Chapter 42 The Trial
Chapter forty-two
The Trial
-Maris-
The chamber was alive with echoes of wind, sea, and something ancient that breathed within its walls. It was a hidden sanctuary of stone carved into the cliff face that supported the castle. A safe area to test Maris’s limits without the risk to others or prying eyes.
Maris stepped barefoot into the center of an unsealed barrier ring of crushed pearl, and ash spiraled beneath her feet. Her breath steamed, not from the cold, but from the magic gathering inside her like a storm waiting to break.
Alarik watched from the edge of the circle, silent and taut. Zairon and Serenya flanked the scholars, arms crossed with blades at their hips, gazes unmoving.
The cavern thrummed with living tension. No one dared voice their fear — but it was etched clearly across every face … all of them watching her. A silent question drumming in their minds: What would happen when she opened herself to the full force of her magic?
The scholars move in unison, to seal her within the circle with whispered incantations.
Threads of unseen magic stitching the air around her.
Before the barrier sealed fully — Alarik moved.
He stepped into the forming barrier quickly offering her no chance to protest. The arcane lines of the ward shimmered against him, but held as he stood at her side.
"Don't look at me like that," He smirked, eyes glinting with mischief. "Someone needs to be here to quell your magic if you crack the world open."
"Funny, " she mused, the corner of her mouth twitching in a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "You think you could."
She indulged his humor, but through the thread binding them the truth was blatant. He hadn't come to interfere or deter her — he was there so she didn't face it alone.
The ground beneath her hummed, sensing the weight of her burden, and what it might awaken.
“We’ll go no further than ten seconds,” one of the scholars warned, his voice echoing off the barrier. “Any longer without the relic and she could fracture.”
“Fracture?” Maris asked, dry-mouthed.
“Mind, body, magic,” another said. “The threads begin to split. You must let go the moment we say.”
Maris nodded once. She glanced down at her palm, the glowing sigil still thrumming like a living brand. Eiren’s gift. Her tether.
"I’m ready," she declared throwing opened the door to her power as Alarik had shown her.
Her eternal unchecked magic surged outward, tendril bursting with light burst from her form. But beneath the surface, visions struck her like forgotten memories, clawing their way to the forefront of her mind. Each one yielding fresh revelations.
A temple in ruin.
A great tree growing within, similar to the one contained in the sigil.
The Veil tearing, the gods watching.
“Enough!” the scholar barked from the perimeter.
But she was no longer in control, her sigil flared. The power becoming too much to control.
Alarik surged forward.
His arms wrapped around her from behind, locking her to his chest.
“Maris,” he breathed, his voice raw, not kingly. “Breathe. Stay with me.”
He did not release her when the burn of her magic became too much, searing into his flesh — he only tightened his grip around her.
Her body quaked under the crushing power. Her eyes blazed silver and the sigil on her palm pulsed like a second heart. Alarik's embrace held around her.
She clawed her way beyond the void that had swallowed her, fingers scraping through the darkness of her magic. Her power — endless and unyielding refused to bow to her. But slowly inch by brutal inch, she wrenched back control. Regaining her footing as the burning light around her diminished.
Alarik turned her to face him. His violet-blue eyes did not convey the pain of his burned flesh, they only shone with relief.
Maris's gaze roamed over his arms and chest to his ruined flesh — now exposed by the tattered ribbons of fabric—bubbled and broken, offered a stark clarity of what her magic could inflict.
Before she could voice her regret, a shriek cut through the wind. The sounds of rock hitting the water and piercing claws digging into the cliff face echoed from the cavern walls.
They all turned as one — Zairon drawing his blade, Serenya ran to flank Maris, Alarik shifted to stand between her and the dark.
A veilspawn emerged from the sea’s edge dragging itself upward in jerking movements.
Its build far larger than the one that targeted her in Calyrix.
Its body was a grotesque tangle of shadow and sea foam, shifted in and out of form as if reality rejected its presence.
Jagged claws, green-black glistened with something foul.
The stench rolling off in waves of putrid rot.
Worst of all was its mouth, far too wide for any mortal creature— stitched shut with delicate strands of silver thread as if holding something in.
But it did not strike.
It appeared to search, its gaze landing on Maris. As if on sight the muddle of silver stitches dissolved.
“You seek the Crown,” it rasped, voice like stones scraping bone. “You seek to unmake the curse.”
Alarik was already in motion, moving towards the dark creature, body poised to strike.
“I am only the first, other children will follow.” it whispered, black ichor trailing down its throat.
Zairon stepped forward, blade ready.
The terror turned its head slightly and said:
“Find the relic, Veil Breaker… and you will lose your bonded. Heed this warning as it will be your only one.”
It did not wait for an answer. In one erratic motion the creature hurled itself backward into the waves, dissolving mid-fall into ash that scattered across the surface.
Maris fell to her knees shaking.
Alarik knelt beside her, placing a hand on her shoulders tightly. “Maris..” he breathed.
She spoke through a sob, tears already rolling down her cheeks. “It said I’ll lose him.”
Alarik’s jaw flexed. “It lies.”
“We will find the crown. We face what comes.” He pulled her into his chest.
“I can't loose him Alarik.” she whispered, voice barely audible.
Alarik’s hands fisted behind her back.
“You won't.” He declared.
But Maris knew he had no way of knowing what the gods conspired to unleash.
Back within the castle walls the storm outside never quite broke. It hovered grumbling in the cliffs and sky as if the gods themselves were pacing, planning.
Inside the candlelit dining chamber of Nerium’s western wing, the tension had ebbed into something quieter. Softer.
Maris sat between Serenya and Zairon, her skin still tingling from the magic that had flared through her hours earlier. Hunger had long abandoned her, the weight of looming ruin left little room for thoughts of food.
However a full dinner laid before her: roasted sea fowl glazed in honey, spiced root vegetables, and soft rolls dusted with herb salt. Maris touched little — she pushed around the food with her fork.
Alarik sat across from her. His pale eyes cast downward and unmoving, silver goblet in hand. The weight of the terror’s warning hung between them, unspoken but not forgotten.
Zairon broke the pained silence, ever the balm. “That beast was an echo. A shadow messenger. My grandmother told me about such things. They only come for those the gods take seriously.”
“Then let us not be taken seriously again,” Maris muttered dryly, and the table chuckled, grateful for the crack in gloom.
Serenya’s hand brushed Maris’s beneath the table.
“We’ll find the crown,” she declared with certainty. “Whatever it is, wherever it hides— it’s waiting for you. I saw the light in you today, it scared the hell out of me.”
Maris smiled, small but real.
Later that night, in the soft glow of her chamber, the fire still crackling low, Maris let herself collapse into a pile of silks and pillows on the chaise by the window. The sea whispered beyond the cliffs, like lullabies in another language.
A knock sounded.
“Come in,” she called.
Serenya entered, dressed in a midnight-blue robe, her crown of braids slightly loosened.
“I brought something,” she said, lifting a small, steaming kettle. “Chamomile and juniper. It helps me… when sleep feels out of reach."
"Thank you." Maris sighed dragging her mass of silks and pillows to the floor before the hearth. Serenya packed the tray carefully over to the side table and moved to join her. As she plopped down she pulled a blanket off the chair behind her, laying it in her lap.
They drank curled in front of the fire, knees nearly touching.
Serenya told stories of her childhood —of sword training in the salty coast winds —of the first time she broke a boy’s nose for mocking her leathers. Maris laughed until she nearly cried.
She offered up her own stories of fights with her brothers over blankets in the winter. How they busted the lip of the first boy she ever kissed. And then told of how the gods plague ripped those simple joys from her. It felt strange to talk of her family. It felt like a distant life of another.
An hour passed and their eyes became heavy as the tea took effect and they decide to get much needed rest.
Serenya stood and brushed a hand over her hair before heading toward the door.
“Thank you for being a friend to me.” Maris whispered.
“Of course, I’m next door tonight,” she said. “If the dark feels too heavy.”
It always did but it felt less so now.
As Maris crawled into bed that night, her dreams were quieter not dreamless, but peaceful.