The morning air in Eldertree carried the crisp scent of parchment and petrichor as Aethon stepped onto streets transformed overnight. Where yesterday had been simple market thoroughfares, now banners of royal blue and silver rippled between the ancient boughs overhead, their embroidered sigils catching the dawn light.
Every nook was denoted by the Arcane Atheneum's emblem, an open book whose pages split into roots and were crossed by a raven's quill. The Trials of the Ascendant had begun, and the city thrummed with nervous energy.
The usual whispers of the Reaper's Fang were strangely muffled as Aethon adjusted it on his hip. He hadn't come for glory or academic prestige. The tattered scrap of parchment in his pocket— which he found some days ago which was bearing that cryptic "Rootways" and the partial clue about the Weeping Stone—demanding answers the common taverns and street vendors couldn't provide. But the Atheneum's archives? They were said to contain histories written in the blood of kings and forgotten scholars.
If any place held knowledge of the Rootways and what lay beneath the Weeping Stone, it would be there,but for now he had an aptitude test he had to pass
The streets flowed like a river towards the Sylvan Spire, the central tower of the Atheneum that rose through the canopy like a spear made of living wood and stained glass. Aethon moved with the stream of eager candidates, his boots scraping against the cobblestones that had been smoothed over centuries of traveling in similar fashion. Surrounding him, the applicants created a vibrant tapestry of ambition
Noble heirs in robes adorned with silver thread, their familiars—crystal-winged moths and flame-eyed foxes—perched regally on their shoulders
Village prodigies gripping grimoires bound in what appeared to be their family's last good leather, their fingers marked with homemade inks
A woman with broad shoulders and a greatsword secured across her back, its ward-wrapped crossguard suggesting she might be another blade-bound.
The Reaper's Fang reacted to her presence, saying, "That steel has tasted good blood," with a hint of admiration. "Not like these ink-stained children." Aethon chose to ignore it, though he noticed the woman's gaze linger on his weapon before she moved on.
At the Spire's base, an archway of intertwined silveroak and shadowvine formed the official entrane where the people are, Golden runes flowed through the living wood, the chamber fell silent as a figure descended the grand staircase—a slow, deliberate procession that seemed to siphon the air from the room, revealing a female who's not tall, nor broad, but she carried herself with the lethal precision of a dagger being drawn in the dark.
Her robes, the deep burgundy of old bloodstains, whispered against the steps, each fold perfectly arranged despite her movement.She moved like a shadow given form—willowy yet deliberate, her frame draped in a fitted coat of charcoal suede, its high collar brushing the sharp angles of her jaw. Her skin held the warm bronze hue of sun-baked desert cliffs, smooth save for a single pale scar that curved from cheekbone to chin like a crescent moon.
Dark brows arched over eyes the color of storm-brewed tea, their gold-flecked depths shifting between keen observation and private amusement.
It was impossible to tell whether the small silver blade at the end of her iron-gray hair was a scholar's ornament or a hidden weapon. It was bound in a single, severe braid that reached her waist. But it was her left eye that seized attention: the pupil glowed with magelight, swirling like ink dropped into water, its depths shifting with unseen currents. A mark of power, or a curse—or both.
She reached the final step and paused. The silence stretched, taut as a bowstring.
Then she spoke.
"Welcome," she said, her voice low, measured, "to the Trial of the Unworthy, I'm headmistress Seraphine Duskthorn"
Her gaze swept across the gathered candidates, lingering just a heartbeat too long on Aethon—or, more precisely, on the sword at his hip. Her illuminated eye pulsed faintly, as if recognizing something in the blade's presence. In response, the whispers of the Reaper's Fang became more distinct, and Aethon felt the Reaper's Fang tighten. "She knows," the sword murmured. "She has seen steel like me before."
Aethon said nothing, but his fingers twitched toward the hilt.
Orlav's lips curled—not quite a smile, but something closer to a challenge. continued, her gaze finally releasing them. Welcome here where you have to prove you can survive.
She raised her hand. A single snap of her fingers—crisp, final—and the world dropped out from beneath them.
THE DESCENT
The world dissolved into blackness—a breathless moment of freefall where time itself seemed to stretch—before they crashed onto unforgiving stone.
The Chamber of Endless Hordes yawned before them, a vast, circular pit of polished obsidian, its walls towering into unseen heights. Floating braziers cast flickering orange light across the arena, their flames guttering as if starved for air. The ground beneath their feet was unnaturally warm, the heat radiating through boots like the dying breath of some buried leviathan.
At the center rose a stone dais, its surface carved with warnings in a dead language. Above it, a tattered banner fluttered—its words stark against the gloom: "HOLD OR BE FORGOTTEN."
Then—
A sound like bones breaking. The chamber walls split apart, fissures spiderwebbing through the black stone. From the widening cracks poured the Horde, their forms still shadowed in the half-light, but their hunger palpable in the thickening air.
They came in waves.
First, the clicking—a tide of chitinous limbs as the vanguard scuttled forward, their many-jointed legs scraping against stone.
Then the groaning—hulking shapes draped in rusted chains, dragging weapons too large for mortal hands.
Last, the silence—figures wreathed in smoke, their eyes burning like embers in a funeral pyre.
The Reaper's Fang trembled in its sheath, not in fear—but in recognition,they are enemies they had slaughtered on their way here.
"They remember us," it whispered crackling with laughter
And then the killing began.