is Lias,¡± he says, quieter now, his tone conspiratorial. ¡°¡°I heard about the First Baptism. What really happened? Some people are saying¡ª¡±


    Binah¡¯s eyes narrow, her pale fingers brushing the table¡¯s surface. Her presence darkens, like a storm cloud gathering overhead.


    The boy leans closer, undeterred. ¡°Did they really drown? Or did you¡ª¡±


    "You want to know?" I ask, allowing my rage to spill into my Inner Hell like colored marbles into a dark well. "Truly?"Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    "Truly," Lias replies, nodding his head.


    I lean foreword, the embodiment of calm, and whisper, "I. Ate. Them!"


    Before I can react, Binah moves.


    Her arm lashes out, her hand unnaturally pale as it clamps onto the boy¡¯s wrist. Her grip is unyielding, her movements swift and precise. She slams her forehead into the boy''s face with a wet crunch.


    Blood blossoms, bright and true.


    Lias lets out a strangled cry. His chair screeches against the polished floor as he jerks his arm free, but he does not get far. His body crumples onto the ground, his back hitting the stone with a sharp slap. Blood trickles from his broken nose, staining the pristine tiles beneath him.


    The eunuchs are there before I can move, their hands gripping my arms like iron as they hold me still. Two more descend on Lias, their movements silent and efficient, dragging him away from the table. His protests are weak, muffled by his gasps for air.


    But I only have eyes for Binah.


    She stands motionless now, her white forehead smeared with crimson, her violet eyes watching me with an intensity that burns. The flickering edges of her form seem to stabilize in the wake of her attack, her presence solid and unyielding. There is a wildness about her that reminds me of summer thunderstorms¡ªbeautiful, untamed, and brimming with the promise of destruction.


    I realize, with a sinking dread, that this is who Binah truly is. Not a shadow, not a ghost, but something far more dangerous.


    An eunuch forces a steaming mug of tea into my grasp. The heat seeps through the ceramic, biting into my palms. My fingers tremble slightly.


    I take a sip, the liquid scalding my tongue and throat as it goes down. The sudden silence presses in around me, thick and suffocating. I try to focus on the warmth spreading through my chest, on the strange bitterness on my tongue, willing it to drown out the weight of their stares.


    But I cannot ignore it.


    Eyes are on me from every direction, gazes burning holes into my skin. I feel exposed. Raw and vulnerable. Penelope''s sharp eyes assess me from where she sits with her brother¡ªCastor''s jaw is set in a hard line.


    I force myself to meet their gazes.


    I refuse to flinch under their scrutiny.


    The tea sloshes slightly as I bring it back to my lips for another drink, the heat a welcome distraction from the cold knot of unease tightening in my gut.


    The silence is short-lived. The heavy creak of doors above us breaks the stillness, and I glance up as the Novices enter. They take their places on the second tier, their gazes flicking down at us with faint amusement.


    The third-tier doors open next. The Virtuants file in, louder and more confident than the Novices. Their laughter echoes through the hall as they settle into the middle tier, their presence radiating authority.


    Finally, the Adepti arrive. They move with a precision that commands attention, their bronze and silver torqs glinting faintly as they ascend to the highest tier. Their silence is more powerful than any sound, a tangible force that settles over the room.


    The tiers are full now, the dining hall alive with sound and motion. Yet I feel more alone than ever.


    My gaze lifts to the highest level, searching for something solid to anchor me against the weight of the room. That is when I see her.


    Cyra.


    She stands near the edge of the Adepti¡¯s table, her bronze torq gleaming against the pale blue of her robes. Her presence feels heavier than the others¡¯, her stillness commanding more attention than their quiet precision. Her eyes find mine almost instantly, as though she has been waiting for me to look up.


    Her expression is unreadable at first. Then the sadness creeps in, softening her features. Her lips part slightly, as though she wants to speak, but the words never come. I stare back, my chest tightening with confusion and something colder¡ªdread.


    Why does she look at me like that? Like she knows something I do not. Like she is mourning.


    I force myself to look away, but the weight of her gaze lingers, pressing into me like a stone in my chest. Across from me, Binah flickers faintly, her violet eyes trailing upward to Cyra. She does not move or react, but the shadows around her deepen, curling like smoke.


    I try to steady myself, wrapping my hands around the steaming mug in front of me. The heat seeps through the ceramic, biting into my palms. Around me, the hall buzzes with sound, the layered hum of voices from every tier growing louder, more alive.


    But something feels off.


    The first sign is subtle¡ªa clatter of cutlery from the far end of the Initiates¡¯ table. I glance up in time to see one of my classmates slump forward, his face pressing against his half-eaten meal.


    A nervous chuckle escapes from another boy nearby. ¡°Did he pass out? From nerves?¡± The laughter wavers, uneasy.


    Then another student falls silent. A girl this time, her head lolling back before she crumples onto the bench.


    My grip tightens on the mug. My pulse thunders in my ears as more Initiates begin to slump over, their movements sluggish, their voices fading to silence.


    ¡°What is happening?¡± I whisper under my breath, the question stolen by the swelling dread that coils in my stomach. I glance toward Binah, who remains eerily still, her violet eyes trained on me with unrelenting intensity.


    I bring the mug back to my lips, the scalding liquid the only anchor I have in the growing chaos.


    The mug is ripped from my hands before I can drink.


    The motion is sudden, violent, the sound of the mug striking the stone floor reverberating through the hall. The tea splashes, dark and steaming, across the polished surface, pooling near my feet.


    Binah stands now, her form solid and sharp, a faint tremor in the air around her. Her gaze shifts between me and the spilled liquid, her expression unreadable but charged with purpose. I realize with a jolt that her intervention was no accident. She saved me.


    Or stopped me.


    I stare at her, my breath caught in my throat. Around us, the silence deepens as more students fall still, their bodies slumped against the table or sprawled across the benches.


    I glance back toward the upper tiers, my chest tightening further. The Novices and Virtuants remain seated, their laughter subdued now, their expressions wary. The Adepti sit in perfect stillness, their torqs gleaming faintly in the flickering torchlight.


    And Cyra.


    Her presence looms above it all, her sad eyes locked onto mine. Her head tilts slightly, the faintest tremble in her shoulders betraying an emotion she will not allow to surface. She looks at me as though I am already lost.


    "Cyra," I whisper, but the word feels weightless, stolen by the oppressive air of the hall.


    Binah shifts beside me, her attention still fixed on Cyra. Her flickering form seems smaller beneath my sister¡¯s unyielding gaze, her shadows curling tighter around her as though retreating into themselves. I want to shout, to demand answers, but my body feels heavy now, my limbs leaden. My vision blurs at the edges, the hall swimming around me.


    The last thing I see before the darkness takes me is Cyra. She does not move, her sad eyes fixed on me, unblinking. Her expression does not waver, but her shoulders rise and fall with a faint, tremulous breath.


    Then, nothing.

 Chapter 17 - The Tall Ones

    Chapter 17


    The Tall Ones


    I exist in darkness. Warm, curved walls press against my body, smooth and unyielding. I breathe, but the air is thin, damp, as if stolen from some forgotten place. The rhythm of the world hums around me¡ªsteady, low, hypnotic.


    A beat. A pulse. Is it my own? Or something greater?


    I stretch, but there is no space. The edges of my prison shift and hold. My body folds inward, cramped, contained. My limbs ache, useless against the walls. The sound outside grows louder¡ªmuffled, vibrating, incomprehensible. It is not silence. It is something worse.


    But there is light.


    A pinprick, faint and distant, no bigger than a star glimpsed from the depths of a cave. I tilt toward it, drawn like a moth to a bonfire. My head strikes the wall¡ªsoftly at first, then harder. The light trembles. Expands. It spills through the crack I have made, jagged and white, searing against the dark.


    I peck again. The world outside swells with sound. Too loud. Too alive. I want to stop, but the crack widens, spilling light like blood.


    I do not know why, but I must go on.


    I am blind when the wall finally gives way. The shell splinters beneath me, crumbling like a brittle lie. The air outside is thick, electric, stabbing into me with scents I cannot name. The light devours me. It is endless, impossible¡ªburning against my skin, my eyes, my everything.


    I stumble forward, trembling. The ground beneath me shifts¡ªrough, uneven, cold. I blink against the onslaught of light, the world resolving into harsh fragments. Shapes loom overhead, vast and alien. A sky? A predator? I cannot tell. I only feel its weight, pressing against my existence.The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    Then, the attack.


    A shriek pierces the air, primal and sharp. My body reacts before my mind does, wings flailing, claws scraping against stone¡ªor is it dirt? Feathers lash against me, the weight of another presence. It slams into me, beak snapping, eyes wild.


    Pain blooms across my chest. The sound of the strike is hollow, distant, like a drum played beneath water. My wings beat harder, struggling to lift, but my opponent is relentless. I feel it¡ªhunger, rage, survival¡ªall in the arc of its strikes.


    The light blinds me still. I cannot see its face, only the glint of its beak, the fury in its movements. I lash back, claws raking against soft flesh. A scream¡ªmine or theirs? The struggle grows distant, disjointed, my body moving on instinct as the world outside sharpens into unbearable clarity.


    But then, I see them.


    The Tall Ones.


    They loom above, peering down with faces I cannot comprehend. They are too large, too alien, their forms jagged and shifting as though they are not entirely here. Their limbs stretch into the horizon like twisted branches, their bodies pulsing faintly with a light that is not their own.


    They have no wings. They are nothing like me.


    And yet, they are everything.


    I hear no words, but their presence speaks in vibrations that rattle my bones. Their gaze is unbearable, searing into the deepest parts of me, peeling back layers of thought and instinct alike. My sibling strikes me again, claws raking across my flank, but I barely feel it. The Tall Ones consume all of my senses.


    I see their eyes¡ªvast and faceted like fractured suns. They do not judge. They do not pity. They only watch.


    A screech from my sibling breaks my trance. It hurls itself toward me, beak snapping. The attack is wild, desperate. I twist, strike, and my claws find flesh. My sibling collapses with a final, shrill cry.


    The light above burns brighter now, etching every detail into my vision. The broken shell at my feet, the blood on my claws, the trembling life I have taken.


    And the Tall Ones still watch.


    One of them leans closer, bending low. Its face stretches impossibly wide, its fractured gaze drinking me in. For a moment, I think I see a curve to its expression¡ªa twitch of its alien features that might be a smile. But it is not kindness. It is something else.


    I am a curiosity. A fleeting existence in a world far beneath theirs.


    I try to stand tall beneath their gaze, but my wings tremble. I cannot tell if they approve or if they are waiting for me to falter.


    Their faces loom closer, impossibly vast, until they fill the entire sky. Their fractured forms split the horizon, and the ground beneath me crumbles into light. The shell. The nest. My sibling¡¯s body. All of it dissolves.


    I am alone again, floating in the unbearable brightness of their gaze.


    This is the world I fought to enter.


    And already, I want to retreat.

 Chapter 18 - The Box

    Chapter 18


    The Box


    I wake with a start.


    The chamber shakes violently, a deep rumbling coursing through the walls as if the world itself were tearing apart. The ground beneath me is unsteady, vibrating with a force that rattles my teeth. My heart pounds as I push myself upright, disoriented and raw from the dream.


    Then I see her.


    Binah.


    She stands against the far wall, her pale fists slamming into the unyielding stone. Her movements are wild, desperate, the sound of her blows lost in the chaos. The walls do not crack, but they shudder beneath her assault, groaning as if alive.


    "Stop!" My voice is a rasp, harsh and broken, cutting through the shaking.


    She freezes, her head snapping toward me. For a moment, everything is still¡ªthe air, the rumble, even the blood pulsing in my ears. Her gaze locks onto mine, and something in her eyes chills me deeper than the stone floor ever could.


    Binah opens her mouth.


    No sound comes out, but the motion is enough to send a jolt of terror through my core. Her mouth stretches unnaturally wide, a black void at its center, deeper and darker than anything I have ever known. It is not just a mouth¡ªit is absence, a hollow that devours the light and pulls at something deep inside me.


    I stumble back, my legs catching beneath me. My breath is ragged, my body trembling as if her silence carries a weight that could crush me.


    Then she stops.


    She closes her mouth slowly, almost mechanically, her form flickering at the edges. She turns and moves to a corner of the room, folding her arms around her knees. Her rocking begins¡ªslow and deliberate, her head bowed, her form hunched as though she might collapse into herself.


    The shaking ceases.


    But the silence is worse.


    The air is damp, heavy with the scent of stone and despair. I force myself to my feet, my head throbbing as I take in the small, cube-shaped chamber. There is no door, no window, only faint slivers of light seeping through cracks in the walls.


    I notice the puddles first¡ªtiny pools of water gathered in the grooves between stones. The sight of them ignites a desperate thirst, the ache in my throat unbearable. I drop to my hands and knees, crawling toward the nearest puddle.


    The water glistens faintly, its surface rippling with each ragged breath I take. I hesitate, the memory of the dream¡ªthe egg, the fight, the Tall Ones¡ªlingering in my mind like a warning. But the thirst is too much. I lower my face to the puddle, drinking cautiously.


    The water is cold, metallic. It burns my dry throat as it goes down, but it is life. I drink just enough to quiet the desperation, then sit back, my breaths slowing. The air feels heavier now, as though the cell itself presses in around me.


    Thoughts pelt my mind, sharp and unrelenting, like arrows piercing through the fog of fear. Memories from the dining hall flash vividly: the eerie calm before the chaos, the heavy tea, the sudden silence as bodies slumped and fell.


    We were drugged. That much is clear. But why?


    My pulse quickens as a singular possibility takes root, a thought that tightens like a vice around my chest. A challenge. A trial.


    This is a test.


    Malkiel does not weep for the broken. The words echo in my mind, the voice of Uncle Titus sharp and clear. His warnings, once vague and abstract, now crystallize into brutal truth. I close my eyes, trying to steady my breath, but the air feels heavier still.


    My gaze shifts to Binah, her form huddled in the corner. She rocks faintly, her eyes distant and unfocused, as though trapped in a fear she cannot escape. I wonder, for the first time, if her silence is not a choice but a prison.


    ¡°We are being tested,¡± I whisper to no one, the words brittle in the oppressive air.


    The chamber offers no reply.


    I force myself to my feet, the room swaying around me. Binah¡¯s silent rocking grates against my nerves, but I push it aside. Focus. I must find a way out.


    I start at one corner of the cell, running my hands along the cold, damp stone. The texture is rough, uneven, and wet. Each groove and crevice is a potential escape route, but most are too narrow, too shallow. I move slowly, methodically, feeling every inch of the wall.


    The hole at the center of the cell catches my eye¡ªa small, circular opening barely large enough for refuse. I crouch beside it, peering into its depths. Darkness swallows my gaze; no light reaches whatever lies below. The smell wafts up, acrid and rotten. Not an option.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    I stand and continue my search, moving toward another corner. My fingers trace the outlines of each stone until they find a crack¡ªwider than the others. I stop, heart quickening as I examine it closer.


    A green liquid seeps from the fissure, thick and viscous. The smell hits me immediately¡ªpungent and foul, like decayed vegetation mixed with sulfur. The liquid pools at the base of the wall, forming a slimy puddle that makes my stomach churn.


    Binah¡¯s eyes are on me as I probe the crack with caution. The stone is brittle here, more porous than elsewhere in the cell. I dig my fingers into the fissure, prying at it with all my strength. It widens slightly under pressure but remains stubbornly intact.


    The green liquid continues to ooze out, coating my fingers in its sticky embrace. I pull back in disgust, wiping my hand on my thigh to rid myself of the foul substance.


    ¡°Nothing,¡± I mutter under my breath.


    Binah¡¯s rocking never stops. Her gaze follows every movement as if silently judging or perhaps waiting for something only she understands.


    Desperation claws at me as I lean against the wall next to the crack, panting from exertion and frustration. The scent of decay clings to me now; it is inescapable.


    There must be another way.


    Time passes¡ªhow long, I cannot tell. Hours? Days? The darkness is unchanging, the silence broken only by the occasional plinking of water. Hunger gnaws at my insides, a relentless beast that grows louder with each passing moment.


    I stare at it.


    The crack from which the green liquid seeps. My body is weak.


    I collapse onto my back.


    The chamber feels colder than before, the walls pressing in, each breath harder to draw. My hunger gnaws at me now, no longer a dull ache but a feral, insistent roar. Every sound¡ªBinah¡¯s faint rocking, the slow drip of water¡ªgrates against my senses, feeding the growing desperation.


    I focus on the torq instead. Focus on the inside of your forehead. My mother¡¯s voice feels distant now, more memory than comfort. But it is all I have.


    I close my eyes, tuning out everything else, and reach inward. The dark void blooms behind my eyelids, pinpricks of light flaring and fading in chaotic bursts. Slowly, the shapes resolve into clarity:


    Name: Janus Ragnos.


    True Name: Morvayn.


    Rank: White-Gold.


    Attributes: Dormant.


    Shadow Roots: [13/1000].


    I open my eyes, my heart sinking. The same information. No guidance. No solution. Just cold, unyielding truths etched in light. I slam a fist against the stone floor, the sound reverberating through the chamber.


    ¡°Why?¡± I whisper, my voice hoarse. ¡°Why will it not help?¡±


    Binah stirs in her corner. Her rocking slows, her violet eyes flicking toward me. She stands, her movements fluid yet unnerving, and approaches with silent steps. Her gaze shifts to the crack in the wall, to the green liquid oozing from its depths.


    I follow her line of sight and recoil instinctively. The liquid¡¯s stench is unbearable now, acrid and sharp, turning my stomach before it even touches me.


    ¡°It is poison,¡± I mutter, shaking my head. ¡°I cannot¡­¡±


    Binah kneels beside the fissure, her pale hand cupping the green liquid as though it is something precious. She stands slowly, her movements fluid and unsettling, and extends her hand toward me. The viscous liquid shimmers faintly in the dim light, thick and unnatural.


    ¡°No,¡± I whisper, shaking my head, backing away until my shoulders press against the cold, unyielding wall. ¡°I will not.¡±


    Her expression remains unreadable, but something sharp flashes in her violet eyes. A flicker of frustration¡ªor pity. Her hand remains extended, steady and unrelenting. I turn my head to the side, refusing to meet her gaze, refusing to acknowledge what she wants me to do.


    ¡°I can''t!¡± My voice cracks, raw with desperation. ¡°I won''t drink that!¡±


    For a moment, nothing happens. The chamber is silent save for the faint plink of water dripping from the walls. Then Binah lowers her hand, tilting her head as if studying me. Her rocking has stopped. The flickering at the edges of her form grows wilder, as though she is losing control¡ªor gaining it.


    ¡°Stay back!¡± I shout, panic rising as she takes a single, deliberate step toward me. My chest tightens. She seems larger now, her form towering, though her shape has not changed. It is her presence, oppressive and all-consuming, like a storm rolling in.


    The blow comes before I can react.


    Her hand strikes my cheek, not with force but with intent. It feels like ice and fire at once, and my vision blurs as I stagger sideways. My protests die in my throat as I try to catch my balance, but then I feel it¡ªa pull, a force beyond reason. Invisible strings wrap around my limbs, jerking them into place like a puppet under her control.


    ¡°No!¡± I shout, but the word is stolen from me, swallowed by the chamber¡¯s oppressive silence. My arms rise against my will, my legs move forward, each step mechanical, forced. My heart pounds as I struggle, as I thrash against the unseen threads holding me captive, but it is useless. Binah¡¯s gaze pierces me, her hand raised, fingers twitching as though commanding the strings that bind me.


    I am dragged to the fissure.


    The green liquid gleams in the weak light, its foul stench filling my nostrils as I am forced to my knees. My head jerks forward, my mouth hovering just above the crack. I twist and pull against the invisible bonds, but Binah¡¯s control is absolute.


    ¡°Please!¡± I gasp, my voice breaking. ¡°Don''t do this!¡±


    She tilts her head again, her expression unreadable, but there is no hesitation in her actions. My head lowers further, my lips brushing the edge of the crack. The smell overwhelms me, and I gag, but there is no escape.


    My mouth meets the liquid.


    The first taste is agony. Bitter, sour, and metallic, it burns my tongue and throat as it slides down, thick and clinging. I retch, but Binah does not let me pull away. The strings tighten, forcing my head down again. My feet kick uselessly against the floor, my fists clench and unclench, my entire body a battleground of resistance and submission.


    Tears sting my eyes as despair takes hold. I am nothing in this moment, no more than a vessel for this vile substance, a tool for whatever purpose Binah has decided. Rage flares briefly, a hot spark in the cold depths of my mind. It burns bright and furious, but it is fleeting, snuffed out by the overwhelming force of her will.


    I swallow.


    The liquid courses through me, its rancid taste lingering long after it is gone. My stomach churns violently, and I double over, coughing and gagging. The strings release me, and I collapse onto the cold stone floor, trembling and weak.


    For a moment, all is still.


    Then the sound begins.


    A low grinding, faint at first, but growing louder, more insistent. The chamber vibrates, the walls shuddering as stone grates against stone. My breath catches, hope battling with fear as I lift my head to see the source.


    The crack in the wall widens, the green liquid seeping faster now. The grinding intensifies, and a section of the wall begins to shift.


    Stone slides away, revealing a hidden door.


    Light spills through, weak but undeniable, illuminating the chamber in a pale, sickly glow.

 Chapter 19 - The Tekhne

    Chapter 19


    The Tekhne


    Relief floods me, unbidden and overwhelming.


    The tears I shed now are not of despair but of release, of the knowledge that the torment has ended, if only for a moment. The grinding of the door¡¯s opening is the sweetest melody, a soothing balm to the wounds of pride and spirit.


    Binah stands still, her violet eyes fixed on the opening. Her expression remains inscrutable, but there is a flicker of something there¡ªsatisfaction, perhaps, or understanding.


    I glare at her, a fresh wave of bitterness rising in my chest. The memory of her control¡ªhow she had forced me to drink, made me act against my will¡ªburns like the green liquid coursing through my veins. Her power over me was complete, total, and inescapable.


    ¡°You made me do it,¡± I rasp, my voice raw with anger. ¡°You forced me.¡±


    She does not respond. She never does.


    The silence only deepens my resentment. I want to scream at her, demand answers, but the words catch in my throat, trapped beneath the weight of my exhaustion. Binah¡¯s expression does not shift, her gaze steady and calm. The stillness is infuriating, an unspoken dismissal of my fury.


    ¡°You think you can just push me, make me do whatever you want?¡± My voice rises, but I lack the strength to give it real force. ¡°You have no right!¡±


    Her eyes remain fixed on me, and my anger falters in the face of her indifference. I am shouting at stone.


    ¡°Why?¡± I ask, though I do not expect a reply. My hands clench into fists, trembling with the remnants of rage and the weakness still clinging to me.


    Binah tilts her head slightly, her pale hair catching the faint light. Her gaze is as sharp and impenetrable as ever, a wall I cannot breach. She turns her eyes back to the open passage, as though the conversation¡ªif it can even be called that¡ªhas already ended.


    The passage beyond the door beckons, its air warmer, alive with the promise of something more. I take a halting step forward, then another, each movement a defiance of the fatigue that weighs me down.


    I glance back at Binah one last time. She lingers near the wall, solid and still, watching me with that same unreadable expression. The grinding of the door ceases, and the chamber falls silent once more.


    I do not look back again. The cell is behind me, its horrors left in the dark. The passage ahead is narrow, the light faint, but it is enough.


    And I press forward.


    My stomach churns.


    The green liquid burns through my veins as I stumble into the vast chamber beyond. My vision swims, the walls seeming to pulse with each beat of my heart. Stone corridors stretch in every direction, their edges blurred and uncertain, as though reality itself is shifting beneath my feet.


    The air smells damp, metallic, like wet stone fused with rust. It clings to my skin, heavy and oppressive. The labyrinth feels alive, shifting and watching, as though it resents my presence. The walls themselves seem to breathe, twisting into impossible angles before returning to something resembling order.


    Runes etched into the stone glow faintly, their light bleeding into the air like a sickly fog. Some pulse softly, almost in rhythm with my heartbeat, while others flicker erratically. The patterns feel just out of reach, teasing at something familiar but unknowable.


    Binah walks beside me, silent as always. Her movements are steady, deliberate, as though she belongs here in a way I never could. She pauses near a low rune, her pale hand hovering over its surface. For an instant, the marking pulses brighter, its glow sharp and piercing, before fading into its usual dimness.


    "Do you know where we are going?" I ask her, my voice low and bitter. She does not answer, and I curse under my breath. Her silence feels heavier now, a weight pressing against my chest.Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    The first corridor I choose leads nowhere. It seems promising¡ªstraight, smooth, and wide enough to run if I need to. But after only a few steps, the walls groan, twisting the path back on itself. When I retrace my steps, I find myself back where I started.


    I pause, my breath coming in shallow gasps. My legs feel like lead, and the green liquid churns in my stomach, a sickening reminder of her control over me. The labyrinth seems to mock my efforts, its ever-changing paths denying me progress.


    "Stop playing games," I growl, my voice sharp with frustration. Binah stops and turns to face me, her violet eyes calm and steady. The sight of her composure only enrages me further.


    "You could tell me, you know," I snap. "You could just say what you want me to do. But you would rather watch me run in circles."


    She gestures toward another passage¡ªnarrow, claustrophobic¡ªbut I hesitate. Her actions feel deliberate, as though she is leading me deeper into this maze, dragging me toward something worse. Yet, I have no choice. The green liquid bubbles in my stomach. Strange colors frolic and twist across my vision before disappearing.


    I shake my head, paw the sweat from my face.


    My skin burns with a fever.


    As I step into the next corridor, the walls shift again, grinding into a new configuration. Stone slabs slide away to reveal a larger chamber ahead, its ceiling lost in shadow. A faint green glow catches my eye, high up on the far wall.


    A metallic plate. Its surface gleams faintly, etched with runes that flicker with the same sickly hue as the liquid still burning in my veins. The sight of it sends a jolt through my chest¡ªhope, perhaps, though it feels just as much like dread.


    ¡°What is that?¡± I ask aloud, but Binah does not respond. She stands motionless, watching the plate as though it is the only thing in the room that matters. My gaze lingers on her, then returns to the plate. The runes pulse, almost as if they are alive, beckoning.


    It has to mean something. An exit? A key? Or another test?


    A low hum vibrates through the floor, faint but growing. The sound is impossibly precise, mechanical, and it sets my teeth on edge. I pause, listening as it grows louder, and an unnatural chill washes over me.


    Ahead, the chamber opens further, its vastness swallowing me. The hum intensifies, resonating through the stone. Then I see it¡ªa shadow moving at the far end of the room.


    The sentinel emerges from the darkness, its body a contradiction in terms. Its form is obsidian black, so dark it seems to radiate its own strange light. Every edge is sharp, every surface smooth and polished to a perfection that defies reason. Its single red eye glows with alien intensity, casting faint beams of light that sweep the chamber.


    It moves with a terrifying grace, its limbs jointed in ways that mimic life but are unmistakably machine. Each step is deliberate, calculated, as though it is savoring the hunt. The sound of its movement is a soft, metallic whisper, like a blade drawn slowly across stone.


    The sentinel''s alien gaze brushes the wall nearest me, and I feel it¡ªa sharp, icy pull, as if the sentinel¡¯s focus alone could strip away layers of my being.


    Terror roots me in place. Lessons of the Second Shattering flood back¡ªthe Tekhne, the relentless advance of machines like this, and the cold, calculated precision of their killing strikes.


    A Nihil sentinel. Here. Within Malkiel.


    The thought crashes over me like a tidal wave. My people fled constructs like this twice in our history. The First Shattering, when the Nihil turned on the House Absolute and forced us to abandon our ancestral home and flee into the Balah. And six years ago, during the Second Shattering, when their resurgence shattered the fragile peace we had clawed back. Both times, these machines were unstoppable, relentless. Both times, they drove us from the only homes we knew.


    The Tekhne¡¯s spawn should not be here.


    Malkiel is supposed to be a place of discipline, of tradition¡ªancient, unbroken. It is a sanctuary, a temple to order and the Autarch''s will. Yet here, stalking the labyrinth¡¯s shifting halls, is one of the most profane creations ever born. This machine is an affront to everything Malkiel represents.


    I tighten my fists, the anger briefly cutting through my fear. Does Malkiel know what they are housing? Have they kept this thing locked away, knowing what it is capable of? Or worse¡ªdo they not care?


    My head aches at the thought.


    This sentinel is not a relic of curiosity. It is death incarnate, a remnant of the Tekhne¡¯s twisted pursuit of immorality.


    Binah moves past me, her steps deliberate and calm. Her presence pulls me from my spiraling thoughts. She gestures toward a side passage, her expression unreadable. I hesitate. The sentinel¡¯s scan is getting closer, its hum rising to a piercing whine.


    I glance again at the pressure plate. It looms high above the sentinel¡¯s patrol path, its faint glow seeming to mock me. My chest tightens. Reaching it will not be easy.


    I run.


    The labyrinth shifts one last time, pulling back the walls to reveal a straight path to the pressure plate. The sentinel moves instantly, its speed inhuman, cutting off every escape route.


    I sprint, my legs burning, my breaths ragged. The poison in my veins drags me down, my body a puppet to its cruel strings. The pressure plate glows ahead of me, but the sentinel¡¯s hum crescendos¡ªa warning, a promise of death.


    Three steps from the plate, the floor shifts beneath me. The stone tilts at an impossible angle, and I stumble. My arms flail, and I crash to the ground, the impact jolting the air from my lungs.


    The sentinel looms over me, its red eye fixed on mine. Its blade-like limbs extend with a soft, metallic whir, their edges gleaming with an unholy sharpness.


    In the distance, Binah stands still, her face unreadable, her violet eyes watching.


    I am alone with the machine.


    And it is time to die.

 Chapter 20 - Sentinel’s Lament

    Chapter 20


    Sentinel¡¯s Lament


    The sentinel looms over me, its red eye fixed and unblinking. Blade-like limbs extend with a soft, metallic whir, their edges gleaming with an unholy sharpness. The sound of its movement is a whisper of death, deliberate and precise.


    I scramble back, my limbs weak and unresponsive, the poison in my veins slowing me down. My mind races for options, but there are none. The labyrinth has boxed me in, and the sentinel is poised for the kill.


    It moves with terrifying grace, each step deliberate, its shadow casting jagged patterns on the stone walls. The hum of its power core grows louder, resonating through the chamber like a dirge.


    This is it. The end.


    The labyrinth shifts with a sudden grinding noise, and a wall drops between us. The sentinel¡¯s blade strikes the stone instead of me, the impact screeching like nails on glass. I do not waste the moment¡ªI lurch to my feet, legs trembling, and stagger into the narrow passage revealed by the shifting walls.


    The labyrinth moves again behind me, sealing the sentinel away¡ªfor now.


    I collapse against the wall, gasping for air. My heart pounds in my ears, drowning out the faint grinding of stone. My arm trembles as I wipe the sweat from my brow, leaving a smear of grime behind. The green liquid churns in my veins, a sickening reminder of Binah¡¯s control. It burns hotter now, an unnatural heat that pulses with my heartbeat.


    Colors bloom at the edges of my vision¡ªbright, shimmering hues that do not belong. The dull gray of the labyrinth¡¯s walls is overlaid with vivid streaks of electric blue, neon green, and burning gold. Patterns ripple across the stone like light refracted through water, shifting in time with the pulse of the green liquid inside me.


    I shake my head, trying to clear my vision, but the colors only grow brighter, more intricate. A sound joins them¡ªsoft at first, like the distant pluck of strings. The melody rises, weaving itself into the hum of the sentinel still echoing in my ears. It is beautiful, almost hypnotic, yet somehow wrong. It feels as though it is coming from everywhere at once¡ªthe walls, the sentinel, even within me.


    ¡°Am I losing my mind?¡± I mutter, my voice shaky. The question hangs in the air, unanswered.


    I turn to find Binah standing at the passage entrance, her violet eyes watching me with the same calm intensity. She gestures toward another path, her movements slow and deliberate.


    ¡°You knew,¡± I growl, my voice rough with anger and exhaustion. ¡°You knew what was waiting for me back there.¡±


    She says nothing. She always says nothing.


    ¡°What is this?¡± I snap, my voice rising. ¡°What kind of place is this? Why would Malkiel keep¡­ that?¡± My voice cracks at the thought of the sentinel, a Nihil spawn, here in Malkiel. This place is supposed to be a haven, a temple of order. Yet here, it feels like chaos given form.


    Binah tilts her head slightly, her gaze steady but unreadable. Her silence infuriates me, but the melody swells in my ears, drowning out my thoughts. I push off the wall, legs trembling, and follow her gesture into the next corridor. The vivid colors ripple ahead of me, drawing me forward like a path only I can see.


    The walls shift again, the grinding noise a constant now, reshaping the labyrinth around us. The air feels heavier, oppressive. My footsteps echo unnervingly loud in the narrow corridor, while Binah¡¯s are almost soundless.


    The colors intensify as I move deeper, swirling and merging into intricate patterns. They overlay the walls like an invisible map, each hue forming paths that shift with the labyrinth¡¯s movements. The melody grows sharper, clearer, as if the labyrinth itself is singing. It is beautiful, but it terrifies me.


    The hum cuts through the melody, low and resonant. My breath catches. The sentinel is moving again, its mechanical whir growing louder with every second.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    ¡°It¡¯s back,¡± I hiss, glancing over my shoulder. Binah walks without haste, her expression as calm as ever. I want to grab her, demand she take this seriously, but the hum grows sharper, closer.


    The corridor opens into a larger chamber, its ceiling lost in shadow. The runes here glow brighter, their patterns twisting into complex shapes that ripple across the walls. Overlaid on them are the technicolor hues, forming a second, more intricate layer. The patterns shift and flow together, almost as if they are speaking to me.


    My stomach churns as I realize what I am seeing. The patterns are a code, a guide to the labyrinth¡¯s movements. The green liquid has done something to me, attuned me to this place, this machine.


    The sentinel¡¯s hum crescendos. Its shadow flickers across the far wall, impossibly large and distorted. I catch a glimpse of its gleaming red eye before I bolt, my legs moving on instinct. Binah stays close behind me, her movements unhurried, as though she already knows how this will end.


    The labyrinth twists again, the grinding sound merging with the sentinel¡¯s hum. I stumble into another passage, this one narrower and lined with glowing runes. The green liquid pulses through me, its rhythm matching the melody in my ears. The patterns shift faster now, guiding me forward, showing me where the labyrinth will move next.


    The passage opens into a vast chamber, its walls high and unyielding. At the far end, mounted on the wall, is the pressure plate. Its glow matches the sickly hue of the green liquid coursing through me, and I feel its pull as though it is calling to me.


    But the sentinel is already in the chamber, its black form moving with lethal precision. It blocks the path to the plate, its red eye fixed on me. The hum of its core vibrates through the air, blending with the melody inside me. The sound is both beautiful and horrifying.


    Binah steps forward, her gaze fixed on the sentinel. She raises her hand, and the walls shudder. A section of the floor tilts upward, forming a makeshift ramp that leads to the plate. Her intervention feels deliberate, calculated, as though she is still pulling the strings.


    I hesitate. Every part of me screams not to trust her. She has controlled me before, forced me to act against my will. And now she expects me to follow her lead?


    The sentinel takes a step forward, its limbs unfolding with a hiss of metal. Its red eye narrows, locking onto me.


    I run.


    The ramp is uneven, shifting under my feet as I climb. The sentinel moves with terrifying speed, its limbs skittering across the stone as it closes the distance. The technicolor patterns bloom brighter around the plate, their shapes forming a clear path. I follow them blindly, the melody swelling in my ears.


    The plate is just ahead. My legs burn, my lungs scream for air, but I push forward. The sentinel¡¯s blade grazes my arm, and I cry out, the pain sharp and immediate. I stumble, my vision blurring, but I lunge for the plate with everything I have left.


    My hand slams down on the surface. The runes explode with light, flooding the chamber in a blinding green glow.


    The sentinel freezes mid-strike, its limbs jerking violently. The hum of its core shifts to a high-pitched whine, and then it collapses, folding in on itself with a sound like grinding metal. The green light from the runes pulses one final time before fading into darkness.


    I collapse to the ground, gasping for air. My arm throbs where the sentinel¡¯s blade grazed me, and my vision swims with the lingering colors. The pressure plate beneath my hand is cool, unyielding, its glow dimming as its purpose is fulfilled.


    For a moment, there is silence. A heavy, suffocating silence that presses against me like the weight of the labyrinth itself. My chest heaves with each ragged breath, and the nausea from the green liquid twists deeper into my gut. The melody that had filled my mind fades to nothing, leaving an eerie absence that feels louder than the noise.


    I lift my head to find Binah standing at the base of the ramp. Her violet eyes meet mine, her expression calm and unreadable. She tilts her head slightly, as though evaluating me, but says nothing.


    ¡°Why?¡± I whisper, my voice barely audible. My throat feels raw, every word scraping against the silence. ¡°Why do you keep doing this?¡±


    She does not respond. Instead, she turns her back to me, walking toward a shadowy passage that the labyrinth¡¯s shifting walls have revealed. Her form disappears into the darkness, her footsteps fading into nothing.


    I am left alone. The silence presses harder, but relief begins to creep in. I survived. Somehow, I survived.


    The floor shifts beneath me.


    It is not the grinding of stone that has become so familiar but something sharper, more mechanical. Before I can react, the pressure plate beneath my hand drops, and the floor falls away in a single, jarring motion. I plummet into darkness, the air rushing past me in a howl that drowns out my scream.


    The fall is not long, but it ends abruptly. I hit the ground hard, the impact jarring every bone in my body. Pain explodes in my chest and limbs, and I lie there, gasping, unable to move. The green liquid pulses through me, making my vision swim with colors that feel both comforting and maddening.


    When I finally manage to lift my head, I realize where I am¡ªor at least, where I think I am.


    The chamber is cube-shaped, its walls damp and unyielding, faint cracks glowing with dim light. Tiny puddles gather in the grooves between stones, their surfaces rippling faintly. The air is damp, heavy with the scent of decay and despair.


    It is the same chamber. The same chamber I woke up in before this nightmare began.


    ¡°No,¡± I whisper, the word trembling on my lips. My mind reels, the crushing weight of realization settling over me. ¡°I was¡­ I was making progress. I got out.¡±


    But it is no use.


    The chamber offers no reply.


    And I am back where I began.

 Chapter 21 - Breath of the Horizon

    Chapter 21


    Breath of the Horizon


    I was wrong.


    The chamber swims into focus, my head throbbing with each pulse of my heart. Every muscle screams in protest as I push myself to my hands and knees, the stone floor cold and unforgiving beneath me. The wound on my arm burns, a sharp reminder of the sentinel¡¯s blade.


    Panic claws at my throat.


    The walls feel too close, too familiar. But something is different. This is not the same chamber. This one is larger, the ceiling higher. Cracks spider across the walls like frozen lightning, seeping pale blue light instead of the sickly green from before.


    The silence here is wrong. Not the dead quiet of the previous chamber, but something alive. Waiting. I feel it pressing against my skin, watching my every move.


    My arm throbs, sending a sharp jolt of pain up to my shoulder. The sentinel¡¯s blade cut deep¡ªa clean slice that weeps crimson. The edges are already turning an angry red, and the skin around it feels hot to the touch. If left untreated¡­


    A faint movement catches my eye.


    I turn my head slowly, cautiously. Across the chamber, Binah moves, her pale form drifting like a ghost. No¡ªshe¡¯s not just drifting. Her arms sweep in deliberate arcs, her hands slicing through the air with a strange rhythm. Her feet shift, pivoting and stepping in patterns that stir something deep in my memory.


    Her movements are sloppy at first, awkward and disjointed. But as I watch, the rhythm smooths. Each step flows into the next, her arms sweeping gracefully, her entire body moving as if carried by an unseen tide.


    I know this. I know exactly what this is.


    ¡°Ath¡¯rihn,¡± I whisper, the word slipping from my lips unbidden.


    The sound of it unlocks a flood of memories. Mother¡¯s voice echoes in my mind: ¡°Breathe with the horizon, Janus. Inhale the world; exhale yourself. Every movement is a wave, and every wave is a world.¡±


    The memory is so vivid it feels like I am standing there again, barefoot on the smooth stone of the courtyard. I can see her, Kaelenya Samithra, my mother, her midnight-colored skin catching the faint red light of the glowglobe. She moves like water, each step and gesture as natural as breath. The movements are the same as Binah¡¯s, yet entirely different. My mother¡¯s form was perfect, effortless.


    ¡°You¡¯re rushing,¡± she says in the memory, her voice patient but firm. ¡°You cannot force Ath¡¯rihn. The horizon waits for no one, but it also leaves no one behind.¡±


    I am small, no more than four, trying to mimic her. My arms swing too fast, my feet tangle over themselves. I stumble, frustration bubbling to the surface. ¡°It¡¯s too slow! It doesn¡¯t make sense!¡±Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    Kaelenya kneels beside me, her hands warm and steady as they guide mine. ¡°Feel it, Janus,¡± she murmurs. ¡°The rhythm is already inside you. You must only remember how to listen.¡±


    Her voice fades, and the memory dissolves. I blink, my focus returning to Binah. Her movements now are graceful, flawless. With each sweep of her arms and turn of her body, she embodies the very essence of the Ath¡¯rihn my mother taught me. It does not make sense. How does she know this? Who taught her?


    ¡°Where did you learn that?¡± I ask aloud, my voice sharp and raw. My anger surprises even me, but the sight of her practicing something so tied to my family, my heritage, leaves my chest tight with unspoken questions.


    She does not answer. Of course, she does not.


    Binah finishes the sequence and stands still, her violet eyes locking with mine for a fleeting moment. There is something unreadable in her gaze, something that almost feels like recognition. She gestures toward the pale blue liquid seeping from the crack in the wall, then steps back, her face as calm and infuriatingly blank as ever.


    I hesitate, my breath uneven. The wound on my arm pulses with heat, and the edges blur in my vision. I glance at the pool of liquid, its glow brightening as if to catch my attention. The memory of the green liquid burns fresh in my mind¡ªthe way it tore through me, twisted my senses, filled my head with impossible melodies.


    But this is different. The light is softer, cooler. The air around the crack feels less oppressive, more like a gentle breeze brushing against my skin. Still, I cannot ignore the voice in the back of my mind, warning me that this could be another trap.


    My thoughts flicker unexpectedly to Penelope. The memory of her voice¡ªsoft but resolute¡ªwhen she said, ¡°I¡¯m glad you survived,¡± cuts through the noise in my head. It was so brief, so strange, and yet¡­ why now? Why her? Of all things, why does my mind conjure her face in this moment?


    I shake my head, forcing the thought away. There is no room for that here. Not when the line between survival and death is so thin. The liquid shimmers, rippling as if responding to my thoughts.


    Uncle Titus¡¯s words surface in my mind, unbidden: ¡°Trust your instincts, but question everything. The line between survival and death is often drawn by a single choice.¡±


    The liquid gleams brighter, catching the faint blue light like a whispered promise. I exhale slowly and lower myself to the floor, cupping my hands beneath the crack. The liquid is cool against my skin, almost electric. It feels heavier than water but flows just as easily.


    ¡°If this kills me,¡± I mutter, bringing my hands to my lips, ¡°at least I¡¯ll have company.¡±


    The taste is sharp, metallic, like drinking from a frozen stream. It slides down my throat, leaving a trail of numbing cold in its wake. For a moment, nothing happens. Then the burning in my veins begins to subside, replaced by a spreading coolness that reminds me of diving into deep water.


    I watch, equal parts horrified and amazed, as the wound on my arm begins to close. The edges knit together, the angry red fading to pink, then to the pale hue of new skin. The pain fades entirely, leaving only a faint tingle behind.


    But the liquid does more than heal. It sharpens my mind, peeling away the fog left by the green liquid. The chamber snaps into focus, every crack and line etched with startling clarity. The patterns in the stone seem to pulse with a rhythm I had not noticed before, guiding my gaze toward a section of the wall where the cracks form a faint outline.


    A doorway.


    The air grows heavier, the silence shifting into something more oppressive. I stand, steadier now, and step toward the wall. The patterns ripple as I approach, and the outline of the doorway glows faintly red. The stone grinds against itself, folding inward to reveal a narrow passage bathed in heat.


    The air shimmers like the surface of a lake in summer, distorting whatever lies beyond. But I can see it¡ªa massive weight suspended from the ceiling, chains creaking as it shifts slightly in the thick air.


    Binah moves past me, her steps deliberate, her gaze fixed on the weight. I hesitate at the threshold, the heat pressing against me like a living thing. The doorway seals itself behind us with a final, grinding thud.

 Chapter 22 - Endure

    Chapter 22


    Endure


    The chamber roars with oppressive heat, the air shimmering like waves over hot sand.


    I stand before the weight, its runed surface glowing faintly, each symbol alive with radiant heat. The chains suspending it hum with a low, menacing vibration. Above the door on the far side, three circles of pale light glimmer faintly, waiting to come alive.


    Binah moves in the periphery of my vision. She begins slowly, her arms sweeping through the air, feet pivoting with deliberate precision. The rhythm is familiar now¡ªAth¡¯rihn, the Breath of the Horizon. Her form is perfect, each step flowing seamlessly into the next. It is maddening how serene she seems while I prepare to push this thing.


    Her movements tug at something deep inside me. My mother¡¯s voice whispers in my mind, a fragment of memory: The rhythm is already inside you, Janus. The words stir something both comforting and painful. But there is no time to dwell.


    I force my attention back to the weight. The chains rattle ominously as I place my hands against the scorching surface. My palms scream in protest, the heat biting into my flesh. The first circle above the door flares to life as the weight reacts, shifting slightly in its suspension. The hum deepens, and the chains creak.


    The trial begins.


    The weight resists like a living thing, every inch a battle. My muscles strain, the heat leeching every ounce of strength from me. Sweat beads on my forehead, only to evaporate instantly in the furnace-like air. The ground beneath my boots feels molten, threatening to give way.


    Binah¡¯s movements continue in the background, her arms slicing through the air like whispers of wind. The juxtaposition is stark: her calm, fluid grace against my frantic, desperate fight.


    I plant my feet, digging into the stone, and push harder. The weight inches forward, and the first light above the door glows brighter. A hiss escapes my lips as the heat intensifies, licking at my exposed skin. The weight feels heavier now, as if it¡¯s growing denser with each push. My lungs ache, every breath searing my throat.


    The grinding of the chains fills the chamber, drowning out even the roar of the heat. My vision blurs, the edges of the room flickering like a mirage. The weight moves another inch, the light above flaring in response.


    But it is not enough.The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    I lose my footing. The weight slams down with a deafening crash, sending vibrations through the chamber that rattle my teeth. The door groans shut, and the first light dims, leaving behind a faint, mocking outline of my name.


    I collapse to my knees, gasping for air. My hands throb, the skin blistered and raw. My body screams for relief, but the trial is not over. The weight rises smoothly back into place, the chains resetting with an almost mocking efficiency.


    Binah pauses in her practice, her violet eyes flicking toward me. Her expression is unreadable, but the faintest tilt of her head suggests¡­ expectation. Not pity. Not concern. Something sharper.


    I force myself upright, my legs trembling beneath me. The heat presses against me, stifling and unrelenting. My chest heaves as I glare at the weight, its surface now flickering with faint tongues of flame.


    ¡°Again,¡± I mutter through gritted teeth. The word feels like a curse and a prayer.


    The second circle above the door begins to glow, this one a vibrant yellow. The weight hums louder, the runes on its surface flickering like fireflies. The air shifts, crackling with static. Lightning.


    The first arc lashes out without warning, striking the chains above the weight. The discharge dances down the metal, illuminating the chamber in brief, blinding flashes. I clench my teeth and grip the weight again, forcing my body into position.


    The second light pulses as I push. The lightning is relentless, each strike sending shockwaves through the air and into my body. My arms tremble, my vision narrowing to a tunnel as the heat and electricity combine into a single, overwhelming force.


    Binah resumes her practice. Her arms sweep in arcs that mimic the bolts of lightning, her steps fluid yet precise. It is as if she is mirroring the chaos of the chamber, finding harmony within it. The sight stirs something in me, a faint echo of my mother¡¯s teachings.


    ¡°Feel it, Janus,¡± her voice whispers in my mind. ¡°The rhythm is already inside you.¡±


    I focus on the weight, on the rhythm of the trial. Each push becomes a beat, each bolt of lightning a counterpoint. I fall into the cadence, my breaths syncing with the hum of the weight. For a moment, it feels manageable¡ªalmost graceful.


    The trial escalates. The lightning strikes grow faster, closer, each one searing through my muscles like a blade. The weight feels impossibly heavy now, the runes blazing with a heat that burns my palms. My legs buckle, but I catch myself, my mind clawing for any scrap of resolve.


    Binah¡¯s movements shift. She flows seamlessly from one sequence of Ath¡¯rihn to the next, her form embodying the Flame of Renewal. Her spirals mirror the chaos around her, yet she remains unscathed, untouched by the lightning¡¯s fury.


    I am not so fortunate.


    A bolt strikes the weight itself, the force traveling through my arms and into my chest. I cry out, the sound lost in the cacophony. My grip falters, and the weight slams into the ground once more.


    The second circle dims, leaving another faint outline of my name. Failure.


    I collapse to the floor, my body broken and trembling. My vision swims, the chamber spinning around me in a haze of heat and pain.


    Binah stops her practice, her violet eyes meeting mine. There is no judgment in her gaze, only the quiet intensity that infuriates me more than words ever could.


    ¡°Again,¡± I whisper, my voice hoarse and raw. The word feels like both defiance and surrender.


    The chains rattle as the trial resets, the lights above the door flickering in anticipation. The heat presses against me, suffocating and relentless.


    I plant my hands on the weight once more, ignoring the searing pain. The second light glows, and the trial begins anew.

 Chapter 23 - A Symphony of Pain

    Chapter 23


    A Symphony of Pain


    I step back instinctively as the air shifts.


    The second circle above the door fades, leaving the third dim but pulsing faintly. The oppressive heat lingers but is muted, like coals smoldering beneath ash. Lightning arcs sporadically, illuminating the chamber with bursts of electric light. Fog rises from the cracks in the stone floor, curling around my boots and climbing higher until it consumes the entire chamber.


    The weight at my back hums with a strange resonance. Its once-scorching surface feels almost cool, yet the chains suspending it rattle as if alive, their vibrations sinking into my bones. Above the door, the third circle begins to glow, faint and menacing, diffusing its pale light through the mist. My chest tightens as the fog thickens, cloaking everything in swirling gray.


    I press my shoulder against the weight and push experimentally. The metal groans, resisting me with a stubborn force. My legs tremble from the effort, and the air seems to grow heavier with each breath. The fog presses in closer, a living thing curling into my lungs. My thoughts blur at the edges, a strange lethargy creeping into my limbs.


    The mist grows colder, damp and cloying. Every inhale drags like gravel through my throat. My vision narrows as fatigue sets in, an unnatural heaviness that pulls at my eyelids. The fog is not just masking the chamber¡ªit is trying to lull me into sleep.


    I shake my head violently, forcing my focus back to the weight. The glowing runes flicker faintly through the haze, their steady light an anchor in the shifting madness. Above the door, the circle brightens slightly, pulsing in sync with the rattling chains.


    My hands press against the weight, and I push again. The chains groan as the metal shifts forward, but the fog stirs with the movement, coalescing into shapes. Two massive eggs form in the mist, their surfaces smooth and faintly glowing.


    I freeze, my breath hitching. Cracks spider across the eggs, splitting them open with a sound like distant thunder. From within spills a dark, viscous substance, twisting into tendrils that reach for me before dissolving into smoke.


    The weight pushes back against me, grinding into my palms, but I cannot look away as the fog shifts again. My knees buckle as a new vision takes shape¡ªa sunlit courtyard. I see myself as a boy, no older than three, running barefoot over smooth stone. My mother¡¯s laugh echoes faintly, a sound so warm it almost breaks me. She stands with her arms outstretched, her hair catching the light, her smile radiant.This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    The weight feels lighter for a moment, the trial fading into the background. I step toward the vision, my muscles relaxing as the warmth fills me. But then the scene twists.


    The courtyard vanishes, replaced by a darker memory.


    I see myself again, younger and smaller, sitting on the floor with tears streaming down my face. My mother kneels beside me, her arms wrapped protectively around my shoulders. Uncle Titus looms over us, his stern expression unreadable, his shadow stretching unnaturally long.


    The fog swirls, and voices echo around me, sharp and cruel. ¡°Demon.¡± ¡°Balah-born.¡± The taunts grow louder, warping into something inhuman. My younger self sobs harder, his face buried in my mother¡¯s embrace.


    I stumble beneath the weight¡¯s renewed pressure, the chains groaning louder as the trial escalates. My muscles scream in protest, but I push harder, desperate to escape the phantom voices that claw at my resolve.


    The fog shifts once more. I am older now, pinned to the ground by my cousin Septimus. His fists rain down on me, each strike searing with remembered pain. Laughter surrounds us¡ªmocking, relentless. Others join in, their kicks and jeers blending with the metallic clanging of the chains.


    ¡°Get up,¡± I whisper to myself, though the words catch in my throat. My legs falter, the weight pressing harder against me, its hum vibrating through my skull. The vision of Septimus looms closer, his sneer as vivid as the first time. I grit my teeth and push again, tears blurring my vision as past and present blur together.


    Through the haze, Binah¡¯s form emerges. Her arms rise, slicing through the mist in deliberate arcs, her steps flowing in the rhythm of Ath¡¯rihn. For a moment, her presence steadies me. She moves like water, her motions fluid and graceful, untouched by the chaos around her.


    But then her form begins to distort. Her arms stretch unnaturally, her fingers twisting into jagged claws. Her silhouette warps, her body bending at impossible angles, her head tilting too far. Each motion sends tremors through the chamber, the walls groaning as if in pain.


    The fog thickens around her, and shadows rise from the mist. They are grotesque, shifting shapes that lunge toward me only to dissolve at the last second. Binah¡¯s movements grow faster, more erratic, her monstrous form casting jagged shadows that flicker with each burst of lightning.


    ¡°Stop,¡± I whisper hoarsely, though the word is swallowed by the chaos. The weight feels heavier with each passing second, its hum vibrating through my bones. My muscles tremble as I push, the chains screaming in protest.


    The fog pulses, and I hear his voice. Septimus. ¡°You¡¯re nothing, Janus,¡± he says, his sneer cutting through the haze like a blade. ¡°You¡¯ve always been nothing.¡±


    I collapse under the weight, my hands slipping against its surface. The fog shifts, and he is there, standing over me. His fists come down, each blow reverberating through my body. My arms instinctively rise to shield my face, but the strikes are relentless.


    The chamber seems to fade, its walls dissolving into gray. The weight presses down on me, its chains rattling like mocking laughter. Septimus¡¯s face looms closer, his sneer twisting into something monstrous. His voice grows louder, repeating the same words over and over, each syllable dripping with contempt.


    ¡°You¡¯re weak. You¡¯ll always be weak.¡±


    Consciousness begins to slips from my grasp. The chains scream as it crashes down, sending shockwaves through the chamber. I collapse to the floor, my body trembling, my vision swimming.


    No. NO! No.


    The third circle above the door dims, its faint light fading as my awareness descends into the mist.

 Chapter 24 - Whistling Blade

    Chapter 24


    Whistling Blade


    Ruin is my birthright.


    I stand on the shore of a small pond, waters the glory of Malkiel has rendered Holy, pawing at my face with a hand inked red by carnage.


    There is a rock in my hand.


    "Stop!" little Enna screams in fear and fury.


    My Conquered Cousins regard me, a cluster of terrified children crouching about Septimus''s prone figure. My heart holds only indifference, bottomless indifference. Yet my lips quicken into a bestial smile.


    There is a rock in my hand.


    They take umbrage at my display, lose honeyed lamentations into the endless sky. If brutality is all they know, if that is all they understand then I will make them wail for the torment of their battered bodies.


    I step forward.


    They cringe back and keen, but it is too late.


    It will always be too late.


    My wrath falls upon them, a hard stone clenched in a little hand. I smash teeth out of maws, replace pride with obedience, transform once arrogant fools into weeping sissies.


    There is a rock ¡­ in my little hand


    I can feel it grow sleek with crimson riverlets, a gap along what can no longer be perceived, an absence in being itself. A part of me is gone forever¡ªsevered.


    There is a rock where my innocence should be.


    I snarl, this knowledge cutting through. Tears spill down my cheeks. Fiery distortions pulse about the corners of my eyes. Blood spews from parted flesh.


    Weakness is there damnation.


    There is a¡­


    <hr>


    Memories retreat like mist and smoke into porous earth.


    I wake with a sharp gasp, the echo of it still thrumming in my chest. My body feels heavy, my limbs sluggish as if the weight from the last trial still presses against me. The air is cold and damp, biting at my skin. I blink. The dim light of the chamber bleeds into my vision.


    This new cube-shaped room looms larger than the previous two, its surfaces jagged and uneven, etched with glowing runes that pulse faintly, casting eerie shadows. The chamber feels alive, the air thick with something unsaid, something waiting.


    A sharp whistle cuts through the silence.


    I lurch upright, muscles coiling instinctively as I scan the room. My eyes land on Binah. She stands in the chamber''s center, her pale figure taut with tension. Floating before her is a blade¡ªa wickedly sharp thing that twists and spins with a life of its own. Runes dance along its length, pulsing in bursts of silver and crimson.


    A Skathrith.


    The whistling intensifies as the blade hurtles toward her. Binah raises her hands, and though I see no visible strings, her fingers move as if manipulating the weapon directly. The Skathrith slows mid-flight, its movements jerking erratically as if caught in a web. Its hum deepens into a growl, vibrating through the chamber like the snarl of an animal.


    Binah steps smoothly to the side, her fingers twitching as she redirects the blade¡¯s lunge. The threads¡ªwhatever they are¡ªstrain against the weapon¡¯s resistance. I swear I can almost see them flickering faintly in the glow of the chamber¡¯s runes.


    Her violet eyes remain focused, her body coiled like a spring as she maneuvers the Skathrith away from herself.Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    The blade twists violently, breaking free of her hold. Its runes flare brighter, and it spins toward me.


    The blade whirls with terrifying speed, its edge streaking toward my chest. I throw myself to the ground, the Skathrith slicing through the air inches above me. Sparks scatter as it slams into the stone, only to rise again, its tip angling toward me like a predator locking onto prey.


    ¡°Binah!¡± I shout, but she does not react. Her arms sweep upward, her fingers moving in intricate patterns. The Skathrith jerks mid-air, its path diverted just enough for me to roll clear of its next strike.


    I stumble to my feet, my breaths coming in ragged gasps. The blade whistles past me again, and I twist out of its path, the edge grazing my side. A sharp burn follows, and blood wells from the shallow cut.


    Binah continues to fight the Skathrith, her invisible threads pulling it away from me time and again. Her movements are sharp and deliberate, but I see the strain in her posture, the tremor in her hands. She cannot keep this up forever.


    The Skathrith lunges again, and this time Binah¡¯s threads falter. The blade streaks toward me, faster and more erratic. My body reacts on instinct, my arms rising in a familiar pattern, my feet shifting into a stance I did not consciously choose.


    Ath¡¯rihn.


    The rhythm is sluggish at first, my movements clumsy and uncoordinated. The Skathrith¡¯s edge grazes my shoulder, drawing another line of fire across my skin. Pain sharpens my focus, and I force myself to remember. Inhale. Exhale. Each breath anchors me, each step finding its place in the dance.


    The chamber fades, replaced by the echo of my mother¡¯s voice.


    ¡°Breathe with the horizon, Janus. Inhale the world; exhale yourself.¡±


    Her words guide me as the Skathrith lunges again. I twist away, the blade missing me by a hair¡¯s breadth. My arms rise in sweeping arcs, my feet pivoting with more confidence. The movements come faster now, the rhythm growing stronger with each breath.


    Binah pulls the Skathrith back with a sharp flick of her fingers, giving me a moment¡¯s reprieve. She glances at me, her violet eyes narrowing as if assessing my form. Then she steps back, her hands dropping to her sides.


    The blade lunges again, and this time I am alone.


    The Skathrith moves like a predator, its strikes relentless and precise. My body responds in kind, each movement flowing into the next with a grace I did not know I possessed. The pain in my limbs fades, replaced by a strange clarity. The blade and I are locked in a deadly dance, its hum matching the rhythm of my breath.


    For a moment, there is peace. The Skathrith¡¯s strikes become part of the flow, its movements predictable, almost beautiful. My feet glide across the stone, my arms slicing through the air in perfect harmony with the blade¡¯s lunges. I lose myself in the rhythm, the chamber fading into the background.


    Then the blade vanishes.


    A sharp crack of displaced air signals the Skathrith¡¯s return. It reappears inches from my face, its edge streaking toward me with renewed fury. The tension snaps back into place, the calm replaced by chaos.


    The blade¡¯s strikes become erratic, disappearing and reappearing in unpredictable bursts. I falter, the flow state broken as panic claws at the edges of my mind. Binah¡¯s threads flicker faintly, her hands rising to intercept the Skathrith again, but the blade resists her pull more fiercely than before.


    I extend a hand, and something seems to detach from the torq at my throat¡ªa shadowy root. It writhes in the air, reaches for the Skathrith.


    The connection is immediate and violent.


    The inside of my forehead burns briefly, pulses with white-hot light. Words form against the dark void of my mind:


    Unbound Skathrith. Do you wish to bond?


    The question sears itself into my awareness, stark and unrelenting. All I hear is the hum of the blade, the slow rattle of chains, and the pounding of my heart.


    Bond? With this thing? My pulse quickens.


    The Skathrith hums again, jerks in mid-air, its edge gleaming like liquid fire as it thrashes against the root¡¯s pull. My head throbs, the strain of it all splitting through my mind.


    Binah steps closer, her fingers twitching as she reinforces my hold with her threads.


    "Bond," I growl through clenched teeth.


    The chamber stills.


    The Skathrith vibrates once, a high-pitched whine that pierces the air, before everything shifts, folds in on itself.


    The shadow root ignites, flaring with black flame as it fuses into the runes along the blade. The light in the runes erupts, flooding the chamber with blinding radiance. And I feel it¡ªa pull, an overwhelming tide of awareness that drags me beneath the surface of my own mind.


    The world changes.


    I can feel the Skathrith¡ªits hunger, its ancient purpose, its pride. It is not an object; it is a presence as vast and as alien as the sun. It brushes against my consciousness like a predator testing its prey.


    I hesitate, my instincts screaming to let go.


    Then it shifts.


    The predator turns, its stance softening, and the hum in my mind grows warmer, more familiar like gentle rays soaking into the folds of my being. The Skathrith is melding into me.


    We are becoming one.


    A flood of sensation washes over me. The chamber blurs and sharpens all at once, every detail magnified. I feel the cold weight of the stone beneath my boots, the faint hum of the torq, the tremor of Binah¡¯s presence at the edge of my awareness. But it is more than that¡ªI see the room through the Skathrith itself.


    I feel the texture of the air as it parts around its edge, sense the vibrations of the faintest sound. Every movement, every shift in the chamber, becomes a ripple I can read. My breath catches as the world transforms into a lattice of motion, energy, and potential.


    Binah lowers her hands, her threads fading into nothingness. She watches me with an unreadable expression, her head tilting slightly as if to say:


    It is yours now.

 Chapter 25 - Star Above

    Chapter 25


    Star Above


    The Skathrith hangs above me, a second more ethereal sun, sheathed in curtains of folded space.


    Its presence is an intangible weight against my mind. Each pulse of light matches the rhythm in my chest, creating patterns that illuminate nothing but itself. The bond thrums between us.


    Raw. Electric.


    I shift upon the cold floor, my muscles protesting. The cut on my shoulder and side sting. The distant point of light follows my movement, adjusting its position with liquid grace. Through our connection, I sense its eagerness¡ªan ancient hunger tempered by centuries of purpose.


    A soft drip echoes through the cube-shaped chamber.


    Red liquid seeps from a crack in the wall, viscous and dark. The sight of it triggers something in the Skathrith¡ªa ripple of recognition that floods through our bond. The distant light gleams brighter, its hum dropping to a lower pitch.


    I glance above me.


    Then, unbidden, a shift¡ªan alien awareness curves patterns onto the inside of my forehead. Pinpricks of light blinks out, replaced by something fractured and flickering. Shapes resolve into lines of jagged glyphs that burn faintly against the darkness.


    Name: Skathrith.


    Designation: Bound Construct.


    Status: Bonded (Incomplete).


    Synchronization: 14% (Minimal Harmony).


    Abilities:


    <ul>


    <li>


    Kinetic Transference: ACTIVE.


    </li>


    <li>


    Ethereal Edge: LOCKED.


    </li>


    <li>


    Spatial Lattice: LOCKED.


    </li>


    <li>


    Symbiotic Maneuvering: EMERGING.


    </li>


    <li>


    Directive Core: Adapt. Protect. Evolve.


    </li>


    </ul>


    I lower my gaze, gripping my temples as the scribbles fade, leaving me with nothing but the Blade¡¯s unrelenting hum. The words Incomplete and Minimal Harmony linger like echoes, digging into my thoughts. The Skathrith is not just a weapon¡ªit¡¯s something alive. Something ... evolving.


    Time presses against me.


    The growing pool of red speaks of urgency, but rushing forward without understanding this weapon would be foolish.


    I reach toward the hovering light, fingers spread wide.


    The Skathrith pulses above me, its song growing stronger, yet remains frustratingly distant. My jaw clenches as I focus harder, trying to grasp what feels like smoke.


    "Come to me." The words escape through gritted teeth.


    The light flickers, dims, then brightens¡ªbut refuses to take solid form. Sweat beads on my forehead as I strain against whatever barrier keeps the Blade from manifesting.


    I drop my hand, chest heaving. Mother''s voice echoes in my thoughts:


    "Power flows from truth, not force."


    Drawing a deep breath, I close my eyes and reach out again, this time trying to channel the same connection I felt during our initial bonding. The Skathrith''s hum changes pitch, resonating with something deep in my chest, but still it refuses to materialize.


    A whisper of movement draws my attention.


    Binah stands at the edge of the shadows, her pale form untouched by the Blade''s glow. She watches me with those impossible violet eyes, head tilted in that unnervingly bird-like way.


    Her hand rises to her chest, pressing her fist against her heart. The gesture is deliberate, meaningful. She extends her arm outward, fingers unfurling like petals, as if releasing something into the air.


    Feel it, don''t force it.


    The message is clear in her movements, even without words. The Skathrith''s song shifts again, harmonizing with her gesture, as if confirming her silent instruction.


    I lower my hand, frustration warring with understanding.


    The Blade is not some tool to be commanded¡ªit is a presence seeking resonance, waiting for me to match its frequency rather than bend it to my will. The frustration builds in my chest, a familiar heat that wants to burst free.


    I clench my fists, embracing the sensation rather than fighting it¡ªand something changes.


    A tingling spreads across my fingers, sharp and electric. The sensation crawls up my skin like frost forming on glass. I raise my hand, watching as a faint shimmer traces the edges of my fingers, catching the Skathrith''s light in impossible angles.Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    A crack echoes through the chamber. My gaze snaps upward as a piece of stone breaks free from the ceiling, tumbling through the air. Without thinking, I slash my hand through empty space.


    The motion feels different¡ªprecise, deadly. My arm moves as if guided by an unseen force, following a path I never chose. The falling stone splits cleanly in two, its halves clattering to the ground on either side of me.


    I stare at my hand. The shimmer persists, transforming my flesh into something other. Not a weapon, exactly, but a conduit. The Skathrith''s song shifts, a note of approval threading through its constant hum.


    Understanding floods through me. The Blade will not manifest¡ªnot yet¡ªbut it offers its essence, lending its power to my own form. I flex my fingers, feeling the strange marriage of flesh and energy, the way it changes how I move through space itself.


    Binah nods, a slight tilt of her head that speaks volumes.


    She extends her own hand, mimicking my gesture, though no power flows through her ethereal form. Her meaning is clear: this is the first step, the beginning of understanding what the Skathrith truly offers.


    The second chunk of stone rips free with a grinding shriek. Binah''s hands dance through the air, her fingers plucking invisible strings. The jagged shard hurtles toward my face.


    I slash upward, the Skathrith''s power coursing through my arm. The strike goes too deep, embedding my hand in the rock. Pain jolts through my wrist as I wrench free, barely dodging the next projectile.


    More stones tear loose from the walls, a deadly constellation orbiting Binah''s graceful form. She launches them in rapid succession. My movements are rough, uncoordinated. A sharp edge catches my shoulder as I stumble backward.


    The Blade''s song pulses with disappointment. My strikes are wild¡ªeither cleaving too forcefully through the stones or passing harmlessly through air.


    Sweat stings my eyes.


    I struggle to match the weapon''s rhythm.


    Binah pauses, lowering her hands. She moves forward, her form flowing like water. She mimes a slow, elegant arc through the air. The motion reminds me of mother''s lessons in Ath''rihn¡ªthe way air flows around obstacles rather than crashing through them.


    I close my eyes, letting the Skathrith''s hum fill my awareness.


    Its song shifts, aligning with my breath.


    The power flowing through my arms no longer feels foreign, but like an extension of my own pulse.


    The whisper of moving stone reaches my ears.


    I open my eyes to see another barrage of shards racing toward me. This time, I do not fight the Blade''s influence. My body flows through familiar Ath''rihn forms¡ªWave of Stillness becoming Blade of the Wind. Each strike is measured, precise. The stones split cleanly, their halves falling harmlessly around me.


    Binah''s assault continues, but now I move with purpose. The Skathrith''s power responds to my intentions rather than my force. Where before I struggled, now I dance between the deadly projectiles, each cut exactly as deep as needed.


    Confidence surges through me as the stones shatter with each precise strike. The Skathrith''s power flows naturally now, an extension of my will rather than a foreign force to be mastered.


    A massive shard of obsidian breaks free from the wall, its surface drinking in what little light reaches it. The sight of it quickens my pulse¡ªa true test of this newfound harmony.


    I draw my arm back, channeling the Blade''s energy through my flesh. The familiar tingle spreads across my skin. I step forward, driving my hand toward the approaching darkness.


    The strike begins perfectly, my fingers trailing silver light¡ªthen nothing.


    The power vanishes mid-swing, leaving only vulnerable flesh to meet unyielding stone. Pain explodes across my forearm as the obsidian shard tears past, opening a thin line of crimson.


    Binah''s hand cuts through the air like a knife, halting the remaining stones in their orbital dance. Her pale form glides closer, movements sharp with displeasure. She taps her temple with two fingers, then presses her hand against her chest. The gesture repeats, more emphatic this time.


    Mind and heart as one.


    I steady my breathing, trying to recenter myself. The cut stings, a reminder of hubris. The Skathrith''s song shifts, dropping to a deeper register that vibrates through my bones. Something about the tone feels... wrong. Hungry. Like the weapon is savoring the scent of fresh blood.


    I shake my head, pushing away the unsettling thought.


    Focus. Control.


    The power is mine to direct, not the other way around.


    The obsidian shard crashes into the wall behind me, sending smaller fragments scattering across the floor. I shift my weight, preparing for Binah''s next assault. Her fingers dance through empty air, and three more stones break free from the ceiling.


    They spiral toward me in a deadly arc. I step back, channeling the Skathrith''s power through my arms once more. The first two stones split cleanly¡ªbut the third curves unexpectedly, forcing me to dodge.


    I push off the ground, intending a quick sidestep. Instead, my body launches upward with impossible grace. The stone whistles past beneath me as I float through the air, suspended for a heartbeat longer than gravity should allow. My movements mirror the Skathrith''s ethereal dance, as if its power has seeped into my very muscles.


    The sensation is intoxicating¡ªa weightless moment where flesh and energy blur into something new. But the landing catches me off guard. My feet touch down at an awkward angle, and I stumble forward, barely catching my balance.


    My heart pounds against my ribs, equal parts shock and excitement coursing through my veins. This is more than just the ability to cut¡ªthe Blade''s influence extends to movement itself, offering glimpses of what it means to truly dance with death.


    I look to Binah, searching for confirmation.


    She stands motionless, head tilted slightly. A faint nod¡ªbarely more than a whisper of movement¡ªacknowledges what just happened. Her violet eyes gleam with something that might be satisfaction.


    The Skathrith''s song shifts, harmonizing with my quickened pulse. That impossible leap was just the beginning, a taste of what our bond might become.


    I shake my head, freeing myself from the nascent longing.


    The red liquid draws my attention, its surface twisting in ways that defy natural movement. Each ripple catches the Skathrith''s light, creating patterns that seem to writhe with purpose.


    The crack itself pulses, as if breathing.


    The Blade''s song changes pitch, filling the chamber with a resonance that makes my jaw clench. My teeth vibrate with each pulse, and something deep in my chest responds to the frequency. The sensation is not painful, exactly, but it sets every nerve on edge¡ªlike the moment before lightning strikes.


    I take a step toward the seeping liquid, then pause. The Skathrith''s hum sharpens further, becoming almost predatory. Through our bond, I sense its recognition... or is it anticipation? The distinction blurs as the weapon''s hunger bleeds into my own awareness.


    My gaze shifts to Binah.


    Her pale form moves through the shadows with liquid grace, closing the distance between us. The weight of her hand settles on my shoulder¡ªsolid, real, grounding. The touch carries meaning beyond words: confidence, preparation, readiness.


    I draw in a deep breath, letting it fill my lungs completely.


    The air tastes metallic, charged with potential.


    As I exhale, I force my muscles to relax, embracing whatever comes next.


    I kneel before the crack, studying the red liquid''s unnatural movement. Something about it calls to both me and the Blade¡ªa resonance that makes my skin prickle. Drawing in a steadying breath, I extend my hand and dip my fingers into the viscous pool.


    The liquid surges upward instantly, defying gravity to wrap around my flesh like living flame. Heat floods through my arm, not burning but transforming, as if the substance seeks to remake me from the inside out. The sensation shoots straight to my core, igniting something primal and hungry.


    I shatter¡ªI scream.

 Chapter 26 - First Blood

    Chapter 26


    First Blood


    I wake to darkness and stale air.


    My head throbs, each pulse echoing the Skathrith''s steady hum above. The chamber walls catch what little light exists, their surface shifting like wet flesh. Condensation beads and runs down the organic curves, creating patterns that seem to pulse with life.


    The air feels thick, pressing against my skin.


    Each breath requires effort, as if the very atmosphere resists being drawn into my lungs. The Blade''s song changes pitch¡ªa warning.


    Movement catches my eye.


    A figure emerges from the shadows, its form unlike anything I have seen before. Obsidian skin stretches over a frame both familiar and wrong, marked by ritual scars that form intricate patterns. Four arms extend from its torso, each gripping a weapon carved from what appears to be bone. The edges gleam wickedly in the dim light.


    Yellow eyes fix on me, glowing with predatory intelligence. The creature''s gaze holds neither mercy nor hesitation¡ªonly the cold calculation of a hunter sizing up its prey.


    I draw in a deep breath, ignoring the way the thick air seems to coat my throat. Wave of Stillness. My arms sweep outward in wide arcs, mimicking the flow of water. My breath slows, grounding me as I try to adapt rather than resist. The Skathrith''s hum grows stronger, more insistent. Through our bond, I feel its eagerness¡ªa reflection of the warrior''s hunger, but directed at something beyond mere violence.


    The bone weapons scrape against each other as the creature adjusts its stance. The sound sends chills down my spine, but I force myself to stay steady. The Blade''s song pulses through me, urging me to move, to act, to prove myself worthy of its power.


    My muscles tense as I prepare to face this new challenge. The warrior''s yellow eyes narrow, and I know the moment of observation has passed.


    The warrior launches forward, its four arms becoming a blur of motion. I barely twist away as bone-white blades slice through the air where my head was a heartbeat ago. I exhale, keeping my arms moving in the flowing rhythm of Wave of Stillness, redirecting the creature¡¯s strikes rather than meeting them head-on. Each motion carries me further into the Blade¡¯s rhythm, aligning my breathing with its hum.


    Another strike comes.


    I stumble backward, the alien''s strength sending shockwaves through my arms as I deflect a blow. The impact rattles my teeth. My muscles burn from channeling too much of the Blade''s energy too quickly.


    The warrior presses its advantage. Two weapons sweep low while another aims for my throat. I duck and weave, but each movement costs more effort than the last. Sweat stings my eyes. The air feels like molasses in my lungs.


    The Skathrith''s song shifts, becoming sharper, more focused. I shift my stance into Root of Stone, planting my feet firmly. My movements slow, deliberate, each step grounding me in the rhythm of the fight. My breathing steadies, the Blade¡¯s power settling into something less chaotic. The warrior¡¯s blows crash against my defense, but I hold steady, forcing myself to become the unshakable mountain my mother taught me to emulate.The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    The alien snarls, adjusting its stance. I see an opening and strike. The Skathrith''s energy flows through me like liquid lightning, and my counterblow catches the alien''s upper left arm. Dark blood wells from the shallow cut.


    But something is wrong. The blood does not fall.


    Instead, it streams through the air like smoke, drawn into the invisible presence of the Blade. The Skathrith''s hum deepens to a hungry growl that reverberates through my bones.


    I freeze, watching in horror as the last traces of blood vanish into nothing. The warrior''s yellow eyes narrow, and I realize I have left myself completely exposed.


    The warrior''s attacks blur together, each strike forcing me further into desperation. The Skathrith pulses against my consciousness, its song becoming a battle cry that drowns out my own thoughts. My muscles burn as I channel more of its power, each movement leaving trails of shadow in the air.


    CUT. SLICE!


    The Blade''s energy seems to whisper.


    KILL. EAT. MURDER!


    I resist at first, trying to maintain control, but the alien''s relentless assault leaves no room for hesitation. A bone blade slices my shoulder. Pain flares, and something inside me snaps.


    The Skathrith''s power floods through me like molten metal. I shift into Blade of the Wind, my strikes quick and precise. My arms slice through the air, each motion a blur of deadly clarity. My next strike carries crushing force, shattering one of the warrior''s weapons. The alien adjusts instantly, but I am already moving. The Blade guides my hands with deadly precision, each blow faster and more vicious than the last.


    The warrior''s yellow eyes widen as I press forward.


    No longer defending, I become the aggressor. The one that attacks. The one from which it flees.


    The Skathrith''s influence makes my movements fluid, natural, as if I''ve trained with it for years. My strikes flow together in a deadly dance, forcing the alien to give ground.


    An opening appears. I lunge forward, channeling the Blade''s energy into a devastating attack. The invisible edge cleaves deep into the warrior''s torso.


    Dark blood sprays outward¡ªbut never reaches the ground.


    The droplets hang suspended in the air, then stream toward the Skathrith like metal shavings drawn to a lodestone. The Blade''s hum transforms into a bone-shaking growl that reverberates through my chest. Power surges through our connection as it absorbs the alien''s essence, and I feel my control slipping further away.


    I exhale, centering myself in Horizon¡¯s Breath. My movements slow, my strikes more deliberate. The chaos fades as I flow into the form¡¯s seamless rhythm, each motion merging breath and action into harmony. The alien¡¯s remaining weapons flash as it charges forward, but I am ready.


    The Skathrith¡¯s power surges through me, turning my dodge into a fluid counter. My arms move with impossible speed and precision, deflecting two weapons while sliding past the others. The alien''s momentum carries it forward as I pivot, channeling the Blade''s energy into a single, devastating strike.


    The blow catches the warrior at the base of its skull.


    There is a moment of resistance, then nothing. The alien''s body crumples, weapons clattering against the chamber floor.


    My chest heaves as I try to catch my breath, but the air catches in my throat at what happens next.


    Dark blood seeps from the corpse, defying gravity as it streams upward in ribbons. The Skathrith''s presence intensifies, its invisible form drawing in the alien''s essence like a hungry mouth. Each droplet vanishes into nothing, consumed by the Blade''s insatiable appetite.


    White-hot pain lances through my skull. My knees buckle. Burning glyphs etch themselves across my inner forehead¡ªjagged edges glowing with unnatural precision:


    Victorious.


    Opponent: Xal''rith Abomination.


    Conquered: Blood Claimed.


    Energy Assimilated: +3 Units.


    Each word of the torq¡¯s message burns into my consciousness, searing my mind with its cold, mechanical clarity. The clinical terms mock the brutal reality of what just happened. Victorious. Conquered. Claimed. The words feel hollow, their precision stripping the act of all its weight.


    The glyphs fade, but their impression lingers like a brand. I lower my trembling hands, staring at the warrior¡¯s lifeless form. Its obsidian skin, once vibrant with ritual scars, now looks brittle and empty¡ªa shell drained of purpose. Yellow eyes, now dull and lifeless, stare at nothing.


    I want to turn away, to shut out the Blade¡¯s insistent hum, but I cannot. The Skathrith¡¯s satisfaction floods through our bond, mingling with the clarity and strength it has poured into my body. The sensation feels¡­ good. Too good.


    I clench my fists, willing the rush to fade.


    This is not who I am.

 Chapter 27 - Where Light Won’t Come

    Chapter 27


    Where Light Won¡¯t Come


    The Skathrith hangs above me, a distant point of light that neither warms nor illuminates. Its faint glow pulses softly, mirroring the rhythm of my breath, but its presence is cold¡ªindifferent to my pain, detached from the carnage it inspired. Its light does not touch the chamber¡¯s walls or the lifeless form at my feet. It is mine alone, my north star, a guide that does not lead, a compass that does not point.


    Movement stirs at the edge of the chamber.


    Binah emerges from the shadows, her pale form untouched by the chaos of the battle. Her violet eyes flicker with something unreadable¡ªpart curiosity, part fear. She steps closer, her movements deliberate but hesitant, as if she¡¯s approaching a wild animal.


    She stops a few paces away, tilting her head as her gaze shifts between the Skathrith¡¯s faint glow and the drained corpse. Her hand rises, mimicking the motion of blood draining. Her violet eyes narrow, silently asking a question I cannot answer.


    I shake my head, my throat tight. ¡°It wasn¡¯t me,¡± I whisper, though the words feel hollow even as I say them. Binah doesn¡¯t respond. She lowers her hand but keeps her distance, her posture tense and wary.


    The Skathrith¡¯s hum softens, its resonance settling into a steady rhythm that vibrates through my chest. Its satisfaction lingers in my mind, an echo of its hunger momentarily sated. Through our bond, I sense its presence more keenly than ever¡ªalien, ancient, and insistent.


    A faint whisper threads through my consciousness, indistinct but unmistakable: FEED. EVOLVE.


    The words send a shiver down my spine. I push them aside, forcing myself to focus on the here and now. My breathing slows as I step away from the corpse, every movement feeling heavier than before. The chamber itself seems quieter, as if the walls are holding their breath.


    Binah does not follow. Her silence weighs on me more than her distance.


    I glance at the Skathrith, its faint light shimmering like a second sun above me. Its hum feels like a heartbeat now, steady and unyielding. The Blade has tasted blood, and I know this is only the beginning.


    The drained corpse at my feet is a stark reminder of what the Skathrith demands¡ªand what it has already taken from me. My control. My rhythm. My humanity?


    I turn toward the chamber¡¯s exit, its jagged opening beckoning with quiet menace. My legs move reluctantly, each step an effort to leave the echoes of the battle behind.


    But as I cross the threshold, one thought lingers in my mind:


    What will I become if I keep feeding this thing?


    The Skathrith¡¯s hum deepens in response, a low growl of anticipation.


    The passage narrows, forcing me to duck beneath jagged edges and sharp curves. The air grows heavier, each breath carrying a faint metallic tang that clings to my throat. The Skathrith¡¯s hum vibrates softly, its distant light trailing me like a shadow.


    Then I hear it¡ªa faint clicking sound, distant but growing. It echoes through the passage, a rhythmic chittering that rises and falls like the pulse of some vast, unseen heart.


    The sound pulls something from deep within me¡ªa memory I¡¯d long since buried. A whisper of words, spoken in hushed tones around flickering fires:


    ¡°In the dark where shadows writhe,


    The Thrynix wait to take your life¡­¡±


    The rhyme comes unbidden, a child¡¯s song meant to frighten, yet it takes hold of my mind with iron fingers. My breath catches as the clicking grows louder. I take another step forward, and the walls around me tremble, their surface rippling like disturbed water.


    ¡°Claw and click, they hunt as one,


    A web of death where light won¡¯t come.¡±


    A shiver runs down my spine. We used to chant it as children, scaring one another into fits of terror. ¡°Be good, or the Thrynix will come,¡± parents would warn. We thought it was just a story, a way to keep us in line.


    But the clicking is real. Too real.


    I pause, straining to listen. The rhythmic chittering rises, joined by a low, resonant drone that sets my teeth on edge.


    ¡°Run, oh run, and hold your breath,


    For they will drag you into death¡­¡±


    The walls crack and split. From the shadows, they emerge.


    The Thrynix.You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    Their translucent chitin glows faintly, as though lit from within by flickering flames. Shadowy shapes writhe beneath their shells, a wriggling mass that defies reason. Elongated limbs tipped with serrated claws click against the floor in a sound that grates against my nerves. Thick droplets of fluid drip from their mandibles, sizzling as they strike stone.


    Their eyes¡ªvoid-black and unseeing¡ªfixate on me. For a moment, the swarm is silent, as if waiting.


    Then the clicking resumes, slow at first but building. I take a step back, and the rhyme¡¯s final words echo in my mind, louder than the Skathrith¡¯s hum:


    ¡°But if you hear the clicking slow,


    Pray your blood they¡¯ll never know.¡±


    The swarm moves as one.


    They rush forward, a wall of serrated limbs and clicking mandibles. Their movements are unnervingly synchronized, a tide of death surging toward me. My breath catches, but the Skathrith¡¯s hum steadies me, its pulse matching the rhythm of my pounding heart.


    I drop into Wave of Stillness, my arms sweeping wide to deflect the first Thrynix as it lunges. Its claws glance off the invisible barrier of the Blade¡¯s energy, but the impact sends a jolt up my arm. Another creature flanks me, its mandibles snapping inches from my side. I twist, redirecting its momentum with a fluid turn, but the swarm closes in.


    Their clicking grows louder, drowning out the Skathrith¡¯s hum. My movements falter as the cacophony breaks my rhythm.


    The Blade pulses sharply, cutting through the noise. Its hum deepens, resonating with a single word in my mind: STRIKE.


    I shift into Root of Stone, planting my feet firmly and grounding myself against the onslaught. The first Thrynix lunges again, and this time I counter with a precise, deliberate strike from Blade of the Wind. My hand arcs through the air, trailing silver light as it cleaves through the creature¡¯s neck.


    Dark blood sprays outward, but the Skathrith drinks it before it touches the ground. The creature¡¯s body collapses, its translucent shell dimming as the shadowy mass within dissipates. The Blade hums with satisfaction, its light flaring brighter.


    Another Thrynix charges, its claws raised high. I duck beneath its swing, pivoting into Flame of Renewal. My spiraling strike catches the creature mid-turn, slicing through its torso. Its blood evaporates in a crimson haze, feeding the Blade¡¯s insatiable hunger.


    The Skathrith¡¯s influence spreads through me like fire. My movements grow faster, sharper, more instinctive. The whispers return, threading through my thoughts like a song: MORE. FEED. EVOLVE.


    The Thrynix adapt, their movements becoming more calculated. They flank and strike in unison, forcing me into a defensive stance. Their clicking rises in pitch, a disorienting rhythm that disrupts my focus.


    I stumble, narrowly avoiding a claw aimed at my leg. The Skathrith hums sharply, pushing me to counter. My body moves before I can think, flowing into a low sweep that trips the nearest Thrynix. I rise into Horizon¡¯s Breath, the seamless transition aligning my breath with the Blade¡¯s rhythm.


    For a moment, I am the eye of the storm. My strikes flow together, cutting through the swarm with brutal efficiency. Each kill feeds the Skathrith, its light growing brighter with every drop of blood it consumes. The Blade¡¯s power floods through me, and I feel unstoppable.


    But the whispers grow louder, their tone more insistent: Kill. Feed. Evolve.


    The clicking changes, becoming deeper and more resonant. The swarm parts, and a larger Thrynix emerges from the shadows. Its armored body bristles with spikes, and its mandibles drip with a corrosive fluid that sizzles against the stone floor. A low drone emanates from its body, synchronizing the swarm¡¯s movements.


    The matriarch fixes its void-black eyes on me. The Skathrith hums in response, its light flaring briefly before dimming. I feel its hunger sharpen, its whispers more urgent: FEED!


    The swarm presses closer, herding me toward the matriarch. My breath quickens as I shift back into Root of Stone, bracing for the onslaught. The Blade¡¯s power surges through me, but the weight of its influence is suffocating.


    The matriarch lunges, its massive claws swinging in wide arcs. I deflect the first strike, but the force drives me back. The Skathrith hums louder, its energy flooding my limbs. I counter with a powerful strike, but the matriarch¡¯s armor deflects the blow, sending vibrations up my arm.


    Binah¡¯s invisible threads lash out from the shadows, pulling two smaller Thrynix away from me. Her movements are precise but hesitant, her violet eyes flicking between me and the Blade¡¯s light. Her fear is palpable, and it cuts deeper than the swarm¡¯s attacks.


    I center myself in Horizon¡¯s Breath, my breathing aligning with the Skathrith¡¯s hum. My movements slow, becoming deliberate and precise. The chaos fades as I focus on the matriarch, its droning rhythm a challenge to my resolve.


    The matriarch charges, its claws raised high. I dodge to the side, the Blade¡¯s energy guiding my steps. The Skathrith¡¯s light flares as I channel its power into a single, devastating strike. My hand arcs through the air, trailing silver light as it cleaves through the matriarch¡¯s chest.


    Its blood erupts in a crimson torrent, feeding the Blade in a violent display. The Skathrith¡¯s hum becomes a deafening growl, vibrating through my chest as it consumes the matriarch¡¯s essence.


    White-hot pain burns behind my eyes. I stagger, my knees threatening to buckle as the torq etches its message across the inside of my skull:


    Victorious.


    Opponents: Thrynix Matriarch and 14 Swarm Drones.


    Conquered: Blood Claimed.


    Energy Assimilated: +12 Units.


    The words sear themselves into my consciousness, their mechanical finality clashing with the raw chaos of what just happened. Beneath the pain, something else takes hold¡ªa euphoria that grips me, pulling me away from my fear, my hesitation, my humanity.


    Power floods through me, chasing away exhaustion and pain. The Skathrith¡¯s whispers swell into a chorus, sharp and guttural: MORE. FEED. EVOLVE.


    The swarm retreats, their clicking growing fainter as they disappear into the shadows. My breath slows, the rhythm of the Blade¡¯s hum steadying me. My fingers curl, and I feel the strength in them, the sharpness. My body hums with energy, every nerve alive with the power of the kills.


    Then I hear it¡ªthe faint chittering of the swarm ahead, their panic like a song calling to me. The Skathrith¡¯s hum shifts, resonating with the sound, urging me forward: HUNT. FINISH.


    I take a step, then another. My heart pounds, not with fear, but with exhilaration. The Blade¡¯s whispers become sharper, more demanding: KILL.


    Stop.


    I glance over my shoulder. Binah is standing still, her pale form rigid, her violet eyes wide. She raises a hand¡ªnot to me, but to the Skathrith, her fingers trembling slightly. Her expression is raw with something unfamiliar.


    Fear.


    The pause lingers between us, heavy and unspoken. Her other hand mimics a cutting motion, slow and deliberate. Her meaning is clear, her silent plea undeniable.


    I hold her gaze for a moment longer than I should.


    Then the chittering rises again, louder, more desperate. My eyes flick to the shadows ahead, where the swarm¡¯s movement stirs the air. The Blade¡¯s hum cuts through everything, demanding, relentless:


    RUN. HUNT. FEED.


    I obey.

 Chapter 28 - Reflections in Smoke

    Chapter 28


    Reflections in Smoke


    No weapon swings in my hands¡ªI am the weapon.


    The Skathrith¡¯s light flares brighter with each step, casting jagged shadows against the trembling walls. My strikes have become instinct, an extension of the Blade¡¯s will. Each gesture trails silver light as though the air itself is being cleaved apart.


    The Thrynix scatter, their chittering growing faint, their shadows flickering at the edges of my vision. The whispers rise into a chant, matching the pounding of my pulse.


    MORE. FEED. DESTROY.


    I cut through another Thrynix, the edges of my hands glowing as they slice through its translucent body. Blood sprays, but the Skathrith drinks it in midair, feeding before the husk even hits the ground. A sickening crunch echoes as the remnants collapse, but I am already moving, the Blade¡¯s hunger propelling me forward.


    The swarm flees deeper into the chamber. Weak. Broken. The Skathrith hums louder, insistent.


    RUN. HUNT. FEED.


    I obey.


    The walls shift as I chase the swarm, their smooth surfaces warping and folding inward, creating the sense of a living thing breathing around me. The air grows heavy, charged with an oppressive energy that makes my teeth ache. I slow, the Skathrith¡¯s hum faltering, its light dimming as if unsure.


    The swarm disappears into the shadows ahead, and silence falls¡ªunnervingly complete.


    Then, a voice.


    ¡°You are nothing without me.¡±


    It¡¯s my voice, echoing softly at first, barely more than a whisper. The words cut through the haze of the Skathrith¡¯s influence, pulling me to an abrupt halt.


    ¡°You¡¯re just a tool. A blade wielding a blade.¡±


    Laughter follows¡ªcruel, mocking. Shadows peel from the walls, coalescing into a figure that flickers between forms: my mother, my younger self, the warrior I fought before. Each face twists with malice, their eyes gleaming in the dim light.


    The Skathrith thrums weakly, its hum subdued under the weight of the chamber.


    ¡°You can¡¯t even tell where I end and you begin,¡± the figure sneers, stepping closer. The walls ripple around it, folding inward like the pages of a book.


    I raise my hands, silver light flickering faintly along their edges. My breath catches, my heartbeat loud in my ears.


    STRIKE. STRIKE. STRIKE.You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    I lash out, the Skathrith¡¯s energy slicing through the figure, but it dissolves into smoke, reforming behind me. Laughter echoes, amplified by the chamber¡¯s acoustics, surrounding me.


    ¡°You think you¡¯re in control?¡± the voice taunts, its tone layered with mine. ¡°You¡¯re not even real anymore. Just a hollow shell for the Blade to fill.¡±


    The chamber becomes a labyrinth of shifting shadows. The figure multiplies, surrounding me with flickering copies of myself. Each one moves independently, their hands glowing with a sickly light as they mirror my strikes. My movements falter as doubt seeps in.


    STRIKE. DESTROY. FEED.


    The Blade¡¯s whispers grow louder, colliding in my mind. But every time I attack, my hands cut through nothing but air. The illusions close in, their laughter deafening.


    One steps closer, its face flickering into Binah¡¯s. ¡°You¡¯re scaring her,¡± it says, its voice laced with quiet sorrow. ¡°You see it, don¡¯t you? How she looks at you now?¡±


    The Skathrith roars in protest, its hum flaring sharply.


    WEAK. STRIKE. FEED.


    I close my eyes, centering myself in Horizon¡¯s Breath. My movements slow, my breathing steadying as I align with the Blade¡¯s rhythm. The illusions waver, their forms flickering.


    ¡°You don¡¯t need them,¡± the Skathrith whispers, its voice cold and clear. ¡°You don¡¯t need anyone.¡±


    The smoke shifts again, solidifying into a new figure. My breath catches.


    Penelope.


    She stands before me, her platinum-blond hair cascading over her shoulders, her azure eyes steady and sharp. There is a calmness to her, an unnerving composure that feels out of place in this chaos.


    ¡°Do you remember our first meeting?¡± she asks, her voice soft but heavy with meaning.


    The question strikes harder than any blade. My chest tightens as I search for the memory, but my mind is blank. A pang of panic cuts through the haze.


    She tilts her head, watching me intently. ¡°You don¡¯t, do you? Strange. I remember it perfectly. You were¡­ different then.¡±


    Her words twist in my chest like a blade. My breathing quickens, anger rising unbidden. ¡°You¡¯re not real,¡± I say through gritted teeth.


    ¡°Does it matter?¡± she asks, stepping closer. Her presence feels too vivid, too tangible.


    The Skathrith¡¯s whispers swell, sharp and insistent: STRIKE. DESTROY.


    ¡°You can kill me,¡± Penelope says, her voice steady, unflinching. ¡°But it won¡¯t make you whole. It won¡¯t bring anything back.¡±


    Her words hit like a hammer, cracking something deep inside. My hands tremble, the energy flickering along their edges.


    I swing anyway.


    My palm cleaves through her form, and she dissolves into smoke, her violet eyes lingering as the rest of her fades. The chamber feels emptier now, colder. Killing her has taken something from me¡ªsomething I cannot name.


    The Skathrith hums in triumph.


    FEED. FEED. FEED.


    The illusions dissolve, leaving a single figure standing in the center of the chamber. It is me¡ªbut not. Twisted. Shadowed. Its body pulses with dark energy, its hands trailing a sickly green light that seems to sap the air around it.


    ¡°You¡¯ll never win,¡± it says, its voice a distorted echo of mine. ¡°You can¡¯t fight what you are.¡±


    The Skathrith¡¯s hum roars, demanding action.


    STRIKE. FINISH. TAKE.


    I charge, our strikes colliding in bursts of light and sound. Each clash feels like hitting a mirror, the shadow-me perfectly mirroring my movements. The Blade¡¯s whispers become a deafening chorus.


    FEED. EAT. BECOME.


    The final blow lands, my hands slicing through the shadow-me¡¯s chest. Its blood erupts in a crimson torrent, evaporating into the Skathrith.


    The chamber falls silent, its walls dimming as the illusion dissolves. White-hot pain burns behind my eyes as the torq etches its message into my consciousness:


    Victorious.


    Opponent: Reflected Entity.


    Conquered: Blood Claimed.


    Energy Assimilated: +10 Units.


    The Skathrith¡¯s hum becomes a triumphant roar, its whispers swelling into a chorus: MORE. FEED. EVOLVE.


    But I feel nothing.


    Binah stands at the edge of the chamber, her violet eyes wide and filled with fear. She raises a trembling hand, not to stop me, but as though warding me off.


    I step toward her, but she shakes her head, taking a step back.


    Her silence cuts deeper than any blade.

 Chapter 29 - Holes in Forever

    Chapter 29


    Holes in Forever


    The chambers stretch endlessly, each one more foreign than the last. Metal walls give way to strange, organic surfaces that pulse with an inner light. My footsteps echo differently in each space¡ªsometimes sharp and metallic, other times muted as if walking on flesh.


    The Skathrith''s presence lingers at the edge of my consciousness, a quiet hum that never fully fades. Its hunger seems dulled now, but I feel its attention drift whenever we pass through shadows, searching for threats, for opportunities to feed.


    I try to focus on Penelope, to piece together the fragments I have of her. Her voice comes easily¡ªprecise, measured, carrying authority beyond her years:


    "I''m glad you survived."


    I see flashes of her watching me during the Festival of Retrospection, her analytical gaze taking in every movement. But when I reach for our first meeting, there is nothing. A void where memory should be.


    The gap feels wrong, like a missing tooth I cannot stop probing with my tongue. I remember her brother Castor''s brash glare, remember him staring at me in the Mere¡¯s dining hall, remember her standing beside me in the Temple of Loss.


    But that first moment? Gone.


    I already knew her name in the Dularch-Temple. How?


    My steps slow as I turn to Binah. She walks beside me, her movements silent, her white hair seeming to catch light that is not there. Her violet eyes meet mine, and I know she sees the question forming.


    "Our first meeting," I say. "Penelope and I. You were there, weren''t you?"


    Binah''s gaze holds steady, but she offers no response. Her silence feels deliberate, heavy with meaning I cannot decipher. She turns away, continuing down the corridor as if I had not spoken.


    I shake my head.


    That was a stupid question. I only started seeing Binah recently. Yet even so, something tells me she is the one with the answers I seek.


    The Skathrith''s hum shifts slightly, a discordant note threading through its usual rhythm. I press my palm against the wall, feeling its alien texture as I try to ground myself in the present. But the blank space in my memory pulls at me, a wound that will not heal.


    A jagged hole splits the ceiling, and golden light pours through like liquid metal.


    The sight stops me in my tracks.


    After endless hours in shadow-filled chambers, this single beam feels impossibly bright, impossibly real.


    Dust motes dance in the sunlight, each one precious and perfect.


    I step into the light''s embrace, tilting my face upward. Warmth seeps into my skin, chasing away the perpetual chill of the labyrinth. For a moment, I forget the Skathrith''s constant hunger, forget the weight of Binah''s silent judgment, forget everything except this simple pleasure.If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    A scuff of leather on stone shatters my peace, granules slipping through tiny fingers.


    I lower my head, blinking against the afterimages burned into my vision. A figure stands at the edge of the shadows¡ªbroad-shouldered, platinum hair catching hints of the golden light. Castor. His face is a mask of conflicting emotions, jaw clenched tight enough that I can see the muscle jumping. His eyes bore into mine with an intensity that makes my skin crawl.


    Behind me, the chamber door slides shut with the finality of a tomb being sealed. The sound echoes off the walls, emphasizing how alone we are in this space.


    A low hum fills the air, resonating from Castor''s direction. Another door closing.


    My eyes are drawn to a spot above the other boy''s head, to something I cannot quite see at first, but feel it gowned in skirts of folded space. Then the air ripples, revealing a dark star of pulsing light.


    His Skathrith.


    It responds to my presence, its tone different from mine¡ªdeeper, more guttural. The sound sets my teeth on edge, makes my own Skathrith stir restlessly in response.


    Castor''s lip curls in joy. "Good. I was hoping it would be you."


    I blink. "You were? Why?"


    "Don''t." His voice cuts through the air. "Don''t play the fool, demon. You know why we are here. Only one can leave this place alive."


    The Skathrith''s hum grows louder, its resonance shifting from a steady tone to something discordant, almost mocking. I try to quiet it, but its energy feeds off my rising rage.


    "Mother was certain you would be the knife." Castor''s words hit like physical blows. "She said Titus Ragnos never lets a slight go unpunished."


    "I don''t understand¡ª" I start.


    Castor laughs, but it¡¯s hollow, devoid of humor. His Skathrith pulses brighter, a black star radiating nothingness etched with shadows. ¡°Of course you don¡¯t. The great-demon Janus Ragnos, always forgetting what he should know, always remembering nothing. But let me enlighten you.¡±


    He steps closer, into the sunlight, and for a brief moment, his features soften, the anger giving way to something sharper, something raw. ¡°This trial? It¡¯s not meant for children. Virtuants¡ªthird-years, trained for years to face horrors like this¡ªthis is their test. But for us? First-years?¡± His voice breaks, trembling with fury. ¡°They sent us in blind. Sent us to die. And for what? Your uncle¡¯s orders.¡±


    My chest tightens as the pieces fall into place. Titus''s speech in the Stratarchy. The deaths, the blood-soaked halls of the labyrinth¡ªthey were not accidents. They were calculated. Orchestrated.


    I stare at Castor, the weight of his words settling heavily in my chest. The implications slam into me like a collapsing wall. I struggle to breathe, to think¡ªmy own uncle setting us on this path of slaughter. He had warned me.


    Beside me, I sense Binah.


    Her silence feels deliberate, heavy with meaning I cannot decipher. As Castor speaks, I glance at her. Her gaze is fixed on me, wide and unblinking. Her lips part, but no words come. Just a single step back, her figure blending into the shadows as if retreating from what she knows is inevitable.


    Castor¡¯s voice hardens. ¡°They sent us into the labyrinth, knowing most of us wouldn¡¯t come out. Knowing we¡¯d die fighting alien horrors or each other¡ªor worse.¡± His gaze narrows. ¡°And now here we are, you and me, the culmination of their sick little game. The demon of House Azure against the golden boy of House Vermillion. They¡¯ll feast on this, you know. The Exarchs, the Eidolons¡ªit¡¯s exactly what they wanted.¡±


    Shadows writhe at the periphery of my vision, and the metal-organic walls seem to press closer, squeezing the last drops of courage from my veins.


    I can smell the tang of fear, taste the bitterness of betrayal.


    ¡°We don¡¯t have to,¡± I say, voice cracking, the words barely audible over the rising hum of our Skathriths. I force them out anyway. ¡°We can choose a different path, do something different.¡±


    Castor¡¯s eyes flash, as if my plea barely registers. ¡°I¡¯m glad it¡¯s you, Janus,¡± he says, as if I never spoke. ¡°If it was Penelope, I¡¯d slit my own throat to let her pass. But I always hated you, hated the way you mooned after my sister.¡±


    Moisture stings my eyes.


    ¡°It was all I could do not to rip out your eyes,¡± he continues, raising his arms.


    My Skathrith senses the threat and roars within me, its surge of energy electrifying my nerves. I clench my hands, feeling the alien power thrumming through my veins, ready to lash out.


    ¡°We don¡¯t have to.¡± My voice is a whisper against the rising crescendo of tension. The words crack mid-sentence, grief and terror intermingled.


    But Castor does not respond. His body is already moving.

 Chapter 30 - Sunlit Abyss

    Chapter 30


    Sunlit Abyss


    Castor''s form blurs as he launches forward, his movements sharp and precise. The Ardent Fang style transforms him into a predator¡ªall angles and brutal intent. His Skathrith pulses with each strike, casting writhing shadows that dance across the chamber walls.


    I pivot, letting Blade of the Wind guide my movements.


    The familiar forms flow through me as naturally as breathing. A hammer strike comes at my head¡ªI slip past it, feeling the air crack where I stood. His Skathrith''s energy leaves afterimages in my vision, but I trust my body to move without sight.


    His next attack comes low, a vicious sweep meant to shatter my knee. I lift my leg in Silent Gale, letting his momentum carry him past. My own Skathrith hums in approval, a white light pulsing above me. I redirect rather than block, conserving energy while he expends his.


    "Fight back, demon!" Castor snarls, transitioning into a cross-counter that nearly catches my shoulder.


    I dance away, maintaining distance. His style is all force and dominance, trying to overwhelm through sheer power. The contrast between us could not be starker¡ªhis movements are predatory slashes while mine flow like water around stone.


    The sunlight streaming from above catches his Skathrith''s dark pulse, creating a strobe effect that makes the chamber seem to stutter and jump. My eyes water from trying to track both his physical form and the disorienting shadows his construct casts.


    A feint turns into a brutal straight punch. I read the tell in his shoulder, sliding into another Silent Gale evasion. His fist crashes into the wall behind me, leaving spider-web cracks in the metal.


    Our Skathriths sing to each other¡ªhis a war cry, mine a whispered warning. The chamber fills with their resonance as we circle, two philosophies of combat made flesh. His path seeks to dominate through force. Mine seeks to turn that force back upon itself.


    He comes at me again, Ardent Fang making his movements sharp as broken glass. I flow around him, but I can feel the killing intent behind each strike. This is not training. This is not sport.


    This is survival.


    The shadows around Castor begin to twist and writhe, his Skathrith''s energy bleeding into the darkness. His semblance coming into play. His form becomes fluid, uncertain¡ªone moment solid, the next dispersing like smoke. My eyes strain to track his true position as multiple shadow versions of him ripple outward.


    I breathe deep, settling into Wave of Stillness. The form comes naturally, my body remembering countless hours of practice. Like moonlight on water, I let my awareness expand beyond simple sight.


    His first strike comes from the left¡ªno, that''s a feint. The real attack slides in from behind, his Skathrith humming with lethal intent. I shift, letting Moonlit Reflection guide my response. His energy flows into me, through me, dispersing harmlessly as I redirect it.


    "Impossible," Castor growls, his voice seeming to come from everywhere at once.


    The shaft of sunlight becomes my anchor. Each shadow distortion creates a subtle pattern, a ripple in the light that betrays Castor''s true movements. I track him through these disturbances, reading the flow of energy rather than trying to follow his physical form.


    He launches another assault, his Shadow-Wrap Feints creating a dizzying array of false attacks. But the sunlight does not lie¡ªit shows me where shadow and substance meet, revealing the truth beneath the illusion.


    My Skathrith resonates with each successful absorption, turning Castor''s chaos into order. Where he seeks to overwhelm with unpredictability, I find patterns. Where he pushes with force, I yield and redirect. His shadows dance and writhe, but they cannot touch the stillness at my core.


    The chamber becomes a study in contrast¡ªhis dark, aggressive energy against my flowing adaptability. Each clash sends ripples through the shaft of sunlight, creating momentary prisms that scatter across the walls. His shadows try to swallow the light, but they only succeed in making it more visible, more revealing.


    The chamber shudders.


    A deep vibration travels up through my feet as water begins streaming from hidden vents in the walls. The metallic floor becomes slick, the gathering puddles reflecting our shadowed forms.


    Castor''s next attack forces me backward through ankle-deep water, the splash echoing off the walls. His Ardent Fang style becomes even more dangerous¡ªeach missed strike sending spray into my eyes, obscuring my vision.


    The water rises to our knees.


    Something brushes past my leg¡ªa sinuous, glowing shape cutting through the murk. More shapes emerge, their bioluminescent bodies casting an eerie blue glow across the chamber. Eel-like creatures, drawn to our Skathriths'' resonance.This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    One latches onto my calf, its teeth piercing through my clothes. Pain shoots up my leg as it thrashes, trying to tear flesh. I slam into Root of Stone, channeling Iron Roots through my stance to maintain balance. The form lets me redirect the creature''s momentum, ripping it free and throwing it against the wall.


    Castor roars as two eels strike his arm.


    His Skathrith flares with black energy as he tears them apart, their luminescent blood mixing with the rising water. He does not slow his assault¡ªif anything, the creatures make him more aggressive. His strikes come faster, wilder, splashing through the water with deadly intent.


    Another eel whips around my torso. I grab it behind its head before it can bite, but its powerful body constricts, making it hard to breathe.


    Castor sees the opening and attacks.


    I barely deflect his strike while maintaining Iron Roots, fighting both opponents at once.


    The water continues to rise, now mid-thigh. More eels circle us, their bodies creating trails of light beneath the surface. They attack in pairs and trios, forcing us to divide our attention between them and each other. The chamber fills with splashing water, thrashing bodies.


    Our Skathriths draw nearer to each other, two battling orbs of light.


    One darker than night.


    The other brighter than bright.


    The water creeps up to my waist, turning each movement into a battle against resistance. My stance shifts constantly as the current pulls and pushes, the eels'' luminescent bodies casting wavering shadows through the murk.


    Castor''s attacks become harder to read¡ªhis shadow duplicates ripple and distort beneath the surface, multiplying with each reflection.


    A strike comes at my ribs. I block, but the water slows my response. His Skathrith''s energy pulses through the liquid, sending concussive waves that make my teeth rattle. Another eel latches onto my arm. I tear it free, but the distraction costs me as Castor''s next attack catches my shoulder.


    The chamber spins.


    Pain blooms where he struck me. Blood blossoms.


    Through the haze, I see his shadows converging for a killing blow. Time seems to slow as I recall Mother''s teachings of Flame of Renewal. The form ignites in my muscles, my body remembering countless repetitions in the training yard.


    I gather my strength and launch into Phoenix''s Ascension, exploding upward through the water. The move carries me above the surface in a clean arc, water streaming off my body. For a breath, I hang suspended in the shaft of sunlight. Castor''s eyes widen as I descend, my strike precise and unavoidable.


    My attack connects. My Skathrith descends on his own, a hunger from outside tearing through sheets of folded space. My Skathrith catches the weapon''s dark surface in its maw, transforming it into a blinding star. Light explodes across my vision. Through the glare, I see Castor stumbling backward toward the central hole, his arms windmilling as he loses balance.


    He falls with a massive splash, disappearing beneath the churning surface.


    The Skathrith pulses against my consciousness, its hunger a living thing. Castor''s black star dims, is subsumed by a blinding blight.


    The air rings with alien shrieks.


    Blood clouds the water where Castor thrashes, struggling against the eels that wind around his limbs. His eyes lock with mine¡ªdefiant yet tinged with something new. Fear.


    Feed. Consume. Grow stronger.


    The whispers fill my mind, drowning out everything else. My Skathrith hums louder, resonating with Castor''s fallen weapon''s final moans. The sound vibrates through my bones, through the water, making the eels scatter in panic.


    I hang in the air, untouched by gravity.


    Water spills from my boots and hair.


    Castor tries to push himself up, but the current pulls him back down. Water streams from his hair, his clothes. Blood trickles from where the eels'' teeth pierced his skin. The Skathrith''s hunger spikes at the sight, sending waves of urgent need through our bond.


    Take. Take! Everything.


    Through squinted eyes, I watch Castor''s Skathrith dissolve, breaking apart into motes of light that stream into my own blade.


    The power rush is immediate. Intoxicating.


    My Skathrith drinks in its fallen brother''s essence, growing stronger with each passing moment. Castor lies in the bloody water, weaponless. Defenseless. The hunger builds, urging me to finish what we started.


    More. Eat. More.


    The Skathrith''s whispers thunder through my skull, a crescendo of hunger and violence. My hands shake with the need to strike, to consume, to grow stronger. Castor lies before me, vulnerable in the bloody water.


    His face is so much like his sister''s own.


    And, for a moment, it is her I see.


    She stares up at me.


    Her platinum hair spreads across the frost-covered ground. Her eyes are filled with confusion and something else I can now read¡ªfear.


    There is a small scar above her left eyebrow that I have seen once before.


    I close my eyes, letting Horizon''s Breath flow through me. The form brings stillness, like the moment before dawn breaks. Silent Sky settles into my bones, quieting the storm of need that rages through our bond. The Skathrith fights against it, but I hold firm.


    "No," I breathe.


    The blade wails above me. Light explodes outward in a radiant wave, turning the murky depths crystal clear. The eels scatter, their luminescent bodies streaking away like falling stars. The chamber fills with a pure, white radiance that pushes back the shadows and silences the whispers of hunger.


    Water gurgles as hidden drains activate.


    I descend into the knee-high water as conquest made flesh.


    The level drops rapidly, leaving Castor and me standing in spreading puddles. His chest heaves with each breath, blood seeping from dozens of small wounds where the eels struck. He stares at me, pain and confusion warring with something deeper in his eyes.


    "Finish it, demon!" His voice cracks.


    "No," I whisper in a voice that seems to come from the chamber itself.


    "You must," he wails. "You''ve taken everything. My Skathrith. My sister."


    Movement catches my attention.


    Binah emerges from the darkness.


    Her gaze wavers, just for a moment, as though she sees something in me she cannot reconcile. When she steps forward, it is tentative, her hands trembling as if reaching for someone already slipping away.


    "Please," the little boy sobs. "It hurts. I''m broken. Finish it."


    I raise my hand, blink back hot tears.


    The question I asked uncle Titus rises unbidden:


    ¡°What if¡­ what if I am not ready?¡±


    I remember his eyes narrowing. I remember his lips thinning.


    ¡°Then you will break," he said. "And Malkiel does not weep for the broken.¡±


    Binah takes a step toward me, then stops, as if held back by invisible chains. The chamber falls silent except for the soft patter of draining water and Castor''s ragged breathing.


    A silver light sheafs my hand.


    "Tell her," Castor says, smiling through a face marred by blood and sadness. "Tell her I died bravely. Tell her ¡­ tell her I approve."


    I take a halting step forward.


    Malkiel does not weep for the broken, but I do.

 Interlude 4 - The Cold Beneath Our Feet

    Interlude 4


    The Cold Beneath Our Feet


    Penelope''s shoulders heave as her breathing steadies. The chamber''s silence presses against her eardrums, broken only by the soft patter of blood dripping from Aria Velstrin''s body onto the stone floor. The crimson pool spreads outward in thin rivulets, seeking the grooves and imperfections in the ancient stone.


    The torq clasped around her neck pulses with an icy burn. Words etch themselves into her consciousness:


    Victorious.


    Opponent: Aria Velstrin.


    Conquered: Reflection Claimed.


    Echoes Assimilated: +7 Fragments.


    Above her, Prisma, her Skathrith hovers¡ªa kaleidoscopic point of ever-shifting light. Within its crystalline depths, fragments of the battle replay in endless loops. Aria''s graceful defensive stance. The flash of sliver-light sheathed arms. The moment Penelope''s hand found its mark. The widening of Aria''s eyes as realization struck.


    The final, rattling exhale.


    Her gaze drifts downward to the expanding pool of blood at her feet.


    The uneven surface creates small mirrors, and Penelope sees herself fractured across them. In one reflection, her chin lifts with pride, a victor worthy of House Vermilion. In another, horror twists her features as the weight of taking a life settles into her bones. A third shows nothing at all¡ªa mask of perfect emptiness.


    The logical part of her mind¡ªthe part trained since childhood to be a weapon of House Vermilion¡ªcatalogs this as a necessary step. A milestone. Proof of her commitment to the path ahead. But somewhere deeper, in a place she usually keeps carefully walled away, something cracks. Her hands begin to tremble, and she clenches them into fists to still the motion.


    A single thought emerges through the chaos of her mind: she has become what they wanted. What they needed.


    The perfect instrument. The flawless weapon.


    The obedient daughter.


    Penelope stares at Aria''s body, and the present moment fractures. The metallic scent of blood fades, replaced by the crisp autumn air of a different day, months ago.


    Sunlight streams through tall windows in the tactics classroom, casting long shadows across ancient texts and battle maps. A girl with amber eyes and hair like burnished copper approaches Penelope''s desk, hand extended.


    "You''re Penelope Azure, right? Castor''s sister?" Aria''s smile radiates warmth, genuine and open. Her aura pulses with vitality, fierce and bright as a living flame.


    Penelope''s response comes measured, careful. "Urisius. House Vermilion." The correction is gentle but firm. She accepts the handshake with practiced grace, already calculating the probability they will meet in combat.


    The memory shifts.


    They circle each other on training mats, wooden practice blades clashing in perfect rhythm. Aria matches her step for step, their movements a deadly dance. During strategy lectures, they exchange knowing glances when other students miss obvious tactical flaws. In quiet corners of the library, they debate historical battles in whispered tones.


    "The Seventh Legion''s flanking maneuver was brilliant," Aria murmurs, eyes bright with passion. Her fingers trace the battle lines on aged parchment.


    "But ultimately flawed," Penelope replies, their shoulders touching as they lean over the same text. "They left their center exposed."


    The memories splinter like shattered glass, each fragment catching the light before falling away. Reality crashes back¡ªthe cold chamber, the spreading pool of blood beneath Aria''s still form, the absolute silence pressing in from all sides.


    The memory of the duel floods back with crystalline clarity.


    Aria''s hands had blazed with controlled fury, each gesture releasing arcs of flame that turned the air itself into a weapon. The chamber had filled with waves of scorching heat, but Penelope remained unmoved, her breathing steady and measured.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    "You can''t dodge forever, Urisius!" Aria''s voice had carried both challenge and respect as she launched another barrage of fiery projectiles.


    Penelope''s response came not in words but in action. Her semblance activated, and suddenly the chamber filled with perfect reflections of herself¡ªeach one moving with identical grace, each one a potential threat. The mirrors of light danced through Aria''s flames, untouched, unburned.


    Aria''s flames intensified, desperate to find the real target among the duplicates. Her skathrith pulsed with energy, adding to the inferno. But with each attack, she left smaller openings, tiny gaps in her defense that Penelope''s trained eye caught and cataloged.


    The decisive moment came when Aria committed too heavily to an attack, her flames consuming three of Penelope''s duplicates at once. In that split second of overextension, Penelope struck. Prisma flared with brilliant light, momentarily blinding Aria. Penelope''s hand entered flesh with surgical precision.


    Shock registered on Aria''s face first, then pain. Her skathrith''s glow faded as she fell, her flames extinguishing in an instant. For a fraction of a second, Penelope''s carefully maintained composure cracked¡ªa tiny fissure in her perfect facade as she watched her friend''s eyes go dim.


    But training took over.


    Her spine straightened, her expression smoothed, and she stepped forward to complete her task. Now Prisma holds that final moment in its crystalline depths¡ªAria''s face forever frozen in that last expression of disbelief and agony, a permanent record of Penelope''s victory and her loss.


    Penelope''s gaze drifts between the scattered reflections in the blood, each surface offering a different version of herself. The polished walls and Prisma''s crystalline facets multiply the effect, creating a hall of mirrors that fragments her identity into distinct pieces.


    In one reflection, she sees herself with head held high, lips curled in a familiar smirk¡ªCastor''s smirk. The expression sits unnaturally on her features, yet carries the same unwavering confidence her twin brother wears like armor. This version of her shows no remorse, only satisfaction in proving her strength.


    Another reflection catches her eye, and her chest tightens.


    This Penelope''s shoulders shake with silent sobs, her hand pressed against her mouth to stifle any sound. Tears track down her cheeks, and her fingers tremble as they reach toward Aria''s fallen form. The raw emotion in this reflection makes her stomach turn.


    The third reflection stares back with perfect composure¡ªthe ideal scion of House Azure. Cold. Calculating. This version of her shows no trace of internal conflict, as if the death before her is merely another step on a predetermined path.


    Castor''s voice echoes in her mind: "Mercy is weakness, sister. The strong survive." She imagines his reaction to her hesitation, his disappointment in her momentary lapse of resolve. The weight of his expectations presses down on her shoulders like a physical burden.


    Yet beneath that pressure, questions surface. Her mother taught her to value precision over passion, strategy over brute force. Her teachings emphasize the beauty of restraint, the power of calculated action. But here she stands, surrounded by the messy reality of death, her victory achieved through violence rather than wisdom.


    Her thoughts turn to Janus.


    The memory of his violet-gray eyes cuts through her defenses, and she wonders how he would look at her now.


    Would he see the calculated killer, the weeping friend, or the proud warrior? The thought of him facing his own trial, his own moment of transformation, makes her chest constrict.


    The chamber shudders with a deep, resonant groan.


    Penelope''s feet shift to maintain balance as water begins gushing from concealed openings in the walls. The clear liquid meets the crimson pool beneath Aria''s body, creating swirling patterns that spread across the stone floor.


    The rising water catches the chamber''s dim light, multiplying Penelope''s reflection across its rippling surface. Each wavelet shows a different version of her face, and her chest tightens as she realizes these reflections move independently of her own movements.


    A reflection to her left turns its head, lips curling into a satisfied smile.


    Another reflection pleads silently, hands pressed against an invisible barrier.


    The water continues its relentless rise, now ankle-deep.


    Among the shifting faces in the water, Aria''s features materialize with stark clarity. Her eyes snap open, fixing Penelope with an accusatory stare.


    The weight of that gaze presses down on Penelope''s shoulders, heavier than her saturated clothes, heavier than the torq around her neck. Her throat constricts as guilt threatens to overwhelm her.


    The water surges past Penelope''s hips, its icy grip shocking her from her fractured reflections.


    Above, moonlight spills through a circular opening in the ceiling.


    Her gaze traces the chamber''s walls, seeking a path upward.


    Her semblance activates without conscious thought, and suddenly the chamber fills with dozens of Penelopes. Each reflection tests a different route¡ªsome leap for distant handholds, others methodically pick their way up the rough stone.


    Three reflections attempt a direct ascent up the eastern wall. They fall as loose stones crumble beneath their fingers. Two more try the western face, making it halfway before a smooth section proves impossible to traverse. But one reflection moves with fluid grace along the northern wall, finding purchase where shadow and moonlight meet.


    Prisma pulses above her head, then suddenly she is the one scaling the wall, the one shoving hands wreathed in silver light into stone. She pulls herself higher, water streaming from her clothes.


    Despite her determination to focus upward, Penelope''s gaze is drawn down. Aria''s face stares up through the bloodied water, unnaturally still among the churning surface. Her amber eyes remain fixed on Penelope, accusing and eternal.


    Penelope wrenches her attention back to the climb.


    Another handhold glows under Prisma''s guidance. She reaches for it, muscles straining as she continues her ascent toward the moonlight above.


    Penelope''s arms strain as she pulls herself through the circular opening, emerging onto a smooth dirt platform. Her sodden clothes cling to her skin as she draws in deep, ragged breaths of cool air.


    Moonlight bathes the open space in silver, casting long shadows across the dirt floor.


    Penelope rises to her feet, hollowed by the knowledge that she has climbed from the abyss, but the cold beneath her feet will follow her always.

 Interlude 5 - Raven Five

    Interlude 5


    Raven Five


    The capsule hums with a low, resonant vibration, its walls shimmering faintly with alien runes. Stagger sits rigid, his back pressed against the slick, metallic surface of his seat. The others are quiet, their breaths steady but tense, as the descent accelerates. A soft hiss fills the air, and Stagger feels the shift¡ªhis stomach lurches as the capsule tilts into a steeper dive.


    ¡°Brace,¡± Flint says, his voice steady. ¡°We hit in twenty.¡±


    The temperature inside the capsule drops sharply, and a thick, translucent gel begins to seep from the walls and floor. It is cool against Stagger¡¯s armor, flowing upward until it encases his legs, his torso, and finally his head. He closes his eyes as the gel fills the small space around him, its density pressing against his skin like a second layer. Breathing feels strange but not impossible, as the substance oxygenates automatically. He knows the gel is engineered to absorb the shock of impact, but it does not stop the tension in his chest.


    The capsule shakes violently as it hits the upper layers of the atmosphere, streaking through the fractured sky like a comet. Outside, the metallic forest stretches upward, its impossible geometry twisting into fractal patterns. Light refracts off the trees, casting jagged rainbows into the void below.


    The capsule jolts again, harder this time, and the gel tightens around him. Stagger forces himself to stay calm, his fingers gripping the harness at his sides. The others are visible through the thick haze of the gel: Flint at the front, stoic and unmoving; Wren shifting nervously, his head jerking toward every sound; Edge smirking as though this is just another game; Ash silent, his massive frame still as stone.


    ¡°Impact in five,¡± Flint says. His voice sounds muffled, distorted by the gel.


    Stagger closes his eyes, counting down in his head.


    Four. The capsule roars, its walls groaning under the strain.


    Three. The gel presses harder, locking his body in place.


    Two. The ground rushes up to meet them, the metallic terrain gleaming with an unnatural light.


    One.


    The capsule slams into the forest floor with a deafening crash, its reinforced hull crumpling slightly on impact. The gel absorbs the worst of the force, holding them in place as the energy disperses outward. For a moment, there is silence, the air thick with the hum of the forest.


    Then the gel begins to retreat, draining back into the capsule¡¯s walls. Stagger gasps as his lungs fill with air, the sudden rush leaving him momentarily lightheaded. Around him, the others unbuckle their harnesses, moving with practiced efficiency.


    ¡°Form up,¡± Flint orders, already stepping toward the exit. The hatch hisses open, revealing the alien landscape beyond.


    The metallic forest looms around them, its twisting branches reaching skyward like skeletal fingers. Stagger steps out of the capsule, his boots crunching against the strange, gleaming ground. The air hums with an almost musical resonance, the vibrations thrumming through his chest.


    ¡°Formation Gamma,¡± Flint says, scanning the horizon. His spear glints faintly in the fractured light. ¡°Stay sharp.¡±


    Wren takes his position on the left, his spear at the ready. Edge moves to the right, his movements loose and confident. Ash lumbers behind Stagger, a steady and silent presence. Stagger falls into place, his eyes darting across the shifting landscape. The forest feels alive, the branches moving subtly, as if observing their every step.You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    Stagger¡¯s gaze catches on faint marks in the metallic soil¡ªa dragging pattern, uneven but deliberate. He crouches, running a gloved hand over the grooves. They feel recent, the edges sharp and untouched by the forest¡¯s shifting geometry.


    ¡°Stagger,¡± Flint snaps, his voice sharp. ¡°Eyes up.¡±


    Stagger rises, letting the marks fade from his focus. His instincts whisper that something is wrong, but he keeps his thoughts to himself, falling back into formation as they move deeper into the forest.


    The gel, the crash, the shifting forest¡ªit all feels like a prelude. Stagger¡¯s chest tightens with the weight of unspoken tension.


    Something is coming.


    Something close.


    A patch of ground, seemingly solid, shifts beneath Wren¡¯s boots. He stumbles with a yelp, catching himself on a low-hanging branch. The others freeze, weapons raised, as the ground ripples like water. A tendril of metal lashes out from the earth, coiling toward Wren¡¯s leg. Flint moves instantly, severing the tendril with a single strike of his spear. The ground stills, the forest falling silent once more.


    ¡°Everyone all right?¡± Flint asks, scanning the group.


    ¡°Fine,¡± Wren mutters, though his face is pale.


    Edge smirks and cuts in with a dry chuckle. ¡°Somebody remind me¡ªis this a mission or a babysitting gig?¡±


    Stagger does not respond.


    He crouches again, running his hand over the severed tendril. It feels warm to the touch, pulsating faintly before it dissolves into the ground. He straightens, watching the way the forest seems to ripple in response.


    ¡°Let¡¯s keep moving,¡± Flint orders, and they press on.


    Stagger lingers at the rear, his gaze darting between the shifting trees and the faint marks in the ground. Something about this place feels wrong¡ªnot just dangerous, but deliberate, as though the forest itself is alive and watching. The hum grows louder, a subtle vibration beneath his feet.


    They reach a fork in the path. One direction slopes upward, the other delves deeper into the forest. Flint pauses, considering their options.


    ¡°Suggestions?¡± he asks.


    ¡°The high ground,¡± Wren says quickly. ¡°Better visibility.¡±


    ¡°Deeper,¡± Edge counters. ¡°That¡¯s where the action will be.¡±


    Ash remains silent, his calm gaze fixed on Flint. Stagger hesitates, then steps forward.


    ¡°The deeper path,¡± he says softly. ¡°It¡¯s less disturbed. If there¡¯s something dangerous, it has not been through there yet.¡±


    Flint glances at him, eyebrows raised. Stagger keeps his face neutral, letting his words hang in the air. After a moment, Flint nods.


    ¡°All right. Deeper it is. Stay sharp.¡±


    As they move, the forest seems to shift around them. The metallic trees lean closer, their branches twisting into impossible shapes. The light dims, shadows stretching long and unnatural. Stagger keeps his spear ready, but his attention is divided. He notices everything: the faint vibrations in the ground, the subtle shifts in the air, the way the trees seem to breathe.


    Then he sees it¡ªa shard of something embedded in the ground, glinting faintly in the dim light. He crouches, running his fingers over the jagged edge. It is smooth and cold, humming faintly with energy. Recognition flashes through him: Skathrith. His stomach tightens. He slips the shard into his pouch before anyone notices and rises, his gaze darting to the trees.


    The hum intensifies, vibrating through the forest like a warning. Stagger slows, glancing over his shoulder. The others press forward, unaware of the growing tension. His pulse quickens as the shadows shift, shapes flickering at the edge of his vision.


    ¡°Something¡¯s wrong,¡± he says, his voice low.


    Flint glances back at him, frowning. ¡°Stay focused, Stagger.¡±


    The words are barely out of his mouth when the forest explodes into motion. Metallic branches lash out, the ground splitting open as the Thrynix emerge from the shadows¡ªcreatures with translucent chitin faintly aglow and limbs tipped in serrated claws. Their clicking mandibles reflect shards of pale light, while shadowy shapes writhe beneath their shells. A chorus of chittering echoes through the clearing, an eerie rhythm that grates against Stagger¡¯s nerves.


    ¡°Ambush!¡± Flint shouts. ¡°Form up!¡±


    The team scrambles, their weapons flashing as the Thrynix close in. Stagger presses himself against a twisted trunk, heart pounding. The shard in his pouch hums faintly, its energy pulsing against his skin. He grips his spear tightly, forcing himself to breathe.


    These Thrynix are coordinated, their movements precise. Stagger watches them through the distorted reflections in the glassy sky above, tracking their positions. Five of them, armed with lethal claws and dripping mandibles, their void-black eyes set on the group with singular focus. They are not random creatures¡ªthey are Thrynix, lethal and deliberate in their assault.


    He tightens his grip on his spear. The hum in the air grows deafening, the shard in his pouch vibrating violently. He knows he could unleash it, let its power surge through him and obliterate the threat. The thought tempts him, but he remembers his secret mission.


    This is suppose to be his first mission.


    He is suppose to be the weakest member of Raven Five.


    The Thrynix surge closer, their clicking intensifying as they fan out around the group. Stagger steadies his breath, fingers curling around his weapon. He will not use the shard. Not yet. Not like this.


    As the first Thrynix steps into the clearing, Stagger moves, quick and precise, his spear slicing through the chaos.


    The battle begins.

 Interlude 6 - Where Tomorrow Bleeds Into Forever

    Interlude 6


    Where Tomorrow Bleeds Into Forever


    Helena sits in the grand observation chamber of House Vermilion, surrounded by walls of crimson glass. Each pane refracts the light of a solar system conquered by the Red Dularch during his six-year campaign since the Second Shattering. Starbursts, auroras, and strange constellations gleam across the surfaces, shifting subtly with the rotation of the world.


    The glass does more than commemorate triumphs; it memorializes sacrifice. Beneath each pane¡¯s vibrant light lies a faint shadow¡ªetched figures, bent in prayer or locked in combat, reminders of the cost of Vermilion¡¯s conquests.


    Helena¡¯s Skathrith floats above her, a pinpoint of shifting light against the display. As her thoughts churn, so does its form. It becomes a goblet like the one she holds, then stretches into a jagged knife, and finally warps into a hollow crown. The shapes unsettle her, though her composure remains intact.


    The wine in her hand, as always, is for effect. It catches the light of a red supergiant reflected in the glass, glowing faintly in the dim chamber. She lifts the goblet to her lips, letting the liquid touch her mouth without drinking. The Zarath within her body ensures that indulgence¡ªof wine, or any other escape¡ªis a distant memory.


    A faint vibration brushes her neck. The torq. Helena¡¯s lips tighten as she places the goblet down with deliberate care, her fingers never trembling. She turns her awareness inward, flipping her consciousness in an act that feels both natural and disorienting. The room dissolves as her vision shifts backward, and her head becomes a black, featureless cube.


    The plane around her is vast and chaotic, a lattice of folding geometries, ever-shifting but always tethered to her will. Stars pulse and contort, threading themselves into faint constellations. Helena feels his presence before she hears his voice¡ªa heaviness in the expanse, dragging the shapes around him into sharper definition.


    ¡°Andros,¡± she says before his form solidifies.


    He steps forward, his appearance fractured at first but resolving with a slow, deliberate rhythm. His armor, crimson and black, is dulled from long campaigns. The sigils etched into its plates flicker faintly, barely maintained by his intent. His silver-streaked hair clings damply to his temples, but it¡¯s his hands that draw Helena¡¯s attention.


    Andros rubs his left palm with his right thumb, over and over, his eyes darting to it as if he¡¯s trying to catch something in the act of vanishing. He doesn¡¯t seem to notice he¡¯s doing it.


    ¡°Andros,¡± Helena repeats, sharper this time. His head jerks upward, as though he¡¯s only just realized she¡¯s there. ¡°You¡¯re distracted.¡±


    ¡°Helena¡ªbeloved,¡± he says, his voice strained. ¡°It¡¯s been¡­ a long night.¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± she says. ¡°You¡¯ve been having one of those as well?¡±Stolen novel; please report.


    ¡°The Ronolyths,¡± he mutters, his thumb still tracing circles on his palm. ¡°They¡¯re the worst Autochthons we¡¯ve faced in six years. Every day.¡± He shakes his head. ¡°We lose weeks in the field without even realizing it. Entire battalions¡­ erased. Wait. You said ¡®as well¡¯? What¡¯s wrong?¡±


    Helena¡¯s gaze sharpens. Above her, the Skathrith shifts, condensing into the shape of a burning map. ¡°The Northern Front goes poorly? Have they mastered the temporal arcs?¡±


    ¡°No! No.¡± The Dularch takes a deep breath. ¡°Thank the Autarch. But they are close.¡±


    ¡°Define close.¡±


    He waves the question away. ¡°Stop trying to distract me. Something is wrong. What is it? Is it Titus? The children?¡±


    ¡°The Ronolyths are no¡ª¡± she begins.


    ¡°Blah,¡± he interrupts. His reflection fractures across the glass-like edges of the plane, his focus sharpening. ¡°They¡¯re no worse than the Thrynix swarms we faced in the Upper House. Now, I command you¡ªspeak!¡±


    Helena stiffens like frozen water, then slowly melts, lowering her head in a deep bow. ¡°As my Drake commands¡ª¡±


    Andros grips her chin between thumb and finger, halting her bow.


    His touch feels more like the memory of touch than the real thing.


    ¡°You¡¯re no flower, Helena,¡± he hisses.


    ¡°No?¡± she asks, trying to quell her rising amusement. ¡°What am I, then, my Drake?¡± Her voice is as smooth as velvet, her tone as sharp as a knife¡¯s edge.


    ¡°Thistles.¡±


    She snorts with laughter.


    Andros whirls away from her, rubbing his thumb against the back of his hand. He paces back and forth, his back hunched, his double pupils locked on things that cannot be seen.


    Helena folds her arms, her amusement fading. ¡°It is the children,¡± she admits after a moment.


    Andros stops, his gaze snapping back to her. ¡°What¡¯s happened?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re strong,¡± Helena says quickly, the Skathrith above her wavering between a crown and a blade. ¡°They survived the First Baptism¡­"


    "But?"


    "But Titus¡­ he¡¯s forcing them to face third-year trials. Already.¡±


    Andros exhales slowly, his gaze darkening. ¡°You provoke him too much.¡±


    ¡°He deserves it.¡± Helena¡¯s voice is cold, but her composure flickers. ¡°He hates me. And he thinks punishing them is a safer way to vent that hatred.¡±


    ¡°Safer for him,¡± Andros mutters. ¡°But not for them.¡±


    Helena¡¯s silence is telling. Above her, the Skathrith fractures into a jagged map of stars. ¡°If he thinks he can break them,¡± she says, her voice low and dangerous, ¡°he will find they are made of sterner stuff than he imagines.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re strong,¡± Andros agrees. ¡°But not invincible.¡±


    Helena stiffens, her gaze narrowing. ¡°And who is?¡±


    Andros turns away, his shoulders heavy with unseen weight. ¡°Do not let your hatred of him blind you, Helena,¡± he says quietly. ¡°You mock Titus every time you see him. Do you think he doesn¡¯t notice? Do you think he¡¯ll stop at the children?¡±


    Her voice is ice. ¡°If he lays another finger on them¡ª¡±


    ¡°What will you do?¡± Andros rounds on her, his voice sharper now. ¡°Kill him? Overthrow him? He is still my co-ruler, Helena. Without him, the balance collapses.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps it should,¡± she says, her voice tight.


    Andros¡¯s gaze is heavy. ¡°And what will be left for Castor and Penelope if it does?¡±


    Helena looks away, her throat tightening with things she cannot name.


    "Tell him," Andros continues in a voice brimming with passion. "Tell him you are my line."


    "What? What are you saying?"


    "Tell him if he touches you, I will lead the Umbral Legion home. I will mount his head on a spike before Malkiel so all can see."


    "What about our children¡ª"


    "We can always have more."


    Helena stiffens, her gaze darting toward him, her voice catching on words she cannot release.


    Andros dissolves into the plane, his form flickering out like a dying star.


    When Helena¡¯s consciousness snaps back to her body, her reflection fractures across the glass panels. Her Skathrith, jagged and unsteady, coalesces into the shape of a metallic thistle. She stares at it for a long moment before finally speaking.


    ¡°There will be enough,¡± she murmurs, though whether it was meant to reassure herself, the children, or no one at all, even she did not know.


    Her shadow stretches long behind her as she strides out, her steps echoing like the war drums of a distant battle.

 Chapter 31 - Translucent Shadows

    Chapter 31


    Translucent Shadows


    "Weeper. Chickenhearted weeper," a remembered voice.


    I stand over Castor, blinking back tears that rise and falls as memories.


    His face¡ªbloody and serene in defeat¡ªhits me like a physical blow, one powerful enough to rent stone. The curve of his jaw, the arch of his brows... they mirror Penelope''s features with devastating precision.


    My Skathrith hovers above us, larger than before, its alien light casting writhing shadows only I can see. Thin ribbons of Castor''s blood spiral upward, drawn into the blade''s ethereal form. The whispers start soft, then build to a crescendo in my mind.


    Take. Consume. Strong.


    My hand lifts without conscious thought, fingers splaying toward Castor''s prone form. A sliver light flickers along my skin. The Skathrith''s hunger surges through my veins, a dark and malevolent heartbeat demanding to be fed. But Penelope''s face flashes through my mind¡ªher wide eyes when she saw my power, the scar that marks her skin, the raw humanity in her gaze.


    "No."


    The word comes out barely above a whisper, but I force my hand down. The Skathrith''s light flares in protest, sending violent tremors through realms of folded space.


    I plant my feet, shoulders squared against its pull.


    "No," I repeat, voice steady against the blade''s furious roar.


    A wave of light explodes outward as the Skathrith retreats, filling the space with an unnatural quiet. Castor''s blue eyes narrow, peace replaced by naked hatred.


    "Don''t you dare, demon!" His scream echoes off the walls, raw and desperate.


    The Skathrith''s power surges through my limbs as I turn from Castor''s broken form. Energy coils around my muscles, and I launch upward through the opening above. The chamber stretches beneath me, growing distant with each passing heartbeat.


    "No! No! NO!" Castor''s howls chase me skyward, his rage-filled voice bouncing off metal walls. "Coward! Face me! End this!"


    The words fade as sunlight pierces my vision, forcing my eyes shut against its intensity. My momentum carries me higher, wind whipping past my face, the Skathrith''s ethereal glow mixing with natural light.


    Pain lances through my skull¡ªsharp, precise, mechanical. The torq burns against my neck, its message etching itself into my consciousness:


    Victorious¡ªDefeated¡ªVictorious.


    Opponent: Castor Urisius.


    Conquered: Skathrith Claimed.


    Energy Assimilated: +10 Units.


    The cold calculations scroll through my mind, reducing blood and struggle and choice to mere data points. My chest tightens. The mercy I showed Castor, the weight of that decision¡ªall of it compressed into sterile measurements of power gained and battles won.


    My fingers reach for my Skathrith, clench only emptiness.


    Was there meaning in sparing him?


    Or did my torq simply record another victory, another piece claimed in this elaborate game?


    The Skathrith''s power surges through my veins like molten metal, each pulse sending tremors through my muscles. My ascent slows, the sunlight above growing distant as my control slips. The blade''s energy writhes inside me, untamed and savage.


    Gravity takes hold. My stomach lurches into my throat.


    The world spins, sun and shadow blending into a nauseating spiral.


    Wind tears at my clothes, my hair, my skin.


    The Skathrith''s light flares erratically, its presence a wild storm in my mind.You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    Metal glints below¡ªstrange, twisted branches reaching up like silver fingers. I try to call upon the blade''s power, to stabilize my fall, but the energy refuses to obey. It rages through my system, each pulse sending fresh waves of agony along my nerves.


    The branches rush toward me.


    Impact. Pain explodes across my shoulders as I crash through the metallic canopy. Alien leaves¡ªhalf-organic, half-mechanical¡ªwhip past my face. Each collision sends fresh shockwaves through my body.


    I hit the ground hard.


    The impact drives the air from my lungs, and white-hot pain blazes through my ribcage. My vision fractures, dark spots dancing at the edges. Above me, unfamiliar constellations of leaves and branches weave patterns against a sky I no longer recognize.


    The glass panels above splinter the sunlight into fractured rainbows, casting alien patterns across my skin. Each breath sends fresh spikes of pain through my ribs. My head spins, the clearing around me shifting and blurring like a painting left out in the rain.


    I take a deep breath.


    Then another.


    The ground beneath me pulses with a strange energy, matching the erratic beating of my heart.


    Metallic trees surround me, their bark gleaming like polished silver in the filtered light. Their leaves glow with an inner luminescence¡ªblue, purple, green¡ªshifting colors in a hypnotic dance. The branches twist in impossible angles, defying natural geometry, creating archways and spirals that hurt my eyes to follow.


    A low hum fills the air, resonating with the Skathrith¡¯s presence. Its pulsing light dims and brightens like a faltering heartbeat. Each wave of its energy ripples outward, disturbing the shimmering forest. The glowing leaves tremble, chiming softly like distant bells.


    I pull myself upright, ribs screaming in protest. My hand brushes against the torq, its metal warm against my skin¡ªa cruel reminder of the cold, calculated metrics etched into my mind. Victorious. Defeated. Victorious. The words circle in my thoughts, gnawing at my resolve.


    Around me, the alien wilderness breathes. The air feels alive, heavy with unseen forces. The forest stretches endlessly, its metallic trunks rising into the fractured light of the glass sky. Twisting pathways branch out like veins, vanishing into shadows that move unnaturally.


    I scan my surroundings, every muscle taut.


    Something about this place feels wrong¡ªlike a dream teetering on the edge of a nightmare. My Skathrith hovers above me as always, its glow faint but insistent, a tether to its otherworldly hunger.


    A flicker of movement catches my eye¡ªa shadow shifting among the trees. My pulse quickens as I turn toward it, every instinct screaming to ready myself. But then I see her.


    Binah.


    She stands at the edge of the clearing, half-hidden by the twisting trunks. Her pale features are serene, her expression unreadable. She meets my gaze, tilting her head ever so slightly, as if assessing me. The moment stretches, heavy with unspoken meaning.


    A slight nod. Barely perceptible.


    Relief washes over me like a breath I had not realized I was holding. I cannot explain why her silent presence steadies me, but it does. For a fleeting moment, the whispers of the Skathrith recede, its hunger quelled by something deeper, something human.


    But the peace does not last.


    The forest hums louder, the sound vibrating through the ground beneath me. Leaves above shiver violently, their colors shifting in rapid, chaotic patterns. My breath catches as a sharp, searing light pierces the clearing.


    I throw myself behind a tree as the beam slams into the ground where I had been sitting, sending shards of molten earth scattering. My ribs flare in pain, but I grit my teeth and press my back against the metallic trunk.


    Another beam of light streaks past, tearing into the tree¡¯s bark. The surface ripples unnaturally, as if rejecting the damage, and then smooths over in an eerie, fluid motion. The forest seems to respond to the attack, its geometry shifting subtly as if preparing for what is to come.


    I peer around the tree, scanning the shadows for my attackers. The first thing I see is the light¡ªsmall, flickering points moving in calculated arcs through the undergrowth. Then the shapes emerge: figures cloaked in shadow, their weapons glowing faintly at the tips.


    Shafts of energy burst forth again, forcing me back into cover. My breath comes in short bursts, every inhale sharp with pain. I press a hand to my ribs, forcing the panic from my mind. Focus. Think. Survive.


    The attackers remain hidden, their movements precise and deliberate. Whoever they are, they know how to strike from the shadows. Their silence unnerves me more than their weapons. I cannot see their faces, but I feel their intent¡ªfocused, unyielding, lethal.


    The Skathrith hums, its whispers returning with renewed vigor. Fight. Eat. Destroy. Its presence surges in my veins, pushing against my control. For a moment, I consider surrendering to its power, letting it tear through the forest and my enemies alike.


    But then I see her again.


    Binah, still watching from the edge of the clearing. Her gaze has not left me, her expression unchanged. She makes no move to intervene, no indication that she will help. Just that slight tilt of her head, as if waiting to see what I will do.


    The question hangs in the air: Will you fight as they expect? Or will you choose something else?


    My jaw tightens. My fingers curl into the metallic bark of the tree, its surface cool and unyielding. The whispers press harder, louder, a storm building in my mind. But I hold my ground. Not yet. Not like this.


    The attackers close in, their light cutting through the shifting shadows. Five of them now, moving in a loose formation, each step bringing them closer. The hum of their weapons grows sharper, more urgent.


    I watch their reflections in the glass sky above, distorted and fragmented but clear enough to track. Their movements are deliberate, their coordination precise. They are not here to test me¡ªthey are here to kill me.


    Another blast of light rips through the clearing, tearing into the ground just meters away. My ribs scream in protest as I press closer to the tree, the heat of the attack scorching the air around me.


    The forest seems to shift again, its metallic trunks twisting subtly as if reacting to the danger. The alien geometry plays tricks on my eyes, but I don¡¯t have time to question it.


    The whispers rise, the Skathrith¡¯s hunger a deafening roar. The blade hovers above me, its light intensifying with every passing second. My hands tremble with the effort to resist.


    I close my eyes, steadying my breath.


    Another test. Another trial.


    This time, I will not falter.

 Chapter 32 - Ghostly Splendor

    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¡ªits 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¡ªthey 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¡ªhours 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¡ªit is choreography where only one dancer knows the steps.


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


    Each step, each turn¡ªthey 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¡ªhours 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¡ªbut 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¡ª


    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¡ª


    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¡ªthe 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¡ªolder than the rest, though still young¡ªsteps 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¡ªit''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¡ªI 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¡ªbeneath 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¡ªArmigers or otherwise¡ªface 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.

 Chapter 33 - Skeletal Limbs

    Chapter 33


    Skeletal Limbs


    The metallic trees twist and bend as I push deeper into the forest, following the echoes of panic ahead. Each step brings new impossibilities¡ªbranches that fold into themselves, trunks that stretch toward a ceiling I can no longer see. The geometry makes my eyes hurt, but I force myself to keep moving.


    A clash of metal rings out, followed by shouts.


    The young Armigers are close.


    The Skathrith pulses above me, its white point of light casting strange shadows through the warped forest. Each beat matches my own heart, a rhythm that grows stronger as we near the sounds of conflict.


    Eat. Kill. Feed.


    The words slice through my thoughts like ice-cold needles. My jaw clenches against the familiar hunger, the urge to let its power flow unchecked.


    Not now.


    I push back against its whispers, though my fingers itch with the need to reach for its power. The weapon¡¯s presence feels heavier with each step, its hunger a constant pressure against my resolve.


    Binah walks beside me, her footsteps making no sound on the metallic ground. I glance at her, but her face reveals nothing¡ªjust that same otherworldly calm that both steadies and unnerves me. Her silence wraps around us like a cloak, familiar now after all we have endured together.


    The forest continues its impossible dance around us. A branch above splits into fractals, each segment folding into itself before stretching toward some unseen point. Another tree simply vanishes, leaving behind a void that hurts to look at directly.


    But Binah¡¯s presence remains constant, unchanged by the chaos around us. I say nothing, letting her silence anchor me as we move forward. In this twisted place, her unchanging nature feels like the only real thing left.


    We burst into a clearing just as a bone-blade whistles through the air. A Xal¡¯rith, all gleaming obsidian limbs and bone-growths, has cornered the youngest of the five armored fighters¡ªhe is trembling, spear in hand, terror plain on his face.


    ¡°Left flank¡ªnow!¡± a voice commands, sharp with urgency. ¡°And you,¡± he barks at a second warrior, ¡°cover him!¡±


    The speaker, clearly their leader, wields a bright spear that glows like a beacon in the half-light. Under his command, the squad surges into motion.


    A tall, swift fighter¡ªleft flank¡ªdarts in a blur between the Xal¡¯rith, unleashing an alternating fury of quick spear-thrusts and searing beams of light. Meanwhile, the ¡°cover him!¡± fighter charges forward with reckless abandon, drawing a blade from his forearm with a cocky grin. ¡°Come on, freak! I am right here!¡± he bellows, mouth twisting with bravado.


    A fourth member, built like a mountain, lumbers to shield the trembling boy. But even his broad, solid defense cracks under the rain of obsidian blades and claws. The five of them hold formation with practiced ease, but the Xal¡¯rith press in from all sides, bone-blades clacking with relentless hunger.


    My body moves before I can think.


    I see a Xal¡¯rith¡¯s four arms raised to kill the youngest fighter. The Skathrith hums into a fever pitch, silver light pouring into my arm until it becomes a gleaming weapon. I slash, a trail of radiance following the arc of my strike as I sever one of the creature¡¯s bone-arms.


    ¡°Hold the line!¡± the squad leader shouts again, his pale gray eyes flicking toward me. His voice is rough, edged with both command and caution.


    The brash warrior who taunted a Xal¡¯rith spits blood as he parries a strike. ¡°Demon¡¯s here to show off,¡± he growls.


    The quick, darting fighter glances at me between thrusts, muttering, ¡°Optimate pricks float now? That is new.¡±


    The Xal¡¯rith I struck collapses, obsidian skin peeling away. Its essence draws up toward the Skathrith in thin, crimson threads of blood and gore.Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.


    Feed. Feed.


    I freeze, my own breath faltering, as the weapon drinks the creature dry. Bones and steaming viscera clatter to the ground. The surviving Armigers stare, awe and horror mingling on their faces.


    The youngest, voice shaking, looks at me. ¡°Wh-what is that thing?¡± he manages.


    ¡°Focus on the fight,¡± I snap, more gruffly than intended, forcing down the Skathrith¡¯s hunger. The group returns to their battle-stance, though I see their eyes dart nervously my way.


    Their leader¡¯s glowing spear rips through the nearest Xal¡¯rith, carving a line of white-hot light that leaves the creature¡¯s armor smoking. ¡°You!¡± he calls to the tall, nimble one, ¡°Flank right! Torch them¡ªnow!¡±


    The tall fighter pivots, jamming something on his spear¡¯s hilt. A radiant beam bursts forth, boring holes in chitinous plating. The Xal¡¯rith shriek, black ichor bubbling where the light touches.


    The brash one hurls himself between two snapping bone-blades, flipping a forearm knife free. In a single, well-placed blow, he drives it under a creature¡¯s jaw, black fluid spraying across his face.


    ¡°Watch the reach!¡± bellows the mountain of a youth. He yanks the youngest backward just as a scything claw nearly takes the boy¡¯s head. In one fluid motion, the huge fighter draws a short blade from his thigh and shatters the claw at the joint.


    All around, the clearing crackles with the clash of bone and metal. The Skathrith¡¯s pulse echoes in my ears. I surrender to it for a moment, letting silver light lift me off the ground. When I drop, my arm is once again a blade of pure radiance, slicing through obsidian limbs like paper.


    Kill. Kill. Eat.


    It gnaws at my mind, that insatiable hunger. Every drop of blood that splashes on the metallic ground seems to intensify it. My skull feels like it is splitting in two, but I force it down. The silver glow dims as I wrest control back from the Skathrith.


    A heartbeat later, one of the Xal¡¯rith slips past the spear-wielding leader¡¯s guard. Obsidian bone slams toward his exposed flank. His spear drops a fraction¡ªjust enough for the blade to connect.


    No.


    The Skathrith flares white-hot, seizing my body faster than thought. I blur across the clearing, arm molten with power. The Xal¡¯rith¡¯s flesh tears under my strike, dissolving mid-scream. Strips of muscle and cords of sinew spiral upward, drawn into the Skathrith as dark blood turns to crimson light. All that is left is a pile of bones and steaming offal.


    A sudden lance of white-hot pain pierces my mind. My knees threaten to buckle. I taste metal on my tongue as burning glyphs scorch themselves across my consciousness, each word etched with cold precision:


    Victorious.


    Opponents: Xal¡¯rith Abominations.


    Conquered: Blood Claimed. Flesh Claimed.


    Energy Assimilated: +6 Units.


    The glyphs vanish as quickly as they appear, their imprint lingering in my thoughts. I lower my trembling hand, forcing my gaze away from the gruesome remains.


    The Armigers recoil. The brash one stares at the remains, blade clutched in white-knuckled hands. I hear him rasp, ¡°He is¡­ a demon.¡±


    ¡°Stay in formation!¡± the leader growls, though I can see the wariness in his eyes.


    The tall fighter¡¯s voice is low, uncertain. ¡°What¡­ is he?¡±


    I do not reply. My gaze remains locked on the wet, scattered bones¡ªon the Skathrith¡¯s glow as it recedes, sated. But not for long.


    More.


    The whisper slithers through me. My fingers twitch with the urge to feed. I force it back, voice ragged. ¡°Enough!¡±


    Our harsh breathing is all that breaks the stillness. Metallic trees groan softly around us, shifting in that impossible dance. At our feet, the Xal¡¯rith bones lie stripped of flesh.


    The leader exhales, adjusting his spear. ¡°All right,¡± he murmurs, voice firm again. ¡°Raven Five, form up.¡±


    They circle up, the five of them moving with discipline, but their eyes never leave me. The brash warrior does not sheath his forearm blade; I can still see the tension in his stance.


    Suddenly, the youngest steps forward¡ªhis face still pale, but resolve shining through. He bows his head. ¡°Thank you¡­ for saving me.¡±


    Before I can respond, the leader nods curtly at him, then looks to me with guarded respect. ¡°We are moving out. And you¡­ Optimate¡ª¡± he hesitates as though weighing whether to trust me, ¡°¡ªstay close if you can.¡±


    I finally hear his name when the tall, nimble fighter calls out: ¡°Flint! The forest is shifting again. We have to go!¡±


    So Flint is the leader. The mountain of a boy turns at the call, placing a steadying hand on the youngest¡¯s shoulder. ¡°You good, Stagger? Let us move.¡±


    Stagger. The boy nods. Next to him, the tall one checks his spear¡¯s mechanism. Flint addresses him, ¡°Wren, watch our flank.¡±


    Wren. Meanwhile, the brash warrior wipes black blood from his face. ¡°You heard him, Edge,¡± Flint says. ¡°Do not lag behind.¡±


    Edge. That leaves only the broad-shouldered mountain, who unlatches the battered shield from his back. ¡°Ash, keep the perimeter tight,¡± Flint orders.


    Ash. So they are Flint, Stagger, Wren, Edge, and Ash. Raven Five.


    I feel Binah¡¯s presence before I see her¡ªshe stands at the clearing¡¯s edge, violet eyes locked on me. Her silence is a heavy weight I cannot read: is it judgment, understanding, or both? I look away, the Skathrith humming overhead in restless hunger.


    ¡°I can hold it back,¡± I whisper, as though to convince myself. My eyes roam over the carnage. Every scrap of blood and flesh we leave behind fuels the Skathrith¡¯s dark desire. The urge to feed simmers in the recesses of my mind.


    I turn away from the scattered bones and join Binah, forging on into the ever-shifting metallic trees. Raven Five falls in behind us, uncertain but ready. Together, we press deeper, the Skathrith¡¯s pulse throbbing in time with my own.


    More, it whispers.


    Not now, I answer inwardly.


    And so we move onward, each of us haunted by the hunger we have seen¡ªand by what might happen if it is ever unleashed again.

 Chapter 34 - Nowhere to Hide

    Chapter 34


    Nowhere to Hide


    I follow behind Raven Five, keeping my distance. The metallic trees have settled into an unsettling rhythm, their branches weaving patterns overhead that make my eyes hurt if I stare too long. The geometry feels wrong¡ªalive but artificial, like a machine pretending to be nature.


    Stagger practically glues himself to Ash''s side, head swiveling at every creak and groan from the forest. The huge boy does not seem to mind, his shield ready to protect them both. Up front, Flint moves with practiced ease, each step measured and careful.


    "You''re breathing too loud," Edge hisses at Wren.


    "And you''re being paranoid again," Wren shoots back, though his voice stays low. "At least I''m not jumping at shadows."


    "Both of you, quiet," Flint commands without looking back.


    The forest''s hum grows deeper, vibrating through my bones. The Skathrith responds, its edge pulsing with a matching frequency that makes my teeth ache. Binah drifts beside me like a ghost, her presence both familiar and alien.


    We round a twisted corpse of metal trees, and I freeze. Rising before us is a collection of structures that seem to defy reality¡ªobsidian spires that curve and twist like frozen smoke, their surfaces both rough as bark and smooth as glass. Half-organic shapes bulge from the walls like tumors, while geometric patterns cut precise lines through the chaos.


    Flint raises his fist, and everyone drops into defensive positions. My eyes trace the Xal''rith markings etched into the surrounding trees - they pulse with a faint, sickly light that matches the rhythm of the forest''s hum.


    The village appears deserted, but the air feels thick and heavy, pressing against my skin like an invisible current. The Skathrith''s hunger stirs, responding to the latent energy that saturates this place.


    Flint signals us forward with careful hand motions. We advance slowly, weapons ready, moving between the alien structures that loom overhead like the ribs of some ancient, mechanical beast.


    The village''s architecture hurts my eyes. Nothing follows natural laws here¡ªwalkways spiral at impossible angles, doorways twist into themselves, and what might be windows look more like wounds torn in reality. These spaces were not made for human bodies.


    "It''s like this place was built to trap anything not... them." Wren''s voice quivers slightly as he runs his hand along a wall that seems to pulse beneath his touch.


    Edge lets out a derisive snort, but I notice his fingers have not left the hilt of his blade. "Everything looks like a trap to you."


    The Skathrith''s hum intensifies, resonating with the village''s strange energy. Its hunger bleeds into my thoughts, recognizing something familiar in these alien structures.


    "Split up. Search pattern alpha." Flint''s command cuts through my unease. "Ash, take Stagger. Wren with Edge." His eyes fix on me. "You''re with me, Optimate."


    Binah melts into the shadows as the pairs disperse. Ash leads Stagger toward what appears to be a gathering space, their footsteps echoing strangely on the metallic ground. They pause at scattered objects¡ªtools perhaps, but shaped like fragments of bone.


    "Look at these markings," Stagger calls out softly, pointing to intricate patterns carved into the walls.


    Across the village, Wren and Edge investigate a jagged structure that can only be an altar. Deep channels run down its sides, stained with ancient purpose.If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    "Just a nice place for a picnic, right?" Edge''s attempt at humor falls flat.


    Wren traces the grooves with trembling fingers. "This wasn''t just a home. It was a temple."


    Flint follows close behind as I approach the central spire. The Skathrith pulses stronger here, drawing me toward the twisted monument. As I place my hand against its surface, echoes of alien thoughts wash over me¡ªcold, calculating intelligence mixed with an endless, consuming hunger.


    The others drift back toward the central spire, drawn by some unspoken need to regroup. Their footsteps echo against the metallic ground, creating discordant harmonies with the village''s endless hum.


    Stagger runs his fingers over a series of interlocking symbols carved into a curved wall. "Look at how precise these are. They wanted to leave something behind." His voice drops to barely a whisper. "Maybe they knew they wouldn''t survive."


    "The marks tell stories," Ash says, his deep voice startling everyone. "Like the old poem¡ª ''Duty carved in blood and bone, memories sealed in sacred stone.''"


    "Since when are you a scholar, you giant rock?"


    "Someone has to balance out your stupidity," Ash replies, but there''s no bite to his words. Even Flint''s stern expression softens for a moment.


    The brief levity fades as Flint turns to face me. His eyes narrow, calculating. "You seem to know more about these things than we do. What are we dealing with here?"


    I feel the Skathrith pulse against my consciousness, its knowledge mixing with my observations. The words come reluctantly. "They were organized. Intelligent. This was their sacred ground." My hand traces the air near one of the twisted spires, feeling the residual energy. "But they were consumed by their hunger."


    "Let''s hope that doesn''t happen to us," Flint says. His tone carries skepticism, but I catch the undercurrent of caution in his voice.


    Binah watches from the shadows, her presence a silent reminder of all I am not saying about what the Skathrith truly knows of this place.


    Wren''s voice cuts through the eerie silence. "Talon... you need to see this."


    I follow Flint to where Wren crouches near the village perimeter. Fresh gouges mar the metallic ground, deep enough to expose the writhing circuitry beneath. The cuts are precise, methodical¡ªnot the wild slashing of mindless beasts.


    The Skathrith pulses against my consciousness.


    They are watching. Waiting.


    Its whispers feel like ice in my veins, sharp and cutting. These marks are a message, a promise of violence to come.


    "Everyone, weapons ready." Flint''s voice is steel. "Form a defensive circle. If they''re here, we''re not giving them the advantage."


    Edge draws his blade with shaking hands. "Could be nothing. Could be-"


    Lightning splits the sky, illuminating the glass ceiling in a web of purple-white. The flash burns away shadows, revealing what lurks at the village edges - Xal''rith warriors, their bone-blades raised in silent salute. Their bodies are wrong angles and twisted joints, chitinous armor gleaming wet in the stark light.


    Then darkness returns, swallowing them whole.


    Stagger''s gasp sounds like a wounded animal. His spear trembles as he grips it tight enough to whiten his knuckles.


    "What the hell was that?" Edge''s bravado cracks. "Tell me I didn''t just see-"


    "Shut it," Wren hisses, but fear threads through his voice.


    "Janus." Flint''s eyes lock onto mine. "What do you see?"


    I taste copper on my tongue as the Skathrith resonates with the hunters'' presence. They are still there, hidden but near. Waiting for the perfect moment to strike.


    "They''re here," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "They''re waiting."


    Another flash tears through the sky, and my heart stops. The Xal''rith have closed half the distance, their bone-white forms crouched low against the metallic ground. Each movement is precise, calculated¡ªa hunter''s grace that makes my skin crawl.


    The largest of them rises, towering above its brethren. Runes pulse across its chitinous armor like veins of molten metal. It raises its bone-blade toward me in what feels less like a threat and more like recognition. The Skathrith responds, its hunger mixing with something else¡ªmemory, perhaps, or ancient programming I do not yet understand.


    Darkness crashes back over us like a wave. The forest''s hum swells until it fills my skull, drowning out everything but the rapid beating of my heart. Beside me, Raven Five stands ready, their weapons raised against the void.


    "Why aren''t they attacking?" Stagger''s voice cracks. His spear shakes in his white-knuckled grip.


    I feel Binah before I see her, emerging from the shadows like smoke given form. Her eyes hold that familiar, distant coldness¡ªthe look she gets when she sees something I cannot yet understand. She moves to stand between me and the darkness where the Xal''rith wait, her posture both protective and warning.


    "Well, they won''t find us lacking." Flint''s words carry the weight of command, but I hear the tension beneath them. His spear does not waver as he adjusts his stance, ready for whatever comes next.


    Lightning splits the sky one final time. The village stretches empty before us, the twisted spires casting long shadows across abandoned ground. No sign of the Xal''rith remains, but the air feels charged with potential violence.


    None of us lower our weapons. The Skathrith thrums against my consciousness, its eagerness bleeding into my thoughts. "They''ll be back," I say softly. "And next time, they won''t just watch."

 Chapter 35 - What Hell Have Wrought

    Chapter 35


    What Hell Have Wrought


    The spears ignite in unison, five beams of concentrated energy slicing through the darkness. Metal trees reflect the light in fractured patterns, turning shadows into writhing things. The air fills with the high-pitched whine of weapons discharge.


    Flint''s shot connects first, boring through a Xal''rith warrior''s chest plate. Black ichor sprays in an arc, sizzling where it hits the ground. But before the creature falls, it simply... blinks out of existence.


    "What in the Autarch''s crack?" Edge''s voice cracks as his beam passes through empty space where another thrall stood a heartbeat before. The creature materializes three steps closer, bone-blades raised.


    My Skathrith pulses with recognition.


    These are not normal Xal''rith¡ªsomething has changed them, twisted their very nature.


    Stagger''s panicked shots go wide, energy dissipating against twisted metal and glass. His hands shake so badly I can hear his spear rattling. "They''re everywhere! They''re¡ª"


    "Focus!" Flint snaps, but uncertainty edges his voice. Another shot, another hit¡ªthis time taking a thrall''s arm clean off. But the creature phases out before hitting the ground, reappearing whole and unharmed meters closer.


    Wren tracks one through the darkness, his movements quick but controlled. "How are we supposed to hit what doesn''t stay real?" His next shot passes through empty air.


    Ash says nothing, methodically placing shots while positioning himself between Stagger and the advancing thralls. His calm seems almost unnatural against the chaos.


    "Hold the line!" Flint''s voice cuts through the darkness. "Focus on what you can see!"


    But what we see keeps shifting, reality bending around these transformed warriors. Their bone-white forms flicker in and out of existence, each phase bringing them closer to our defensive circle. The air crackles with discharged energy and the metallic taste of fear.


    I stand motionless, arms crossed, watching Raven Five''s desperate battle. Their laser-spears paint streaks of light through the darkness, but something feels wrong. The squad''s movements grow more frantic with each failed hit, each phasing enemy.


    The Skathrith pulses against my consciousness. Its rhythm matches neither my heartbeat nor the forest''s usual song. Instead, it beats in time with the thralls'' phases¡ªa manufactured pattern. Clinical. Too perfect.


    Metal trees twist around us, their surfaces catching and fragmenting the weapon discharge. But even their placement feels calculated, as though arranged to create specific shadows, specific angles of reflection.


    "Look at their patterns," I whisper to myself. The thralls phase in precise intervals, maintaining exact distances from the squad. They never press their advantage, never capitalize on openings. "They''re not even trying to land killing blows."


    Binah steps beside me, her white hair ghostly in the scattered light. Her violet eyes track each thrall''s movement with predatory focus. She turns her head slightly toward me, waiting. The set of her shoulders, the angle of her chin¡ªshe expects me to understand something crucial.


    I narrow my eyes as another thrall phases through Wren''s attack. "This isn''t right." The words taste metallic on my tongue. "They''re not attacking¡ªthey''re stalling."


    The Skathrith''s pulse grows stronger, confirming my suspicion. Each beat reveals more of the artificial nature surrounding us. The forest, the thralls, even the very ground beneath our feet¡ªit all serves some hidden purpose.


    Binah shifts her weight, a subtle movement that draws my attention. Her stance mirrors my own crossed arms, but her fingers tap against her elbow in perfect time with the thralls'' phases. She knows. She''s known since we entered this section of the forest.


    The Skathrith''s energy courses through my body, a current of raw power that lifts me from the ground. Metal trees shrink beneath my feet as I rise above the battlefield, their twisted forms casting fragmented shadows in the wake of my ascent. The weapon''s resonance creates a pale luminescence around me, turning the air itself into a ghostly mirror.


    Below, laser-spears continue their futile dance against phasing enemies. But I have seen enough of this farce.Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.


    "Enough." My voice cuts through the chaos, sharp and controlled.


    The battlefield stills for a heartbeat. Even the thralls pause their endless pattern, frozen between phases like caught frames of motion.


    "I know you''re out there. Watching. Controlling." The words taste like iron on my tongue. "Whatever game you''re playing, it ends now."


    Wind whips through the metallic branches as I hover, my gaze sweeping across the twisted landscape. "Surrender. Show yourself, and maybe I''ll spare you the humiliation of dragging you back in pieces."


    Edge''s voice carries up from below. "Did he just call them out?"


    "Stay focused," Flint barks at his squad, but I catch the uncertainty in his tone. His spear remains raised, though his eyes keep darting between the thralls and my suspended form.


    Silence answers my challenge. The thralls resume their mechanical dance, phasing in and out with mathematical precision. Their bone-white forms flicker through reality like broken holograms, maintaining their meaningless pattern.


    Frustration burns in my chest as I descend slightly, turning toward Binah''s ethereal presence. "Where are they?"


    Her violet eyes meet mine, reflecting the pale light of my power, but she offers no response to my question.


    Binah''s violet eyes flash with an intensity that pierces the gloom. Her pale hand rises, fingers extending toward a section of dark forest where the metal trees grow impossibly dense. The gesture holds such certainty that I know she''s found our hidden opponent.


    I launch myself from my hovering position, the Skathrith''s energy propelling me forward. "Hold the line," I call back to Flint and his squad. The metallic maze swallows me whole as I dive between twisted trunks that reflect fragments of my weapon''s pale light.


    The forest shifts around me, branches scraping against each other with sounds like knife blades. My feet barely touch the ground as I follow Binah''s direction, letting the Skathrith''s pulse guide me through the darkness. Each beat grows stronger, more insistent, until¡ª


    I break through into a small clearing. The sight stops me cold. Lias crouches among a cluster of other young Armigers, his thin frame illuminated by the soft blue glow that spills from his eyes. The air pulses with energy, creating a web of light that matches the thralls'' phasing pattern perfectly.


    Lias stands at the center of it all, his hand rubbing his temples. As he shifts his fingers, I watch a corresponding movement ripple through the thralls in the distance. His face holds none of the nervousness I remember from our encounter in the dining hall¡ªonly cold calculation as he orchestrates this elaborate deception.


    The other Armigers tense at my arrival, hands moving to weapons, but Lias remains focused on his work¡ªan obvious use of his Semblance. Each subtle gesture of his fingers sends new commands to his phantom army, proving without doubt that he''s the puppet master behind this entire charade.


    The cold satisfaction in Lias''s eyes makes my blood freeze. He stands there among his Armigers, no trace of the nervous child who approached me in the dining hall. Like mine, his hands have been washed in rivers of blood.


    "Ah, Eata. I wondered when you''d show up." His lips curl into a smirk. "Tell me, how does it feel to be one step behind?"


    "What did you just call me?" I ask. Silver light erupts along my skin, the blade''s edge humming with lethal intent.


    Lias grins. "Eata. Isn''t that what you said you did to the ones that attacked you during the First Baptism."


    I blink the sudden heat from my eyes, lower my gaze to the ground.


    Eata. Eata. Eata.


    I cross the clearing in two steps.


    The first Armiger raises his weapon. I slice through it before he registers my movement. The second tries to flank¡ªa textbook maneuver that ends with him sprawled unconscious. The third and fourth attack together. The Skathrith flows through me, around me, an extension of pure will. Their coordination means nothing against its power. Bodies hit the ground with dull thuds.


    Lias¡¯s smirk cracks. His eyes glow a deeper blue, radiating an unnatural light that pulses in time with the danger emanating from him. He exhales sharply, drawing strength from the very air, his voice dropping an octave.


    ¡°You don¡¯t scare me, Eata,¡± he says, his grin widening despite the strain on his features.


    The word lingers in the clearing, sharp as a blade. Eata. My breath catches, heat surging behind my eyes. The glow of the Skathrith intensifies, its light spilling across the ground like molten silver.


    The ground beneath us begins to tremble, subtle at first but growing in strength. The air vibrates with a low, resonant hum that fills my chest, heavy and inescapable.


    Then they appear.


    Warriors rise from the ground itself, their forms coalescing from the pale light spilling from Lias¡¯s eyes. They emerge unnaturally, their shapes twisting and snapping into place as though reality struggles to contain them. Their bone-blades extend grotesquely, serrated and curved, their chitinous armor jagged like shards of broken glass. The same eerie blue light burns in their hollow eyes.


    At first, they stand motionless, their forms flickering between worlds. Then, one by one, they step forward. Slow. Deliberate. Their movements exude a suffocating grace, pressing against my chest like a vice.


    ¡°Do you see now, Janus?¡± Lias¡¯s voice trembles slightly, but the satisfaction in it is undeniable. ¡°This is what I am. This is what you can¡¯t fight.¡±


    I take a single step forward. The Skathrith¡¯s hum grows louder, its rhythm matching the monstrous pulse of the clearing. ¡°More.¡±


    Lias blinks, his grin faltering. ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°Summon more.¡± The words fall from my lips, quiet and cold, but they do not feel like mine. ¡°This is not enough.¡±


    For the first time, Lias¡¯s composure cracks. He stumbles, his heel catching on a root. He sprawls backward, panic flickering in his glowing eyes. His warriors hesitate, their flickering forms twitching in response to his faltering will.


    Behind me, I feel Binah¡¯s presence, coiled and eager. Her snarl carries through the clearing, low and primal, as though she senses the hunt. Her shadows writhe around me, feeding the same insatiable need that builds in my chest.


    ¡°Hurry.¡± My voice deepens, resonant and strange. It does not sound like me. My face remains impassive, but something feral sharpens the edges of my words, something that is not fully human.


    ¡°I¡¯m hungry,¡± the voice says through my mouth.

 Chapter 36 - Triumphant Return

    Chapter 36


    Triumphant Return


    I emerge from the twisted paths of the metallic forest, each step precise and measured. Behind me, Lias floats through the air like a broken toy, suspended by invisible threads that bite into his flesh. His fellow Armigers trudge after us, their weapons pointed at the ground, eyes downcast. Whatever fight they had has drained from them completely.


    Binah glides beside me, her white hair catching the fractured light filtering through the metallic canopy. Her movements make no sound¡ªa ghost walking among the living. Her presence amplifies the unnatural silence that follows in our wake.


    The Xal''rith village rises ahead, its alien architecture looming like jagged teeth in a predator''s maw. The spires twist toward the false sky above, their obsidian surfaces catching and fracturing the light into shards of shadow. Half-organic growths bulge from the structures, their surfaces pulsing faintly with a sickly, amber light. The air feels heavier here, each breath tinged with the metallic tang of latent energy.


    Walkways spiral at impossible angles, some twisting upward into the void, others disappearing into jagged terrain below. They are unnervingly precise, the geometry so unnatural it makes my head ache if I look too long. The walls of the structures pulse faintly with glyphs¡ªetched stories of the Xal¡¯rith¡¯s lost glory or perhaps their warnings to trespassers.


    The air hums with a resonance that seems to seep into my bones, a sound that aligns with the Skathrith¡¯s pulse. The weapon hums faintly, feeding off the latent energy around us, as though this place recognizes its presence. It feels like the village itself is alive, watching, judging.


    Raven Five stands just beyond the clearing, their formation tight, weapons raised against the oppressive darkness. The jagged altar from before looms at the center, its deep grooves running like veins across its surface. The faint stains along its channels seem darker now, the air around it shimmering faintly.


    Flint spots us first, his spear lifting slightly before freezing mid-air. His grip tightens, his knuckles pale against the weapon¡¯s dark haft. The others notice soon after, their reactions rippling like a stone dropped into water. Stagger¡¯s mouth falls open at the sight of Lias suspended in the air, his limbs bent unnaturally. Wren takes a half-step forward, his voice barely above a whisper.


    ¡°What in the Autarch¡¯s name¡­¡±


    Edge, usually the loudest, retreats slightly, his bravado crumbling as he takes in the scene. Even Ash shifts uncomfortably, his shield trembling faintly in his massive hands.


    Flint maintains his stance, but I catch the slight tremor in his spear hand. ¡°What¡­¡± His voice cracks, and he swallows hard before continuing. ¡°What did you do?¡±


    I scan their faces¡ªthese children playing at being warriors. The Skathrith pulses above me, a steady rhythm of hunger, still yearning. My voice comes out steady, cold as the frost clinging to the edges of the clearing¡¯s shadows.


    ¡°I brought order.¡±


    I stride into the center of the clearing, the metallic trees casting fractured shadows across my face. The twisted spire behind me looms larger now, its tumor-like growths shimmering faintly as if reacting to my presence. The glyphs flicker faintly, aligning with the Skathrith¡¯s resonance, as though the village itself acknowledges the power it holds.Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!


    With a slight nod to Binah, I watch her release her hold on Lias. The threads unravel like spider silk catching moonlight, and he crumples to the ground. His chest heaves with desperate breaths, the glow in his eyes flickering and dying¡ªa candle guttering in the wind.


    Titus¡¯s words echo faintly in my mind: Manhood is not given. It is earned, blood by blood, step by agonizing step.


    The Skathrith hums louder, its resonance aligning with the village¡¯s pulse. The spires seem to lean closer, their shadows stretching unnaturally across the clearing. The faint glow of the glyphs reflects in the Skathrith¡¯s light, pulsating in rhythm with its power.


    ¡°Strip him.¡±


    My voice cuts through the oppressive silence, sharp and commanding. The words fall heavy, final.


    Flint steps forward, his face tight with concern. ¡°Janus, what are you¡ª¡±


    I turn my gaze on him. The Skathrith pulses stronger, its hunger bleeding into my voice. ¡°This isn¡¯t a negotiation. If you want to survive, you¡¯ll follow my lead.¡±


    Something in my eyes makes him flinch. The resistance drains from his posture, replaced by a cold understanding. He gestures to Ash, who moves forward with mechanical precision to grab Lias¡¯s trembling form.


    Binah glides across the clearing, her movements liquid and precise. The faint glow of the glyphs reflects in her eyes, turning them into twin flames against the darkness. Silver light pools around her fingers, weaving into cruel, shimmering strands. The makeshift whip catches what little light filters through the canopy, its edges sharp enough to slice shadow.


    She raises her arm.


    The whip cracks.


    Lias¡¯s scream tears through the clearing, raw and animal. It reverberates off the spires, the sound warping unnaturally as it bounces back, amplified by the village¡¯s strange acoustics. The glyphs along the structures flicker in time with his cries, their sickly light pulsing faster, as if feeding on his agony.


    I stand motionless, letting the sound wash over me. The Skathrith drinks in the moment, its resonance humming through my bones. The village seems to hum with it, the alien energy syncing with the weapon¡¯s pulse.


    For a moment, I recall the oppressive weight of Titus¡¯s gaze as he spoke of the Mere. You will rise, Janus, or you will break.


    Around us, Raven Five fractures. Stagger turns away, his shoulders hunched. ¡°This is madness,¡± Wren whispers, but Edge¡¯s face splits into a savage grin. He nods, understanding blooming in his eyes.


    Flint remains still as stone, his expression carved from marble. His eyes never leave my face as he weighs his choices, measuring the cost of defiance against the price of submission.


    I turn from Lias¡¯s broken form to face his squad. Their knees hit the ground before I speak, bodies trembling like leaves in a storm. The Skathrith hums deeper, pleased by their submission.


    ¡°You¡¯re mine now.¡± My voice slices through the metallic forest¡¯s silence. ¡°You¡¯ve followed a coward. That ends today.¡±


    I move to the first¡ªa thin boy with calculating eyes that dart between my face and the shadows. ¡°Caine,¡± I name him. His shoulders straighten at the word, as if accepting a mantle.


    The next keeps his hands steady despite his fear, fingers wrapped in healing thread. ¡°Lark.¡± He nods once, precise and careful.


    A mountain of muscle towers even on his knees, face blank but arms corded with tension. ¡°Torren.¡± His eyes fix on the ground, accepting his place.


    The fourth melts into the darkness despite kneeling in plain sight. ¡°Shade.¡± A flash of understanding crosses her features¡ªthe first girl I have seen among the Armigers here.


    The last meets my gaze with defiance burning behind his fear, a bow strapped across his back. ¡°Vex.¡± His jaw clenches, but he does not look away.


    Binah circles them like smoke, her unseen presence making them shiver. The metallic trees cast broken shadows across their faces as I speak again.


    ¡°From this moment, you are the Bound Blades.¡± The name falls heavy as judgment. ¡°Rise and take your place.¡±


    The village¡¯s structures seem to loom closer as they stand, their shadows crawling like fingers across the ground. Behind me, the spire hums faintly, its glyphs still flickering with the rhythm of the Skathrith¡¯s pulse. The forest feels alive, a predator watching its prey submit.


    This is its domain, and now, so is it mine.