The Red Tower
At dawn, a crimson monolith stood at the heart of the forest.
The Red Tower rose high above the treetops, its smooth, obsidian-red stone catching the dim morning light like blood on a blade. Veins of golden fire pulsed along its surface, tracing ancient glyphs of a forgotten tongue—symbols once whispered by elders around tribal fires.
There were no windows. No doors.
Only a single entrance at its base—flanked by two colossal statues of ancestral warriors. They stood in eternal vigilance, carved from black granite and adorned with ceremonial armor, feathered headdresses, and spears of crystal. The ground before them was marked with symbols scorched into the earth, refreshed daily by shamans.
Inside, the corridors were dim and heavy with incense. The scent of burning herbs lingered in the air—ritual smoke meant to ward off spirits and guide the ancestors' gaze. The silence was broken only by the soft shuffle of feet across smooth stone.
The Chief walked at the head of the procession, flanked by his two elderly servants. Their braided hair and face paint marked them as Lore-Keepers—keepers of memory and tradition.
He had taken a brief rest from watching the trial during the night. Now he returned to see how it unfolded.
Tradition said the Chief need only witness the beginning and the end of the trial.
But this time, tradition bent.
Raiga, war-leader of the Fire Carja, was here.
And more importantly, he needed to see how Lucas performed.
That meant he had to stay.
He ascended the spiral walkway to the Solar Veil, the sacred chamber from which the trials were observed. The old name "Obsidian Chamber" had long since been replaced by the tribes in honor of the sun God, Solen.
A servant, face hidden behind a carved wooden mask, pushed open the great doors, each one etched with scenes of past trials.
Inside, the chamber was dim, lit only by the glow of fire crystals hanging from the ceiling like ember-lit stars. A massive curved wall of holographic screens dominated the space, casting shifting light across the woven reed mats and fur-draped thrones.
Only two figures sat within.
Raiga lounged before the screens, still clad in his ceremonial leathers—burnt orange and deep scarlet, the colors of the shadow carja. His arms bore flame tattoos, and his cloak was stitched with sun-feathers.
Behind him stood a figure far less adorned—a silent man with a bald head, eyes hidden behind dark stone lenses, and skin marked with swirling tattoos that told no stories the Chief recognized.
The Chief's eyes narrowed.
They stayed all night?
Raiga turned, sensing his approach. A broad smile split his face.
"Chief. You're back. Did the ancestors grant you rest?"
The Chief gave a short nod, his expression unreadable, and moved to his seat—a high-backed throne wrapped in wolf fur, set above the others. Elders, overlords, and warriors began to arrive, each bowing low with fists to heart.
Still, the Chief's gaze did not leave Raiga and his strange companion.
Yesterday, he had barely acknowledged the tattooed man.
But now… he felt him.
A quiet, crushing presence.
Far stronger than expected.
Too strong.
And if that man served Raiga, what did that say about Raiga himself?
Is Raiga stronger than me?
His jaw tightened. His mind flickered—just for a moment—to his late wife.
This is bad.
He hadn't realized the Shadow Carja had grown so bold.
And now, after the death of—
He stopped himself.
His expression cooled like quenched steel.
No. We don't need that witch.
He focused instead on the screens.
Lucas.
The boy was fast—he had secured a flag and was moving toward the tower. Strong. Clever. Determined.
Four to six hours.
That was all he needed to break the record.
But then—
The chamber doors burst open.
A warrior, chest marked with the blue-gold sigils of the Drake rank, entered and bowed low.
"Chief. Someone has completed the trial. They have reached the tower."
The room fell still.
Raiga smirked, teeth gleaming like bone.
"Your boy is still far from arriving. Looks like you've got another genius on your hands, Chief."
The Chief did not flinch.
With a flick of his wrist, he summoned the controls. A woven band of metal and light unfolded before him—a sacred relic left behind by the Ancients.
He pressed a symbol.
The many screens faded, merging into one.
A single figure stood in the Grand Arena, the ritual circle at the foot of the Red Tower, holding a crimson flag in one hand.
His clothing was unblemished.
His body unmarked.
His expression emotionless.
He looked not like a survivor—but a prince from the old days, untouched by the wilds.
Anazor.
The boy raised his head.
And his cold brown eyes, sharp as obsidian blades, locked onto the Chief.
. . .
The wind was still as I stood in the Grand Arena—an ancient colosseum of stone and scars, its sand stained with the blood and honor of countless warriors.
This was the stage for the second part of the Trial.
Above, a flying relic—one of the Ancients' gifts—hovered silently, its blue light pulsing like a heartbeat, a quiet witness to my arrival. I waited. Calm. Focused. My breathing steady, in sync with the rhythm of the earth beneath me.
Then, like a shadow slipping into the light, a Drake-ranked warrior stepped from the archway ahead.
"Come," he said, his voice low and reverent. "The Chief is waiting."
I followed without a word.
We moved through stone corridors draped in banners of old—tribal sigils, beast totems, flame-braided cords. Fires crackled in suspended braziers overhead, casting flickering shadows that danced like spirits on the walls.
Eventually, we stopped before a massive red door.
The door groaned open.
And I froze.
It wasn't the room. Or the Chief, sitting high upon his fur-draped throne. Nor the circle of Overlords and Commanders, all watching me like carved statues.
It was him.
Raiga.
The instant my eyes landed on him, my Vahl—my inner flame—twitched violently beneath my skin. Not in warning. In panic. Like it had a will of its own, and that will was screaming danger.
He rose from his seat. Towering. Regal. Calm. That smile on his face wasn't friendly—it was the smirk of a trickster god, amused by the idea of mercy.
Each step he took toward me was slow, deliberate. But with every inch, the Vahl within me surged. It wanted out. Wanted to flee. Wanted to tear him apart—or get away before it was too late.
I hadn't realized it, but my fists were clenched. My knees shifted subtly. I was falling into a stance before I knew it.
And then—
I didn't see it.
Suddenly, his hand was on my shoulder.
A gentle touch.
But it landed like a mountain.
I didn't flinch. But I couldn't move.
His voice was soft. Too soft. Cheerful in the worst way—like a hunter praising a deer before the kill.
"Sorry for summoning you here, Anazor," he said, smile never fading. "I was very surprised by your achievement. Completing the trial this fast? I just had to reward it."
Reward?
Gift?
Who was this man?
My eyes slid to the Chief. Still and composed, as always. But even from here, I saw it—the slight narrowing of his eyes. The faint crease in his brow.
He was just as surprised as I was.
Around us, the Overlords and Commanders watched. Some with curiosity. Some with masked suspicion. But one face stood out.
Achraf.
His expression was twisted with raw hatred. Like Raiga had spit in the ashes of his ancestors.
Raiga turned, voice still pleasant.
"Jirad, the gift."
The man behind him stepped forward.
Jirad. Bald. Inked in spiraling tattoos that crawled from his neck to his fingertips. His steps were slow, unhurried. And when his eyes met mine—dark behind curved lenses—my Vahl shrank.
Why did he seem… familiar?
He held a box.
Black. Smooth. Marked with a single glowing rune.
Inside—
A bill.
Not just any bill.
Black. Smooth. Crackling with restrained Vahl energy like a sleeping god under glass.
"This," Raiga said, with reverence, "is a Vahl Bill."
I blinked.
No. That wasn't possible.
Vahl Bills were legend. Ancient. Forged through rituals that took years—maybe longer. Entire orders of Flame-smiths and rune-binders dedicated their lives to crafting just one. Even Overlords rationed them like holy relics. They were for elite heirs. Crowned warriors. Blooded champions.
Now this man—this stranger—was handing me one?
I wasn't the only one shocked.
Even the Chief's expression cracked. Subtle, but there—disbelief cutting through his mask of iron.
"I hope you accept it," Raiga said, that maddening calm never leaving his tone.
My mind raced. My Vahl burned. My instincts screamed.
Run. Fight. Something.
Instead, I turned to the chief looking for something. A clue in his expression.
But he gave me nothing.
So I turned back to Raiga.
And took the bill.
"Thank you," I said, voice flat, calm—despite the storm crashing inside.
Raiga laughed.
Not mockingly.
Not cruelly.
Like he genuinely enjoyed what just happened.
"I'm happy you accepted it," he said, his grin stretching wide.
"I'm sure it'll benefit you."
...
Lucas, Lisa, and Kael—the third boy in their group—stepped into the Grand Arena in front of there'd tower, their boots dragging through the dust-swept ground.
All three were battered, their clothes torn, their faces scratched, and exhaustion clinging to them like a second skin. The Trial had not been kind.
Lisa's eyes lit up as she looked around, the arena's vast emptiness confirming her hopes.
"We're the first!" she beamed, spinning slightly despite her sore limbs.
"We actually made it before anyone else—"
Her excitement died quickly.
Lucas and Kael weren't celebrating.
Both stood frozen, their heads tilted up toward the sky, their eyes wide.
"What's wrong?" Lisa asked, blinking as she turned her gaze upward—
And saw it.
The flying relic hovering above them—its metallic body rotating with a low hum—released a bright light, casting a large holographic screen into the air.
The title blinked at the top:
"TRIAL COMPLETION RANKING."
Lisa's mouth opened in shock as the names appeared, each ranked with calculated precision.
But it was the first name that stole all the air from the arena.
1. ANAZOR
Just under it, their names followed:
2. LUCAS
3. LISA
4. KAEL
Lucas took a slow step forward, his face pale.
"How is this possible…?" he whispered, his voice dry and brittle.
Inside the Red Tower
The Chief sat silently, eyes fixed on the same scene—watching the stunned expression on Lucas's face from a separate screen.
He didn't move for a moment. Then, slowly, he turned toward the now-empty seat where Raiga had sat just minutes before.
Raiga, who vanished the moment Anazor left.
The Chief narrowed his eyes, that growing knot in his chest tightening.
Something wasn't right.
He turned toward the Drake-ranked warrior stationed beside the wall, the one handling the surveillance system.
The warrior was knee-deep in dozens of glowing screens, each showing clips from the trial.
"Did you find anything?" the Chief asked, his voice quiet but sharp.
The warrior's fingers froze mid-air.
"No, Chief. I've checked every drone angle. Every frame.
It's like… he was purposely avoiding the surveillance. There's not a single image of him inside the Trial grounds."
"Is it possible that he cheated?" came a sharp voice from the back.
Achraf, still scowling like he'd been force-fed a fist, stepped forward.
Before the Chief could respond, another Commander—a tall woman with silver hair and armor decorated in fang-like motifs—cut in, one of the commanders in the Northern castle and Arden's mother.
"Cheated?" she echoed dryly.
"How do you cheat in a Trial without rules?"
Achraf fell silent.
The Chief exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair, the gears in his mind churning.
Something was happening he can feel it, something big...
...
I was finally alone.
The heavy wooden door clicked shut behind the Fang servant who had led me here. Silence settled like dust in the warm air, thick with the scent of dried herbs and burning cedar.
I sat down slowly on the bed, my body easing into the comfort, my eyes locked on the object in my palm.
The Vahl Bill.
Concentrated. Refined. Stable.
Unlike the chaotic surge of raw Aether in the wild or the overwhelming floods near the Lakes of Aether, the energy inside this bill was already processed—treated, as they say. Safe. It wouldn't crush my bones or boil my blood trying to make room for it.
Even someone with no affinity, no tolerance, no talent—they could absorb this. Slowly, surely.
I turned it over in my hand, feeling its warmth—like sunfire on skin.
I could take it now.
I had time.
The second phase of the Trial wouldn't begin until all hundred bearers of the red flags arrived. Most would come tomorrow. Some wouldn't make it until the day after.
Still…
I tossed the Vahl Bill lightly into the air. It spun once, catching the firelight from the brazier above, then fell into my palm. I stared at it for a heartbeat longer… then placed it gently in the carved chest at the foot of the bed, next to a woven talisman hanging from its handle.
Not now.
Not yet.
I didn't need it to win.
I leaned back, my body sinking into the furs. My eyes stared at the ceiling, at the old tribal painting etched there—two wolves chasing a serpent through a field of flames—but my mind ran elsewhere.
That smile of his still haunted me.
The way the Vahl inside me had panicked at the sight of him.
The way everyone—even the Chief—watched him like he was the storm hiding in clear skies.
Who the hell is that man?