Chapter 62: The First Ten

Eight hours.

That's how long it takes to turn a single token into ten.

But not by brute force.

Not by pride.

Only by precision.

I don't rush.

While the others sprint toward the orchard and scatter through the stables like starving dogs, I trace the edges. The old perimeter stones lining the forest trails carry faint glyphs—faded, but still active. They hum faintly when passed. I mark their tone.

Every token stolen inside Stillwater's warded zone sends a whisper through the field.

Most don't hear it.

I do.

My first mark is careless.

A boy from the Coldmarsh province—Rilk, they call him. I spotted him earlier, boasting during the assembly, loud and self-important, surrounded by hangers-on. He's already plundered a few of the slower initiates. His belt clinks with the weight of five talismans.

Too easy.

I don't engage him in front of his allies. I wait. Follow at a distance. He peels off from the main group to relieve himself near the broken statue garden behind the stables.

The ring warms.

My steps go silent.

A flick of essence across the leaves above him makes him glance up just as I drop.

He doesn't even get a shout off.

By the time he hits the earth, dazed but breathing, the tokens are mine.

Five.

The next pair are smarter.

Twins from the Southern Reaches—Vey and Lun—move like mirrored ghosts. They're not hunting. They're waiting. They've fortified a broken orchard near the southeast edge, laying simple traps between the apple husks and rotting terraces. Most would stumble into it.

I map their loop. Five minutes in total—one passes the central pillar every seventy seconds. But they overlap for only one blink.

That's my moment.

I wait in the high limbs of a thorn-laced sycamore. The second Lun passes the blind spot, I drop. My elbow cracks the pillar and sends a shockwave that throws off their balance. One twin stumbles. The other panics and throws her dagger too early.

I twist between them, brush my palm over her ribs—redirect her momentum into her brother.

They collapse in a heap.

Three seconds later, I vanish with their tokens.

Five more.

Ten now.

The first third of the trial is done, and most initiates are still running on fumes and instinct. Dozens have lost their first and only mark. Some are weeping in corners. Others are stalking prey with bloodshot eyes, too obsessed with proving something to notice the smart ones are already gone.

I sit on a high ridge above the collapsed bell tower as dusk creeps in. Hidden in mist, but still.

Watching.

Not celebrating.

This isn't a victory.

It's *positioning.*

I'm not here to win a game.

I'm here to rise.

And if I stop now, I might make Core status.

But Core won't let me see the inside of Stillwater's forbidden scroll vault.

Core won't let me meet the Elders who whisper beyond the jade gates.

Core won't make my name matter when the rival comes.

So I rest for only five minutes.

Breathe deep.

Let the ring draw in the last heat of the dying sun, threading it into my marrow.

Then I drop from the ridge.

And vanish again.

There are fourteen hours left.

And I'm not here to be *almost* anything.