Jace slowly sat up, pulling himself free where he had been slumped over the tome.
Moonlight spilled through his window, silvering the familiar shapes of his room. For a heartbeat, he could only stare, chest heaving, fingers digging into the blanket as if to anchoring himself to something solid.
I'm home.
The obsidian void was gone. The green mist. The god.
He stood up and crossed the room, stopping in front of the small mirror. His fingers brushed his throat.
No wounds. No marks.
Yet the longer he looked, the more he sensed something shifting beneath his skin—like a slow current moving under still water. His heartbeat felt wrong. Not erratic. Measured. Each pulse sent a faint warmth through his veins, sharp at the edges. Unfamiliar.
Jace swallowed.
The taste lingered.
Not blood, but something bitter and complex—crushed leaves, cold metal, rain-soaked stone. It faded after a moment, but the memory of it clung stubbornly.
He stood there, letting his thoughts drift.
The stone under his feet was cold. Then—something else. A ripple ran up his spine, his pupils dilating as sensation bloomed. He felt the stone itself—its age, the trace minerals locked within it, the faint residue of old cleaning salves worked into the floor over years of use.
He froze.
I didn't imagine that.
Slowly, cautiously, Jace inhaled.
The air came with information.
Not word—never words—but impressions. The faint sting of lamp oil lingering in the hall. Dried herbs tucked into Cali's satchel downstairs. A lingering trace of something medicinal in his own blood, already breaking down, already being… sorted.
"Oh gods," he whispered.
The sound of his own voice grounded him. He bent forward, pressed his palms against his knees, forcing himself to breathe to slow. Whatever Zhal'Kaeth had done—whatever he had given—it hadn't taken his body.
He was still here. Still himself.
Mostly.
His gaze drifted to the tome resting on his bed.
Snake Bite: The Art of Perfecting Poison.
I looked ordinary now. No glow. No hum. Just a battered old book sitting quietly where he'd left it.
And yet, the longer he looked at it, the more something in his chest stirred.
Not hunger.
Not fear.
Recognition.
Jace crossed the room. When his fingers brushed the cover, there was no shock—only a faint warmth, like touching something that belonged to him.
A whisper brushed the edge of his thoughts.
Balance before excess.
He jerked his hand back, heart racing.
"Okay," he muttered to himself. "Okay. I'm not panicking. I am absolutely not panicking."
From downstairs came the soft creak of the house settling. Normal sounds. Safe sounds.
Jace flinched, then let out a quiet breathless laugh and drew in a slow, steady breath to calm his racing throughs.
Tomorrow was the Trial.
Tomorrow, the gods would try to give him a gift.
Jace looked down at his hands again, at the faint green glimmer that vanished the moment he blinked.
"…I don't think they're going to like what they find." He said quietly.
Deep within him, something old and patient stirred—awake, attentive, and waiting.
Jace lay back down, setting the tome to his side table beside him. Sleep claimed him quickly, his thoughts fading to silence.
* * *
Knock, knock. "Wake up Jace, you are going to be late!" Jace's mother called out.
With a grunt Jace rolled over. "Ugh, I'm up. I'm up."
Slowly coming to consciousness, a flash of memories from the night before flashes in Jace's head.
Glancing over to the book, I think I will leave the tome home, I think it would stir up trouble. Jave thought.
With a huff, he got ready for the day ahead.
Glancing one last time at the tome. Jace thought, well here goes nothing.
As he started walking down the stairs, he could overhear his mom and dad talking about him.
"No, He really had a book last night; it was so unlike him. Even after dinner he rushed up to his room." Jace could overhear his mother saying. "He said something that he thinks it will help with what he gets today."
"Well maybe he did find something. We won't really know anything till after the Trial. All we can do is hope he gets a gift that he can excel at." A deep rough voice responded, Jace's father.
"Morning mother and father," Jace said walking slowly into the room.
"Well son," Jace's father said resting a hand on his shoulder. "I know you will get something good today. The duke has said our kingdom is at a really good position this year."
Jace nodded slowly.
Cali rushed down the stairs, glancing at Jace, "Let's go, we are going to be late!"
Jace took a steading breath, and nodded again. "Alright, let's go."
* * *
Entering into the academy following behind his sister, Jace found it hard to focus.
"Is everything okay, Jace?" Cali asked, glancing back at him, clearly noticing his silence.
"Hm?" Jace looked up at her. "Yeah. Just… got some stuff on my mind."
I cant tell her what happened last night. He thought, his gaze drifting past her shoulder. I'm still not sure if that was real—or a very vivid dream.
"Well, let's head to the Trail Grounds," Cali said brightly. "I want us to get a good spot."
Jace nodded and followed.
The Trail Grounds lay beneath the open sky—a vast circular plaza of white stone etched with glowing sigils older than the kingdoms themselves. At its center stood a pristine pedestal of pure white, waiting patiently for each youth to place their hand upon it. Around it stood the priests, robed and watchful, their presence heavy with expectation.
Jace and Cali found a place near the front with the other youths.
Jace looked around.
He felt… wrong
Not sick. Not weak. Just out of place. The air felt thicker around him, his breathing slower than it should have been. Beneath his skin, something pulsed—faint, patient, waiting.
After what felt like an eternity, The High Priest raised a staff. It was grown from pale, living vines, crowned with a circular white crystal that glowed softly in the morning light.
"Welcome to this year's Trial." He intoned. "When your name is called, step forward. Place your hand upon the Pedestal. Accept the gods' judgment."
One by one, names were spoken.
Some screamed as power flooded them.
Some wept as nothing happened at all.
A few collapsed, overwhelmed by blessings they could barely endure.
Then—
"Cali Lorrin"
Jace turned to his sister. "Good luck," he said quietly. "I know you will get something great."
Cali smiled, nerves shining in her eyes. "I'll be right back. You should be next—so be ready."
Jace nodded and watched her step forward, his thoughts drifting again.
After a few minutes later, Cali returned, practically glowing. Her smile snapped Jace to the present.
"Jace Lorrin"
He exhaled through his nose and stepped forward. Before turning fully, he glanced back at his sister and gave her a small nod—one he didn't quite feel.
He approached the pedestal.
Up close, he saw it clearly: white stone veined with gold, runes shifting like slow-moving stars beneath the surface. This was where the gods reached down. Where destinies were rewritten.
Jace drew in a steadying breath and placed his hand on the stone.
The runes froze.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then the pedestal shuddered.
A sharp, unnatural crack split the air as several runes flared red—then went dark entirely. The Priests stiffened. The crystal atop the High Priests staff flickered violently.
Jace felt it then—a pressure, like something trying to force its way into him.
Inside his chest, something answered back.
Green light bled through the stone beneath his palm, spreading like veins through marble. The Pedestal recoiled, sigils twisting, and rewriting themselves in frantic patterns.
"What is happening?" someone shouted.
The High Priest staggered back. "That glow—this is not a sanctioned blessing!"
Jace's vision swam. For a brief instant, the Trial Grounds vanished—
—and a familiar voice murmured, low and amused.
Do not resist.
You are already claimed.
The pressure vanished.
The green light snapped inward, sinking into Jace's skin. The Pedestal went silent—its runes dim, scorched, incomplete.