Chapter 8

Dawn painted the Veritas compound in shades of blood and gold, as if the sky itself knew what was coming. The main courtyard, usually reserved for ceremonial displays and the occasional execution, had been transformed into something between a military staging ground and a merchant's fever dream.

Avian stood among the other candidates, letting the pre-trial chaos wash over him without touching. Servants scurried between makeshift pavilions, hauling last-minute equipment. House guards formed perimeters around weapon racks that gleamed with fresh oil. The air tasted of leather polish, nervous sweat, and that particular brand of ambition that made people stupid.

Like sheep being sorted for slaughter. Except some of these sheep have teeth.

The courtyard itself was massive — three hundred feet of polished stone that had drunk its share of blood over the centuries. Carved pillars rose at regular intervals, each one depicting a different Veritas triumph. The eastern wall bore a mural of Saint Vaerin's victory, all golden light and noble sacrifice. Avian kept his eyes carefully averted from that particular lie.

He'd taken his position among the tertiary branch candidates, where forgotten sons belonged. The formation was organized by status — main family heirs at the front, secondary branches in the middle, tertiary branches squeezed into whatever space remained. About sixty candidates total, ranging from fresh-faced twelve-year-olds to scarred twenty-somethings making their last attempt at relevance.

Sixty go in. Maybe half come out. Good odds for a Veritas family reunion.

The morning air carried a bite of winter despite the season, making breath visible in small puffs. Avian's body ached — six months of systematic destruction had left him held together by will and stubbornness more than healthy tissue. But the pain had become background noise, no more notable than breathing. What mattered was the energy humming through his channels, coiled and ready.

A ripple passed through the crowd, conversations dying like candles in wind. Aedric Veritas had arrived.

The Patriarch didn't walk so much as exist in sequential locations, each step carrying the weight of barely leashed violence. He wore simple black robes that probably cost more than most villages, unadorned except for a single silver pin depicting a sword through a crown. His presence made the air feel thick, like trying to breathe at the bottom of an ocean.

He ascended the platform — fifteen feet of carved marble that put him above the crowd like a god surveying ants. Behind him, five figures in ceremonial armor took positions. The Knight Commanders, each one capable of leveling city blocks if properly motivated.

Look at them, all shiny and proper. Bet they haven't seen real combat in decades.

When Aedric spoke, his voice carried without effort, each word dropping into the silence like stones into still water.

"For three centuries, the Veritas heir trials have followed tradition. The strong rise. The weak fall. The family endures." He paused, letting the weight of history settle. "This year, we're changing that tradition."

Murmurs rippled through the candidates like wind through wheat. Avian kept his expression neutral while his mind raced. Change meant uncertainty. Uncertainty meant opportunity. Or death. Usually both.

"Too many promising heirs have died following the old ways," Aedric continued. "The clan cannot afford such waste. Power without wisdom is merely destruction. Strength without survival is merely fertilizer."

Since when does the clan give a shit about keeping the weak alive? Something else is going on here.

Aedric gestured, and a team of servants approached, bearing a table covered in midnight-blue cloth. They moved with the synchronized precision of people who knew that dropping anything would mean more than unemployment. With practiced efficiency, they positioned the table and withdrew the cloth in one smooth motion.

Gasps echoed through the courtyard.

The table held sixty stones, each one the size of a child's fist. They weren't cut gems but seemed to have grown into their shapes, surfaces smooth as water despite their organic curves. Runes covered every inch, glowing with soft inner light that shifted between blue and silver. Even from thirty feet away, Avian could feel the magic radiating from them — complex work, layers upon layers of enchantment.

"Life stones," Aedric announced, his smile sharp as winter wind. "The product of six months' work by our finest enchanters. Channel your aura into one, and it will transport you instantly back to the starting point. Safe. Alive. Failed."

Coward stones. Quitter rocks. Here's your participation trophy for not dying.

"Each stone is attuned to your aura signature. They cannot be stolen, traded, or accidentally activated. The enchantment requires conscious intent and sustained channeling." His eyes swept the crowd, cataloging reactions. "Consider them the clan's investment in keeping useful bloodlines from pointless extinction."

A hand rose from the front ranks — Thane, because of course it was. The acknowledged heir stood with the easy confidence of someone who'd never questioned his place in the world. Morning light caught on his armor, probably polished by servants who'd been up since midnight.

"Father," he said, the word carrying weight that Avian's 'cousin' never could. "What exactly will we face that requires such... precautions?"

Daddy's boy wants to know if his privilege comes with extra protection.

"An excellent question." Aedric's approval made Thane straighten further, preening under the attention. "Your trial ground is the Howling Forest, from its base to the summit of the mountain it surrounds. Fifty miles of vertical terrain, most of it actively hostile to human life."

He gestured, and one of the Knight Commanders stepped forward — a woman with silver-streaked hair and scars that suggested she'd earned her position the hard way. She carried a map the size of a dinner table, which she unfurled with military precision.

The map showed the Howling Mountain in excruciating detail. The forest wrapped around it like a diseased skin, rendered in blacks and grays that seemed to writhe if you looked too long. Red marks indicated known hazards — a lot of red marks.

"The forest has been populated with creatures selected for their educational value," Aedric continued. "Some from the deeper wild, where things grow strange and hungry. Some from the borderlands, where reality wears thin. And yes, some from places prudent men don't name in daylight."

Demons. Just say demons, you pretentious fuck. You brought demons for your children to play with.

"Knights are stationed at regular intervals," the female commander spoke, her voice carrying the rasp of someone who'd shouted too many battle orders. "Should your stone break through combat damage or malfunction, they will intervene. Should you choose to activate it yourself..." She shrugged. "That's your choice to make."

"What determines success beyond mere survival?" Another candidate asked — one of the secondary branch hopefuls trying to sound clever.

Aedric's smile widened. "Reaching the summit is the minimum. But this is not merely a race. The first five to reach the peak will have access to the family vault."

The atmosphere changed instantly, greed sharpening the air like a blade. The Veritas vault was legendary — a collection spanning five centuries of conquest, exploration, and careful theft. Weapons pulled from demon generals' corpses. Artifacts from civilizations that no longer existed. Books that the Church would burn libraries to destroy.

The vault. Where secrets go to gather dust. Where truth hides from history.

"One item each," Aedric specified. "Chosen freely from anything not specifically warded. Consider it... motivation for excellence."

Avian's hands clenched involuntarily beneath his cloak. If anywhere held answers about what really happened five hundred years ago, it would be there. Among the blood-stained trophies and forbidden texts. Maybe Vaerin had left something. Maybe evidence existed of why he'd put an arrow through his best friend's heart.

"Furthermore," Aedric continued, clearly enjoying the hunger in his audience, "your performance will be evaluated holistically. Speed matters, but so does methodology. Show us cunning. Show us brutality when necessary. Show us the will to survive when everything wants you dead. Show us who you really are when civilization's mask slips."

"Are alliances permitted?" The question came from Marcus, the bully who'd beaten Avian six months ago. He stood with a group of secondary branch candidates, clearly already planning their strategy.

"Permitted? Certainly. Beneficial?" Aedric laughed, and the sound made several candidates step back. "History remembers individuals, not committees. But do as you will. The forest doesn't care about your arrangements."

Translation: Team up if you're weak. Die alone if you're strong. Same as always.

The servants began distributing the life stones, moving through the formation with practiced efficiency. When one reached Avian, he accepted it with a polite nod and carefully controlled curiosity. The stone was heavier than expected, dense with power. The enchantment work was genuinely impressive — multiple layers of spatial magic woven with protective barriers and tracking spells.

Good work. Complex enough that breaking it would take effort. Have to make any 'accident' look convincing.

"You have one hour to reach the forest's edge," Aedric announced. "The trial begins at sunrise. Late arrivals forfeit by default. Equipment restrictions are lifted — bring whatever you can carry and trust. May the strongest rise."

The formation dissolved into controlled chaos. Some candidates sprinted for the armory, hoping to grab superior equipment. Others huddled in groups, negotiating alliances that would last exactly as long as mutual benefit. A few, like Avian, moved with deliberate calm.

He made his way toward the eastern gate, projecting an air of focused determination that discouraged interaction. His equipment was already chosen — standard sword at his hip for show, Fargrim hidden beneath his cloak for truth. The life stone went into an inner pocket, cushioned where combat wouldn't accidentally trigger it.

"Avian."

He turned to find Seren approaching through the crowd. She'd traded her usual scholar's robes for practical traveling leathers, and her ever-present notebook had been replaced by a pack that looked suspiciously well-supplied. Her hair was bound back in a severe braid, and her eyes held an intensity that suggested this was more than academic curiosity.

"Lady Lyselle," he greeted with appropriate courtesy. "I wasn't aware historians participated in succession trials."

"Observer status," she replied, producing a different stone from her belt. This one was clear crystal shot through with gold veins, humming with a different frequency than the life stones. "The family values accurate records of significant events. I'll be documenting from a safe distance, for posterity."

Bullshit. You want to see what I do when the masks come off. When survival matters more than secrets.

"How fortunate for future scholars," he said mildly. "I hope the documentation proves... educational."

"Oh, I'm certain it will." She studied him with those too-clever eyes, and Avian had the uncomfortable feeling she was seeing more than he showed. "Especially the parts that don't match expected patterns. Those are always the most interesting to analyze."

She left before he could formulate a safe response, disappearing into the crowd with purpose. Her meaning was clear enough — she'd be watching, recording, looking for proof of whatever theory she'd developed over six months of observation.

Let her watch. After today, subtlety becomes a luxury I can't afford.

The journey to the forest's edge was a parade of ambition and barely controlled terror. The main roads had been cleared for the occasion, city guards keeping curious civilians at a distance. Some candidates rode horses or carriages, conserving energy for what lay ahead. Others ran, showing off conditioning or burning nervous energy.

Avian walked.

Each step was measured, deliberate. He used the time to center himself, to review six months of preparation. His body ached — muscle and bone held together by will more than healthy tissue. But pain was just information, and he'd learned to parse its language fluently. What mattered was the power coiled in his channels, ready to spring.

High Master aura, sustainable for hours now instead of minutes. Third Core mana that nobody knew about, channels widened through midnight practice. Techniques that had been illegal for five centuries, hidden beneath Veritas forms like wolves in sheep's clothing.

All for a chance at the vault. At answers. At understanding why—

Why did you do it, Vaerin? What truth was worth your tears?

The forest announced itself long before it came into view. First was the temperature drop — ten degrees colder despite the climbing sun. Then came the smell: rot and growth and something else, something that made primitive parts of the brain scream warnings. Finally, the sound — or rather, the absence of it. Birds didn't sing near the Howling Forest. Insects knew better than to buzz.

When it finally came into view, Avian understood why they'd cleared a half-mile buffer around its borders.

The trees were wrong.

Not diseased or twisted by conventional standards, but wrong in ways that made the eyes water trying to process. They grew too tall, trunks disappearing into a canopy so thick it might as well be solid stone. Bark patterns that almost formed faces if you looked sideways. Roots that emerged from the ground in loops and arches, like the earth itself was trying to escape what grew from it.

The Howling Mountain rose beyond, its peak lost in clouds that moved against the wind. Fifty miles of vertical terrain, most of it actively trying to kill anyone stupid enough to enter.

Home sweet home. If home was designed by a committee of nightmares.

Other candidates were already gathering at the forest's edge, their earlier bravado notably diminished. The tree line was marked by ancient standing stones, each one carved with warnings in languages that predated the empire. A few candidates were trying to read them, as if knowing the specific flavor of doom would help.

Avian found a quiet spot near a moss-covered boulder and began his stretches. Real preparation, not the showy displays some others were performing. His muscles protested — they'd been protesting for months — but responded to familiar patterns. Around him, whispers followed his movements.

"The mad cousin actually made it."

"Waste of a stone. He'll tap out within the hour."

"Did you see him training? Like a man possessed."

"Blood determines worth. All the training in the world can't change weak breeding."

Keep talking. See how much breeding matters when you're trying to hold your intestines in.

A horn sounded from the compound — deep and mournful, like something that should announce funerals rather than trials. Five minutes to sunrise. Five minutes to pretend courage in the face of calculated death.

Avian made his final equipment check. Standard sword — good steel, nothing special. Fargrim across his back, hidden beneath his cloak but thrumming with anticipation. The demon blade had tasted blood in that alley, remembered its purpose. Even dormant, it wanted to wake fully, to sing the old songs of violence.

Soon. Feed you properly soon. The forest will provide.

Three minutes. Candidates were forming rough groups near the tree line. Some would rush in, hoping speed trumped caution. Others would hang back, let the eager ones trigger whatever waited in the shadows. A few loners, like himself, stood apart with their own plans.

One minute. The horizon brightened, painting the sky in shades of violence. Dawn came to the Howling Forest like a reluctant visitor, light struggling against the unnatural gloom beneath the canopy.

The horn sounded again — long and low, a note that resonated in bones and suggested this was both beginning and ending.

The trial had begun.

The first wave of candidates surged forward like water through a broken dam, crashing against the tree line with all the subtlety of a cavalry charge. The forest swallowed them whole, darkness closing like a mouth.

Within seconds, the screaming started.

Avian smiled as he approached the threshold at a measured pace. The transition was abrupt — one step in dying sunlight, the next in twilight that had nothing to do with time of day. The temperature dropped another ten degrees, and the air became thick with scents that shouldn't exist together: pine sap and old blood, flowers and decay, ozone and wet dog.

Hello, darkness. Did you miss me? Because I've missed you something fierce.

His eyes adjusted quickly — faster than they should have, really. Another gift from his previous life bleeding through. The forest floor was carpeted in moss that muffled footsteps, broken by roots that seemed positioned to catch the unwary. The trees loomed like drunken giants, leaning at angles that made navigation a three-dimensional puzzle.

And everywhere, eyes watched from the shadows.

The first attack came within thirty feet — predictable in its suddenness. Something dropped from the canopy, all chitin and too many legs, mandibles spread wide enough to take his head off.

Avian was already moving.

His blade cleared its sheath in a draw that had taken lifetimes to perfect, meeting the creature in mid-air. Steel met chitin with a sound like breaking pottery. The thing's momentum carried it past him, but in two pieces now, ichor painting the moss in patterns that steamed in the cold air.

Sloppy. Should have sensed it sooner. Getting soft in this cushy life.

He didn't slow, stepping over the twitching remains without a backward glance. The forest had shown its hand early — aerial ambush predators in the canopy. Good to know. He adjusted his awareness upward, tracking movement in the branches even as he maintained forward progress.

The screaming from other candidates provided an audio map of threats. To his left, someone was learning that the pretty flowers had thorns. To his right, the wet sounds suggested something was feeding. Behind him, someone was begging for their mother in a voice going progressively higher.

Symphony of stupidity. They charge in like it's a race, not a hunt.

Avian moved like smoke between the trees, every step calculated. Not rushing — that invited mistakes. Not dawdling — that invited accumulating threats. Just steady progress, senses stretched to their limits, ready for whatever educational experience the forest offered next.

It didn't keep him waiting long.