[Skell]
Distracted thoughts slowed my instincts. Just as the blade approached my throat at an impossible momentum. My head would've flown.
If Yamui hadn't held himself back.
His masterwork sword - glazed in an azure surface - hung just above my sweat-slick collarbone. As it turned out, I looked about as surprised as he did. That quickly changed.
Sparks soared when I flared up my staff to knock away his sword. The foreigner recovered in an instant, blurring back to a distance.
"Trying to kill me?" I interrogated the one applicant I didn't doubt could do so with ease.
"Fool," he regained his frigid composure. "If I'd determined to take your head, I would have followed through."
"Then why didn't you? You wouldn't be the first to come after me."
Yamui scoffed. Then stowed away his blade. "Unlike the people of this backwards nation, I hold no prejudice for those practicing elements of a different nature. Myself and my countrymen have more important matters to consider than inventing our own adversaries."
I paused at his words. It was easy to forget that hate for dark mages wasn't common outside the capital, but it was even easier to forget that outside Lumerit, there was no hate for them, period.
"And if your curiosity truly must be sated," he continued, "I was in the midst of honing my talents. Bettering myself. I was here alone - and alone it seemed I would remain."
My gaze drifted past his own to the rest of the unlit room. Empty, save for me and the foreigner. But that wasn't what really grabbed my interest.
"…This homeland of you speak so highly about," I slowly put away my staff, "what's its name?"
Something sparked in his usually disinterested eyes. He turned away and pulled out his blade, preparing to continue his training. But he spared the attention to answer.
"Bushimo." His exotic blade danced through the flesh of an envisioned enemy. "It lies to the north - past this "holy" land and the plagued land above. Past endless seas and everlasting hurricanes, you would find the most honorable country on the face of the world."
I watched him as closely as I listened to his words. Him, Niles and Hyland all wielded blades of one kind of another, but so much differently. Hyland's strikes were oppressive. Biting. Niles' were scrappy and rash and reckless. But Yamui's? They resembled a work of art, each slash a calculated brush stroke upon an invisible mural.
"That's where you were taught the sword?" I asked.
"Wakizashi," he corrected, before stopping to hold the weapon aloft. "It is the favored weapon of my Father, my Clan, and their heir: me. Give it the rightful respect."
"Sure. Wakizashi," I gestured in a way that probably would've gotten my fingers chopped off, had he glanced away from his weapon. Then I realized something. "Wait, heir? You're royalty?"
That was the first time I'd ever heard him laugh, haughty and subdued as it was. "Royalty is exclusively a Lumeritan notion. Father does not lead a nation - he commands a loyal territory."
And I imagine you will too, whenever you take up the mantle.
"But… if you're an heir to this Clan, why'd you leave? And why travel so far to Lumerit? This Bushimo sounds important to y-"
"Enough with the interrogations," sudden irritation smothered his passion. "My breath was intended for training, not talking, and for the former it is far better spent. Leave me."
My brows wrinkled, before my eyes sharpened into a glare. "What's your deal? It was just a question."
"I will not ask again," his blade glinted in the half-dark. In its length flashed my reflection.
"…Fine. Keep it to yourself." I turned to head for the opposite end of the room.
There it is. Wondered where that little demon went; seems it's crawled right back up his bum. Don't even know what I was thinking, actually trying to converse with Yamui of all people. But he's right about one thing: time blabbing is better spent getting as strong as possible for tomorrow. With just the two of us here and no one to watch out for, there should be plenty of space.
I drew my staff, triggered my Shroud, and as I was taught, imagined a powerful enemy to test me. They were a blend of faces and features, of opposition new and old.
And together with Yamui, I fought in solitude.
—————————————————————————————————
Long after the foreigner plunged into slumber, I still swung my staff tirelessly.
I shattered Velora's guard. Punished Hyland's overreach. Ducked under the dryad's roots. Deflected Ra'Kol's spear. Clashed with Niles. They wouldn't stop coming. Neither would I.
But as hours blended into one never-slowing blur of strife, I made a critical mistake.
I'd forgotten the strongest of them all.
The room's lights flashed on for a final time, dispelling the visions in my mind's eye. Before I could adjust to the new world I'd been pulled into, metallic reverberations filled the nearby hall. I turned just in time to catch him haunting the doorway.
"Rise," Karthwyn rumbled like an incoming quake. "Today marks the conclusion of the Sacred Ordeals, and for none does it deign to wait."
I couldn't have been less glad to see his ugly, wrinkled mug. With all my soul I wished whatever business occupied him yesterday would keep him. But this was the final bar between applicant and Templar; figures that nothing could keep him away from overseeing that.
His icy, spectacled gaze targeted me in an instant. I'm sure he heard I'd passed the Second Ordeal. But seeing me still here in the illusory flesh? His face hid nothing of his thoughts on that.
But then, his eyes flicked to Yamui, who stretched under the sheets without the slightest bit of haste.
"Ah, yes," said the Commandant, tall and thin like a withered tree. "I nearly forgot. This room belongs to you, Yamui, does it not?"
Yamui was more interested in rubbing the light out of his eyes than gracing the man with an answer."
Karthwyn lifted his head. "I see. Being as you are a man of exemplary aptitude, I believe you may be granted more time to wake and prepare before meeting us in the commons. After all," he smirked, "your success is all but assured."
Right. I frowned. Yamui's his little prodigy, isn't he? Guess that means he gets preferential treatment from the "impartial" Templars.
The Commandant turned back to me. "Dark mage. Erase that insolent stare and follow me to the commons."
Part of me wanted to call him out. Common sense overpowered the thought. My luck would be pressed enough just trying to survive today and become a Templar; it'd be smart not to test it so early. Silently strapping in my staff, I approached the Commandant's side.
To tell the truth, standing beside an unthinkably powerful man who both wanted to and easily could end my unlife… well, you can imagine how that sat with my nerves. But I had to calm myself. Even he wouldn't be so rash as to bloody his gauntlets with the murder of an applicant. Not directly. Karthwyn was as bound to the laws and rules of his Order as much as every other Templar. That'd be my shield.
At least, that's what I kept telling myself as we left the dorm room.
We didn't get far down the corridor before Karthwyn spoke, his voice low but lacking none of its usual menace. "Utterly laughable."
"What?" I trailed behind the man, his face obscured to me. As I watched his back, however, it felt like his shrewd eyes still perceived my every move.
"You. And your trivial 'aspirations.'"
"They aren't trivial. I've got good reason to become a Templar, and it's happening whether you like it or not."
In hindsight, I might've pressed my luck a bit.
"Such mettle," he half-mocked, half-laughed. "And what could this reason be? Spying? Destabilization? Assassination?"
I was quick to retort. Or at least think of one. But I stopped myself. Not only would arguing with him be a bad move, but I realized he might've been prodding me with insults and speculations to make me talk. Correct him, even, and in doing so accidentally reveal damning information. Karthwyn was certain of my association with something bigger than myself - something opposed to the Templars. Any slip-ups could give him vital information to such a group. At least in his mind.
Naturally, he was dead wrong. But I never liked walking into a trap. So I sidestepped it altogether.
"Well, boy? Which is it?"
"Actually, Commandant Karthwyn, I've got a question for you: what makes you so sure of all these nutty theories? Are all dark mages just enemies to you?"
"Do not question me as if we were equals, dark mage," his earlier amusement chilled to grim severity. "Understand this: any who believe every single dark mage under the sun means to do ill is a fool. What I believe in is patterns."
"Patterns?"
"I have witnessed atrocities wrought by dark mages and slain their abominations since before you left your mother's womb. I've seen them shirk the law and lie and thieve. A rare few may stand out from the pattern. Anomalies exist. But when the odds of a bad actor are high enough to surpass the stars, what is a wise leader to do but cut out the tumors before they ever infect the untainted body."
My fists clenched. "You're calling me a tumor?"
"You called yourself a tumor, if memory serves me right," he referred to the preliminaries. "I do not know by what aberration of fate you have been allowed to wriggle yourself so close to the finish line, but this farce ends here. You are weak. It is transparent fact. And weakness will not avail you in the Final Ordeal."
Before I could consider what to say next, I realized that behind the Commandant's large frame was the hallway's end.
"Remember, boy," Karthwyn turned to stand uncomfortably close, "I've only tolerated your presence because I know what comes soon shall repay it tenfold. No dark mage will set foot in my Order. You will see to that." The Commandant folded arms behind his back and stood aside. "Now go. And make sure to embarrass yourself on the way out."
I wanted to say something. Really. But it'd get me nowhere. Talk was worthless now, anyway. Now was the time for action - to become a Templar.
Against any and all odds.
Even him.
—————————————————————————————————
"Sixteen, seventeen… yup, that's eighteen. Looks like everyone's here!" Merriline's words floated through the commons - the Paladin clearly more awake than yesterday.
Alongside her was Valérie, and in-between, Karthwyn. They stood in front of the Final Ordeal's door, mirroring us applicants. A certain tension clung to the air. One unlike the eve of the last two Ordeals. Finality was engraved on our faces. Ahead was the last barrier to our desires, and all of us would do everything in our power to surmount it.
Karthwyn, eyes glazing over us all, smiled. It was strangely genuine, coming from him. "Rare is it for ambition and steadfast will to be so strongly concentrated among a set of recruits - or should I say: future Squires. But let us not get ahead of ourselves. The Final Ordeal looms before us. And as primary supervisor, I have chosen to let your observations take the place of a lengthy preamble.
Producing the same cyan crystal from the days before, the Commandant raised it high like the motion of a conductor. Glyphs flashed on its surface. The door swept open without a touch, and Karthwyn ushered us inside.
Two extravagant chandeliers hung from the high roof and washed all four expansive corners in sheets of gold. Lions and eagles were depicted bas-relief along white-stone walls in lifelike detail, roaring and soaring. And in the middle of it all? A gaping pit.
As we neared it, the Commandant cleared his throat. "So far you have endured three challenges: A preliminary - to evaluate your fitness and stamina, the First Ordeal - to evaluate your ability to combat undead and to remain unbending in the face of potential death, and the Second Ordeal - to evaluate your knowledge and mental acumen. These traits are paramount to the success of any Templar. But there remains one last ability yet to be assessed…"
It was then that my eyes finally peered into of the yawning pit. A hexagonal stage loomed below, approaching a hundred feet from end to end. Pristine white tiles of the same six-sided shape constituted this stage; a several-foot fall over its edge leading a ring of grass.
"Lamentable though it may be," said Karthwyn, "there comes a time when a Templar must point a blade at their fellow man. Brigands, criminals, and dirtiest of all, necromancers. To lack experience facing human foes would do you no favors. Ergo, applicants, today you are to face your peers in honorable battle."
I grew suddenly colder. Then we do have to fight each other… Just like Merriline implied.
Gazes flicked from applicant to applicant, those previously considered fellow survivors now being sized up as potential enemies. I did the same. But I didn't like the conclusion I came to.
Recently I learned just how much Shadow Form could be exploited with ample darkness around. With full use, I considered myself one of the deadlier applicants. But of course, there wasn't a stray shadow in sight. And without my trump card, I had to be honest: I was far from weak anymore. But against warriors like Hyland, Yamui, and… Soleil? Even others like Cirian and Ra'Kol? They were stronger, faster, tougher than me. And they had an Abyss of a lot more time than two months to hone themselves.
Not only that, but if these fights were one applicant against another… I couldn't rely on help. Victory rested solely on my shoulders.
Karthwyn stepped forward to the pit's edge, rounded by a metallic railing. "The regulations are as simple as they have ever been. Each of you will be selected to partake in three bouts against your peers on the stage before us. Those who win two or more bouts pass. Or to put it another way, you will become Templars."
Everyone stood a tad taller at that. But things could never be so easy.
"Alternatively," continued the Commandant "lose two or more bouts and your opportunity to join our ranks vanishes. To clarify, incur one loss but earn two victories, and you shall pass all the same. Incur two losses, however, and even a victory will not protect you from failure."
A majority, then? Well, at least we get a little breathing room. But I can't rely on that. Safest things' to aim for three wins.
"But how does one attain this victory, you ask? There are three ways. First and most straightforward is this: Warden Valérie - begin the demonstration."
"As you command," she extended a gauntlet toward us. Metallic fingers unfurled to reveal an egg lying gently in her huge palm.
"Warding magic," Valérie explained, "is a type of light magic, of a purely defensive utility. Observe."
The Warden narrowed her eyes in steely concentration. "Chromatic Ward!"
Near-instantly, a transparent aura enveloped the egg - green as a glade.
Valérie went on. "We all know how fragile eggs are. A slip of the fingers, and they shatter."
Without anything further, the Templar launched the egg skywards to our collective surprise. But she just watched calmly as the egg slammed against the high ceiling. It didn't break.
Momentum reversed and the egg plummeted back to us. It struck the ground harshly in front of Valérie, who promptly bent down to pick it up.
Interestingly, the egg was perfectly unharmed, sitting snug between her thumb and index finger. Only difference was the color of the aura sheathing it. That changed from green to a summer's yellow.
"These wards bestow potent protection to the subject they surround," the Warden explained, "but it only defends from so much. As you can see, the ward's color has altered. Depending on the damage it sustains, the ward will vary from green, to yellow, to red, to shattering entirely."
"I will take the rest from here," Karthwyn interjected. "This ward shall be provided to each of you before your respective duels. To loop back around, it also doubles as the first condition for victory: break your foes' ward."
Hm. Since this light art's covering my glamour instead of touching my real body, it shouldn't hurt me. But - shade - there's an issue. I won't have to explain my regeneration, I guess, but I won't be able to leverage it either. We all have the same amount of protection to break through. And I doubt I hit as hard as most of the others here.
"The second," said Karthwyn, "surrounds the very stage you'll fight atop. Look."
I, and everyone else, walked closer to the railing surrounding the pit.
"Does he mean…" trailed Niles.
"Indeed," the Commandant confirmed. "The ring of grass around the stage is the second victory condition - though it is perhaps more apt to describe it as the opposite. Fall offstage onto that area, and you lose. Regardless of the state of your ward. Understand that a vigilant Templar must keep an eye on everything - the hazards of his surroundings included. So make it a point not to get sloppy around the stage's edge."
His face soured. "Lastly, there is forfeiture. A spineless move unbefitting our Order, but the option is there. And that is all for the rules. Any questions?"
"J-just one, sir…" Ryzza raising a wobbly hand.
Karthwyn glared down his bony nose. "I worked tirelessly to achieve the rank of Commandant. Refer to me as such."
The woman's spectacled eyes hurtled to the floor. "I… um, sorry, Commandant Karthwyn. But, I was wondering: what if one of us gets two losses, or two wins, before the last round? Success or failure has already been decided, then, hasn't it?"
"Indeed it has. An applicant carrying two losses will be immediately escorted outside the facility. Carrying two victories, however, shall pardon you from participating in the final round. But you will remain to observe it."
"O-oh," Ryzza stammered.
"If that is all," he moved on like a stiff breeze, "then I believe it's time to commence with the first bout of the day."
Nervous eyes cavorted around the room, forced to finally face the new paradigm. A couple days back we'd allied with our fellow applicants. Fought and struggled with them. Now every step we took closer to the Order pushed another further away. At least, that's how I imagined everyone else felt.
Not me. All those who despised what I was? Hyland? Ra'Kol? Niles? The rest? They could crash and burn for all I cared.
Nope. Not a single hard feeling. Well, so long as I don't have to go up against-
"Soleil," called the Commandant. "Prepare yourself."
"Sweet!" the minstrel popped one of the few non-gloomy faces in the crowd, "Didn't think I'd go so early!"
"Your opponent," Karthwyn worked not to acknowledge the outburst, "will be Cirian."
I breathed easier once it'd been confirmed I wasn't the poor sap that had to scrap with the minstrel. Though, not nearly as easy as Cirian.
The noble ambled past several applicants, up to Soleil - the woman sizing him up with a casual flick of the eye. "What good fortune I've encountered," he flashed a perfect smile and bowed his head, "to have such a fair maiden as my opponent."
Soleil paused in a moment of crass disbelief, before slipping into a snicker. "One of those dandy types, are ya? Don't tell me you're scared to raise a fist against this 'fair maiden'."
"Ha! Quite on the contrary! A lady is deserving of the utmost respect, and that ethos applies to courting as well as combat. To treat you as an inferior would be to act ungentlemanlike."
"That so? I'm interested to see how well bein' a gentleman carries ya on the battlefield."
"Save introductions for another time," Valérie cut between them both verbally and physically. "Chromatic Ward."
The Warden laid one hand on Cirian's broad shoulders, and the other on Soleil's - the minstrel's smirk dropping a fraction at the contact. In the next moment, the same green aura that covered the egg now surrounded them.
Soleil and Cirian studied their bodies. Even as they moved, the wards stayed attached like a suit of magical armor just a layer above their skin and clothes.
"Huh," the minstrel stuck out her bottom lip. "Neat."
The noble peered over the railing. "But I must ask: how are we to set foot on the stage?"
Valérie pointed. "Look closely."
Away from the pit and far along the direction of her metal finger, a narrow circle was entrenched in the floor - one my eyes must've glided over initially. Because with attention drawn to it, I noticed faint, familiar lines across its surface.
Is that…?
"A miniature escalift." The Warden turned and gestured the opposite direction. "One for each applicant. Take your positions upon them."
"Ah," Cirian took off for one, "how ingenious!" He stopped on top of the eastern one, its veins flaring to a magical blue life underfoot.
"Eh," shrugged Soleil, "I'll save you guys some time."
She threw a hand over the railing. Then a foot. Then took off into the air in a blaze of clashing color - lit aglow by the overhead chandeliers. Practiced ease swung her body around mid-air in dazzling spins and swirls. Just like a master performer.
Feet touched center stage. Soleil beamed from below, and for a moment, I almost thought she'd add a bow.
Always gotta stand out, don't you? I couldn't help but grin a bit.
Metallic clapping came from further along the railing - from a dazzled Merriline. A noise cut short by Karthwyn's icy glare.
"Applicant!" the Commandant shouted down at Soleil, voice running tremors through the chamber's foundations. "You take the escalift, and only the escalift to descend to the stage! Nothing else!"
But Soleil wasn't unsettled. "Won't happen again," she replied with dubious authenticity. "Promise."
Karthwyn's face tightened into a knot of vexed wrinkles. Yet he seemed to realize an attempt at discipline was far from worth it. He produced the cyan crystal and raised it, triggering Cirian's escalift and plunging him under the floor to face his opponent.
Don't even have to guess who he'd rather win. But… who IS going to win? Soleil's dangerous. Possibly as much as Yamui, all things considered. But Cirian's Thunder Hawk art is gonna be a problem. It's quick, can fly, and the slightest touch means electrocution. And it can't be his only tool.
Halls connected from where the escalift dropped to the stage itself, and from one of their wide entrances emerged the white-haired noble. A pale hand tightened around a unique weapon at his side. One I'd seen before.
One of the days we trained in the combat center, I asked Amara about some of the more uncommon weapons lining the racks - including Cirian's. Called a truncheon, it's along the lines of a miniature metal staff, like a club or cudgel except narrower. Far from the most menacing of weapons.
So why'd he take that glorified baton into the Sacred Ordeals?
I leaned over the stage - away from the others - watching curiously. Soleil sauntered to her side of the stage, stretching toned arms, clearly excited to let her flames fly. At the other end of the stage, Cirian ascended the stairs.
Then came the countdown.
"Three!" Karthwyn announced.
"You performed admirably in the preliminaries," the noble stopped at the top.
"Two!"
"Here's hoping you have more such surprises in store," Cirian continued.
"One!"
Soleil cracked her neck and snatched up her flail. "Surprises are what I'm all about, pretty boy."
"Commence!" Karthwyn shouted.
"Fulminated Weapon!" Cirian incanted immediately. A yellow flash sparked at his truncheon, enveloping it from hilt to end in haphazard electricity. Constant harsh crackles echoed up to our ears.
Soleil blew a loud yawn. "A little static? That's it?"
"Far from it!" Her taunts only seemed to heighten Cirian's spirit. He extended his sparking weapon aside and crouched. "Thunder Hawk!"
First came the talons, perched onto the truncheon like a deadly branch. Then the rest formed into view. Rising over the noble were the proud wings and sharp features of a bird of prey - its shape as ever-changing as the whims of lightning itself.
At this, the minstrel straightened. "Hm. That's actually a pretty impressive art ya have there."
"That I do!" Cirian's voice itself buzzed with electricity. "But enough talk! Witness my expertise with your very own eyes!"
Thundering towards Soleil, the noble and his hawk bared truncheon and talon. The minstrel stood motionless, save for her flail - whirling in preparation. Suddenly the hawk took skyward flight as Cirian engaged Soleil with a flurry of swipes.
Electric trails danced through the air in deadly waves; none touched the minstrel - who Cirian quickly learned was the defter dancer.
Deftly weaving around his truncheon, Soleil found the perfect opening to bash him in the jaw. She would've taken it. If not for the hawk's interruption.
Electrified talons raked for her head at blinding speed. Soleil ducked under - hair mere inches from contact. Her fiery eye darted behind, preparing for her next move, but Cirian regained his bearings and swung down at the squatting minstrel.
Rolling sideways, she narrowly avoided electrocution, buying distance from the two. But right as she set her feet, the hawk circled back for another swoop. This time, Cirian was further away.
A smirk flashed on her face: a prime opportunity appeared.
Her hand whipped back as she leapt toward the hawk. A split-second passed. Then another. 'Til they both flew close enough that there was no way she could miss.
"Pyro Lance!"
The flickering form of a flaming bolt manifested in her grip. With mere feet between them, she launched it at the vulnerable hawk. It'd been pesky so far. An explosion to the face would fix that problem nicely.
Its fire-orange tip drove for the hawk's chest. The same chest that opened into a gaping hole just wide enough for the lance to fly straight through.
Cirian grinned; Soleil's eyes shot wide. With moments before their collision she twisted in the air to avoid the hawk as its chest snapped shut.
Somehow, she did it. Her body passed out of its lightning-streaked path.
But not her dangling flail.
A swiping talon made a moment's contact with the studded ball. That's all it needed. Electricity traveled easily up the length of the metal chain, shocking Soleil's ward and face despite her efforts.
Green disappeared from the ward. So did yellow. By the time the lightning fizzled out, her ward hung in an orangish state that neared red. She'd was released from the lightning - her body landing flat on the the stage.
That was the Final Ordeal's first major blow. And, I worried, an omen of the minstrel's end.
S-Soleil!