The Tomb of Silvathos
During the second era of man, deep within the continent of Har’Gadol, surrounded by menacing mountains, formidable forests, and desolate deserts, lay the floating Citadel of Hefker, a marvel of Archon artificing.
Built like a maze, made of limestone walls, tough beyond natural capabilities. Hefker was one of the four offerings to Euvira, as it was built by none other than Saint Virith and Yeshua, the first prophet of force.
A fortress, untethered from the word as it hovers above the ground. The laws of reality are different in Hefker; no up or down, one could look up at the sky or the ground below the floating city without noticing a difference; it stands alone as its own source of pull. A marvel that has stood since the beginning and will continue to the end.
Yet it was poisoned by the greed and sins of its residents. Klephs haunted its beautiful halls, did terrible research within its rooms, and created ruinous artifacts inside its labs. Most importantly, they corrupted its greatest treasure: Yeashua’s Tomb.
A record of all that our ancestors experienced and learned during the first era of man, knowledge hundreds of years old, and schematics and plans for rare artifacts and weapons, too dangerous for the common man.
At its head lay Silvathos, a man of great power and command over Euvira. For his achievements, the Council in Eretz Kolamim bestowed him with the title of Sage and granted him dominion over Hefker and its surroundings.
He spent all his time within the Citadel, obsessively researching the Tomb and consuming all that was left behind by its creators. For at his core, Silvathos sought to expand the knowledge of the world, break the chain forced upon him, and gain control over the higher principle of transcendence. Aiding him was Caelan, his apprentice and grandson.
As Silvathos withered away in his Tomb, Caelan advanced his control over the world and prowess in combat. He was still but a boy, yet he could single-handedly defeat multiple grown men in battle. The sage’s apprentice, the rising star of Hefker, everyone in the nefesh city knew of the human boy with dirty blonde hair and a sword at his waist.
Yet he could not find joy in his renown, for Caelan had a dream: he wanted to explore Euvira, leave Hefker behind, and join the Mercenaries Collegia to find fame across the Aegean. But he couldn’t bring himself to leave; Silvathos had raised, fed, and taught him, and while Caelan wasn’t sure if they were related by blood, Silvathos was his only family. Caelan’s heart broke as he saw his Grandfather’s pointless search, he knew only the gods could teach what he sought, it could not be found in a dusty library.
But Silvathos would not listen. He knew his end was near, and he had already traveled the world without finding anything to aid him. He believed what he wished for would be kept in the vast records within the Tomb.
Caelan wasn’t an Acolyte of Virithas; he and his Grandfather had long abandoned the path, and still, he prayed to the Erythyn for his master to find his desire. He knew it was a pointless endeavor; Caelan did not honestly believe in the teachings of the priest; nevertheless, Caelan wanted to be freed from his self-imposed prison.
What Caelan could not know was that one of the gods, Mashoh, the Erythyn of force, had been watching Sivathos and his journey. Mashoh judged his actions throughout his life and found him unworthy. The god knew that within the heart of Silvathos lay the seed of destruction; the unquenchable thirst for power and understanding had corrupted many before him. And even if he had made Silvathos a prophet, that would not have been enough to satisfy the sage; his actions had proven that.
When Silvathos was but a discipulus in the Acolytes of Virithas, he had held that same thirst. He wanted more than what his masters would grant. So he had stolen sacred text and made himself an enemy of the Acolytes. Then, in his middle age, Silvathos taught that same knowledge to the Nefesh in Ertez Komamim, an action that led to a great war and the decimation of many lives. In his regret, he had taken in an orphaned boy as an apprentice, but that did not change the destruction caused by his hand.
No, Silvathos could never be allowed to hold the higher edicts of Vol manipulation, Giboriel would never permit it.
Caelan, on the other hand, showed wisdom above his master’s. The boy was young, yet he was capable of forging advanced formations and displayed impeccable swordsmanship. More importantly, Caelan showed he was capable of prudence. He refused to take disciples of his own and remained aware of the danger of his abilities.
Had it been time for an incursion, Mashoh would have chosen him as his prophet in an instant. But that wasn’t the case, and he was restricted in his actions. So he devised a plan to rid this land of Silvathos and free Caelan of his burden so he could finally prove himself worthy.
* * *
One night, while Caelan slept, exhausted from long hours of searching through countless scrolls. Silvathos flipped the pages of one of the many records in his tomb. Tired and annoyed, he slammed it closed; his emerald green toga, which looked wrinkled and stained from weeks without a wash, crumpled as he slouched deeper into his chair. Silvathos ran his thin fingers through his gray hair, and when he pulled them back down, several strands of hair were left in his palm.
“What has happened to me?” he asked the empty room.
“My strength has waned as my body begins to fail me; where has my life taken me!’’ he exclaimed as he slammed his fist into the table. This wasn’t a question but an insult to himself and the futility of his life.
All the strength left his body, and he slowly began to close his eyelids. Tears ran through his cheeks as he spoke once more. “Nothing of value has ever come from my life,” he lamented.
“Will I be able to gain the understanding I lack before I die?” Resignation apparent in his weakened voice.
“Yes” a voice answered, resonating across the vast library that was the Tomb of Yeshua, he felt the great library quiver with energy.
Panicked, Silvathos stood up. Assassins? Have the acolytes finally breached my defenses? He thought to himself.
Even if Silvathos was an old shell of his former self, that did not mean that he was weak. Years of training had enhanced his body; the weak, fragile shell still held strength far above the norm, and he held Mastery over the very world itself.
Cold sweat ran down his wrinkled forehead. His connection would have warned Silvathos if any powerful Archons approached the tomb. Even a member of the Inquisitorum would have been noticed. There was a reason he had stayed alive after so many years.
“Who is it? Show yourself now, or I will be forced to strike you down,” he warned, and yet his voice quivered with fear. Something in his link told him this wasn’t a duel he would win.
A chuckle once again echoed across the tomb, and the air shook. Silvathos instinctively knew he was in the presence of something much greater than himself, so he dispelled all his formations and kneeled.
“Foolish sage, You would brand me, one of your gods, an enemy?” the voice declared.
Silvathos’ body shook uncontrollably; he was in the presence of true transcendence, an Erythyn.
“Of course not your divinity; I simply could not have guessed you would bless me with your presence,” Silvathos cried; years of false flattery and groveling had prepared him for a moment like this, but unlike his dealings with councilmen and kings. At this moment, he felt real, true adulation and fear, for he knew there was no tricking the being before him.
A hole opened in the world, and a silhouette walked out. It resembled that of a human, but its features were blurred, the space around the outline shimmered. He could not truly see the being, not that the Erythyn was doing it on purpose, but the mortal mind could simply not comprehend what it saw without explicit permission.
“I have been observing you, Silvathos. All of your achievements and your mistakes, your virtues and your sins—I have seen them all?” Mashoh declared.
Silvathos did not dare speak; he knew no excuses would ever convince this deity that his actions were for the good of the enlightened races. He just knelt on the floor, ashamed and dejected.
“But in the name of all your effort, I shall grant you one final chance.”
Silvathos raised his head, tears forming in his eyes as he finally saw it: a path toward advancement. No longer would he wither away in a pointless search for records he knew did not, no, could not exist.
“Do not mistake me, mortal; this gift will not come free or even cheap,” Mashoh taunted.
“Anything you desire is yours, my lord, but I am afraid I hold nothing worthy enough.”
“And if I asked you for the life of your apprentice?”
The question struck Silvathos like a dagger, and the silence grew as the mortal was left with an impossible question. Caelan was his cherished apprentice. Could he bring himself to kill the boy who admired and respected him so dearly? The thought sickened him, yet a treacherous part of him, the part of him that had led to so much destruction, considered the request.
As Silvathos came to a decision, Mashoh spoke once again,“Of course, I am not so cruel as to ask for such a thing. I have other ways for you to prove you’re deserving.”
“Whatever you ask of me, I will do, or I will die trying,” Silvathos declared.
“We shall see,” the Erythyn doubted,
“I have designed four great trials for you to participate in Silvathos, each of which will prove a virtue worthy of a prophet.” A wall opened within the statue of Yeshua in the middle of the great hall, and a staircase appeared that led to the crypt of the deceased prophet of force. “First is the trial of wisdom; here discernment and foresight will guide your path. Second is the trial of courage; you shall prove your power in the face of fear as you face its guardian. Third is the trial of Integrity, where you will confess your sins. Last is the trial of subservience; before you reach Yeshua’s remains, you must show what you have lacked so far, humility and servility .”
“My lord, I shall prove myself worthy to you today,” without any hesitation, Silvathos stood up and strode into the open passage toward his demise.
* * *
In a different room, Caelan slept peacefully in his bed as his grandfather was visited by the deity. Again, Caelan was mighty in his own right, and even while asleep his connection alarmed him of the power within the tomb. He felt the danger that Silvathos faced and opened his eyes in a panic. Cold sweat ran down his brow, and he knew trouble was brewing.
The choices Silvathos had made led to countless enemies, and assassination attempts were common occurrences in the Citadel. However, no assassin ever reached the inner sanctum of the maze-like city. Even the Acolytes of Virithas failed every time, deciding to leave Silvathos to his old age.
So, an enemy capable of bypassing all their security would be a match for even his grandfather.
In a rush, Caelen dressed himself in simple but well-made clothes and buckled his sword to his waist. He sighed; it wouldn’t be the first time he had fought off assassins in the middle of the night.
He ran across the halls of the inner sanctum, remaining wary of possible ambushes. But he found nothing and his path to the tomb was uninterrupted. When he reached it, his grandfather was nowhere to be found. This was odd; the old man refused to leave Yeshua’s Tomb these days.
Then, Caelan noticed the entrance within the center of the tomb where Yeshua’s statue lay. That was odd. They had ruled out any secret passages after years of searching through the shelves and rooms. Had Silvathos found one? Why didn’t he wake Caelan? Something was wrong. He felt his connection quiver as another presence revealed itself and drew his sword.
“Who– what are you? What have you done with my Master?”
“He has left; Silvathos chose to walk through that passage towards transcendence and has abandoned you,” the Silhouette said.
The boy despaired, not because of the strange creature before him; his instincts told Caelan there was no danger. It was the thought his grandfather had deemed Caelan too weak to stand beside him that ate away at the boy. He felt betrayed. Did years of unwavering loyalty and affection towards Silvathos mean nothing to the Sage?
“It is not too late; you can still enter the labyrinth, Caelan, follow the steps of Silvathos, and confront him inside the crypt.”
Caelan did not know why he trusted the Silhouette, but its voice soothed the ache of Silvathos’ portrayed betrayal. There was something in the being, something greater than anything Caelan had ever met, a divine aspect.
Lost in that train of thought, Caelan snapped back to the present when the Silhouette spoke once more.
“Go now Caelan, face the four trials within the labyrinth and prove yourself worthy of standing beside your master.”
Without thinking twice, Caelan gathered his resolve and strode into the opened passage.
* * *
No mortal in the world knew about the Labyrinth; not even Silvathos, the current lord of Hefker, had
any idea what was hidden within.
He walked as fast as his old body would allow yet remained wary of the dangers that awaited him; the darkness of the Labyrinth forced him to create his own light. And yet, there had been nothing to truly challenge him, small traps that anyone with a few years of experience could easily pass. Spike pits and arrow traps were the most common among them. He had yet to encounter any contraptions that involved artifice.
His first real challenge came from a large pit that blocked his path. It spanned 20 paces, and as far as his enhanced sight could tell, it was many more times that deep. Jumping was not an option to Silvathos, not that it wasn’t possible; a powerful enough Archon might be capable of crossing it. However, age took its toll, and Silvathos was long past his prime. He reached out to his link, the sands of reality that inhabited everything. He had planned to alter the limestone in the Labyrinth and create a bridge on which he could cross. But the stone would not budge; the sands was set in place and refused to change.
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That was odd. Silvathos had come across materials that were resistant to transformation. The entire citadel was made of such stone, but not on this level. Silvathos was a sage; it had been decades since he had been challenged by those.
Still distracted by the limestone, he failed to notice the creature that came crawling out of the pit. A large reptile-like monster with a long, thick neck and webbed feet, it had no eyes but could still see the human standing there, fascinated by the stone it had lived beside since it was captured. Excited at the chance for prey, the creature charged Silvathos. It had been centuries since it had tasted the flesh of man.
It did not take much to hear the loud footsteps of the creature as it barreled towards Silvathos. He turned, still actively using his link. Silvathos pressed the Shael to the ground with a powerful vortex.
“I have never seen your kind, though you appear surprisingly weak. Still, no harm in being careful,” Silvathos said as he sparked a flame within the crushing wind.
The Shael cried as it burned, this human was nearly as horrible and powerful as those who trapped it here. It understood that staying meant death, so it fled.
Silvathos was left puzzled as he felt the sands within the limestone ripple under the creature, and it sank into the ground. The limestone did not melt or split, it stayed unchanged to the normal eye. But Silvathos noticed the change and felt the creature somehow pass through it
Silvathos began to laugh. Yes, the Shael had gotten away and would undoubtedly bring more along, but that was inconsequential compared to what he had just learned.
“Wonderful! Wonderful! Why did I never think of this?” he exclaimed, then pulled out a notebook from within his tunic and began to note down what he had discovered.
Silvathos was a sage acknowledged by multiple countries as one of the most potent archons of the age. So him being capable of analyzing what the Shael had done, and quickly understanding the concept behind it was not surprising.
After a few minutes of writing down notes and calculations, Silvathos turned back towards the pit.
“Hmm, I could create a gust to push me to the other side, but what would be the fun in that.”
He turned towards one of the walls of the Labyrinth, and with a suppressed giggle, he walked into it.
* * *
Caelan had been running for what felt like hours. At first, the tracks that Silvathos left behind were easy enough to follow. This place had laid undisturbed for centuries, and his footsteps were clear in the blue light emanating from glowing glyphs carved into the walls. But when he came upon a large pit, the trail went cold. A battle had taken place here, and in one area, the floor was even scorched. Caelan could not help but worry for his grandfather.
The pit was easy enough for him to get through; he just jumped it. But as he continued running through the labyrinth, looking for clues, he eventually reached a dead end.
The glyphs dimmed as if rejecting him, their light fading in protest when he retraced his path. Was it the labyrinth’s way of mocking him, or was there something he wasn’t seeing?
When he turned back, he found two paths ahead of him.
This was a labyrinth with no turns or forking passages. How could he come to a crossroads? Was he lost? Or was there just no clear path forward?
He chose the right path, hoping he had chosen correctly. However, he found himself in darkness and a dead end. Then, he turned and headed in the direction he had come, but he never found the forked passage.
An idea came to Caelan as he slowly raised his head towards the ceiling, or more importantly, the lack of one. It was still very high up, if he had to guess, over a hundred paces, but if the wall could be climbed, he could just walk on top of the labyrinth to find the right path. Caelan thought about creating stairs or handholds from the stone, but no matter how much he tried, the stone refused to change. A gust of wind under him might allow Caelan to reach the top, but the fall might leave him hurt.
Caelan began pacing in a tight circle, considering the multiple approaches he might take. After a few minutes, he stopped and sat on the sandy floor. He had always disliked sand; it was rough and coarse, and it got everywhere. Unfortunately, Hefker was constantly battered by sandstorms, which left the city perpetually covered in the evil substance.
Caelan swiped his palm across the floor to get a handful, sifting the grain through his finger; it felt different. The limestone around him had an oppressive aura about it, but the sand didn’t; it was normal, pliable. He slowly stood up and looked around him; there was a lot of sand.
Caelan called to his connection, and it confirmed his suspicion. He pulled a good amount towards him and formed a small column of sandstone, raised his foot, and took the step, then another one, and another one. Columns of sandstone appeared under him wherever his feet landed. The sand of the columns behind him crumbled and fell back down to the ground, unable to maintain their shape.
Once on top of the wall, Calean suppressed his connection, and his sense of the world’s inner workings dulled. That was his biggest weakness, his age, regardless of how talented everyone considered him to be, and he’d only had his connection for a few years. Actively using that sixth sense strained his mind to the point of debilitating headaches. A temporary solution was to keep it suppressed, making it effectively useless. But he had a feeling this would be a long day, and he would rather conserve his strength.
Caelan looked around him, looking for the center of the labyrinth. Instead, he spotted tens of odd lizards in a wild charge, many crawling out of the walls. His link told him all of these were Shael.
“damn me,” Caelan cursed under his breath, his heart pounding as the Shael slithered closer.
Walking on top of the labyrinth was heavily discouraged.
* * *
Silvathos wandered the labyrinth, guided to the center by his connection.
He did not encounter any more Shael, though he remained alert for a horde of those beasts to attack him as he traveled within the walls. Shael, like that, usually gathered in large groups; maybe something had drawn them away.
He did occasionally leave the limestone to walk in the passages; there was no air within the walls, after all.
It was an odd sensation. The limestone was solid yet somehow ethereal. When he used his connection to push the sands within it, the immutable limestone gradually turned vicious to him. It still required a lot of concentration to keep the stone from crushing him. But for an Archon like Silvathos, it wasn’t particularly taxing.
The labyrinth itself was a fascinating work of engineering, ignoring the limestone’s evident quality and innate properties. The whole labyrinth seemed to be made of a single large piece of unbroken stone. There were no seams connecting blocks or signs of cracks within its walls.
As Silvathos walked, his eyes lingered on the glyphs etched into the walls, not any language he recognized; they were bold and angular, made up of intricate shapes that seemed to be drawings of instructions and stories. Some depicted what resembled creatures—The Shael—while others showed swirling patterns that felt like they might signify movement or energy.
“Likely the story of this place,” he pondered, then shook his head and turned away from the glyphs. “This isn’t the time for distractions; my future awaits.”
He slowed as he approached a large gate. The cold alloy bars shared properties similar to the limestone in the labyrinth but were somehow more. He felt a presence on the other side of the gate. This was the end of the trial of wisdom. It had been too easy, too straightforward. Had the test been his ability to learn a new formation? What wisdom was there to completing a labyrinth without much trouble? Had Silvathos missed the actual trial?
No, he was just overthinking it. This only showed how wise he already was. Instead of pondering the topic for much longer, he prepared. This would be the trial of courage. He had fought his share of powerful Archons and Shael, yet what lay beyond the gate emanated pure hatred and hunger. Shael, like that, tended to be old and powerful, and Silvathos could not be too careful.
He used his connection to pull the gate open, and Silvathos found himself in a large corridor. Unlike those found in the labyrinth, this one was grander, and instead of limestone, the walls were pure black granite.
Lanterns lit the corridor; though many were broken, they revealed what lay ahead. A humanoid being stood ten feet tall. It had the body of a man, with brown fur covering its entirety and horns sprouting from its bestial head. It was similar to the Nefesh, though, unlike the enlightened humanoids that inhabited Har’ Gadol. If this creature had ever held true consciousness, it had been replaced by an unthinking beast. Silvathos could see its brutish nature behind it when their gazes met.
Silvathos reached towards his left shoulder and untied the knot that held his emerald toga in place. As it fell, four things were revealed.
The first was the old, decrepit body of the man known as the Sage of Hefker; even through the gray tunic he wore, one could make out the remains of a great warrior; his now thin body still told stories of a once athletic physique. As his still broad shoulders stretched, something else was revealed; countless white lines marked his arms and shoulders, emanating from within the tunic—scars ancient as the man himself— proof of his defiance. Next was a thin quiver at his waist, holding several metal-tipped arrows. That would have seemed odd if not for the thin emerald-colored longbow in his left hand, the toga nowhere to be found.
Silvathos raised his bow, a relic left behind from before the first era of man, and knocked an arrow, he exhaled slowly, his body tense but practiced. The familiar weight of the bow steadied him, its emerald surface glinting in the dim light
As if waiting for this, the Shael at the other end of the corridor roared and ran at Silvathos on all fours. Its hooved hands and feet thundered as they made indents in the granite as the monster gained speed.
The arrow in the bowstring vibrated as Silvathos loosed it. Instead of knocking another and sending a barrage at the Shael, he pulled back the string once more and loosed it, and as he did, the arrow accelerated in mid-air. He repeated the process two more times, all in the span of less than a second, as the arrow flew at an explosive speed.
The Shael tried to dodge, its massive frame irrelevant as its strength and agility were unnatural, yet just when he thought he avoided the arrow’s trajectory, it changed direction without losing speed, as if it was tethered to him. Doing its best to avoid serious injury, the Shael twisted its body; the arrow struck its right shoulder and pierced a hole straight through, clearly hurt but not enough to stagger: the Minotaur, a term coined by the prophets of old, resumed its charge towards Silvathos, the bloodlust palpable to his enhanced senses as it let out a terrible cry.
* * *
Caelan took a large leap from one wall to another as the lizard behind him snapped at his heels. The creatures had been relentless in their chase. He’d killed so many, but they came in such numbers that it made little difference.
He had a few moments to catch his breath; every step felt heavy; the Shael learned that if they attempted to jump the gaps like he did, they would be cut down, so they adapted, choosing to slither back into the limestone instead of jumping to their deaths.
This had been going on for too long; he couldn’t even choose a direction to run; the Shael came from everywhere, taking a short moment to observe his surroundings; Caelan was lost. He had realized that the labyrinth was enormous; it had a diameter of at least nine miles. This meant it was as big as Hefker, but he wasn’t sure exactly where this place was held in the enormous city-state. It wasn’t a cavern. Instead, it seemed like a separate space made to contain this damn maze.
Because that’s what this was, a Maze, no Labyrinth would have dead ends everywhere and moving passages that made absolutely no sense. Caelan had gone back down since the Shael tended to be less determined to tear him apart down there. But the results were even worse than before. Instead of a single path leading to a dead end, there were multiple paths, and the glyphs no longer shone with their warm blue light. He had decided it would be easier to just face the horde above than the frustration below.
Caelans wasn’t sure where the end of the labyrinth was; he had just been running around, looking for signs of Silvathos, a clear path, or maybe even a large ominous gate. But no clues had appeared since the pit, which felt like an eternity ago to the boy. He was tired, he was stressed, but most importantly, he was scared. He had followed Silvathos into this trap without much consideration, all he had was his tunic and the scimitar at his waist, no food or water. Panic swelled within Calean as the thought of being trapped in this maze for eternity, or until his death, manifested.
He chased after his grandfather to prove himself and repay the debt owed to the man who had raised him, yet no matter how much he tried, the boy was always left behind—not just in this forsaken labyrinth but outside it, too. Everyone viewed Calean as a prodigy and the apprentice of a sage. But the truth was much different. He had stagnated, unable to progress further as he struggled to understand how to alter the world like his grandfather.
The train of thought was broken as the chase resumed. Lizards emerged from the walls. Caelan took advantage of the moment and performed several slashes in quick succession. There were no external sources in this damn labyrinth, no heat or wind to fuel his attacks with, yet his own strength was still enough to sever heads and limbs from the Shael.
While they were still disoriented, he sprinted away, reaching out to his connection; Caelan used the stale air in the room to create a gust behind him, pushing many of the chasing Shael off the wall and down to the ground. He didn’t think it would kill any of them, but it was worth the try.
Caelan was frustrated. No matter how fast he ran or how much he searched, he found nothing. The Shael were fervent in their desire to tear him apart, and no amount of slashing and chopping made them relent.
Eventually, he stopped, the bubbling frustration finally reaching its zenith, rage flooding his body. “Enough, I’ll kill each and every one of you cursed beasts,” Caelan barked defiantly. There was no point in conserving his strength if there would be no end to the labyrinth, so he flared his presence.
Before either the boy or the lizards could make a move, a shockwave shook the walls. He felt the grains in them shake as they were disturbed by a great force. His footing loose, Caelan stumbled as one of the beasts charged at him, biting down on his sword arm and pushing him over the edge of the wall.
* * *
The emerald green tunic reformed around Silvathos as a powerful gust lifted Silvathos into the air. A moment later, the Minotaur crashed full force against the granite behind where he had just stood; a second shockwave resonated through the entire labyrinth as it left a vast crater in the wall. Silvathos would have been turned into a bloody mist if he had faced the blow head-on.
Silvathos could not afford to take a direct hit from the beast; he would have to be evasive.
Still gliding in the air, Silvathos used a second gust to gain distance from Shael, landing back on the ground. The bow reappeared in his hand, and he quickly aimed it. Expecting another arrow, the beast failed to notice as the air around it formed into several bubbles, rippled for a brief moment, and then burst with a concussive wave, leaving small bruises and burns across its body.
Silvathos began dancing around the great hall, jumping and gliding from wall to wall to confuse the beast. Occasionally shooting arrows that the beast avoided or deflected.-
However, instead of resuming its charge, the beast studied Silvathos, and as their gazes met, he noticed something was different in its eyes. Still gliding, Silvathos was caught unaware when the Shael roared; its cry made the room tremble, and the bloodlust that Silvathos used to predict the Minotaur’s actions vanished, as did the gust that kept him in the air.
He landed harshly against the cold stone ground. His old bones creaked under the strain, but he rolled with the momentum and managed to rise into a defensive stance.. As he did, the Minotaur grabbed a handful of broken granite and threw it at Silvathos, the fractured shards sharp and fast enough to shred through him as easily as a hot knife against butter.
Unable to consider what had just happened to his formations, he braced himself. The emerald tunic reappeared and flowed in front of him like a curtain. The granite vibrated, then shattered into dust as it hit the emerald curtain, and all the momentum dispersed.
Distracted by this, Silvathos nearly failed to notice the loud cracking of the granite floor as the Minatour’s strong legs carried it in its wild charge. Still too weary to create another gust and jump away, Silvathos took a different approach.
Silvathos widened his stance and stood his ground. He loaded an arrow from his quiver and took a deep breath. Just before the Minataur struck him, he sank into the ground, waited for a brief moment, and emerged from the spot he had sunk into, an arrow still ready to fire. It was an easy shot.
Crack, the Minotaur’s fist smashed into the granite wall formed by the sage, breaking it and sending the old man tumbling away.
No, that hadn’t been enough. Unsure about how the human had reacted so quickly to its attack, the minotaurs waited as the old man slowly stood up once more, each movement sent pain flaring across his broken body. Their gazes met again, and Silvathos finally realized what had changed. The beast had snapped out of its mindless rage, and for the first time since the fight began, a chill ran down his weathered spine. The Minotaur was now lucid.
* * *
When Caelan came to, he felt a sharp pain across his entire body; that’s not what worried him, though; his right arm, the one he used to fight, was numb. He panicked. Had he lost it? How? When? He wasn’t sure what had happened; his memory was blurry, and all he knew was that he had fallen over the edge of the wall.
Mustering up his courage, Caelan opened his eyes. They felt cumbersome, and he saw the gruesome sight before him through the soft blue glow. The Sheal had fallen underneath him and cushioned the blow, yet his body had still taken quite the hit. Bruises and cuts covered his body; he felt as if he had been trampled by a Rhovar, and yet felt immense relief as he saw his right arm, still firmly attached to his body, mangled and bent, yes, but attached nonetheless.
He was an Archon; his body would heal most injuries given enough time and rest, but a missing limb could not be regrown. Calean raised his sword hilt to his mouth and took a bite as he pulled and twisted his bloody arm, doing his best not to scream in pain, listening to the scrape of bone against bone until he felt it snap into place.
He tore a chunk of cloth from his tunic and wrapped it around his arm and shoulder to make an improvised splint. It was a crude solution, but he’d rather help the healing process than let it happen on its own and risk a malunion.
Caelan scanned his surroundings, dead Shael, sand, and glowing glyphs. He could not be in a worse position. He was badly hurt, with no resources, no swordsmanship, and no grandfather to bail him out when he got into trouble. And yet, he felt a sense of relief and freedom.
While resting atop the mangled Shael, Caelan considered the odd situation. Silvathos had been at his side, teaching, pushing, and protecting ever since the boy could remember. He’d been there when Silvathos first forged his connection, when Caelan had stumbled and cried fighting beast outside the city, when he’d won his first tournament and proved his prowess as a warrior. And yet, as fond as those memories were to him, they were slightly tainted by the fact that he’d never truly accomplished anything on his own. His greatest triumphs were also credited to the Sage.
Yes, the Sage’s apprentice was named the prodigy of Hefker, but did the people see Caelan, or did they just see a product of his Grandfather.
However, this was different. No one knew where the two had gone. If Caelan could pass the trials first and gain the secrets that Silvaathos sought, he could prove to not just the city but also Silvathos himself that he was no longer an apprentice but a fully-fledged Archon who had no need for a teacher.
He felt a sudden surge of determination, and the very labyrinth seemed to respond to his newfound goal. The blue light began to pulse, and all the remaining worries that Caelan felt vanished. It was as if this place soothed them away with encouragement, urging him to stand.
And so, with a tired but resolute sigh, Caelan forces his beaten body to rise. For he had a labyrinth to traverse and a trial to pass.
* * *
Prologue
The woman with silvery gray hair carefully placed a thin ribbon between the book’s pages, marking the last page she had read. She ran her finger across the smooth parchment, following the tightly packed letters and tracing their sharp lines. Then, she gently closed the thin book and, as she had done before, ran her finger across the cover, feeling the bumps of the rough leather. She reached the black letters at the center of the cover and read them out loud.
“The Tomb of Silvathos”
It was a favorite of hers – the first of the Caenthian epics, though some just couldn’t appreciate such stories. Calling them pointless, exaggerated tales, a particularly rude gentleman had even dared to name them armchair epics, mocking her about them in their first meeting.
With a fond smile, she raised her head to look at the culprit, a handsome young man in his late twenties, his blonde wavy hair a mess, and fine clothes wrinkled as he lay passed out in the large canopy bed. She’d married him, of course; past the calloused exterior and sharp tongue lay a good man, and more importantly, someone who loved books as much as her, though for different reasons and genres.
That had been a contentious subject for them back when they were still courting and lasted even after they were wed. It had been resolved after one furious argument, during which they had finally come to a conclusion: To each their own.
Her gaze shifted lower, towards what lay in the man’s arms, towards another product of that same argument. A small child lay there, his wide green eyes looking at her expectantly as if waiting for her to finish the story.
With a soft, motherly smile, she carefully placed the book by the nightstand and said, “We’ll finish it another day, my sweat emerald; if your father decides to give you a break from his awful philosophy and history books, we might even get to read it, tomorrow.”
She climbed into the bed and casually used her connection to turn out all the remaining lights in the room. Then, quick as a zoyf, she snatched the toddler away from his father and embraced him, holding his warmth to her chest. Black hair poked out from her arms.
That trait of the boy had sparked plenty of rumors. Some of the maids still spoke of affairs and bandits. But those were all meaningless gossip. Regardless of what others said, she loved the boy’s hair; it wasn’t a curse or a sign of impurity in their line. Nevertheless, she was no fool. Others would not love it as she did. He would struggle, and that broke her heart because she knew there was no way to spare him the hurt.
She released the boy from her embrace; it must have been uncomfortable for him due to her bulging stomach, another product of an argument with her husband and of their love, of course.
Slowly, she began to drift into sleep. She no longer dreamt of sailing the Aegean like Caelan did so long ago, nor did she have nightmares where she was trapped in an icy tower, with nothing but books to comfort her. Instead, her dreams were of more happy moments with her family and of the child who would soon come and make her joy greater.