The Trial Hall was located into the Spire's deepest levels, where the scent of scorched metal and old blood leeched in the air. Torches lined the obsidian walls, lighting up engraved names of Stormguards who had passed the trial, and those who had died screaming in the attempt. Kieran's name was not yet among them, and if he failed, it never would be.
He knelt in the center of the chamber, with a bare chest, every muscle in his body stretching tighter. The floor beneath him was cold, unforgiving, waiting for his collapse. He would not give it the satisfaction.
Master Artificer Aedric Vahn moved around him, gauntleted fingers tracing along the stormsteel apparatus locked around Kieran's forearm. The device was ancient—part weapon, part parasite. It was said that the gauntlet did not merely bond with a Stormguard—it consumed them, burrowing into their flesh, feeding on their lifeblood until they were something more or less.
"Last chance to turn back, recruit," Vahn muttered, voice like a grinding iron. "Not everyone is built for this."
Kieran's jaw tightened. He had bled, fought, and starved his way to this moment. The Spire had taken everything from him already—his family, his home, his name beyond the walls. There was nowhere to go but forward.
"I'm ready," he replied.
Vahn exhaled, half amused, half pitying him. And without another word, he pressed his palm against the gauntlet's core. The activation rune flared to life.
Agony ripped through Kieran like a lightning strike. He arched back, a strangled sound tearing from his throat as the gauntlet's metal came alive. It did not sit upon his arm—it bit into it, steel fusing with his muscle, tendrils of raw energy boring into his veins like molten hooks. His blood rebelled against it, his body rejecting the invasion with violent tremors.
The air in the hall shook. The torches guttered. Somewhere above, the storm thundered in response, a monstrous growl echoing through the Spire's stone. The pain was blinding, beyond comprehension, past any threshold he had ever known. Every nerve screamed, white-hot fire pouring into his bones, his breath coming in with short, fractured gasps.
"Hold." Vahn's voice was distant, a whisper drowned beneath the roar in his skull. "Do. Not. Resist."
But how could he not? His body was being decluttered. His vision blurred at the edges, dark patches crawling into his periphery. He dug his nails into his thighs, trying to anchor himself to something, anything—but the pain was a rising tide, and it was drowning him.
His heartbeat superseded at an abnormal rate against his ribs. It wasn't just the gauntlet sinking in now—something else was there. Beneath the agony, beneath the storm's rage, a whisper crawled into his mind.
Beyond the storm.
The words did not belong to Vahn. They did not belong to anyone in the chamber.
Kieran squeezed his eyes shut, but it did nothing to block out the visions.
A sky, darkened beyond the storm's edge. Shadows shifting as the lightning splintered. A shape—tall, twisting, unbound by flesh—watching him.
Kieran's scream reverberated through the crackling air. The gauntlet flared white-hot, searing into his flesh, sinking past skin and muscle. His body jerked against the restraints bolted into the stone platform, every muscle pulled, every nerve set ablaze. Lightning seeped through his veins, a living current that threatened to destroy him from the inside out.
The chamber was formed from the very heart of the Spire, a place where echoes of past agony still clung to the air. Towering pillars of obsidian stood, their broken edges illuminated by the furious dance of stormlight. A semicircle of masked figures watched from above—the Spire's ruling council, silent and unmoving.
Captain Vaelen Strake stood at the edge of the platform, his expression indifferent. "Don't fight it, Voss. Let it break you or let it make you."
Kieran gritted his teeth. His breath came in fractured gasps, each one laced with the metallic tang of blood. His hands, now half-consumed by the gauntlet, trembled as the arcane metal burrowed deeper. He swore he could hear it whispering—a voice beneath the thunder, threading into his mind. It was not the voice of the storm.
The pain splintered his thoughts. He felt as though he were being stretched beyond the limits of his body, of his very existence. He wasn't just Kieran anymore. He was storm. He was power. He was dying.
"Too weak." One of the council members muttered, their voice dripping with contempt.
Kieran clenched his jaw, forcing himself to lift his gaze to the sneering figure above. He wouldn't fail. He couldn't fail.
Another wave of energy slammed into him, a strong bolt that sent his back arching off the platform. A cry ripped from his throat, and for a brief moment, he saw beyond the chamber. Beyond the Spire. Beyond the storm.
The wasteland stretched endlessly, its skeletal remains bathed in sickly light. And in the distance, where no living thing should be, figures moved.
Not Wraithborn. Not beasts.
Then the vision disappeared. Kieran collapsed against the stone, his body shaking, sweat dripping from his brow. The gauntlet, now fully fused, pulsed with residual energy. He was still breathing. Still alive.
Vaelen knelt beside him with a plain expression. "You saw something, didn't you?" His voice was quieter now, but not with concern. Not curiosity. It sounded more like a warning.
Kieran swallowed hard with a raw dried throat. He could barely find the strength to speak, but he forced out a single word.
"Yes."
Vaelen's gaze darkened. "Then forget it."
Pain. That was the first thing Kieran felt as he clawed his way back to consciousness. An agony that had paralyzed his senses, it felt like it had been poured into his veins, settling heavy in his bones. His body trembled, the weight of the gauntlet anchoring his arm to the cot beneath him. The world around him felt like it was being swung, except he was just dizzy.
He tried to move and suddenly an electric snap surged through his arm, sending fire racing up his nerves. He bit back a scream, but a strangled gasp escaped his lips.
Kieran turned his head—slowly, painfully—to see Vaelen Strake, the Stormguard Captain, standing by his cot. The man was motionless, his face as unreadable as ever. His storm-gray eyes, however, held something darker.
"How—" Kieran's voice cracked. His throat was dry, as if he'd swallowed ash. "How long?"
"Two days." Vaelen's voice was flat. "Two days of fevered convulsions. You nearly burned from the inside out."
Kieran swallowed hard. He vaguely remembered flashes of pain, voices he couldn't place, a cool hand pressing against his forehead—then darkness.
He looked down at his arm. The gauntlet had fused, no longer a separate thing of metal and wire but now a part of him. The steel was dark, veins of blue energy flowing faintly beneath its surface, mirroring the rhythm of his own heartbeat. His fingers twitched, testing, and the power within stirred—a quiet hum beneath his skin.
"Hurts, doesn't it?" Vaelen muttered.
Kieran forced himself upright, his body protesting every inch. "What… what happened to me?"
Vaelen studied him for a long moment. Then, without a word, he reached down and tossed something onto the cot beside Kieran.
A discolored belt buckle.
Kieran's stomach twisted. Recognition slammed into him like a spinster. The buckle was still warm, the insignia barely visible through the scorched metal. It belonged to Ren Halveth.
The realization sent a sickening wave of nausea through him. "No." His breath came fast. "No, he—"
"Dead," Vaelen cut in, his voice edged with dominance. "The trial takes its price. He was too weak to bear it."
Kieran clenched his jaw. Ren had trained beside him for years, a rival and a friend. They had pushed each other, fought side by side. And now—gone. Just like that.
"Why?" Kieran demanded, his voice raw. "Why do we have to die for this?" He lifted his gauntleted arm, glaring at the cursed thing. "Why does it have to be this way?"
Vaelen didn't answer at first. He merely exhaled, his gaze distant. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and edged with something Kieran couldn't quite place.
"The storm does not lie."
Kieran shook his head, rage building under the surface. "You keep saying that, but I saw something, Vaelen. Before I blacked out. Beyond the storm—"
"Enough." The captain's voice was sharp. His eyes darkened, and for the first time, Kieran saw fear in his eyes.
Kieran stilled.
"You think you saw something," Vaelen said. "A trick of the trial. A fevered illusion." He stepped closer to Kieran. "But hear me, boy—you will forget it. Do you understand me?"
Kieran opened his mouth, but Vaelen's next words stopped him cold.
"Or you won't live long enough to regret it."
The gauntlet pulsed against Kieran's skin, and deep in his bones, he knew—Vaelen was lying.
There was something beyond the storm. And now, he had to find out what.
Now that he passed the test and was officially regarded a Stormguard, Kieran sat on the edge of his bunk bed thinking to himself, how painful it was and how the gauntlet that was now embedded under his skin felt evil, draining out life from his veins.
His other hand balled into a fist. Two days. Two days lost to fever, two days waking up to find Ren was gone.
Ren should have been here, slumped on the bunk across from him, complaining about how the trial had nearly killed him. Instead, all Kieran had was that discoloured belt buckle.
His fingers traced the scorched metal, his jaw tightening.
"Storm take me…" he muttered. His voice felt foreign, as if he wasn't entirely himself anymore. Maybe he wasn't.
A familiar voice cut through the suffocating quiet.
"You look like shit."
Kieran's head jerked up. Joran Velst. Another recruit, one of the few he might have called a friend. Joran stood in the doorway, his uniform still stained with training dust. His expression was grim, but his sharp green eyes swept over Kieran like he was looking at a man who'd crawled out of his own grave.
Kieran scoffed, though there was no humor in it. "Feel worse."
Joran leaned against the doorframe. "Word is, you screamed the entire first night. Thought you were dying."
Kieran let out a slow breath. "Maybe I was."
Joran shifted, uneasily. He was rarely quiet for long, but something in his stance told Kieran he knew.
"Ren," Kieran said his voice low.
Joran's expression darkened. He hesitated before speaking. "We burned what was left. Didn't even get a ceremony. They just—tossed his ashes into the wind."
Kieran's gut twisted. "That's it?"
"That's it." Joran exhaled sharply. "Welcome to the Stormguard."
Kieran stared down at his hand, at the gauntlet that had become his curse. His fingers flexed, and for a brief moment, the veins of blue light flickered beneath the surface, like trapped lightning.
Joran must have noticed his unease because his voice dropped. "Does it feel different?"
Kieran met his gaze. He could lie—say he felt stronger, say it was worth it. But the words wouldn't come. Instead, he nodded, slowly. "Yeah. Different."
Joran studied him, then sighed, rubbing a hand through his short, copper-colored hair. "You gonna tell me what really happened in there?"
Kieran's mind flashed back to that moment—the vision beyond the storm, the shadows, the whispers that hadn't faded even after he woke. The fear in Vaelen's voice.
No. He couldn't tell Joran. Not yet.
"Nothing," Kieran muttered. "Just the usual trial. Pain. Fire. The whole near-death thing."
Joran wasn't so much convinced about what happened to Kieran. "Right. Well, if you're expecting a moment to breathe, don't. The Council is already one step ahead, they are investigating, they want to know everything that happened to you, you know how they hate being in the dark."
Kieran frowned. "Why?"
Joran shrugged, but there was tension in his shoulders. "Something about the way you survived. Not many make it through the gauntlet with their minds intact." He hesitated, lowering his voice. "If they think you're—different—they'll test you. And if they don't like what they find…"
He didn't need to finish. Kieran knew what happened to those who didn't fit the Stormguard's mold.
Exile, if they were lucky.
More often, they simply vanished.
Kieran forced himself to stand, ignoring the way his legs ached, the rawness in his bones. He was done lying here, waiting for answers that would never come.
"I need to train," he said, more to himself than Joran.
Joran huffed a humorless laugh. "You barely survived, and you're already itching to get beaten into the dirt again?"
Kieran flexed his gauntleted hand, watching the energy pulse faintly beneath his skin.
"I need to know what I am now."
Joran didn't argue. He just gave a him a nod. "Then let's find out."
Kieran knew for sure that he was not the same man who entered that trial.
And whatever had changed inside him…terrified him so much and he knew sooner or later, The Council would find out.