They shall defeat the Masked Warriors, and raise their masks to the sky, and declare themselves the Endowed, the Erak’assala, the savior of mankind.

-Excerpt from The Book of Eternity

Four days after the incident with Ireo, and on the day of Veridon’s execution, Xanala stood on the balcony of her father’s mansion, looking out on the purple Xeredon sunrise. Contemplating the look on Ireo’s face as that tendril had snapped his neck.

She’d barely noticed his expression during the fight. She’d been bursting with too much adrenaline to focus on anything but the contest. For some reason, though, the image followed her now — a man with eyes wide, mouth open in a scream that didn’t have the chance to escape.

It had been wrong to kill him. She couldn’t shake that conviction, even though she hated the implications. Her father had been wrong.

She didn’t know how to process that. She didn’t want to process that. So she just stared at the sunrise, remembering the day when she’d tried to escape.

She’d been thirteen. That seemed so young, though only three years had passed, and little had changed since then. She’d heard, from her schoolteacher, that the Talar not only accepted burning within their borders but welcomed it, elevating those who could wield the Powers to high military status. Her schoolteacher had spoken of that with unconcealed disgust, ranting about how Larsh’s heresy had brought the nation to ruin. But for Xanala, that news had been hope reborn.

Because of it, she’d tried to run away, slipping out under the cover of night, hoping to steal her father’s ship. She remembered the shame that had washed over her with every footstep as she’d moved through the rainy night, an icy wind whipping against her face.

Her father, miraculously, had suspected she would try something like that, and had been posting guards near her room for years. They’d alerted her father, and he’d stopped her, quietly telling her that this would not be what she thought it was, informing her of the horrors of the Talar military, and assuring her that their plan for a coup would work, given enough time.

She’d believed him, and so she was still here. She doubted a few guards could keep her on Xeredon anymore; even her father couldn’t beat her in a fair fight these days. She’d studied Talar culture more, and agreed that it would not be a good fit for her. Trusting her father, she now spent the energy of her frustrations trying to move forward with their plans for a coup.

Yet today, as she stared at the purple sunset, she wondered. Her father had a Testing today. With a man people kept whispering might actually be the Endowed. What would change, if this atom burner from Kiedd was victorious, subjecting the entire Confederacy to his authority? What would happen if Xanala tried to pass the Testing herself and won? If she did, there wouldn’t need to be a coup. A wave of her hand, and burning would be legal again, freeing thousands to live their lives like normal people, rather than prey.

But she couldn’t kill her father. And her father refused to resign from the Masked Warriors, despite his superior’s constant nudging toward his retirement. So they were at an impasse, and until they were finally ready for the coup, Xanala’s freedom was heavily restricted.

Her mother called for her. Xanala heard the sound, but it didn’t register. Her mother called again, louder this time. Wincing, Xanala turned, moving toward the doors into the mansion. She needed to get ready. Today, many eyes would be on her family, and none of them could know the extent of what they planned. Most of all, none of those eyes could see Xanala’s scar.

Yet, as she opened the door to the inside, she couldn’t help but turn back for a moment, squinting at the blinding sun, before sighing and shutting that door behind her.

***

The Testing was a spectacle unrivaled, as it should be. It was, after all, a religious ritual of unsurpassed importance. It heralded the beginning of a potential hope, of deliverance from Torment. For four thousand years, ever since the ancient nation of Erak’sai had summoned him, Oblivion had controlled the afterlife, and the Endowed was the mythical hero prophesied to end that terrible suffering.

Unfortunately, the prophecies around the Endowed were vague at best. They had to be capable of wielding all Three Powers, and according to the ancient Trett Zaethin Devaro, they would also be born with a scar already on their skin. Other than that, there were no real identifiers, just speculation — a fact that led to a plethora of false Endowed trying to use the prophecy to rally political support. The Testing was a way to thin that down; a way, theoretically, to prove that a Prospect was who they claimed to be.

Now, though, it was more show than anything. The Endowed simply dueled the Masked Warriors, who inevitably killed them. It was not a religious ceremony, nor was it a rally for hope in the fight against the Void. It was just butchery. But it drew crowds, and today, men, women, and children alike swarmed around Xanala in droves.

She had never loved crowds, and it took everything in her not to light up with Void and run away from the bustling chaos of Xeredon’s streets. Testings, though a solemn occasion for Eliminators and the rest of the Confederacy, were more like a holiday to the common folk of the planet, and that attitude showed in the sheer amount of business being conducted today. Restaurants had lines coming out their doors. Terraces and sidewalks and hovercar stops were all filled with temporary shops, all yelling and waving and smiling to try and sell their wares. The hovercar parking lots, usually half empty, were all crammed full and then some.

All the people made for many eyes. And, as the daughter of one of the Masked Warriors, a host of those eyes were on her. She was clothed in an unwieldy white dress, and a thin veil covered her face, with a gray rune woven into it, indicating her rank. Her mother walked ahead of her, and their guards, dressed in white, suit-like carbon fiber uniforms for the occasion, pushed on ahead. People pointed and whispered, and sometimes even shouted cheers – or jeers, for those who supported the Prospect from Kiedd.

The Testing arena was just ahead, a tall, cylindrical building that seemed to tower above the sky itself. A small amount of the public would be allowed inside, but most of the seats there were reserved for Confederacy soldiers, and as they drew closer, the crowd of civilians morphed into a throng of armed men. Though they paid much less attention to Xanala than the commoners, her anxiety still grew. How long until those pistols on their belts were firing at her?

“Relax,” her mother said, falling back to stand beside her. She was a beautiful woman even without makeup, and today she looked so stunning Xanala was surprised that every man in sight wasn’t staring. She wore a dress and veil identical to Xanala’s, though she somehow managed to wear it more elegantly. Taking Xanala’s hand, she smiled. “Father will be alright. He knows how to handle himself.” She met Xanala’s eyes, and her gaze told Xanala that those words carried a double meaning. You’ll be alright, too, her expression said. Don’t panic.

Xanala nodded. “I’m sure he will be, Mother.” She began slowly twitching her finger, not focusing on it completely, but using it to push some of her worry away. Her mother was right. Nothing could go wrong if Xanala didn’t panic; Father had expressed the same sentiment.

They approached the gate, and Xanala ran through the list of preparations again. Was her sleeve up? Yes, it was. Was she Infused, just a little, so no one could read her thoughts? Yes, she was, though not enough the glow was noticeable. Probably. Was her scar covered in makeup… was it? Had she covered it? She thought she had, but was she remembering that from some other time? She tensed, realizing she couldn’t check without pulling her sleeve up. And if the scar wasn’t covered…

Her mother grabbed her hand, squeezing it tightly and pulling her forward a little faster as they stepped through into the arena. In the center of the building lay a giant, circular sand pit, with four columns stretching upward into the ceiling. All around the pit were rows and rows of seats, across twenty levels of metal terraces. On the front row of each terrace waited recording men, muon cameras aimed at the arena to produce a hologram of the coming fight.

Xanala and her mother sat down on the second row, just behind a group of cameramen. Several other of her father’s highest servants and officials waited there, along with, to Xanala’s surprise, three senators. She didn’t recognize them, though they were clearly from Talar, their purple coats with gray buttons gave away that much. Xanala sat beside one of them. They waited in silence for a long moment, him gazing at the arena, Xanala nervously watching as hundreds more people filed in.

“It’ll be alright,” her mother whispered.

She sounded less sure this time.

A few minutes later, the Talar senator turned to Xanala, smiling. “So. You’re Lyrus Erdor’s infamous daughter.”

Xanala’s heart pounded. “Infamous?”

The senator shrugged. “Perhaps a bit of an exaggeration. I’m just trying to make conversation. Name’s Traegus Yral. Are you ready for the show?”

“It’s not a show,” Xanala muttered. At least, it shouldn’t be.

Traegus just laughed. “Everything here is a show, child.” He leaned back. “Have you heard anything of this Tenedon? I haven’t paid much attention to Kiedd recently. Don’t think they could produce a competent burner if they tried.” He shook his head, eyes twinkling.

“Just the usual,” Xanala said carefully. “Has the scar, can wield the Powers.”

“Only two,” Traegus noted. “That should disqualify him, if you ask me. But what do I know of the prophecy?” His eyes gleamed, though there was a darkness to them, too. “The Trett just needs another example for her collection. The people are getting vocal. Too many questions about us Talar and our burners.” He laughed again. It was a mirthless laugh. Then he turned, meeting Xanala’s eyes. “What do you think of burners, child?”

Xanala swallowed. This man was very forward. “I try not to think too much about them,” she said, after a pause that was probably too long, and with an expression that probably betrayed too much. Can’t you hide yourself well for once? Father would be screaming at you.

“And the Talar?” He said it as if he were not one of them, and he seemed genuinely intrigued, but Xanala still shivered involuntarily.

“Perhaps we should not talk of that,” Xanala said gently. What did she have to do to make it clear that she wanted him to be quiet? The man’s grin only widened.

“Oh, the Confederacy and its politics. So many games, all behind the extra game of religion.” He chuckled. “Games upon games. You all would faint if you were put in a room of commoners. The whole thing would be so straightforward you’d have a heart attack.” His face suddenly grew serious. “But really, Erdor. What do you think of this? I’m curious, you know. It’s not every day I get to speak to a daughter of a Masked Warrior.”

Xanala shifted uncomfortably, but the man’s gaze did not leave her. “I… wish it were a little less bloody,” she finally managed to say, “but it’s a religious thing, so I guess it’s fine.”

“So you do believe in the Endowed then?”

“The Tower is never wrong,” Xanala said carefully. “So yes, I do.” She really wished this man would relent. Her finger was twitching violently now, though it barely helped.

“And do you think Tenedon is the Endowed?”

“No.” Xanala was surprised by the sudden vehemence in her voice. Where had that come from? She forced herself to relax. “He isn’t. And my father will kill him for his blasphemy.”

Traegus nodded. “You’re still hiding,” he said softly. “But, fair enough. This whole thing is a game. This whole planet is practically a kara board.” He shook his head. “A tank of ethium with a match hanging above it, waiting to burn, all while the Confederacy pretends this is about religion, and nothing more. Larsh will be pleased with my report.” He finally fell silent.

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Xanala’s insides twisted; the odd Talar man’s words had irked her. This shouldn’t just be a game. It was supposed to be a grand ritual, signifying the emergence of a being who could save mankind. A bringing together of the nations.

But then, Traegus was right. It had been twelve hundred years since Oblivion’s imprisonment, and few mortals gave the dark god a second thought until they were on their deathbeds. As much as she wanted to think the Confederacy had any sense of honor left, it didn’t. It was a political organization now. If Xanala ever underwent the Testing, she’d have to keep that in mind, looking out for any way they tried to cheat her into an unfair fight.

But I’m not going to. I’m not going to kill Dad. We’ll stage a coup instead.

Yet, the Tower of Foreseeing was always right, and according to it, she would kill her father, if she was, actually, the Endowed. She frowned, though she pushed the thought aside a few moments later. Many had been born with the scar. None had yet fulfilled the prophecy. Besides, she’d forsaken that role.

She forced herself to relax, and even stopped twitching her finger. She was around a Talar senator, who, considering that nation’s current state, probably had nothing against burners. It was still illegal in Talar, of course. They just conveniently ignored Confederacy law, knowing they had enough power within the federation to force such allowances.

Ten minutes passed, then twenty. The tension slowly returned. So many people. Xanala was accustomed to a more sequestered life; the Masked Warriors, though powerful, weren’t usually so public, instead functioning as aloof, religious figures, and only occasionally interfering in politics. Today, though, incoming senators and diplomats took the time to stop by her seat, asking her questions and shaking her hand. She was careful not to let her sleeve slip during those handshakes.

Finally, when the arena appeared full, and the newcomers had slowed to a trickle, the ceiling slid open, pulled into two semicircular halves. It revealed a deep violet night sky, glittering with stars. A moment later, a hovering platform lowered into the arena. On it sat a tall, imposing woman in long green robes. She swept her eyes over the crowd, and nearly everyone fell silent. Then she spoke, her voice magnified so that it echoed across the entire stadium.

“I am the Trett,” the woman said. “Leader of the International Confederacy, elected ruler of all civilized Delti, priestess of the Church of Meridian, queen of kings. I hold the highest authority the Three Bladewielders can give. It is I who, if the time comes, will train the Endowed.”

Traegus snorted at that. “She’s not even a burner,” he whispered, quiet enough Xanala was sure she wasn’t meant to hear it. “She couldn’t train one if she wanted to.” He shook his head. “All a game.”

“Today,” the Trett continued, “we honor a grand tradition. And a solemn tradition. Prophecy, given to us by the Tower of Foreseeing, declares that an individual will be chosen by the Powers to defeat the dark god Oblivion. We call them the Endowed, and today, we are here to determine if they have been found.” The Trett paused for effect, sweeping her eyes over the crowd again. “Those of you who can hear me, think long and hard about how your lives may change today. The Endowed may very well be among us. Our salvation may be here.”

This earned a few hesitant cheers. The Trett smiled, though even from far away Xanala could see there was no joy in the gesture. “Tenedon Lukos is today’s Prospect. He has declared himself the hero of the prophecy. He has shown the scar of Erak’assala, a sign given to us by the first Trett. He has mustered an army to crusade into Torment, and now wishes for our support.”

She turned her gaze toward the back of the arena, where a small hatch had opened in the arena wall. “This is your last chance to renounce your claim, Tenedon of Kiedd. You may stay behind those doors, and remain a citizen of Kiedd. Or you may fight, and become the Endowed.”

A long pause. Then, finally, a man stepped out. Tall and muscular, he had long hair and a scraggly beard matted with scars. He held a longsword in his hand, and a white, glowing jewel shone through a hole above his chest in his tunic. Apparently, he was not only an atom burner, but had summoned his own Surge. The Trett pursed her lips.

“The Prospect has declared his intent. May we honor him, for the bravery he has shown to defy Oblivion,” she said. Then she waved to the sky. To the violet-tinted stars that gleamed within the heavens. “However, the Void will not honor him, nor have mercy on any who follow him into the afterlife. So there must be a test. A show of power, to prove that the man you see is truly what he claims to be.”

The Trett waved again, and three more doors opened. One man stepped out of each. Each of their faces was covered, though they wore different clothing: one wore tight-fitting blue robes with a cloth mask, another wore thin, red-painted metal padding and a steel mask, and the third – Xanala’s father – wore an armor set of pure titrite, the helm covering his face. Each of the men had a goggle-like set of two cameras on top of their masks, and each wielded a Surgeblade of a different Power. They moved to the center of the arena, forming a triangle.

“The Masked Warriors,” the Trett continued, “have long been our way of testing those who claim the right of Prophecy. The Endowed must kill them, and if they succeed, they shall advance to the next of the Tests. Remember that the warriors’ faces are covered to represent Oblivion, who, no matter what you do, will never spare you. You are a tool to him. A pawn. And, when death comes, he will torture you the same, wicked or righteous.” She swept her eyes over the crowd again, a dark expression on her face.

We’re all pawns to you, too, Xanala realized. She’s reminding everyone of death. Of the power she has.

In that moment, Xanala hated this woman more than anything. She, and the organization she led, were the reason Xanala had to hide. The reason the prisoners in Raerok had to suffer. The reason her father was so preoccupied with political games, unable to rest and spend time with his family.

The Trett was everything wrong with the world, and with a flick of her wrist, Xanala could end her. One day, she would, taking control of the Confederacy and then granting it to her father. She longed for that day, and for a single moment of raw hatred, patience evaded her, and she almost Reached for Void. Almost shot out a tendril of light to snap her enemy’s neck. Almost ran out, and exposed herself as the Endowed.

“Let the duel begin!”

The crowd roared, and suddenly Xanala was small again. She forced her eyes back down to the arena, focusing on her father, in his gleaming white armor. She twitched her finger as he fought. It didn’t help.

Tenedon was, indeed, an atom burner, and immediately, he touched the metal wall of the arena, burning Purity and turning his skin to gleaming titrite. Then he rushed toward the trio of Masked Warriors, longsword in hand.

The Masked Warriors moved with pre-coordinated precision. The Warrior wielding the Ever Surge immediately took off into the air, soaring above Tenedon’s head, then unleashing a hail of firebolts down at him. Tenedon either dodged the bolts or let them hit his armor, where they fizzled out, but that would be a problem for him. An Ever burner in the sky was a nightmare for a Purity wielder to deal with.

That didn’t seem to faze Tenedon, though. He lunged toward the Masked Warrior wielding Void – Vyrik was his name, if Xanala remembered correctly. Vyrik narrowly avoided his sword strikes, summoning tendrils of spiritual power to knock the blades just barely off course. Xanala’s father engaged next, using his longsword to force Tenedon backward. Lyrus was clearly more skilled than Tenedon, and he managed to break one of Tenedon’s arm plates, then stab the skin as it reformed. Tenedon yelped, then stepped back. A large chunk of the crowd cheered at that.

The Warrior with the Ever Surge – a man named Irin – saw his opportunity. Raising his hand, he unleashed a bolt of hot, blazing plasma toward Tenedon. It struck his helm, blowing apart the armor piece in a single blast. Tenedon stumbled backward, the skin the helm had been made from quickly reforming, a shocked expression now on his face.

The shock quickly morphed to anger. To Xanala’s surprise, Tenedon cocked back his sword, as if to charge Lyrus.

And then, he threw it.

The crowd gasped as the blade flew into the air, propelled by the unnatural strength Purity granted Tenedon. It rammed into Irin’s chest, tearing through his flesh and soaring out the other side until it embedded itself in one of the terrace walls. Irin sat briefly in the air, bleeding, his expression shocked, his skin pure alabaster. Then, he stopped glowing, and his corpse fell, smashing into the sand below. A faint line of green mist exited his mouth: his soul, descending into Torment.

Though the crowd’s eyes followed the corpse, Tenedon did not waste any time. He ran back to the arena wall, slamming his hand into another section of it and refreshing his titrite armor. Then he stretched forth his other hand, and a sword formed there: a sword made from radiant white light.

The crowd gasped again. That was an Atomdagger. They were incredibly difficult to summon, even for an atom burner. It was certainly a sign that this man could actually be the Endowed. However, more important to Xanala, an Atomdagger could cut through anything.

Even her father’s usually impervious titrite armor.

Tenedon charged again, and this time the two Masked Warriors split, moving to opposite sides of the arena. Xanala suspected she knew what they were doing: forcing Tenedon to engage one of them on one side, allowing the other to blindside the atom burner. A decent strategy, but a tactic that would likely see one of the Warriors dead.

Tenedon hesitated a moment, then broke after Vyrik. Vyrik immediately lashed out with tendrils of red light, pushing them against Tenedon’s armor, trying to slow him down. It was little use. Surges, though powerful, were nowhere near as strong as a true burner. Vyrik blocked two of Tenedon’s blows before he fell, head severed by the Atomdagger.

As they fought, Xanala’s father ran across the arena with equally inhuman speed, then leapt on top of Tenedon’s back. Tenedon bucked, but Lyrus got one, two sword strikes on the atom burner’s helm, cracking it. Tenedon bucked again. Again Lyrus held on, though he didn’t get another blow in on the helmet. Tenedon stumbled backward, slamming into the wall. Lyrus swung around to Tenedon’s front, using one leg to push Tenedon’s Atomdagger away, the other to shove him to the ground. Tenedon’s other hand snapped upward, snatching Lyrus’ neck. Lyrus didn’t struggle, instead slamming his sword into Tenedon’s helm again. It shattered, shrapnel falling across the sands.

However, before Lyrus could finish Tenedon off, Tenedon threw Xanala’s father backward, with force only an atom burner could muster. Lyrus soared at least twenty feet into the air, then slammed into one of the columns. His broken body slid to the ground. To Xanala’s relief, Lyrus’ crumpled form healed as it fell, broken bones slowly knitting back together. He was alive, and his Purity Surge was shifting his body back to its natural state.

She wasn’t sure it would be fast enough, though. Tenedon rushed toward Lyrus, his helm gone, but his Atomdagger still shining bright. He arrived just as Lyrus stood back up, swinging the Atomdagger directly at Lyrus’ chest. Lyrus threw his hand forward.

And suddenly, the blade stopped. A bright point of white light radiated from the place where Lyrus’ hand met the Atomdagger, and Xanala could see that her father’s hand was Infused with Purity – Purity that, for now, could block the Atomdagger’s energy. He’d only have an instant.

But that was all he needed. Tenedon hesitated for just a moment, clearly shocked that his attack had been blocked. In that moment, Lyrus thrust his blade straight through Tenedon’s right eye. He fell over instantly, sand parting as his heavy, armored body sunk into it. Green mist poured out of his mouth. Atom burners could heal – but only if they were alive to do it.

There was a loud silence, then a hesitant cheer. Soon, the entire crowd was rising and clapping. Xanala joined them, if only out of relief that her father had survived.

“All hail the Masked Warriors! All despise the false Endowed!” Some of the masses rushed onto the arena sand, spitting on Tenedon’s carcass, firing rounds into his mangled face.

Beside Xanala, Traegus did not stand. Instead, he stared at the arena, a bemused smile on his face.

“They wouldn’t have lasted a minute against Larsh,” he said. “Not one of them. Yet they still think they are players in this game. Such fools.” He turned to Xanala, meeting her eyes, then leaning in close. Xanala jumped at the sudden movement.

“It was a pleasure to meet the famed hero of the prophecy. You are meant for more than their games, Erdor.” He smiled, and the playfulness fled his face, leaving only cold stone. “When you are ready to accept your role in this, know that Oblivion has an offer for you.”

He turned and left before Xanala could even react. She should have chased him, but she sat frozen in her seat, blood and fear pounding through her head. He knew. How could he know?

Finally, as she recovered from the shock, her eyes followed him. Now that she looked closer, he wasn’t a Senator at all — instead, he had a general’s rune plastered on his back. Why was a Talar general here, on Xeredon? Why had he been allowed in the arena? The Talar were technically still a member of the Confederacy, but they’d broken so many rules the federation was seriously considering ejecting them.

Most of all, how did he know about her scar? And the Void… it couldn’t have really sent him, could it?

He was gone before she could ask, and others were rising from their seats. She pushed the thoughts from her mind, twitching her finger to take control of the fear. There would be time for questions later. When she was behind closed doors, or in one of her father’s hideouts in the Undercity.

Something else he’d said bothered her too, though. He’d talked about Larsh, in the arena. Larsh, who also claimed to be the Endowed, though in her thirteen years of rule, she’d never submitted to the Testing. Larsh, who allowed memory burning within her borders, despite the entire International Confederacy’s protests.

For the first time in three years, Xanala again wanted to flee to Talar. Leave all this hiding behind.

But, it wouldn’t work. And if it went wrong, Xanala, who, as far as she knew, was the Endowed, would have to submit to the Testing. For if she was found as a burner, her only hope would be to declare herself a Prospect, and fight the Masked Warriors. Even if she was not found, it was supposedly her destiny to defeat the Void — and this was a necessary first step. A first step she’d take whether or not she liked it, for the Tower of Foreseeing was never wrong.

She glanced down at the ripped-apart corpse on the sands. At the people turned to animals who spat upon his body. She shivered.

Destiny or not, if she ended up in this arena, she doubted she would fare any better than Tenedon.