Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
The slow patter of rain tapped its gentle cadence against a roof. A boy lay cocooned in a thick blanket, his eyes half-closed as he listened. The rain was a stranger’s touch. It was cool, soothing. In this moment, he was thoughtless, adrift in that soft, ceaseless rhythm.
His concentration was broken suddenly by a scream. It was a raw, ripping thing, fit to make even the hardened wary. Before his mind could catch up, the boy’s little legs propelled him from his bed and out into the dim corridor. Breath ragged, he pressed himself against the cold ice wall, peering from the shadows of the doorway.
There she was—a girl, fairly younger than him, struggling in the grasp of a man who loomed over her. His face was stoic, revealing not a single flicker of emotion as the girl sobbed, her eyes wide and frantic. Then, the boy found himself making eye contact with the wailing girl. She reached for him, fingers outstretched, trembling with a desperate silent plea. The boy’s heart raced, and he mirrored the girl’s motion, his arm straining as he tried to grab her hand. Unfortunately, the distance between them seemed to never shorten, no matter how hard he tried to reach her.
Then she was gone, ripped from the scene faster than the boy could comprehend. The rain, too, vanished, leaving behind nothing but silence.
The boy blinked, and suddenly, he stood outside. The sky was a deep crimson, unappealing to any eye. The air was suffocating, carrying a stench that overwhelmed his nostrils. The ground at his feet shimmered—not with water, but with blood. Puddles of it stretched around him, as far as his eyes could reach.
He should have retched; any child would. But he did not. The boy’s mind was blank, simply awaiting the inevitable future.
Ahead, a figure emerged suddenly. Their face, or what should have been a face, was a shifting mass of grotesque contortions, impossible to comprehend. In their hand dangled the head of a man. The man’s hair once bright blue, now lay matted and streaked with red.
The boy’s eyes locked with that lifeless gaze, saying and doing absolutely nothing.
----------------------------------------
Oden awoke with a start, his breaths quick and ragged. He wiped the cold sweat beading on his brow, before composing himself and sitting up in his bed. Outside, the early sun’s light flooded through the narrow window. He cursed under his breath—dawn had come and gone, meaning he had overslept again.
Unable to change what had been done, Oden accepted his fate and moved on, putting on his clothes and leaving his room. The stairs creaked as he descended. The sudden sound of the hall enveloped him as it usually did: laughter, the clatter of mugs, the rip of meat from bone. It was a familiar chaos, alive with men who wore their scars as badges and whose voices rang like war commands.
His eyes skimmed the room until they found his target. Serene sat among the raucous men, silent but watchful. Her posture was easy as she sat with her chair leaning back. Beside her, Zachen prattled, weaving one of his usual tales with dramatic gestures. Oden moved behind her, a playful tap landing on her back with a thud. Serene turned sharply, knife in hand, sending it hurtling towards Oden. Oden swayed to the side, the blade embedding itself in the wall with a low thunk.
“Trying to spill my blood before breakfast, are you?” he said, the jest rolling playfully off his tongue.
Serene rose from her seat, casting Zachen’s droning into the oblivion of background noise. The retort on her lips faltered as she caught the shadow in Oden’s expression.
She was twenty, the same age as him, but he still thought she was too perceptive for her own good.
“The dream again?” she asked, her hostility gone.
Oden gave a slight nod, the words refusing to form. They both knew his dreams were a frequent scourge, so it was something he didn’t like talking about.
“Father sent for you,” she said simply.
Oden felt a spark of unease. “Do you know what it’s about?” he asked.. Summons from the leader of the Marauders were rare, and usually didn’t mean something good.
The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.
Before Serene could respond, Zachen decided to chime in. “Word is, it’s about a Southern kid Toren dragged in.” His grin was wide at the attention he had. “Heard he was a scrawny thing, black hair, looks ready to be snapped in half.”
Oden immediately disbelieved Zachen’s statement. Outsiders weren’t merely rare; they were nonexistent. Stories of Outsiders were talked of only in fireside tales where those on the stupid side like Zachen liked to muse as to what an Outsider society might look like. The truth was, no one that isn’t an Ice Elemental should survive the southern frost. Yet, when he looked at Serene, the look she gave him said otherwise.
“So this mystery boy is being brought to the Council?” Oden asked, though he already knew. He didn’t subscribe to this bizarre rumor that an Outsider had suddenly appeared for the first time in centuries.
Serene nodded, her face serious. At that same moment, a laugh boomed from the entrance, drawing every eye. There stood Bjorn, broad as a bear. His teeth bared in an unsettling grin that could make the bravest man take a step back. Even in moments of mirth, he loomed larger than life, his mere presence enough to silence a room.
“Oden, you’re awake I see! Did your bed try to eat you?” Bjorn’s laughter roared again at his stupid, the table joining in as if they were forced to be doing it.
Oden exhaled, eyes slipping back to Serene. “I suppose your father expects me at the trial.”
Serene’s mouth quirked, allowing a small ghost of a smile. “I’m sure you’d want to go anyway,” she said. And she was right—Oden was quite curious about this Outsider. It hadn’t left his mind since it got brought up, and he had just remembered that Toren’s group had left to investigate the meteor that crashed down last night. What if the boy was in that meteor?
----------------------------------------
The Goblet loomed ahead, a colossal masterpiece of architecture. It was a historic creation of Aethril, the first Spear and founder of the Order. Only the Royal Palace rivaled its size, but the Goblet was by far the more impressive construction.
Shaped like a cup raised to the sky, it was said, to catch the snow sent by the Gods. Yet in truth, the Goblet served two purposes: to house the Spears and to hold Council. Oden’s uncle, Bjorn, never failed to voice his displeasure at each summons. “Those Spears have only to descend a stair, while we trudge through snow and stone like beggars.” But that was the way of things. For a thousand years, the Spears ruled from their perch, unchallenged. Yet, in this modern age cracks were showing. Even the peasants in the outer region whispered of it.
Oden continued to think to himself as Serene spoke with her father. Bjorn, towering like a mountain crowned with frost, laughed and blustered as he always did this. He was seemingly an oaf, but Oden knew better. Underneath the brainless roars and primal instinct to always want a fight, Bjorn’s mind was one capable of cold cunning.
They reached the base of the Goblet, where two Spears awaited, their uniforms betraying their position in the Third Division. Oden smirked, the irony was laughable. A dying division, yet these lowly Spears still looked down at them with condescending glares.
Wordlessly, the guards held out an ice tray, atop which lay folded blindfolds. This ritual, older than any of them, served as a reminder. To ascend the Spear’s residence, one must do so in darkness. Serene took hers, lips pressed thin. Bjorn did the same, a flicker of disdain passing over his scarred face before he covered his eyes. Oden bound the cloth around his head and he could only see black.
After being guided by unseen hands and gruff voices, Oden felt the blindfold slide away, unveiling the Hall of the Council in all its somber grandeur. He took a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim light filtering through the high windows. The enormity of the chamber loomed around him, impressive as ever. It was a place where the fates were decided, and even one of his high stature could count the number of times he had stepped within this historical hall upon two hands.
Banners hung from the frozen walls depicting the unity of the many clans in the Fortress. Ironic. Meanwhile, statues decorated the whole, but Oden couldn’t care less about them. His gaze was drawn to the center of the room, where a figure knelt in chains of ice—a pitiful contrast to the majesty surrounding him. The Outsider, a boy probably a little younger than himself, was shirtless, displaying a body sculpted by what could only be a life of hard training. Curly black tufts of hair spilled across his brow, and a fresh scar painted his chest. Oden could all too easily guess the hand that had dealt it, for Toren stood with pride beside the boy, a gleam of triumph in his eyes.
The boy was facing the five thrones before him. In each of these grand seats of ice, a member of the Council sat.
Varian [The Iron Stag] – The man who sat in the middle and tallest throne. He commanded the hall with a practiced authority. The oldest of the Council, Varian’s demeanor was one of pride. Once the champion of the previous Tournament, he had risen to become the leader of the Spears and the Supreme Enforcer of the Order. His rule was marked by a stoic resolve, and like his predecessors, he promised to quell any chaos that threatened the Order.
Lyra [The Silent Chord] – She occupied a throne at Varian’s side. From the Council members, her presence commanded the least attention. She had forged her way onto the Council despite her lack of clan affiliation, a feat accomplished through her victory in the previous Tournament alongside Varian. She had since founded the Harpists, a clan that boasted a mere two members. It was said she had not uttered a word in decades. Bjorn had once told Oden that this rumor was false, it was simply that her voice was reserved for moments of necessity. Her fingers danced over the strings of her signature ice harp, creating melodies that only added to the tension of this strange environment.
Bjorn [The Storm Troll] – The beast of a man loomed among the Council. He was the leader of the Marauders, a clan whose influence went from minimal to unmatched within the Fortress through one generation alone. He now stroked his beard as he sat comfortably next to Varian, gazing down at the Outsider.
Freyja [The Freezing Heart] – A woman whose unparalleled beauty radiated a fierce elegance as the leader of the Dancing Blade. She was one who particularly caught the attention of Oden. Her logic and compassion matched with rumor’s of great strength caused everyone with strings to pull to keep an eye on her. Unlike her brat of a son, Toren, Freyja possessed a gentleness that brought intrigue.
Cedric [Winter’s Warden] – The youngest on the Council. He was barely a few years older than Oden. The prodigy had taken up command of the Chains during a time in which the Clan had scarce talent. His untamed demeanor bore an intensity, highlighting a flame of ambition that refused to extinguish. It was his resolve that had kept the Chains relevant despite their fall from greatness.
The chatter in the room instantly ceased upon a single clap from Varian. Directly across from him, Oden noticed the Ice Princess Crystal. She wore an uncharacteristic expression of worry on her face, her body language betraying the immense discomfort she was feeling. Oden had talked to her a fair amount in her Academy, and this rare display of character and her possible relation to this Outsider intrigued him greatly. Beside her stood her insufferable brother, Keilan. He stared at the Outsider with what could only be described as cold hatred. The future sacrifice paid no attention to the worried girl beside him.
Now that all attention was directed towards Varian, he cleared his throat.
“Welcome, Council and audience. In the Goblet we will now host the 74th trial, in which we will comply with the Order to decide the fate of this black haired Outsider. With the Blessing of Seraph, let us begin.”