Chapter Four: The Threshold of Ash
"Oh... Wow. That's a lot of people," Felix remarked, his usual bravado slightly dampened. He looked at the crowds gathering near the massive gates. "I'm almost afraid to ask how many didn't make it this far."
"Believe me, you will sleep better if you don't know," Tomris said, her eyes scanning the strangers passing us. "People come here for three reasons: Blood Feud, the Mandate of Survival, or Sovereignty. What's yours?"
The question hung in the air, pulling our focus away from the distant gates.
"To survive, knowing I did everything I could," Silas said. His voice was a low rasp, barely audible over the wind, yet it carried the weight of a vow.
"I want to say I'm here for the status, the fame, and the fancy privileges," Felix added, surprising us with his sudden shift in tone. "But I guess it doesn't matter much when you're dead. I'd rather flee the slow rot of a dying world and embrace a lethal trial. I'm choosing a warrior's death over a beggar's grave."
He caught our stunned silence and let out a dry, sharp bark of a laugh.
"What? What did you expect? That I was just here for the mountain air and the charming company of mutated bears?" He leaned back, his eyes momentarily losing their spark, reflecting the cold grey of the peaks. "Look, a man can only joke about hunger for so long before his stomach stops finding it funny. Between rotting in a gutter or burning out like a star in these mountains, I chose the fire. At least this way, if I fall, the world has to notice the crater I leave behind. Besides," he added, his smirk returning like a mask, "I've heard the food in Veritas is actually edible. That alone is worth a few near-death experiences, don't you think?"
"It's honorable in its own way," Tomris said, her voice dropping into a dangerous register. "I'm here to wash away the ashes of the fallen with the blood of the enemy; to reclaim a shattered honor that only the fire of a Reidar can restore. They took my brother... and I will take their lives. A Varkas never dies by the hand of an enemy!"
She turned her sharp gaze toward me, and Felix followed suit. Their eyes were heavy with expectation. They were waiting for my truth. I looked into the dying embers of the light, feeling the weight of my Arcanum blood pulsing in my veins—a secret that could set the world on fire or bury me alive.
"And you, Elaine?" Felix asked softly. "Which path brought you to this hell?"
I tightened my grip on my cloak, my voice steady, cold, and echoing with a conviction that felt older than I was.
"I am not here for one path, but for all of them," I said, and the air seemed to thin around us. "I am here to outrun the rot of a world that has already tried to bury me. I am here to claim the status and power that was stolen before I could even grasp it. And most of all, I am here to ensure that when I finally face the darkness that slaughtered my blood, it is they who learn what it means to be afraid."
I looked up at them, my eyes flashing with an intensity that made Felix take a half-step back.
"I don't just want survival, or honor, or power. I want everything the enemies took, and everything the kingdom forgot."
The silence that followed was absolute. Tomris narrowed her eyes, seeing a reflection of a warrior she hadn't expected, and even Silas tilted his head, his green eyes locked on me with newfound focus. For the first time, they didn't look at me as a girl who needed to be caught from a tree—they looked at me like a storm that had just begun to gather.
"Umm... let's move. It's almost our turn," I mumbled, pulling Nyx's reins to break the tension. They followed, the steady clip-clop of hooves echoing our steps. As we moved forward, a hollow thought pierced my mind: Did Arion go through this too? Was he ever scared? If only I had a chance to ask him.
"Let's stay close," Tomris whispered, her eyes fixed on the entrance. "We cannot afford to be separated. We must find a way into the same Vanguard."
As we approached the gates of Veritas, the atmosphere shifted. Before us loomed structures that were both colossal and unnervingly beautiful, hewn directly from the obsidian heart of Mount Mortis. They towered like silent sentinels of destiny—monumental, daunting, and indifferent to our lives.
We reached a man holding a quill and a long roll of parchment.
"Name?" he asked, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. He looked at me with weary eyes.
"Elaine Anacrum," I said. He narrowed his eyes, studying my face for a heartbeat, then scratched the name onto the scroll.
"Your mount?"
"Nyx," I replied, moving forward.
"Next!" the man barked.
"Silas Vane. And Van," Silas muttered, his brevity matching the scribe's.
Felix stepped up next. "Felix Thorn, and this beauty here is Ashbun."
The scribe paused, looking from Felix to the horse with bewildered eyes. "Ashbun?"
"Yes," Felix said, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically for a place of death. The scribe exhaled, shaking his head in disbelief. "Next."
"Tomris Varkas. And Almas," she stated. The scribe's hand faltered for a second at the mention of the Varkas name, but he recorded it without a word.
All four of us stood together on the other side, finally looking up.
High above, perched on monolithic stone platforms that overhung the gateway like the talons of a bird of prey, the elite observed us. These were the instructors and commanders—men and women whose faces were masks of stern, cold authority. Scribes stood beside them, their quills scratching tirelessly, logging every soul that had survived the climb to Veritas.
A voice, resonant and devoid of warmth, sliced through the biting wind like a blade:
"Halt. Do not panic, and make no sudden movements. Your journey as wanderers ends here. You will now be dispersed into your assigned Vanguards. Stand fast and await the call."
One by one, all the people were divided into four Vanguards: Northern, Southern, Eastern, and Western. When Silas was called first, we stilled for a moment, thinking that we would be parted.
Felix broke the tension with a sardonic grin.
"Well, there goes our 'zen little paradox'," he scoffed. "Just when I was getting used to the calming lack of conversation.Who knows what kind of jabbering maniac they'll pair him with now?" he whispered, nodding toward the empty space where our silent, brooding giant and the warrior-girl had just stood. "Who else is going to keep me from talking to myself? If they separate us now, I'll have to find a new audience, and honestly, Elayne, I don't think these gargoyles have the ears for my best material." Tomiris was next and then it was Felix's turn.
"Felix Thorn!" the Overseer roared.
Felix froze, his smirk faltering for a split second. He shot me a wink that didn't quite reach his panicked eyes. "Well, duty calls. Don't miss me too much, or you'll ruin your aim."
He marched toward the group marked as the Northern Vanguard. As soon as he saw Silas and Tomiris standing there, a huge wave of relief washed over his face, though he immediately tried to hide it behind a grin. He bumped shoulders with Silas and muttered just loud enough for them to hear:
"Oh, thank the gods. I was worried I'd have to find a whole new set of people to ignore my jokes. Looks like you're stuck with me for another round of misery, big guy."
Silas didn't even look at him, but I saw his jaw relax just a fraction. Now, only I was left.
"ELAINE ARACNUM!"
When they called my name, I stilled for a moment. The world held its breath. The Overseer's voice cut through the tension: "Northern Vanguard!"
I exhaled a breath I didn't know I was holding and started toward my friends. But I hadn't taken three steps before the atmosphere changed. A heavy, rhythmic thudding echoed from the inner archway—the sound of steel-shod boots striking stone in perfect, lethal unison.
A squadron of elite Raiders emerged from the shadows of the citadel, their armor shimmering like oil on water. They didn't just walk; they owned the very air around them. At their head stood a man who carried himself with a terrifying, effortless grace. He stopped, leaned slightly against a jagged stone pillar, and surveyed us with a slow, bored gaze that felt like a blade pressing against our throats.
He let out a short, dry chuckle that sent a shiver down my spine.
"Well, well," he drawled, his voice a smooth, velvet rasp laced with mockery. "Look at this. Another batch of fresh, hopeful souls, just waiting to be turned into expensive fertilizer."
He tilted his head, his eyes glinting with a dangerous sort of amusement.
"Try not to die in the first week, little birds. It's so terribly boring when the entertainment ends before the first blood is even dry."