Page 66

And the Masters Move Toward the Forest

“ Y ou’re looking bright today. Glowing like the sun elf you are.”

I shoot Fax a dark look as I slowly pull on my training gear, my head pounding, heavy with sleep deprivation and blood brew. “Sarcasm, right?”

He smirks. “Take a wild guess.”

I hit him. Hard. Then grab his arm for balance and brace on one leg. I avoid looking at the chair, the bed frame, the clothes scattered across the floor, anything that might drag me back to last night.

I shove my leg into the suit. Push, push, push.

The room is a disaster, wrecked by eredawn rituals.

Spent candles lie scattered across the floor, with trampled necklaces and leather straps mixed in.

Darkness clings to the sky outside the window.

The sun hasn’t risen yet. The night is black, fading blue, dissolving with each spark.

One last flame flickers on the dresser, perilously close to catching Salahfar’s neatly stacked books.

They sit unread, piled in perfect lines, untouched by the chaos around them.

“You managing alright?” Jelethia yawns. She’s propped against the dresser, arms crossed, already dressed and ready to go. Her eyelids are thick with kohl, and her white-black hair is pulled into a high, tightly woven braid. Chestnut streaks of war paint run from her hairline down her face.

“Just fine,” I mutter, finally wedging one leg in. One to go. “What in Saxx is this? Why is it so fiery small?”

“You got a child’s size,” Salahfar says as he walks past, also fully dressed. “An adult size would never fit. You’re too thin.”

“And too short,” Jelethia chimes in.

“Do you even have muscles?” Fax snorts. He casts a glance at Salahfar, but it’s ignored. His eyes drop to the floor. The air between them is charged. Tense. But is it with something good… or bad?

“You’re the ones who are too tall and big.” I let out a breath and sit on the edge of the bed, still gripping Fax’s arm. “And yes, I have muscles. Keep talking and I might use them on you. Again.”

“Ooh, scary!”

“You looked saxxetically terrified the last time when?—”

“Not to be that person,” Jelethia cuts in with a yawn, “but someone really ought to wake Acranta.”

“You do it,” Salahfar says, tying his green hair into a knot. “We leave in two tales.”

“She’s a menace to wake, honestly. Don’t go near her. She almost clawed my eyes out last time.”

“Yes!” I throw my arms up. The black breeches are finally on, snug around my hips, thighs, and calves. Miraculously, they’re comfortable. I can move in them. Effortlessly, even.

Acranta bolts upright, so suddenly the blanket falls on the floor. Her gaze darts around the room, pupils wide. She scrambles up and backs into the wall, trembling.

“Oh, no. Where am I? Where am I? No!”

Jelethia blinks. Her jaw drops. Everyone turns to stare. Salahfar frowns.

“How… how did I get here?” Acranta murmurs. “No! Where’s the striped bear? Where’s Onna? No! I had the meat in my hand, didn’t I?”

“You mean the striped bear, I assume,” Salahfar mutters.

“Three pieces. It was seared on the sides, not burned. Zel, you helped me… you… oh?—”

Fax bursts out laughing, covering his mouth with his hands, tears streaming from his eyes.

“Acranta, you’re brilliant! Truly! Now, I’m looking forward to the final trials.”

Acranta blushes, one hand on her forehead. She’s already dressed, black clothes clinging to her like a second skin. She must’ve slept in them. Ready. Always ready. Everyone’s more prepared than I am.

I rush to finish, buckling Voenriel at my hip in its sheath. As Salahfar opens the door, I think about what Jelethia said earlier about me being short. I always thought I was tall. But next to the star elves, I’m small. My head barely reaches where theirs begins.

The only real resemblance I share with them is the hair, which is identical to Akares’s.

It’s thin and ice blond, stark against my dark clothes.

It falls straight along my face and down to my waist. It’s longer down my back, reaching the back of my knees.

My skin is pale and soft as untouched snow; it shines in contrast to the others.

Even besides Acranta and Fax, with their light gray tones, I usually look luminous.

Usually, but not after last night.

I follow Salahfar through the doorway, down bleak corridors and into the empty rooms. Our footsteps echo against the walls. The air is stale. My thoughts drift to the ceremony. Nausea twists in my stomach. I want to vomit. I clench my fists, driving my nails into my palms.

How many times have I dreamed of Netharu’el?

How many times have I thought about how real those dreams felt?

It explains why I kissed Akares at the end of the first dream.

A fleeting moment where the mask cracked, and he let himself be seen.

I believe him. He was telling the truth. But why?

In dreams, we don’t speak. He doesn’t ask questions or seek information. So what’s the point of haunting me night after night? What does he want from me? It can’t be my body… can it?

We step outside onto the path leading toward Nimuala.

I inhale sharply, air flooding my lungs like smoke. A shiver runs through me as my feet brush the tall, cold grass. They bow beneath my weight, soft and slick with dew. The scent of eredawn is rich, filling my lungs with the breath of waking nature.

The others chatter behind me, laughing and nudging each other, their voices loud with excitement. But I can only focus on one thing.

Netharu’el.

Is he here?

Why didn’t he come to me last night?

I swallow, pushing the thoughts aside. I try to breathe, steady myself, and take in the world.

The day hasn’t quite begun, with the sun still tucked below the horizon.

Everything is wrapped in shifting gray; the air is thick and slow with the remains of night.

Dense and quiet, mist coils around us, veiling the fields in its ghost-pale shroud.

Mist.

Saxx!

We can barely see an elven-length ahead. The rosemary-colored grass sways gently, only to vanish into the void. It must’ve rained. Thick, glistening droplets cling to each blade, bending them into delicate arcs. Drooping. Fading into the mist.

Will the haze lift before the final trials?

The air is rich with the scent of nature, a deep, living steam that only rises when the sky has poured itself out.

A soft breeze catches my hair, swirling and brushing against my cheeks.

It’s not the kind of day you would choose for final trials.

Nineteen days out of twenty are clear, sunlit.

But this one threatens to turn dark. Really dark.

I’m unsure how well I’ll perform if the mist lingers. It licks at my arms like a heavy tongue, a reminder that it’s here. Waiting to sap my strength, drain my will. Make me fail.

After a few songs, voices begin to filter through the fog. Moments later, feet and legs emerge, two dozen or so, stepping into view.

We’ve arrived.

Kathraanis places a hand on my shoulder and offers a smile. Her clothing is similar to ours but far more elaborate. Embroidered with swirling gold patterns. A collection of daggers hangs at her hips, the straps pulled tight across her waist. Some hilts are adorned with sinew and bits of bone.

“Perfect. You’re right on time. Go take your place over there.”

We move toward the tree line, a few elven lengths to the left, where the jungle is a deep, mossy green against the brightening sky.

The other apprentices are gathered: Rahveles Odante, Usactar Avra, Zau Moir’Ak, and the rest of the twelve. Iaxa spots us and waves, her face lighting up like we’re old friends.

Kathraanis steps up again, nudging us into position. We line up according to some unspoken order. I end up last among my friends but in the middle of the apprentices, Acranta to my left.

Behind us, tall kapok trees stretch into the sky, their trunks disappearing into the low-hanging mist a few elven lengths above. Swallowed by the pale milky air. Gone.

Zau turns to me. His red hair is tangled and wild, as if it hasn’t seen a comb in several sun cycles.

“Good luck, Ipjgepaleg.”

“Shut it.”

He laughs and turns to the man beside him, stretching his long, vulture-like neck.

“The sun elf has some fire.”

“She bites, too,” I snap.

“Dangerous. A sun elf with claws.”

The other man leans forward over Zau’s shoulder, his deep gray eyes narrow and slanted. “You don’t stand a chance here. The sooner you realize that, the less crushed you’ll be, Ipjgepaleg.”

“She’s not Ipjgepaleg anymore!” Iaxa calls from nearby. “Her name is Febaydipjun. Didn’t you hear?”

“Febaydipjun?” Zau scoffs. “Why?”

“You would’ve known if you had attended the ceremony yesterday. But oh, right. You weren’t invited.”

“She’ll always be Ipjgepaleg to me. A little sun elf trying too hard and failing spectacularly.”

“She’s one of us now! She’s been joined with?—”

“What? The gods?” Zau sneers.

“My sword thirsts,” I whisper. “Careful what you say. Fiery careful.”

I let my fingers glide across Voenriel’s leather sheath. I don’t look away.

“Is that a threat?” Zau snaps, his lips curling.

“Looks like one, doesn’t it?”

“You little?—”

“Enough, Iszaelda. Let go of the sword.”

I freeze. Turn slowly.

Netharu’el.

He walks past, close enough for our shoulders to almost touch, but they don’t. His eyes are dark as spilt oil, sharp and impenetrable. Before I can speak, he’s gone, already approaching the other masters.

I stare after him, hoping he’ll turn around.

Why was he angry?

Why didn’t he let me speak? Why did he leave?

“Scolded by her master,” Zau remarks.

I barely register the words. They’re not meant for me.

I shift my gaze, following Netharu’el’s back. He joins the others: the masters, the cooks, the medics, the hunters, the cleaners. Everyone is here. Everyone is watching.

He stops at the edge of the gathering and begins speaking with Kes’raa. But now that I’ve seen him, I can’t look away.

How could he say that and walk away like it meant nothing?

Look at me.

I fix my eyes on him, unblinking, burning, relentless.

I tell myself he’ll feel it if I stare hard enough, long enough.

He’ll have to turn.

“Oh, Zel, are you trying to kill him with your eyes?” Acranta asks with a grin.

“Something like that.”

“You want to know what they’re talking about, don’t you?”

“I want his attention.”

“Then call out to him.”

“I don’t call people,” I mutter. “If he wants to talk, he can come to me.”

“Listen up!” Kathraanis’s voice cuts through the murmurs, clear and resonant.

Silence falls instantly.

She stands with her back to the crowd, and her face turns toward us, scanning slowly along our line. Her gaze jumps from one of us to the next. The mist coils thickly around her robes, shifting and clinging as she moves, making her moonlight-pale hair blur into the air around her.

“This is the moment you’ve all been waiting for,” she says. “Are you ready?”

“Yes!” Fax blurts out, punching the air before anyone else can speak. Acranta laughs out loud.

“Great, Fax. I appreciate your energy,” Kathraanis says with a smile. “Take it with you into Gorgoroth.”

“Oh, I plan to,” he says, giving an exaggerated bow. His short black hair sticks out in every direction.

“The masters behind me will enter the forest ahead of you,” she continues. “They’ll take their places at predetermined positions.”

“Exactly,” says Vaast over her shoulder, as if eager to be part of the speech too.

Merediath is also here, though she stands off to the side like Netharu’el.

Why was he so angry? So distant?

What did I do?

“Think of the final trials as an obstacle course,” Kathraanis says, her crimson eyes sharp with focus. “It’s filled with challenges you will have to navigate. It’s a long path. I expect it’ll take most of the day to complete. Stay on the trail. For clarity, we’ve marked it with yellow flags.”

“Anyone who doesn’t return before nightfall will be… disqualified,” Vaast adds, his voice rasping, broken around the edges. It’s rougher than usual, as if he’s been shouting for hours. He runs his tongue quickly over his upper lip. It’s thin and wet.

The ring is still on his finger. The longer I look at it, the tighter the knot in my stomach grows. Maybe I’ll have a chance to speak with Netharu’el before we begin. If not, I’ll find him in his position.

Kathraanis’s gaze shifts to me.

“This is an individual test. If we catch even a hint of cooperation, disqualification is the same as for those who are too slow to finish.”

She inhales, then steps toward Acranta, her voice lowering slightly. “Some of you think passing the trials is a given. Let me bring you back down to the forest floor. Only half of you will succeed. And someone will be injured. Severely. Maybe even fatally.”

“We could die?” Jelethia blurts out, one hand clutching her cluster of necklaces, eyebrows climbing her forehead. “Alright, let’s all just take a breath.”

“With certainty,” Kathraanis replies calmly. “You have no idea what awaits you in there, and I won’t give you any clues.”

Salahfar raises a finger. “But… can we use Arzakean?”

“You may use whatever tricks you can muster. You’ll need them.”

“And let’s not forget… This is a competition. First and second place will be generously… rewarded.”

He leans slightly toward Kathraanis, looking at her like he expects praise.

I must come in first. I don’t have a choice. Not just to uncover the truth about myself and the necklace, as Kathraanis promised, but also to prove that Netharu’el trained me well.

That his effort wasn’t wasted.

And… to make him proud.

I want him to see how far I’ve come, what I’ve learned, and how I’ve grown stronger.

Kathraanis gives a slight nod. “Thank you, Vaast.”

He smiles, visibly relieved, then parts his lips and runs his tongue slowly across his front teeth.

“We’ll, of course, equip anyone without personal weapons,” Kathraanis continues. “You’ll each receive a bow, a quiver with twenty arrows, and a longsword. A horn will be strapped to the outside of each quiver. Use it only if you need to retreat. If you are injured and require help.”

“Just remember,” Vaast adds, voice dry and rasping, “that if you blow the h-horn, you’re out… of the trial. And it can only be used once. But once should be… enough.”

Kathraanis gives a single nod. “Any questions?”

Silence.

A silence so dense it thickens the air and presses against our ears like a slow, invisible wave.

The kind of stillness you find on an open field before a storm.

Or deep inside a pine forest, where even the birds forget to breathe.

The only sounds are the wind stirring the treetops…

and the quiet shuffle of boots in the grass.

I glance toward Netharu’el. He’s watching Kathraanis.

Not me. Not once has he looked at me.

“Divine,” Kathraanis says softly. “Then let it begin.”

The masters turn and walk into the forest.