Aah

The message was audio-only, but it was as though Ozriel was speaking right into her ear. The voice of her friend, full of weary humor. "Suriel. You're looking lovely today, I'm sure. I'll get to the point, because I have an unexpected visitor who needs murdered: I did not abandon you. I have identified the sixteen worlds that will be corrupted while I'm gone, and I've prepared a facility like this one in each. I'm sure Makiel will send Gadrael, and then you'll volunteer. If I'm still gone, chaotic interference makes it impossible to predict beyond sixteen, so go ahead and initiate quarantine. I shouldn't take much longer, unless this actually kills me." His voice turned serious. "We have to change, Suriel. If I didn't act, it would all stay the same. I don't—" The sound cut off. Of their own accord, her eyes slid back to the blood on the walls. He'd seen her standing here. From hundreds of years ago, he'd seen her.

He was still watching out for her, if not for himself. Her heart hammered in her ears, her respiration sped up a fraction, and her adrenal glands squeezed hormones into her bloodstream. She chose not to cut off the physical responses. Let her feel fear for her friend.

Chapter 14 On the fourth morning since starting the Trials, Lindon slid the Sylvan Riverseed's case out of his pack, holding out a pair of freshly Forged scales. The Sylvan waved at him, smiling cheerily. He stared back. Someone had replaced his tiny, faceless spirit with a miniature woman Forged out of water madra. Until she opened her mouth at the sight of Lindon's scales, waiting to be fed, he suspected it was a different creature entirely. Where once she had been a translucent bright blue doll, now she was a deep azure woman with long, flowing hair, a dress that swirled around hidden feet, teeth that showed clearly when she smiled, and curious eyes. Those eyes were now scrunched closed as she held open her mouth, waiting for her meal. Lindon thought he could see her tongue. She had a tongue now. And eyelids. Dazed, he ran his eyes along the edges of the case, looking for changes. He found one immediately: a spot in the corner where the scripted glass didn't fit perfectly together. That was certainly a change. He'd spent hours searching the tank for any imperfections, trying to figure out a way to open it without breaking the glass. He ran his thumb along the flaw, and that corner of the case popped open. He repeated the process on the other side, and the lid of the case rose. The Sylvan was still begging for food, so he slipped the madra coins inside without taking his eyes from the case itself. They dissolved as soon as they reached the Sylvan, flowing down her throat in streams of light. Eithan. Eithan did this. Either he had to accept that the Sylvan had drastically changed her form in the week since he'd fed her—and that someone else had figured out how

to open her case and then closed it again—or the Underlord had done something. But what? And why? He was itching to investigate, but he wasn't even sure what questions to ask. If he had a drudge, he could examine the composition of her madra and see what had changed. Fisher Gesha could tell him, but if he left the mountain, he was considered to have given up. In the absence of any clear answers, he placed her back into his pack. He'd inspect her more closely later, to see if Eithan had left any obvious hints for him. Putting the Sylvan out of his mind, he and Yerin challenged the Enforcer Trial a second time. Lindon cradled the red-and-black crystal in his arms, dashing through the stone forest with Burning Cloak active. Every second sizzled as his muscles burned from the Blackflame madra, every step sent dirt flying behind him and drove splinters of pain through his knees, and every breath came slow and heavy, as though he were trying to suck air through a wet blanket. It was like running through a nightmare: gray shapes chased him from every direction as pain wracked his body. Though he knew he was moving faster than he ever had before, he still felt as though he were slogging through mud. Finally he dropped the breathing technique, heaving a deep breath of pure air that sent sweet life flowing through his veins, but then his madra channels couldn't handle the burden of the Burning Cloak. It flickered and died, the seal dimmed, and a soldier's blade knocked the crystal from his hands. A silver blade of madra blasted from the woods, slashing the soldier in half, but the gong had already sounded: failure. *** The soldiers changed. They always carried stone weapons, but sometimes those weapons blazed with sword aura until they could take a slice out of the surrounding pillars. Not all the soldiers ever carried the gleaming silver weapons, but Yerin preferred the ones that did. She could sense them coming thanks to the aura gathering around their weapons, and the Endless Sword technique would

mince them. When those showed up, she could eliminate them in a blink, and she and Lindon could make it deep into the columns before a living statue slipped past her and caught him. But they never made it any further. The frustration grew until she wanted to take a sword and carve her way out of this valley by pure fury. She could do so much better than this. If she could use her true ability, she would split every single sword-carrying soldier open on their own aura and then carry Lindon through to the end like a baby. Not that Lindon was a burden anymore, which was enough shock for a lifetime in itself. He had surprised and impressed her in the days since they'd started the Trial. The Burning Cloak fit him like a good sheath, giving him everything he'd lacked before: explosive speed, bursts of strength, and enough confidence to stand against his enemies fist-to-fist. Truth was, fighting next to him was a treat, now that he could keep up with her. They could only challenge the Trials every three or four days, when they were in their best condition: his spirit didn't recover as fast as hers, and her injuries stuck around longer than his did. She looked forward to the Trial days, because that meant fighting together, as a pair. If she could have used her full skills, fighting next to Lindon as they learned to train and grow as a team, she'd have been on holiday. It would have been the best time in her life since the Sword Sage plucked her out of the ashes of her childhood home. But she was hobbled. Weighted down. Her uninvited guest strained against its seal, gaining on her day after day as she remained stuck at the barrier to Highgold. She had to dedicate half her attention to keeping it under control, so it didn't squirm further into her core. Every night she tied the bow tighter around her waist, trying to reinforce the Sword Sage's seal, feeling the bloodthirst of the red rope seeping into her. On its own, that wouldn't be enough to cripple her—she'd dealt with this parasite most of her life. But now even her own madra was fighting her. Her Goldsign still slipped through her control sometimes, lunging against enemies when she wanted it to pull back. If anything, it was getting worse; now her own techniques were also trying to defy her. Her master's

instincts, buried inside her along with his Remnant, would tell her to Enforce herself and run into battle. Madra she'd been preparing to hurl at her enemies would flow into her sword instead, sharpening her weapon. She had to switch tactics, adapting to her master's lesson and costing precious seconds in battle. Together, it was like trying to fight with someone else's hands. Some days it felt like she couldn't take two steps without her own body betraying her. She could tap into the silver Remnant in her core, and sometimes she was tempted. But even when he was stealing her madra, ruining her chance at passing the Trial, it was still another chance at hearing his voice. She couldn't give that up. And any insight into the Path of the Endless Sword was rarer than diamonds for her; without her master's voice, she would be the only expert remaining on her Path. She'd cross over to Highgold eventually, even without silencing her master again, she was sure of it. Every day, the gong seemed to grow louder. *** Lindon knelt, driving an Empty Palm deep into the ground. He'd raised his pure core to Jade, and the technique penetrated deeper than he'd dared to hope, almost disrupting the script that powered the Trial. If he could break it, that would disrupt the function of the Trial long enough for them to pass through. But it wasn't enough. The soldiers swarmed him, beating him until he dropped the crystal. He screamed as the gong sounded. The cool winter breeze that had once flowed into the valley had long since grown hot. Lindon and Yerin gathered food with wordless efficiency now, choking down the oily, gritty crab meat and retiring to their own caves to cycle. Lindon cycled Blackflame for two hours every night, drawing aura of heat and destruction into his endlessly grinding stone wheel. It would burn everything, that aura. Lindon came to think of it as a hungry power: the blazing drive for more, more, more. It filled him as he cycled, until he wanted to tear the Enforcer Trial apart with his teeth. The dragon advances. That was what the Enforcer tablet had said, and those seemed like the words of the Blackflame madra itself. It wanted to

advance like a furious dragon, tearing apart everything before it. If only he could. The parasite ring weighed down his spirit. He knew that in the long run it would help his training, but every day he almost threw it into the pool. The Heaven and Earth Purification Wheel made his breath so heavy and long that it burned his lungs, every cycle of madra so torturously slow that his spirit ached like muscles cramped and trapped. Whenever he caught a normal breath, free of the technique, he almost sobbed with relief. His own Blackflame madra ate away at his madra channels, leaving black residue like soot in his spirit. If he didn't cleanse it, he'd be leaving injuries and blockages in his soul, harming his future development. After using Blackflame too much, he had to spend several hours cycling pure madra to clean out his madra channels. It was hard to sit there all afternoon, cleaning his spirit, and not feel like he was wasting time. Real Blackflames probably had a method to deal with that problem, but he had no one to ask. Orthos had kept his distance, circling through the mountain but never intruding on their Trial grounds. Sometimes Lindon felt him in the distance, his spirit burning with madness, and other times he was calm as a dying fire. In both states, he stayed away. The Sylvan Riverseed's appetite had increased since her transformation. She begged him for pure madra even when he was exhausted and could barely push his spirit through a single cycle. The Burning Cloak had cost him weeks of training before he could use it naturally. The explosive bursts of strength and speed it provided meant he had to learn to do everything over again: run without hurling himself into a tree, throw a punch without breaking his own elbow, cut food without slicing off his own fingers. Yerin had even set him up with a juggling routine until he could keep three stones in the air without losing the Burning Cloak, dropping a stone, or hurling one of the pebbles out of the valley. Every day they spent perfecting his precision felt like a day lost; a day when he could have been challenging the Trial. Even his body betrayed him, leeching his core every time he was wounded, draining him dry and leaving him limp and powerless on the ground. The Bloodforged Iron body was the only reason they could challenge the course as often as they did, but it also crippled him after every failure.

Over it all, Jai Long loomed like a specter. This Trial was supposed to be the first step to defeating him, but Lindon had tripped and fallen at the first stair. …though as painful as each day was, as miserable as he felt in those nights when he wept alone in his damp cave, he couldn't deny the results. After months of work, his Burning Cloak covered him in a thick blaze of red and black. He could keep it active for twenty minutes, so long as nothing cut him and activated his Iron body, and he could drive his fist straight through a Forged soldier. His cores felt like a pair of lakes now, where they'd once been buckets. They didn't look any larger than before, but they felt deeper, like the Heaven and Earth Purification Wheel had drilled down to profound depths. He spent more madra in a single Trial attempt now than his entire spirit could have contained only months before. The improvement kept him going, got him out of his cave in the morning, kept him from abandoning his breathing technique as a trap, made him pick up the Trial's activation crystal again and again even though he'd sooner embrace a venomous snake. Continuing meant taking another step forward. Giving up meant accepting death at Jai Long's spear. Between them, he and Yerin were now destroying fifteen or sixteen soldiers every run, getting closer and closer to the end of the Trial. But they never made it. He'd tried every answer he could think of: hurling the crystal, digging to break the script, building a simple construct out of half-formed soldier parts, running straight through the columns without stopping, altering the script that ran the Trial. Nothing worked. It seemed the Soulsmiths who built this course had thought of everything. Time blurred and faded away. Only the endless cycle of day and night mattered, because the Trial only worked during the day. He stopped hearing the gong. When the soldiers caught him or his Burning Cloak flagged, he simply walked away. *** It had been four months since Eithan had first opened the temple at the top of the mountain, and Cassias had grown used to his duties.

Since Yerin and Lindon usually needed two or three days of rest between attempts, he could bring his work with him. He'd moved a table up to this peak, writing letters and reading reports while keeping half of his detection web on the children. After sixteen weeks, this hidden temple looked more like an office than his actual office did. Cassias spent most of his time alone with paperwork or his own training. He found he enjoyed it; letting Eithan handle the bulk of Arelius affairs suited him. He'd needed a break. In contrast, the children were having the most stressful experience of their lives. He sipped tea as he watched the children cycle in the morning, through the scripted window. He no longer expected they would give up—if they hadn't done so by this point, they likely never would. They would die in an accident during the Trials before they surrendered. Cassias had given himself over to that prospect with weary acceptance. In four months, you could grow used to almost anything. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he still hoped that today would be the day Eithan would grow tired of this project and pull him away. Almost half of the allotted time to Jai Long's duel had passed, and even a blind Copper could see that Lindon wasn't ready. Certainly, he'd improved during his time in the Trials. Cassias almost couldn't believe a Jade could improve so fast. Yerin was straining against the limits of Lowgold, perfecting both her skill and her advancement, but Lindon was reaching the point where he could almost—for a brief breath or two, with the Burning Cloak active—match her in a fight. That itself was a feat worthy of pride, but he was far from defeating Jai Long. In fact, if Yerin could finally break through that last barrier to Highgold, Cassias would suggest that Eithan pit her against the Jai exile instead. She would still be a stage behind him in advancement, but Cassias wasn't sure that would matter. He could recognize a prodigy when he saw one. Still, neither of them had received any instruction in the last months, besides whatever was written on that tablet the Blackflames had left behind. Cassias wasn't sure exactly what date Eithan had in mind for the duel, but Lindon had at most seven months remaining. Even with a teacher, Cassias couldn't imagine a favorable outcome for them.

Without one, Lindon would certainly die. Cassias gave a heavy sigh and sipped his tea. He would have to appeal to the branch heads, get them to rein in Eithan's…enthusiasm about this duel. But he doubted they would go against the Underlord for the sake of a Jade. Cassias himself would have thought the same, if he hadn't spent so much time in the last half a year watching the children struggle. Now, he couldn't help but wish them success. No matter how unlikely it was. When Yerin and Lindon had finished their morning meal and cycling session, Cassias set down his tea and prepared himself. They would be challenging the Trial now. But instead of dragging himself through the archway, as he usually did on Trial days, Lindon went back into his cave like he'd forgotten something. A few breaths later, he dashed back out, seizing Yerin by the arm and dragging her inside. Cassias extended his awareness, reaching in to watch the cave. *** Lindon pulled Yerin inside and gestured to the Sylvan Riverseed, who scampered around the cave, curiously examining his bedroll and the occasional rock. "Did she break out?" Yerin asked uncertainly. "No, she's…it's…watch my soul!" Lindon wouldn't have understood what happened if he hadn't seen it for himself. Instead of explaining, he called Blackflame into his channels. But instead of guiding it, he let it rampage through his spirit. The result was an uncomfortable spiritual pain, like a red-hot iron pressed against his stomach while a bird screeched next to his ear. It was only a little madra, and it burned out quickly, but he hadn't controlled it at all. His madra channels felt scorched at several points, and a black substance had built up like rubble in a tunnel. This was the effect of Blackflame corrosion, and the reason why he had to cleanse his spirit with pure madra every day. When the madra was controlled, the blockage wouldn't build up so quickly. But if he slipped, it would happen in seconds. Yerin glared at him and snatched her arm out of his grip. "Are you cracked? Now I have to burn my time away while you sit there and cycle

your spirit clean." Lindon reached his hand out to the Sylvan. Grinning like they were playing a game, the Riverseed darted up and slapped her palm against his. A blue presence dripped into his spirit, rolling through his madra channels. Wherever that deep blue light ran, the corrosion of Blackflame vanished. Even his madra channels felt refreshed, as though they'd never been scorched by out-of-control power. The spirit paled to the color of a summer sky, leaning against Lindon's shin to stay balanced. With one hand, she pointed to her gaping mouth, and he fed her a fistful of pure scales that he'd prepared for that purpose. After using her power, she grew pallid and weary on her own, and then demanded even more scales. She would sap all the power in his pure core and then beg for more before she was back to her usual state. In seconds, Yerin went from irritated to speechless, which gave Lindon more than a little satisfaction. He had almost collapsed when the Sylvan had reached up and grabbed his fingertip while he fed her, scrubbing his spirit clean. Somehow, it felt better not to be the only one surprised. Yerin darted over to the Riverseed, scooping her up in her bare hands. The spirit squirmed out of her grip, scuttling over to hide behind Lindon's leg. She bared her teeth at Yerin in a threatening grimace. Yerin's face fell. "She doesn't like me?" Lindon was as surprised as she was. The Sylvan had never interacted with anyone but him, as far as he'd seen, but she'd always seemed active and curious. Whenever she saw Yerin through the glass of her case, she had pointed and waved. He extended his perception to the Sylvan. A sacred artist would feel a scan as a light brush, but it usually seemed to comfort her. She was weaker after expending her power, but she had enough madra for a second attempt. "Go to Yerin," he said, gesturing. "Go on. Do to her what you did to me." The Riverseed shuffled a few steps forward, but turned over her shoulder to give Lindon a doubtful look. "It's okay. I'm right here."

The Sylvan dragged herself over to Yerin, keeping her eyes on the stone floor. When Yerin stuck out a hand, the spirit slapped her finger once and then scampered back to Lindon, climbing up to sit on his shoulder. She had lightened some more, and she swayed as though dizzy. "It's only been a few days since she would come out of her case," he said apologetically. "Did it work?" "I feel like I should be more than a little hurt right now," Yerin said, eyeing the Sylvan. "Worked, though, true and stable." Yerin had built up a slight blockage in her own soul—one of the hazards of cycling within such an ocean of Blackflame aura. It was nothing compared to Lindon's, but she took longer to get rid of it. Lindon patted the Sylvan on the head with a finger. He wouldn't have to control his Blackflame madra so carefully during the Trial, and he could dive right back into another attempt without cycling pure madra to cleanse his channels. Originally, he hadn't even had enough madra to support one attempt, much less two. But after months of cycling the Heaven and Earth Purification Wheel, he had the madra for two, maybe three attempts if he stretched it. The major bottleneck now was how much time it took for his madra channels to recover after being strained and scorched by Blackflame. Which, now that they had the Sylvan Riverseed, was no time at all. "If we don't get hurt too badly…" he began, but Yerin cut him off. "If I don't hurt myself, that's what you're saying. It's true. Long as I'm not cut too deep, I'll be ready for a second try two breaths after the first one. If we don't have to wait for you to coddle your spirit anymore, we can get some real work done." She was grinning by the end, but Lindon braced himself. Two attempts in a row. Together, they walked through the archway. *** Cassias fixed most of his attention on Yerin. She slaughtered the formation's soldier projections, tearing them apart with her white blade, her Goldsign, her mastery of the sword aura. Any soldier he empowered with his own madra was only destroyed faster; their weapon gathered sword aura more efficiently, so Yerin's Endless Sword tore them up.

Without the ability to empower the soldiers, he could only guide them. At the moment, his most efficient tactic was simply to throw projections at Yerin, hoping to bog her down. When Lindon barreled through the middle, diving through the forest of pillars, Cassias was caught off guard. But only for a moment. If he could bring down Yerin early today, he could take care of Lindon without much care. So he diverted two soldiers to slow Lindon down. Cassias was so consumed by his task that he forgot his original goal. He had grown up a genius of the Arelius family, its heir, and he had won virtually every competition he'd ever entered. Even giving up his position in the family to Eithan hadn't felt like a loss so much as a trade. But he wasn't used to losing. After four months, even the idea of letting the children win on purpose had entirely faded away. He needed to make them give up. *** The two soldiers pincered Lindon, each driving a silver-gleaming sword at him from a different direction. On a previous run, they had pierced through his hand, and it had taken his Bloodforged Iron body a week to restore the damage. But this time, Lindon wasn't trying to reach the goal. Any formation like this one had to draw power from the local aura, which meant it took time to recharge. The more energy he could draw out of it this time, the weaker the Trial would be for their second attempt. Well, the weaker it should be. The theory was sound, but they'd never been able to challenge it twice in the same day before. He smashed the seal down on a soldier's head, Burning Cloak flaring around him. The projection burst apart, leaving a Forged sword to dissolve on the ground. A sword pricked him over the shoulder blade, but with Blackflame madra roaring through him, he barely felt it. He turned with such speed that it wrenched something in his back, seizing that soldier's face in his palm. Lindon hadn't learned any Striker techniques on the Path of Black Flame yet, but he'd worked with the power enough over the last few months that he'd grasped a few basic tricks. He could kindle a black fire, though it was loose and uncontrolled, only spraying a few inches from his hand.

In this case, that was enough. He gripped the soldier and sent Blackflame madra flooding into it. This was the most primitive Striker technique possible; it was more like an Empty Palm than a hurled fireball, but red-and-black power surged into the soldier, dissolving it, burning it to gray essence in seconds. Without hesitating, Lindon advanced. Between his Iron body and the Burning Cloak, his spirit was burning down quickly, and he had to make sure the course spent more energy than he did. *** Cassias couldn't project new enemies fast enough to deal with Yerin. She had given up any idea of moving forward, pouring everything she had into shredding her opponents. Even some of the stone pillars had been shattered, collapsing in a pile of boulders. There were some earth-aspect Ruler constructs built into the course that could rebuild those columns, but they would take even more of the course's stored power. Even if Cassias provided madra of his own, rebuilding the battlefield wouldn't be cheap. But the Trial had built up enough momentum. Yerin was on the defensive, Lindon was forced back, and they were surrounded by gray soldiers. Once again, it was his victory. They wouldn't surrender the Trial after this, but they were one step closer. As Lindon dropped the activation crystal and held up his hands, Cassias leaned back in his chair. They'd given up especially quickly today, despite causing more damage to the course than average. Maybe they really were getting frustrated. He found himself a little disappointed. They had learned and grown as sacred artists over the last four months, and it really would be for the best if they quit and trained normally from now on…but part of him had been hoping they would succeed. Cassias sighed and triggered the course's repair function. The stored energy would dip unusually low, but two days of drawing on the mountain's powerful aura would restore it. Even if they tried again tomorrow, he would be able to funnel some of his own madra into the course to make up the difference.

Once it was done, he slid the chair over to his desk and began his paperwork. He'd have the rest of the day to himself, and there were work orders to be filled. *** After about an hour of cycling, Yerin walked over to Lindon's cave. He was sitting with legs crossed into a cycling position, breathing evenly. His little pet Sylvan sat on his head, mimicking his posture and playing with his hair. The spirit grimaced when she saw Yerin, giving her a suspicious look. That was more than a little unfair, in Yerin's view. She'd never drawn swords on the spirit, nor even said a harsh word. Maybe Yerin should feed her, like a skittish dog. Lindon hadn't reacted to Yerin's presence yet, his breaths still steady and measured. In her spiritual perception, he gave off the warm impression of a cycling fire artist, with the added air of danger that came from Blackflame. His jade badge hung from a shimmering silk ribbon and rested against his chest. Now that they'd spent so long running up against the Blackflame Enforcer Trial, he looked like a real sacred artist. He'd burned off the last bit of softness left from his clan upbringing, his frame hardening and filling out. He was covered by a layer of dirt and ash from their run of the course earlier, his hair messy, his sacred artist robes torn, tattered, and singed. He showed a sharp difference from the boy she'd met in Sacred Valley. He still had a long stretch of road left to travel, but now she could actually see herself fighting alongside him. Not just in the Trials, either; when she thought of her own violent, uncertain future, she could picture him standing next to her. Nothing but wishful thinking on her part. If odds played out, he'd be killed by Jai Long and she'd end up as a snack for her unwelcome guest. No sense in planning for anything else until the knives weren't quite so close to their throats. She kicked his knee, and he blinked awake. "Oi. Get Little Blue to scrub me clean, and then let's go." He was still gathering his thoughts after having broken out of his cycling trance. Now that she looked for it, he was breathing a little heavy,

and his skin had a light sheen of sweat. Whatever cycling technique Eithan had taught him, it must have some weight. "Little Blue?" he asked. "Can't keep calling her the Riverseed. She's got a face." Lindon lifted his eyes as though trying to see the Sylvan sitting on top of his head. "Ah, you're right. We should name her." Yerin rolled up her sleeve and held out a wrist. "Call her what you want, but get her to hop on over here." It took Lindon almost a minute to coax the Riverseed onto Yerin, and she scurried off as soon as her job was done. Once again, even a spark of her power was enough to scrub Yerin's spirit clean of the Blackflame aura buildup. On top of that, her spirit was peaceful and refreshed, like she hadn't fought in days. Yerin couldn't feel a particular aspect to the madra, but it was calm and soothing. If only Little Blue didn't hate her so much. Maybe it wasn't her; maybe Sylvans could smell the unwelcome guest inside her. Yerin adjusted her blood-red belt. Would only make sense, if spirits didn't like that. Meant Little Blue had good taste, more than anything. That was an answer she could live with. *** Cassias vaulted out of his chair and over the table, landing in front of the wooden console. The script in the window flared with the touch of his spirit, showing him a heaven-down view of Lindon and Yerin fighting their way through half-formed soldiers. The smoky gray crystal in Lindon's hand pulsed red, and they'd made it further into the course than they had in the morning: most of the soldiers still hadn't formed, including the giant guardian in front of the exit. It was only a half-hearted scan of his spirit that had let Cassias know the course was active. Yerin and Lindon had never attempted two runs of the Trial in the same day, and the ancient training course simply wasn't designed for it. Its power was already running dangerously low, and there were clear consequences: the soldiers were forming much more slowly, and their combat power was weaker. Lindon smashed through one in a single punch, moving into the latter half of the pillars. If Cassias had been any slower to notice, they would have torn through the unsupervised and weakened Trial, and they might have passed before

Cassias realized anything was wrong. Well, not any longer. Cassias poured his madra into the correct scripts, the interlocking circles carrying his power down and into the Trial itself. His core, usually shining silver with the light of sword madra, dimmed—transferring his power down through so many scripts was terribly inefficient. He would save more power by hopping down there and fighting them both in person, two against one. But he couldn't let it be said that Naru Cassias Arelius picked on the weak. His power flooded into the projections, making the soldiers form faster, Enforcing their weapons. He strained his spirit. Slowly, Lindon and Yerin's advance ground to a halt. *** Lindon turned in midair, kicking off a pillar and launching himself higher. An archer clung to the stone fifteen feet up to snipe at him from above; he grabbed it by the throat and dragged it down to the ground, slamming it into the earth, ignoring the silver arrow that had pierced all the way through his thigh. Blood ran down his leg, costing him a bolt of pain with every step, but the burn of the Blackflame madra and the rush of his Bloodforged body let him ignore it. The columns thinned, revealing the red arch of the exit. Three soldiers stood between him and the gateway, spreading out and keeping their sabers level—they were getting smart now, moving to encircle him, to keep him trapped. They knew where he was going. Or they thought they did. The fury of Blackflame filled Lindon. He tore the arrow from his leg, hurling it at the nearest warrior, who knocked it out of the air with a gray shield. But it cost the soldier a moment of its attention. Lindon had dashed after the Forged weapon, projecting a pulse of Blackflame madra into the soldier's midsection. It blew apart like an over-inflated bladder. The next one closed the distance to swat the crystal from his hand with its sword, but Lindon seized a dissolving blade from the broken enemy, snatching the blade from midair and using it to knock aside the other weapon's attack.

Then he gripped the sword and drove it through the soldier with sheer force, pinning it to the ground. The third and final enemy dropped its sword and shield for a spear, which it could use to keep him at a distance and poke holes in him until he ran out of madra. If he let it get that far. Flaring the Burning Cloak, he leaped. His legs screamed at the strain, but the ground beneath him exploded. At the top of his jump, he twisted to grab the soldier's head with one hand, and his momentum continued carrying him forward. The Forged warrior smashed into a stone column, bursting with the force, dissolving in his hand. Lindon shouted with the exhilaration of the moment, landing on both feet. Soldiers collected themselves in chunks of gray madra, and he ground his teeth, ready to tear them apart. The dragon advances. He could see the exit, and his Blackflame madra was ready to push him forward still, Orthos' core pulsing with the eagerness of a predator before the kill. But the huge stone giant with the spiked helmet still stood in front of him, a trident in each hand. Yerin stumbled up next to Lindon, scratched and bloody, panting in the even rhythm of a cycling technique, pale sword clutched in her hand. He looked at her and they both nodded, turning to face the giant together. Then Lindon let the crystal ball fall to the ground, and the test ended. "Looked a lot shabbier that time, that's a truth," Yerin said, resting drawn blade on her shoulder. Lindon's Blackflame core was down to one smoldering red-and-black ember. "I think I can manage one more." "Third try," Yerin said. "Let's go."

Chapter 15 Panting, Cassias fell back against the wicker chair. He'd exhausted his madra so quickly that his soul felt numb, and his limbs trembled. Four months. The Enforcer Trial was only supposed to take a few weeks, but considering the circumstances, Cassias would find it hard to say they'd failed. Even after the fall of the Blackflame family, the Naru used this course to train their disciples. But they only ever trained teams. This Trial had been built to test a single disciple on the Path of Black Flame, fighting with four of their closest protectors. None of the participants would be higher than Lowgold, but the five would have been trained to cooperate since childhood. The bodyguards would fight as a unit to keep the soldiers away so that the Blackflame could concentrate on holding their Enforcer technique— what Lindon and Yerin called the Burning Cloak—for the duration of the course. In this Trial, the Blackflame was never supposed to fight. It was a test of teamwork and spiritual endurance. No one had ever thought to make it a rule that you couldn't challenge the Enforcer Trial twice in one day. Theoretically, it was impossible: the Burning Cloak put too much of a strain on the body to maintain for long, and even the Blackflame family had to cleanse their madra channels after an attempt. When you added in the injuries that a team would inevitably collect during a run of the course, it was a rare five-man squad that could complete a Trial run once a day. 'The dragon advances' was the advice for anyone attempting the Trial: they had to act so that the dragon, the Blackflame sacred artist, continually advanced. If they slowed, they would inevitably get bogged down in combat and lose control of the Burning Cloak.

Lindon and Yerin had evidently interpreted that advice differently. They relentlessly advanced until the Trial broke before them. Any Blackflame Highgold would have had the skill and power to do the same, of course, as would many of the top-tier geniuses from the clan…but none of them would have needed a second attempt. Endurance didn't come into it when you blew through the Trial on your first try. But Lindon and Yerin had challenged the course until the course gave up. Yerin was a Sage's disciple, so she should be expected to produce miracles, but Lindon? How did he have the madra capacity to fuel both his Bloodforged Iron body and the Burning Cloak? While carrying the crystal and fighting at the same time? Even accepting that, how had he cleansed the damage that Blackflame madra must have done to his madra channels? What had Eithan done to him? When Cassias thoughts turned to Eithan, his heart sank. He was not looking forward to bringing Eithan the news. The Underlord would be insufferable after this. *** Lindon and Yerin both collapsed after completing the Enforcer Trial, bleeding into the dirt. Now that they had reached the Striker Trial, they could walk back through the stone columns freely without the Enforcer Trial coming to life and spitting out soldiers. Once Lindon could move again, he resolved to spend an hour doing nothing but walking through the empty Enforcer Trial, just to prove he could. The Striker Trial itself was an open field of scorched, blasted soil, with another red arch in the distance. Another stone tablet and pedestal waited for them near the entrance, and Lindon wanted to drag his broken body over and start reading the introduction to the Striker technique. But Yerin had already begun limping back toward their caves, so Lindon followed her. The slab of rock would be there when the wound in his thigh closed. And now, though Lindon had prepared to challenge the Enforcer Trial for several more days in a row, they were back home so easily. The Blackflame-scorched crab meat and fiery berries had never tasted so good.

"...they tried to bury me with their bodies," Yerin said, waving a stick in the air like a sword. Her forearm was wrapped in white bandage, as was her entire left eye and her right leg, but none of it affected her motion with the stick. "Had to scrape and claw my way out. Toward the tail end of it, I had my master's sword in this hand, a soldier's sword in this one, and my Goldsign launching every technique I could. My madra's going out like a river, and I can barely see. I think for sure they're going to bring me down again." She tossed her stick into the fire, grinning. "And then two of them turn like they hear something. They're off like arrows, and that's the straw that tips it. I cut through the rest and come through, looking for you, just in time to see you smack one to pieces against a pillar. If that's not a story worth crowing about, I've never heard one." Lindon's pride helped distract him from the throbbing pain in his thigh and shoulder. He pressed his fists together, looking at her. "I would never have passed without you taking more than your share. Gratitude." She half-heartedly kicked dirt at him. "I don't need that. Not like it was your Trial alone, was it? Goldsign did what I wanted it to that time, and I'm this close to Highgold. I know it. Didn't have to crack my master open or anything." A drop of rain hissed as it fell into the fire. Another sent up a puff of dirt as it landed nearby, but he was sitting with his back to the cave. An outcropping of stone kept him dry. Lindon stared into the remaining flames, thoughts growing heavy. Yerin stuck a hand out, testing the rain, and then slipped over to his side of the fire to join him. She sat with him, shoulder to shoulder, for a minute or two before speaking out. "A worry shared is a worry halved." Even halved, he had enough worry for both of them. "Still a long way to go before Truegold," he said, voice dry. "What do I have left, six months?" "I'd be cracked in the head if I said I was going to hit Truegold in six months," Yerin agreed. "Especially if I was starting from Jade. There are ways to pump you up on the day, just for one fight, but none of them are stable for your health." "Then…what am I doing?"

She stayed quiet, looking into the fire with him. The rain picked up, slowly dousing the campfire, turning the dark, greasy flames to smoke. "Back home, they'd have named me heir to the clan by now," Lindon said. "Jade before seventeen summers. They'd call me a genius, or blessed by the heavens. But that's not enough to keep me alive." She leaned her shoulder into his. "Back in your home, they stacked up pebbles and called them mountains. When you left, you slipped out of a trap. As for dying…" She gave a soundless laugh. "Not your problem alone, is it? Eithan's to blame for dangling you over the fire; he'll have to do his share of pulling you out." Yerin slipped her hand into his and gave him a squeeze. Her fingers were rough and callused. "I'm here too, for all that's worth. Don't want to see you buried yet." Lindon's heart hammered, and he had to concentrate to control the flow of his madra. He had lived in this valley with Yerin for the past half a year, but the contact between them had been almost entirely related to the sacred arts—she would give him pointers during practice, or discuss that day's attempt at the Trial, or help him catch food. They had both been aimed at the Trial like a pair of hawks unleashed for the hunt. Now, this simple contact felt like sinking into a warm bath after a long day working in the snow. He squeezed her hand back without a word, and she left it there as they leaned against each other. Together, they sat and watched the rain. …until they heard the scream. It started as a distant shriek, but rapidly grew closer. Yerin was on her feet with weapon in hand instantly, her silver Goldsign arched and poised. Lindon rose more roughly, favoring his wounded leg, but he had recovered enough Blackflame madra to begin cycling for the Burning Cloak. If this was a fight, maybe some unexpected beginning to the Striker Trial, he would be ready. Eithan slammed into the ground a second later, face-first, kicking up a cloud of dust. Both Lindon and Yerin took a step back, coughing and waving dust away. When the cloud cleared, the Underlord was still lying there spreadeagle, turquoise-and-gold robes settling into the dirt, his yellow hair a mess around him.

He suddenly convulsed, making a choking sound as he sat bolt upright. An instant later he hacked a mouthful of mud onto the ground, grimacing at the taste. "That was more of a—ah, let's say—rapid descent than I intended," Eithan said, rubbing dirt from his face with the heel of his hand. The top of the cliff loomed over them, scraping the sky. He had to have fallen over a hundred feet, if not more. "Underlord, are you...are you all right?" Yerin folded her arms. "Takes more than that to ruffle your feathers, doesn't it, Eithan?" Eithan spat some more mud onto the ground. "I'm not so sure. My feathers might be intact, but my ribs are going to have some complaining to do for the next morning or two." He coughed loudly into his hand, and then inspected his palm. "It's a pleasure to see you, after all this time," Lindon said. "Are you here because we passed the Trial?" "You mean, why did I fall out of the sky and onto my face just now?" Eithan asked, rising to his feet and brushing himself off. "A wise question. I've been keeping an eye on you, as I promised, and now that you've cleared the Enforcer Trial—none too soon, I might add—I decided to pay you a visit. And as I was making my way to you, I..." He coughed once more, more lightly this time. "...slipped." Yerin looked him up and down. "Underlords slip off rocks every day, do they?" "I don't make a habit of it, but it was a steep descent, as you can see." He gestured to the cliff, which was the next best thing to a sheer wall. "Even I make mistakes from time to time. Anyway, I was waiting for the most appropriate time to make my entrance, and...well, it was raining." He held out a hand. "Looks like that's cleared up, and just in time!" His grin returned in full force, and he bulled forward before Lindon could ask any more questions about his entrance. "Half of your year remains, as I'm sure you know, so I come bearing gifts." He turned to Yerin, giving a shallow bow. "For you, little sister, I have located that greatest of rarities: a Spirit Manifestation pill." Yerin stared blankly at him. "If you're expecting me to start dancing for joy..."

"The Spirit Manifestation pill is very delicate and expensive, refined from some of the most valuable herbs and blood essences on the continent. It takes decades to finish, and each individual elixir can be considered a refiner's masterpiece!" Yerin didn't seem impressed, but Lindon was leaning forward, eyes wide. If Yerin's gift was so rare and valuable, he could only imagine what was coming his way. "Each pill is customized to the individual consuming it," Eithan said proudly. "In this case, it will fill you with enough sword madra to help you break open the boundary to Highgold…without disturbing your master's Remnant in the slightest." Now Yerin's face paled, and a hand moved down to the red rope wrapped around her waist. Lindon always tried to avoid looking at the belt; it seemed to squirm in the corner of his eye, and in his spiritual senses, the rope felt like it was soaked in blood. "Light dawns! Yes, you can stay ahead of your...rude lodger, there...and keep your master's memories for as long as you like." Yerin drifted toward him as though sleepwalking. "Do you have that pill tucked away? No, not unless you've put a veil over it. Where did you leave it?" She looked like she was going to seize him by the collar and start shaking. He held up a hand. "It has taken me months of hunting, bartering, and begging to secure a half-finished pill, and it has to be completed to your personal specifications. I have the best refiner in the family working on it whenever he's not occupied with other matters, but it will still be many months before it is finished. However, when it is complete..." He folded his hands together respectfully. "...well, I regret that the honored Sage of the Endless Sword will not be there to witness your glory." Yerin stalked away, leaning with one hand against the cave wall, breathing heavily. Lindon wished there was something he could say to her, but he was still wondering about her "lodger." In spite of himself, he was somewhat disappointed by that. She knew all about Suriel, but she hadn't trusted him enough to tell him her secret. It wasn't as thought he had any right to know, but would have been nice. "And for you, Lindon," Eithan said, interrupting his thoughts. "I've located a Blackflame Truegold's scales. Pure scales are useful to anyone, as

you know, but scales from the Path of Black Flame could save you months of cycling." The implications of that were not lost on Lindon, and he dropped to his knees, bowing deeply. "This one cannot express his appreciation, Underlord." Eithan waved at him irritably. "None of that. I need you with a straight spine, not a bent one. Stand up." Lindon did so, but he still pressed his fists together in a salute. "The scales are up for auction in three months' time, after which I will bring them back to you," Eithan continued. "I will hold it as a reward for completing the third Trial. With the aid of the scales, you could reach the peak of Jade in an instant, and then Orthos could take you to Gold. Lowgold fighting against Truegold..." He rubbed his chin. "...well, it's not as though it's never happened. Your Path is suitable, and a heron could technically kill a lion, if it poked the beast's eyes out at exactly the right moment. But, ah, I still wouldn't bet on the heron." That dampened Lindon's enthusiasm considerably. Judging from the Underlord's words, advancing to Lowgold was the best he could hope for, and it still wouldn't change his fate. "If you can complete the two remaining Trials in six weeks each— much, much faster than this one—you'll have plenty of time to process those scales! So now that you're properly motivated: fight, fight, fight!" Lindon sat staring at nothing for long after Eithan left. Suddenly the future looked so bleak. *** Lindon knelt in front of the Striker tablet while Yerin stood over him, listening. "With the power of the dragons, the Blackflames destroyed their enemies. Their allies feared them, but..." Lindon hesitated in front of a group of four characters stacked together. They seemed to be some sort of idiom, maybe a proverb that had once been common. After he thought he had it, he continued. "A ruthless enemy is a reliable ally. When their enemies were no more, they had peace." And that was the legacy he was inheriting now: a Path of ruthless destruction. It was a sobering thought.

He ran his finger down the tablet, skipping past the madra diagram and the description of the Striker technique—he would need Yerin to help him decipher those anyway. He landed on the words in the center of the stone. "The dragon destroys," he said aloud. The dragon advances. The dragon destroys. "Makes you ask what the third stone says," Yerin said. "The dragon dances, maybe. The dragon naps. The dragon takes a break because he already killed everybody." Lindon skipped to the Striker technique. "Fierce…River of…Fierce Flowing Breath. I'm fairly sure that's what it means. They certainly say 'fierce' twice." Yerin folded her arms. "It's dragon breath." She pointed to the pictogram of a man projecting a line of fire from his hands. It was next to a picture of that same technique streaming from a dragon's open jaws. "Maybe they called it Fiercely Fierce Breath, but everybody knows what comes out of a dragon's mouth." Lindon looked at the loops indicating the madra flow, and at the characters floating over it. "Would you mind teaching me, then?" She rapped her knuckles against the stone. "I could tell you without reading them. Cycle your madra to the palms of your hands and keep it there. Let it build and build like you've stopped up a river, and when it's just about to burst, push it out." She shrugged. "My Striker technique starts the same way, except through a sword. And mine has three more steps." Lindon looked at his hands, gathering madra into his palms while trying to focus on maintaining his breathing and cycling according to the diagram all at the same time. Yerin grabbed him by the arm. "Maybe take a step or two back, if you don't mind. I'm not looking to roast today." Lindon bowed in apology, moving ten steps to the right and contemplating the broad, blackened expanse of hardened dirt that was the Striker Trial. He was itching to see what they'd have to face in the Trial itself, but one step at a time; he wouldn't even be able to start without the ability to execute a Striker technique. He steadied his breath, focusing first on the madra diagram, making sure that his madra was flowing through the right channels. Then, once he had

his madra moving in the right direction, he ignored it. In the last few months, he'd gotten something of a sense for the nature of Blackflame madra. He could move by feel, without relying on convoluted patterns, gathering power in his palms and letting it pool there. He had done something similar with the soldier earlier, pouring raw power into the projection and letting it explode. He held both hands out toward the empty space. Nothing visible changed, but he could feel the madra building and building, the pressure growing, until his hands felt like they would dissolve from the inside. In that moment, he gathered the force of his spirit and shoved. When Lindon had first learned the Burning Cloak, the technique had started thin, weak, and inefficient. He had worked for months to increase its potency, to use its power effectively. He had expected something similar with the Striker technique: this first attempt might produce nothing more than a tiny tongue of flame, but he would build it up to a roaring dragon's breath. So when the madra burst out of him in a furious, flaming storm of black and red, scorching the air in an explosion that sent him tumbling backwards ten feet and coming to rest in a tangle of limbs, he was...surprised. Yerin waited for him to stumble to his feet and press his hand to his skull, checking for bruising, before she nodded sagely. "Yeah, that's how it happens." The dirt was blasted away in a starburst pattern where Lindon had been standing. It wasn't deep—the soil here was packed tight, and had been charred over and over for years—but it stood out. The aura seethed in his Copper sight, the black and red powers boiling, but they slowly calmed. "It didn't get very far," Lindon noted, steadying himself against the cliff wall. That explosion had singed his hands, even though it came from his own madra—it must have ignited the air. His Bloodforged Iron body was already drawing power to the injury, sapping his core further. That one technique had taken more out of him than five minutes with the Burning Cloak. "River doesn't get too far without banks," Yerin said. "Out of control, it's just a flood. Spills everywhere. You want it to go where you want it to go, you have to guide it."

She tapped the stone again. "There's a pointer here. Push it outside your body, but keep it under control." She held her hands a few inches apart as though cupping an invisible ball, and swirls of sharp silver energy began collecting in the air between them. They whirled and slashed in bright flashes, as though she'd contained a dozen blades of light. "Pack it together," she continued. The silver light bunched up into a ball the size of his thumb, but she kept pouring more madra into it. "Then, when you can't keep it dammed up anymore…" A wild, spiraling blaze of silver light whirled between her hands. "…let it go." The ball flew out of her hands, a silver fist-sized spiral of sword madra. It spun erratically in the air, going no more than a yard or two before it slammed into the ground. The technique exploded. A thousand sword slashes detonated in all different directions, slicing the air, carving hundreds of crisscrossing grooves in the earth. Some of them looked deeper than the length of his hand. The storm of sword energy faded, leaving Lindon stunned. "Have you used that technique before?" She shrugged. "Pulled that out of thin air. Not really a winner for me; it only goes a step or two, see, and I could do it faster with my sword. Sword madra likes to move, not to be bunched up like that. Should be stable enough for fire madra, though." It hadn't looked anything like the diagram: she'd fired a twisting ball, not a stream of energy that struck in a line. But different aspects of madra should be expected to work differently, and this technique had been developed for Blackflame. Lindon was expectant as he held his hands about six inches apart. Even if he ended up with an explosive fireball instead of a dragon's breath, that was a more devastating weapon than he had now. Cycling his madra according to the Striker technique's pattern, he gathered power in his palms. Then, focusing on the space between his hands, he let the power flow out. The air between his hands blew apart. This time it wasn't enough to knock him away, but he did stumble back a few steps, his hands scorched. The front of his outer robe had started to unravel, and his belt was singed.

"You've got to keep hold of it," Yerin said. "That's what I'm trying to—" he said, before his second attempt exploded. After three more failed attempts, Lindon eyed the far side of the Striker Trial grounds. They were mostly identical to the Enforcer grounds, with one notable exception: there was no crystal ball on the pedestal next to the tablet, and no pedestal on the other side. Obviously he wasn't supposed to carry anything across. Judging by the nature of the Trial, he had to assume he was intended to launch a technique all the way over there. But if he wanted to extend his Striker range from a few inches to over a hundred yards, then he had to hope his talent as a Striker exceeded his talent as an Enforcer. "I can practice tonight," Lindon said, putting his hand on the pedestal. "Let's get started." Yerin rubbed a thumb along one of the fresh scars on her jaw. "Looks like you're trying to fly before you grow wings, if you ask my opinion." Lindon was already gathering madra into his hand. One hand, this time. "We have to see how far we have yet to fly, don't we?" "Truth." She drew her sword eagerly—he'd known he wouldn't have to do much to convince her. "Light this fire," she said. It took him a few more seconds to push the madra through his palms, and this time his madra was recognizable as fire. It spilled all over the pedestal, doing no damage whatsoever to the smoky crystal or the stone, and only knocked Lindon's arm back instead of his entire body. The technique didn't stretch any further, but progress was progress. As soon as his madra entered the crystal, circles came to life all over the Trial grounds. The ground rumbled, and a field of hazy gray light sprang up in the center of the field. There was some good news: at least he didn't have to hold the technique this time, as he had for the Enforcer Trial. The scripts continued working, making more changes, but Yerin reached down and hefted a rock twice the size of her fist. With a casual flip of the wrist, she hurled it half the length of the grounds, into the gray wall. The rock sizzled and disappeared. "As you'd expect, they won't let you just walk through." She flicked her sword, and a rippling wave of silver-tinged light sliced through the air. It

passed through the gray field intact; Lindon could sense its energy streak past the aura barrier. So madra passed through, but not solid objects. Fascinating. Shadows gathered past the gray wall, visible as though through dirty glass, but Lindon jogged up to the transparent wall itself. "Is this a technique, do you think, or some kind of script?" Yerin had followed him, though she watched the shadowy figures gathering on the other side rather than the wall. "Could be either one, I'd say. Gathers up destruction aura into one place, leaves madra alone." Lindon opened his Copper sight, and sure enough, the entire wall was a hazy mass of black, twisting lines that carried the meaning of destruction, dissolution. They meant 'the end.' He focused back on the physical world, looking for the edges of the wall, sending out his spiritual sense to probe for the script that had projected it. "Blackflame has a destruction aspect. I wonder if I could—" Yerin shoved him aside as something heavy passed through the air where his head had just been. He caught a glimpse of the weapon as he fell to the dirt: a heavy stone spear. More spears flew out of the gray wall, flicking out in rapid succession, each aimed at Yerin. She moved quicker than Lindon could follow without the Burning Cloak active, ducking one spear, knocking a second off course with her Goldsign, and sidestepping the third. The spears flew back to the end of the grounds, clattering to the ground just before the entrance arch. The instant Lindon started backing away from the wall, a spear struck like a lightning bolt, flying straight at him. The Burning Cloak ignited, and he shattered the spearhead with his fist. Chunks of stone started dissolving as soon as the spear broke—Forged madra, then. Just like the soldiers. That was a relief. Real stone would have been much more difficult to deal with than a Forger technique. He waited a breath for another spear, but none came. Then he took a step back. Two spears flew at him, one on top of the other.

Even in the Burning Cloak, he couldn't keep up, smashing one aside but taking a grazing cut to the inside of his arm from the second. And the Cloak would fall any second; he didn't have the madra to maintain it, not after botching all those attempts at the Striker technique. He froze in place, trying to conserve madra and movement, and no more spears followed those two. A steady stream of spears flew out at Yerin, who slowly retreated. "Stop moving!" Lindon called, and Yerin froze after snatching two spears out of the air. The remaining spears clattered to the ground, blood flowed down Lindon's arm to drip from his fingertips, and Yerin stood panting with a spear in each hand. The wall remained still. Cautiously, Lindon let the Burning Cloak drop. The blazing black-andred energy around his body faded. Though it was difficult to see through the cloudy wall of gray aura, he could make out a few shapes: three irregular balls of shadow, each floating in midair, clustered in a rough triangle with about twenty feet between them. The balls were only the size of his head—at least, as far as he could tell—but they bobbed and flowed like liquid. While moving his body as little as possible, Lindon raised his voice. "I see three dark spots. Do you think they could be the source of the spears?" "Targets, I'd say," Yerin responded. "Could be both." Very slowly, Yerin hefted one of her spears. "Let's test it." In one smooth motion, she hurled the spear. Another spear shot out at her, but she ducked and let it pass over her head. At first Lindon thought the weapon she'd thrown would dissolve into the gray wall, but then he remembered it was Forged madra: the destruction aura would just ignore it. But it was also a moving object. Another spear launched from the other side, striking Yerin's spear with a sound like a tree splintering. They clattered to the ground, slowly breaking apart. "That's a neat little trick," Yerin said, still crouching with her one remaining spear.

Lindon thought he had the measure of it now. The wall was to keep them from closing the distance, to force them to use Striker techniques, and the spears were to keep pressure on them. They needed to knock the three targets down without attracting the attention of the spears, so they needed to be fast without much movement. He could see the path laid out for him: he'd have to throw fire quickly and precisely, while still defending himself from the spears. It would take months of rigorous practice to train his reactions, not to mention building up his spirit. But Eithan had only allotted him six weeks for this Trial. He needed a shortcut. Lindon wanted to go back to the cave and start working, but he was stuck frozen in the center of the Trial grounds. He hated to ask, but with his madra as weak as it was, he could only think of one way out. "Forgiveness, but...do you think you could cover me as I run?" "If I can't, worst thing that could happen is a spear through the back." She said it like a joke, but he was already picturing a spear thick as his wrist impaling him through the ribs. Even his Bloodforged Iron body couldn't keep up with that. He stayed still. "I'm sure that a spear to the back is nothing to you, but even with my Iron body, I'm not sure if I want to—" "Start running, Lindon."

Chapter 16 After a week, Lindon could almost form a ball of Blackflame between his hands. It would explode immediately, so he'd taken to practicing barechested; otherwise, he would have burned away his outer robe on the second day. Their attempts on the Striker Trial had been less than successful, as they had quickly realized that Yerin couldn't destroy the targets. The black blobs floating behind the hazy wall of aura would just re-form if they were cut. To destroy the targets, they needed Blackflame. Lindon condensed another blob of dark fire, casting his palms in a deep crimson radiance. His mind and spirit were drawn to a point, utterly focused on his task, as beads of sweat rolled down his face. The ball of burning madra between his palms swelled, growing until it was almost the size of a fist—a little more, and he could consider the first stage of the technique passed. When he sent one more pulse of madra into the ball, it exploded. He flipped onto his back, slamming his skull against the hard-packed earth and staring up into the blue strip of sky he could see through the opening to his canyon. His breaths came heavily as he tried to find his cycling rhythm, pulling his madra together for another attempt. A red-tinged shadow loomed over him, and blazing red circles on fields of darkness swiveled to meet his eyes. "Orthos," Lindon panted, gingerly climbing to his feet so that he could bow. "It has been too long." The giant turtle grumbled something that might have been agreement. "I am not pleased," he declared, snapping up a small boulder. Lindon hurriedly pulled his sacred artist's robe back up; he'd pushed it down to the waist, which was not a polite way to meet a guest. "Pardon, honored Orthos. I was not expecting a visitor."

He had sensed Orthos' presence growing closer, but the turtle had gotten close to the canyon many times over the last few months. He'd never entered. Besides, Lindon's attention was devoted entirely to his half-formed Striker technique. "With so much attention on your training," Orthos said, "you should be making progress." The last word was packed with such spite and rage that Orthos' eyes went from red to the bright orange of an open flame. Lindon felt the radiance of the anger in his spirit, and he took a step back, instinctively cycling his madra for a fight. Orthos snapped his head to one side, bottling up the anger again, mastering himself. "You see?" he said at last. "The pure madra I took from you is not enough to balance the corrosion any longer. I need to pour more power into you, and you are not ready. I am displeased." Orthos' spirit was in better shape than when Lindon had first sensed it; the painful, burning heat was better contained, and now it moved in regular cycles instead of a wild mass of flames. But it still felt like a volcano on the verge of erupting. "If you need some scales, I've Forged a few more," Lindon said. He'd left his pack a few feet away, and he dug through it for a handful of blue-and-white translucent coins. He tossed them to Orthos, and they dissolved into pale blue streams in midair that sank into the turtle's body. If they made a difference, Lindon couldn't see it. "That will not be enough," Orthos rumbled. "If it were, the Arelius family would have healed me already. They can afford more than a few low-grade scales." "I'm sure they would. They have great respect for you." Orthos snorted, blowing out a few inches of dark flames. "As they should. They serve me in return for my protection." Lindon hadn't seen Orthos providing any protection; it seemed more like the Arelius family was protecting him. "Is that how you were injured?" "Any dragon would defend what belongs to them," he said dismissively. "Even if they died for it." Orthos' spirit was usually alight with arrogance, but he didn't seem especially proud now, like he was talking about a usual chore. "What threat required you to act personally?" "A rogue Blackflame," he said, as though it were obvious.

Eithan had said the Blackflames fell fifty years ago, but it hadn't been so long since Orthos was driven mad by his own power. Were there still other Blackflames out there, struggling with their spirits as Orthos did with his? If there were, would they see Lindon as a threat, or a potential recruit? Either possibility shook him. Orthos dug a stone out of the dirt and popped it into his mouth. "This is a waste of time. Show me your ignorance, and I will instruct you." Before the turtle changed his mind, Lindon hurriedly adopted the basic cycling pattern lined out for this Striker technique, gathering madra in his hands. He held his palms only a few inches apart, focusing on the air between them, pushing madra into a ball. The black flames flickered into being. They wanted to rush out, but Lindon held them in place, keeping them swirling in the air between his hands. He added another layer, then another, trembling with the effort of keeping the madra contained. "I've seen enough," Orthos said, knocking his front paw against Lindon's hands. The Blackflame madra went out like a snuffed candle— fortunately not exploding—and turned away from Lindon. "I don't know what the family called this technique, but it was made in imitation of a dragon's breath." Lindon silently thanked Yerin. "Watch me, and learn." Orthos opened his jaws wide. Ruddy light gathered in his throat. With both his eyes and his perception, Lindon focused on the technique. Madra flowed up from Orthos' throat, gathering and stopping in the back of his throat. More and more madra poured into a black fireball that spun, faster and faster, until it grew to half the size of Lindon's head. Then Orthos compressed it so that it was no bigger than a fist, and poured more power into it. The whole process only took a second or two, and Orthos packed down the energy three times, always keeping the ball of fire spinning. The turtle was holding the madra with his spirit, but he didn't grip it tightly; he cupped it like an egg until he was ready to pack it down. With a roar, Orthos released the technique. Lindon had expected a rough cloud of flame billowing out of the turtle's mouth. Instead, a dense, almost liquid-looking bar as thick as a man's leg

blasted into the sky. The Blackflame madra streamed into the air, smooth and compact, radiating heat. The bar of black fire punched through a cloud, drilling a hole in the middle as it blasted into the sky. Lindon stared up in awe. "It is an honor to be instructed…" He trailed off as he sensed a change in Orthos' spirit. The turtle stumbled away, each step thumping against the earth like he walked on a drum. His eyes burned orange, and Lindon felt such a confusing mix of emotion through their bond that he couldn't separate one thread from another: anger, exhaustion, confusion, fear, and pride fueled one another, blazing into a hot mass. There was a flutter of black robes, and Yerin came to a stop in front of Lindon, staring up into the sky. She raised her white blade to point at Orthos without looking. "I don't place a heap of bets, but if I had to bet a box of gold against a horse's hair, I'd say that was your giant Blackflame turtle." "He's not well at the moment," Lindon said. "You have a leash for him, true?" Blackflame madra shot out of Orthos' body like sparks from a campfire as he stumbled around, his spirit a mess of confusion. "It's spiritual damage built up in his channels. If I could get the Sylvan Riverseed—" Yerin tackled him in the middle and scooped him up, throwing him over one shoulder. Before he could react, his world lurched as she leaped away. Just in time. His spirit sent him a warning, and he flinched an instant before another wave of Blackflame blasted away a chunk of the cliff. Rocks the size of his torso rained down, and Orthos whirled on them, roaring like they were his ancestral enemies. They passed through one red archway and into the forest of pillars before Yerin let him down. "Is he going to trail us?" she asked. "I don't think he remembers we were there," Lindon said. "I'll see if he notices me this time or not." Yerin's scarred face froze. "You're…turning back?" "I don't want to," he said apologetically. "I left my pack back there." ***