‘The Golden Duskveil General…’ Osias thought as his mind drifted along the abyss.

‘He must’ve awakened from his Ordeal. Will the House of Silk be enough to placate his wrath? For the prisoners, the general spared three years earlier to cut down one of his most fervent retainers must’ve irked him so…’

Before he could try to make sense of what he’d seen and been through in the Ordeal he felt a familiar feeling in reverse — instead of the world seeming to blur and darken, his senses returned as everything became clear.

Osias’s eyes snapped open and blinked many times over, finding himself in the deep embrace of darkness.

‘The chamber for those undergoing an Ordeal…’ He recalled as his eyes caught a dark figure seated crossed leg with a tranquil face on the other end of the chamber.

Osias pulled himself up from the cold stone floor, his limbs trembling as they adjusted to his true body once more. He staggered, almost tripping as his weight and balance felt foreign. Unlike the lean and bony body he had worn in the Ordeal, this one was full of strength—thick muscles that ached but pulsed with power.

Clasping his hand into a fist, he felt powerful… so much so that he suspected his true body had never stopped being strengthened by the essence stored in his tattoos from the inheritance, but also the ‘body’ that was in the Ordeal was likely merged in someway upon his completion.

‘I need to ask Kiran…’ He noted, acclimating to his great strength.

But just as he was reeling in his strength… his eyes caught onto something missing from his ring finger.

‘Where is it? Myra’s… ring.’

He caught his breath, steadying himself, and glanced around the dimly lit chamber. His eyes locked onto a large water trough near the entrance, half-covered in shadows, where a flickering torch provided the only source of light.

‘I’ll ask her about it later…’

He made his way toward it, each step feeling increasingly more natural and familiar. His body was his own, yet more… something beyond what it had been now that he was a First Ordeal.

Reaching the water trough, Osias leaned over and splashed the cold water onto his face. The shock of it sent slight shivers through him, but something else caught his attention—his reflection in the water. There, stark against his pale skin, was a menacing black tattoo creeping from his neck up to his temple, wrapping ominously around his right eye. Faint crimson hues glowed from within the design like aged blood.

The tattoo… the same one that had appeared on his body in the Ordeal when he discovered the relic.

‘Deeper than mere flesh… huh.’

The centipede coiled wickedly, its segmented body crawling up the side of his face as if it had been etched there for ages. His breath hitched as his fingers traced the lines, feeling the slight rise of the inked skin beneath.

“How will I explain this to Myra?” His voice was barely a whisper as he took in the sight with a faint wistful smile. The horned centipede, black and crimson, a symbol of something dark, dangerous—yet undeniably his own.

However, just as he got over his daze from his sudden awakening… Osias sighed heavily as he looked down at his overgrown nails before dragging them across the skin on his bare chest. The cut wasn’t deep, just enough to draw blood.

‘There’s this too,’

Inhaling sharply, he used the newfound knowledge that appeared like a fog being lifted the moment he awoke… he willed his essence to use his Ordeal Ability.

‘Blood Mend, just like the many others who came before me.’ He thought longingly, recalling a question he once asked to Kiran if he’ll obtain something normal upon his First Ordeal.

Immediately, his wounded skin closed and the blood underneath refused to spill as he smiled.

Obviously, this wasn’t enough to gauge how potent his healing was, he needed to sever a finger, perhaps a limb. But it was both thrilling and terrifyingly pleasing.

Turning away from the closed cut, he looked at himself in the rippling reflection atop the water’s surface.

It was still hard to believe all that he’s experienced and witnessed in more than three years. The war, the siege, deaths of enemies and comrades alike, his imprisonment, his… mistress, the tourney, and his freedom.

‘Pierce…’

Even now, that experience still mystified Osias. An oddity that was even more confusing than the relic he obtained. Osias pushed it aside, deep in his mind in anticipation of the fight against Surtil, but now that he was in Clan Grimm’s familiar chambers… he could finally reflect upon the strange man.

For Pierce to know of Osias’s true name, his Path of Blood and the Red Sky…

‘Grief and rage lay untold,

I saw kindness repaid with cold.

Oh, the world, the dream smeared in dread,

Let the world bleed as the sky turns red.’

Osias didn’t know what to make of the… poem? But it must’ve had purpose if Pierce told him of it. The words shouldn’t have been said without purpose.

‘Ha! Only if I can tell of its purpose…’ Osias said inwardly.

But before he could poorly attempt to decipher Pierce’s fleeting verse any further, his ears perked up at something far away — both the muted shuffles outside the entrance of this chamber and his blood sense picking up a person approaching.

‘My senses and blood connection have been improved upon as well...’

A harsh grate sounded from the door as something opened, and behind a small opening, Osias saw old beady eyes peering through.

“Osias? You’ve awakened?” An old, but slightly weary voice asked.

“Y-yes. Apologies, I… I just came to.” Osias stammered hesitantly — his words and tone were odd because of the sudden change to Vorin, the common tongue of the Wailing Chain.

A jarring sound began to screech as the great door opened and the Second Ordeal guard of Clan Grimm responsible for overlooking the aspiring Path Finders stepped through.

“You… you look fine. As uncouth as you were.” The guard said with a hand on the hilt of his sword.

Osias didn’t respond, though he did raise a shy hand to scratch his head… such comments on his appearance weren’t something he expected to wake up to so suddenly.

“Sorry, boy. I don’t know if Mance told you back then or if you’ve forgotten, but some succeed in their Ordeals with a broken mind. Nothing more than a shard of themselves prior… Tell me, do you sense anything wrong with yourself? I haven’t seen anyone remain in that state for as long as you have.”

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Narrowing his eyes, Osias asked:

“How much time has passed?”

“A little more than a moon — a year’s passed, boy. It’s the thousand and ninetieth moon.” The guard answered, bringing his free hand to stroke the long beard that fell from his chin.

Exhaling sharply, Osias felt a little relieved. He was expecting the worse, perhaps having the time spent inside the Ordeal matching the time outside.

“I see… a year then. Am I free to leave?” He asked with a neutral expression.

“One thing first–” The guard said abruptly.

In the next moment, Osias felt a dangerous premonition. Scowling his eyes, Osias stared daggers at the Second Ordeal guard who drew his steel.

Osias’s body tensed as the sword glinted in the dim torch light. The air thickened, and for a brief moment, the tension felt like a taut string ready to snap.

Without warning, the guard lunged forward with great speed.

But Osias reacted instantly — his hand shot out, fingers stiffened like a spear, aimed directly at the unprotected side of the guard’s head. Time seemed to slow as his strike neared its target, and for a fleeting moment, Osias was certain he had him.

But just before his fingers could make contact, the guard slammed a heavy foot on the ground.. and began, laughing hoarsely.

“Easy, boy, easy!” the guard grunted, his weathered eyes gleaming with amusement. “I meant no harm.”

Osias’s arm remained extended for a moment longer before he relaxed it, his expression darkening.

“You old coot… did Henrik put you up to that?” Osias growled, lowering his hand but keeping his body poised, still wary of the guard.

The guard held up his hands in mock surrender, his laughter dying down to a raspy chuckle. “Apologies, boy. I just wanted to see… I already know you’re fine, but I wanted to see how you’ve grown. I don’t know if you know it yourself but… the moment I entered I felt as though my blood froze and flowed backwards!”

"Hoo… I’m leaving. Are you going to tell Henrik, or should I?” Osias dismissed, walking towards the door.

The guard paused briefly with a slight frown and hesitated before speaking.

“It’s quite early right now — before daybreak, but Henrik isn’t at the fortress. He’s outside with the main company. I’ll relay your success to the Elder… if he isn’t so busy. Go elsewhere, after all, there’s someone you want to see first besides that old bastard, right?”

Osias raised an eyebrow before realizing what the guard meant and began to cough on his way outside the chamber as raspy and teasing laughter followed him.

However, unknowingly to Osias, the old, but powerful guard in charge of overseeing the aspiring Path Finders waited until Osias left before bringing a shaky hand around his neck whilst exhaling a long, ragged breath. His fingers brushed against his clammy skin.

—

The chamber he underwent his Ordeal in was burrowed and constructed deep behind the main keep of Clan Grimm’s fortress, a necessity in case a Second or Third Ordeal happened to emerge broken although as rare as it was. And with the first step into the wintery sky, Osias stared at the white-lined stones and earth.

Sheets of snow covered all he could see while more and more continued to fall every so gently, adding to these plains of white. With a sad smile, he spotted a lone budding green stem just barely breaking through the surface of the snow.

‘If flowers can grow through blankets of snow, there is hope for me too.’

…Osias was wearing nothing more than aged wrist and legs wraps, a loose tunic, and rough-hewn grey trousers making him feel the frigid winds of winter at its peak.

His dark grey hair reached a little below his neck and his nails were a little too long. He was older now, his twenty-second moon, and at last, a First Ordeal.

Lifting his gaze, he found that the guard spoke the truth — it was early and no one was outside doing their duties, Ordinaries or not.

But in a way, he had a strong inkling of where he would go to find Myra.

Before that, he headed to the fortress’s vast kitchen.

Leisurely walking through the series of illuminated and seemingly warm corridors, he brushed his fingers across the familiar walls as he breathed in the familiar air and sights.

‘It’s been… a long time.’

His ears perked up, hearing muffled chatter and busy sounds as he neared the kitchen.

‘Is it the cooks and bakers? Preparing for later?’ He wondered wistfully.

Then he made it to the open entrance, poking his head past the walls. And he was right — a small number were prepping the ingrediants and working through a large swathe of supplies, likely delivered recently from the merchant company that frequents Clan Grimm.

A few of them looked at the towering figure of Osias and almost immediately their eyes traced his distinct appearance and their puzzled faces twisted into recognition of the ‘bandit’ little Myra led into their work quarters a little more than a year ago.

“Osias!” A loud cheery voice that betrayed the hour of day bellowed from behind them all from where the bakers worked.

“You’re back! And a Path Finder as well, boy?” The source of the voice, Umber, said.

He was the bald baker that Myra stole his speical cheese from many times as well as the one Osias came to know bits of Mance’s past from. Umber was a large man, not qutie as tall as Osias, but more… wide.

Wearing a dirty and flour-caked apron that barely covered the round man’s ribs, Osias welcomed a warm hug from the Umber.

“Did you just return? Ah, you must be famished! Here, I’ve gotten some interesting ingredients a few days ago… you bastard, I could’ve used you to help bring those crates in if you’d return earlier.” Umber laughed, patting roughly against Osias’s back.

“Look at you, strong as you are!” Umber continued as Osias smiled.

“Can I make it this time, Umber? I want to make a meal enough for two.”

“Bah, we’ll make it together. Wait a little while though, I have fresh bread baking right now… if you go a little slow you can bring her some along with that cheese she pilfers.”

“Thank–” Osias’s words of gratitude trailed off as Umber rambled, realizing who Umber was talking about.

Looking at the beaming grin stretching Umber’s face, Osias frowned slightly before playing along with Umber’s teasing.

—

Osias gracefully held a vast wooden platter full of hearty food. Two bowls of a piping hot stew made from the meat of Path Beast’s along with large cuts of fresh bread still steaming and a thick chunk of the special cheese wrapped in cloth was being carried towards the room Osias recovered in a lifetime ago.

The stone halls were quiet and desolate, just as he remembered. Few maids and attendants frequented here, and others would simply use the corrider as a way to cut pass to another end of the courtyard.

Soothing scents followed Osias’s steps as he carried the platter and eventually made it to his room…

And it was the same as it was when he left for his Ordeal.

Humble in its furnishings, a small table, a lone pale wood chair, and a large bed that fit Osias’s frame all illuminated by a small lantern in the corner.

And on his old bed, his sheets were puffed out, rounded as they covered the small figure cloaked in its warm embraces.

‘Myra…’

Just her head was exposed, and her face softly slept. Her long oak-like hair lay messily atop the pale sheets. When she was asleep, her usually sharp eyes that reminded him of arrows turned soft, matching her graceful fletchings for eyebrows.

Looking outside the window, the sun began to pierce through the rolling grey clouds that covered the night as daybreak began on the horizon.

But before he could take another step, he heard soft murmurs and the shuffling of soft sheets and Myra squirmed below.

In the next moment, she raised herself against the back of his bed with a stiff and tired arm and used her free hand to wipe her groggy eyes from the remnants of sleep. First, she looked out the window to see for herself what time of day it was, and just as she turned her gaze to the doorway… she locked her tired eyes on the tall figure that stood there motionlessly.

Osias didn’t know what to do — to say. But the words flowed out regardless…

“I-I… I’m back, Myra. I promised you I would—” Osias said softly, almost in a whisper.

In a heartbeat, Myra closed the distance with as much speed as a seasoned warrior, as she locked her arms around Osias’s torso as he raised both arms to avoid her clashing heads with the platter.

“Welcome home, Osias.” Those were the only words she could return to him as she tightened her arms.

Those three words alone were enough for Osias to know that… he returned. That he truly returned after so long.

Her figure was small and her arms were thin, but her hands felt as though they were able to reach past his skin, touching his soul as she pulled him up. It felt as though he just taken his very first gasp of breath after his head had been drowning underwater all this time.

And in response… Osias felt a lone tear trickle down his face, landing atop the warm head nestled at his chest.

A single tear was all that was mustered, yet it held everything—everything he swallowed and push down all this time. Every dirty, filthy, and vile thing from his Ordeal… because they didn't belong here in such a place.

“I’m… I’m home.” He croaked out, his voice edged in both pain and relief as he welcomed her entirely.