15. The Damned
The Damned
"Again."
Xül's voice cut through the salt-heavy air, bored and dismissive.
He hadn't moved from his position against a jutting rock on the black beach.
The harsh sun carved sharp shadows beneath the high planes of his cheekbones as he turned a page of whatever he was reading, long fingers gliding across the page.
Golden rings caught the light in his dark braids, and his shirt hung open at the collar, revealing bronzed skin and the strong column of his throat.
I paused for a moment, catching my breath. "This isn't exactly what I expected when you said training. How does any of this help me during the Trials? And speaking of which, am I supposed to go into them completely blind?"
Xül glanced up, a flicker of annoyance crossing his perfect features. "The Aesymar prefer their contestants ignorant and afraid. It makes for better entertainment."
"So, there’s no way to prepare then?"
His eyes returned to his book. "We will receive correspondence before each trial detailing the parameters."
“How many trials are there?” I pressed .
With a sigh that suggested I was testing the limits of his patience, Xül marked his place in the book and set it aside. "Four Trials before the forging itself," he continued as if explaining something painfully obvious.
"The Forging?"
"Yes, starling," Xül said. "Where mortality burns away, and what remains—if anything remains—becomes divine."
"Sounds pleasant."
"It isn't," he replied bluntly. "But then, neither is what comes before it."
"That’s a given. Unless there’s some secret meaning behind your riddles?"
"I mean watching the people you've come to care about die." His gaze sharpened on me. "A word of advice—don't make friends with the other contestants. It's not worth it."
"I wasn't planning on it."
"Good. Using people as a means to an end is a different story entirely—that I encourage. Just be cautious of who you trust." His eyes returned to his book, a clear dismissal. "Now, again."
I turned back to the relentless training course he'd set out, my mind processing his warning. Not that I needed it. I hadn't come here to make friends. My brother and our mission had to come first.
My muscles screamed in protest, but I didn't let him see me winded.
Didn't let him see the way my lungs burned or how my legs trembled from hours of relentless conditioning—not when he sat there with that infuriating air of elegant composure, angular jaw set.
It was midday now, and all morning he'd had me swimming laps in the dark waters, running sprints across the black sand, doing endless exercises that would have broken a lesser person.
Which was only mildly infuriating, considering I was already in excellent shape. This wasn’t exactly the training I’d had in mind. My chest burned with power, begging for release.
"Clearly endurance isn't an issue for me," I growled, wiping sweat from my brow with the back of my hand. "I could do this in my sleep."
"You're not tired yet? That's unfortunate, as I was hoping you'd be exhausted enough to give me a semblance of peace this evening. So I guess we aren't finished."
The subtle cruelty in his voice made my blood simmer. "Why don't you join me then?"
"I'm not competing for my life. You are."
"I bet I could best you in a race." The words tumbled out, and I knew I sounded childish. But it infuriated me, seeing him standing there doing nothing while I'd worked my ass off for hours.
Xül considered this, and slowly, a curious smile spread across his face. "Well, let's test that theory then."
We walked down the beach until he pointed to a distant outcropping of black stone. "There. First one to reach that point wins."
I crouched into a starting position, muscles coiled and ready.
When he said go, I took off like a shot, tearing across the black shore as fast as my legs could carry me.
Sand flew up in dark clouds, and my heart hammered.
I didn't see Xül behind me, didn't even sense his presence, which only made my smile wider with satisfaction.
I reached the outcropping with lungs burning and triumph singing in my veins—only to find Xül already there, leaning languidly against the stone as if he'd been waiting for hours. The air around him still shimmered with the aftereffects of torn reality.
"Well, that's cheating," I panted, hands on my knees.
"And there's the lesson," he said smoothly. "I can do that, but you can't. In the Trials, nothing is fair, and you're a fool if you think you can predict what someone else's next move will be."
I glared at him, fury and grudging understanding warring in my chest. It made sense, but I sure as hell wasn't going to say that out loud.
"So how much longer do I have to run around this beach before you're satisfied?"
Xül studied me for a long moment, his gaze traveling over my sweat-dampened skin. "I suppose we can make it a bit more interesting. But just remember—you asked for it."
"Now we're talking." Relief flooded me as we walked back down the beach to where we'd started.
"Draw down your star," he commanded, settling back against his rock. "Forge your weapon."
I reached up toward the sky, feeling for the familiar pull of celestial energy.
It was harder in daylight—the stars were there but distant, their light overwhelmed by this domain's strange sun.
But I found one anyway, pulled its essence down into my hands until starlight condensed into something solid.
The sword that formed was smaller than the one I'd created in the Proving, less dramatic, but no less deadly.
I looked at Xül expectantly, hefting the star-forged blade. "What, are you fighting with your hands?"
His smile was nothing but a wicked promise. "If I even have to lift a finger, something's gone terribly wrong."
The ground beneath my feet began to tremble.
Then I saw them. Fingers, pale and grasping, breaking through the black sand like grotesque flowers blooming. Arms followed, then shoulders, bodies twisting and morphing as they dragged themselves from the earth.
The faceless beings moved with unnatural grace, each clutching weapons that gleamed with their own dark light. They surrounded me in a perfect circle, at least a dozen of them, their eyeless faces turned toward me.
"What—what is this?" I asked, trying to sound more confident than I felt.
"The damned," Xül said, smiling. And then one lunged towards me.
Starlight met corrupted metal, the impact ringing through my arms and into my shoulders.
Where our weapons touched, sparks of white-hot energy crackled and hissed.
My feet slid backward in the sand as the thing pressed forward—gods, it was strong.
My blade trembled against its dark steel as I fought to keep it from my throat.
Movement to my left. I threw myself sideways just as another blade whistled through the space where my head had been.
Xul cocked his head to the side. "And trust me, you'd rather be fighting these than the corpses buried deep beneath this beach."
I parried a strike, barely. "There's a difference?"
"Oh, starling." He sighed. "The smell alone. These—" he gestured at the soul constructs, "—are far more civilized."
"You're a necromancer!" I gasped between strikes. "Aren't corpses your thing?"
"I'm the Warden of the Damned," he corrected. "Souls are elegant. Refined. Corpses are... messy. I only raise the dead when absolutely necessary. When the situation is truly dire."
"A demonstration in sword-fighting could have been beneficial before this!" I screamed at Xül, barely getting my blade up in time to catch another blow.
"What do you think this is?"
I managed to dodge another strike, then spun to avoid a third.
The constructs moved with uncanny coordination, like extensions of a single will rather than individual entities.
I slashed at one, my blade cutting through its torso.
But instead of falling, the form simply resealed itself, dark energy flowing to repair the damage.
"They can't be killed," I gasped, backing away as they advanced again.
Xül made a small gesture with his hand, and the dark figures froze mid-step. "No. They cannot."
He walked toward me, passing between the motionless figures as if they were merely statues. "What you're facing isn't truly alive, so it cannot truly die."
"Then what are they?" I demanded, still holding my sword at the ready.
"When I say they are the damned, I don't mean wandering spirits or souls as you might imagine them.
" He reached out and touched one of the figures.
Under his fingers, the form rippled like dark water.
"When the most corrupt and malevolent souls die, their energy doesn't transition normally through the afterlife.
It remains... tainted. That energy becomes trapped in Draknavor's prison. "
"So these are... people?" I asked, revolted.
"No." He shook his head firmly. "Not anymore.
What you see is death magic in its purest form—the residual energy of what once was a soul, now stripped of consciousness, of identity, of anything resembling personhood.
" His fingers passed through the construct's chest, and it distorted like smoke.
"These are merely vessels I've shaped from that raw energy. "
I lowered my sword slightly. "So they're not... aware?"
"No more than the water in a river is aware of flowing downhill," he said. "They are forces of nature, channeled through my will."
And suddenly, they were attacking again.
A soul's blade scraped down mine with a shriek. I stumbled back, my heel catching in the soft sand. Off balance. Vulnerable. The soul pressed forward, its weapon raised?—
I swung wildly, putting every ounce of desperation behind the strike. My blade passed through it like a brand through water, sizzling and steaming as it cut, its form dissolving into shadows.