Chapter 1 - Chapter One: The Trial of Shattered Runes

The Bone Courtyard of Vyrnhold Academy is a festering wound, its blackstone tiles slick with ash and the memory of blood, each crack whispering of those who came before and broke. The air is a shroud, thick with iron and dread, a taste that coats my tongue like poison, sinking into my bones. I stand among the initiates, my crimson cloak a defiant slash against the gray, my emberstone dagger pressed so hard against my palm I feel the pulse of my own fear, a rhythm that matches the violet runes pulsing along the spires above. Those spires claw at a sky choked with storm, their jagged edges like teeth, and Vyrnhold feels alive, a beast that hungers for our souls. The Culling's first trial, the Trial of Shattered Runes, waits in the Labyrinth below—a maze of wraiths, wards, and shadows where the Hollowed Relic's whisper promises power or ruin. My visions dragged me here—blood pooling, relics pulsing, a scream that might be mine—but they didn't warn me how fear would feel, a blade twisting in my gut, sharp and relentless.I'm Syris Vaelor, or I was, before the Emberheart temple cast me out. Priestess, they called me, trained to wield fire and prayer, but my visions were too wild, too dark, a curse disguised as a gift. The High Matron's eyes, cold as frost, branded me heretic, her voice a whip: You see what the goddess hides. You are no daughter of flame. I fled, crossing the Wastes alone, my cloak torn, my faith fraying, because the visions wouldn't let me rest. A relic, a shadow, a man bleeding—they're fragments of a truth I don't understand, pieces of a puzzle that led me to Vyrnhold's gates. The wards here choke my fire, strangling it to a faint ember in my chest, leaving me raw, exposed, a spark in a storm that could snuff me out. I tighten my grip on my dagger, its emberstone glowing faintly, a tether to who I am. I'm not broken, not yet, but Vyrnhold is a crucible, and I'm already burning.The courtyard is a sea of initiates, their faces etched with ambition, terror, or a hollow defiance that mirrors my own. A girl stands close, Taryn Emberly, her spectral raven perched on her shoulder, its talons drawing pinpricks of blood that stain her gray tunic. Her hands clutch a grimoire, trembling like leaves in a gale, but her eyes are steady, a quiet fire that catches me off guard. I saw her at the Culling Gate, her small frame dwarfed by the crowd, yet she didn't flinch when others cowered. "Taryn," I say, my voice barely a whisper over the wind's howl. Her head snaps up, her wide eyes meeting mine, and for a moment, her fear softens, a flicker of trust in her gaze. "You're stronger than you think," I tell her, the words heavy, a vow I'm not sure I can keep. She blinks, her lips twitching into a fragile smile, and a faint resolve settles over her, like a second skin. My chest aches—kinship, maybe, or hope that she'll survive this place, this beast that chews and spits out the weak.My gaze shifts, snagging on a shadow at the courtyard's edge. Zorak Draven. His leather coat is scarred, patched with old wounds, his dagger glinting like a fang in the rune-light, but it's his smirk that cuts deepest, sharp and reckless, a challenge to the world and everything in it. His dark eyes find me, and my breath hitches, a jolt of heat I don't want to name, like fire sparking in a dry field. Days ago, at the Culling Gate, he leaned too close, his voice low, mocking: "Praying for a quick death, priestess?" I snapped back, my fire flaring, refusing to bend under his gaze. Now, that fire stirs again, unwanted, dangerous, because his look isn't just a taunt—it's possessive, heavy, like he's claiming a piece of me I haven't offered. My chest tightens, and I force my eyes away, my fingers digging into my dagger's hilt until my knuckles ache. He's a storm, all sharp edges and chaos, and I've seen storms tear lives apart—my mother's, my temple's, my own. But my traitor heart lingers on him, on the shadow in his eyes that isn't just defiance, a flicker of something broken. I shove the thought down, my jaw clenching. The trial is what matters, not him, not this spark I can't douse.Others prick at my senses, their presence like thorns under my skin. Kaelith Vorne leans against a rune-carved pillar, their dark braids blending with the shadows, their smirk too smooth, too knowing, like they've already seen the end of this game. Their shadow-magic curls at their feet, a living thing, restless, and when their eyes meet mine, I feel a chill, like they're peeling back my secrets, weighing my worth. I don't trust them, not with that sly glance that lingers too long, not with the way they watch Zorak, as if they know something I can't. Riven Kade stands apart, his pale face a mask, his telepathic aura a faint hum that prickles my skin, like static before a storm. His hand rests on his blade, a reflex that speaks of wounds I can't see, and his eyes—gray, unreadable—flick to the spires, as if he senses something beyond the runes, something that makes my visions pulse. Elyse Marrow paces nearby, her sea-green hair damp with sweat, water-orbits swirling in her palms like a boast, their light erratic. Her laugh is loud, grating, cutting through the murmurs, but her hands shake, her bravado a thin veil over fear that mirrors my own. I know that mask—I wore it when I left the temple, pretending I wasn't terrified, pretending I could outrun fate.Whispers ripple through the crowd, fragments of rumors that chill my blood. The Covenant, Vyrnhold's shadowy rulers, watch from the spires, their motives as opaque as the Veil itself. Some say the relic is a weapon, others a curse, but all agree it's tied to the Veil's fraying wards, to the wraiths that haunt the Labyrinth. I overhear a boy mutter about Zorak, his voice low, fearful: "They say his sigil's alive, that it speaks to him." My gaze flicks to Zorak, his smirk unchanged, but my stomach twists. What kind of curse lives in him? And why does it feel like my visions know him, like he's the man bleeding in my dreams? I push the thought away, but it clings, a shadow I can't shake.The wind shifts, carrying a low growl that vibrates through my boots, and the crowd parts like a wound. Commander Lirien Thorn strides into the courtyard, her wyrm Vyrath coiling behind her, its scales gleaming like oil, its eyes burning coals that sear my resolve. Her silver hair is braided tight, her crescent blade sheathed but heavy with intent, and her presence is a blade against my spine, cold, unyielding. She's Vyrnhold's steel, its will made flesh, and her frost-cold eyes sweep over us, judging, discarding, as if we're already dead. "The Trial of Shattered Runes begins," she says, her voice slicing through the murmurs, sharp as a guillotine, each word a weight that presses on my chest. "Enter the Labyrinth. Survive, and the Covenant may claim you. Fail, and the Veil takes your soul."My stomach twists, a cold knot of fear I can't untangle, and my visions flare—runes shattering, blood pooling, Zorak's face twisted in pain, my fire consuming all. My breath catches, and I clutch my dagger tighter, the emberstone's glow a faint pulse against my skin. The initiates surge toward the Labyrinth's entrance, a black maw in the stone that swallows light and hope, its edges jagged, like teeth waiting to snap shut. I hesitate, my legs heavy, my heart pounding so loud I'm sure Taryn hears it. She glances at me, her raven shifting, its eyes like voids, and I nod, a silent vow: we'll survive this. Elyse's laugh falters, her water-orbits dimming, and for a moment, her eyes meet mine, raw, pleading, a mirror to my own dread. I look away, my chest tight, because I can't save her, not when I'm barely saving myself. Zorak moves past, his shoulder brushing mine, and I flinch, his scent—leather, steel, something darker—lingering like a warning. His eyes flick to me, a spark of something I can't read, and my fire stirs, unbidden, dangerous. I turn away, my jaw clenching, and step toward the maw, my cloak snapping in the wind.The Labyrinth is a tomb, its blackstone tunnels swallowing sound, the air thick with rot and magic, like breathing through a grave. Runes etched into the walls flare and die, their violet pulses erratic, as if the Labyrinth is alive, its heart beating in time with my own. The wards here are a vice, choking my fire until it's a faint ember in my chest, a spark that fights to breathe. Every step is a battle, my boots grinding against ash, my senses straining against the dark. My visions pulse, fragmented—relics glowing, shadows clawing, screams that echo in my bones—and I grit my teeth, forcing them back, because losing myself here means losing everything.A wraith lunges from the shadows, its claws dripping black ichor, its eyes voids that pull at my soul, promising oblivion. I stumble back, my heart slamming against my ribs, and slash with my dagger, fire sparking in my veins, weak but fierce. The emberstone glows, a faint beacon, and the wraith shrieks, its form fraying like smoke, but another takes its place, faster, hungrier. I dodge, my cloak catching on jagged stone, and thrust again, my fire flaring despite the wards, a desperate cry in my chest. The second wraith dissolves, and I lean against the wall, my breath ragged, my hands trembling, sweat stinging my eyes. I'm not a warrior, not like the initiates who wield blades like extensions of their will. I'm a priestess, trained in flame and prayer, but Vyrnhold doesn't care—it demands blood, and I'm bleeding already, my arm grazed by a claw, the sting sharp and real.The tunnel twists, narrowing, and a rune ahead flares, its light blinding. I shield my eyes, my pulse racing, and feel a ward snap into place, a psychic weight that presses on my mind, whispering: Turn back. You are nothing. My visions surge—blood, relics, Zorak's sigil burning—and I stagger, my dagger slipping in my sweat-slick hand. I whisper a prayer, my fire flickering, and push forward, my will a fragile shield against the ward's assault. The tunnel opens into a chamber, its ceiling lost in shadow, runes pulsing like open wounds, their light casting jagged patterns on the stone. A cry pierces the air, sharp, desperate, and my heart lurches. Taryn.I sprint toward the sound, my fear swallowed by instinct, my cloak tearing on a spur of rock. The chamber is a crucible, its air heavy with the stench of ash and fear. Taryn's cornered, her raven diving at two wraiths, its screeches piercing, its claws flashing. Her runestone's light is weak, flickering like a dying star, but her jaw is set, her hands steady as she hurls another, driving one wraith back. Her eyes meet mine, wide but fierce, and I see it—a spark of defiance, a girl who won't break, not yet. "Syris!" she gasps, and I'm at her side, my dagger flashing, fire struggling against the wards, a faint spark that burns brighter for her. "Hold on," I say, my voice steadier than I feel, and we fight, her raven's claws and my emberstone a fragile shield against the dark.Footsteps pound, and Zorak bursts into the chamber, his dagger a blur as he cuts through a wraith's core, ichor splattering his coat. His dark hair is damp, his smirk gone, replaced by something raw, feral, like a beast unleashed. His eyes find me, and my chest tightens, a jolt of heat I can't name, like fire meeting tinder. "Stay close, priestess," he growls, stepping between me and the shadows, his body a wall of defiance, his blade an extension of his will. His tone is commanding, possessive, and it sparks fury in me, sharp and bright, because I'm no damsel, no prize. I yank my arm free when he reaches for me, my fire flaring, a defiant spark that lights the chamber. "I don't need saving, Draven," I snap, my voice a blade, cutting through his arrogance. His smirk returns, but it's strained, and for a heartbeat, I see something—pain, or fear, a crack in his armor—before he buries it. My heart lurches, a traitor to my resolve, because that crack calls to me, a shadow I recognize, and I hate how his presence pulls, like a tide dragging me under.Kaelith slips from the dark, their blade dripping ichor, their shadow-magic coiling like a serpent, restless, alive. "Trouble finds you, Vaelor," they say, their voice smooth as oil, their eyes glinting with something I can't read—amusement, or hunger. They strike a wraith, their movements precise, fluid, but their glance at Zorak is sharp, calculating, like they're weighing his worth, or his weakness. I don't trust them, not their sly smile, not their too-perfect calm, not the way they watch me, like I'm a piece in a game I don't understand. Riven appears next, his telepathy a silent force that staggers a wraith, his pale face unreadable, his eyes like storms. He doesn't speak, but his gaze flicks to me, a weight that presses against my mind, and I wonder what he sees, what secrets he pulls from the air. Elyse stumbles into the chamber, her water-orbits faltering, a wraith's claw grazing her arm, blood welling bright against her skin. She laughs, brittle, desperate, but her hands shake, her bravado cracking like thin ice. "I'm fine," she mutters, her voice trembling, and I see the fear she's trying to hide, raw and real, a mirror to my own.The chamber trembles, a rune overhead shattering in a burst of violet light, shards raining down like broken stars. The air grows heavier, the wards tightening, and a new wraith materializes, larger, its form a writhing mass of shadow, its scream a knife in my mind that draws blood from my nose. My vision blurs—blood, relics, Zorak's sigil burning, my fire consuming all—and I stagger, my dagger slipping, my knees buckling. Zorak shouts my name, his voice raw, desperate, and he's at my side, his dagger flashing, his body shielding mine, his breath hot against my neck. Taryn's raven dives, its claws raking the wraith, and she hurls a runestone, her face pale but fierce, her hands no longer trembling. Kaelith's shadows strike, a dark tide that slows the creature, their smirk gone, their eyes narrowed with focus. Riven's telepathy pushes the wraith back, his jaw clenched, his aura a storm that hums in my bones. Elyse's water-orbits surge, weak but desperate, and she screams, a sound of rage and fear that echoes in my chest, a cry for survival.I thrust my dagger, fire surging in my chest, a spark that defies the wards, a flame that burns for Taryn, for myself, for the girl I was before Vyrnhold. The wraith shrieks, dissolving into ash, but the chamber doesn't still. The floor cracks, a trap triggered by the rune's collapse, and spikes erupt, blackstone spears glinting with malice. I dive, pulling Taryn with me, my cloak tearing as a spike grazes my shoulder, pain flaring bright and sharp. Zorak curses, his dagger slashing a spike, his movements reckless, instinctive, his eyes on me, fierce, unyielding. "Move, Syris!" he roars, and I scramble to my feet, my heart racing, my fire flickering. Kaelith dances through the spikes, their shadows shielding them, but their glance at Riven is too quick, too pointed, like they're hiding something. Riven's telepathy shatters a spike, his face strained, and Elyse's water-orbits deflect another, her scream cut short, her eyes wide with terror.A psychic pulse hits, the wards flaring, and my mind reels, the Veil whispering: You are nothing. You will fall. My visions surge—Zorak bleeding, the relic pulsing, my fire a pyre—and I collapse, my dagger clattering, blood dripping from my nose. Zorak's hand grazes my arm, steadying me, his touch warm, too close, too real. "Breathe, Syris," he says, his voice low, rough, and for a moment, his eyes aren't defiant—they're soft, wounded, a crack in his storm that makes my chest ache. I pull away, my dagger trembling in my hand, but his touch lingers, a spark I can't douse, a tide I can't outrun. I meet his gaze, just for a heartbeat, and something shifts—a crack in my guard, a shadow in his eyes that isn't just defiance, a promise or a threat I can't name. I look away, my fire flickering, my resolve fraying.A roar shakes the chamber, and Lirien lands, her wyrm Vyrath's scales glinting, its claws raking the stone, its growl a thunder that vibrates in my bones. Her crescent blade cleaves the air, and the remaining wraiths scatter, their screams fading into the dark. "Enough!" she commands, her voice steel, her eyes like frost, cutting through us like a blade. She surveys us—Zorak's clenched jaw, his dagger still raised; Taryn's trembling resolve, her raven perched, bloodied but defiant; Kaelith's sly calm, their shadows coiling; Riven's silent weight, his telepathy a faint hum; Elyse's faltering grin, her arm bleeding, her bravado shattered; my own unsteady fire, my dagger trembling, my breath ragged. "You live," she says, her voice heavy, like a judgment, but her gaze lingers, a flicker of something—respect, or doubt—that makes my skin prickle. "For now."The Labyrinth falls silent, but the relic's whisper grows louder in my mind, a pulse that matches my heartbeat, a call I can't ignore. I rise, my legs unsteady, my shoulder stinging, my dagger heavy in my hand. Taryn meets my eyes, her nod a quiet strength, and I return it, a vow we'll keep fighting, a bond forged in blood. Zorak's gaze burns into me, and I force myself to look away, but the spark between us is alive, dangerous, a fire I can't control. Kaelith's smirk, Riven's silence, Elyse's cracked bravado, Lirien's cold command—they're pieces of a puzzle I don't understand, shadows in a game I didn't choose. The boy's whisper about Zorak's sigil echoes in my mind, and my visions pulse, relentless. Vyrnhold is a beast, and the trial is only the beginning. I'm not ready, but I'm still burning, a spark in the dark, and that's enough. For now.