Rumbles shudder up from beneath the floor, causing the Coil in my chest to vibrate and emit a dull buzz. There are gears turning under there, beneath my feet. Metal squeals as it scrapes. Pistons whistle and hiss. There's a constant, reverberating series of clicks, not unlike the sounds that come from my dial, only louder, causing the entire room to shake rhythmically.

Bits of metal slide up and down on submerged rails. Slotting into their assigned positions, based on the design of the trial sequence.

I draw the pistols at my hip--revolvers--and slide back the hammers. I'm ready.

Rectangular metal plates begin to pop up out of the floor, suspended by thin metal rods, which are attached to and controlled by the rails.

There are red bulbs in the center and bottom of each target plate. I'm not allowed to shoot until the bulbs flash. That's part of the rules. It's not just about aim, or motion perception. It's about anticipating multiple targets at once. It's about knowing where to strike, and when, and in what order.

There are several plates up and moving. Some of them start to blink. I punch bullet holes in two of them without hardly thinking or deciding to do it. The sounds echo hard and loud, bouncing off metal and glass barriers. Not just the gunshots themselves, but the loud PANG of metal punching through metal. The plates are thin enough that most bullets go right through, rather than ricocheting dangerously.

I'm shooting. My thumbs are blurs, retracting the hammers after every shot. In my head, I'm counting, keeping track of when I need to reload. Every plate I punch with a hole stops blinking and moves back into the floor to be re-positioned. After I count ten shots, I go ahead and let off the last two, before opening the cylinders of both my guns to reload. I roll the cylinders along each of my bandoliers, using my thumbs to press the bullets through the loops and load them. Once the cylinders are full, I snap them back into place, and I'm back to where I left off.

So far, I'm keeping pace. I'm not supposed to let any of the bulbs flash long enough to turn solid, and so far, I'm succeeding. But now the movements of the targets are becoming erratic, harder to predict.

The air is acrid and thick with gunsmoke, which drifts and rolls like fog in the closed space.

A green light begins to blink out of the haze, coming up through a grate toward the middle of the shooting range. I have to be there before it turns solid.

No need to waste time. I jump, crossing a space of thirty or so paces in about a second. The effort uses up an extra amount of my Coil, and chest, as well as my dial, make a loud KA-CHUNK, as the gears inside me jump several teeth before slamming back into place. The noise is loud, and can have the unfortunate side-effect--aside from the extra Coil use--of alerting enemies to what you're doing, in a combat situation. The upside is that you can get where you need to be, when you need to be there.

I land, boots skidding on a flat stretch of flooring, keeping my feet. The targets have begun to shift so that they're on either side of me, facing inward. I pivot, counting bullets and targets at the same time. I go through multiple reloads at this phase of the trial.

I'm still holding onto my ace in the hole. A maneuver that tends to use up Coil rapidly. I have a feeling I'm going to need it.

More green lights show up, keeping me on the move.

For the most part, I'm keeping pace, constantly putting targets out of commission, even as they continually spring up. Until suddenly, the amount of targets in play are counting down. Three in the field, with no new reinforcements. Two. One.

Zero. The range is empty.

I know better than that, though. There has to be a climactic finale to these rituals. Showmanship. There's at least one more phase to this thing.

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I quickly top off my ammo, before holstering my revolvers and taking a wide stance. They want a show, I might as well give it to them. I'm at the opposite end of the staging area from where I started, at this point. The next volley of targets will be appearing somewhere ahead of me.

A loud series of thuds and scrapes under the floor. Thirty targets--maybe more--pop up out of the floor. They're lined up in rows, arrayed as if in some kind of battle formation. All flashing red.

As I reach toward the hip holsters, my mechanical arms split in two below the elbow ball joint, each forearm becoming two separate prehensile appendages. I draw the revolvers in my shoulder holsters at the same time, leveling all four guns at chest height, and begin to let off rounds, moving quickly and methodically between targets, four at a time. A normal human couldn't do this. Not even a Deadeye could. But I am an Aegis. I am Reforged.

All the same, I'm straining. This challenge is right on the edge of my abilities.

The kickback from the guns send seismic shocks through my arms and chest, hammering my body. As much I can, I move with the recoil. I absorb the force, and I use it.

Target plates slam backward into the floor, revealing more plates layered behind them. It's like I'm breaking through a wall, knocking it down, bit by bit. So occupied by the task, and the exertion it requires, that I'm lost in focus. Lost in a reverie of motion and bullets. Until suddenly--and somehow, disappointingly--all the targets are gone, and there's nothing left to break.

I'm suddenly bombarded by the cries of applause. The cheering that until now had been drowned out by the cacophony of gunfire. It reaches out to me now, through the quickly dissipating haze.

I peer upward at the audience. The waving arms. The smiling faces. Though some are bent over, eyes closed and arms folded in reverent prayer.

I unload the rest of my empty shells, chattering as they hit the ground, and holster my weapons. I begin to relax. My pairs of two forearms slam back together, latching back into one. It's a hard form to hold. It's like pulling apart two powerful magnets and trying to hold them a finger-width from each other.

I check my dial. I'm at just over half my Coil. Perhaps I was a bit too conservative in the beginning. Perhaps not. Perhaps I would have come close to running out if I'd kept my arms unlatched for the entire exercise. But it's important to practice restraint, anyway. It's a good habit. A little extra Coil can make a big difference when you're in the field. If you run out, you might get stranded. And to be a captured Aegis in the hands of the Alveranderan Federation is a fate worse than death. I've seen it firsthand.

I've forgotten my manners.

I face Zar'hazel, who is now standing. I bow to him, and to the bishops and magisters. The audience of citizens have grown quiet, taking their seats.

"You've done well, Aegis," he says. "You bring honor to Varcovith, and to his people. You are Chosen."

The citizen section erupts in cheers again. Zar'hazel smiles a little, but he holds up a hand silencing them. "Glory to Varcovith."

"Glory to the Grey God," I say, loud, in unison with the returning chant in which all participate, including Zar'hazel himself.

After this, everyone stands to leave. The trial is done.

I take my jacket from the cleric. As I'm donning it, both the clerics who escorted me bow stiffly. Not to me, but to Zar'hazel, who's approaching me.

He's taller up close. My head only comes to his upper chest, and I have to look up at his face.

I bow.

He holds up a hand, letting me and my escorts know we can relax. As if it were that simple.

This is my first time speaking directly with the High Commander.

I've undergone years of training as an Aegis. My mentors are seasoned warriors, drawing upon centuries of battle experience.

Zar'hazel is older and more experienced than all of them. And more powerful, if the stories are to be believed. He is as deadly to fight head-on in the field as he is formidable a tactician, with a hundred victories and thousands of kills to his name. He can be found in temples throughout Ogridan, praying for hours at a time. He is the epitome of what a servant of Varcovith should be, in this age where we must wage war in the name of our benevolent master, always being certain to keep our eyes on Varcovith, and our Wills aligned with his.

"I would like to speak with you alone, Aegis," Zar'hazel said. As if I would--or could, in good conscience--deny such a request.

"Of course, High Commander," I say.

Zar'hazel nods, gesturing toward a door that leads to a balcony which runs along Ogridan's outer wall. He wants me to go on a walk with him. Alone.

I dismiss the clerics. They leave, heading back to their temple. They don't work for me personally, but are merely here on errand for the trial. I won't need their help getting back to my quarters, anyway.

The round door leading to the walkway is sealed by a hatch valve.

"Here," Zar'hazel says, putting up a hand as he cuts me off on the way to the door. "You should save your Coil." He grips the valve wheel with both hands. It doesn't appear take much effort from him to get the wheel turning, despite the retching squeals emanating from inside the door. Something gives way, and there's a loud click, and the door swings wide.