The rest of our second day in Elshard is filled with information overload. Once our Prominent, Scorius, escorted Broggen and I to our first classes, I was marched into line with all the others waiting for our lesson to start. Time flew by. Scorius was right—the sanctum favors war heavily. I learned of enchanted steel and the meticulous process of smelting weaponry. Blue for luck, as I remember, imbued with magically infused Kyard minerals that align with high magic and warring dark. That explained Broggen’s ability to evoke a gods-damn magi shield from a physical sword. Apparently, that’s all part of the imbuing. A talented smith can build in a whole damn barracks of weapons with the right skill. Also makes sense why we were tasked with farming Kyard in the sub-tier. It’s used for war. Go figure.

  Our tutor for that class—Proctor Terriad Schmee—thought to honor the fallen warriors who wielded such weapons up in war-tier. A red-ruby blade with gold overlays and a crooked hilt was donated by the family of a famous lieutenant, which could be obtained through arena victory by any cadet possessing a twenty-merit prerequisite. Merits are sanctum-sanctioned measurements to rank advancement won through arena victories as well as other academic and practical achievements. It’s a whole system.

  Just the idea almost makes me salivate. Now that there’s a chance I won’t get beaten bloody every night like in the stables, I like the prospect of combat. Guess Scorius was right again.

  Soldiering class shows us how to evoke the ranking band Head Magus strapped to our arms, and explained some of the particulars of what’s expected of us in glass rank—forty merits total, by way of arena victory or otherwise proficiency in one profession at a novice level. Some of the cadets groaned as War-tutor Moro Hinde rattled off the list and ensured not only that trying to game the system in any way will ensure a swift death, but that the effort would also be futile, since the ranking magic doesn’t respond to fraud. The minimum thresholds exist for a reason. To mold us in a uniform way, while extracting our strengths to the fullest potential.

  Sign me the hell up.

  Layla and I cross paths on the way to Battle Beasts class toward the end of the day. I hate that we aren’t together most of the day, but all the better to exchange information later. We’ll be stronger for it. Still, I’m happy when I find Jurso’s dirty blond mop staring at the fossils of a dragon under the glass floor.

  I nudge him, and his eyes light up like it’s meat night in sub-tier.

  “Hale!”

  “Jurs. How’s your Prominent?”

  “She’s cool. A healer from war-tier,” he speaks low so we don’t upset the others. “She’s blind in one eye, you know.”

  “Yeah, I figured. It’s completely white.”

  “Well, she taught us that afflictions make for better wielders of blissful light, which is the cornerstone of all healing spells and auras.”

  I rack my brain for some information on that, but nothing comes to mind.

  “Confused? Me too. Was buried in the subtexts of high-magic mythos, even though I’m finding out it’s technically in its own category.”

  “Very interesting,” I say, selfishly bumping Jurso up in my internal rankings of marked. “So she sees potential in you because of your coughing fits.”

  “Fuck off.” He pushes me, and we both laugh. “But yeah, if I can figure out how to call on the bliss, maybe I can learn to wield it. It’s not like I’m attuned to the dark or anything.”

  “Hm.” I listen, taking it in.

  “She said as afflicted, if we have a magical bone in our bodies, they generally tend to claw for the light in hopes for relief. Guess that’s the silver lining of feeling like shit all the time.”

  “Go figure.” I shake my head. “Makes sense that it was hidden from us, actually.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “It’s the same as why high magic was said to have ‘died’ in olden times. They wanted us to focus solely on evoking the warring dark in the sub-tier, to help our chances of an awakening. If one of us somehow became attuned with bliss, everyone would be asking questions which would distract from the prize.”

  Our Battle Beasts tutor can’t stop smiling as his class of forty wanders around taxidermized horned beasts with backs as big as a brute’s and hooves of shining diamonds. Dragon fossils taunt us beneath our feet, and wyvern tongues longer than trees sit behind glass with measurement lines under them and plaques telling us their significance.

  “Hey, Boe, are those your bones under there?” I tease.

  Boeru snickers behind my head. “My roost incinerated Sorela’sni in the Battle of Digar Castle.”

  I tense up, not expecting that. “Uhh.”

  “Her scent is faint, but it still clings to her bones all of these years later.” Boeru whips his head to the other trophies propped up in wooden and glass displays throughout the room. “These others are more recent prizes, I suspect.”

  When I get the opportunity, I ask the tutor the name of the dragon whose bones are under my feet, just to mess with Boeru, and as expected, he grumbles and groans about how I don’t trust him. I’m feeling lighter about the whole experience today. Watching Broggen get manhandled and put in his place felt good. Learning about the real world is even better.

  We’re ushered outside at the end of Battle Beasts class to meet a living diamond-horn bull held captive in a brass stable. The tutor explains that injured beasts can be transferred to sanctums while they recover, for educational purposes. There are tier-one raised beasts too, such as the wyverns that flew by this morning. Some riders even dare try to tame the donated ones once in a while. Come observation day—when other tiers gather to watch the sanctums’ ceremonies—some of the previous owners aren’t too happy.

  The ruthlessness of Head Magus Foren threatening Jenny and Horo still bites at the back of my head, but it’s good to see that not all tutors share the same sentiment.

  After classes, when Aster escorts us back to our quarters, it’s like the tension of Elshard melts away. I invite my marked, plus Jenny, to the library to huddle and share experiences of the day. A part of me wants to take the parchment and quill left for me at my dresser, but I’m supposed to be leading, I think. And I don’t remember reading anywhere in mythos of a general holding a quill… so… I rely on memory to take in what everyone went through.

  Renesta is aloof, gazing at books over her head, neck craned. At this point, I’d be concerned if she was participating in the discussion. She’s so talented with attunement and blade. It’s a shame I can’t trust her.

  What did you do in that spire, Ren? Is Gen the crazy one, or are you withholding?

  Layla boasts about the arena sit-in she experienced. She said it’s nothing like the little skirmish room Sivus has. Marble columns and cascading seats go up for levels, all to focus on war-type scenarios that opponents have to face off within. They even let riders in.

  “What if a wyvern wrapped its tongue around a spectator and snapped their neck?” Jurso grimaces.

  “All the more entertaining!” Rogo cackles.

  “Shh!” Misty whacks his arm. “We’re in a library, you big dope.”

  “Mph.” Rogo folds his arms.

  “Nah, there’s magical barriers protecting spectators,” Layla said. “Not going to lie—I ducked when a spear was thrown my direction after missing the mark. The barrier made it ricochet just like the Danes’ arena. Wasn’t wind, though. Hm.”

  “Sounds like you had the best day out of all of us,” Jurso says.

  “Hell yeah. I was trying to tell you when we crossed ways before, Hale. Saw an onyx-rank cadet get his abs set ablaze with a concentrated fire spell.” Layla smiles wide.

  “Shut the hell up.” Rogo’s face contorts in jealousy.

  “It was gnarly. At first he tried to use warring dark winds to snuff it out, but when that didn’t work, he charged his second spear and impaled the woman right in the left arm. The crowd went nuts.”

  “Hell yeah. My kind of warrior.” Misty clenches both fists. “They okay, though?”

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  Layla shrugs. “I’m guessing they’re sitting in some intense auras while healers look at them.”

  Rogo grunts again. “Psh. Best I got was to watch some sea-snakes eat rats. One of the fucking snooty tier-three guys said ‘oh look, another sub-tier fed to the beasts.’”

  All of us groan at that. We’re second-rate citizens here, like the gopars in mythos. Whatever. Just more chances to prove ourselves.

  As our crew breaks off to bed and the hour runs late, only Jurso, Renesta, and I remain spread out in the library, along with other higher rank Sivus students we don’t dare bother. One glance at Renesta leaning in a corner perusing some warring dark mythos tells me she still wants no part of us. Jurso, on the other hand… where has this guy been all my life? We exchange ideas and bounce off each other so seamlessly, it’s like we’re one person. Even though I should be hunting for Elden magic texts for Boeru, the blood tome mythos Jurso clunks on the table piques my curiosity. Oddly, it even smells a bit metallic when he cracks it open. Makes me wonder if others tried practical application while reading.

  He flips through to current practices of the four houses tempering blood. According to the data scratched on the parchment, Sivus’ divine balance methods wind up with the most high-magic attuned post-ascendance, and the least warring dark. Yet they still wound up with a bonded all the same. Good negotiating, House Lord Karloth.

  “Look at this.” Jurso runs his finger over the text. “House Kavoh and Valor believe that tempering blood to a feral—almost animalistic state—allows for great potency when spilled over Seals. The Sept explains this phenomenon as ‘blood in the water,’ allowing for spirits to hunt more clearly for their potential bonded.”

  “Checks out with all Relias was on about,” I say.

  “Yeah. It’s still fucked up though. Here, look. ‘The four houses agree that removing parentage from the equation allows for a sense of hopelessness that, in some cases, may be overcome by forging like-kind bonds with their house siblings. It is universally believed that spirits of war respect the harsh upbringing, and frown upon privilege and stability. Kavoh takes it one step further by instilling constant fear of the whip.’”

  Can’t help but think back to all the lashings. After coming home with a whole sack of manifested Kyard, we’d still get beaten by House Mother for passing curfew. That’s all in the past now though. Need to look forward. “Anything on how to use our tempered blood to our advantage now that we’re here?”

  “Right.” Jurso flips on.

  As he does, my mind wanders to a newer thought now that we’re out of the sub-tier dark: lineage. Will my parents have the nerve to face me, explain why they put me in that terrible place? Hmph. Who’s to say they’re even still alive… perhaps I am a true orphan after all.

  Boom!

  Two gloved hands slap our table, snapping us to attention. Hissing cinder fades up the man’s arms, leading to a head of long, orange-red hair and matching eyes staring widely at us. His jaw is so tight it looks like it might crack, and his rich-looking red robes hide a set of mesh scaled armor shimmering beneath.

  Jurso starts coughing immediately from being startled. I get it. It’s embarrassing, and happened to me more times than I can count.

  “Can I help you?” I ignore my heart beating in my throat.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Renesta close her tome and amble carefully up to us.

  “Weak.” He motions to Jurso. “Your fucking cowardice batch is going to cost this house everything.”

  “Seems to me like you’re in the wrong house with that attitude,” I quip back.

  The cinders around his gloves spark back to life, making me wonder if he’s going to leave two soot-filled handprints on the nice mahogany table.

  “You convinced Karloth to trade Drydon for you. Fucking… screwed us.” He smacks the table again. “I should kill you right here and do the house a favor. Then our lord won’t waste another second coddling your pathetic marked.”

  “You know, there’s something I don’t fucking get.” I stand, my chair scratching back. “Why do you care so much about which house wins what? Isn’t Elshard what matters?” I echo Scorius’ sentiment.

  “You piece of pathetic glass.” His eyes echo flames, blinking white whenever his hands rev the same cinders. “We traded a steel rank for the lot of you who, together, don’t make a gods-damn iron.”

  “Why does it matter?” I raise my voice to match his.

  He wouldn’t burn down all the mythos, right? That must be against house rules or something.

  “Favor, you prick.”

  I narrow my eyes. Something about the way he insults us is different from all the others. He hasn’t called us rats, or sub-tier scum, or anything like that. As a matter of fact, I notice black, magical slivers mixing with his fire. He has warring dark in him. Maybe he’s from the sub-tier too.

  “Having Drydon meant more victories, more eyes on us from higher tiers. More enchanted weapons for when we ascend to war-tier. Private lessons from actual soldiers. Head Magus rewards us for giving Elshard a good name. Donations that we can fight for go up.” He unsheathes a golden dagger that makes him one piece of jewelry away from looking tacky. The ruby clasped on the hilt shines as he evokes magic from it. “Now Kavoh has him, and we’re fucked.”

  “You were traded to this house, weren’t you?” Jurso says, muffling the last of his coughing fit.

  The intruder bares his teeth. “Valor. Drydon and I were a duo.”

  Ah, that makes sense. Drydon probably carried his ass all the way through to his fancy robes and golden dagger.

  “You’re from the sub-tier like us, aren’t you?” I ask.

  The man leans forward. “What the fuck does that matter?” He twists the blade into the wood. “Think it makes us kin or something?” In a flash, he dashes around the table and grabs Jurso by the neck.

  Renesta erects a shadow behind the man, and Boeru growls in my mind.

  “Bonds are shit,” he growls.

  “Let him go,” I demand.

  “They’re worth nothing but the blood in your veins.” He lifts the golden dagger to Jurso’s neck. Then with a blink of white in his eyes, the shadow looming behind him erupts in a flash fire that sends it trickling to the floor like sand. “Your novice dark magic is useless.”

  “Then let us grow so we can be of use.” My gaze shifts back and forth between Jurso and his captor. “The man you’re holding will be attuned with bliss before you blink, and I will work to wield this bond with my Prominent. We will be useful to Sivus yet.” I suppress my anger, noting the edge of the blade pressed into Jurso’s neck, threatening to split it.

  “You’ve been paying attention.” The man smiles angrily.

  “That’s what inquisitors do.” I raise my eyebrows.

  This guy looks my brother’s age. Five years older or so. Maybe if I can convince him to let go of Jurso, I can get something out of him.

  “Tyros, Vigil, what do we think?” the man calls two of his friends from a nearby table, who come strutting over in similar attire. One has a black bun and long arms, the other is missing an ear. Potentially a bliss attuned?

  For the split second the attention is off me, I nod for Renesta to stand down, since she’s obviously in pain from the shadow burn. Probably too weak to summon a shade and get help.

  Gods, doesn’t Sivus have security, or patrols, or something?

  “Unworthy of his status,” Vigil—the one with no ear—taps his fingertips together, white slivers circling them like rings. “Spoils of Karloth’s investment is too far down the road to be useful for us. We’ll be traded three times before we bear the fruits.”

  “They would be prime testing subjects, Izfael,” Tyros says. “We should—”

  “Of course we should.” Izfael adjusts the blade to the other side of Jurso’s neck.

  I’m scared another coughing fit will come on abruptly and Jurso will wind up cutting his own throat.

  “Gentlemen—”

  “Quiet, Dragonborn,” Izfael demands. “You will come with us now.”

  “Fine. Just let him go.” I hold firm.

  In a blur, Izfael twirls the blade around his fingers and shoves it into its sheath, then shoves Jurso awkwardly into the table.

  “Boeru, give me something,” I ask while rushing around to pull Jurso behind me.

  “As you surmised, he is attuned with the warring dark as well as high-magic fire. It appears they combine well in the mortal realm.”

  “Yeah, but you said you caught a strong whiff of Lacor off Drydon at the induction. What about his counterpart here?”

  “No, this one is clean in that respect. But beware, he is truthful about his murderous intent.” The dragon huffs. “In times like these, I do not like being confined to your vessel, mortal. These predators should be wrapped in dragon fire.”

  “The three of you, with me.” Izfael beckons us, snapping a threatening piece of cinder that wraps around our necks. This must be the concentrated fire Layla was talking about before.

  Imprisoned again like in the sub-tier, now in the middle of the night, in what’s supposed to be my new home. Every damn turn is something…

  Vigil and Tyros flank the three of us to ensure we don’t try to run, and we’re marched out of the library. Tyros’ comment gives me pause. Test subjects? Probably dragging us to the arena to use my blood for something.

  Murderous intent…

  I eye Renesta, then Jurso.

  “Are you in league with the Sept?” Renesta breaks the silence, causing Izfael to laugh.

  “The Sept is part of a rigid apparatus, unwilling to truly test the limits. They chase awakenings with narrow vision, all while Drydon and I are… beyond that.”

  “And what are you, his servants?” Renesta tests, looking to the others.

  “Like-minded warriors is all,” Vigil responds plainly, leaning with his good ear at all times.

  We walk into the next grand hall, where Izfael dissipates the collars around our necks when other students walk by. I’m about to shout my case, but a discreet dagger of fire blooms to life in front of Jurso’s gut, threatening us.

  I’m expecting to make a right in the next hall, leading to the Sivus arena, but to my surprise we head straight past another row of student quarters I didn’t know existed. We continue on, to a tall cast-iron door carved with crimson indents.

  It opens on its own. No. Actually, two cloaked guards bow as they hold both handles from the inside.

  What the hell is this?

  Izfael notices the looks on our faces, relishing in it. “As I said… favor is a powerful motivator in Elshard.”

  “This is your quarters?” My throat constricts.

  The room is immense—golden-lined curtains hang from thirty-foot windows, framing a view of green pastures shining in the moonlight. A hearth taller than me crackles to my right, and straight ahead stands a pristine dining table large enough to fit thirty people.

  “No one is to interrupt us,” Izfael commands of his minions, who bow lower as they lock the door shut.

  One look at the confined space, and I suddenly feel trapped.

  Warring dark tickles my skin as all my muscles tense. We’re cornered animals in here. Should’ve taken the risk when we passed those students. Now we’re locked away for no one to find.

  We’re led farther into the next few rooms until we find ourselves in a cramped one flooded with tomes of tempered blood and warring dark mythos. Then he places his gloved hand on a specific stone over his head. It looks no different from the others, but when he activates his mixed attunement fire courses through it, setting it aglow.

  Thrum.

  A seemingly flush wall slides open to one side. Deeper into confinement we go…

  “Where are you taking us?” I say, the warring dark growing in my veins.

  “Head Magus values war-tier prospects above all, Dragonborn. He awards us privacy if we give Elshard favor, and encourages the lust for power so we may one day defeat Lacor. He does not discriminate on the means to attain it—even if Lord Karloth does.”

  I eye Jurso.

  Does that mean… Karloth is not in control of his own house?

  Our eyes widen once we’re escorted to the next room.

  “A Seal.” Jurso gapes, prompting Izfael to turn with his arms spread.

  “Behold… my path to greater attunement, and to glory. One that your blood will serve.”