Risens stared at the Raven’s Guide long after the final mark was scratched into the page. The paper was warm to the touch. The lingering smell of the smoke imparted a distinct feeling of nostalgia. He gently rubbed his finger over a small section of the lines, finding them unwavering. He grinned as he counted along with the numbers that lined the bottom of the page, for once, knowing all of their meanings.

  “What lost language is this?” he asked the air.

  There was no response.

  His attention shifted back to the room for any clues that might help him determine which path to choose first. He felt the oppressive stares of the stone ravens as he worked through the possibilities in his mind. Dull Flight would prove its worth, though he knew that it was far from alone. Adding further to the extent of the Shadows Shroud’s length would be a boon, yet there were no other doors bearing the Brand of the Avowal on the first floor. If the skill had future evolutions—upgrades still available—he guessed that each floor above would likely hold the keys.

  Unless his previous visit was a fluke, time in Windwake would pause while he was in the Roost. Even so, he knew he couldn’t remain here indefinitely. With a shrug, he strode forward, picking a door across from the one he’d already cleared for no other purpose than symmetry. The ravens tracked his progress as he stopped in front of the closest door to the portal opposite that of the Brand of Avowal.

  The shadows had burned off, revealing a slab of stone much like the others that remained illuminated in the grand hall. The beveled markings of the Brand were clear on the upper section of the panel, while the rounded trim border held the rest of the artistic markings in place. A small square patch of stone on the lower half of the door seemed to have been left intentionally blank. The negative space between the designs was a curious addition, though his attention was focused elsewhere.

  Like most of the designs etched into the doorway, the markings were relatively simple. The door in front of him featured two distinct shapes, each a mirror of the other. On the left, the two diagonal lines met to form a broad, inward-pointing wedge that pointed toward the middle of the door. The form was matched on the opposite side, the point directed toward a distinct focal point in the middle. As thoroughly as he searched, he could note no keyhole anywhere on the panel.

  “Of course it wouldn’t be this easy,” he said as he ran his hands over the surface of the stone, scouring every element for a hidden latch or button. It wasn’t until his hand rested flat against the section of undecorated stone that he noted the sensation. At first, it was nothing more than a slight tingling. Leaving his hand there, he immediately regretted the action as it swelled without warning into searing heat.

  He sucked in through his teeth and clutched his hand. It felt as if he’d dipped it into a kettle of boiling water, like the flesh was melted away by the heat. Visually, his hand went on unchanged, yet the agony endured.

  Behind him, a stone raven flapped its heavy wings, extinguishing the candles of its floating pool as it lifted into the air. He’d failed the test, though he had no idea what he’d done to cause the reaction. At present, his remaining mental capacity was consumed by greater concerns as the swelling torment only increased with every breath.

  He frantically took stock of his inventory in his mind. The only healing elements he’d brought with him—a small vial of the potent salve for cuts—would do nothing to ease the searing pain of the continued burn. Darting across the room to his satchel of foodstuffs, he dumped them on the floor and found the small waterskin.

  His right hand was useless. Clutching the skin with his left, he used his teeth to rip out the stopper before splashing it on his burning skin. The action did nothing but irritate it further.

  Panic set in. He cursed the futility of it all. The keyhole had been hidden on the last door, but the rejection he’d faced from those failures had only done damage to his lock picks and ego. This door threatened to ruin him. His vision tracked the chamber, desperately searching for a means of succor. The stony eyes of the ravens watching him imparted a feeling of discontent that one of their flock had been forced to depart. That he’d not solved the mystery at hand.

  An idea came to him, but it was little more than disjointed images in his mind. He had not the means to alleviate the burning, yet in the past, it was the room that had provided most of what he’d needed to progress. The answers lay within.

  Darting forward, he lunged at the closest statue, stabbing his hand into the pool of water at its base. Several of the candles floating listlessly in the liquid hissed as they were snuffed out by the wave. Others teetered wildly, like small crafts caught in a suddenly violent sea storm. The moment his hand was submerged, the burning ebbed. Within a breath, the excruciating sting that threatened to tear him apart was reduced to a foul memory.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  Extracting his hand from the restorative liquid, he inspected it, turning it over before squeezing it into a fist once and then again. The punishment for his failure had been extreme, yet it seemed that there was no lasting impairment. Risens glared at the door, pondering if he should move to another, though the thought only brought more aggravation.

  The Roost was meant to test him, to force him to adapt, to solve the challenges. He refused to let the single failure—no matter how harrowing—deter him.

  He would not fail.

  Stalking back over to the sealed door, he stared at the offending panel, focusing his ire on the clear patch on the lower half. Another peculiarity stood out. One he had not recognized before. The swirling designs were intentional. The seemingly random pattern now made sense. Much like the Brand, where each side mirrored the other, so did the vertical aspects of the door, with one exception: the empty patch of stone that had burned his hand.

  Even though he knew relief was close at hand, bringing his finger toward the stone was an act of sheer will. Much like sticking one’s hand into an open flame, his mind fought with his flesh in an internal battle as he reached toward the innocuous-looking stone.

  He had rested his palm on the door the first time. The shape of his hand was a far cry from the careful, angular design above. Using the tip of his finger, he started to draw the shape of the Brand above.

  With the completion of the first line, his mind swelled with triumph. No pain or tingling sensation was felt in his finger. As he made the angle to trace the second, his failure was assured. As if the agony that coated his hand was condensed into a single point, he screamed aloud as his finger took the full brunt of the pain. Another stone raven took to flight. Another pool of candles extinguished by their departure.

  He quickly dipped his finger into the water and shook his hand dry. Cracking his neck, he returned to the door. He’d traced the mark as plainly as possible, yet it hadn’t worked. Still, it was clear that the open space was meant for this purpose. To write or draw. But what?

  Running his fingers over the Brand etched into the stone, he contemplated whether the marking itself needed to be scratched into the door.

  “It can’t hurt, “ he muttered to himself before immediately retracting the words. It had hurt. Terribly, at that.

  Pulling the small spare knife he always secreted in his boot, he dragged the tip along the smooth, stone clearing. The high-pitched scream of the blade against the rock echoed through the hall, nearly drowning out the hasty flapping of wings behind him. He turned his head just in time to watch the third raven disappear into the darkness above.

  Risens hadn’t finished cursing himself for his foolishness when he felt the radiant heat of the blade in his hand. He was shocked to find that the steel glowed orange, drips of molten metal splashing to the floor like burning particulate. Turning, he plunged the dagger into the water of the closest fountain. It cooled with an angry hiss. The stone raven scowled disapprovingly at him through the steam.

  Removing the weapon from the water, he was confounded by the damage to the metal. The razor-sharp edges had been softened, rounded into a nondescript blob. He had sharpened his fair share of blades in his days, yet he knew intrinsically that there was nothing to be done for this clump of steel. For an instant, he considered keeping the blade, returning it to Smithy Gulvar, the metalworker billeted in the castle. The man was insufferable, though his one redeeming feature, the quality of his blades, prolonged his unsightly demise. Risens would pay fine coin to see the look of tangible horror on the man’s face when presented with the melted dagger.

  Leaving levity behind, he tossed the ruined knife to the floor before turning to address the door once more. Neither his finger nor his steel had worked to trace the shape of the mark. So caught up was he in proving his ability, proving his worth, that he’d not realized the utter predicability of the task at hand. Carefully removing one of the raven’s feathers from his pocket, he returned his focus to the stone. Holding the stalk like a quill, he traced the first line of the rune on the blank section of slate.

  The feather touched the stone, and the results were immediate. In the stroke’s wake, a wide line of black like ink followed. Focusing to match the design with perfection took far longer than he’d anticipated, yet for the first time since addressing the door, he was met with neither pain nor the sense of failure.

  He lifted the feather from the stone and stepped back to admire his work. The rune he traced seemed to be a near-perfect match of the symbol on the panel above. Along the edges of the dark markings left in the stone, a thin tendril of smoke curled into the air as if the very design itself was super-heated. Much like his hand or the dagger had been. And the smoke was reminiscent of that which coiled from the pages of the Raven’s Guild.

  Once started, the process was swift. Risens watched with increasing fascination as the shape dug itself into the solid doorway. The etching left no residue on the floor, only a lingering wisp of smoke that dissipated into the chamber above.

  He stepped back yet again at the deafening groan of stone shifting within the portal. With a reluctant scraping of rock against rock, it disappeared into a slot hidden in the left-hand wall. As with the doorway across the room, only the blackened face of a portal remained in its absence.

  Casting his gaze over his shoulder, he was relieved to see the ravens bowing their heads in acknowledgment once again. As temporary as he knew it would be, he’d take it. Without another look, he turned, stepping into the darkness of the portal.