The sun hung low over the Ashen Plains, casting long shadows over the cracked earth. Kael trudged behind Rurik, his boots kicking up plumes of ash. The air reeked of sulfur and iron—residue from a decades-old battle between Sages.
"Keep up, gutter rat," Rurik grunted, adjusting the tattered cloak that hid his House Ironvein insignia. "The general didn't pay me to babysit a corpse."
Kael's jaw tightened. Paid. The word clawed at him. Two weeks ago, he'd been cornered in an Ironreach alley by knights, his stolen dagger chipped and bloody. Then Rurik appeared, tossing a recommendation letter stamped with a nameless crest. No explanations, only orders: "Get to Rose Gold University. Survive the test. Or die forgotten."
They camped beneath a lightning-scarred oak, its roots cradling a pool of glowing green water. Rurik tossed Kael a strip of jerky. "Eat. You'll need strength for tomorrow."
Kael scavenged:
Emberroot: Crimson tubers that hissed when cut.
Frostcap Mushrooms: Blue fungi that numbed his tongue.
Aetherwing Moth: Wings shimmering with painkilling dust.
Rurik watched, arms crossed. "The general's investing in you. Like he's done with a dozen others. You pass the test, he pays your tuition. You fail—" He drew a finger across his throat.
Kael glared. "Why?"
"Because Fallen Grace is small. Weak. The general wants soldiers who don't reek of nobility." Rurik carved a Rune of Purification into the oak. "Graduate, work for him for ten years, and you'll get more gold than your street-rat brain can fathom. Refuse…" He shrugged. "Well, dead men don't refuse."
Kael traced the rune, channeling essence. The green water cleared. "And if I run?"
Rurik smirked. "You won't. Ambition's written in your eyes, boy. You'd sell your soul to never feel weak again."
Nightfall brought them to the Ghostfire Fen, a marsh where will-o'-wisps danced like cursed stars. Rurik rigged a snare with essence-charged wire, baiting it with a Beast-core shard.
"Trade's done in Forge Tokens here," Rurik muttered. "Solar Marks scream Lockstar. Draws Estian spies." He nodded to a nearby caravan. Dwarves bartered with iron discs engraved with runes.
A trader spat at Rurik's feet. "Fallen Grace scum. Your kingdom's a piss stain on the map."
Rurik's hand twitched toward his sword but stopped. "Save your rage for the test, boy," he warned Kael. "Fallen Grace has no friends here."
At dawn, a cloaked figure intercepted them—a woman with a veiled face and a dagger strapped to her thigh.
"The general's investment," she hissed, tossing Rurik a pouch of Forge Tokens. "Don't embarrass him."
Rurik pocketed the coins. "Who was that?" Kael demanded.
"One of many. The general plants spies everywhere. Even here." Rurik pointed to Rose Gold University's spires. "Remember: You're nobody. A ghost. Let the nobles underestimate you."
By midday, they reached the university's outskirts. A shantytown of desperate applicants sprawled beneath the cliffs. Nobles flaunted enchanted armor; peasants sharpened rusted blades.
A crier bellowed: "2,000 applicants! 500 slots! Three trials: The Gauntlet, The Crucible, The Trial of Mirrors! Saints have mercy!"
Rurik shoved a coin purse into Kael's hands. "Enough for a meal and a sharp blade. The rest is on you."
Kael eyed the money. "What if I die?"
"Then the general finds another rat." Rurik vanished into the crowd.
Kael lodged at The Howling Harpy, a tavern reeking of ale and desperation. He claimed a corner table, sharpening his dagger.
Kael's hand tightened on his blade. Puppet. The word burned. But survival came first.
At midnight, the tavern trembled. Kael peered through a cracked window. Offshore, a Storm Leviathan breached the waves—a living Dead Zone, its Terror-core crackling like a second moon.
Rurik's warning echoed: "The strong don't fear monsters. They become them."