All of Nathariel’s previous disciples had failed.

Not in the Chambers, of course. They’d all blazed through those with ease. They’d always failed afterwards. So set in their ways, stuck on their Paths. They wanted advice from him, but they refused to listen. They wanted him to solve all their problems with a swipe of his hand, and he couldn’t do that.

He could only pass on the ways of his instructor, and they didn’t want such wisdom. What was to say the Mediator wouldn’t be any different?

Over the past two weeks, she had struggled through the Night Vale Chambers, bumbling around like a cat with her tail chopped off. She had nothing but the raw strength plopped onto her by the world, and no idea how to use it. She had a bag full of elixirs and pills, but she didn’t even begin to take them up—except for the healing elixirs, which she had burned through in the first three days.

Nathariel kept pace with her, watching with his spiritual sense as he aimlessly strolled the mountains. It wasn’t hard to keep up with her.

Over the past two weeks, she had been pounced on by magmaspawn, charged by angry lava wraiths, and even faced a few drakes. The drakes surprised him the most—she knew exactly where its weakness was and how to exploit it. When it felt any sort of pain, it recoiled, raised its head, then blasted fire, exposing its neck. Had she fought drakes before? Or had Phasoné, perhaps?

The chambers did not come without their toll. Her leg had been broken in a clash with a powerful magmaspawn, and she had already used up her healing elixirs. She limped on it, wincing with every step. From head-to-toe, she was covered in cuts and scrapes, and a few worse gouges. Her shoulder had been dislocated a few days ago, and she’d been forced to set it herself. He had practically heard her screaming.

It was nothing a God-heir wouldn’t have had to endure, if they were training under the watch of a proper instructor.

From such a distance, it was easy to feel removed, though he knew that she might not make it out of the Chambers—not at this rate. At some point, she would be caught by a magmaspawn, and the beast would land a fatal blow. She had no speed or agility anymore.

Unless she advanced to the next stage.

Upon reaching Master’s Mate, her body would be restored and reforged. Most God-heirs underwent the transformation after a few decades; most Mediators after a month of having their powers thrust onto them.

His expectations for Phasoné’s Mediator might have been too high. She had been Mediator for months, and she hadn’t yet reached it.

Nathariel walked along for two more days, smoking his pipe and enjoying the sights of the mountain valley while he could.

Every few hours, he extended his awareness just a little further, to observe the Order disciple. He had dispatched a human bounty hunter with a negligible spirit, as well as a party of Kudmen Chambers Company explorers who had refused to turn away.

He was doing alright. Nathariel might go back and pick him up—if the Mediator ever made it through.

Nathariel turned his attention back to the Chambers below him, and swept his senses through the hallways. Here on Muspellar, where fire was the strongest, he was in his element, and the flame aided his spiritual perception. He couldn’t see the Mediator, but he could see an incredibly detailed model of her in the ripples of heat and in the wake she left in the flames.

Despite everything, she just kept going.

He snorted, expecting her to die when a magmaspawn leapt around the corner. She burned through a small wisp of her seer-core, empowering her fingers with it. After a few minutes of violent, desperate grappling, she got a grip on its horns. With the extra strength her starlight Arcara gave her, she split the beast’s skull. A few more bruises and cuts as a reward, of course.

A wave of pity built in his chest. It had been a long while since he had taken a disciple…

He shut his eyes. Not again. They always failed.

But this was the Mediator. He would never have a better chance to pass on the teachings of his instructor to someone more worthy. He would never have a better chance to etch his name into history, to change the galaxy, than he did now. She might have been weak, but she was a blank slate, ripe for moulding.

In that moment, he promised himself that if she reached the first upward-leading intersection before sundown, he would step in and help.

She didn’t. It took her an extra half-day before she found the tunnel.

Next, Nathariel told himself that if she reached the main falls by the next sunset, where the large body of the Rallemflow dropped down a few feet suddenly, he would offer his assistance.

She didn’t make it until another day had passed. She was dragging her leg, now, and breathing raspy breaths. He could feel desperation rolling off her in waves.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

If she made it to the Firefeather Grove by morning, then. Then he would help.

Again, she arrived late, but she arrived.

He sighed, plagued by indecision. She was unrelenting, desperate, seeking a climb, seeking great strength…and falling short, always. She was like every young God-heir.

Like every young God-heir, except for one thing: she hadn’t yet been moulded.

If she could learn the Burnished Flame Loop cycling technique, he vowed to himself that he would take her as his disciple.

~ ~ ~

Vayra dragged herself into the next large, open hall of the chambers. The floor here was covered in mud. From a distance, she had seen a vast array of glowing red stalks, like treetrunks made of glass.

Now that she was in the room, she could see that they were enormous, upright, feathers. They grew from the soil, and they very well could have been trees. She wasn’t in the mood to investigate.

Everything hurt, and at some point, she was expecting to get used to it. It faded, like the Shadowthorn had, but it was also different. Every time she tried to put weight on any part of her body, a sharp needle of discomfort rolled through her veins and muscles. Her leg especially.

As soon as she had broken her leg, she and Phasoné had realized that getting out of the Chambers would depend on whether she could ascend to Master’s Mate or not.

It left a pit in her stomach for the entire last few weeks, but she had time. Now, she knew it was coming to a close. Despite managing to bolster her body temporarily with Starlight Arcara, she had made no more progress. No foundation for her enhanced body, nothing.

Behind her, she heard a chorus of footfalls pounding through the hallway, followed by screeches and a few gurgles.

The magmaspawn were closing in. There were probably a few drakes among them, too, and she knew that she wouldn’t hold them off.

Vayra hauled herself into the center of the underground grove, staggering between a pair of glassy trees. She wiped her mouth and forehead with her hand, then dipped her fingers into a channel of water that ran down the center of the room. Trying to clear her mind, she splashed a handful of water in her face. Between her clear blood, grime, and sweat, her face was caked. She was sure that a few wet streaks carved through it, leaking down from her eyes—it would have been impossible not to cry a few times, the way she was doing now.

“How close…” she breathed. “...how close are we to Master’s Mate? Phas?”

The Goddess didn’t respond for a few seconds, but Vayra heard her raspy breathing. She healed better than Vayra, but she also had a much lower pain tolerance—the Goddess was used to not feeling pain.

Finally, Phasoné grunted, ‘Core is about…three quarters full of Arcara. You’ve been cycling a lot to fight off the monsters.’

“Figured.”

For a moment, Vayra contemplated climbing to the top of a feathery tree, spending a few days cycling, and forcing an advancement. She wouldn’t earn an enhanced boy, but she would live.

Before she could try, a pair of heavy bootsteps fell behind her. At first, she feared that the magmaspawn had finally arrived, so she turned around, ready to defend herself. But instead of a tar-covered, rocky monster, she spotted a man. He looked in his late thirties, with a thick black beard and long black hair—tied into a ponytail. His skin was dark, but his eyes glowed bright orange. As far as Vayra could tell, he was human.

He shook out the sleeves of his robe, then straightened his tricorne hat. “Disciple presumptive. It is time for instruction.”

Vayra’s mouth fell open. “Time…for—”

The man flicked his fingers, conjuring a flame at their tip. As soon as it lit up, he unveiled the true weight of his spirit, and the force of it alone blasted her back a few feet. Faintly, beneath a headache and an everything-ache, she felt a powerful buzz in the back of her neck.

“Nathariel…” she breathed. There was no one it could be.

Disregarding her leg, she fell to a crouch and pressed her forehead against the dirt. “Sir, Mr. Layre, I—”

“There is no time to grovel, girl.” Nathariel walked past her, his arms tucked behind his back. “I have a breathing technique for you. Learn it, perform it, and master it. Then you will be presumptive no longer.”

She didn’t think her mouth could open any further, but somehow, it did.

‘Don’t just kneel there!’ Phasoné said. ‘Get up and—’

“The Burnished Flame Loop,” Nathariel stated. He planted his boot, the force of it pushing away the dirt in a perfect circle around it. “Your core.” He pointed down. With the heel of his boot, he drew a shape of complex, swirling lines. He moved with complete, stoic control of his feet. He only pressed his heel down when he meant to, surely, to draw only the lines he meant to.

In the end, he drew an image of…a candle flame flame. The core was the wick, and the Arcara above it, only travelled in select channels, forming a teardrop-shaped fire.

For good measure, Nathariel generated an orb of flame-imbued Arcara in his hand—a seer-core—gathered from the heat and the glowing, feathery trees. Unceremoniously, he turned over his hand, dropping the orb.

It splattered against the dirt and raced around, filling the network of lines that he’d drawn with glowing fire.

“That is the pattern,” he stated. “Learn it.”

Vayra glanced around, looking at the hall’s four entrances. All around her, she heard the cries of the magmaspawn. Any moment, they would come streaming in! “Sir…” she warned. “I—”

Nathariel raised a hand, then clenched his fist. A wall of fire erupted in front of each doorway, blocking it with flames.

How would that help? They were magmaspawn, born in lava.

But, though Vayra could hear the creatures past the flaming walls, she didn’t see any of them advancing through it.

‘An Arcara ward,” Phasoné noted. ‘In the truest sense. The fire might not hurt them, but he’s shielding the air itself. They might get through if they push hard enough, but I doubt many will try.’

Nathariel tapped his boot on the dirt, then locked eyes with Vayra. “Learn it.”