Chapter 8

As Pyre walked alongside the other Unclaimed, his thoughts drifted back to something the Swordsman said to him: You’re carrying a dead angel’s Sigil.

Was this why he was here? Why he had been diverted, sorted, separated into this final group? Why had the Swordsman looked at him the way he had?

Pyre’s fingers tightened reflexively, heat stirring faintly beneath his skin as the questions kept coming. This is probably something I should keep to myself for the time being…

Ahead of him, the lion-man walked with easy confidence. He was by far the tallest of them, with shoulders broad enough that Pyre sometimes had to angle his steps to avoid brushing against him. The others fell into a looser formation around Pyre.

He could not see them all clearly, not with the lion-man blocking much of his view, but he felt their presence, especially the arrogant man with short white hair, who stalked along near the front, chin lifted as if daring someone to challenge him. Beside him, Pyre had caught a woman in black robes whose face remained hidden beneath a deep hood.

But that was about it. He didn’t know when he would get a proper look at the others.

They passed through a series of corridors in relative silence, following the female attendant.

Light filtered down from nowhere in particular, pale and steady, until the space opened into a wide courtyard. It was circular, paved in pale stone traced with faint veins of light.

At the far end, shallow tiers rose in broad steps. Attendants in flowing gray robes stood along them, hands folded, watching the group arrive in silence, their expressions unreadable.

The woman who had led them there finally turned to nine Unclaimed. “You all may call me Sister Halcyon,” she said, her voice carrying easily across the courtyard. “We will test your Sigils soon, but before—”

“I’m ready to test it now,” the arrogant man cut in.

A few heads turned to him. The attendants above did not react outwardly, but Pyre felt a subtle shift from Sister Halcyon, as if she had concentrated her attention.

Her eyes flickered with a faint inner light as she studied the man with white hair. “Windscar, the Ascended Bastard of Morthe,” she finally said. “You would be the one willing to go first.”

Windscar smiled thinly, as if the title pleased him.

“I, too, am willing,” the lion-man growled, planting himself forward, unyielding.

Sister Halcyon inclined her head toward him. “Balefor, the Leoline Knight.”

Pyre glanced around, a prickle of unease crawling up his spine.

Does she know everyone by name? he wondered.

As if she had been privy to his thoughts, her gaze slid to Pyre next. “Pyre of Farreach.” From there, she gestured toward another behind him. “Saejin of the Light Silence.”

Pyre turned to Saejin. The man’s frock and layered clothing were bone white, pristine despite the journey. His eyes were clenched shut, his face composed to the point of severity. He stood perfectly still, hands folded, as if listening to something no one else could hear.

“Urosh, Who Ate the Storm,” Sister Halcyon said, continuing the roll call.

Pyre’s gaze shifted to a massive, shirtless man, his body a map of old scars—slashes, burns, fractures healed poorly and layered atop one another. When he exhaled, the air around him crackled faintly, a subtle distortion rippling outward.

“Anru the Tide-Bound.”

Standing beside Urosh was Anru, the fittest of all of them, the man with large eyes and slightly scaled skin, much of his clothing interweaved with small seashells and held together by starfish clasps.

“Marrowsven,” Sister Halcyon announced.

Marrowsven inclined her head. She was thin, almost fragile in appearance, with long, angular limbs and clawed hands. Her skin was pale to the point of translucence, a carefully painted red circle marking the center of her forehead.

Sister Halcyon gestured to a man at the back. “Rinpoche Kesh, Speaker for the Drowned Chords.”

Clad in sleeveless monastic robes, Rinpoche Kesh looked entirely at ease. His arms were corded with muscle, his skin weathered, a long-braided ponytail trailing to the small of his back. His eyes were calm, almost serene, and a faint smile tugged at his mouth as he spoke. “Hello, Sister Halcyon, and everyone else, I suppose,” he said, his voice with a hint of humor to it.

Sister Halcyon looked at the woman standing closest to Pyre, the one whom he had caught walking near Windscar earlier. “And finally, Lyra, Grace Divine.”

Lyra’s black clothing draped heavily over her frame, her hood still obscuring her face. Now, however, Pyre noticed her hands, which trembled beneath the long sleeves of her clothing. She stopped the moment he recognized it.

Embarrassed for her, Pyre glanced to the opposite side to see Windscar again. The man remained focused on Sister Halcyon with controlled sharpness. For a brief moment, his eyes darted to Pyre, just long enough to measure him, before looking away again.

“Well then,” Balefor said, his tone jovial as he threw his head back, his mane settling. “We’ve all been named. Who will test their Sigil first?”

“We will get to that,” Sister Halcyon said. “But first, let us discuss Sigils themselves. Most of you already know what they are, and many of you would have summoned yours on the road to the city, unable to contain your excitement at what you manifested. But for those that don’t,” she said, “you must first understand Anima. Every soul is powered by Anima. As a soul matures, its lived experience crystallizes into Domains—core concepts that your soul has embodied. These Domains require a personal trial, and completing that trial manifests a solid, fully formed Sigil.”

What trial did I pass? Pyre wondered. Was it surviving what happened to Farreach? Watching everyone die? Refusing to let go?

Sister Halcyon continued, “All of you have dedicated your lives to this very moment, to what happens next—what happens now.”

I definitely didn’t, Pyre thought.

Near him, Windscar straightened at that, standing a fraction taller.

“You all come from realms that understood and harnessed ascension. You died in ways that allowed your souls to express Sigils naturally. So now that I have explained that, let us see them. Let us all see your Sigils before your first combat trial.”

We’re going to fight? Pyre thought as Sister Halycon’s gaze shifted to Lyra.

“You first,” she said, motioning Lyra to move in front of the group.

The hooded woman stepped forward, and a crown flickered into existence above her head, nearly translucent as it drifted in the air. Lyra raised her hands and drew back her hood to reveal a bare scalp, ash smeared across her face in deliberate, ritual patterns. Her eyes remained downcast as the Sigil faded away.

“Good,” Sister Halcyon said. “Balefor.”

The lion-man strode toward her and summoned a massive greataxe. Like Lyra’s crown, it was translucent, its edges wavering slightly. Balefor flourished it once and grinned at Windscar before stepping back.

“Anru, let us see what you can manifest,” Sister Halcyon said.

Anru stayed in place and produced a chain-wreathed trident with spectral links clinking softly as it formed. It fizzled out and then reformed as he focused harder, a vein appearing on the side of his head.

“Saejin.”

Saejin also remained in place, the man’s eyes still shut. A floating disc appeared before him, the glowing piece shaped like an eye, its surface rippling faintly. It remained ever-present as he stood there quietly for a moment before ultimately bowing, his Sigil fading instantly.

“Urosh,” Sister Halcyon said, motioning him forward.

Urosh stepped out and summoned a jagged hammer. Lightning crawled across its surface in erratic veins before guttering and fading, the weapon shuddering once before dissolving.

“Good. Rinpoche Kesh.”

“Just Kesh is fine,” he said, stepping past Pyre, where he summoned a lute. “It was my stage name.” Kesh lifted his hand to strum it and stopped short, lowering it again without playing a note as the instrument faded.

“Planning to play us a song?” Balefor asked, the lion-man with a smile forming on his face.

“It’s best to leave an audience in anticipation,” Kesh said, joining them again. “At least for the time being.”

Sister Halcyon spoke again: “Marrowsven.”

Marrowsven stepped forward without sound, and a blade materialized in her hand—bone-white, faintly translucent. She slowly looked up to Sister Halcyon as the blade vanished.

“Wonderful. Windscar.”

“Second to last, apparently,” the white-haired man said after he was called.

He shouldered past Pyre without apology. With a grand sweep of his hand, Windscar conjured an enormous crescent blade. His Sigil looked perfect in form, but like the others, it was not fully tangible, its edges flickering until the weapon faded.

“And finally,” Sister Halcyon said as Windscar rejoined the Unclaimed, “Pyre.”

Pyre hesitated for a moment, not because the others unsettled him, but because they clearly knew more than he did. With this in mind, and aware that there would be combat next, he stepped forward and turned his hand around.

His broken black sword appeared, sparks of flame licking along its fractured edge as whispers poured over him. Fire crawled through the cracks where the blade should have been whole, swelling and shaping itself into a burning tip, his solid Sigil, leagues beyond what any of the other Unclaimed could conjure.

The courtyard fell silent, and above it, the attendants murmured among themselves.

Pyre sent his weapon away and rejoined the others, a dark feeling coming over him.

“All of you prepared for this,” Sister Halcyon said, taking their attention away from Pyre.

He thought back to Farreach, watching it all go to hell. Is this some sort of game of souls? Did my realm mean nothing? These people actually prepared for this, and my people just died!

Windscar stared openly now, jealousy and disbelief written plainly across his face as Pyre settled back into place.

“Where did you say you were from?” Balefor asked. “Far-something?”

“How are you so intact?” Lyra asked, without looking at him.

“Quite the blade you have there,” Kesh said.

Sister Halcyon stopped speaking and raised a hand before anyone else could say something to Pyre. “Enough. Pyre of Farreach does not need to answer now. Speculation is unhelpful.” She looked over the group. “Realms are temporary. Souls cycle through them constantly. Growth can exceed what a realm can sustain. You know this, and you know why you are here—”

No, I do not, Pyre thought as she continued.

“But there is so much more. The city of Aevum is a neutral ground, a place for training, guidance, and stabilization.” Her voice hardened slightly. “But failure has consequences.” She gestured toward the courtyard floor. “You have shown each other what you carry.” Her gaze shifted briefly, just long enough to linger on Pyre. “You will go first. You and Saejin. The testing grounds are through the door ahead. Let us see what you can actually do with your Sigils.”