A cold and distant breath shaped the wind flowing faintly in the room. It steadily echoed throughout the chamber, as though the room itself were alive, listening. Damien stepped inside and the door behind him sealed shut, trapping him in oxymoronic silence underneath a ceiling of bells.
A voice, different to that of the passing Angel from earlier, spoke with words woven into the air like a memory buried in whispers.
"You stand at the border of stillness and ruin. Before you lies a path marked by glyph and silence. Cross the marble without sounding a single bell, and you may pass this trial."
Damien's shoulders twitched. The weight of the earlier trial and his own shaken resolve still clung to his bones. He straightened, forcing the tension into his jaw rather than his legs. He was losing composure, he knew it, and in the face of this trial, that was something he could not afford.
"Each tile is inscribed," the voice continued.
"Some carry stillness. Others carry consequences. The bells above are not merely chimes. Should they toll, they will awaken the beast above."
A breeze, cold and unkind, stirred the hem of his cloak.
"He is a pawn of Queen Asmodeus, hailing from the seventh circle. It would be wise of you to not challenge your resolve through an encounter against him. So remember these words."
A long pause.
"If you wish to forfeit the trial, you know what to do."
The glyph on his hand glows faintly.
Then—nothing.
The tiles ahead stretched out endlessly, shining against the creaking like a wet field under euphoric moonlight. Marble squares, each lined with glyphs so faint they shimmered like breath on cold steel. And overhead–lay hundreds of silver bells, hanging in elegant arcs from the ceiling, perfectly still. Every now and then when the wind brushed past them, you could hear an ancient hum.
Damien exhaled once, slow. Then opened his palm to utter the activation phrase:
"Second Circle: Canticle Sense."
With a quick flare, a spiral of Solence rich rays formed over his hand. Upon his command and by nature of the Second Circle, the threads began to flicker into being, to reveal the song of the chamber. Under his command, they moved in unison through the air, some pooling over tiles, others drifting cleanly past. Wherever the threads lingered and shuddered, he knew were the potentially tampered tiles. A single step there would send a ripple that the ceiling wouldn't forgive.
However, the pattern that came into view wasn't lifeless.
It moved, in harmony, with the rest of the threads piled over each tile.
That was the most terrifying part.
He slowed his breath again, narrowing his focus.
The threads that appeared in front of him, ones he assumed would be created artificially by the chamber, didn't move as chaotically as the arcane forces often do. They moved like language– studied, measured, and placed intentionally. There were stutters. Repeats. Recycles of past misconceptions.
A decision now awaited Damien. How can he reason with this animation?
He momentarily considered interacting with his precedence over time again. However, that would require analysing the flow of Solence present throughout the entire floor, a feat he did not think he was capable of pulling off.
Damien steadied himself. He tried looking at the way the threads behaved, for every possible pattern he could decipher from their behaviour. There was something familiar in the precision of these threads. Not just language—but handwriting.
His thoughts flicked to a conversation in the Veyrant catacombs long ago, playing a game of chess with the old and weary Warden of the house.
"Each line of glyph woven by an awakened is shaped by rhythm, but each rhythm is shaped by a person. Be it an exorcist or a Veyrant, your personality and character will always shine through the ink you etch these runes with",
That was it.
They pulsed not with divine randomness, but with willing intent and deliberation.
The pulsating figures present on the tiles resembled the opening steps of a Queen's Gambit Declined—a bold feint forward, a sidestep to control the center, then a retreat that opened the diagonal.
The administrator's pacing wasn't just theatrical, it was choreographed. Damien takes a few steps straight ahead, seemingly committing to a direct path — but it's a bluff, and it's alluring, to the point where it tempts a self-sacrifice. Damien's mind, sharpened by years of exile and observation, mapped the movements in full. He realised the dangerous tiles were laid out to tempt aggression—like bait. He then moves to the side— where the threads dropped the lowest. He claims a central tile, stabilising his position, as if to exert control over the room's center of gravity. Finally, he takes a step back diagonally, which results in the drunken threads finally coming to a halt.
It was now obvious that the Solence weaving here wasn't made by some perfect divine will. It was man-made—by an Exorcist. Someone had inscribed a signature across the chamber, and like any signature, it carried traces of ego, will and personality.
Damien closed his eyes, tuning out the roar of doubt and the gnashing whisper of Witherflow humming just beneath his skin. He forced the Solence threads into sharper view.
He watched the weight of each glyph-thread: the pressure where it dipped, the hesitation before a turn, the eagerness in a downstroke. The path through the chamber wasn't a song—it was handwriting. Not a divine pattern to interpret, but a human rhythm to read. The movement of the glyphs themselves were simply a spell cast upon them, but the pauses where they behaved unnaturally was human.
Footsteps of the Exorcist that set this trial were now more visible than ever.
He opened his eyes. And began to move.
He stepped again, matching the rhythm about 3 paces away. As he moved, his hands trembled—each breath threatening to misalign the threads.
For most children trained solely in Solence, this trial would be trivial. Their glyphs would dance freely across the surface, unobstructed by the poison of Witherflow he was burdened by. Although it provided him with the strength necessary to seek his name within the prophecy, it also made it more difficult for him to find a better understanding over each individual force.
Compared to the average child—every inch of progress was agony for Damien.
His tracing glyph flickered as his dual mana struggled for dominance. Every pulse of Solence was immediately met by a counter-current of Witherflow rotting the edge of the stream. He had to constantly rebalance it—recasting tiny segments of the glyph to hold the harmony.
One misstep. One fractured breath. That was all it would take.
Halfway across, a pulse of Witherflow bled into the air from his own skin. The glyph shuddered. One of the bells above gave the faintest ting—like a breath catching in a throat.
He froze.
A second passed.
Another.
Then he clenched his jaw, narrowed the glyph, and refocused the Solence thread.
The bell stilled.
His heart slammed against his ribs. He closed his eyes—and in that flash of blackness, saw his mission again. The memory of Lucien. The snow-bitten border. The Sainted child's golden eyes, blank like untouched scripture.
He could not fail.
He stepped again.
And again.
And AGAIN.
He stepped on the final tile and crossed over to the plain, cemented platform ahead. Above him, the bells did not toll. He was finally able to breathe a sigh of relief.
He had passed.
But before he could breathe—something changed.
The air chilled. Sounds of chains scraping against each other filled the air with heaviness unlike anything he had experienced before. Like stone dragging across bone, from above the chamber, a deafening roar was finally heard.
Damien looked up to find himself staring at a tiny flicker of light.
An eye.
Long, vertical, and burning with crimson flame.
The bells above quivered—not from noise, but from the sheer presence of the thing watching them.
Then, it spoke.
Not with wrath. Not with malice.
But with reverent curiosity.
"Tell me, child," it whispered. "How is the scent of Witherflow clinging onto one who walks the path of Solence?"
Then the eye closed.
The weight left the room as suddenly as it came, but Damien did not move.
His hands were shaking. His breath was short. He hadn't known fear until now—not like this. Not like being known by something that should not see.
He took a step forward.
His vision blurred at the edges, like the world was tipping sideways.
He was not wounded.
Yet it felt a lot worse.
Damien steadied himself.
The weight of the gaze still lingered on his skin like a phantom wound. His breath was ragged, but it returned to rhythm, his eyelashes quivered. But he knew he had to move on.
He is different. These passages weren't designed for him. They were painted to aid the children blessed by the gaze of Solence. With enough talent, they could near-effortlessly pass through the stages he is pushed to the very edge of his limits for.
But he couldn't make that obvious to the sacred eyes watching his every move.
He passed through the arch ahead, to his third and final trial.
———————————————————————
The path to this chamber was different to the previous one, vacant of any glyphs and bells. It was a narrower place—small, suffocating, and impossibly quiet. The ceiling was gone, if it had ever existed, swallowed by shadows. The walls pulsed faintly, lined with frescoes of winged figures and blessed angels, their faces twisted in ecstatic joy. Their eyes tracked his every motion, not with judgment, but with a strange anticipation.
He sensed a feeling of arcane hunger coming from the gaze that tracked him.
Damien exhaled an uncomfortable sigh of relief. He thought to himself how nothing unfortunate had struck him yet. No sigils burned his skin, no voice demanded obedience. For a moment, he thought this trial might be different—simpler, quieter. A test of silence, maybe. Of stillness. The calm almost felt kind.
Each step Damien took left a faint ripple.
Finally, he stopped before a room alive with a banquet in full swing.