A sharp rap at his door jolted Soren awake. Dawn’s grey light seeped in through the window.

“It’s time.” Raz stood in the doorway, a folded white robe draped over his arm. He held it out without speaking.

Soren got up, the stone floor cold against his feet and took the robe from Raz.

The linen felt rough against Soren’s skin as he pulled it on, the fabric heavy and unshaped. He reached for his boots.

“No.” Raz shook his head. “Barefoot.”

Soren straightened and moved towards the door, but Raz’s outstretched hand stopped him.

“The vials. Bring them.”

In the corridor, Alaric stood waiting in an identical white robe, his face drawn. “I’m so hungry—

“Silence.” Raz turned and walked away, clearly expecting them to follow.

Soren’s bare feet whispered against the stone as they wound through the corridors.

When they stepped outside, the courtyard spread before them, torch flames still flickering against the lightening sky.

The portcullis rose and Soren stepped through the gate, small stones stabbing into his feet.

The tide had retreated, revealing expanses of dark sand and jagged rock that doubled Gottsisle’s apparent size.

Raz led them along a well-worn path that wound between buildings both ruined and intact. Some structures had collapsed into piles of weathered stone, while others stood firm.

They passed what must have been a temple or library once, its columns still reaching skyward though its roof had long since fallen.

Beyond it, a lighthouse rose from the island’s eastern point, its beacon dark in the growing day.

Soren glanced back toward the mainland. A causeway stretched across the waters between Gottsisle and Wiete, visible now that the tide had retreated, a line of massive bones marking its path—ribs the size of ship’s timbers thrust up from the churning waters.

“What manner of creature…” Alaric’s voice trailed off at Raz’s glare.

Raz gestured toward a squat stone building ahead, smoke rising from its chimney.

The smith’s workshop opened before them, its forge dominating the spacer.

The heat hit Soren like a physical wall, stinging his eyes.

The smith stood waiting. Age had weathered his face like leather, but his arms rippled with muscle. He said nothing as Raz presented the ravenglass dagger. He nodded and took it with reverent hands.

Raz turned to Soren and Alaric. “The vials.”

They handed their vials Raz.

The smith placed the dagger into the forge’s heart.

The ravenglass seemed to resist at first, then slowly began to yield.

The blade’s perfect darkness melted into something fluid, something alive.

Slowly, the dagger melted to a formless mass, shimmering between deepest black and blinding white.

The smith added their blood and tears and the mixture writhed.

Hours bled together in the oppressive heat.

Soren’s legs trembled, his body drained from hunger, from producing the tears that now mixed with the molten ravenglass.

Sweat soaked through his robe, ran into his eyes, but he didn’t dare look away.

The hammer fell again and again, each strike sending vibrations through the stone floor.

The sound burrowed into Soren’s skull, became his heartbeat.

The smith worked with mechanical precision, folding, and refolding the ravenglass, working their essence deeper into its core.

Beside him, Alaric swayed, his face pale beneath the sweat and grime, dark circles prominent under his eyes.

What tears had he shed in the night’s darkness?

The ravenglass transformed beneath the smith’s hands.

Each fold, each strike seemed to draw something from the ravenglass.

Soren felt it in his bones, a pulling sensation that went deeper than physical exhaustion.

The dagger was taking something from them, consuming more than just blood and tears.

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This was more than craftsmanship—it was alchemy, transformation, rebirth through fire and pain.

Something other, something elsewhere, seemed to whisper beyond his thoughts.

His vision blurred.

The heat, the smoke, the endless rhythm of the hammer.

He forced himself to focus, to watch as their sacrifices were worked into the blade’s very essence.

“The dagger remembers,” Raz said. “Every drop of blood, every tear shed. It becomes part of its nature.”

Soren’s legs nearly gave out as another hour crawled past.

His body screamed for rest, for water, for any relief from the forge’s relentless heat.

Finally, the hammer’s rhythm changed. The strikes came slower, more deliberate, as the smith brought his work to its conclusion.

The smith plunged the blade into a basin of water.

Steam exploded upward with a hiss.

When the blade emerged, it hummed with barely contained energy.

Soren felt it even from where he stood—a pull, a hunger that spoke to something deep within him.

The dagger was alive now in a way it hadn’t been before.

Their blood, their tears, their shared suffering had awakened something within.

The smith presented the blade to Raz. “It’s done.”

Raz examined the weapon with critical eyes, turning it this way and that in the forge’s light. The blade seemed to bend reality around itself, creating shadows where none should exist. “Well done. This is truly a masterwork.”

Raz wrapped the blade carefully in black cloth and led them outside.

Neither Soren nor Alaric spoke as they followed Raz back through the fortress halls.

Raz halted by their rooms. “Change. Meet me outside. We leave immediately.”

Soren staggered into his room, the world tilting slightly as exhaustion and hunger crashed over him.

His white robe clung to his skin, soaked through with sweat. The simple act of pulling it off felt like an immense effort, his muscles trembling from standing so long.

His regular clothes felt rough and confining against his damp skin.

He didn’t wait for Alaric.

Outside, grey-robed figures moved around the balloon, checking ropes, and securing harnesses.

The wyverns shifted restlessly, their scales gleaming dully in the weak light.

Alaric caught up as Soren caught sight of Raz waiting for them.

Raz gestured them into the cabin.

When they took their seats, a flame roared above them and the wyverns took the strain of the tow ropes.

When they were airborne, Raz produced a simple meal—bread, cheese, dried meat, and a water skin.

The bread tasted like ash in Soren’s mouth, the cheese like clay. But his body craved the sustenance.

Across from him, Alaric ate mechanically, his movements sluggish.

The wyverns’ wings beat a steady rhythm as they turned south.

Soren pressed his forehead against the window, watching the landscape crawl past below.

The island’s jagged shores gave way to open water, then to the familiar coastline of Wiete.

Forests and mountains drifted by beneath them, eventually yielding to fields and roads.

The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken words.

Soren closed his eyes, allowing the exhaustion to take him.

A crash tore Soren from his sleep.

Lightning split the sky, illuminating the wyverns as they fought against the wind.

Rain hammered against the balloon’s cabin, water dripping onto Soren’s shoulder. “What do we do?”

Raz shrugged. “We trust the wyverns.”

Alaric sat across from him, one hand pressing against the window, the other gripping the bench.

The cabin lurched as another gust caught them.

One of the wyverns screeched.

Raz remained perfectly still, the wrapped dagger resting on his lap.

“We’re coming in too fast,” Alaric said.

Welttor’s lights appeared below them, distorted by sheets of rain.

The wyverns’ wings beat frantically as they approached the port.

A massive gust caught them broadside, sending the balloon careening sideways.

The impact threw them all forward.

The cabin tipped, wood groaning.

Soren’s shoulder slammed into the wall as they landed.

Raz pushed the door open, letting in a blast of wind and water. “Move.”

They scrambled out into the driving rain as attendants scrambled to secure the balloon and tether the wyverns.

Raz led the way at a brisk pace.

Soren followed through Welttor’s empty streets, his boots splashing through growing puddles.

The Guild appeared ahead, a darker shadow in the gloom.

Raz held the door open, ushering them inside.

Without pausing, Raz guided them down into the Vault.

Water dripped from their clothes, marking their passage with trailing puddles.

“You’ve both shown remarkable endurance,” Raz said. “The retrieval of the ravenglass, the forging ritual—these were no small feats.” He paused, his eyes moving between them. “But initiation into the Guild requires more than mere survival.”

Something in his tone made Soren’s pulse quicken.

Beside him, Alaric shifted.

“There is one final task. Before either of you can become an apprentice, you must complete your first contract.” He paused looking between them. “The contract, is on each other.”

Alaric let out a gasp. “What?” Alaric’s voice cracked. “No, that’s no… we can’t…”

Soren drew his dagger and lunged—a swift, upward thrust beneath the ribs, angled to pierce the heart.

The blade slid home with ease, as if Alaric’s flesh offered no more resistance than smoke.

Alaric’s mouth opened, but no sound emerged.

His hands grasped at Soren’s arm, fingers clutching at the fabric of his sleeve.

Their eyes met, and Soren saw the moment understanding bloomed in Alaric’s gaze—not just of death’s approach, but of the deeper betrayal.

“Sor…” The word came out as barely a whisper, thick with blood and disbelief.

Soren maintained eye contact as he withdrew the blade.

He owed Alaric that much at least—to witness the full weight of what he’d done. To acknowledge the death of not just his friend, but of everything they’d once meant to each other.

Alaric crumpled, his body making a hollow sound as it hit the stone floor, his final breath escaping in a soft sigh.

His eyes remained open, fixed on Soren.

The Vault’s silence pressed in, broken only by the soft patter of blood dripping from the dagger’s edge.

Soren stood perfectly still, his mind calm despite what he’d just done.

Raz stepped forward, placing a hand on Soren’s shoulder.

The gesture carried weight—approval, possession, finality.

“I’m glad it was you.”

Soren didn’t respond.

His eyes remained fixed on Alaric’s body, on the growing pool of blood that spread across the stone floor.

The sight should have horrified him, should have broken something inside him.

Instead, he felt only a cold certainty that he’d done what was necessary.

“This was the real test,” Raz said. “Not just the willingness to kill, but the ability to sacrifice everything for the Guild.”

The words settled over Soren, heavy but somehow fitting.

He understood now what the Guild truly was, what it demanded of its members.

Not just skill or loyalty, but the complete surrender of anything that might compete with that loyalty.

Soren finally looked away from Alaric’s body, meeting Raz’s gaze.

“This…” Raz offered the ravenglass dagger to Soren, handle-first. “Is yours. Bound by sacrifice.”

Soren took the dagger in his hand, his finders wrapping around its icy hilt.

He looked down at Alaric one last time, allowing himself a moment to remember their friendship, their shared dreams, their brotherhood.

But those memories belonged to someone else—to a version of himself that had died the moment he’d joined the Guild.

“Come.” Raz moved towards the door. “We have much to discuss.”

Soren followed without looking back, leaving Alaric’s body cooling on the Vault’s stone floor.