Father Fravis’ words came with a different understanding now. Something about the import of the moment gave a new feeling to the words. Ezril raised his foot… Take it as strides compressed into one compact step. Like connecting multiple blows in one throw. He let the foot fall to the sand. The very motion was long, reminiscent of a single drowsy blink. It was stretched out by perception and contrast. If a blink takes but a fraction of a heartbeat, the short moment held in a drowsy one was a lifetime. It was like watching an infant take its first step, momentous and terrifying. Yet, so terribly exciting. There was no shame now. No fear for failure. His new path was set before him, solid as the oldest forest tree.

There is no shame in failure, he told himself. I will learn from it.

He closed his eyes as an understanding of what he felt for the Father’s words named itself. Indifference. And his foot hit the sand.

He stepped.

In the darkness of his lids he felt the dark spots claw at the edge of his vision; knew his environment struggled to contort in a blur. He would not see the expressions around him; they bore no meaning to him now. But with the action, the darkness clawing at his sight, the nature of everything around him bending in his perception, came something else.

The impact cursed pain into his toes. Howling like a thousand Atle wolves on a moonlit night. The muscles in his leg screamed for relief from it. The soles of his feet seemed to split in two as the forced themselves to carry him, and he bore his weight on it, regardless.

It is not all about the toes, a voice in his head told him. Share the pain.

So he did. He spread his toes, the sand spilling from between them, and pushed. The darkness behind his lids exploded in a painful white. It was a pain he could not contain, and his lips parted. He wasn’t sure if he cried out. He wasn’t certain if he could’ve, if the pain would have allowed it. He felt the sand beneath him along with everything, connected like the branches on a tree, his brothers watching, the judges standing, the darkness hidden beneath the light of day. The grains of sand parted, and the white exploded again as he felt a lot of things tear in his legs. The explosive white grew brighter and the pain grew more horrid with each stride. Instinct commanded Ezril, and he pivoted on his foot. He knew when one of his ankle gave, dislocating beneath him.

But Ezril didn’t stop. If he was to fail, he was bound to fail knowing that he gave it all of himself.

The strides continued.

Ezril's pain compounded through it all. The feel of the sand grew lost, forgotten like a mother’s kiss in old age. Ezril didn’t know where his body started and where the sand ended, not because he was connected now. No. He simply could feel nothing. Not the sand beneath his feet, not even the feet beneath which the sand laid. Not even the pain that grew through him like a thousand tears. But he stood. Then everything flashed in his memory, real, yet surreal. It was akin to waking from a sleep with all the emotions his dream had left him with and yet remembering nothing of the dream. The effects were all there, but the cause was gone, like it had never existed. It was as if he hadn’t just gone through the torture of the test. He knew it had all happened, but he could trace nothing of it in his memory. He had pushed himself to his limit. Beneath him, his legs wobbled. He staggered but caught himself on his good foot before he fell.

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He peeled his eyes open slowly, and his eyes took their time to adjust. The light of the hall proved dimmer than the white of his pain. His eyes adjusted to it quicker than they should have, and they stung. His cheek was wet, and warm. That, it seemed, he could feel. His lips trembled with pain. His clothe clung wet and warm against his skin. He didn't know if it was sweat or blood. Judging from all the pain, he had a very good suspicion of what it was.

Ezril's brothers looked at him with mixed expressions, varying between awe, confusion, and worry. Worry proved the most dominant of all the expressions. Unsure, Ezril looked to Father Fravis. And only when the priest offered him a sad nod, did he take his next step.

Cold, he thought. It proved his last thought.

The wind hit him a second later and he fell. Ulrich proved quick, snatching him up before he met the sand. Everything drowned away. Ezril’s senses dulled. Neither sound, sight nor smell bore life. Everything proved nonexistent to an all-consuming pain, one that demanded it not be ignored, howling through every pore in his skin. He thought he heard Shade howl in response. There was nothing for a time, then time gave way in effervescent cuts and he found himself slipping in and out of consciousness. But it never came with a clarity.

“… Impossible…” he heard. “…in one night.”

“… you say impossible, but here it is.”

“… he’s not Hallowed…”

“… took the step, did he not?”

The voices served as his dreams for a while. When he woke again his eyelids proved heavy, refusing his command to open.

“Will he be alright?”

This voice he knew very well. Monsignor Crowl.

“Yes. He just needs to rest.” The second voice was harder to recognize. He guessed it to be Father Yesuan. “What’s the verdict?”

“Clearly, he passed the test.”

“Father Talod is of the opinion that a child who is not Hallowed cannot become a priest.”

“It is a common misconception,” Crowl’s voice disagreed. “A person who is not Hallowed has never become a priest. That does not mean that a person who is not Hallowed can never become one. There is a reason the seminary has its tests. It would be in distaste to fail a child who has passed them…” there was a studious pause. “And at such cost.” There was a ruffle, loose clothes shuffling from movement. “The bishop is also in agreement.”

The second voice sighed. “So he is to stay?”

“Yes.” There was a graveness to the words. “And if he continues to pass all his tests, he is to be ordained.” A pause again. It seemed to fill the silence. “Here.”

“But Monsignor.” The second voice bore surprise. “Why?”

“He needs to heal before the next test.”

“Who is his father that the others hate the boy so much, and you treat him so?”

Ezril heard the simple curiosity in the words.

Another silence followed. When Crowl answered, his voice was sad, almost regretful. “Let’s just say he’s a man whose brothers expected much from, and yet did differently. He chose his path despite our expectations. I can’t begrudge him that… a few even thought him the one.” He paused. “We were wrong.”

Ezril slipped into unconsciousness again, where silence colored his world. Each time, he saw the hilts of two swords. Their blades never visible, they remained embedded in the darkness. Each time, he felt blue eyes watching, waiting. But this time they promised a strength. They promised life. He didn’t know where the thoughts came from; if he had thought it. But when they came he knew he had claimed it. He reached for the hilts, and closed his hands around them. He knew a cold would hit him even before the skin of his palms met it… and as the thought crossed his mind, it did.