Every clash came with a bone-jarring force, Tunde's Lithrane staff moving with everything he had, twisting against the weight of the stone cuffs on his limbs.

  He could feel the strength built into his reinforced skeletal system, each swing doubling the force behind it.

  Something close to resonance seemed to ride every blow despite its absence, his reflexes sharpening as he managed to deflect three of the elder's strikes in succession, stepping back to create space before pressing forward again.

  He had moved from pure defense to returning attacks of his own, however little good it did him. The closest he had come to landing anything was his staff grazing the elder's robes, and that had been answered with swift retribution that put him back on his knees.

  This was his third bout, his body aching as Elder Joran worked to grind him back down to the same broken state he had been in hours ago. The only difference was that it took longer now, painfully longer, as though his body was building a tolerance to this particular kind of suffering.

  The elder had been right about him. He was a walking accumulation of resistance forged through damage, and Tunde had conflicted feelings about that.

  On one hand, it almost certainly meant that given enough time, he would be able to absorb devastating attacks and walk away with nothing worse than bruises. On the other hand, the journey to that point was another matter entirely.

  He parried a strike and threw everything into a blow aimed at the elder's head. No holding back, no mercy, Joran was too strong for half-measures.

  He watched the elder catch it with a light deflection and shift the trajectory, and Tunde drove his strength into the staff, forcing it to resist, his body straining against the redirection. The elder nodded, something appreciative in the gesture.

  For the first time, the elder introduced his Ethra. The repulsive force ran through Tunde and sent him skidding backward to crash into the ground with a grunt.

  "Good," Joran said.

  "You pushed me into using Ethra. We're making progress."

  Tunde could feel his bones carrying subtle vibrations, tiny persistent shakes that interfered with his movement. He climbed back to his feet, his Ethra cycling on its own now, his breathing steady enough to keep the collar quiet. He spoke in short bursts.

  "Your affinity," he said. "It's vibration, isn't it?"

  "If you're only realizing that now, I've been giving you considerably more credit than you deserve," Joran replied.

  "No, I had a sense of it. I just wanted to be certain," Tunde said.

  "That, and one other," Joran said with a shrug.

  "It's how you see," Tunde said.

  "Congratulations," Joran said.

  "You've uncovered the secret of the century."

  Tunde bowed.

  "Apologies, elder. No disrespect intended," he said.

  Elder Joran tsked and swung his staff idly as he spoke.

  "How are the restraints?" he asked.

  Tunde opened and closed his fists, shifted his feet.

  "Moderate," he replied.

  Joran snorted.

  "You mean easier," he said.

  Tunde tilted his head in quiet confirmation, already dreading the sight of another pair of denser cuffs emerging from the elder's void ring. Joran turned to face him, twirling his staff once.

  "I have done what I can for your body," he said.

  "What remains will be left to you and the challenges in the other rooms. Those will push you further than I can at this stage."

  Tunde's eyes drifted toward the corridor, wondering what the elder had left waiting for him in those chambers.

  "Try them now, and you might make it through the first," Joran said, no doubt reading his curiosity.

  "The second? I doubt it."

  "What we need to work on now is your aura and presence," the elder continued.

  "Sit."

  Tunde sat on the sandy ground, legs folded, eyes on the elder standing in front of him.

  "Initially, you unsettled every ranker and cultivator around you through sheer absence of aura," Joran began, a note of amusement in his voice.

  "Just this overwhelming presence like a caged animal. It was quite something to watch initiates and disciples alike treat you like an unsheathed blade left lying in the road."

  "I had no idea," Tunde said quietly.

  "Naturally. And I'm prepared to believe, based on Rhyn's reports, that it was precisely the reason Gale and his team failed to detect you. They were tracking the absence of an aura and ignoring your presence entirely," Joran replied.

  "Then again, in a forest full of abominations, presences like yours would hardly stand out. And yet," he said, pausing, "the disadvantages of not using your aura outweigh the benefits of keeping it hidden."

  The elder settled cross-legged in front of him, opened one palm, and a faintly milkish white haze wobbled like a soap bubble above it.

  "Aura is a weapon," he began.

  "The shape it takes, its qualities, its characteristics, all of it says something about the ego of the cultivator it belongs to. Since it is a direct manifestation of that ego, it should not surprise you, further down the path, to encounter auras that take strange or unsettling forms as cultivators advance."

  "You're saying mine would look like this?" Tunde asked, pulling his robe aside to show the tattoo.

  Joran shrugged.

  "Fate moves constantly. Only you can decide that. We'll see when you get there."

  "Get where?" Tunde asked.

  "Peak adept or early lord. That is the earliest point at which an aura can take a defined shape," Joran said.

  "For now, it is simply a reservoir of power that puts extra force behind your attacks."

  Tunde hesitated.

  "Your ego took the shape of a bubble?" he asked carefully.

  Joran raised an eyebrow.

  "Is there a problem with that?" he asked.

  "No, forgive me. I was just curious," Tunde said quickly.

  The elder chuckled.

  "You'll have your own opinion about it soon enough," he said.

  "Presence is the general sense of danger or strength that radiates from a ranker," Joran explained,

  "Usually giving those around them an instinctive read of how dangerous they are. Which is why I said you felt like a caged animal ready to lash out at everything. These days though, it's shifted. It feels more like something simmering," he said, turning the observation over thoughtfully.

  He folded his arms.

  "But for now, we work on your aura. I need you to envision how you see yourself."

  "How I see myself?" Tunde asked, uncertain.

  Joran tapped one finger against his folded arm.

  "When you faced the tainted Corespawn. When you had nothing left to lose. I need you to go back to that moment, feel it again, bring it to the front of your body and mind. Think of it like pushing your Ethra outward from within, but instead of Ethra, it's that," he said.

  "I can try, but—" Tunde started, and then Joran snapped his fingers.

  The bubble aura swallowed him whole.

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  Tunde felt it close around him like a fist squeezing from the outside, the air thinning as he struggled to breathe. His eyes went wide.

  Each breath came shorter than the last, his body pressing down on itself as though stones had been tied to every limb and he had been dropped into deep water. He gasped uselessly as Joran watched him in silence.

  "You overthink when you're not in the middle of a fight," the elder said.

  "That is a problem."

  "The pressure you're feeling, the helplessness as your chest begins to tighten, that is my aura working on you. A defensive one, at that, or rather, I'm shaping it toward that purpose," he continued.

  "And while I apologize for removing your choice in whether you develop an offensive or defensive aura, your body is already offensive enough on its own. Don't you think?"

  Tunde could no longer move, straining his whole frame against the aura with no effect. Joran shook his head.

  "Wrong approach, again," he said.

  "Auras are intangible unless imbued onto objects. They sink into the soul, locking from the inside out. Those who develop them offensively grow skilled with soul-based techniques, but that is a lesson for another day," he said.

  "Push from within. You need to resent what I am doing to you, gather your will and your ego, and drive them outward. Whatever form you envision for your aura, it will push back, trying to assert itself against mine," Joran explained, his voice entirely level.

  Tunde clenched his fists, sweat beading along his brow, each breath shorter and shallower than the one before. His body was starting to panic, the same deep, animal panic he had felt facing down the shadow panther, a dark and primal part of his mind cracking open. He grunted and pulled for a deeper breath.

  He had survived the open sea for cycles. He had survived the rotting carcass pit they had thrown him into to die. He had survived the bone-worshipping barbarians of the wastelands.

  That had to count for something.

  His eyes found the tattoo on his chest, the dark shape that shone like a scatter of stars on a full moon night, and he turned his gaze back to Elder Joran and pushed.

  He pushed from the deepest part of himself, his muscles pulling tight, his skull feeling like it was caving inward, and he kept pushing because nothing else existed in that moment except the need to tear the elder's aura off him.

  He didn't notice the wisps of black smoke at first, rising from his skin and sizzling against the elder's aura like oil against a hot surface. More and more of it came, eating through the dense layers of Joran's aura from beneath. He saw the elder straighten, every trace of ease leaving his posture.

  What did it matter? Who was the elder to think he could crush him like this? He had made it to disciple rank. He was tired of being pressed down.

  And then he could breathe again. He could move one arm. The black smoke was the same he had seen in the mining tunnels, and even though it shouldn't have been possible, he reached for the elder's aura and closed his grip on it.

  Joran snapped his fingers.

  "Let's adjust the parameters," he said.

  The aura doubled. The added weight crushed down faster than the smoke could eat through it, and Tunde groaned under it, his vision beginning to blacken at the edges. He bit his lip until he tasted blood and held on. He did not care how long it took.

  ****

  They had been at it for hours.

  Joran watched Tunde push his mind and willpower to the edge of collapse, break apart, and rebuild just as fast, over and over. It was remarkable to observe.

  It was not purely the work of whatever affinity the boy carried, though he allowed that was contributing some portion. Mostly it was will, raw and stubborn and unreasoning. To Tunde's mind, he was fighting for his life.

  If he stopped, he would die. His body had accordingly shut itself down to resist physically and thrown the entire weight of his ego against Joran's aura.

  The result was something between a rabid animal and a force of nature, lashing at its containment and growing stronger by the hour. A very dangerous observation.

  Joran snapped his attention to the ceiling as he registered the presence of Lord Alaric.

  He watched in growing horror as the lord's aura dropped onto Tunde from above, adding its weight to his own and pressing the boy further into strain. Joran moved to withdraw his aura and tear apart the lord's, but felt Alaric's presence settle briefly on him in clear warning.

  He stilled.

  What was Alaric doing? Was this the clan moving to sabotage him? He watched helplessly as the thin thread of the lord's aura threatened to actually break Tunde, and then the change began.

  The boy's aura reacted.

  It surged against the lord's, pouring out more rapidly, feeding on desperation, a faucet wrenched fully open. The smoky, star-scattered aura began to fog the space around Tunde entirely, cutting him off from view. Joran kept visual through his own senses regardless.

  Then Alaric's aura withdrew cleanly, leaving only Joran's, and Tunde's aura turned its full force on it. Joran pushed his output higher, noting with a sharpening focus that Tunde was operating at peak disciple rank with his aura and then some.

  If he could sustain this against an adept's pressure, Thalas would have no advantage in that domain at all. The realization was exciting. The fear immediately behind it was whether Tunde's body and mind could survive what it was costing him to get there.

  He withdrew his aura in one sharp motion. Tunde's aura lashed out at the surrounding space in response, Joran reaching over and tapping him once on the skull.

  Tunde dropped. His aura dissolved. Joran allowed him a moment and then made his way up through the underground chamber and out into the blinding midday heat, where Lord Alaric stood in light black robes, looking into the distance.

  "Lord Alaric," Joran said by way of greeting, and heard the stiffness in his own voice.

  "Two days in that chamber and the changes are already visible," Alaric replied, not turning.

  "I would ask, with all humility, that you not interfere with my training going forward," Joran said, keeping his voice level.

  Alaric turned to look at him.

  "This is the first time I've seen you genuinely angry," he observed.

  Joran bowed slightly.

  "Then I apologize for my countenance," he said.

  Alaric gave no answer.

  "The Acacia clan is no longer concealing its alliance with the mountain sects," the lord said, his tone settling into something quieter and more deliberate.

  "Our mission was a failure. Both rankers have reported back that the enemy has located the tier four rift and is prepared to hold it."

  "And the mountain sects are willing to absorb our response?" Joran asked.

  "The Acacia clan has promised them no fewer than two adepts each, and possibly a lord from each sect, to offset the damages my sister saw fit to inflict on them," Alaric replied.

  "She actually laid waste to their mountain fortresses?" Joran asked, brow creasing.

  "She attempted to. They retreated behind the runic barriers of their inner strongholds before she could finish," Alaric said.

  "There's no way border mountain sects could have independently afforded an arcanist," Joran murmured.

  "It appears the Acacia clan is committing significant resources to that rift. They want their heir elevated to lord rank as quickly as possible," Alaric replied.

  "Along with whatever noble-born accompanies her," Joran finished.

  They stood in silence for a moment, watching sky vessels settle and depart at the shaven peaks in the distance, most bearing the marks of long and difficult journeys.

  "With rifts opening across the continent, we are about to see a wave of new disciples," Alaric said.

  "And a corresponding wave of deaths," Joran replied.

  "Then you understand what I'm suggesting," the lord said.

  "We will not play that game, Lord Alaric," Joran answered immediately.

  "Would you prefer my sister sink her teeth into him herself?" Alaric asked, his tone light.

  "There is a reason I chose the wasteland border for the house settlement," Joran said.

  "True. But if you believe for a moment that places you beyond her reach, then I have badly overestimated you," Alaric replied.

  Joran folded his hands behind his back.

  "We will win this duel, Lord Alaric. Without your involvement," he said.

  "You genuinely expect him to stand against Thalas without assistance?" Alaric asked.

  "He has mine," Joran replied.

  "Thalas has reached the aura-shaping stage," Alaric said.

  For once, Joran had nothing to say.

  He had told Tunde that aura shaping belonged to a peak adept or an early lord, and that was generally true. Occasionally, the path produced exceptions. Young Thalas was apparently one of them.

  "You're asking the impossible," Joran murmured.

  "And yet that is precisely what you require," Alaric said.

  Joran shook his head.

  "You intend to use us at the expense of your own family," he said.

  "It isn't Rhyn whose standing is at risk," Alaric replied.

  "No, it's mine," Joran said.

  "And I will be the one who determines whether I rise or fall. Not you." He paused and then continued.

  "You want me to keep Moros contained, and by extension your sister, while ensuring your grandson reaches adept, and your daughter reaches lord. I have no particular objection to those outcomes," he said.

  "But do it on your own. House Dark Fist will not be a piece in your family's disputes."

  He bowed to the lord.

  "Now, if you will excuse me, I have a disciple to piece back together after you so helpfully introduced your aura to him mid-session," he said, and turned toward the chamber entrance, which opened and closed behind him.

  "It does not hurt to have a powerful hand behind you," Alaric said to his back.

  "Somehow I doubt that, my lord," Joran replied, and the stone sealed shut.

  ****

  Tunde woke to a headache like an axe blade lodged behind his eyes, cursed quietly, and accepted the healing elixir that appeared in front of his face with considerable gratitude. He drained it and felt the pounding ease to something manageable, groaning softly.

  "How do you feel?" Elder Joran asked.

  "Better. A moment ago, it felt like my skull had caved in," he said.

  "Aftereffects of fighting a stronger aura," the elder replied.

  "Yours is unpleasant to be on the wrong side of," Tunde said.

  Joran gave a noncommittal grunt and watched his student get to his feet. Tunde looked at the cuffs and noticed they were already going dull, the Ethra he had fed into them being pulled away by his body, along with whatever else it could extract.

  He crushed the cuffs with his bare hands, the stone crumbling clean, and stretched, his joints cracking in a long chain of relief.

  "What's next?" he asked.

  "You rest. The three trials begin tomorrow," Joran replied.

  "Three trials?" Tunde asked.

  "Indeed. This chamber, graciously provided to us by Lord Alaric at a price that I would describe as exorbitant, contains three of them," Joran explained.

  "Trial of strength. Trial of skill. Trial of willpower," he listed.

  "What do they involve?" Tunde asked.

  "You'll find out when you get there," the elder replied, turning to leave.

  "Oh, and Artificer Borus has sent word. Your soulbound weapon will be delivered by sunrise tomorrow."

  Tunde felt something warm and sharp move through his chest.

  "Did he say what it was?" he asked.

  "Only that it should suffice for a ranker without sword technique," Joran replied.

  "Something blunt, then," Tunde said.

  Joran shrugged.

  "No idea. We'll see. Rest. And your companions have returned from their mission in one piece," the elder added, moving toward the dark tunnel.

  "Elyria and Thorne? Are they here?" Tunde asked.

  Joran paused and turned to him with a sigh.

  "I would concentrate on what is immediately within your control," he replied, and disappeared into the corridor.

  Tunde bowed to the darkness and then sat down near where he kept his supplies, pulling out dried meat, fruit, and pitchers, eating without ceremony, his body burning through it as quickly as he could take it in.

  When he was done he leaned back against the wall, gaze drifting to the tattoo on his chest.

  He thought about its shape. He thought about what had happened when his aura had pushed back against the elder's, what that feeling had been like, the blind refusal to be pressed under.

  He released a small amount of aura into his palm, the smoky, star-scattered power gathering briefly before the strain pulled it apart and it dissolved.

  His growth was real. He could feel it in everything he did, every movement, every breath, the way his bones felt loaded with more than just mass. And yet the question that sat underneath it all, quiet and persistent, was whether it would be enough. Two days until Thalas.

  He was doing everything he could. The evidence was in his body. He closed his fists and pushed the doubt aside. Thalas was a disciple. He was a disciple.

  They both wanted the same thing, advancement, standing, the right to keep going. Which meant it came down to one question, and Tunde already knew his answer.

  He crossed his legs, began actively cycling his Ethra, and let the familiar rhythm settle over him. He needed rest. He would pull what he could from his exhausted body before taking it.