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Keeper's Adage:
"The law is a shield forged in the fires of precedent. To the hunted, its cold geometry offers the only sanctuary. But remember: the same metal that protects can also be shaped into the headsman's axe."
– Scroll of Sundered Threads of Virgil
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Hatim's consciousness returned to the jarring rhythm of his own stumbling feet. The transition was so violent it stole his breath. One moment, the world was a silent scream of violet negation, the blistered walls and falling, ashen babs of the council chamber. The next, Kander was half-dragging him through a scene of impossible grandeur.
They burst from the council wing onto a vast, open promenade. The air itself was different—thin, cold, and scented with frost and exotic florals. Hatim's head spun, his senses overwhelmed after a lifetime in the soot-choked, claustrophobic warrens of the Sinks.
Before him, Embermark unveiled itself.
The city was a vertical madness, a geological feat of terrifying ambition. It was built into and upon the face of a colossal, black mountain, the Rockface, that stabbed into the bruised violet sky. The structures here were not the crumbling, boxy hovels of the Sinks that clung desperately to the mountain's feet; these were soaring towers of gleaming obsidian and white marble, their foundations fused directly into the living rock. Between them, great chains of glimmersteel, each link the size of a house, stretched taut into the heavens, anchoring the floating Sanctums—lush, inverted mountainsides hanging in the sky, adorned with shimmering palaces and cascading gardens that defied gravity. Akar-powered lifts, ornate brass cages wreathed in blue-white energy, glided silently up and down the cliff face along invisible tracks of force.
And below… far, far below… the city descended into a pit of smoke and shadow. He could just make out the distinct layers: the orderly, smoky haze of the Verge with its steaming pipes and hammer-song; the chaotic, colorful smear of the Middens; and at the very bottom, lost in a perpetual gloom, the Sinks. His home. A dirty smudge on the floor of the world. The air here didn't taste of ash; it tasted of power.
"Move, boy!" Kander's gruff command cut through his awe. The Veinbreaker wasn't admiring the view; his eyes were scanning the crowds of nobles and functionaries that flowed across the promenade. People clad in silks that shifted color, attended by silent servants and floating orbs of pure Akar that hummed and pulsed like docile, crystalline pets. They stared. Whispers began to weave through the air, sharp and alarmed. Word traveled fast.
Kander swore under his breath, yanking Hatim into the shadow of a towering statue of some forgotten Noble. "Too exposed. They'll have Whispercloaks here in minutes." His gaze darted toward a lesser-used archway, guarded by two figures with a burning stylized crown sigil on their armor—Torvin's personal retinue. They gave a nearly imperceptible nod.
"This way. Quickly."
Kander pulled him away from the majestic vista, into a narrow service corridor hidden behind a seamless section of wall. The opulence vanished. Here, the walls were bare, dark stone, humming with the same deep, resonant power but stripped of all pretense. This was the hidden arteries of the Manor, the pathways for the bloodline's servants and guards. They descended swiftly, the route a labyrinth known only to a few.
Finally, they halted before a doorway that was no doorway at all—a seamless slab of dark, iridescent stone marked with the faint, pulsingcrown sigil of Dravenmoor bloodline. Kander's hand touched it, a complex glyph flaring beneath his palm. The stone slid away without a sound.
"The Manor of the Third Crown," Kander muttered, shoving him forward into the profound darkness beyond. "The heart of their bloodline's power. The only cage stronger is the Ashen Throne itself. Remember that."
The door sealed behind them. Then, light bloomed from the floor itself—geometric patterns etched into polished black onyx. Hatim stared. The antechamber was vast, its ceiling lost in shadow, the air humming with a deep, resonant bass that vibrated in his teeth. This wasn't just a building; it was the living, beating heart of a Crown's dynasty.
Silent servants emerged, their movement unnervingly fluid. They were led to the Resonance Atrium. The circular room was dominated by a central basin of glowing, liquid Akar—the Font. Its pure, resonant tone was a physical pressure. As Kander guided him to the cot, Hatim saw the older man subtly relax, a faint shimmer of energy—his own battered Node, strained from the fight with the Whispercloaks—flickering and steadying as the Font did its work.
For Hatim, it was different. The hum was a provocation to a hollow space inside him. He felt nothing—no familiar warmth of his own Node, no grounding connection. Only the chilling, watchful silence where the violet power had coiled. After the catastrophic unmaking, the thought of touching that void again filled him with a dread deeper than any physical pain.
The door sighed open. Torvin entered. The Royal Seal over his heart pulsed with a slow, deep rhythm, but his face, usually a mask of cold calculation, was etched with a new, stark urgency.
"They are already moving," Torvin stated, his voice low and cutting. "Valerius screams for your immediate execution. Aethel's proposals for 'containment and study' would see your mind unraveled in her labs. My authority and this Manor's wards are the only things holding them back. But we have hours, perhaps a few days if we are lucky, before the Synod convenes and votes to tear you from my custody. Their fear of what you are outweighs their fear of me."
The cold certainty of it seized Hatim's lungs. He wasn't just in danger; he was a political event, and events like him were swiftly concluded.
Torvin's gaze was intense, probing. "Your only hope is to master it. Now. The Font provides a stable field. I can help you contain it. You must reach for the Unbinding. Prove it answers to your will."
Hatim shook his head, a silent, terrified refusal. He couldn't.
"Torvin, no," Kander interjected, stepping forward, his voice firm. "You'll burn him out. His channels are ash. He needs a Mendicant's touch. He needs Akar to heal, not your prodding."
"Time is a luxury we do not have!" Torvin's composure cracked, a flash of raw frustration. "The second the Synod votes, he is lost!"
"Then don't let it come to a vote!" Kander shot back, his eyes locking with Torvin's. "Invoke the Old Law. The Trail of Resonance."
A beat of heavy silence. Torvin went very still. "The Trial," he breathed, the word laden with immense significance.
"The Trail of Resonance," Kander confirmed, his voice grave. He looked at Hatim. "It's a brutal path through the deepest, I had initially planned to train him for a year but what choice is there. Few survive it. But by ancient, inviolate law, any soul who willingly enters the Trial is granted absolute sanctuary until its end. Not even the full Synod or those old ghosts could touch you. It is the only shield strong enough to protect you from them." He leaned in slightly. "And those who emerge… they earn the right to be heard directly by the Ashen Throne. It's the only way to show them you're not just a weapon or a plague. It's the only way to make them see your potential before they decide to destroy it."
A bitter, disbelieving sound escaped Hatim. The Trial was a myth he had believed, a journey for legends, not a Sinks rat with a shattered Node.
"It's that or the axe, boy," Kander said, his voice softening. "The law is your shield now. The only one."
Torvin was already calculating, the strategist reasserting control. "The law is clear," he murmured. "It would stay their hand. It would force them to wait. To watch." A cold light returned to his eyes. "But he is in no state to even contemplate the first step."
"Then we prepare him," Kander said. "First, we get him whole." He looked at Torvin. "Clear the debris. Then we see the fighter underneath the power. The Trial will demand both."
Torvin gave a sharp nod. The imperative was clear. He approached Hatim, who flinched. Torvin's hand rose, two fingers glowing with the complex, silver-gold glyphs, layered with the authoritative thrum of the Royal Seal.
"Then we begin the foundation," Torvin said.
He touched Hatim's sternum.
A shock of pure, surgical power lanced through him, scouring the internal wreckage left by the violet energy's eruption. Hatim gasped as the ghostly aches vanished, replaced by a sharp, clean awareness. The pathways were clean. Empty, but clean.
And then, a spark. A faint, familiar warmth flickered deep in his core. His Node. Dormant, fragile, but there. The connection he thought he'd lost forever. A whisper compared to the roar, but it was his.
Torvin withdrew. "Akar will complete the work. But the Trial demands more than power. It demands an unbreakable will." He turned his head slightly. "Kander. Your assessment?"
"The boy was a scrapper in the Sinks," Kander said. "Let's see if he remembers how. Send in the weakest of your house's blood. The one who thinks a name makes him a warrior. Let Hatim remember what it is to fight for his life with nothing but his hands. The Trial will demand nothing less."
A cold smile touched Torvin's lips. He turned to the door. It sighed open. A servant stood waiting.
"Find my nephew, Theron," Torvin commanded, his voice icy and clear. "Inform him his presence is required in the Atrium. His evaluation begins now. Let us see if the blood of Dravenmoor can recognize a threat when it stands bare before them."
The servant bowed and vanished. Torvin looked back at Hatim.
"Theron is a fool with a borrowed title," Torvin stated. "But he has been trained by masters. He is the first, smallest hurdle on the path you must now walk. Show me you can clear it. Your life, and the chance to keep it, depends upon it."