Rist convulsed, desperately gasping for air as the black liquid consumed him. He could feel himself screaming, but heard nothing. Not a single sound. Then, a calm washed over him. Everything was still. No sounds, no sensations, no light. He was engulfed by emptiness.
Rist opened his eyes.
He stumbled backwards, completely taken aback by what he saw. He was at the docks where he and Neera had kissed for the first time. But it was different. He couldn't quite put his finger on what exactly it was that was off, but he knew it was not the same as before. The light from the moon was dimmer, and the air held a bitter chill. Not a single sound hung in the night save the gentle crashing of waves against the dock. Not a drunken song, or an overly zealous trader. Not the squeak of axles or the mutterings of an intoxicated sailor. Nothing. It was as though every soul had been plucked from the streets.
"Hello?" Rist's voice echoed unnaturally through the night. He whispered, "What is this place?"
A monstrous roar from behind him caused Rist to turn on his heels. His jaw fell to the floor as he saw the palace, and in turn the embassy, consumed by fire, a large, winged shape soaring in the skies above the inferno. Without hesitation, he set off as fast as his legs could carry him. Every step echoed in his ears as though he were shouting down a well.
No matter how far he ran or which street he turned down, he did not see a single person – not one. What is happening? How is this possible? Rist tried his best to still his racing heart, but it did no good.
Fear is human. Embrace fear. Use it. Words he had read in a book. The concept seemed more easily executed when held within the confines of the page. In the real world, it was not so simple. Yet still, he did find some comfort in the words.
"Rist!"
"Neera?" The hairs all over Rist's body stood on end, and his throat went dry. "Neera!"
No matter how loudly he shouted, he got no response. In a panic, he looked around, searching for Neera's voice. Where had it come from? Even in his confusion, something was pulling him towards the palace. And so, he followed that something, whatever it was. It was the only thing giving him any sense of direction.
Rist's lungs burned, and his legs ached in pain as he dashed up the long steps that led to the palace gates. Just like everywhere else, the gates were abandoned. There was no sign of Brother Tharnum and the gold ring that hung from his nose, and no sign of any guards, either. But up ahead, flames engulfed the palace, bursting from windows, climbing up walls, eating away at the supports.
"Neera?" Rist called out, shouting as loud as he could. But he heard no reply. "Brother Garramon? Anybody?"
Another thunderous roar rang out overhead, and a dark shadow swept over the ground, dragging a gust of air behind it, so violent that it pulled all the flames in one direction. A dragon. Rist fixed his gaze on the sky, but he could see nothing, as though the sky had purposely darkened once he looked at it.
"Ahh!" Neera's scream echoed through the eerily empty night.
"Neera!" This time, the shout had a direction. It came from the embassy. Rist ran as fast as his legs would carry him, dipping out of the way of billowing flames, weaving through the palace gardens as they collapsed around him. The entrance to the embassy was completely covered in a wall of fire. Stopping in front of it, Rist called out. "Neera?"
No answer.
How do I… Rist reached out to the Spark, feeling it instantly, its power seeping into him. He drew on threads of Air and Fire, using them to part the wall of flames that blocked the entrance to the embassy, then darted in through the opening. "Neera?"
Rist stopped. He was now in the wide-open entrance hall of the embassy. A man stood before him with a long, slightly curved blade in his hands, a crumpled body at his feet. He was tall with broad shoulders, brown leatherwork armour across his torso, arms, and legs. But no matter how hard Rist tried to focus, when he looked at the man's face, he saw nothing but a blur.
Rist cast his eyes down to the body. Raven-black hair was matted with blood. Neera.
"Let her go!"
The faceless man tilted his head to the left at Rist's cry, then placed his boot on Neera's shoulder, kicking her over so Rist could see her broken, bloody face. Her clothes were in tatters, burnt and caked with blood. Her skin looked as pale as ice, lips blue. She was dead.
A tremble set into Rist's hand – an involuntary shaking fuelled by pure rage. It was a feeling he had never before experienced. His throat constricted, and a weightlessness set itself in his stomach. Blood rushed through his veins, causing a pressure to build in his head, dulling all sounds to a low, droning buzz. He felt as though he were about to vomit and lose his mind at the same time.
With his chest heaving, Rist let out a roar that rippled through the chamber. He reached out for the Spark, pulling in threads of Fire and Spirit, dragging them into himself with all his might, feeling the Spark burn through him. When it felt like his body was close to tearing itself apart, he unleashed a stream of chain lightning that tore through the chamber. Arcs of lightning ripped stone from the ground and tore panels from the walls, wreaking a path of destruction on their way towards the faceless man, who just stood there, his head tilted to the side.
Rist felt the man draw from the Spark – more threads than he thought possible to control at a single time. A complicated mix of elemental strands that his mind could not even begin to fathom. Most of the lightning simply parted around the faceless man, as though he repulsed it, but some of the arcs reversed their course, streaming back towards Rist.
Rist dove out of the way, a bolt of lightning crashing into the ground where he had stood, shards of stone flying in all directions. Coughing out dust from his lungs, Rist dragged himself to his feet, his brow dripping sweat. Suddenly, he became aware of a sword strapped to his hip. Was that there before?
Wrapping his fingers around the hilt, he pulled the sword free as he got to his feet, feeling it shake slightly in his hands. Both Brother Garramon and Sister Anila had instructed him in swordsmanship, but it was by far his weakest area of study. If he lived through this day, it was something he was going to work harder at.
Breathing deep, Rist charged at the faceless man, pulling threads of Earth, Water, Fire, and Air into himself as he did. Pushing the threads of Earth into the ground, he dragged the clay through the areas where lightning had shattered the stone. Severing lengths of clay with threads of Air, he moulded them into spikes, drawing the moisture out with threads of Water, hardening them with threads of Fire.
Then, with a defiant roar, he launched the spears at the faceless man, following in close behind.
Again, the man deflected most of the spears with ease, others simply disintegrating into thin air as they drew close to him. Power radiated from him: more power than Rist thought a single person could ever hold. Rist's throat constricted even more as he lunged at the faceless man, blade first.
The clash of steel on steel rang out through the chamber as the two swords met. Even within a foot of the man's face, it was still a blurred mess, all muddled as though it was a blob of paint that had been half-spread with a brush.
The faceless man pulled on threads of Air, whipping at Rist, sending him sprawling. As soon as Rist hit the ground, he sprang back up, knotting threads of Air together and sending them back towards his attacker. But once again, the threads simply parted around the man as he worked a complicated mixing of threads. Rist had read about some of the mightiest Battlemages the empire had ever seen, including those who had lived in the time of The Order. The books had told of some with this kind of power, but Rist had always been hesitant. He had not truly expected a single person to be capable of holding so much strength.
He panted, dragging air into his lungs. The drain was already beginning to sap at him; he could feel it in his bones. Above him, a crossbeam creaked, consumed by the roaring fire that had begun to snake its way within the chamber from outside. Then he heard a loud crack, and the enormous wooden beam broke away, plummeting to the ground in an eruption of fire and charred splinters.
Rist clenched his jaw, tightening his fingers around the hilt of the sword. He didn't have many choices. He charged.
The man met every stroke of Rist's blade with measured ease before slicing a long gash down the length of Rist's right arm. He's toying with me.
Rist charged again. He struck low, before sweeping his blade across, aiming to split the man along the belly. But his opponent was too quick. He caught Rist's blade with threads of Air, holding it firmly in place, then brought his own sword up and swung.
The world faded to black.
Moments passed in the dark emptiness before everything burst to life once more. Rist dropped to one knee, his hand clasped around his throat, his chest heaving, trying desperately to drag air into his lungs. His ears erupted with the sounds of people screaming, mingled with the crackling of fire and the crashing of steel. Rist lifted his head, expecting to see the embassy, but he was no longer there. He was in The Glade. "What… What is happening?"
All around him, people ran like headless chickens, blood smeared across their faces, buckets of water in their hands. The village was on fire, consumed by towering flames as far as the eye could see. Bodies lay strewn about the ground, some human, some Uraks.
Rist froze as his eyes fell on a face he recognised. Dennet Hildom, Fritz and Kurtis's friend. The young man was split from naval to chest, his intestines spilled out on the ground in front of him, steaming into the night. Rist retched, then fell to his knees, emptying the contents of his stomach into the dirt.
Vomit-induced tears burned at the corner of his eyes as he wiped his mouth with the corner of his sleeve, the horrid acidic taste of puke coating his tongue.
"What are you doing on the ground, boy?" Erdhardt Hammersmith's voice boomed, though still somehow sounding as if it were muffled. The man stood over Rist, his enormous hand reaching down.
Rist took Erdhardt's hand, dragging himself to his feet. He looked as though he hadn't slept in weeks. His eyes were ringed with purple, his lips dry and cracked. Blood and ash marred his clothes.
"The inn, boy. They need you at the inn."
"Erdhardt, what is happening?"
"Go to the inn." Erdhardt turned, grabbing a bucket of water from the ground and running towards one of the nearby houses on fire.
"Wait… Gods dammit." Rist tilted his head back, sucking in a breath of air, tainted by the taste of vomit in his mouth. With a sigh, he set off through the village, heading for his father's inn, The Gilded Dragon. As he ran, he saw the bodies of more people he recognised: Lina Styr, her head split open from forehead to crown, an axe still embedded in the bone; Tach Edwin, an enormous arrow protruding from his sternum, his eyes open, cold.
Rist's heart stopped for a beat when he saw the body of Dann's father, Tharn Pimm, hanging from the wall of Iwan Swett's butcher, a massive, blackened blade driven through his chest, pinning him in place.
The man groaned, shifting ever so slightly.
"Tharn!" Rist ran to the Tharn's side, grabbing the man's hands. "Tharn, it's going to be all right."
Blood oozed from around the edges of the blackened blade, streaming down Tharn's clothes, dripping into a thick puddle that had already formed at his feet. Tharn tried to speak, but it mostly just came out as an incomprehensible gargle as the blood caught in his throat.
"No, no!" Rist's entire body shook. "Tharn, please, it's all right…"
Tharn's body sagged completely, his eyelids dropping down.
Rist screamed, fury igniting within him. He drew in threads of Air, feeling them wrap around his body, feeding on his anger. Then, releasing his hold on the threads, he slammed them into the house behind him, shattering the walls into nothing more than splinters.
His entire body trembled. He tried to calm himself, inhaling deeply through his nose, his chest shivering with each breath. Wiping the tears from his eyes, Rist turned back towards Tharn, wrapping threads of Air around the hilt of the blackened blade that pinned the man to the wall. Once he had pulled the blade free, he let it drop to the ground with a clang. Wrapping more threads around Tharn's body, Rist gently lowered the man to the ground.
"I'm sorry," Rist said, kneeling beside Tharn's lifeless body. "May the gods harbour your soul, Tharn Pimm. I will find Dann, I promise you."
His legs shaking, Rist pulled himself to his feet, just about keeping himself upright. Every part of his soul yearned to be sitting by the edge of Ölm forest, resting against the trunk of a tree, a book in his hand, Calen and Dann talking bullshit beside him. He missed his friends. He missed home.
Then he remembered Erdhardt's words. 'They need you at the inn.'
Settling the slight convulsions that had begun to creep into his chest, Rist pressed on, his fingers wrapping even more tightly around the hilt of the sword.
It seemed The Gilded Dragon was one of the few buildings in the village that was not consumed by flames, but the ground in front of it was another story altogether. Corpses filled the open space in front of the inn, lying face down in the blood-soaked dirt. He recognised all of them. Jorvill Ehrnin, Mara Styr, Rhett Fjorn… The list went on. With each face he saw, another fragment of Rist's heart broke, shattering as he watched the death of his home. Standing in the middle of the corpses was the faceless man, his fingers tangled in a woman's hair, his sword outstretched, blood dripping from its tip.
Rist could only see the back of the woman's head, her long brown hair tumbling through the man's fingers, falling over her shoulders, matted with dirt and blood. There was something familiar about her, though, something Rist couldn't quite put his finger on. It was more a feeling than anything else. That was when he noticed the other body. The one lying at the faceless man's feet.
His father's lifeless eyes stared back at him, empty. Lasch Havel was a proud man, a strong man. But above all else, he was honest and true. The sight of his father's body set a panic in Rist's mind that battled with equal measures of fury and agony, for he now knew why the woman felt so familiar. She was his mother.
"Put her down!" Rist yelled, his voice trembling. "Put her down and take me."
The faceless man tilted his head, just as he had done before, his fingers still firmly wrapped in Elia Havel's hair.
Rist took a step forward, opening himself to the Spark, letting the power of the elemental strands surge through him. He pulled on threads of every element, his mind working of its own volition as it twisted and wove them together. The air rippled, and the ground shook. The blazing fires of the village flickered upwards, as though no longer affected by the push and pull of the wind. All around, dirt, rocks, and bits of debris lifted into the air, hovering off the ground. Rist could see the threads whirling around him, weaving through the fabric of the world. But he could not feel them as he was used to; the iron grate of Earth, or the cool touch of Air. The only thing he felt was raw power, as though lightning seared through his veins. "I said, put her down!"
For a moment, the man stood still, as though contemplating Rist's demand. Then, he raised his blade and dragged it across Rist's mother's throat, releasing her hair and letting her roll on the ground, gasping for air, blood spilling through her fingers.
"Mam, no!" Rist released the Spark, feeling it tear away from his body as the threads dissipated from the world, the bits of hovering rock and debris dropping to the ground. He let go of his sword and leapt to the ground, dropping one hand behind his mother's neck. "No, no."
His stomach lurching, his chest aching, Rist drew in threads of Fire, Spirit, Earth, and Water. Please no. Please no. Fumbling over himself, he tried desperately to knit the wound back together, weaving the threads of Spirit into his mother's skin. Water to hold back the blood. Fire to cauterise the wound. "Mam, stay with me. It's all right, it's going to be all right."
Tears streamed down Rist's cheeks as he wove the threads. Nothing was working. Blood simply continued to pour through his mother's fingers, and the energy seeped from his bones at a rate he would not have thought possible.
"Please," Rist whispered, more to the gods than to anyone else. He held one hand behind his mother's head and the other against her cheek. "I love you. I'm sorry I left. I'm sorry."
Rist knelt in the dust, holding his mother in his arms as the light faded in her eyes, her body went limp, and her hands fell away from her throat. He swallowed hard, sniffling as the mixture of snot and tears ran down his face. He knew he should be screaming. He knew his heart should be pouring out over the ground. But instead, he was simply numb.
When he was sure she was gone, Rist lay his mother's head down on the ground, his hands shaking. A rage, the likes of which he had never known, swelled in his chest, burning through the anguish and the loss. It filled every piece of him, seeping into his bones and soaking into his skin.
He stumbled as he pulled himself to his feet. He had never experienced the drain come upon him so rapidly. He had been warned what healing could do to the untrained, but he had thought the warnings to be exaggerated. Now he knew they were not. It felt as though his soul was being pulled, kicking and screaming, from his body.
Gritting his teeth, Rist hobbled towards the faceless man, fury leaking into his voice. "I am going to kill you."
Through the muddled mess of the man's face, Rist thought he saw him smile before he sheathed his sword. Then the entire village shook, an ear-splitting roar resounding through the skies above. A pain burned behind Rist's eyes, and he fell to his knees, once again consumed by darkness as the world faded to black. He knelt there, his hands over his eyes, his chest heaving, his heart broken. "I'm sorry…"
A shiver ran through Rist's body at the touch of the cold wind that rolled over his cheeks. The smell of char and ash was gone, replaced by the scent of pine needles and grass.
A third time, Rist opened his eyes.
He found himself kneeling in a wide-open patch of grass, the sun beaming down over him. A thicket of pine trees ringed the opening, extending out to a sheer cliff edge. A man stood at the edge of the cliff, looking out over what lay beyond. Rist didn't have to think to know who the man was. It was the faceless man. Of that, he had no doubt.
Lifting his sleeves to his face, Rist wiped away the mixture of dirt, snot, and tears that streaked its way down his cheeks, then pulled himself to his feet. He was still weak, stumbling with every second step. But slowly he drew within five feet of the faceless man.
Dropping his hand to his hip, he felt the cold steel of a spherical pommel. He thought he remembered dropping the sword in The Glade, but his memory was hazy, as though something was deliberately fogging it over. Knowing he didn't have the time to dedicate to figuring out the puzzle, Rist slid the sword from its sheath. His throat dry and his chest weak, he held the sword out in front of himself, summoning as strong a voice as he could muster. "Turn around, slowly, and show me your face."
The man turned his head slightly, as though he was not sure what he had heard. Then, after what felt like hours, he faced Rist. Though, this time, his face was not muddled and blurred, it was clear as day. His soft brown hair, his green eyes, his warm smile. It was Calen.
Rist wanted to speak, but he couldn't find the words. This wasn't possible. Calen would never have done those things. He would never have killed all those people…
Another earth-shattering roar tore through the sky above, and an enormous shadow swept over the patch of grass, blotting out the sun, sending a shiver through Rist's skin. Another roar followed, and Rist looked up to find himself staring at the immense, winged shape of a dragon. The creature soared through the sky, its wings spreading so wide that its shadow covered the entire edge of the cliff.
"Calen." Rist turned his attention back to his friend, who now stood facing him. "What are you doing? How…? What is happening?"
"You sided with the enemy," Calen said, stepping closer to Rist. Calen's shoulders had filled out, and his body was laden with muscle. Several scars ran along his arms, one on his right cheek. "What choice did you give me? There can be no mercy in war, Rist. You chose this path."
"The enemy? Calen, I…" Rist stumbled over his words. His brain struggled to form sentences as he looked at his friend, so different, yet still the same. "They taught me about who I am. What I am. The empire has done horrible things, but that doesn't mean everyone under its flag is the enemy."
Calen took another step towards Rist, a branch snapping under his foot. The shadow of the dragon was gone, and Rist could see the creature swooping through the sky just behind Calen. What is that thing doing here?
"It's us or them, Rist. That's the way it has always been – that's the way they made it. They killed my parents, my family. They take what they want, kill who they want. We can't win unless we fight by their rules."
"You… you killed Neera… my parents… Calen, why? What have you done?" Rist felt himself retch again at the images of Neera, Tharn Pimm, his parents. Tears stung his eyes, and rage set his blood boiling. "You've become a monster."
"I had to become one to defeat one." With Calen's words, a deafening roar erupted from behind him, and the gargantuan shape of the dragon shot up past the edge of the cliff, straight towards the sky. Its body was covered in a glistening ocean of white scales that grew darker towards the base. Ridges of horns framed its face and jaws, over a foot long. It was the largest creature Rist had ever seen, as big as a ship. As the dragon rose, it turned, dropping back down towards Rist and Calen, its enormous wings whipping up gusts of wind that almost sent Rist sprawling to the ground. "You were meant to be my friend." The deafening thump of the dragon's wings almost drowned out Calen's words as Rist struggled to stay upright. "You were meant to be there with me and Dann when the time came. We were meant to be brothers! Where were you?"
Rist pulled on thin threads of Air and Spirit, weaving them through the gust around him, parting the air, not stopping it, simply changing its direction. It worked without costing him too much energy. His clothes stopped flapping, and he was able to stand up straight. "I didn't have a choice."
"You always have a choice," Calen retorted, a snarl forming in his throat.
"You murdered my parents!" Rist shouted, anger taking over everything else. He felt himself pulling harder from the Spark. "You had a choice!"
"And I made it," Calen said, before shouting something in a language Rist did not understand.
Reacting to the words, the dragon shifted in the air, dropping into a dive, heading straight towards Rist. At the last moment, an arc of purple lightning bolted past Rist's head, colliding with the dragon's chest, sending it reeling off into the sky.
"We need to kill him here, or he will destroy everything." Brother Garramon stood by Rist's side, his black and silver robes flapping behind him. The man was wreathed in threads of Fire, Spirit, and Air. Where did he come from?"I can't, it's Calen. I can't—"
"What more does he have to destroy for you to see the truth? Who else must he kill? End one life to save a million. We need to end this now! I'll hold the dragon off, you take the Draleid!"
The Draleid? Calen? That's not possible. Rist fixed his gaze on his friend, his mouth going dry, his hands slicked with sweat. How could Calen be the Draleid? The one who had been causing so many problems in the South, the one that had stirred the Uraks. How could he be the cause of so much death? Rist asked himself those questions, yet at the same time he remembered the sight of Calen dragging the blade across his mother's throat. He was not the same person Rist once knew. Rist's body shook at the thought of harming his friend. Calen had always been there, always. Knots twisted in his stomach, and he felt as though he was on the verge of vomiting. Attempting to steady the tremble in his hand, Rist gripped the hilt of his sword so tightly that his fingers went white, the blood draining. He took in a deep breath, then let it out in a sigh, stepping forward.
"At last, you show your true colours," Calen said, his lip curling and his brow furrowed. "So be it."
Rist froze as Calen charged towards him, only recovering in time to feel a tremor run the length of his arm as his and Calen's swords collided. Then a pang of pain exploded in his chest, Calen's knee crashing into his sternum.
Stumbling backwards, gasping for air, Rist dropped to one knee. Calen didn't allow him any respite. His friend dove after him, the steel of his blade glinting in the sun. Rist was able to deflect the first strike, but he lost his balance as he did, again falling backwards. Calen had always been the better swordsman ever since they were young. There had rarely been a morning where Rist hadn't seen him practising before helping his father in the forge. But this was different; now he moved with an effortless grace, as though the sword were simply an extension of his body.
They traded blows for a few moments before Calen sliced a gash across Rist's thigh, then plunged his sword into Rist's flesh, just below his ribs. Rist howled, pain burning through him. He could feel the cold steel tearing through his flesh with every movement, scraping against bone. He was going to die, and he knew it.
"You should have been by my side," Calen said, his eyes level with Rist's, his stare cold.
Rist glanced towards Garramon. The man lay broken against a large stone, his torso ripped open from groin to neck. Looking back into Calen's eyes, Rist knew what he had to do. "I won't let you become that monster, not more than you already have. You will always be my brother."
Rist reached out to the Spark, opening himself as he had done in The Glade. But this time, he pulled harder, as hard as his soul would allow, and then harder still. He screamed as the Spark consumed him, ripping through his veins and clawing at his soul. Every fibre of his being told him to let go, and so he pulled even more voraciously. Finally, when he had drawn so heavily he could feel the tethers to his own soul being sheared, he hammered the threads together, and the world erupted in a blinding light.
Rist awoke, convulsing on his side, feeling as though his entire body had been covered in ice. His throat constricted, and his chest heaved as he gasped for air, vaguely aware of someone draping a blanket over him. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry…"
It took a few moments for Rist to become aware that he was lying on the floor of the enormous chamber he had entered with Brother Garramon. The light of the braziers still cast a warm glow across the stone floor, their flames flickering wildly.
The voice of Andelar Touran rang out through the chamber. "Rist Havel, you have passed your Trial of Will. You have reached within yourself and risen above your own mind. You have taken your first step towards acolyteship."
Hands reached beneath Rist's armpits, lifting him to his feet. It was at that point he realised the blanket around his shoulders was not a blanket at all, but a pair of brown robes with a black line that ran parallel to its edges. Still shivering, he pulled the neck of the robes over his head and slid his arms into the sleeves.
Brother Garramon stood before him, a wide grin on his face. "Very well done, my apprentice. Very well done, indeed."
Rist returned his stare wordlessly, shivering and shaking. 'Well done' were not the words he was telling himself. How could you? The images of the dead bodies flashed across his mind. Neera, Tharn, his father, his mother, the look in Calen's eyes. 'You should have been by my side.'
Rist's stomach turned. Had what he saw been a premonition? It couldn't have been. But what if it was? When he was in there, he had forgotten where he was. It had felt so real.
It was only when Garramon began to lead Rist out of the chamber and back down the tunnel that Rist noticed the throbbing pain below his ribs, along with twinges in his thigh and arm. Reaching up, Rist rubbed his fingers against the outside of his robes, feeling a hard rise in his skin. Stopping, he pulled his robes open and gazed down at a mess of knotted flesh in the same position Calen had driven the sword through. Wide-eyed, Rist lifted his head towards Garramon.
"What happens in the well has consequences," Garramon said, his voice flat. "We had healers standing by."
"Wha… what if I had died in there?"
"It is a good thing that did not happen."
Rist's throat tightened, and he clenched the fingers on his left hand into a fist. "What was that? What happened in there?"
"I do not know what you saw. Each apprentice experiences something different."
"But what was it? Was it real? Will what I saw come to pass?"
"Some believe so. Some believe it is a vision from The Saviour, warning us of what will happen if we fail."