Simma stood rigid, his body upright as a spear lodged into the earth, choosing not to stir even an inch. He wasn't certain this was the right thing to do, but instinct had carried him through the first trial, why abandon it now? And besides, the words had been strangely magnetic, clinging to his mind like a song:
"patience… stand, unmoving and still." Catchy enough to gamble on.
But after a full minute of standing motionless, he began to feel like a fool, like some broken statue on a pedestal of ashes. Perhaps he was meant to walk forward into that looming corridor of darkness.
What was the worst that could happen? Surely nothing more terrifying than Draco trying to make him a living target. Still, he clenched his jaw and remained still, testing fate for a little longer.
But nothing. Then, just before he was about to make a step forward, words came.
Simma looked around, trying to find where it came from, but then gave up since it didn't echo from one direction, rather it came from everywhere and somehow nowhere, threading itself into the air, woven into the drifting ashes themselves.
The soft grey flakes hissed faintly as they fell, as if whispering secrets from beyond. And right from it came what made Simma want to hang himself.
A riddle.
His face was now a deep frown. How was solving a riddle going to help him kill Waithrate when he becomes an Azren?
But the voice was already talking, and what it said wasn't an answer to Simma's questions but a question demanding Simma's answers:
"I shroud the dawn in grey, yet I was born from fire.
I drift between worlds, whispering the secrets of the pyre.
I am cloak, I am warning, I am the breath after burning.
Name me."
Simma blinked rapidly. He didn't just blink, but for some strange reason he was counting how many times he blinked, as if that somehow would wring the answer from his skull. Maybe it was because he was out of words to give as answers, or because...
hang on.
A thought hit him. He looked around him, ashes were everywhere.
He nodded as he tried to find more threads to join to what was going on in his head.
The riddle had said, I come after fire... yes, something like that. And also it talked about moving between worlds.
Simma looked up in horror. Maybe he wasn't so dumb after all.
What came after fire with a grey colour was ashes, and… and what separated two worlds or realms was... yes, a veil. That makes the answer an ashveil.
He looked up, not knowing exactly what he was looking at, but he just stared at the ashes as he said,
"E-em... ash... veil."
There was a brief silence, and just then…
A violent wind tore upward, wrenching the ash into a savage cyclone that wrapped around Simma like a cage of smoke. The storm clawed at him, choking his nose, filling his lungs, whipping his hair white with powder.
"Aaaah!" Simma shouted, fighting the instinct to flee, to claw his way out. Instead, he forced himself to stand, still as the sick, enduring like the line had instructed.
Then, as suddenly as it began, the maelstrom dwindled. The last stray flecks of ash hung motionless in the air before settling to the ground, weaving themselves into a single line of text across the blackened soil:
Seek where the fire has died, where no bird sings,
and the earth still breathes warmth beneath the ash.
"Great…" Simma muttered, rolling his eyes. Another riddle tucked inside the first.
Before he could curse Zolomon's name again, the darkened path brightened, like a wound hissing under acid until it scabbed into light. Ahead, another arch of thorn-wrought vines bent into the familiar frame of a doorway.
"Seriously?" Simma groaned. "I thought the maze was over."
But he shoved himself forward nonetheless, his pace sluggish as a snail's crawl, dragging his body through the threshold.
----------------------------
[First riddle out of five]
[First riddle successful]
---------------------------
The parchment's unseen script mocked him from his thoughts as he advanced. Ms. Shady remained his eyes above, darting in and out of shadows along the walls. Through her gaze, Simma avoided paths riddled with false turns or, gods forbid… the giant scorpion he glimpsed lurking in one fork of the maze. Without her, he would have been hopelessly lost, or worse, skewered.
The first riddle had been solvable. Almost… merciful. He doubted the next would be so kind. Beginner's luck, he told himself grimly, tightening his jaw.
Then another thorned arch. Marking another threshold.
As Simma stepped through, the air shifted violently. The dim half-light peeled away, burned out as if scalded by unseen acid until brightness flooded the world. A cloudless blue sky stretched above him, luminous and vast, but absent of any sun.
A smooth wind caressed his face, almost playful, before carrying with it another cryptic line:
"From the veil's sorrow, follow the breath you cannot see…
it will choose who is worthy to hear its song."
"Worthy?" Simma muttered. "Worthy for what? A riddle championship?" He just hoped that this unseen riddler would not just say he was not worthy.
But the unseen voice did not answer. Instead, the wind strengthened, tugging him forward until he found himself at the edge of a cliff. Another surge of air whipped across his body, scouring away the ashes that clung to him.
He is qualified, the air murmured.
For he came through the gashes and witnessed the ashes.
The gale before him gathered force, spinning into a wild column of sand and stone, colliding and grinding like teeth. From within that vortex, the next riddle emerged, the voice deep as the storm:
"I race unseen, swift as thought.
I carry scents of home and rot.
I carve the dunes and comb the seas,
and bend the forest to its knees.
Who am I?"
Simma cracked his neck, vertebrae popping like kindling. A rush of determination surged down his spine, and a faint grin tugged his lips.
"Alright," he muttered. "Let's solve this riddle."
"I race unseen... Cozy, just like this unseen thing asking me these riddles."
"Alright, I bend the trees to their knees... hell, like trees have knees," he joked.
"Come on, Simma, you know this."
He thought deeply, reciting those lines over and over again. Good enough, he paid attention, and he grasped it.
He had read about a wind that carried thoughts and scent.
No way.
He looked at the clattering wind of stones and sand as he answered,
"A zephyr."