Chapter 8

First Baptism

The Temple of Loss looms around us, its ancient walls etched with the history of countless sacrifices. Pale light filters through the high windows, casting long shadows across the gathered initiates. The air hangs heavy with incense and anticipation.

My mind drifts to the chaos of last night—the Vritraha fortress splitting the sky, the platform tilting beneath our feet, the desperate rush to save Penelope. The memory of her eyes meeting mine lingers, that moment of confusion and something else I still cannot name. My body aches from the impact, from the shrapnel that peppered my skin, but the physical pain feels distant now, overshadowed by what lies ahead.

I stand at the edge of the waters of Nenuphar, my bare feet inches from where the stone floor meets dark liquid. Azure flowers drift across the surface, their delicate petals a deceptive mask for what lurks beneath. The water stretches into shadow, endless and patient.

Penelope shifts beside me, her presence a reminder of the fates I changed. Her eyes stay fixed on the water, but I catch the slight tremor in her hands. To my left, Castor radiates the same arrogant confidence he always carries, though his jaw clenches tight enough to betray his own unease.

The golden twins, Talon and Enna, stand opposite us. Their matching expressions are unreadable, but there's something predatory in the way Enna watches us all. Her fingers twitch occasionally, as if plucking invisible strings.

None of us speak. The weight of tradition and expectation presses down, making even breathing feel like an act of defiance. The carved murals surrounding us tell the story of the First Shattering in silent warning - figures frozen mid-leap into their own dark waters, forever caught between certainty and oblivion.

A drop of water echoes somewhere in the darkness. The sound ripples through the chamber, through my bones. The nenuphar flowers bob gently, their roots reaching down like grasping fingers into the depths.

Five children on the edge of revelation. Five futures balanced on the knife-edge of tradition. The waters of Nenuphar wait, ancient and hungry, for us to prove our worth or drown in the attempt.

I flex my fingers, fighting the urge to retreat into my Inner Hell. This is what I have trained for. This is what I must endure. Yet as I stare into those dark waters, I cannot shake the feeling that something stares back.

The High-Exarch's golden mask catches the light, hollow eyes fixed upon us from his position on the black dais. His white robes shimmer with an inner radiance that makes the shadows deeper, more absolute. The Staff of the Eternal Watch pulses with each word he speaks, its crystal tip drawing patterns in the air.

"Before you stands the weight of your heritage, the pain of your ancestors, and the promise of your future. This is not merely a ritual; it is a covenant with Malkiel itself. The First Shattering taught us this—creation demands sacrifice."

His voice fills the temple, reaching every corner where hundreds of children stand in reverent silence. My spine straightens under that hollow gaze. The mask turns, surveying us all, yet I feel its attention lingering on me longer than the others.

"When the Nihil came, our ancestors faced obliteration. The House Absolute, for all its might, could not stem the tide of destruction. They fled into the Balah—that sea between realities. There, in that crucible of chaos, Malkiel was born."

The crystal in his staff flares, projecting images of the exodus onto the temple walls. Figures run through dimensional tears, pursued by darkness. The mural behind him seems to move in concert with his words, the carved figures writhing with remembered pain.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

"Three factions emerged from that crossing: Malkiel, Netnaim, and Yeshong. Each forever changed by their passage through the void. But it was Malkiel alone who understood the true price of survival."

I feel Penelope tense beside me at the mention of Netnaim. My mother's people. The High-Exarch's words carry weight, each syllable another stone added to the burden we must bear. The waters of Nenuphar ripple, as if responding to the ancient story.

The High-Exarch’s voice dips lower, a resonance that seems to vibrate through the temple's stonework, pulling us deeper into his story.

“Today, each of you stands where the first Malkielites stood, on the threshold of revelation and annihilation. Nenuphar will judge your worth. Its waters hold your fears, your failings, your truths. What you see beneath the surface is not an illusion but a mirror.”

A murmur rises from the gathered children behind us. Hundreds of us stand in loose, pale robes, our feet bare against the cold stone floor. The robes flutter faintly, whispering like ghosts. The High-Exarch’s gaze sweeps over us, silencing the stir.

“For the chosen, this baptism is only the beginning. For the rest…” His pause hangs in the air, pregnant with unspoken finality. “Remove your robes.”

I unclasp the ties at my shoulders, the fabric slipping to the ground like a discarded skin. My companions do the same. The cold air bites at my bare flesh, but the unease radiating from the crowd behind us feels sharper. I do not look back. I cannot.

The High-Exarch steps aside, and with a sweep of his staff, the nenuphar blooms spread across the water, parting like a curtain. For the first time, I glimpse what lies beneath.

The waters churn with fleeting, shadowed shapes—faces, limbs, indistinct forms that emerge only to dissolve into ripples. The depths whisper in tones I can almost understand, the words curling around my thoughts like tendrils. Something ancient stirs there, waiting.

“Step forward,” the High-Exarch commands.

Penelope exhales sharply but takes her first step toward the water. She is ahead of me, her movements hesitant yet determined. I catch a glimpse of her profile—her chin set with a defiance that does not quite mask her fear.

“Don’t drown, Penelope,” Talon says from his place in the formation, his voice a mocking lilt. Enna elbows him hard enough to make him flinch, though she says nothing.

Castor watches the exchange with narrowed eyes, his jaw tight. “Save the jokes for when we’re on the other side,” he mutters, barely loud enough for us to hear.

Penelope glances back at me, her expression unreadable. “See you on the other side, Janus,” she says, and then she is gone, diving into the black water.

The nenuphar closes over her like a shroud, rippling faintly. I do not know if I should follow immediately or wait for the others. My heart pounds, not with fear of the water but with the cacophony of voices building in my head. Fragments of time flicker at the edges of my vision—Penelope breaking the surface, gasping; Talon screaming silently as he is dragged down; Castor staring into the void, his expression blank.

I close my eyes and force the visions back. My fingers flex involuntarily, itching to reach for the Inner Hell. But no—I cannot rely on that now. The nenuphar would know.

When I step forward, the water grips me immediately, pulling me down. It’s colder than I expected, a deep, bone-shaking cold that numbs my body even as my mind screams against it. I try to move, to swim, but there is no resistance beneath me. Only the void.

The water closes over my head, and darkness swallows me whole. Pale roots twist through the murk like spider silk, brushing against my skin. I push deeper, fighting the instinct to surface.

Eyes open in the darkness. Not just one or two, but hundreds, thousands—unblinking and ancient. They fix upon me with crushing judgment, and I feel the weight of every prejudiced stare I've ever endured in House Azure. The roots coil around my ankles, soft as silk but strong as steel.

Balah-born.

The thought pierces my mind, and I cannot tell if it is the eyes speaking or my own fears given voice. The roots tighten, and I remember Cyra's words: "The longer you endure, the stronger your torq becomes."

I force myself deeper, even as the eyes bore into me. Their gaze strips away pretense, peeling back layers of carefully constructed control. They see the anger I have buried, the shame I have hidden, the desperate need to prove myself worthy of House Azure despite my mixed blood.

The cold seeps into my bones, but I push through it. Through the shifting shadows, I catch glimpses of movement—Penelope and Castor, their pale forms drifting like ghosts in the distance. The roots between us wave like seaweed in a current, creating an ever-shifting maze.

My lungs burn. The eyes watch, waiting for weakness, for the moment I will break. But I will not give them the satisfaction. I am more than their judgment, more than the sum of their prejudices. I let the pain fill me, feed me, drive me deeper into the abyss.

The roots part before me as I swim toward the distant figures of the twins, each stroke a defiance against the crushing pressure of those ancient, knowing eyes.

My right arm jerks violently, fingers splaying against my will. The movement halts my forward progression, leaving me suspended in the dark water. A familiar sensation crawls across my skin—invisible threads pulling at my muscles, wrapping around my joints like a puppet's strings.

I know this touch. Felt it back in the Sacral Enclosure.