The sea crashed against the cliffs of Vrael Bastion. Wind swept across the high walls, flinging salt spray across the wide yard. Torches burned low in their sconces, their flames thin in the breeze. The sky was clear and sharp, the kind of cold that clung to stone.
Altan stood at the head of the gathering yard. His cloak was damp with frost, boots braced on the slick stone. Beside him stood the steward, an old man in simple gray robes. He said nothing, but his presence grounded the moment.
Behind them stood the chosen. They were not conscripts or fresh recruits. They had been selected.
Prime Minister Qiu of the Free Cities League was the first to arrive. His cloak bore the dark blue of his banner, edged with ash-gray. Behind him marched his handpicked force: former soldiers, elite house guards, and veteran bodyguards from the Great Houses of the inner cities. Scarred and disciplined, they moved like men who had seen war from palace halls and city gates alike.
Queen Mother Velarath came next, her poise still and commanding. Her daughter, Yezari Val'Kyren, walked at her side, cloaked in pale cloth that shimmered faintly in the cold. The swordmaidens behind them carried crystal-forged blades. They moved without speaking. The very air slowed around them.
Then came Ghoran Skarnulf. His boots hit the stone with slow purpose. His sons, Hjald and Vargan, walked at his flanks. Behind them came warriors marked with spiral tattoos, some with wolfbone cloaks, all hardened by the wild north. These were Stormwulf volunteers, answering the call with blood and steel.
Last came Stormwake. No trumpet sounded. No banner marked his arrival. But his silence spoke louder than any herald.
Altan turned to the gate carved into the far wall. The blackstone was carved deep into the mountain's face. Two Stormguards stood ready on either side, halberds upright.
"This is the Chasm," Altan said. "Your test. Your crucible. Once you enter, it will not open again until the trial is complete."
He raised a hand.
The Stormguards stepped back. The gate groaned as locks unlatched, and a pulse of warmth rolled out from within. Flame torches lined the long corridor inside, casting light on smooth stone. The passage ran deep and wide—four men could walk side by side with room to spare.
More than three legions stood ready.
One by one, they stepped forward. Leaders, elites, warriors, and chosen heirs. The Avatar entered first, and the rest followed without a word.
A soft tremor rolled underfoot.
The torches flickered.
Then, without warning, the space ahead shimmered—like heat rising from stone. For a heartbeat, the entire passage shifted. The warriors walking inside disappeared.
In that moment, they were transported.
The Chasm had connected to the deep vault beneath Gale Citadel, far northeast. The journey that would have taken months on foot was completed in an instant.
The gate sealed behind them.
Inside the Chasm
Time moved differently inside.
A month would pass in the outside world. Within the Chasm, they would endure three years.
The structure was vast, built like a shifting maze. Its walls held old magic. Wraiths attacked with no schedule, no warning. The enemies took on familiar faces—fallen comrades, long-dead enemies, even twisted shadows of themselves. Sometimes they came at dawn. Other times during rest. They struck when confidence crept in.
Safe zones existed, marked with runes etched into the floor. Within them, wounds healed and food appeared. There was a library hidden deeper inside the Chasm, filled with ancient texts, codices, and manuals left behind by dynasties that no longer stood. But these safe places shifted as well. No chamber was truly secure.
They learned quickly that survival meant cooperation.
Scouts from the Free Cities learned to guard flanks, not vanish. Stormwulf brutes learned to follow hand signs from the swordmaidens. The Virak'tai warriors no longer held their silence alone. In time, they moved like parts of a single war-beast, no longer separate legions but limbs of the same purpose.
At the center of this unity stood Yezari Val'Kyren.
Her Eight-Petaled Cold Lotus technique did not just freeze bodies. It could stall thoughts and Qi itself. Her Frozen Bloom Reversal locked entire formations in place, stripping away intent before it became action. But it drained her. Her heart slowed. Her warmth dulled. She neared frost-trance with each use, and if she went too deep, she might not return.
Stormwake trained alone. His trial was different.
No allies. No rest. His enemies came through confusion—false orders, illusions, betrayal. His chamber rewrote its walls daily. His trials tested his instincts, not just his blade. He was forged not to fight, but to sense what others could not.
Altan had prepared something for him: a hidden cultivation path known only to a few.
The Spirit of the Beast.
Stormwake chose a creature of ash and smoke, one that lived quietly inside his Sea of Mind. It did not speak. It simply obeyed. It was his blade when needed, his eyes when none could see. It granted no comfort—only clarity.
By the second year, the chosen moved as one. Scouts signaled without thought. Swordmaidens and Skarnulf warriors rotated through positions by habit. Yezari anchored the center. When the wraiths struck, they struck back in perfect rhythm.
The Chasm was still sealed.
Above, in the Bastion's Upper Hall
Torches flickered in their sconces. The sea air had lost its bite. Vrael Bastion was quiet again.
Altan stood near the war table, the steward beside him. Another figure entered the room—a young man moving with exact steps. His face was calm, unreadable. He approached the center of the chamber and knelt.
"I am Nivak," he said. "Son of Stormwake. My mother was of the Whispershell Sect."
Altan studied him. "Insect bonded?"
Nivak nodded once. "Carrion beetles. Whisper-wasps. I speak through scent. I feel through vibration. I listen to the hive."
Altan turned to the steward. "What do you see?"
The elder's voice was low. "He is bonded. War beetles with extraction capability. Dormant shadow affinity. Not yet awakened."
Altan nodded. "Summon Warden Kael. The boy will train under him."
The steward bowed and left without another word.
Altan faced Nivak again. "You will stay here in the bastion. You will serve as my Silent Hand. You'll train each day under Kael. Learn the ways of shadows and signals. And if any message comes from Chaghan or the southern front, you will read it first. Then bring it to me. No one else."
"Yes, commander," Nivak replied without looking up.
Altan turned toward the stairs and walked out, his footsteps fading into the corridor.
Nivak remained kneeling long after the room had emptied.