by Will Wight
Now that they’d spent so long running up against the Blackflame Enforcer Trial, he looked like a real sacred artist. He’d burned off the last bit of softness left from his clan upbringing, his frame hardening and filling out. He was covered by a layer of dirt and ash from their run of the course earlier, his hair messy, his sacred artist robes torn, tattered, and singed.
He showed a sharp difference from the boy she’d met in Sacred Valley. He still had a long stretch of road left to travel, but now she could actually see herself fighting alongside him. Not just in the Trials, either; when she thought of her own violent, uncertain future, she could picture him standing next to her.
Nothing but wishful thinking on her part. If odds played out, he’d be killed by Jai Long and she’d end up as a snack for her unwelcome guest. No sense in planning for anything else until the knives weren’t quite so close to their throats.
She kicked his knee, and he blinked awake. “Oi. Get Little Blue to scrub me clean, and then let’s go.”
He was still gathering his thoughts after having broken out of his cycling trance. Now that she looked for it, he was breathing a little heavy, and his skin had a light sheen of sweat. Whatever cycling technique Eithan had taught him, it must have some weight.
“Little Blue?” he asked.
“Can’t keep calling her the Riverseed. She’s got a face.”
Lindon lifted his eyes as though trying to see the Sylvan sitting on top of his head. “Ah, you’re right. We should name her.”
Yerin rolled up her sleeve and held out a wrist. “Call her what you want, but get her to hop on over here.”
It took Lindon almost a minute to coax the Riverseed onto Yerin, and she scurried off as soon as her job was done. Once again, even a spark of her power was enough to scrub Yerin’s spirit clean of the Blackflame aura buildup. On top of that, her spirit was peaceful and refreshed, like she hadn’t fought in days. Yerin couldn’t feel a particular aspect to the madra, but it was calm and soothing.
If only Little Blue didn’t hate her so much. Maybe it wasn’t her; maybe Sylvans could smell the unwelcome guest inside her.
Yerin adjusted her blood-red belt. Would only make sense, if spirits didn’t like that. Meant Little Blue had good taste, more than anything.
That was an answer she could live with.
***
Cassias vaulted out of his chair and over the table, landing in front of the wooden console. The script in the window flared with the touch of his spirit, showing him a heaven-down view of Lindon and Yerin fighting their way through half-formed soldiers. The smoky gray crystal in Lindon’s hand pulsed red, and they’d made it further into the course than they had in the morning: most of the soldiers still hadn’t formed, including the giant guardian in front of the exit.
It was only a half-hearted scan of his spirit that had let Cassias know the course was active. Yerin and Lindon had never attempted two runs of the Trial in the same day, and the ancient training course simply wasn’t designed for it. Its power was already running dangerously low, and there were clear consequences: the soldiers were forming much more slowly, and their combat power was weaker. Lindon smashed through one in a single punch, moving into the latter half of the pillars.
If Cassias had been any slower to notice, they would have torn through the unsupervised and weakened Trial, and they might have passed before Cassias realized anything was wrong.
Well, not any longer.
Cassias poured his madra into the correct scripts, the interlocking circles carrying his power down and into the Trial itself. His core, usually shining silver with the light of sword madra, dimmed—transferring his power down through so many scripts was terribly inefficient. He would save more power by hopping down there and fighting them both in person, two against one.
But he couldn’t let it be said that Naru Cassias Arelius picked on the weak.
His power flooded into the projections, making the soldiers form faster, Enforcing their weapons. He strained his spirit.
Slowly, Lindon and Yerin’s advance ground to a halt.
***
Lindon turned in midair, kicking off a pillar and launching himself higher. An archer clung to the stone fifteen feet up to snipe at him from above; he grabbed it by the throat and dragged it down to the ground, slamming it into the earth, ignoring the silver arrow that had pierced all the way through his thigh. Blood ran down his leg, costing him a bolt of pain with every step, but the burn of the Blackflame madra and the rush of his Bloodforged body let him ignore it.
The columns thinned, revealing the red arch of the exit.
Three soldiers stood between him and the gateway, spreading out and keeping their sabers level—they were getting smart now, moving to encircle him, to keep him trapped. They knew where he was going.
Or they thought they did.
The fury of Blackflame filled Lindon. He tore the arrow from his leg, hurling it at the nearest warrior, who knocked it out of the air with a gray shield.
But it cost the soldier a moment of its attention. Lindon had dashed after the Forged weapon, projecting a pulse of Blackflame madra into the soldier’s midsection. It blew apart like an over-inflated bladder.
The next one closed the distance to swat the crystal from his hand with its sword, but Lindon seized a dissolving blade from the broken enemy, snatching the blade from midair and using it to knock aside the other weapon's attack.
Then he gripped the sword and drove it through the soldier with sheer force, pinning it to the ground.
The third and final enemy dropped its sword and shield for a spear, which it could use to keep him at a distance and poke holes in him until he ran out of madra. If he let it get that far.
Flaring the Burning Cloak, he leaped. His legs screamed at the strain, but the ground beneath him exploded.
At the top of his jump, he twisted to grab the soldier’s head with one hand, and his momentum continued carrying him forward. The Forged warrior smashed into a stone column, bursting with the force, dissolving in his hand.
Lindon shouted with the exhilaration of the moment, landing on both feet. Soldiers collected themselves in chunks of gray madra, and he ground his teeth, ready to tear them apart.
The dragon advances.
He could see the exit, and his Blackflame madra was ready to push him forward still, Orthos’ core pulsing with the eagerness of a predator before the kill.
But the huge stone giant with the spiked helmet still stood in front of him, a trident in each hand.
Yerin stumbled up next to Lindon, scratched and bloody, panting in the even rhythm of a cycling technique, pale sword clutched in her hand.
He looked at her and they both nodded, turning to face the giant together.
Then Lindon let the crystal ball fall to the ground, and the test ended.
“Looked a lot shabbier that time, that’s a truth,” Yerin said, resting drawn blade on her shoulder.
Lindon’s Blackflame core was down to one smoldering red-and-black ember. “I think I can manage one more.”
“Third try,” Yerin said. “Let’s go.”
Chapter 15
Panting, Cassias fell back against the wicker chair. He'd exhausted his madra so quickly that his soul felt numb, and his limbs trembled.
Four months. The Enforcer Trial was only supposed to take a few weeks, but considering the circumstances, Cassias would find it hard to say they’d failed.
Even after the fall of the Blackflame family, the Naru used this course to train their disciples. But they only ever trained teams.
This Trial had been built to test a single disciple on the Path of Black Flame, fighting with four of their closest protectors. None of the participants would be higher than Lowgold, but the five would have been trained to cooperate since childhood.
The bodyguards would fight as a unit to keep the soldiers away so that the Blackflame could concentrate on holding their Enforcer technique—what Lindon and Yerin called the Burning Cloak—for th
e duration of the course.
In this Trial, the Blackflame was never supposed to fight. It was a test of teamwork and spiritual endurance.
No one had ever thought to make it a rule that you couldn’t challenge the Enforcer Trial twice in one day. Theoretically, it was impossible: the Burning Cloak put too much of a strain on the body to maintain for long, and even the Blackflame family had to cleanse their madra channels after an attempt. When you added in the injuries that a team would inevitably collect during a run of the course, it was a rare five-man squad that could complete a Trial run once a day.
‘The dragon advances’ was the advice for anyone attempting the Trial: they had to act so that the dragon, the Blackflame sacred artist, continually advanced. If they slowed, they would inevitably get bogged down in combat and lose control of the Burning Cloak.
Lindon and Yerin had evidently interpreted that advice differently. They relentlessly advanced until the Trial broke before them.
Any Blackflame Highgold would have had the skill and power to do the same, of course, as would many of the top-tier geniuses from the clan…but none of them would have needed a second attempt. Endurance didn’t come into it when you blew through the Trial on your first try.
But Lindon and Yerin had challenged the course until the course gave up. Yerin was a Sage’s disciple, so she should be expected to produce miracles, but Lindon? How did he have the madra capacity to fuel both his Bloodforged Iron body and the Burning Cloak? While carrying the crystal and fighting at the same time? Even accepting that, how had he cleansed the damage that Blackflame madra must have done to his madra channels?
What had Eithan done to him?
When Cassias thoughts turned to Eithan, his heart sank. He was not looking forward to bringing Eithan the news.
The Underlord would be insufferable after this.
***
Lindon and Yerin both collapsed after completing the Enforcer Trial, bleeding into the dirt.
Now that they had reached the Striker Trial, they could walk back through the stone columns freely without the Enforcer Trial coming to life and spitting out soldiers. Once Lindon could move again, he resolved to spend an hour doing nothing but walking through the empty Enforcer Trial, just to prove he could.
The Striker Trial itself was an open field of scorched, blasted soil, with another red arch in the distance. Another stone tablet and pedestal waited for them near the entrance, and Lindon wanted to drag his broken body over and start reading the introduction to the Striker technique.
But Yerin had already begun limping back toward their caves, so Lindon followed her. The slab of rock would be there when the wound in his thigh closed.
And now, though Lindon had prepared to challenge the Enforcer Trial for several more days in a row, they were back home so easily.
The Blackflame-scorched crab meat and fiery berries had never tasted so good.
“...they tried to bury me with their bodies,” Yerin said, waving a stick in the air like a sword. Her forearm was wrapped in white bandage, as was her entire left eye and her right leg, but none of it affected her motion with the stick. “Had to scrape and claw my way out. Toward the tail end of it, I had my master's sword in this hand, a soldier’s sword in this one, and my Goldsign launching every technique I could. My madra's going out like a river, and I can barely see. I think for sure they’re going to bring me down again.”
She tossed her stick into the fire, grinning. “And then two of them turn like they hear something. They're off like arrows, and that's the straw that tips it. I cut through the rest and come through, looking for you, just in time to see you smack one to pieces against a pillar. If that's not a story worth crowing about, I've never heard one.”
Lindon's pride helped distract him from the throbbing pain in his thigh and shoulder. He pressed his fists together, looking at her. “I would never have passed without you taking more than your share. Gratitude.”
She half-heartedly kicked dirt at him. “I don't need that. Not like it was your Trial alone, was it? Goldsign did what I wanted it to that time, and I'm this close to Highgold. I know it. Didn’t have to crack my master open or anything.”
A drop of rain hissed as it fell into the fire. Another sent up a puff of dirt as it landed nearby, but he was sitting with his back to the cave. An outcropping of stone kept him dry.
Lindon stared into the remaining flames, thoughts growing heavy. Yerin stuck a hand out, testing the rain, and then slipped over to his side of the fire to join him.
She sat with him, shoulder to shoulder, for a minute or two before speaking out. “A worry shared is a worry halved.”
Even halved, he had enough worry for both of them.
“Still a long way to go before Truegold,” he said, voice dry. “What do I have left, six months?”
“I'd be cracked in the head if I said I was going to hit Truegold in six months,” Yerin agreed. “Especially if I was starting from Jade. There are ways to pump you up on the day, just for one fight, but none of them are stable for your health.”
“Then…what am I doing?”
She stayed quiet, looking into the fire with him. The rain picked up, slowly dousing the campfire, turning the dark, greasy flames to smoke.
“Back home, they'd have named me heir to the clan by now,” Lindon said. “Jade before seventeen summers. They'd call me a genius, or blessed by the heavens. But that’s not enough to keep me alive.”
She leaned her shoulder into his. “Back in your home, they stacked up pebbles and called them mountains. When you left, you slipped out of a trap. As for dying…” She gave a soundless laugh. “Not your problem alone, is it? Eithan’s to blame for dangling you over the fire; he’ll have to do his share of pulling you out.”
Yerin slipped her hand into his and gave him a squeeze. Her fingers were rough and callused. “I’m here too, for all that’s worth. Don’t want to see you buried yet.”
Lindon’s heart hammered, and he had to concentrate to control the flow of his madra. He had lived in this valley with Yerin for the past half a year, but the contact between them had been almost entirely related to the sacred arts—she would give him pointers during practice, or discuss that day’s attempt at the Trial, or help him catch food. They had both been aimed at the Trial like a pair of hawks unleashed for the hunt.
Now, this simple contact felt like sinking into a warm bath after a long day working in the snow. He squeezed her hand back without a word, and she left it there as they leaned against each other.
Together, they sat and watched the rain.
…until they heard the scream.
It started as a distant shriek, but rapidly grew closer. Yerin was on her feet with weapon in hand instantly, her silver Goldsign arched and poised.
Lindon rose more roughly, favoring his wounded leg, but he had recovered enough Blackflame madra to begin cycling for the Burning Cloak. If this was a fight, maybe some unexpected beginning to the Striker Trial, he would be ready.
Eithan slammed into the ground a second later, face-first, kicking up a cloud of dust.
Both Lindon and Yerin took a step back, coughing and waving dust away. When the cloud cleared, the Underlord was still lying there spread-eagle, turquoise-and-gold robes settling into the dirt, his yellow hair a mess around him.
He suddenly convulsed, making a choking sound as he sat bolt upright. An instant later he hacked a mouthful of mud onto the ground, grimacing at the taste.
“That was more of a—ah, let's say—rapid descent than I intended,” Eithan said, rubbing dirt from his face with the heel of his hand.
The top of the cliff loomed over them, scraping the sky. He had to have fallen over a hundred feet, if not more. “Underlord, are you...are you all right?”
Yerin folded her arms. “Takes more than that to ruffle your feathers, doesn't it, Eithan?”
Eithan spat some more mud onto the ground. “I'm not so sure. My feathers might be intact, but my ribs are going to have some complain
ing to do for the next morning or two.” He coughed loudly into his hand, and then inspected his palm.
“It’s a pleasure to see you, after all this time,” Lindon said. “Are you here because we passed the Trial?”
“You mean, why did I fall out of the sky and onto my face just now?” Eithan asked, rising to his feet and brushing himself off. “A wise question. I've been keeping an eye on you, as I promised, and now that you've cleared the Enforcer Trial—none too soon, I might add—I decided to pay you a visit. And as I was making my way to you, I...” He coughed once more, more lightly this time. “...slipped.”
Yerin looked him up and down. “Underlords slip off rocks every day, do they?”
“I don't make a habit of it, but it was a steep descent, as you can see.” He gestured to the cliff, which was the next best thing to a sheer wall. “Even I make mistakes from time to time. Anyway, I was waiting for the most appropriate time to make my entrance, and...well, it was raining.” He held out a hand. “Looks like that's cleared up, and just in time!”
His grin returned in full force, and he bulled forward before Lindon could ask any more questions about his entrance. “Half of your year remains, as I'm sure you know, so I come bearing gifts.” He turned to Yerin, giving a shallow bow. “For you, little sister, I have located that greatest of rarities: a Spirit Manifestation pill.”
Yerin stared blankly at him. “If you're expecting me to start dancing for joy...”
“The Spirit Manifestation pill is very delicate and expensive, refined from some of the most valuable herbs and blood essences on the continent. It takes decades to finish, and each individual elixir can be considered a refiner's masterpiece!” Yerin didn't seem impressed, but Lindon was leaning forward, eyes wide.
If Yerin's gift was so rare and valuable, he could only imagine what was coming his way.