Chapter 10

The space reset with unsettling efficiency after Anru was taken away.

The etched symbols in the floor dimmed, then brightened again, hairline fractures in the stone sealing themselves.

Pyre stood among the others in a dull haze, not sure of how to process all that was happening, as Balefor and Marrowsven took the platform.

Balefor summoned his greataxe with a nervous grin, the lion-man clenching it tightly, baring his teeth in Marrowsven’s direction. His Sigil was massive, its translucent form humming with restrained power.

The lion-man moved first, and when he swung it, the air boomed, the impact reverberating through the area even when it struck nothing as Marrowsven slipped out of the way.

Each blow that followed landed with crushing force, the platform groaning beneath Balefor’s feet. But his strength worked against him as much as for him. Every attempted strike carried too much momentum, his footing slipping just enough afterward to force constant correction. Balefor fought like someone used to winning by force alone, unused to restraint.

Marrowsven took full advantage.

Her Sigil manifested as a segmented blade of pale bone, each section bound by thin, flexible joints. It flowed through her grip with unsettling grace, bending and reorienting itself as she moved.

Marrowsven moved through her own body, folding and twisting through angles in ways that set Pyre’s teeth on edge just watching. She sidestepped blows by bending around them, ducking backward, spine arching impossibly. At one point she dropped to all fours, inverted, and scuttled beneath an axe swing before springing up behind Balefor.

There was artistry to her movement, an amalgamation of madness and graceful skill in the way she fought.

It soon frustrated Balefor, who roared and brought his greataxe down again and again, chasing her, forcing power into every strike.

Marrowsven never met him head-on. She slipped away every time, opting instead for quick attacks when she could in an effort to let Balefor exhaust himself.

Gradually, his swings slowed. Balefor’s greataxe dipped lower, his breaths becoming heavier as his Sigil wobbled. He sent it away, dazed as Marrowsven slipped around him again, still on the attack.

Sister Halcyon raised a hand. “Yes, that is sufficient.”

Marrowsven straightened slowly, bone blade dissolving back into nothing, her expression unreadable as she joined the other. Balefor followed, grumbling under his breath. “You’re fast, I’ll give you that,” he finally told Marrowsven. “I might have even caught you. But after what happened to that other guy, better to wait until I understand what I’m doing.”

After their names were called, Urosh and Kesh stepped onto the platform.

With a great clap, Urosh summoned his jagged hammer; arcs of lightning crawled across its edges and snapping into the air with sharp cracks. Kesh’s transparent lute appeared in his hand, and he remained calm, eyes half-lidded as Urosh charged.

The big man swung, his hammer roaring as it came down, lightning flaring. Kesh stepped inside the arc, brought his lute up, and plucked a fast series of notes that caused Urosh to stop dead in his tracks.

Urosh’s knees buckled, his hammer vanishing as he slumped forward. A moment passed, then he straightened again, eyes closed, breathing deep and even, his body swaying lightly.

Is he asleep? Pyre thought, not certain of what Kesh had just done.

Kesh smiled, brought his lute up again, yet never played another sound as it faded away. A stunned murmur rippled through the observers.

Urosh came awake, confusion in his eyes. “What happened?” he asked in a deep voice. “Did I lose?”

“Yes and no,” Sister Halcyon said. “Kesh, you are quite the bard.”

“Thank you, Sister,” he said, glee in his eyes. “Three centuries of music theory have given me time to write quite the lullaby.”

Kesh joined the rest of them, Urosh doing the same, the big man with his hand on the back of his neck, an embarrassed look on his face.

“And now, we only have one left,” Sister Halcyon said. “Lyra, please step forward.”

Lyra approached the platform, her black hood already pushed back. The translucent crown formed above her head, translucent flames drifting and rearranging themselves in slow patterns.

She moved into a martial stance, and a second Lyra stepped out of her shadow.

The duplicate was made of light, edges soft and luminous, mirroring her movements perfectly. Together they flowed through a series of precise poses, strikes and counters overlapping in seamless symmetry.

Soon, her spawn faltered, the replica’s movements lagging by a fraction. The light it projected dimmed, strobed, and eventually faded, unraveling into drifting embers as her crown vanished.

“A powerful Sigil indeed,” Sister Halcyon said.

Windscar clicked his tongue softly, eyes sliding aside in open dismissal.

“You would be wise to respect the Sigil of others, Windscar, Ascended Bastard of Morthe,” Sister Halcyon said, her voice not unkind. “They may come back to haunt you.”

Windscar straightened, jaw tightening, but said nothing.

Sister Halcyon turned to the group. “You have been through enough for one cycle. You will now go to the living quarters reserved for the newly arrived Unclaimed. Tomorrow, you will begin guided Domain exposure. Some of you already know where your strength answers. Others will learn. What you lean toward will respond.” She gestured. “Now come.”

I am so confused, Pyre thought as they proceeded through another archway, yet Balefor clapped him on the back hard enough to jolt the thought loose.

“Pyre was it?” he asked, the lion-man cheerful as they moved on.

“Yes, of Farreach,” Pyre told him, not certain if that was how he should introduce himself.

“Farreach, Farreach.” Balefor seemed to savor the words as the other Unclaimed moved ahead, Urosh still muttering about falling asleep to Kesh. “Is that a city? Or a realm?”

“It was a colony destroyed by the Hunger and its Devourers.”

“And that’s your last memory.”

“More or less.”

Balefor’s smile faded as they traveled through a wide corridor, one lined with gray marble statues. He inclined his head slightly. “If your last memories were fighting the Hunger and its Devourers, you might as well have died anyway. Who am I to question the bravery of that?”

“I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant that…” Pyre bit his lip. “That’s why I wasn’t prepared for any of this. Not like you all,” Pyre said once they reached a wide set of stone steps.

“As the Last Born of my pride, it was my duty. But yes, I was prepared. Or as prepared as I can be.”

“So you know more about this than me,” Pyre said, peering over at him. “Let me ask you: are you familiar with the Shepherd?”

“No,” Balefor said. “I cannot say that I am.”

At the front of the group, Sister Halcyon slowed. She let Kesh and Marrowsven pass and joined Balefor and Pyre.

“Did you say the Shepherd?” she asked, her tone casual but intent. She waved the rest away as if it were irrelevant. Once they had moved past, she turned to him. “How do you know of the Shepherd?”

“This strange swordsman. He appeared after the Hunger and killed me right before he took the realm heart. He told me to find the Shepherd.”

“That makes a little more sense. You were killed by a realm raider and show up with a mature Sigil without undergoing a Domain Trial. Highly unusual. Highly.”

Pyre remembered the moment, the strange barefooted man with numerous blades strapped to his back just standing there looking at the heart of his realm, no concern in the world until he saw the Sigil in Pyre’s hand. “Do you know the Shepherd?”

Sister Halcyon’s expression softened just slightly. “For now, I believe it best to focus on your recovery. Even if you performed well in your first trial, your Anima is strained. Rest will help.” She stepped ahead of him. “But expect many questions in the coming days, and likely challenges due to what you have already accomplished.”

What I’ve accomplished? Pyre thought as he watched her go. For the first time since Farreach fell, he wondered if surviving might prove harder than dying.