The void shivered, and the sound of hooves faded into silence.There was no ground, no horizon, only blackness that breathed like an endless tide. From that darkness rose a shape—not sudden, but inevitable, as though it had been there all along.
A throne.Carved from no stone, no wood, but from the very absence of light. Its edges bled into the void, impossible to tell where it ended and the darkness began. Upon it sat the man in the black hat.
He leaned back with calm grace, one leg crossed over the other, his coat folding like midnight around him. The brim of his hat cast his face in shadow, though the outline of his jaw was sharp, deliberate. In his hands he held a book—its cover darker than the void itself, its pages whispering faintly as he turned them.
He wrote something with a quill that gleamed faint violet, and when his pen lifted, the sound was like thunder pressed into silence.
"Two souls," he murmured, though his lips hardly seemed to move. "Two burdens. Two weights to be measured."
Gareth felt no pull, no command. Yet the void unfolded before him, and suddenly he stood alone. The sea stretched beneath him, stars overhead, storms tearing the sky open. The whispers came—old, cruel, promising he was nothing more than a shadow, that he would be forgotten like a ripple in endless water.
But Gareth did not flinch.He let the storm rage, let the waves rise, and only stood in stillness. He did not fight them. He did not yield. He simply remained.
The void stilled.A single word etched itself into the black book. Passed.
Kael's trial was not so kind. He stood in a hall of steel and torchlight, ringed by faceless figures wearing the armor of his old classmates. They laughed, voices sharpened to mockery. Each time he raised his sword, they multiplied. Each time he struck, the blade fell through air. The harder he tried, the louder their scorn grew.
His chest burned, his grip faltered. Shame, hot and choking, swelled until it nearly crushed him. But then, in the middle of the storm of laughter, Kael lowered his blade. He straightened, meeting the faceless eyes.
"Enough," he whispered, steady at last. "I am not your fool."
The shadows faltered. The laughter stuttered, cracked, and dissolved like smoke.The void accepted him. Another word inked itself into the book. Passed.
When Kael opened his eyes again, he was back astride his storm-colored horse. Gareth waited beside him, calm as though nothing had touched him at all. Ahead, the throne loomed once more, the black-hat man watching.
In the heart of the endless void, where there was neither sky nor ground, stood a throne made of shadow itself. Upon this throne sat a man who did not belong to time. His cloak was black as the forgotten corners of night, and in his hand he held a book whose cover seemed alive, breathing faintly, whispering in a tongue that mortals could never learn.
He crossed one leg over the other, calm and certain, as though eternity itself bowed before him. When at last he lowered the brim of his hat, the veil was broken. From beneath shone two eyes, red as bloodlit fire, deep as a storm that had no end.
He gazed at Gareth and Kael for a long while, as though weighing not only their deeds, but the weight of their souls. Then his voice came, quiet yet filling every inch of the void:
"You pass. You both pass."
The darkness trembled, and before the two young men opened a portal of light, wide and unearthly, like a wound in the fabric of the world. Yet still, the man on the throne did not let them go without his counsel.
"You now walk toward Highwarden National School," he said. "A place so vast, the royals themselves have not walked every path of it. A land of learning, but also a land of trial. Few are chosen to step upon its stones, fewer still endure what lies within. For there are monsters in its halls—not always beasts of claw or scale, but monsters of mind and ambition. The clever will seek to devour you, the strong to break you, the cunning to bind you. Beware them all."
He lifted the black book, letting it close with a soft sound that echoed like thunder.
"This test you faced here," he continued, "was nothing more than a mask. While you believed yourselves examined, your fates were being woven. Threads tied, futures written. And you…" His red eyes turned to Gareth, steady and searching. "You, Dawncrest's new year recruit, carry a potential that makes even the stars take notice."
The throne began to dissolve, piece by piece, like smoke torn away by the wind. Still, his voice lingered, falling heavy into their hearts like the weight of a vow.
"Be careful with what you know. Be clever. Do not shine too brightly. And above all, under no sky, before no witness, speak of the mark of the Eclipse."
Then the portal swallowed them.
Far away, where another thread of the story wound, Joren moved. He had once been a teacher, gentle and easy, a man who carried laughter like a lantern. But now his eyes were somber, carrying burdens unseen. He alone remembered what the world must forget, and with that memory came duty as sharp as any blade.
Joren's eyes glowed faint with a sorrow no man could measure, and with every step he took, threads of memory snapped like frail strings. He moved through the world as if it were paper, and he the hand tearing it apart.
On the New Ones, the sea was calm, the ship breathing in rhythm with the tide.
Doran leaned against the railing, staring at the endless horizon with his one good eye. Salt wind brushed against scars long healed, chains long broken. He murmured words only the sea could hear. Joren appeared beside him, silent as shadow. He raised his hand, and Doran's voice faltered. A ripple passed through his mind.Joren whispered:"The sea remembers chains, but you shall not remember him. Forget, wanderer, for freedom must be lighter than loss."And in that instant, Gareth and Kael were gone from Doran's heart.
In the galley, Marcellus stirred fire in a pan, humming a broken tavern tune. Sparks danced like living things under his command. Then the smoke bent, and Joren stepped forth. Without a word, his hand closed on Marcellus's throat. Fire flared, then died as Joren's fingers snapped.Joren whispered:"The fire remembers all it devours. But you—burn brighter, boy. Burn without their names to weigh you."And Marcellus blinked, confused, the song dead on his lips.
Tina Vale sat in her chamber, silver-haired child asleep against her. The child's small hand curled into her dress, and Tina's eyes softened. Joren's shadow filled the doorway, still as a painted ghost. His hand lifted. Tina stiffened but did not resist. With a flick, the memory thread was cut.Joren whispered:"The child shall know warmth, the mother shall know duty. But the names you carry will fade like mist. For even love cannot shield memory from my hand."Tina's gaze lowered to her child, her smile unchanged, never knowing what she had lost.
Servin Crowe slept in the dark, muttering dreams of debts and steel. Joren's shadow passed over him, and the forge-fire in his mind dimmed. A snap, and all was gone.Joren whispered:"Dreamer of iron, sleeper of debts, awaken to a world lighter than it was. Their names are ash upon the anvil—hammered flat, gone."
Far away in chains, Redhand looked up as Joren entered the prison. His smile was crooked, too cheerful for a man betrayed and broken. "What now, old ghost?" he asked.Joren only sighed, stepping close, and with a snap of his fingers, Redhand's eyes went blank.Joren whispered:"Betrayer, betrayed—your laughter belongs to the sea now. The bond you mocked has been unspun. Forget them, fool of fate, and laugh no more at their names."
When it was finished, Joren stood alone. He walked upon the sea as if it were glass, ripples blooming underfoot. His eyes turned skyward, and the world itself seemed to sag beneath the weight of his silence.
When his work was done, Joren walked across the sea as if it were glass. Step after step, he left ripples that faded into silence. Then he rose into the sky, drifting higher, until he fell downward like a falling star. Aurensport's docks spread wide beneath him.
With a sigh—deep, weary, almost bored—he drew a paper from his sleeve. Upon it were the next names: The Oracle of Gold, and her elder daughter, Aelina.
And then—light.
Gareth and Kael opened their eyes to a world unlike any they had known. They stood upon strange soil, and before them rose mountains that touched the clouds. Valleys spread vast and green, like oceans of grass. At the heart of it all, a manor so colossal it seemed built for giants, its spires clawing at the heavens themselves.
And beside that great manor, smaller and humbler, stood a wooden hall. Upon its post was a sign, plain and unadorned, carved with a single word: Commoners.
The air was thick with promise. The earth hummed as though it held secrets yet untold. For Gareth and Kael, this was no longer a test, no longer a fleeting trial.
It was the beginning of legend.