Valeryon awoke abruptly, her heart racing, unsure what had disrupted her sleep. She glanced out the window; it was still dark, likely just past midnight. Taking a deep breath, she focused on the rhythmic ticking of her pocket watch on the bedside table. Just as she was about to drift off again, a gentle knock at her door pulled her fully awake.
"Your Highness?" a voice called softly.
Recognising the voice, Valeryon reached for her iridescent black veil on the bedside table. She slipped it over her head, feeling the smooth fabric cascade around her before securing it with a simple silver circlet. After straightening her nightgown, she crossed the room, the soft fabric rustling as she approached the door and opened it.
Ophelia stood outside, holding a lantern that cast a warm glow across her solemn marble-carved features. She dipped into a respectful bow. "Greetings, Your Highness. The auspicious time approaches. We must make haste to honour it."
"Are you certain?"
Ophelia inclined her head. "I would not have disturbed your rest otherwise, Your Highness. Today's alignment is rare—the Celestial Union of Mortalis and Ferox. It marks the moment when the two guardian stars cross. Their union is said to purify the spirit, washing away burdens before new beginnings. There is no better time for the rites to be observed."
Valeryon nodded, slipping into her soft leather flats before following Ophelia through the dim corridors. Their footsteps echoed softly as they descended, the lantern's flickering light casting long shadows along the cold stone walls.
They eventually came to a stop before the towering doors of the Ancestral Hall. Valeryon had entered this sacred space only a handful of times, the last being months ago after her unexpected encounter with Heiress Jurien Lunarys. Jurien's peridot-green eyes—traits Valeryon had believed unique to her clan—had drawn her back in search of answers.
Through hours spent studying the genealogical tapestry and reviewing library records, Valeryon uncovered some intriguing details about Jurien's maternal lineage, the Amoryons. This minor noble family from Ebren had immigrated to the Archipelago during Queen Vera's reign, though their motives for leaving were unclear. Unlike many established families, the Amoryons lacked a distinct magical affinity and showed little interest in healing or related fields, complicating any speculation about their bloodline abilities.
What was intriguing, however, was that the Amoryons, unlike many other minor noble houses of foreign origin, were well-regarded among the twelve Vassal Houses. They had successfully married into several prominent families, the most recent being House Lunarys. Despite their high status in society, Valeryon found no substantial documentation linking the Amoryons to the royal family, either before or after their settlement. There wasn't even speculation about any possible connection between them.
This left Valeryon with two possibilities: either the Amoryons had diverged from the Valeryon bloodline generations before the Founder, King Valeryon the First, or they were a completely separate lineage whose resemblance to her clan was merely coincidental.
Valeryon exhaled slowly, setting her thoughts aside to concentrate on the task ahead. She slipped off her shoes and placed them by a low bench before stepping barefoot onto the cool stone. As the doors opened, the warm scent of freshly lit incense surrounded her.
Her gaze went to the far wall, where the vast genealogical tapestry dominated the room. Golden concentric rings marked each generation of her bloodline, gleaming softly in the dim light. However it did not hold her attention for long.
The Shrouded, clad in flowing black silk gowns, stood in rows along the length of the hall, their forms blending with the shadows. Each figure's face was concealed by veils embroidered with glowing silver glyphs.
Bound to the Valeryon bloodline through ancient rites. Sightless and speechless, the Shrouded existed solely for the service of the royal family.
As Valeryon approached, they inclined their heads in unison, extending their hands with palms upturned in a gesture of deep reverence.
She hadn't seen the Shrouded since childhood, when Lady Daphne had first introduced her to their presence and purpose. Back then, she had recoiled at the notion of their service, uncomfortable with the idea of being attended to with such subservience.
So, why were they here?
"Is this truly necessary?" she murmured, glancing at Ophelia.
"Yes, Your Highness," Ophelia replied. "The Shrouded are bound by duty to assist you. Only they are qualified to perform the next rite." With a respectful bow, she stepped back into the shadows, leaving Valeryon alone.
Taking a deep breath to steady herself, Valeryon stepped forward. The Shrouded closed in around her, their voices rising in a low, sonorous hum. The melody, ancient and haunting, reverberated through her bones, settling deep into the recesses of her mind, stirring something primal within her.
In perfect synchrony, they began to move, slow and deliberate, their silk gowns trailing across the polished floor as they danced in concentric circles around her. Their hands traced intricate patterns in the air, each movement heavy with meaning. She felt herself surrendering to their rhythm as they guided her toward a shadowed doorway concealed behind the genealogical tapestry.
The door itself was stark and unadorned, a simple slab of dark wood with a faded symbol etched into its centre—a remnant of another era, its meaning lost to all but the Shrouded. One of them stepped forward, pressing her hand to the symbol, her hum rising in pitch. The door responded with a soft hiss, yielding to the touch and swinging open.
Valeryon stepped through, into a chamber bathed in the dim glow of candlelight. Dozens of flickering flames cast shadows that seemed to dance to the steady pulse of the Shrouded's chant. At the room's centre, a shallow basin filled with fragrant, warm water beckoned. Jasmine petals, slivers of sandalwood, and rare spices floated across its surface, filling the air with a heady aroma that blurred the edges of her thoughts, casting a tranquil haze over her mind.
The Shrouded moved around her, their hands undoing the fastenings of her attire with practiced precision. Her circlet was lifted, her veil slid from her shoulders, pooling softly at her feet. As they stripped away each layer, a prickling discomfort settled under her skin, but she forced herself to breathe through it.
Guided by their silent gestures, Valeryon approached the edge of the basin. The steam rose, fragrant and thick, curling around her as if drawing her in. She took a steadying breath before lowering herself into the bath, the hot water enveloping her, loosening the knots of tension that had clung to her muscles. For a few precious moments, she allowed herself to relax, but her reprieve was brief.
The Shrouded began to methodically scrub her arms, shoulders, back, and legs. Each stroke was relentless, starting as a discomfort that quickly escalated to searing pain. Valeryon clenched her jaw, her muscles taut, as coarse cloth dragged across her skin, peeling away layers of both dead and living skin.
She closed her eyes, taking measured breaths, forcing herself to yield, to endure.
Eventually, the harsh scrubbing ceased, leaving her skin raw, red, and throbbing. For a fleeting moment, she allowed herself to exhale, thinking that perhaps it was over. Then she saw one of the Shrouded step forward, a blade gleaming in her hand.
Her pulse quickened, fingers digging into her thighs as the instinct to flee tugged at her. The blade's cool edge touched her scalp, sending a chill racing down her spine, goosebumps rising in its wake. Dark strands of hair tumbled down with each careful pass, momentarily drifting through the air before being incinerated in a quick burst of flame. The acrid scent of burnt hair filled the chamber, sharp and nauseating, twisting her stomach into knots.
Afterwards, the Shrouded approached Valeryon bearing earthen jars. Their surfaces were rough and textured, etched with glowing symbols that pulsed softly like the heartbeat. Each jar upon unstoppering was revealed to contain a different oil, thick and fragrant, suffused with the rich aromas of lavender, cedar, and frankincense. One by one, the Shrouded dipped their fingers into the oils and massaged the golden liquid into her skin with unexpected gentleness.
Once their task was complete, the Shrouded retreated in unison. They bowed deeply, marking the end of their participation in the ritual, and then melted into the darkness, disappearing.
At the edge of the chamber, a presence stirred. Ophelia emerged from the shadows, stepping forward into the flickering light. Finding Valeryon's attention on her, the Immortal Remnant spoke. "Follow me, Your Highness."
Rising from the basin, Valeryon felt droplets cascade down her skin, pooling onto the smooth stone floor at her feet.
Taking a deep breath, Valeryon followed Ophelia out of the bathing chamber and into a dim corridor lined with faintly glowing torches. With each step, the air grew heavier with humidity, causing beads of sweat to form and trickle down her bare skin. It wasn't long before the source of the heat revealed itself.
At the end of the corridor, a cavernous chamber yawned open before them, revealing a vast bubbling pool of luminescent water that dominated the space. Heavy steam billowed upward, swirling in thick clouds that obscured her vision and enveloped the room in a stifling humidity. Breathing felt like a laborious task, the warm, moist air invading her lungs with an oppressive weight.
"This is the Pool of Resolve," Ophelia announced. "Your Highness must soak within it until the rite is complete."
Valeryon turned to Ophelia, her brow furrowed. "How will I know when the rite is completed?"
"You will know, Your Highness, of that I assure you."
The oppressive heat radiating from the pool was suffocating even at this distance, if she was to submerge in it… Valeryon clenched her fists, her nails biting into the tender flesh of her palms.
She stepped forward. As she advanced, the steam thickened around her, wrapping her in a suffocating shroud. The warmth clawed at her skin, initially pricking with discomfort before morphing into a feverish sting that spread across her body.
One step at a time, her heart hammering in her chest, she lowered herself into the water. The heat enveloping her more fiercely with each inch she submerged. Still, she pressed forward, plunging herself beneath the surface until the water lapped at her jaw.
The pain was all-consuming—a furnace of raw agony. A hiss escaped her clenched teeth, her instinct screaming at her to flee, to claw her way out of the water and find relief. Yet she forced herself to remain, to endure.
The Pool of Resolve lived up to its name; there was no mercy here.
The heat peeling away Valeryon's carefully constructed mental defenses, exposing her bare, unguarded memories. Painful recollections surged through her mind: the gruelling Death Challenges, her life scraped from the jaws of defeat over and over and over again.
Time twisted and warped as the relentless burn seared through her flesh. Her healing ability strained under the onslaught, knitting tissue only to watch it slough away again. Her strength began to wane, her mind slipping toward the hazy edge of unconsciousness, but something within her held firm. She forced herself to keep breathing, to endure, to remain.
Then, gradually, so gradually that she barely noticed it happening at first, the water cooled, shifting to a gentle warmth.
That had to be her cue.
Valeryon's breath was ragged as she dragged herself out of the pool, water streaming from her raw, bruised skin, each droplet catching the torchlight before splattering onto the cold stone beneath her.
Ophelia was waiting at the edge, her gaze inscrutable. "Your Highness," she greeted, her voice neutral, neither softened with sympathy nor laced with praise.
Valryon's voice emerged as a hoarse rasp. "How many more?"
"Two more, Your Highness," Ophelia responded.
Valeryon's skin still shimmered with faint, green luminescence as her healing magic flared, tendrils of light tracing the lines of her wounds. Blistered and burnt flesh knitted together in painstaking slow layers, nerves reforming with agonising precision. Each moment felt like fire streaking through her limbs, a gruelling ordeal that drained her magical reserves to the brink.
Keeping her breath steady and controlled, she finally nodded. "Let's continue."
Without another word, Ophelia turned and led Valeryon down another narrow corridor. They moved deeper, each step pulling them farther from warmth and light. The corridor walls seemed to close in, pressing until they left barely enough space to pass. The air grew colder, sharp as needles, and Valeryon's breath became a fog of condensed mist in the chilled air. Valeryon wrapped her arms around herself as the numbing cold crept into her muscles, clenching her jaw to stave off shivers.
At last, they arrived at another vast chamber. In the centre lay a pool, darker than ink, the surface a flawless mirror. Tendrils of silver mist coiled above the water, twisting through the cold, their faint luminescence casting a haunting glow over the pool's obsidian depths.
"This is the Pool of Clarity," Ophelia revealed. She offered no further guidance, her silhouette fading into the shadows as Valeryon approached the pool's edge, left to face the ritual alone.
Valeryon stood at the pool's edge, steadying herself as she peered into its ink-black depths. Her reflection looked back at her—one eye a vibrant green, the other a cerise pink, both glowing against the dark. She exhaled slowly, her breath misting before her, then lowered herself to kneel. With a final, resolute inhale, she slipped into the icy depths.
The cold was instant and brutal, sinking into her skin like shards of broken glass, piercing through flesh and bone. Every inch of her body cried out in agony, muscles locked in pain as she fought the instinct to thrash against the freezing pressure. She forced herself to relax, slowing her breaths into shallow, steady inhales, surrendering to the biting cold that clawed at her with relentless persistence. Frostbite curled up her fingers and toes, darkening her skin to a sickly hue.
Inhale.
Exhale.
This was not the worst she had endured. Pain was nothing new to her, just another threshold to cross.
As she drifted in the pool, her consciousness wavered on the edge between awareness and numbness. The sensation of freezing became a dull ache, and she reached within herself, seeking the remnants of her magic. It flickered weakly, a fragile light barely there, but it was enough. The light flared beneath her skin again, radiating warmth through her battered muscles and bruised skin, shedding and repairing frostbitten flesh cell by cell. Slowly, the searing chill receded, giving way to an almost meditative calm.
Hours passed in silence, the water's chill persisting, but no longer unmanageable. Her heartbeat echoed in her ears, a steady drum that guided her through the calm. Eventually, the water's temperature began to gradually shift. The heat was subtle at first, a faint warmth threading through her limbs, melting the cold from her bones. Her muscles relaxed, the tension slowly ebbing away. It felt like the first dawn after a long, dark night—a gentle warmth that made her ache with relief.
Taking this as her signal, Valeryon planted her numb fingers on the pool's edge, summoning every ounce of remaining strength to pull herself up. Her arms trembled as she heaved her body onto the stone floor, collapsing onto its unforgiving surface. She lay there, gasping as her blood surged back into her extremities in sharp, burning waves. Every finger, every toe pulsed with fresh, fiery pain as the sensation returned. She gasped, her vision flickering from the strain, dark spots dancing at the edges as she struggled to stay conscious.
When her vision cleared, and Valeryon became aware of Ophelia standing silently above her. They exchanged no words; none were needed. Valeryon rose slowly, her muscles screaming in protest, her body quaking with the effort. She squared her shoulders, straightening despite the bone-deep ache. Then she followed Ophelia down to the final hall, ready to face the final rite awaiting her.
They emerged into an austere chamber, its vaulted ceiling drawing the eye upwards. Polished marble floors gleamed beneath Valeryon's bare feet. Streams of pale light filtering through the high lancet windows. The air was rich with the fragrant scent of incense, wafting from bronze burners that released gentle curls of smoke into the air.
Valeryon squinted as she adjusted to the brightness. Fatigue weighed heavily on her limbs, her eyes bloodshot and blurred at the edges from a sleepless night and the excessive use of magic.
At the chamber's heart loomed an obsidian throne—a monolithic structure hewn from a solid slab of dark stone. It drank in the light around it, casting a long, ominous shadow across the marble floor.
At the base of the throne, upon a dark velvet cushion, lay two ornate anklets. Each anklet was thick and broad, intricately woven with tiny polished diamonds that caught the light, their edges lined with what looked like small transparent bells.
Ophelia gestured towards the throne with a slight bow. "If you will, Your Highness."
Valeryon felt her heart hammering in her chest as she ascended the stone steps. When she settled onto the obsidian seat, an unforgiving chill prickled her exposed arms and legs, making her shiver involuntarily.
Kneeling at her feet, Ophelia reached for the anklets. The faint chime of the bells followed her movements as she lifted one anklet with deliberate care. "Extend your leg, Your Highness," she instructed.
Valeryon complied, holding her breath as Ophelia began to fasten the first anklet. The metal was icy, but Valeryon barely registered the chill before the anklet clasped shut with a resounding click. Sharp spikes embedded themselves into her flesh, tearing through her skin with brutal precision.
Inhaling sharply, Valeryon gripped the throne's arms, her knuckles turning white as agony shot up her leg. Blood welled around the edges of the anklet, trickling down her skin in vivid crimson rivulets that pooled at her feet, staining the polished stone below.
Ophelia secured the second anklet with the same surgical precision. Fresh waves of pain surged through Valeryon's leg as the spikes sank deep, each one perfectly positioned to pierce without mercy. Her pulse roared in her ears, and her vision swam as the shock took hold. She felt each pulse of blood, the hot liquid dripping from her ankles creating a sinister melody, the rhythmic patter echoing in the silence of the chamber.
As the pain coursed through her, Valeryon reflected on the thirteen years of her life in this world—years spent in relative safety, shielded from true suffering, untouched by anything more than fleeting discomforts. This false sense of security had dulled her senses, making her forget what it meant to be a Valeryon, to bear the weight of a bloodline built on endurance and sacrifice.
With a subtle gesture, Ophelia summoned the Shrouded—attendants who emerged from the shadows like spectres. They began to hum once more, a low, resonant sound that reverberated through the chamber. The hum grew, swelling and subsiding like the pull of tides, each note amplifying the raw pain from her ankles. It vibrated within her, turning the experience into something ritualistic and purposeful.
As the hum reached its crescendo, Valeryon braced herself, fingers gripping the throne tightly. She rose, the bells on her ankles chiming softly with her movement. The sound harmonised with the humming of the Shrouded, creating a haunting symphony of agony. Each step she descended down felt like torture, the spikes in the anklets tearing at her flesh anew, leaving fresh trails of blood to stain her path.
Then her magic, whatever was left of it, surged—a vibrant green glow enveloped her ankles, knitting her wounds as quickly as they were torn open. It staunched the blood even as the pain remained unrelenting. A strange paradox of mercy; her magic preserved both her body and her suffering.
At last, she reached the base of the steps, the final note of the Shrouded's hum fading into silence as she came to a stop before them. In perfect unison, they knelt, pressing their foreheads to the ground, their reverence a silent offering. Ophelia, the Immortal Remnant also knelt among them.
A faint shiver ran down Valeryon's spine as she gazed at the prostrated forms at her feet. It was difficult to articulate the tumult of emotions swirling within her. The feeling was new, strange, and impossible to describe, yet it was not unwelcome.
Suddenly, a wave of dizziness washed over her, and the world around her blurred before she lost consciousness.