The deafening silence stretched on for minutes that felt like hours, thick enough to choke on. Then—like a thunderclap—the Trickster God's laughter split the stillness. It started low and sharp, then swelled into a maddening crescendo that scraped against the walls like broken glass.
"Hah! What's this?" His voice dripped venom and mockery. "Cat got your tongue? The mighty leader can't utter a single word? Are you… surprised?" He leaned forward, grin feral, teeth gleaming in the dim light. "Surprised that I found some willing to follow me? Hehehehe..." His laugh curled around the chamber like smoke, choking out reason.
The great Archmage, Amber Nois did not so much as flinch. Instead, the Great Archmage turned her back—slowly, deliberately—in a gesture carved from pure disdain. Every motion spoke louder than words, which seemed to say: You are beneath me.
That did it. Rage boiled in the Trickster God's gut, twisting like a serpent with broken fangs. First, she had restricted his power with just her words, anonymity and threat, bound him in subtle ways only she could craft. Now this—turning away as though he were a child throwing tantrums in a market square. His nails bit into his own palms. He wanted to tear reality apart and swallow her whole.
But he didn't. He couldn't. Attacking her now would be playing into her game, and he knew it. So, with a grin stretched tight like a mask, he held back the storm. Not now. But soon.
The great Archmage, Amber Nois vanished into the depths of the Oradonian Base without a word, her flowing cloak the last thing to dissolve into the shimmer of wards. In her absence, Uriel Commes—the Scarlet Raven—stepped forward. His blackened mantle flared like a slash of blood as his voice rolled through the tense air:
"Since the fifteen of you have chosen to join the cause of the Trickster God, you are free to go." His eyes were like winter steel, sharp and cold. "But hear this: whatever happens to you… you will not be welcomed here again. You are no longer a part of this institution or us. Good luck—you'll need it."
The weight of those words hit like an avalanche. Several of the fifteen shifted uneasily, doubt flickering in their eyes like dying candles. But before the silence could thicken again, the Trickster God clapped his hands together with a sound like snapping bones.
"I am a god," he declared, voice booming with false triumph, "so tell me—who is your master? What is she compared to this might?"
It was a trap, a baited hook laced with curiosity and spite. He wanted a name. A title. A single thread to unravel the mystery of the Great Archmage who dared to stand above his schemes.
But silence answered him. Not a single tongue dared wag. The Trickster God tilted his head, grin twitching at the edges. Were they too afraid? Or too loyal? No… something was wrong. He should have seen hesitation, should have smelled the rot of betrayal on their breath.
He didn't know the truth—that every one of them was bound by blood oath, a silent blade forged by The great Amber herself. A spell so ruthless that even intent to reveal her identity would rip the soul from its shell. She had seen this moment coming. She had prepared for him.
For the first time in centuries, the Trickster God felt… contained.
His grin widened to hide the fury beneath. "No matter." He spoke with a velvet purr that did nothing to hide the razor edge in his tone. "Soon, you'll understand what it means to serve a true god. You'll taste chaos, and you'll thank me for it. The scraps you gnawed on here will mean nothing when I remake you."
With a flick of his wrist, reality tore open like wet parchment. A black void yawned wide, swallowing the fifteen before anyone could blink. Then he was gone, the echo of his laughter bleeding into the walls as if mocking the silence he left behind.
Uriel Commes stood rooted for a moment, the weight of inevitability pressing against his chest. He knew what awaited those fifteen. Knew it as surely as one knows the sting of steel before it strikes. All he could do was sigh—a low, tired exhale that tasted of failure—and turn to the thirty-five who remained.
They began to whisper the moment the Trickster God's shadow vanished:
"Cole… would you have gone?" Wuza Selone asked softly, her voice trembling slightly despite the confident facade she wore.
Cole met her gaze, his eyes softening as he moved closer. He touched her hand, calloused fingers brushing hers with the promise of certainty. "Never. I would never trade you for the world."
Wuza rolled her eyes, though a faint smile tugged at her lips. "Alright then… what if I had joined them?"
Cole froze. The question hit like a blade between his ribs. "Wuza, don't. You're baiting me and you know it."
The tension cracked into laughter from the others around them, but it was laughter with edges, laughter that didn't chase away the heaviness in the room.
Someone muttered, "Even Jalel Arvey was smart enough not to join. What's wrong with some of his lackeys?"
Another voice chimed in, sharp with disbelief: "Why Agatha? She climbed from nothing—couldn't cast a spell to save her life—and now she throws it all away? At least finish your program before you gamble with death!"
A sigh, tired and bitter: "You can't save people from their own stupidity."
Uriel raised his hand, silencing the murmurs like a blade slicing through fog. "Enough. Back to the training grounds."
They followed him, boots striking the stone floor in rhythm with their unease. When they reached the heart of the base, the sight stopped them cold.
The Great Archmage stood waiting. Silent. Hands clasped behind her back, her figure framed by the eerie glow of containment wards pulsing in the air. Her stillness was not peace—it was a storm paused at its eye.
Not only was she there—silent, statuesque—but so were the others. The remaining seventy who had advanced but weren't chosen stood shoulder to shoulder, their faces etched with uncertainty. Behind them crowded the eighty still clawing their way through the first-level trials, eyes wide, spines rigid, like prey catching the scent of a predator.
The entire chamber pulsed with the hum of converging energy. The walls, usually plain and utilitarian, seemed to shimmer faintly with sigils that hadn't been there a heartbeat ago. A low thrum vibrated beneath their feet, a rhythm no drum could make—a warning beat, primal and deep, whispering something is coming.
At the center of it all stood Amber Nois, the Great Archmage.
She didn't move. She didn't speak. Her hands were folded behind her back, posture impeccable, head tilted ever so slightly as if she were listening to a melody no one else could hear. Her cloak hung like a shadow that refused to obey the laws of light. The glow of the wards etched in the floor painted her in hues of blue fire, making her look almost inhuman—an idea given form.
Not a breath of wind stirred, yet the air felt alive, pressing against skin like invisible claws.
Every pair of eyes fixed on her. Curiosity mingled with fear, hope tangled with dread. Some wondered if she had summoned them to punish the deserters' betrayal. Others thought she might announce a new trial, something crueler than before, to harden what remained.
No one spoke. No one dared.
The silence deepened, stretched taut like a bowstring about to snap. And when Amber finally shifted—just the slightest movement of her chin—it felt like the world itself inhaled.