“Close your eyes.”

“My teacher, The Grand Elder, said that perhaps it was longing — a deep yearning for strength that was inherent to everything, beasts and man alike. Perhaps it was greed or something even deeper arose when we lay our eyes upon something that has more than what we have.”

Osias was seated crossed leg on the ground of a decrepit chamber, tucked deep within the rear of the fortress, somewhere he along with Mance had to descend through a set of carved stairs. It wasn’t lavishly vast, but enough for multiple clansmen to reside.

However, when they arrived it was empty. Mance even had to find and pull aside the Second Ordeal guard that usually manned this deep chamber away from guarding the walls of the fortress.

“It starts with a will, then you'll visualize it into actualization. However, only the ambitious, and those strong enough to will and wish for strength can qualify… this is why you'll find that even the weakest of the Third, or even Fourth are beings who are strong despite that.

The visual itself isn't important, I found it best to imagine yourself as a small ember, drifting along to a large flame — almost pulling you in. Your ambition draws in more of these embers of strength, changing how much more difficult you wish your Ordeal will be… as well as how great the yields will be.”

Osias ruminated deeply as he listened, following how Mance described it. He knew it himself as well… the odd pull as he thought of strength, he felt it before.

It seemed that not all could feel it… perhaps that is the end of their Path.

But before that stray thought continued, Osias delved deep into this pull, immersing himself as embers of a blazing fire surrounded by darkness.

Mance’s quiet, but coarse voice continued to guide him. “I cannot guide your ambition, such is the nature of it. Words cannot change that. But, if you wish to return, whole and alive… do not let that fire of ambition engulf you whole as it pulls you in.”

Osias heard him clearly… but he can no longer remain as he is. It seemed that Mance already knew of the unassailable fire within from the moment Osias asked for guidance from him.

“You may face people… creatures of the First. Perhaps the Second. That alone is already beyond what many face in their First Ordeal. But all you must do is survive until you slay the one that will allow your return. You’ll know when you see it — the pull you feel now will be felt then… but also because of how strong your ambition is, I fear that the feeling of death would surmount the pull.” Mance continued but trailed off near the end.

“You will wake up in another place, I can not say for certain where or what you will see, but in a way, it is… belonging. But it will be conjured from the past. As for how ancient or recent you will find yourself, I won’t know.

Time inside the Ordeal diverges from outside. You may spend a week in there, yet only a day may pass outside. Again, this is varied for all, yet the longest I have seen someone succeed in their Ordeal has been half a year.

… You may begin.”

With that, Osias willed the embers to add to his flame, and then, an almost innate feeling, deeply rooted within himself as Mance said, began to appear within the darkness around his flame.

And Osias knew… if his boundless flame grasped this wisp, he’d begin his Ordeal.

“I see it.” He said.

“Good, it does not take long… nothing more but the step before a gate.” Mance's words trailed off and he paused before adding:

“Osias, I have not the chance to know if you like the others. But as the clan head welcomed you to Clan Grimm, I too am responsible for overseeing your training and beyond that…

You're strong beyond your years, unfounded so as an Ordinary. One brief match was enough to tell. Your War Art is coming along, and I can see the foundations you have strongly built. Although there is much I do not know of your past, I have heard from the other Second Ordeals who were present in your retrieval. Perhaps that event made you seek out even greater strength… but be weary of your limits. Ordeals befitting your ambition are bound to be treacherous.”

“I know, and thank you, Mance… I'll take over from here.” Osias finally said after he considered Mance’s earnest words.

After that, Osias could hear some shuffling from Mance, and then within seconds, Osias was left alone.

—

Mance threw a quick glance at the boy behind him before he closed the gate that led within the chambers of the aspiring clansmen. He often found himself lingering for a while outside whenever he had guided another of the clan to their Ordeal, either First or Second.

Because the gate was made to keep those clansmen from breaking free upon their triumph.

The Ordeals… Path Finders do not always emerge peacefully even if they survive. Their mind is shaped differently depending on what they’ve seen or done. They can do nothing more than strive to return to a semblance of normal life.

Mance sighed inwardly as he recalled how grave Osias was this morning when he came to. The boy seemed to have a sleepless night judging how early he arrived. That look in his flinty eyes… if Mance hadn’t seen the boy fight, then he would’ve taken him for a brash fool eager to die.

Outside of the hall, he found the Second Ordeal he fetched for earlier and called to him:

“Tsor, you know how it’ll be. I’ll have someone cover when you need it along with another for meals. And… careful. If the boy survives his Ordeal, I have an inkling that his emergence will not be peaceful. Aside from that, he may overpower you.”

Tsor nodded solemnly, something Mance was satisfied with. Too many times had they seen broken men and women emerge in a flurry of violence. Although Mance would prefer another Second Ordeal to keep watch because of the possibility of Osias running mad, the clan couldn’t expend another for a possibility.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Leaving the dim corridor, he headed out to find either the Grand Elder or perhaps Aeron or Henrik if they hadn’t gone for another hunt for beasts.

Alone, he moved fast, unhindered by the necessity to slow his pace by guiding another. The air around him shuddered, and in a billow of black wind, he appeared back in his familiar courtyard. There, he wandered about toward the great tower where the council hall was.

It was still early, too early for the Path Finders in training as well as the First Ordeals to awake and train, but Second Ordeals rarely slept much less Third Ordeals.

However, he shook his head to himself as he found the one he was looking for — also headed for the clan head.

“Henrik, a word?” He called out to the black armored man and before Henrik could even turn to where his voice rang out from, he appeared right beside Henrik with a black gust.

“You’ll scare one of the young ones to death these days, Mance,” Henrik grumbled from Mance’s sudden appearance before asking, “What is it? Ready to send some of yours outside finally?”

“No. I’m reporting on the boy’s undertaking.”

“Osias?” Henrik stammered out in surprise. “Mance! He’s only been recovering for almost two months! And you allowed this?”

Mance showed a small grin to his old friend, “Have you been busy pushing scrolls for the clan since you’ve returned? I thought the news would’ve spread to all the Second Ordeals by now. Even the clan head.”

But Henrik continued to look surprised.

“The boy, he’s bested many of the Ordinaries of our clan. Even First Ordeals.”

Henrik stopped his pace, staring at him puzzledly.

“You aren’t one to lie… I see. I see.” Henrik said, suddenly bringing a hand to the back of his ruffled head amusingly.

“I haven’t taught him Clan Grimm’s essence control and weapon techniques, it wasn’t fitting for him. He fights… fiercely. Sharp and violent, he reminds me of the brigands we once routed in the south. It was too long ago, but those united tribes and clans… remember them?” Mance said pensively as a hand brushed his neck.

“Aye, how couldn’t I? I’m not that old yet. That uncouth one… Vorin of the Crescent Axe. No, he along with his Half-Moon Clan were horrible to fight.”

“That boy, Osias seemed to fit the image of them. Those tattoos on the boy do seem reminiscent of them.”

“Bah, you think they’re all alike.” Henrik dismissed as his words trailed off, adding somberly, “I… sometimes think what Clan Grimm would be if we weren’t given the order that day.”

The mood turned solemn, a mutual understanding between the two old veterans of Clan Grimm of a time they shared long ago.

“Do you think Aeron saved the boy as a… attempt at making right?”

Henrik inhaled a deep breath before recounting:

“No, I was there. You couldn’t even tell the boy apart from a dying corpse, much less a brigand of the likes of Vorin and his mountain men. Perhaps afterward when Osias was healed, yes, but it’s been too long to brood over such things anymore. Tens of years had passed since then. Even the previous head of the Tailed Brothers had already perished in that time.”

“...I see,” Mance said solemnly.

Switching both topic and tone Henrik asked:

“So, did you personally guide him?”

“Mm, I don’t like leaving such a thing to others.”

…They continued to make their way towards the council hall for the clan head as they discussed the outcomes of such a powerful Ordinary. Eventually, Henrik grows more and more interested upon hearing Mance tell of Osias’s strengths, even pleading with Mance to allow Osias to join the hunts outside.

—

In a way, it was familiar. Being left alone in a dark chamber in the pursuit of strength. However, this time it was of his own volition. To undergo the Ordeal because he wanted to be strong, not because it was forced down on him.

‘I wonder… if the porter succeded his Ordeal and saved the princess. Myra didn’t finish the tale.’ He thought wistfully. A small smile curled the ends of his lips as he wondered if the stern-looking Mance knew he would bid farewell to Myra like that.

But then he steeled himself.

‘...I’m sorry, Kiran. I haven’t proven to you that I’m ready.’

Pushing aside the stray thought, he began to pull on the luminescent wisp to his fire. He didn’t know what would come before him in this Ordeal, but it was time.

Suddenly, the air around him felt dense, as though it were pressing down on him, suffocating and oppressive. The world itself had narrowed to this single moment. The luminescent wisp flickered before him, an ethereal glow that pulsed with an otherworldly light in the darkness.

But then he steeled himself as he began to pull on the luminescent wisp to his fire. He wanted it for his own.

The fire within him, that ever-present, smoldering ember, flickered in response, as though it was aware of the significance of what was about to happen.

Osias’s muscles tensed, his mind focused with sharp intensity. The world around him seemed to blur at the edges, fading into an indistinct haze as he centered himself, drawing on every ounce of willpower he possessed. The ground beneath him was solid, unyielding, yet it felt distant as if he were no longer entirely connected to it.

And almost immediately as he inwardly willed it in, he felt an unfathomable pull on his mind, body, and soul. Something that he could not stop no matter his wishes.

So all he could do was welcome it.

He couldn't see a thing, and nothing but darkness engulfed his senses, as though he was looking from his blazing flame at the abyss that surrounded it. Even time was muddled… he didn't know how long or short this period of darkness was, time itself was seemingly pulled in and warped.

But suddenly, the darkness whisked away, however, before he could see he… felt.

The unmistakable feeling of blood. The heavy metallic tang in the scent clung to his nose and mouth. The sounds of the world itself shattering and crumbling under… battle.

Osias’s eyes snapped open and blinked many times over, yet the scene bewildered him. His senses were thrown off and his hearing was decimated under the cacophony of bellows and roars.

‘A battle… no, a war.’ he thought, the word barely forming in his mind as he tried to grasp the enormity of what lay before him.

His vision swam as he forced himself to focus. Soldiers — an uncountable amount clad in armor, both tattered and bloody, clashed in a brutal melee, their cries of rage and pain mingling with the thunderous clash of steel. There must’ve been tens of thousands of men, perhaps more spanning from beyond his vision. The ground itself seemed to pulse with the violence of it all, quaking under the sheer weight of their boots.

Osias struggled to move, his body slowed to respond as if the darkness had left a lingering numbness. It seemed he was… resting against something, and then he pushed himself upright, suddenly feeling the sticky warmth of blood beneath his hands.

It wasn’t his own… he didn’t feel wounded. But then his surroundings were made clear as his eyes traced to what was below his feet.

The countless fallen surrounded him, their lifeless eyes staring up at a stained sky that was obscured by smoke and ash. The air was thick, and suffocating, and each breath he took felt like it was dragging shards of glass down his throat.

He tried to orient himself in this… Ordeal.

A sudden burst of movement to his right jolted him back to the present. A fearful warrior, face smeared with blood and dirt, charged past him, not even noticing Osias in his mad rush towards the fray. Another followed, then another, until Osias found himself caught in a torrent of bodies, all surging forward, driven by some unseen force that he couldn’t fathom.

‘Is—is this how it begins?’ he wondered, the question hanging in his mind like a leaden weight. But there was no time to dwell on it. The battle was all-consuming, and Osias knew, instinctively, that if he didn’t move, he would be trampled, swallowed by the tide of violence that showed no sign of abating.

With a grunt of effort, he forced himself to stand, swaying as the world spun around him. His limbs did not feel foreign, nor was the rest of his body… but what covered him was. An unfamiliar set of shabby armor — similar to some of the other soldiers surrounding him.

But there was no room for doubt now. He awoke in hell, just like he had once before. He had to survive, had to find a way through this Ordeal and return.

He exhaled heavily as he bent over and picked a bloodied plumed spear from one of the dead that littered the muddy earth below. The war raged on around him, a storm of blood and steel, and Osias, against all reason stepped forward into the maelstrom, the taste of iron heavy on his tongue, the roar of battle in his ears.