Chapter 23

Pyre pushed himself up, boots scraping against the etched stone of the platform as his Sigil flared in response. The broken blade pulsed with heat, flames curling tighter, brighter, more responsive than they had been even the day before.

The sensation was immediate and startling—less strain, more clarity. He felt alive in a way that had nothing to do with breath or blood as he looked up at Kesh. “Did you just hit me with a fucking lute?” he asked, not able to hide a smirk forming on his face.

The bard laughed, the sound rich and delighted, utterly unbothered. “I believe I did! Normally, that would crack an instrument of any caliber, but no,” Kesh said, lifting the translucent lute slightly as if inspecting it mid-fight. “Looks like my Sigil rang true. So, are we doing this?”

Rather than respond, Pyre moved toward him. He swept his sword through the air, creating a plume of sharp, focused fire, which tore loose from its edge.

Kesh reacted instantly, fingers dancing across the strings as he plucked a single note. Pyre’s flames twisted, bending outward and flaring into a ring that washed around the bard instead of through him.

Pyre slammed his shoulder into Kesh’s chest, momentum carrying them both off balance.

“You dog!” Kesh shouted, his voice full of laughter, not malice, as they hit the ground together.

The impact knocked the breath from Pyre’s lungs, but he rolled through it, instinctively swinging the grip of his Sigil toward Kesh’s head, who blocked the strike with his forearm, the contact sending sparks skittering across his robes.

Pyre jerked back instinctively; Kesh used the opening to shove him sideways, scrambling to his feet as his lute faded out of existence. After batting out the flames on his robes, Kesh re-summoned his Sigil, his breath coming faster now, eyes bright with discovery rather than fear.

Kesh strummed again as Pyre charged, and the air thickened.

Pyre slammed into something solid and unseen, his momentum stopping so abruptly it rattled his teeth.

What’s this? he thought, the invisible barrier hummed faintly as flames licked across its surface, heat dispersing without finding purchase.

Kesh stared at the lute, astonished, even as Pyre struck the unseen wall again, fire blooming outward. “In that case, let’s see what a dissonant chord can do…” he said.

The chord that followed ripped through the air in a way that made Pyre’s vision blur, a concussive wave of force tearing toward him.

Instinct took over as Pyre brought the broken blade up crosswise, bracing. The flames somehow absorbed the worst of it, but the impact still drove him backward, boots gouging lines into the stone as he buckled down and held.

Kesh swayed slightly when it was over, breath hitching.

He lifted the lute again, only for the world to explode sideways.

A bolt of lightning tore across the arena from another platform, passing right over Kesh’s head, and so close Pyre felt the static crawl across his skin.

He turned in time to see Balefor and Urosh locked in violent motion, hammer and axe colliding with force that sent shockwaves rippling outward.

“Pyre, before we cut each other to shreds, do you, perhaps, want to watch their fight for a moment?” Kesh asked, already looking past Sister Halcyon and Lyra, who were engaged nearby, Lyra darting in and out, her replica flickering as she pressed her instructor. “It looks exciting.”

Pyre lowered his blade. “Actually? Yeah.”

Kesh looked around and laughed again. “Can we just… leave the platform?”

Pyre stepped off first, deliberately, gaze lifting to the attendants observing them as if daring them to intervene. “Apparently so.”

Once Kesh joined him, they walked past Sister Halcyon as she rang her bell sharply, stopping Lyra mid-advance. “You aren’t finished,” she called to the pair.

“We’re taking a break,” Pyre said. “We can do whatever we want, right? I mean, we’re not prisoners here, are we?”

“No,” she said, eyes thinning. “Proceed.”

They did just that, Pyre and Kesh stopping in front of the furthest platform.

Up close, Balefor and Urosh’s fight was terrifying.

Each blow bent the space between them, the impact shuddering through the ground and shaking loose fragments of stone. The space between them crackled with static as Anima bled into the air faster than it could dissipate.

Their Sigils wavered under the pressure.

Balefor’s greataxe flared and wobbled with each movement, its edges blurring as if struggling to hold a single shape. Urosh was equally strained, his hammer sparking violently, lightning crawling along its surface before snapping free in jagged arcs that scorched the ground where they struck.

Every collision sent a shudder through both weapons until Balefor sent an elbow up, staggering Urosh, who took two steps back and leapt forward.

Balefor blocked the incoming attack, and Urosh’s hammer cracked in his hands, but not before releasing another bolt of lightning.

“Stop!” the surrounding attendants shouted, moving in fast.

Balefor stepped back, chest heaving. Urosh stared at his weapon, shoulders sagging, disappointment writ large across his face.

“He can’t fight!” Balefor said, his lion side bleeding through, voice rough and charged, teeth bare as he tried to contain his own power. “What shall I do now? Sister Halcyon,” he called over to the woman. “Who’s next?”

“Now, you fight Lyra,” she told him as her bell staff vanished.

Pyre glanced toward Lyra just in time to see her eyes widen and harden. She dropped from her platform and moved to Balefor’s, expression set as Urosh stepped aside.

Balefor turned, mane shifting as he focused on Pyre and Kesh, teeth bare as he glared them down. “Are you two seriously just watching?”

“We are,” Kesh said gleefully, his voice and demeanor able to take the snarl out of Balefor.

The lion-man slowly shook his head. “Well, at least tell me you liked what you saw.”

“It was adequate,” Kesh told him with a wink. “But, alas, I believe dear Pyre and myself have worn out our welcome. Plus, we have unfinished business.” He turned, and Pyre followed. “First one to crack has to fight Balefor, it seems,” Kesh said under his breath.

“Or Lyra,” Pyre told him.

“Wishful thinking. Balefor is one of the strongest among us. I’m honestly surprised he stayed with our little group, especially with a Domain of Conquest. No, I suspect there is more to that story—some reason our leoline friend doesn’t already have a sponsorship.” Kesh climbed back onto the platform, lute forming in his hands once more as Pyre faced him across the etched stone. “Well, have at it, then.”

They ended up fighting longer than Pyre expected.

What began with laughter and curiosity settled into something steadier, measured exchanges, careful spacing, each of them testing limits rather than forcing outcomes.

Kesh learned quickly, his lute no longer just an instrument but also a club when swung at the right angle. Pyre adjusted in turn, flame control tightening, the broken blade responding with less volatility and more intent.

Eventually, it was Kesh who stopped.

His Sigil cracked with a sharp, brittle note, a fracture spidering across the translucent body of the lute. He lowered it immediately, breath uneven but satisfied, the bard accepting the limit without protest.

Kesh moved to the headstock to adjust the strings and stopped. “Right,” he said, letting the Sigil fade away. “Best not to overdo it.”

By then, only Lyra remained.

Much to both Kesh and Pyre’s surprise, she had bested Balefor. Not through brute strength, not through domination, but through persistence and precision, mirror after mirror, reflection after reflection, forcing him to overcommit until the fight ended on her terms and his greataxe cracked.

Yet even in victory, Lyra stood trembling, breath shallow, crown flickering.

Pyre looked over to her, assuming they would fight next, only for Sister Halcyon to end the combat without ceremony. “Enough,” she said as she lowered her hand.

The arena settled into an exhausted stillness, the air heavy with spent Anima and residual pressure. Attendants moved along the perimeter, murmuring softly, already looking at the platforms in preparation for tomorrow.

“The work you have shown today is important,” Sister Halcyon told the Unclaimed as they gathered around her, “even if it was exhausting. As we continue this tomorrow, you should work to better understand the capabilities of your Sigils. For example, yours,” she said, looking at Kesh, “can also be a bluntforce object. And yours,” she told Urosh, “seems to amplify its lightning with your desire to dominate. All important things to know. For now, we head to the Font.”

She turned without waiting for acknowledgment, and they followed.

The passageway that led away from the arena felt narrower than before despite its size. Attendants flanked them on both sides, silent and observant. Pyre caught the way their gazes lingered, not judging, not approving, but cataloging.

It’s like they’re taking stock… he thought, the sense of future transaction unmistakable.

He quickened his pace until he was beside Sister Halcyon. “Who do you all work for?” he asked, coming right out with a question he’d been wondering since he returned last night.

“What do you mean?”

“You and the other brothers and sisters leading our training. Who do you all work for?”

“Ah, I see. We are neutral,” she said.

“No one is neutral,” Balefor told her. “Neutrality is simply a mask to hide one’s true feeling; that, or it’s what people call it when they benefit from choosing nothing.”

“A clever observation,” Sister Halcyon said. “In that case, I suppose, without getting too complicated, we benefit from choosing nothing. Our job is to help the Unclaimed pass their Domain Trial. Do we do so with factions in mind? Certainly. Are there those among us who favor certain factions and perhaps scout for them? This has been the case in the past. But we remain committed to the neutrality of our organization, the Ledger Kin.”

“So that is what you call yourselves,” Pyre told her. “Your faction.”

“Yes, our organization is known as the Ledger Kin. And it is our duty to train the Unclaimed of Aevum. Come.”

They emerged onto the streets of Aevum and turned toward the Font of Eternity. Sister Halcyon set the pace, guiding the remaining Unclaimed through the open thoroughfares ahead.

Its light spilled outward in soft waves as they drew closer, illuminating the gathered souls. Some prepared for the Long Walk, while others knelt or reclined at its edges, resting in its presence.

“You must learn to refuel properly,” Sister Halcyon told them as they approached its outer banks. She motioned to the ground. “Standing and walking meditation is possible, sleeping meditation works as well. But for beginners, it’s best to begin sitting. So please do so.”

Once they were all seated, Sister Halcyon continued her instruction. “Anima refills slowly and sometimes unevenly. As you sit here, I want you to close your eyes and take a deep breath in. Do you feel the subtle change in power in just a single calm breath? Try it. And keep trying it.”

Pyre did as she said, feeling foolish at first. He kept at it until the pressure crept in—not crushing, not sharp, but present. Beneath it, a warmth without comfort settled in his chest.

A vision surfaced, one of Farreach in summer, sunlight on water, birds wheeling overhead, the fishermen at the docks singing bawdy songs as they hauled in their catch.

The memory steadied him, and the pressure shifted, smoothing into a low hum that made his fingers tingle.

He opened his eyes to find Sister Halcyon smiling at all of them.

A quick glance showed him the others’ struggles. Balefor shifted constantly, unable to settle; Kesh looked asleep, mouth slightly open, breath slow; Lyra sat too rigid, jaw clenched, as if locked in a private battle; and Urosh’s head kept twitching, as if bolts of lightning were bouncing back and forth in his skull.

Pyre closed his eyes again.

This time, a darker image came. The bruised sky over Farreach, ash drifting down, the Hunger pressing in.

Pyre let himself remember it fully and then, through breath alone, allowed it to pass.

When he half-opened his eyes, the Font dominated his vision.

Pyre still disliked it and all that he felt it stood for. Yet awe crept in despite himself, a recognition of scale, of power, of something vast and indifferent responding to his presence all the same.

His energy shifted again, subtle but undeniable.

“Good,” Sister Halcyon told them a few minutes later. “Every one of you will experience this in a different way. You must not force it, however.”

Urosh exhaled slowly, the breath forced out as his shoulders sagged. This caught Sister Halcyon’s attention.

“Balefor, Urosh, and Lyra, it would be good for you to stop now. The pressure you’ve built today is sufficient. Tomorrow, you will deplete your Anima again through combat, and we will come here after, where you will work on attunement. Today, as some of you may have noticed, you are wavering between attunement of your Domain and replenishing your Anima. This is by design. I want you to better understand the difference. Kesh and Pyre, you may stay if you’d like.”

“I think I’m good,” Kesh said, opening his eyes. “I spent much longer in silent meditation than I care to admit, not to say I don’t understand the benefit.”

“In that case,” she said as the others stood, “we can head back together.”

The Unclaimed left with Sister Halcyon, and Pyre remained. The Font’s presence pressed in, steady and patient.

As he breathed, a thought surfaced.

The Shepherd’s manor.

Pyre knew how to get there. He remembered the previous night, the half-invitation to return, the dismissal wrapped in interest. Sura’s certainty echoed faintly in his mind.

She couldn’t be right. The Shepherd couldn’t have invited him to stay.

And even if he had, would Pyre have even accepted?

They shared the same disdain for the pantheons, sure, the same anger at the system, yet the Shepherd had been here long enough to act, and as far as Pyre could tell, he had chosen not to.

That made the Unmoored no different from any other faction.

Pyre remained seated. For now, this is enough, he thought. I’ll stay here at the Font.