The attacks came fast and unpredictable, and weaving Ethra out of thin air to form projections was harder in practice than anything the mage's demonstration had made it look.

  Over and over Tunde found himself on the ground, frustration gnawing at the edges of his focus as he pushed himself back up and tried again.

  Gradually, the speed at which he gathered his Ethra just outside his body increased, his projections cutting down the attacks from the holes with growing precision.

  The mage had stopped reappearing, leaving him to repeat his attempts alone, and he worked at it with the awareness that time was moving whether he was ready or not.

  His projections came faster and cleaner, the Ethra flowing smoothly as he grew accustomed to shaping it into a compact ball, the most stable form available to him, and releasing it in a single breath.

  When he stepped back onto the test spot, midnight starry Ethra formed around him in a ring of motion as he cut down every attack before it reached him, his body at the near edge of its reserves.

  The mage appeared.

  "Well done," she said.

  "You have become a capable projection cultivator. Later stages would see you forming and releasing techniques through thought alone, without the use of your hands, but that is well above the reach of a disciple."

  She held his gaze.

  "Ten attacks will come at you now. This is a test of speed, decision, and reaction. Your final result will be judged on how many you stop, deflect, or dodge while remaining on one spot. Good luck, disciple," she finished, and vanished.

  Tunde was already cycling, his projections beginning to form, when all ten holes fired simultaneously. Every affinity at once, tearing across the room in a single volley.

  Fire and lightning shot toward overlapping positions, the crackling light of the lightning trying to wash out his sight. He followed the ripple vibrations through the air, reading where each attack was aimed before it arrived.

  One projection detonated on contact with the converging flame and lightning, the explosion catching the ice attack in its spread. That triggered the water attack, which glanced off the ice shards and dissolved.

  He was already moving, a blur between the remaining attacks, letting them pass through the space he had just vacated, catching the lava stream on Ethra-coated palms and pushing it apart until it sizzled to nothing.

  He straightened. His heart was pounding and the collar was sending shocks through him in response to his elevated breathing. He looked at it for a moment, then reached up and gripped it. He had been imbuing his hands against everything in this chamber already.

  He willed his Ethra into the collar itself, the same way he had absorbed Ethra from anything that stayed in contact with his skin long enough.

  The collar squealed in his grip, its lightning Ethra draining into him, the relic humming softly as the power passed into its frame. The collar snapped. He set it aside and rubbed his throat.

  He turned back to the door. It had not opened.

  He stared at it. He had passed through all ten attacks. And yet.

  The frustration settled in his chest beside the anger, and he breathed through both. He stepped off the test spot and sat against the wall, closing his eyes. He could stop attacks.

  His projection technique was rougher than he would like but it was functional and growing sharper. The issue was the limit on how many he could form at once before the drain became too steep, and he hadn't found a way past that ceiling yet.

  He let the problem sit without forcing it, rotating his aura around his body, feeding Ethra into the sphere in slow pulses.

  Then a thought arrived.

  He opened his eyes and moved back to the test spot. Instead of forming individual projections, he let his Ethra flow outward continuously, letting it rotate around him in a constant cycle, a moving sphere rather than a cluster of fixed points.

  The holes fired the moment his Ethra touched the air. His sight read the ripples. He moved at full speed, fire slamming into the rotating Ethra that drank the impact and kept turning.

  The other attacks followed, striking the sphere one after another, each one threatening to shatter it, and yet each one losing its force piece by piece as the sphere absorbed and redirected it, the drained Ethra flowing back into him.

  It cost him more than projections had. He went to his knees as the sphere collapsed and the last attacks dissolved with it. His mind felt wrung out, his body aching from the drain.

  The mage appeared.

  "There is nothing left to teach you," she said.

  "Well done, disciple. You may proceed to the final trial."

  She vanished. The doors rumbled open.

  Tunde got to his feet, collected Shadowfang from the corner, and looked at the final chamber. He could feel the faint coil of dread already working its way up from somewhere below rational thought, and he noted it without giving it ground. He had passed through two trials. He would pass through the third.

  He moved to a corner instead, sat down, and closed his eyes. If the second trial had taken that much out of him, he was not walking into the last one running on an empty reserve. He let his cycling settle into its deepest rhythm and rested.

  *****

  Seated in his living quarters in the Jade Towers district, Elder Joran played host to a gathering whose members kept exchanging uncertain glances at each other and at him.

  Miria, the ink lady of Tyrant's Haven, sighed and looked sideways at the yellow-haired ranker with the silver metal arm. Lady Ryka sat with composed patience, a light paper fan moving slowly in her hand, waiting for the elder to speak.

  Joran hummed softly to himself and rapped his fingers against the wooden table. To call his living quarters sparse would have been generous.

  The space looked like a man who had rarely bothered with the idea of home, a reminder that however little was publicly known about his origins, even the large residence the clan had granted one of their three great elders had not managed to leave much impression on him. He paused his rapping and tilted his head.

  "Ah," he said. "They're here."

  The door opened. Isolde came through first, her eyepatch in place, Draven close behind her. After them came Harun, the third early-tier disciple of the house, and Giselle, also a disciple. The last figure through the door was not someone associated with the house at all.

  Tall and lanky, with an oiled beard and sleek hair, dressed in rich voluminous robes trimmed with gold inlaid silk, the man surveyed the room and allowed his gaze to settle on Miria with an expression of visible distaste. He then turned toward Elder Joran and flourished into a low, elaborate bow.

  "It brings me immeasurable honor to stand in your presence, esteemed venerable Elder Joran," the man said, deploying every syllable with deliberate ceremony.

  "Though it pains me somewhat to find the elder in the company of certain, ah, present elements," he added, with a sidelong look at Miria.

  "Do you have a death wish?" Miria replied pleasantly, the tattoos on her skin shifting and circling.

  "Peace," Elder Joran said, quietly.

  "Thank you for answering my call, Steward Cyrus," he added.

  "A thousand times over, I would come running at the word of the blind tiger of Clan Verdan," Cyrus replied.

  "Deference from the golden baron of the entertainment district," Miria said, with a soft laugh.

  "My, how times change."

  "I could have your tongue removed for that," Cyrus said, his voice sharpening.

  "The only thing you would be receiving is the precisely dismembered remains of your associates, should they set one foot—"

  "Miria," Elder Joran said.

  She stopped. His presence settled over the room like something heavy and alive, pressing down on the souls of everyone present, the disciples feeling it most acutely.

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  "If I wanted to watch you two perform, we wouldn't be sitting here," he said.

  "Apologies, great elder," Cyrus managed.

  Miria nodded quickly. The presence lifted. Both she and Cyrus exhaled.

  "Good," Joran said cheerfully.

  "Now that we're all friends, let's address why I called you here."

  No one spoke. They listened.

  "As you all know, Tunde's fight with Thalas Verdan is less than a day away. Cyrus, what is the general expectation of the outcome?" he asked.

  "A complete beating," Cyrus said without hesitation, all eyes turning to him.

  "They respect your student's strength," the peak disciple baron continued, catching himself before a word he had evidently thought better of.

  "But Thalas Verdan is ranked second in the clan. Certified, as I believe he was once called, a skull crusher. He is one of the clan's future pillars. To assume he might fall would be considered presumptuous by most."

  "Despite everything Tunde has accomplished?" Lady Ryka asked.

  "Jade Peak acknowledges his rise, I won't suggest otherwise," Cyrus said.

  "But they don't expect him to last against a Scion of House Verdan," Draven said, arms crossed.

  "He climbed to mid-tier disciple in less than a month," Harun said, speaking for the first time.

  "True," Cyrus allowed.

  "But when it comes to placing bets, no sensible person in this city would put money on Tunde over Thalas."

  "I'm inclined to change that," Miria said, with a quiet smile.

  Cyrus glanced at the elder before replying.

  "It would be your lumens finding their way into my pockets," he said.

  "Five hundred thousand lumens," Elder Joran said.

  The room went silent.

  "I beg your pardon," Cyrus said slowly.

  "Did you say five hundred thousand?"

  "On my disciple. To win, naturally," Joran continued, his smile undimmed.

  "Elder, that is a considerable stretch even for you," Lady Ryka said, genuine concern crossing her face.

  "Consider it a high-risk investment toward House Dark Fist," Joran replied.

  "And if he loses?" Giselle asked.

  "Then an acceptable, if grievous, loss," Joran said, with a shrug that suggested it was nothing of the sort.

  "Venerable elder, I strongly urge you to reconsider," Cyrus said.

  "Funny. I expected you to leap at the offer," Joran replied.

  "Under ordinary circumstances I would, but I have no desire to lose the favor of a venerable elder over a bet," Cyrus said carefully.

  "You will also," Joran added, "allow word of my wager to reach the appropriate circles by morning. Trusted sources. Let it be known what sum I've placed."

  "You intend to stir the betting rings," Isolde said.

  "There is nothing quite like a promised duel for drawing money into the entertainment district. I am, in effect, doing the clan a service," Joran said, with evident private amusement.

  "Three thousand lumens," Lady Ryka said.

  "The current odds on Tunde are sitting at five to one as of this morning," Cyrus said.

  "I still wouldn't advise it."

  "A hundred lumens," Draven said.

  Isolde smacked his shoulder.

  "What? It's the least we can do for him," Draven protested.

  "As well as lining your own pockets," she replied.

  He shrugged. She shook her head at him, a quiet smile breaking through regardless.

  "Two hundred lumens," Miria said.

  "I cannot match the elder's pockets, but I'll play my part. He had better not lose." She paused.

  "We share the same roots, and he interests me."

  "Feeling guilty all of a sudden?" Lady Ryka asked, a trace of something cool in her voice.

  "No. And not everything in the world revolves around you," Miria replied evenly.

  Draven and several of the disciples narrowed their eyes at her.

  "Take that back," Draven said.

  Elder Joran cleared his throat softly. The tension in the room cooled by several degrees.

  "I take it everyone is committed to their decisions?" Cyrus asked.

  "Indeed," Elder Joran said.

  "Very well. And I have your assurance, venerable elder, that whatever the result, the entertainment district and I personally will continue to enjoy your favor?"

  "Yes," Joran said.

  "Then it is settled. Five to one at present, though the odds will shift once word spreads through the night. I prefer to be fair, even toward unworthy recipients," Cyrus finished, with a look at Miria that she received with a small wave of her fingers.

  "Excellent," Joran said, and then, as though it had just occurred to him, "Oh, and one other thing."

  Every gaze turned to him.

  "How does Dark Wolf sound?" he asked, with a broad smile.

  Lady Ryka groaned.

  *****

  Tunde woke from his rest feeling clear-headed, drank from his water skin, and got to his feet with Shadowfang in hand. He looked at the final chamber in the distance without moving for a moment, breathed steadily, and then walked toward it.

  The holes in the walls had gone dark, their purpose spent. He felt the subtle pull of dread begin to work at the back of his mind as he approached and pushed it aside. He had come through two trials. This would be no different.

  The moment he stepped through the entrance, darkness took him completely.

  Not the darkness of an unlit room. This was something absolute, so thick and total that his Ethra sight found nothing to work with. His sense of direction went with it. Touch and sound followed. He turned, or thought he did.

  "Welcome, disciple," a voice said from the dark. Slippery and close, impossible to place.

  "To the final and true trial."

  Tunde said nothing and waited.

  "You have tempered your strength and sharpened your reflexes. Now you must temper your mind," the voice continued.

  "Willpower and mental fortitude are as vital to a cultivator as the body that carries them. Here, you will either break and be lost, or come out the other side as forged steel."

  "Willpower is linked directly to the strength of your soul," the voice said, its tone shifting into something more jagged.

  "For an insignificant disciple such as yourself, simply resisting the edge of a true dominion technique could split your soul, or, in rare cases, reforge it. To resist the dominion of a ranker is to push back against their entire version of existence."

  Tunde let his aura spread outward in a sphere.

  The world shifted.

  His body and mind screamed before he had consciously registered why. His aura was the only thing keeping him coherent, a thin shell against something that had no right to exist inside a stone chamber.

  Nightmares surrounded him without source, grotesque shapes looming without edges, leering faces dripping with malice, and laughter that sounded like hundreds of voices screaming at the same time. Reality bent at angles that made his eyes water trying to track them.

  His sanity began to fray at its edges. He crashed to his knees, shuddering, feeling his sense of self begin to stretch and pull, like skin being worked too far.

  He slammed his eyes shut and pulled inward, retreating from the assault, tuning out what he could not fight from the outside. A pressure built in his chest, not physical, not pain exactly, something pressing down on his very being from all directions at once.

  His mind was a grey space, and he found himself moving through his few kept memories like a man holding a lantern against a storm. Then he saw the shapes creeping in at the edges of that inner place, baleful red eyes pressing through the thin points, looking for purchase.

  Tunde roared. He felt the primal, half-formed mind of Shadowfang add its weight to his own without being asked, the axe's predatory consciousness pressing out against the invaders alongside him.

  He was frightened. He accepted it. Whatever affinity the creator of this dominion had built it from was not something he had encountered before, and if he ever found the person responsible, he intended to have a full and final conversation with them. But fear alone would not end him, and the things pressing at his inner sanctuary would not desecrate it while he could still push back.

  He imagined his mind as a burning place, black flames rising from the ground as he sent them outward, scorching the encroaching shapes.

  They screamed and pulled back, and then more came, pressing down harder on his mind and soul simultaneously. He held his ground.

  He had survived worse, the open sea, the carcass pit, the barbarians of the wastelands, none of which had come at his soul directly, but all of which had wanted him dead just as sincerely.

  He and Shadowfang held the line.

  *****

  It began as a flicker.

  The ranker, unaware, had no knowledge yet of the shape his soul was beginning to take. It formed gradually, from the pressure and the resistance combined, resolving into a pair of yellow, vertically slit pupils that stared down the horrors bearing in on it. Strands of corruption felt for the edges of that space and found the gaze already waiting for them.

  Large white canines followed. The soul opened, and from it came a wave of power, a fraction only of what it would one day become, carrying a weight of condescension that spoke of something much older and larger than a single disciple's mind.

  The corruption tendrils recoiled, and where they retreated, they burnt. More came to replace them, pressing in numbers, hoping to overwhelm through volume what they could not break through force.

  ****

  Within his mind and soul, Tunde fought without end, time having lost its shape entirely. For every attack he repelled, two arrived to take its place. And yet he held, barely, swinging Shadowfang in the space of his imagination, the weapon's own consciousness beside his, its howl reverberating through the contest like a battle-call.

  Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the tide began to shift. Power trickled into him from the shapes he had destroyed, stolen from the attacks themselves, feeding back into his mind and soul as fuel. The strain at the edges began to ease. The darkness pressing in thinned.

  He pushed forward. His willpower had held him up through all of it, and now that willpower had grown stronger in the holding.

  Tunde's eyes snapped open. He was gasping, drenched in sweat, blinking as the darkness resolved back into stone walls lit by dormant torches.

  A figure in a black hooded robe stood at the far corner of the room. He was on his feet before the thought to stand had finished forming, Shadowfang already swinging in a clean arc through the figure's midsection.

  The axe passed through it without resistance.

  "No doubt you just attempted to harm my projected self," the figure said, with something close to amusement.

  "A recording," Tunde muttered, with feeling.

  His mind felt simultaneously exhausted and alive, like a muscle worked past failure that had come back stronger. The figure spoke.

  "What you just endured is a soul-attacking dominion technique. Rather than binding the body, it targets the mind and soul directly, driving a cultivator into hysteria, which leads in turn to their death in battle. Few practice this method. Fewer still survive a first encounter with it."

  The figure paused.

  "And yet you have. Perhaps there is more to you than first appearances suggest, child of Verdan."

  It vanished.

  "That's it?" Tunde said to the empty room.

  No further explanation came. He noted that he would need to find out which sect or practitioner that recording had belonged to.

  The entire chamber rumbled around him, and the final door ground open, revealing a stone staircase leading upward. He climbed it without hesitation, reached a door at the top, pushed it open, and sunlight hit him like a wall.

  He groaned and shielded his eyes.

  "Congratulations, my student," Elder Joran's voice said.

  Tunde blinked until his vision adjusted. The elder stood in front of him.

  "Elder?" Tunde said, his voice not entirely steady.

  "You completed the trials ahead of my estimate," Joran said, and tossed a sack toward him.

  "With enough time remaining to rest."

  Tunde caught it.

  "Rest?" he repeated.

  "Yes. In three hours, when the sun begins to set, you face Thalas Verdan at the clan's sacred fighting grounds," the elder said, and his voice had taken on the formal cadence of a man stating a fact that could not be moved.

  Tunde stared at him.

  "I thought we had two days left," he said.

  "I told you the trials were not easy," the elder replied.

  He tried to work out how long the last trial alone had taken. His sense of time inside it had dissolved entirely.

  He was still attempting to reconcile the numbers when he noticed shapes approaching in the distance and looked up.

  "Your house has come to watch," Elder Joran said quietly, and they both stood and watched as Elyria, Lady Ryka, and the others made their way toward them across the open ground.