Chapter 28: What lies beyond the challenge

We managed to get there with five minutes to spare. The square was divided into two zones, an outer circle where people could observe the results, and an inner ring, slightly elevated, for the participants. Everyone rushed for the best work, but it was a fact that not all of them would finish. The Drak'oora would reserve adequate space according to their expectations; the more complex the challenge, the smaller the area.

We had to split the crowd apart along our way to finally reach the candidates' zone. I was already expecting it to be small, but I had never imagined it would be so tiny. At most, it would fit a hundred people, perhaps twice that if you didn't mind being skin to skin with others. Nothing was stopping you from submitting your work, but as much as you would get fame for a successful job, your reputation could easily be tarnished if it wasn't up to par.

I was confident on my key, but honestly, seeing that only about twenty people had come forward with their work made me hesitate. Although, I didn't have much to lose. I had already controversially joined the tribe; thus, some more lousy publicity wouldn't really harm me. I stepped inside, leaving Makka and Yaira right at the border. I inspected my competition, trying to catch a glimpse of their key but ultimately not casting much light on the matter.

The remaining one or two minutes rapidly passed. I was the last one to cross the line, so it would seem the challenge would be disputed among the few of us. I was expecting the same show as the day before, someone speaking from the building's window, yet that didn't happen. The crowd started parting apart, leaving way to two figures—the creaky old Drak'oora and his improvised assistant carrying the chest.

"Oh," his face lightened as he inspected the candidates, "I wasn't expecting this multitude!" Of course, one could debate the term multitude, but it was true that he might even have contemplated the scenario where no contenders would show up.

The chest dropped to the wooden platform with a loud thump, threatening to break it and throw us all to the ground. After a series of groans, moans, and a raised arm waving with disdain, Drak'oora Weirar left. Either he was offended at being used as a porter, or he believed none of us would manage to open it. The challenge host, however, remained still, unfazed by his little pout.

"Then..." His eyes traveled from one candidate to another, staring into their souls and, at least in my case, scaring them with his shaking and broken grim. "Who will be first?"

How amazing would it be if I said I was first and there was no need for more tests. Or what if I actually was the last one, saving the show when everyone thought we were all presenting failures. Life doesn't work like that, and I'm afraid mine is no exception.

A bulky man, not precisely from too much exercise, made his way to the chest. I wouldn't say he exuded confidence, but his determined steps showed he didn't doubt his own creation. On his hand, even before coming to a stop, a white shine preceded the appearance of a metal rod. It had large protuberances, spikes of varying lengths at seemingly random locations. The square went quiet as he inserted it on the lock. Everyone's gazes were wide open as the metal went in the hole, fitting almost perfectly.

I perfectly heard as the man scoffed, letting air go through his nostrils. Of course, it went in! He was saying. His hand twisted, even if so slightly, and the metal followed his rotation. A loud click filled the air; some hidden parts had been actioned into place. It kept rotating, several more clicks resounding from within the lock.

But, how? I couldn't help but ask. For a moment, I thought he might have been able to see the Ink too, but after a brief moment of consideration, I remembered his key didn't have any Ink engraved at the tip. My best hypothesis to date, which, frankly, makes that key a true masterpiece, is that it had some kind of mechanism actuated by Ink that could retract or expand the spikes, so they could perfectly press the levers.

After three tense seconds of noises and tense rotation, a final and louder metallic sound reverberated through the platform. The key came to a standstill, and I'm sure that the man's face was all smiles as he gripped the lid with his other hand. Mine was the exact opposite. My eyes were so squinted that they hurt, my eyebrows had merged into a single mass of hair, and I swear I still have scars on my palms from my own nails.

That last bit might be an exaggeration, but trust me that my heart stopped as the lid raised. Yes, it actually moved, its hinges squeaking as it revealed its insides. The crowd, except for the other candidates, I included, broke to exclamations. I understood it, I knew the feat that man had just achieved, yet I was too puzzled to cheer for him. I trust every other person was cursing his bones, frustrated not to get a chance. I, however, was busy trying to figure out how he had bypassed the formation. Isn't it required for the chest to open?

I was going over the thought in repeat when I heard a sound discordant with the overall revelry; someone had clicked their tongue. I raised my head, looking for the source of the disapproving noise. It had to be near us; otherwise, it wouldn't have gone through the cacophony of voices. None among the other candidates seem the origin, forcing me to inspect near the chest. And there he was, the Drak'oora was shaking his head from one side to the other.

Why does he look disappointed? The answer didn't take long to reveal itself. The same man that just a moment ago opened the chest collapsed to the ground. Like a puppet whose strings had been cut, he folded over himself, not even attempting to cushion the fall.

"Alas!" The Drak'oora spoke in a crestfallen voice. "Another one has fallen prey to the chest." Suffice to say, all heads and particularly ours, who were still waiting for our turn, turned to him. "You should know that those who open the lid with an inadequate key will die in the process."

"What!" The cry came from the audience as I was still processing the information. "We could die!? And you didn't tell us before!?" Whoever it was that shouted, they were right. Even if they hadn't considered their work apt, they were still Inkers; they might have considered going up there with the rest of us.

The voices of protest, which were increasing by the second, were silenced by a single finger. With what remained of his Line clearly visible on the exposed wrist, the old man brightly smiled.

"I will soon pay the price," he said. His intentions were clear. He wasn't planning on paying for it; he just knew that he would soon be dead. He had absolutely nothing to lose. If he had said that one could die while trying to open the chest, then nobody might have partaken in that insanity. "Well then, next?" His wrinkled eyes were staring at us, either one of you steps up, or I will choose one.

Should I go? My mind was split. I might have been able to stop that madness; if my key worked, nobody else would have to die. Yet, I had no guarantees that it would. If my formation wasn't precisely the counterpart to the one on the lock, then I'd be the one dropping to the floor. And, honestly, I hadn't even looked at my creation yet; I didn't know what I would be using to open the chest.

Do you remember how I said this is not the perfect story? My indecision costed another life. One more woman stepped up while I was debating with myself, and she too opened the lid, just to plop down on the floor, inert, dead. That should have served as a warning, it should have resulted in me trying my luck, but I cowered and let one more girl, not much older than me, go to her death.

She was shaking, struggling to make the key meet with the hole, scratching the metal garnishment. And even when she managed to make them fit, she had to place her other hand around the other to gather enough guts. She forced the key to the left, putting her whole body behind the motion. The key struggled to make a few mechanisms activated, a series of metal clicks could be heard, yet it was stopped in its tracks; that key wouldn't open the chest. The poor soul dropped to the floor on her knees, crying as her whole body shook. She wouldn't die; she hadn't managed to open the chest. Hers were tears of joy.

"Enough!" I shouted, unable to bear any more with the weight on my chest. Had that girl died... I couldn't help but picture the scene of that girl turning the key and opening the lid.

I ignored all those heads turning to me, startled by my shout, and made my way to the front. Drak'oora Kasd had a smug smile on his face, an attitude that seemed to say that was what he had been waiting for; me. I was already shivering, and that feeling of having just fallen into someone's trap didn't help at all. I gave the order to my Ink, making a cold bar materialize in my right hand.

It was smooth and flat, too much for something that should be a key. Fearing the worst, I lowered my sight while letting the rod rest on my open palm. It was a metal stick, nothing more and nothing else; it had no dents nor cuts. Nothing. Cold sweat dripped from my forehead, my hand threatened to drop the key. Not everything is lost! I reminded myself. There's still the formation; it can still work!

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"Are you sure?" The Drak'oora whispered to my side in a low, quivering, and trembling voice.

Do I even have any other option? If I backed out, someone else would have to test their luck, and I didn't expect anyone to open it successfully. I nodded, without the strength to articulate any words.

Audibly swallowing the dry paste on my mouth, I placed the key in the lock. It entered without obstacles, perfectly aimed at the hole, fitting like a glove. As the metal deepened inside, there were no clicks, no sounds, no mechanisms. It smoothly slid inside until it touched the end.

At first, I thought that nothing had happened. Indeed, nothing suggested my key had actually worked. I was about to rotate it, using it as if it were an actual key, but I stopped in my tracks. Anyone else wouldn't have sensed it, yet, from the corner of my eye, I saw a bright ray scaping from the keyhole. A quick flash that I intuitively knew meant Ink was acting up.

I placed my hand over the lid and pulled. I felt a brief resistance, panicking when the wooden frame wouldn't budge a single inch. Why!? I inwardly cried, struggling to find the reason for my failure. I pulled once more, this time with both hands, doubling my strength, and with my eyes closed. And I heard it; I heard the metal squeaking, the hinges working to move the lid.

I had done the first part, opening it; now it was only a matter of waiting. Either I lived, or I died. My heart was racing, my legs shook from the tension, my whole body was seconds away from collapsing. I didn't know if it was the sheer nervousness or the chest slowly making its way to me.

Opening my eyes, I checked the other doubt that had been assaulting me from the very first moment that the challenge was announced. What does the chest contain that it's worth dying for? I looked inside, yet all my eyes could see were the wooden frame and the metal reinforcements. It was empty. Of course, I realized, the opener dies, but what is to stop someone else from getting its contents? It was stupid, both me for not having noticed before and the mechanism itself. It would be much more useful if the person died before getting to open it, before the fully unlocking mechanism. Why wo-

"Congratulations!" The words woke me up from the trance. "You are the first one to successfully open it without dying!"

I... I won? I was still thunderstruck, processing what had happened. Then, my key works? I won't die? It was no just me winning; that was nothing compared with the relief of knowing you would see another day. And even that faded in comparison to the most profound meaning it all had. I could replicate the unlocking formation by just seeing the energy emitted by its counterpart. The power was even wilder than my initial assumptions; it was not about seeing connections but rather about understanding plain sight Ink.

I could hear the claps around me, the whistles and shouts of congratulations, yet I couldn't care a bit less; they were celebrating the wrong achievement. Drak'oora Kasd closed onto me, taking me by the shoulder.

"We have a few things to discuss," he said low enough so that only I would hear it. "Come with me, please."

Although it might have seen as if he was asking me to follow him, it was a direct order. He didn't wait for me to accept, turning around and making the crows leave a way for him. I follow behind, lagging only a second or two, chasing him inside the building. I knew Drak'oora Layan's office, but he took me in the opposite direction, towards what I suspected was his own wing of the building. After entering a room, he pointed towards a sofa, directly facing a small table and another couch.

"I wasn't wrong, then," he said after sitting right in front of me. His eyes stared in mine, trying to pry out an answer for a question I didn't even know what meant.

"I'm sorry?" I barely managed to say.

"The day you went under the judgment of light," he continued, not making any sense of the conversation, "what do you think Layan asked Spare?"

I didn't know why he was asking about that event, yet the memory naturally came to me, spoken in words I could perfectly understand.

"What is it that you saw in him?" I answered, "and..." I hesitated, unsure of what my following words implied.

"And?" He urged me with his hand.

"And Spare," I noticed my eyebrows wrinkling, "said that the Drak'gath listened."

I knew what he meant with that; he told Layan that the Drak'gath Calligraphic Pen obeyed my intentions from the first moment, even if barely and roughly.

"Do you know how many uninitialized pupils can draw with that?" I shook my head, still wondering what any of that had to do with winning the challenge. "None. It requires years of assimilation with your predecessor, and even then, it is one of the hardest techniques."

I didn't know what to say. I had mastered something I wasn't supposed to? Does that have any hidden meaning? He shook his head, and before I could voice any of my doubts, he continued.

"Do you believe in coincidences?"

The question was left in the air; I didn't answer, yet I would have said no if I had had to. Me being there, with the Drak'ga, was not a coincidence. I might have thought it at some point, but it turns out Spare had always been trailing me. Why would anything else be?

"Your first day at the Compendium, you didn't stumble upon a secret book," his voice turned dark; any trace of his old age was gone. It didn't shake nor stutter. "I made you find it; I wanted you to read it."

I couldn't help but stare into the eyes of the person in front of me. He was the same Drak'oora, about to die from old age, yet his presence, his soul, spoke with the energy of a rebellious youngster.

"W-why?" I managed to say.

"You know why," he scoffed, "haven't you just opened the chest?"

I remained still for ten seconds, probably not even blinking, asking myself if I was drawing the correct conclusions. If he is so convincedly telling me that, it means he can also see it, right? That was the only explanation I had.

"Can you als-" There was no need for me to finish the sentence as he energetically moved his head. His eyes were down, and his mouth was wrinkled in a sorrowful gesture.

"No, neither of the Drak'oora as far as I know." The revelation, although something I somewhat had already expected, came by surprise. "I can hear Her, but I haven't been able to progress anymore."

"Wait," I adventure, emboldened by his gesture of trust, "didn't the book say only one out of a million could feel it?"

I was caught off ward by his sudden burst of laughter, barely managing to contain my anger.

"I'm afraid you misunderstood, understandably so," he said after calming down. "The nuance of that particular phrase comes from the fact that it's trying to establish how hard it is for one to achieve said level." His voice went back to his usual, old one, yet more tired than it had been before. "Everyone could, theoretically, enter communion and be granted true sight... But there are no such cases since long ago, thousands of years for that matter. Why do you think that is?"

"Someone," I said, trying to test the waters before saying out loud something that could make me a new enemy, "might have a vested interest in hiding it." His eye twitched, even if only so little.

"And, how would he do so?" He was biting his lip, perhaps afraid of his own question and its implications.

"By controlling the population, making their truth prevail, and, perhaps," I thought back of my conversations with Spare, "manipulating the Ink's supply."

"I see," his shoulders dropped, and his whole body came to a rest on the sofa, releasing his tension for the first time since we had started talking. "You have arrived at the conclusion that the Empire is behind it." I inspired, coming to the conclusion that lying now would be useless, and nodded. "Then you must also know that the only reason we can't achieve that communion, is because our Ink is tainted, diluted, polluted, and simply purposely downgraded."

I resisted all my efforts to look down at my ankle. Perhaps he already knew, and maybe it was precisely what he was after; I couldn't give him any more reasons.

"Only the Drak'oora know of this," he continued, "and you must make sure they never discover your newly found powers."

If my face changed, which I tried to prevent with all my willpower, he didn't say anything. The one I owned Layan, that favor she could still ask me for, I was convinced after what he said that they were related.

"Why are you telling me all of this? Why even bother making me learn it in the first place?" I asked, diverting the topic to a safer zone.

"The Empire and everything it once meant is no more. It's a rotten fruit produced by the tree of the Drak'ga, a disgrace to our founder's goal. This," he looked at his own wrinkled hands, "might seem like the imagination of a senile old man, but, please, someone has to put an end to their cruelty." The questions piled up; every time I felt like I was getting closer to the truth, something else would pop up.

"How do you know all of that?" The founder was long gone, and according to everything I knew, he didn't partake in the ritual, dying without any successor. "And, what cruelty?" Sure, the system was rotten from the inside, we were living a lie, and there were people in desperate situations, like me a few years ago, but I wouldn't say as much as cruelty

"She!" His shout took me by surprise. "She told me!" He rose from his seat, his eyes bulging, his mouth exuding white foam. "Where do you think they obtain Ink? From Her! They tortured her to obtain it, and no-" He violently closed, repeating himself several times, "no-now the-they are-" his hand landed on the table, his body following close behind.

"Help!" I tried to get someone's attention, releasing all the air on my lungs while rapidly moving to his side.

"Lis-ten," his other hand grabbed my arm, his head barely turning to focus me, "Sh-Sh-She-" The sound got carried away, remaining on the air for a few seconds, as the last speck of his Line vanished.