The Bone Orchard
Trapped between the predatory candidates and the tireless golems, George's heart pounded against his ribs with a deafening rhythm. His mind raced, searching for a gap in the carnage as the vaulted chamber turned into a slaughterhouse. A group of local Harvesters, their faces twisted with a volatile mix of panic and greed, lunged at him with conjured blades of ice and steel. George dived, the air whistling above his head as a blade bit into the stone where his neck had been a second before. He rolled into a crouch and fired a sharp wind blast, the condensed air hitting one attacker center-mass and sending him reeling back into the bony, waiting arms of a skeletal guardian. He ducked a second strike, spun on his heel, and fired another gust at a candidate who was frantically weaving a fire spell. Without a second to breathe, he whipped around, unleashing a concussive blast of wind at a group of skeletons closing in from his blind side. There was no end to them. The sound of clattering bone on stone was a constant, maddening roar that drowned out the logic of the maze. George watched in paralyzed horror as a skeleton golem's arm, sharpened to a jagged calcium pike, struck clean through a candidate's torso. The man didn't even have time to scream; his eyes simply went wide and dull before the golem retracted its limb, leaving a hollow, grisly hole in his chest. George turned away, his stomach churning, only to see another rival being swarmed, their limbs pinned by dozens of skeletal hands that pulled them down into the white tide. The remaining candidates fired a desperate, uncoordinated barrage of elemental magic. Streaks of jagged lightning and bursts of orange flame illuminated the gloom in strobing flashes, but the hoard was simply too great. The dead didn't tire, they didn't bleed, and they didn't feel the agony of the flames consuming them. Another skeleton lunged at George, its jaw unhinged in a silent, eternal scream. He rolled to the side, feeling the cold, dry scrape of bone against his sleeve, then sidestepped another lunge by a hair's breadth. The smell of copper-thick blood and stagnant decay grew heavier with every passing minute, cloying in the back of his throat. The grunts of exhaustion from the living and the piercing, wet screams of the dying echoed through the great corridors, amplified by the unforgiving stone. Despite their fragile appearance, the skeletons moved with a terrifying, supernatural quickness and a ferocity that defied their hollow frames.
Looking for any scrap of high ground, George saw a few surviving candidates scramble onto a high stone platform, desperately raining bolts of frost and shards of earth down on the encroaching tide. George followed suit, finding a jagged, half-collapsed pedestal. He leaped, catching the edge and pulling himself up just as a skeletal hand snapped shut inches below his boot. He stood his ground at the edge, thrusting his palms forward to blast back the golems as they began to scale the stone like spiders. His mana was beginning to flicker, a dull ache starting behind his eyes. His breath came in ragged, burning gasps that tasted of dust. Just as the weight of the hoard seemed ready to topple his meager sanctuary and all hope seemed lost, a shadowy figure materialized from the darkness of a high, forgotten alcove. With swift, graceful movements that made the chaotic butchery of the battle look like a slow-motion blur, a mysterious boy stepped forward. He didn't rely on the flashy fire or loud wind of the other Harvesters; he used tempered steel. His sword flashed in the dim, red-tinted light—a silver arc of absolute precision that felled the skeletal creatures with a display of surgical skill that left George awestruck. The boy moved like water through a sieve, weaving through the chaos with an elegance that made the other candidates look like panicked amateurs. He cleared a path to George's platform in mere seconds, his blade singing a high-pitched note as it shattered ribs, spines, and skulls with effortless efficiency. The boy looked up, his face partially obscured by the shadows of the vault, his eyes holding a fierce, quiet determination that seemed to push back the very darkness of the room. Without a word, he reached out, offering George his hand—a silent, ironclad promise of aid in the treacherous journey ahead.