The Divine Shallows

Chapter 23Vitus

23

Vitus

The onset of the Vitus was swiftly approaching as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting its final light over the waves, signaling the impending start of the ritual. This season, the Vitus was hosted on a smaller islet north of the main island where Driftmoor Castle resided. The gathering was a grand affair, with countless highborn fey from the seven realms in attendance; the number of guests and spectators tonight far exceeded those of previous nights.

Now attired in leather pants, a snug tunic, and sturdy boots, Elyria stood within the confines of a gridded arena. Large wooden crates scattered across the arena floor contained various items. Overhead, feylight orbs floated, casting their gentle glow upon Elyria and the six other candidates down below. Positioned atop a raised platform, Elyria stood at the center of her house sigil—a firedrake. The platform for the divine candidates resembled the Divine Shallows, with seven spheres arranged in a circle, each representing a House of Neramyr. In the center stood a flat tile depicting a stone-art crescent moon, symbolizing the Goddess of the feylands.

The High Priestess stood atop the stone crescent, clad in her customary ceremonial gown of alabaster. Elyria harbored a deep-rooted dislike towards the High Priestess, though she couldn’t pinpoint its exact source.

Perhaps it stemmed from the High Priestess’ declaration of Elyria as unblessed before the assembled monarchs of Neramyr, sealing her fate with a curse that would shadow her throughout her life. Moreover, the High Priestess served as the ambassador and emissary of the Moon Goddess, further intertwining her with the forces that had brought Elyria such sorrow. Whenever Elyria found herself in the presence of the divine Priestess, a sense of unease and caution enveloped her.

Surveying the six other candidates on the platform, Elyria mentally recited their names in order from her position. To her left stood Sylas on the sigil of House Bloodweaver, followed by Lillia Sagebrook of House Mirthwood, Galen Wolfspire representing House Darkmaw, and Lynora Lionwind from House Blackbane. Elyria’s apprehension peaked when her gaze landed on Kerrick Graylon, positioned on House Driftmoor’s sigil. Completing the circle to her right was Iva Rosefall, the candidate from House Skyborn.

Despite their shared status as candidates, Elyria felt a sense of alienation from her fellow warlocks and sorceresses.

Indeed, earlier in the lounge, she had overheard Kerrick sharing how the other candidates had formed strong bonds with each other. She closed her eyes, mentally distancing herself from their favoritism towards each other. Her father’s refusal to allow her training at the Seven Spires only served to deepen her isolation from the cohort.

However, she suspected that the prejudice against her would have persisted regardless of whether she had spent the last seven years training alongside them at the Spires.

It would make no difference to their opinions of her.

Nothing would.

Opening her eyes once more, Elyria sought out Elowyn in the crowd. High above, she scanned the area where the royalty from the seven realms were seated. Spotting Elowyn beside their parents and the newly appointed Commander, Elyria felt a wave of comfort wash over her. Elowyn raised a reassuring hand towards her, her smile encouraging. Amidst the sea of snow-haired fey behind her, Elyria only saw her little sister’s face. Returning Elowyn’s smile, Elyria turned her attention back to the arena.

As her gaze returned to the High Priestess, she locked eyes with Sylas, who stood ten feet away. He offered her a gentle smile and a supportive nod. Suppressing the bitter retorts bubbling in her throat, Elyria refrained from revealing that she had overheard his private conversation. Instead, she masked her distrust and returned his smile. His lips moved silently, forming the words ‘good luck’ to her. Suppressing an eye roll at his pretense, she redirected her focus, digging her fingernails into her palm to distract herself from his feigned camaraderie.

“Today marks the Sixth Day in the Ceremony of Caena!” The High Priestess’ voice resonated across the arena, commanding the attention of the thousands of fey gathered. As her powerful voice filled the stadium, the audience fell silent. “Today, we are gathered here to witness the sacred ritual of the Vitus . On this day, we come together to witness the talent of the seven chosen divine candidates. Soon, I will invoke Caena’s judgment to determine which candidate is worthy of the title of primis .”

The High Priestess continued, “Tonight, the chosen candidates will showcase their mastery of magic under the watchful gaze of the Moon Goddess, vying for her favor to claim this illustrious title. The primis will be unveiled tomorrow on the Seventh Day, during the Crossing of Kin. Let us rejoice as we usher a new generation of divine magic wielders to protect the fey of Neramyr and uphold the peace of the New Age!”

The crowd erupted into applause and enthusiastic cheers, their excitement unmistakable throughout the arena. Spirited shouts echoed from every corner, confirming the crowd’s eager anticipation for the Vitus . As the dynamic ovation enveloped her, Elyria felt her heart rate quicken under the weight of thousands of stares fixed upon her.

From the High Priestess’ weathered palms, the inked crescent moons began to glow, casting an otherworldly light. Beneath the sleeves of her alabaster robe, the eight phases of the moon inked along her arms also illuminated. Motionless, the High Priestess blinked, her eyes turning a translucent white as she spoke, “The connection to Caena’s realm holds firm. Tonight, the Moon Goddess will bear witness to this sacred Ceremony.” The air in the arena crackled with ethereal magic, and Elyria felt a tingling sensation as if the moonlight itself had intensified. The High Priestess declared, “Following tradition, we will grant the honor of the first performance to the candidate representing the hosting kingdom.”

The crowd sworn to House Driftmoor burst forth in proud cheers and admiration for their candidate. With a graceful gesture, the High Priestess extended a slender palm towards Kerrick Graylon.

“I humbly accept this honor, High Priestess,” Kerrick bowed deeply towards her, his smile taking on a subtle twist. “However, for this season’s Vitus , our cohort has decided on a unique approach—a collective performance, showcasing our talents simultaneously for the Goddess.”

The High Priestess’ demeanor stilled as she responded coolly, “Such an aberration from tradition is unusual, Kerrick.”

Kerrick cleared his throat, his tone smoothing over with practiced diplomacy. “Indeed, High Priestess. Nevertheless, we defer to your judgment.”

There was a brief silence before the High Priestess spoke again. “Very well.” With a single nod of acknowledgment, she stepped into a moongate that materialized before her, joining the other monarchs of the seven realms in the stands above, leaving the divine candidates below in the arena.

Elyria’s gaze lingered on Kerrick, her expression guarded. As if sensing her scrutiny, he met her eyes, his grin widening slightly.

The High Priestess’ voice echoed across the arena, “Let the Vitus begin!”

The explosion of cheers from the crowd was thunderous, filling the air with tangible excitement. The entire arena was pulsating with suspense.

A translucent ward began enveloping the seated monarchs and royalty of Neramyr. It expanded rapidly, spreading over the seated spectators surrounding the stage below. This magical barrier cloaked the audience in the stadium, acting as an invisible shield to protect them in case any demonstration from the candidates extended beyond the arena’s high walls.

Kerrick strode away from his House sigil, greeted by the enthusiastic cheers of the Driftmoor crowd as he made his way to the center of the arena. He possessed the archetypal appearance of a Driftmoor-born fey, with long, lapis-colored waves cascading down to his tanned chest. A few stray strands framed his cheekbones, escaping the knot that bound half of his hair. Casting a brief glance towards Sylas, he then turned his cerulean gaze skyward.

Raising his palms and lifting his arms slightly, Kerrick saturated the air with a thrum of magical energy. Elyria observed as the clouds in the twilight sky thickened and began to churn, ebbing and rippling into a brewing storm. It was predictable, almost mundanely so. She nearly muttered her observation under her breath, knowing full well Kerrick’s proclivity for elemental magic.

Each fey born into a House of Neramyr harbored a natural affinity for a specific class of magic tied to their kingdom’s lineage. While some could master all seven classes, most excelled in only one or two, typically aligned with their House’s inherent nature .

The denizens of the Elune Isles, including the Driftmoor fey, were particularly adept in elemental magic. Elementals could manipulate various natural elements to their will, encompassing light, darkness, weather, flora, metals, minerals, and so forth. Similar to all magic-users, the extent of their gift and strength varied. Judging by Kerrick’s divine candidate status, Elyria had to suspect he was unquestionably gifted to be chosen by the Goddess.

Lost in her thoughts and entranced by the swirling clouds above, Elyria scarcely noticed the subtle transformation unfolding around her. It wasn’t until she felt the ground beneath her feet sinking—or was it rising?—that she snapped back to attention. Glancing down, she realized her boots were partially submerged in brine-filled water. Casting a quick glance towards the stands, she witnessed sleek currents flowing over the barriers and into the arena. Kerrick, it seemed, was summoning the very waters of the Swyn Sea to flood the arena.

In an instant, the gentle currents morphed into violent torrents, surging forth and inundating the arena. The water level escalated rapidly, creeping up her shins with alarming speed. To her right, Elyria observed Iva unfurling her alabaster wings from beneath her lavender locks. With a graceful flap, Iva ascended a few feet above the water, her lithe form soaring like a phoenix into the skies. On her left, Sylas navigated towards one of the large wooden crates scattered across the arena.

As she surveyed the arena, Elyria noticed the other five candidates also gravitating towards the crates. Lacking specific abilities to maneuver the waters like Iva, with her wings, or Kerrick, with his merfolk heritage, they began dismantling the crates and swiftly constructing makeshift rafts. With practiced efficiency, they stacked the wooden walls atop each other, interweaving rope to secure them together. In a matter of moments, they had fashioned sturdy rafts capable of supporting their weight.

Elyria couldn’t discern any change in the aura of the other candidates. It was as though they were unaffected by Kerrick’s manipulation of the arena terrain. What could they be plotting? She pondered this question as she hurriedly made her way to an unclaimed wooden crate, swiftly assembling her own raft. Tying the final knot of rope, she scrutinized her makeshift creation. It was rough and hastily crafted, but it would suffice for the moment.

Elyria noted the water level rising at an alarming pace, exacerbated by the relentless downpour summoned by Kerrick. The rain hammered down mercilessly, the drops striking the surface of Elyria’s skin harshly. Shielding her eyes with her hand, she attempted to peer through the deluge, but the sheets of rain remained obscuring her vision. With the water now reaching her waist, the raft she had fashioned began to float. Pressing down to test its stability, she confirmed it could support her weight. With a heave, she hoisted herself onto the wooden surface, finding her balance on the raft that extended no more than four feet around her.

Was this Kerrick’s performance? Summoning torrential rain and flooding the arena? His control over the elements was impressive; Elyria had no doubt he could unleash even deadlier, more destructive manifestations if he so chose. There wasn’t even so much as a flicker of fatigue from the Driftmoor warlock’s aura. Was this the standard for all the divine candidates? It was becoming clear just how formidable an elemental Kerrick truly was. Could he escalate this rainstorm into a full-blown monsoon? How much devastation did he plan to unleash?

These questions swirled in Elyria’s mind as the arena transformed into an extension of the Swyn Sea enraged in the midst of a tempest.

Anxiety coated her emotions as she grappled with the uncertainty ahead. She had little insight into the capabilities of these fey, knowing next to nothing about them. Fool, Elyria cursed herself for not delving deeper. Even if she couldn’t train at the Spires, she could have at least familiarized herself with her rivals’ abilities .

Balancing on her makeshift raft amidst Kerrick’s intensifying rainstorm, Elyria battled the wild, tumultuous waves threatening to engulf her. Beneath the deluge, she struggled to discern the other six candidates. How long could Kerrick sustain this tempest? As she scanned the area, she counted: one... two... three... four... five... Wait, five? There should be six. Who am I missing? Oh, right—Kerrick . His absence from the surface signaled his likely presence beneath the water’s depths. Elyria reminded herself to remain vigilant with the Driftmoor candidate lurking below.

A torrent of magic rippled through the arena, triggering Elyria’s attention. Who was that? A tall, sinewy, dark-haired figure caught her eye—Lynora. Elyria observed as she channeled an impressive amount of magic, her aura pulsating with energy. Lynora began rapid incantations that caused Elyria to tense. Is she really going through with this?

Elyria narrowed her eyes, watching as Lynora summoned something substantial—but what?

Her thoughts raced to recall information about the Blackbane sorceress. Fey from Erimead specialized in evocation magic, capable of amplifying existing phenomena, emotions, actions, and so on. They could even augment another warlock or sorceress’ magic. The strongest among them could even summon spirits or banish creatures to other planes. Was Lynora truly powerful enough to evoke such a significant force as she felt now?

In response to her question, a gateway materialized above the arena, causing Elyria’s skepticism to morph into caution. Positioned approximately twenty feet in the air, the gateway expelled a colossal silhouette that plummeted with a deafening shriek into the arena’s dark abyss. The impact of the creature crashing into the water was so forceful that Elyria was catapulted from her raft, her body plunging into the water’s embrace and engulfed beneath its waves.

As she collided with the water’s surface, a surge of shock rippled through Elyria. This was nothing for which she had prepared. The unfolding reality shattered her preconceived notions of the ritual. What was transpiring was completely unorthodox for the Vitus . The ritual was meant to be an orderly showcase of individual talents, meticulously honed over months for the Moon Goddess’ observation.

But this was different. This wasn’t a mere demonstration. It was really combat.

This is what they wanted? Elyria’s temper swelled at their crass strategy. Fine by me. She felt her body being tossed in all directions underneath the waves. Darkness surrounded her as she fought to orient herself underwater. She spotted a faint glow of feylight from above and propelled herself in that direction. The faster she swam, the more likely she could avoid whatever Lynora summoned into the arena. With each powerful stroke, she ascended, breaking the surface with a gasp of relief as air filled her lungs. Her snow-white hair clung to the sides of her face as she swiveled around in the water, scanning for one of the rafts. It appeared that she wasn’t the only one who was disoriented by the chaos that now engulfed the flooded arena.

“Elyria! Over here!” Sylas’ voice pierced through the relentless rain.

She turned towards the sound of his muffled voice, spotting him on a nearby wooden raft with his arm extended towards her. Despite the raging storm, he skillfully guided the raft in her direction. Her reservations about Sylas lingered, but being on the raft was far preferable to being in the water. With some effort, Sylas maneuvered the raft close enough for her to grasp his arm, hauling her up onto the unsteady wooden surface.

“What in the seven hells did Lynora summon?” Elyria shouted over the pounding rain, struggling to maintain her balance on the choppy waves.

Sylas offered a steady hand for Elyria to hold onto. “She’s summoned a blood-eyed eel!” He yelled back, his voice barely audible over the downpour. “It was Kerrick’s idea to summon something we could use our magic on instead of just showcasing our abilities!” He cursed under his breath. “I knew this would be too dangerous. I tried to convince them not to!”

A massive shadow emerged from the dark depths, accompanied by wild cheers from the spectators. Elyria tensed as she beheld the sight before her. The monstrous blood-eyed eel breached the surface, its head thrashing wildly as its fierce jaws snapped with fury. Its sleek body shimmered with shades of tawny browns and burnt oranges, blending in a sinister pattern. Towering over them, the blood-eyed eel possessed vicious spiked fins along its spine, its build nearly twice the size of a firedrake.

Elyria couldn’t halt her mind from analyzing the recent events. The summoning of such a massive entity by Lynora must have depleted a significant portion of her magical reserves, if not nearly all of it. Elyria found herself woefully unprepared for the plans the other candidates had devised. She clenched her teeth. It’s no matter. She’d have to adjust to the reality of the situation; she was no stranger to adaptation—she’d done it all her life.

From an indistinct direction, Elyria swore she heard Kerrick’s maniacal laughter. Suddenly, his lapis-blue hair flashed into view, and he materialized before her. She observed the contours of his body, now covered in translucent, prismatic scales. The sleek armor-like plates enveloping Kerrick’s form seemed almost invisible, like a thin layer of glass armor. Though she recognized these protective scales as common for those of merfolk heritage, she was intrigued by them. Her gaze shifted to Kerrick’s outstretched arm, hovering above the water while a surge of magic emanated from his downturned palm.

Elyria watched as something took shape in his grasp, gradually elongating until a jagged spear materialized in his grip. Understanding dawned on her. Kerrick manipulated the sand carried in by the flooding seawater, fashioning a weapon from countless grains of eroded rocks and minerals.

With heedless abandon, Kerrick propelled himself forward with astonishing speed, aiming for the undulating head of the blood-eyed eel. His strike found its mark at the creature’s unsuspecting neck, coating the tip of his spear in blood and drawing a harrowing screech from the ambushed beast. Swiftly, Kerrick retreated beneath the murky depths, leaving the blood-eyed eel to writhe and thrash in search of its blue-haired assailant.

The spectators in the audience began chanting and hollering Kerrick’s name. Elyria observed the spectators thrusting their fists into the air, some pressing eagerly against the magical barrier as if it could grant them a closer view.

Her eyes darkened at the sight of their ecstasy. Barbaric.

Her focus snapped back to Kerrick as he emerged from the waves once more, brandishing his forged spear and driving its jagged tip into the neck of the monstrous eel. The spear tore through the creature’s sheeny hide, extracting another agonizing screech. Before Kerrick could retract his weapon and seek refuge, the blood-eyed eel expelled a noxious, coppery substance from its throat, spraying it in his direction.

The foul substance struck Kerrick’s upper torso and outstretched arm, clinging to him and sizzling as it made contact with his skin. The stench of burnt flesh filled the air as Kerrick cried out in agony, clutching his injured body as he tumbled back into the water.

“Kerrick!” Iva’s scream pierced the arena as she called his name from above. The lavender-haired sorceress plummeted from the skies, diving headfirst into the waters after him.

Moments later, Iva resurfaced, dragging Kerrick’s limp form above the waves. He groaned in misery as she pulled him to safety, seeking refuge on Lillia’s nearby raft. Together, they hoisted Kerrick onto the raft. Elyria winced at the sight of his injuries. The acid spray from the blood-eyed eel had ravaged his flesh, leaving his upper chest and shoulder marred by scorched wounds. Large chunks of muscle had been eaten away, exposing bone, fat, and tendon.

Iva’s urgent yell caught Lillia’s attention, and she nodded in understanding. While Iva remained crouched over Kerrick, Lillia swiftly turned to face the monstrous eel.

Despite the violent rocking of her raft, Lillia’s aura was steadfast as she tucked her tight brown ringlets behind her ear and focused her attention on the beast, raising both of her umber arms above herself and her comrades. Though Elyria could not see it, she could sense it immediately. Lillia conjured an ironclad barrier around herself and the other candidates to shield them from the looming danger. Lillia was an abjurist sorceress by nature, sworn to House Mirthwood, she possessed the unique ability to create and dismantle powerful magical wards and barriers—some potent enough to prove lethal if breached.

With the shield firmly in place, Lillia turned her gaze toward the blood-eyed eel. The creature, relentless in its pursuit of Kerrick, screeched and lunged at the trio. Its mangled jaw collided with the shield, but upon contact, a pulse from the magical ward sent the beast hurtling backward, flung ten feet into the waves as it released an enraged shriek.

After a few fleeting seconds, the blood-eyed eel recovered and began slithering through the choppy waves toward Lillia’s shield. While its massive body rotated, menacing tail poised to attack, Lillia registered what the blood-eyed eel intended to do. Lillia braced her arm just moments before the eel swung its monstrous tail with a brutal strike. The tail careened with explosive force, striking the three candidates with brutal precision. A deafening crack reverberated through the air as their raft was sent hurtling backward, crashing into the arena wall with a thunderous blow that caused the structure to shudder and send rubble tumbling down.

The air reverberated with the impact, and Elyria instinctively shielded her eyes from the flying debris. As the dust settled, she discerned a massive fissure in the fractured arena wall.

Upon witnessing the destruction, Elyria shook her head in disbelief. Surely, they could not have survived such a violent collision.

Yet, to her astonishment, Elyria observed their raft bobbing forcefully on the water’s surface, Lillia’s protective ward still intact, and the three candidates unharmed. The resilience of the Mirthwood sorceress’s barrier was remarkable; most would have shattered under the sheer force of the impact, bringing certain doom. With a furrowed brow, Elyria pondered the possible explanations. It could either be that Lillia had reinforced her ward right before impact, or that she had revoked the amount of physical damage inflicted by the blood-eyed eel. Given abjurists’s capability to nullify or dampen both magical and physical abilities, it was plausible that Lillia had employed both techniques.

Meanwhile, the blood-eyed eel, frustrated by its failed attack, regrouped, and launched another assault on the three warded candidates. Unleashing a torrent of coppery acid, the creature flung it at the protective barrier, causing Lillia to strain as she channeled more power into bolster the ward’s integrity—now sizzling from the searing assault.

Elyria was so engrossed in observing the unfolding scene that she scarcely noticed Galen, the claret-haired Darkmaw candidate, nearing the blood-eyed eel on his raft. However, the raft was no longer the crude structure it once was; it had transformed into a sleek catamaran, effortlessly gliding through the waves. In Galen’s hand, he wielded a vast coil of rope, collected in a remarkably short span of time—an impressive feat given its length, likely spanning hundreds of yards.

As Galen neared the engaged blood-eyed eel, he hunched over his catamaran and heaved a contraption forward. Elyria sucked in a breath as she saw him stabilize a spear catapult on the forward cockpit of his catamaran. How had he managed to construct such a device amidst the chaos? Loading an iron spear into the sling, he aimed it expertly at the creature’s spine. The iron spear gleamed with a flawless polish, starkly contrasting Kerrick’s rough sand-forged weapon. It seemed as though Galen had sourced it from an expert blacksmith. With a calculated haul backward, the Darkmaw warlock released his grip on the catapult, letting his iron spear fly.

As the heavy iron javelin soared through the night sky, it struck the blood-eyed eel with a sickening thud. The creature let out a pained wail before crashing beneath the dark waves. Galen leaped up with a triumphant whoop, met by thunderous applause from the spectators. His celebration was short-lived as he began gathering the rope at his feet, coiling it around his shoulder and forearm quickly.

Observing this, Elyria could only wonder how he acquired all his arsenal. Then it dawned on her... Galen was an artificer—a warlock crafter, a magicsmith. The realization struck her as the pieces fell into place.

With the threat of the beast no longer on them, Iva directed Lillia to stabilize Kerrick’s torso. Iva was still hunched over Kerrick; her membranous alabaster wings were spread open protectively. Her delicate hands hovered over Kerrick’s marred and mangled upper body. The Skyborn candidate’s eyes were closed as concentration contorted her face. Tendrils of moonlight began creeping down her arms and slithered to her delicate hands. The wisps of moonlight then drifted towards Kerrick’s destroyed shoulder and seeped into the wound. Kerrick recoiled and cried in pain as the moonlight saturated the surface of his tattered flesh. Slowly, the ravaged flesh began to regenerate as Iva siphoned more of her magic into Kerrick’s wound.

The charred flesh gradually began to reconstruct itself, with cords of muscle intertwining back into their former state. Kerrick’s cauterized arteries, charred bones, and blistered ligaments were reborn, returning to their original form. Such a level of restoration magic was truly remarkable. Typically, this kind of magic was only performed by the most powerful fey in the Healer’s Keep in Prymont.

Iva continued to channel her magic into Kerrick until his bones were fully mended, his skin unscathed and unbroken. It was only when Kerrick’s complexion regained its color, and his fading aura was restored that Iva slouched with relief.

Witnessing Iva’s extraordinary powers, Elyria could not help but recognize her potential as a sought-after divine sorceress. Having a healer of this caliber in one’s arsenal would be considered a great asset by all seven realms. She knew that restoration magic was indisputably one of the most coveted classes of magic, with the ability to heal physical and magical ailments, recover what was once lost or destroyed, and regenerate nearly anything—the only limitation beyond a restorator’s magic was death.

Through extensive training, Skyborn warlocks and sorceresses could even concoct potions that pushed the boundaries of what was naturally possible, bordering on the metaphysical. While they may have lacked physical strength, they more than compensated with their intellect and magical prowess. In terms of fey biology, the scholars of House Skyborn were unparalleled, able to even exploit their opponents’ bodies in combat. A restorator’s magic had the potential to stifle another’s airway, stagger the body’s ability to clot off a wound, weaken bones until they snapped, or exhaust muscles to the point where they could no longer contract. Elyria understood that only a fool would underestimate Iva’s strength because of her slender frame. However, it seemed that Iva had chosen not to showcase this aspect of restoration magic to the spectators thus far.

Despite her disdain for Kerrick, Elyria could not help but envy how quickly his ally came to his aid. But envy had no station here as the wounded blood-eyed eel erupted from the depths, bellowing belligerently.

Elyria whipped her attention towards the ominous beast and saw that Galen had already positioned himself nearby. The monstrous eel’s beady crimson eyes locked onto the claret-haired Darkmaw candidate and his catapult, recognizing him as the one who launched the spear—all its fury now directed towards Galen. Galen was prepared for this, maneuvering his catamaran behind the beast with the spool of rope in tow.

With the rope primed in his grip, Galen flung the cords like a lasso around the eel’s head with deadly precision. His aim was true as the rope snared the blood-eyed eel’s neck, and Galen quickly pulled it taut, securing and fastening the lasso while the beast thrashed violently. In a matter of seconds, Galen had subdued the eel, though it continued to rage and thrash, its fury aimed towards Galen and his unprotected figure atop the catamaran.

The blood-eyed eel unleashed a vicious shower of acid towards the Darkmaw candidate. Elyria’s spine tensed as she witnessed the copper sludge hurtling straight towards Galen. The volume of acid was considerably larger than what Kerrick had faced. If Galen suffered a more severe injury, would Iva still have the reserves to heal him? Could she mend that extent of damage?

The coppery substance coated Galen in a sickening layer, but to Elyria’s surprise, he remained unharmed and unfazed. How? Was he immune to the acid ? Through the rain, Elyria squinted and noticed a faint glow emanating from the rope slung around the blood-eyed eel’s neck. So that’s how. Galen had enchanted the rope. One of the ropes must have been imbued with magic to neutralize the eel’s acid.

A smirk blossomed on the Darkmaw candidate’s lips, but his hubris was short-lived as the blood-eyed eel screeched and whipped around, aiming its monstrous tail straight at Galen’s catamaran. Panic flashed across Galen’s face as the beast’s tail poised to strike directly in his path. Making a split-second decision, Galen released his enchanted rope and hurled himself into the dark waves to avoid the impact. He narrowly evaded the eel’s tail, which came crashing down seconds later, shattering his catamaran into pieces.

Immediately, Elyria noticed that the faint glow enveloping the rope around the blood-eyed eel’s neck had disappeared. It seemed that the Darkmaw warlock’s enchanted rope only functioned while he was channeling magic into it; now it was just an ordinary rope.

Galen’s claret-red head popped through the water’ s surface as he clambered for a piece of the catamaran that drifted near him and seized it.

The blood-eyed eel spotted Galen and lunged. Elyria watched Sylas’ face pale.

Galen lifted the fragment of the catamaran above his head and his magic coated the surface. It transformed into a thick wooden shield just in time as another thrash of the eel’s tail slammed down. Galen’s makeshift shield shattered at the blow and the impact sent him flying in another direction. He landed with a crash into the depths again as the beast lunged towards him once more.

This time, the blood-eyed eel maneuvered so quickly Elyria barely registered it. The creature closed in on Galen, shooting forward and capturing him within its jaws. The eel clamped down Galen’s torso and he let out a hysteric scream as the fangs of the eel pierced his flesh. The Darkmaw warlock was bleeding from his abdomen profusely, and his blood began dripping down the throat of the blood-eyed eel. Pain rippled across Galen’s face as he yelled again while the sea creature tossed him in the air and caught him by the leg.

Dangling from the eel’s jaw, Galen struggled as the creature clamped down on his lower limb—a sickening splintering sounded in the air and Galen’s leg shattered from the jaws of the blood-eyed eel. The claret-haired warlock cried out in agony, desperately attempting to free himself from the beast’s grasp.

In the next instant, Sylas released his grip on Elyria, leaving her to steady herself on the turbulent waves. His face contorted in panic as he thrust his arms forward, unleashing a torrent of magic so potent that Elyria dropped to her knees from the sheer force. Her body plummeted downward, and she barely managed to catch herself with her arms. Fighting through the fog in her mind caused by the proximity to Sylas’ magic, Elyria shook her head to clear it and lifted her gaze upward. Confusion etched across her features as she beheld the scene before her.

Beside her, Sylas still stood with his hands thrusted forward, but sweat dripped from his entire body as he trembled. She followed his line of sight, mystified.

Galen remained unscathed on his catamaran, preparing to launch himself into the air and seek refuge beneath the waves. The blood-eyed eel’s tail hovered ominously above, mere moments from striking his vessel. But how?

Wait. Elyria blinked. This already happened.

“Run!” Sylas bellowed towards the Darkmaw candidate. “Run, Galen!”

Beneath Galen’s feet, the waves glowed softly, swirling, and pulsating with magic. In the blink of an eye, Galen landed on the water’s surface with a thud, remaining upright with his hands braced against it. It should have been impossible. Elyria’s eyes widened in confusion. The waves appeared unchanged, still rippling and churning, yet Galen knelt upon their surface. She watched as the Darkmaw candidate pushed himself upright and dashed in her direction. With an exasperated grunt, Sylas continued channeling his magic, creating a solid pathway upon the waves for Galen to find refuge on their raft.

This was the magnitude of Sylas’ abilities as an alterist. He manipulated the laws of reality by reversing time and solidifying liquid. Elyria weighed the actuality of it—this was the scope of power Bloodweaver warlocks and sorceresses possessed.

Galen continued his frantic escape across the waves, evading the blood-eyed eel, which shrieked in frustration at his unexpected getaway. Above the arena, the storm in the skies ceased—undoubtedly Kerrick’s doing to provide Galen with a chance to find better footing. The blood-eyed eel pursued the Darkmaw candidate, snapping at his heels. Yet, Galen traversed the waves at an astonishing speed. He was only a few feet away when Sylas dropped to his knees in exhaustion, releasing his power, unable to sustain it any longer.

Galen managed to fling himself onto their raft, landing heavily in front of Elyria. His feet wavered as he attempted to regain balance, but he stumbled into her, causing her to lose her footing and tumble off the raft without warning.

Elyria heard Sylas calling out her name just before she plunged into the dark waves. The rush of water filled her ears as she was submerged again. With powerful strokes of her arms, she fought against the current and surfaced. Elyria pushed her slick strands of snow-white hair away from her face and scanned the arena. Sylas and Galen had drifted several feet away, too far to reach immediately, considering the blood-eyed eel lurking nearby. Keeping herself afloat with her arms, she searched for safety in the swirling waters. Fortunately, she spotted an unoccupied raft a couple of meters away.

Elyria extended her hand toward it, weaving a thread of her magic to coax the wooden raft toward her. Responding to her call, it began drifting slowly in her direction. Soon, the wooden raft was just inches away from her grasp. She reached out, finally making contact, and held it in place to pull herself atop it.

Just as she was about to hoist herself onto the solid wooden surface, something seized her leg.

Startled, Elyria jerked her leg firmly, but whatever had captured her foot refused to let go. Irritated, she turned around to identify the source. Elyria found herself face-to-face with Kerrick’s sapphire gaze as one of his scaled hands clamped around her ankle, his serpentine smile sending chills down her spine. Furious, Elyria’s hand shot out toward him, readying a spell attack, but it was too late.

“Gotcha.” Kerrick grinned wickedly before yanking her down into the depths.

Elyria was dragged beneath the waves once more, vowing to herself that this would be the last time. Kerrick pulled her deeper and deeper, the pressure from the water’s depth compressing her body uncomfortably. She kicked at him in a futile attempt to loosen his grip, but it was in vain. Kerrick glided through the water as effortlessly as a siren, and Elyria found herself at the mercy of his mischief as they descended further. Before long, her head began to thunder, and her chest heaved as air bubbles escaped from her mouth. Elyria suppressed the involuntary reaction to breathe and forced herself to focus on breaking free.

Bitterness began to alight within her, and she nurtured it like a flame, stoking the emotion until it ignited. Elyria fought against the relentless current that dragged her, clawing her way toward Kerrick, using her own limbs to inch closer to him. Fortunately, Kerrick remained oblivious to her approach, his lapis hair trailing behind him as his hand remained firmly clasped around her ankle. He was too bold, too careless. Elyria found herself mere inches away from him, folded in half at the hip.

That’s when she lunged for him.

Elyria’s right hand shot forward, seizing a fistful of Kerrick’s lapis locks, and she jerked his head backward until their faces were inches apart. Kerrick’s cerulean eyes widened with surprise as he attempted to push her away, but Elyria had already gripped both sides of his temples.

Summoning her native magic forward, Elyria felt a surge of power coursing through her arms, erupting from her palms as it flooded into Kerrick’s mind. She commanded one word, a single utterance that reverberated in his psyche: pain. Instantly, Kerrick’s face contorted in agony, his body going limp as he released her immediately, trembling in silence. The tables had turned, and now it was Elyria who wore the look of satisfaction. Though fatigue began to creep over her like a silent shadow, she lingered in this moment of retribution, watching him closely.

But soon, her lungs screamed for air. Suppressing her self-indulgence, Elyria pushed Kerrick’s form away from her and propelled herself toward the surface. As she breached the water’s surface, she gasped for air, filling her lungs with precious oxygen. Treading water, she quickly spotted the abandoned raft again and swam toward it. Gripping the wooden raft, she hoisted herself atop it, kneeling on the surface to catch her breath for a moment. In front of her, the chaos continued to unfold in the arena as Lynora and Lillia battled against the blood-eyed eel. Elyria watched them work together in a coordinated assault, operating like twin blades forged from the same sword.

Sylas remained on the wooden raft from which she had been thrown just a short distance away. Iva circled the skies with vigilant eyes, ready to use her restorative powers if needed. Galen had crafted another catamaran and was launching attacks from another contraption he concocted. The crowd’s enthusiastic vigor was impossible to ignore. It seemed the five other candidates had dealt quite a bit of damage while she was being dragged beneath the surface by Kerrick. How much time had passed? It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes since the ritual began.

From the corner of her vision, Elyria noticed Kerrick’s head emerge from the inky depths. Her gaze bore into him, refusing to back down or lose her edge. The stunt she pulled before was meant to unsettle him. However, she hadn’t intended to inflict any irreparable harm; she just wanted to let him know she could. What she didn’t expect was the smile that spread across Kerrick’s face as their gazes met.

That’s when she felt the creeping throb gnawing at her abdomen. Elyria slowly lifted a hand to press against her stomach, wincing. As she removed her hand, she looked down and saw her fingers slick with red ichor. Beneath her tattered tunic, she discovered a deep laceration across her waist. Stunned, a sharp pain began to register in her mind as her adrenaline no longer masked her injury.

Elyria’s breathing soon became sluggish and laborious. Her mind started to fog and turn muddled. She blinked hard, shaking her head to clear it, but the feeling persisted. What’s happening? She commanded herself to concentrate as she attempted to slow the bleeding from the wound. She was no Prymont healer, but she could try to staunch the flow. Managing to clot off the wound, she turned her attention back to Kerrick. Now, her breaths were strained, and her muscles began to stiffen. What’s happening to me? Even as her body began to shut down, her eyes remained alert .

Kerrick’s smirk remained vindictive as he lifted a spear out of the water to show her. It was different from the one crafted from sand he fashioned earlier to impale the blood-eyed eel. This one was made of a brilliant ochre-colored coral with hardened polyps. Serithium . Elyria looked at the shaft and saw the spear tip smeared with her blood. She recognized the unique pattern of the poisonous coral and cursed. Serithium coral was noteworthy for its paralytic properties and notorious for its slow metabolism from the body. Depending on the amount of serithium her body absorbed through her wound, Elyria could be paralyzed for hours. The effects were just beginning now, but as time progressed, she would be unable to move. Just as she prepared to unleash a torrent of obscenities towards Kerrick, he looked past her and thrust the ochre spear through the air, letting it fly.

With a powerful arc, the weapon soared over her and headed straight for Sylas. Elyria’s eyes trailed the spear and watched Sylas catch it effortlessly with one hand above his head. She turned to face him, and his sea-green eyes collided with hers. His body went taut for a second, but he tore his eyes away from her and brought the tip of the colorful spear to his eye level. He turned his attention to the weapon instead. Sylas raised a hesitant hand and ran it across the tip of the spear, messily smearing her stained blood on his hand. Elyria saw that his aura was lashing chaotically, as if in conflict with itself. A look of confusion spread across her face at his strange action, but then her eyes widened as she made the connection.

The poison was overpowering her nervous system, dispersing like a disease. Yet, she summoned the strength to laugh sourly. Her aura flared with fury, and she pointed an accusatory finger at Sylas.

“You’re a fucking legacy, aren’t you?” Elyria’s voice surged across the arena.

Sylas’ sea-green eyes locked with hers briefly, then lowered as they retreated. His deafening silence was the only answer she needed.

Elyria clicked her tongue and shook her head. Spineless coward . “Of course you are.”

Very rarely, magical warlocks or sorceresses of Neramyr were born as legacies. These exceptional fey possessed an innate ability beyond their natural magical talents, a gift passed down from the ancient rulers of their House—this solitary ability, or feat, could not be learned or gained otherwise. While typically reserved for descendants of royal bloodlines, occasionally, a legacy emerged from other lineages.

If Sylas Fenhart was a Bloodweaver legacy, the blood that he had in his possession, her blood , was going to be her downfall.

Legacies were extraordinary. Legacies were invaluable. Legacies were powerful. Legacies were dangerous. Legacies were to be feared.

“I’m sorry,” Sylas’ voice was distant as he answered her. “This was the only way we’d stand a chance.”

Elyria tried to muster a counterattack, but the serithium coursing through her veins left her too weak to cast. With each passing moment, she felt her control slipping away, her body growing increasingly unresponsive.

Sylas summoned his feat before he could hesitate further and the hand that was coated in Elyria’s blood flared a moonlight ivory. The smeared streaks of red started to dissipate in a delicate plume of pale smoke that trailed to the skies. Elyria felt thousands of magical strings fabricated from Sylas’ spell bind themselves to her while she was too immobilized to resist the effects of it. Elyria rallied any remnants of her magic to combat it, but her attempt was futile.

Sylas remained impassive as he commanded his spell to ensnare her. With a powerful motion, he outstretched his hand toward Elyria, fingers curling methodically. She sensed the invisible cables tighten around her as Sylas secured his hold on her. At his command, Elyria’s posture straightened despite the paralyzing effects of the serithium, her expression becoming vacant.

As Sylas lowered his arm, Elyria’s body mirrored his movements. Her limber legs bent at the knee, lowering her into a kneeled position upon the wooden raft. The unseen threads continued to direct her until she was seated with folded legs, her arms slackening. With a final flick of Sylas’ wrist, Elyria’s head bowed in resignation, her silver gaze dropping to her lap.

Sharp as a blade, humiliation and shame cut through Elyria as she sat in submission before the entire arena. Her body was no longer her own; every movement was controlled by Sylas, her limbs and life’s core at his command. As a Bloodweaver legacy, Sylas possessed the ability to manipulate her body through the blood he had spelled. This unique power was inherited from the first queen of the Iron Hollows, Isadora Bloodweaver. The spell functioned by tethering itself to the victim’s blood, granting the caster increasing control with each drop spilled.

In this instance, Sylas had used only a scant portion of her blood to bind her to the spell. Elyria knew if he had elected to use more, he had the capability to transform her into a vacant marionette at his disposal. At least he had allowed her the clarity of mind while under his control. Through her studies, she had learned of lesser fey having been magically manipulated by this feat, and those fey had performed unspeakable acts beyond their control at the hands of a Bloodweaver legacy.

As a legacy herself, she understood the gravity of another legacy’s power. When it came to House Bloodweaver, their inherited ability was especially sinister.

Elyria’s body remained yielding to the magical spell, obediently kneeling at Sylas’ command while the battle unfolded around her. Though immobilized, Elyria watched as Sylas joined the other five other candidates in their cavalier combat against the blood-eyed eel. From her periphery, she saw the six of them assail the creature with incredible skill and magical deftness. Even in her captive state, she couldn’t deny the extraordinary skill and magical ability displayed by each of them. They were all remarkable—any one of them deserving of the title primis .

Then it dawned on her .

So that was their scheme. The serithium. The Bloodweaver feat. Her powerless position as they left her discarded on the wooden raft. They intended for her to be overlooked and dismissed by the fey of Neramyr—they aimed to have the Moon Goddess desert her once again.

All this effort on their behalf was to render her unsuitable as a divine candidate.

And here she was, unwittingly playing her part in their strategy, a chess piece falling into place.