I tensed at the mention of the Trial again. It was like an ever-present shadow, looming behind every conversation we had, a specter that was always there but never fully revealed. What exactly would I face? The specifics of the Trial were never spoken aloud, shrouded in secrecy.

“Will this help me in the Trial?” I gestured toward the piles of ancient tomes stacked on the table.

Lysandra smiled faintly, as if the question had a complex answer. “Yes, but the Trial is more than just knowledge, Aric. It’s not something you can prepare for in the conventional sense. It’s about your bond with the relic, your understanding of who you are, and—more importantly—what you’re willing to sacrifice. These books, these lessons—they’ll guide you, but the Trial will test more than just your intellect. It will test your very soul.”

Her words sent a chill down my spine. I glanced at the relic on my wrist, the cold metal pressing against my skin. What exactly was this trial? And what price would I have to pay?

Lysandra returned to the books, her fingers brushing the glyphs etched onto their spines. "We’ll begin with the fundamentals of spatial theory, but in time, we’ll go deeper. This is about more than just magic. It’s about knowing your place in this world and what it means to bear the Oswin name."

I wanted to ask more, to dig into the cryptic nature of her words, but something in her tone silenced me. There was an edge to it, a warning not to pry too much, too soon.

“For now,” she said, pointing to a series of symbols carved into the pages of an old, leather-bound tome, “memorize these. They’re the foundation for your training.”

I stared at the runes, their shapes foreign and disorienting. My mind began tracing their lines, trying to understand their meaning. They weren’t just symbols—they were keys, unlocking something deep within the Veil. Something dangerous.

As I focused on the symbols, Lysandra’s earlier words echoed in my mind: Know your place. I wasn’t just learning magic; I was being drawn into a world where power wasn’t a gift, it was something you earned through sacrifice. And the Oswins had earned theirs in ways I was only beginning to comprehend.

Lysandra stood back, her gaze fixed on me. "Good. But don’t just memorize them—feel the mana in the room. Let it guide you. The rune is a tool, but it’s your connection to the Veil that will set you apart from the others."

I closed my eyes, trying to sense the mana that flowed invisibly around us. It was faint, like the distant hum of something ancient, just out of reach. I focused on the runes, letting them merge with the subtle pull of energy in the room.

Suddenly, the atmosphere shifted. The air grew heavy, thick with unseen power, as if reality itself had warped around me. I opened my eyes, and for a brief moment, I could see it—the delicate threads of the Veil, interwoven with the world, waiting to be manipulated.

Lysandra noticed my change in expression and nodded approvingly. "You’re beginning to feel it. That’s the first step. But remember, the Veil is more than just a tool. It’s a boundary between our world and something far older. Cross it, and you may not come back."

Her words hung in the air, a quiet warning. How many times had I already crossed that boundary without knowing?

"Now," she said, her voice growing more serious, "we need to see how far you can go before the Trial. How much you can handle."

She led me through the library’s twisting corridors until we reached a large, open space. The room felt different from the rest of the library—darker, as though it had absorbed the knowledge of countless years and was now holding it in silence.

"Hold the rune in your mind," she instructed, "and focus on the space around you. Feel where you are, how the world bends and shifts. Then, bend it."

I nodded, nerves creeping into my chest. I closed my eyes again, trying to focus, trying to feel the world as she described. Slowly, I felt it—the subtle pull of space, the way it seemed to shift, ever so slightly, as if reality itself was pliable under my will.

But as quickly as it came, it slipped away, snapping back into place with a force that left me disoriented.

"Again," Lysandra’s voice cut through the fog in my mind, sharp and unforgiving.

I tried once more, pushing harder this time, pulling at the edges of the Veil, trying to manipulate the space around me. For a moment, I felt it working—a pull, a distortion—but then everything collapsed. The space around me wavered violently, distorting in a way that made my head spin. A crushing pressure built up in my chest, threatening to crush me under its weight.

Lysandra moved swiftly, cutting through the air with a flick of her hand, dispelling the distortion. The pressure lifted, and I gasped for breath, shaken.

"You’re forcing it," she said, her tone sharp. "You cannot bend space through sheer will. You must let it guide you. The mana, the Veil—it has a rhythm. Learn to follow it, or it will break you."

I steadied myself, trying to calm my racing heart. The sensation of the world distorting around me had been overwhelming. How could I possibly control such power?

As I caught my breath, a memory flashed in my mind—back to the night when the cultists attacked. I had felt that same distortion, that same pressure threatening to crush me, to pull me into something darker than I could comprehend.

Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

Lysandra’s voice softened, though only slightly. "The Trial is coming, Aric. You’re not ready for it, not yet. But we don’t have time to delay. Your ability to control the Veil, to manipulate space—that will be the difference between surviving the Trial and being consumed by it."

Her words sent another chill through me, but I forced myself to focus. The more I learned, the more I realized how little I understood about this world, about magic, and about the relic I now carried. Every step forward felt like I was inching closer to a precipice, one where a single misstep could send me spiraling into the unknown.

"And now," Lysandra continued, her gaze hardening once again, "we’ll begin your combat training."

She walked to a rack on the far wall, grabbing two wooden practice swords. She tossed one to me without warning. I barely caught it, the unfamiliar weight unsettling in my hands.

“You won’t have the luxury of relying on magic alone,” she said, taking a stance. “The Oswins have always valued those who can wield both sword and spell. The Trial will test your strength in ways beyond the Veil. You’ll need to be prepared.”

I hesitated, staring at the sword in my hand. It felt foreign, awkward. Despite my training, Aric’s body seemed to rebel against the weapon. Why had he, the heir, not mastered this? Why hadn’t anyone noticed his struggle?

Lysandra didn’t wait for me to adjust. She moved quickly, her blade swinging toward me in a blur. I barely managed to raise my sword in time, my arms trembling from the impact. Her expression was unreadable, but her strikes were relentless.

“You’re too slow,” she remarked coldly, her next blow landing harder than the last. “Your mind is divided. Focus.”

I grit my teeth, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. She wasn’t wrong. My movements were clumsy, disjointed, as if I was fighting against myself. I could feel the threads of the Veil, but with the sword in hand, I was nothing more than a novice.

And then, something broke through—memories, flickering like shattered glass at the edge of my mind. A time when I had once held a sword, when I had trained, when everything had fallen apart.

Pain. Failure. Trauma.

Before I could process it, Lysandra swung again.

Her sword cut through the air with surgical precision, the sharp crack of wood against wood ringing out as I barely managed to deflect the blow. My arms shook from the impact, a dull ache spreading from my wrists to my shoulders. Her eyes—cold, unyielding—narrowed slightly as she observed me.

“You’re slow,” she stated flatly, her voice as sharp as her strikes. “Sloppy.”

I ground my teeth, frustration burning hot beneath the surface. She wasn’t wrong. My movements felt sluggish, disconnected, like my body was resisting every command I gave it. I could feel the currents of mana, the Veil itself trembling at my fingertips when I wanted it, but here, wielding a sword, I was little more than a novice.

Worse, the echoes of my former training—the instincts that should have been there—were buried under layers of hesitation.

Lysandra’s sword whistled through the air again, this time striking with more force. I parried, but only barely, the shock traveling through my arms, and my feet faltered as I tried to regain balance. Her strikes were relentless, calculated, designed to wear me down. I could see the intent behind each movement, the precision she spoke of—yet I couldn’t match it.

"Focus," she commanded, her tone hardening. "Swordsmanship isn’t about strength. It’s about control, about reading your opponent and timing each move—just like casting a spell."

I tried to fall into the rhythm she set, to find some harmony between defense and counterattack, but each step felt more alien than the last. The more I tried, the more my mind split into pieces—two conflicting thoughts fighting for dominance, one belonging to Aric, the other to something... someone else.

It was maddening.

Every step felt misaligned. My mind and body were no longer in sync, as if I was caught in the space between two lives, neither of which fit anymore.

Lysandra’s strikes came faster, forcing me to react on instinct alone. My defense crumbled, the sword slipping from my grasp, clattering uselessly against the floor. I stumbled backward, breath ragged, vision hazy with exhaustion and mounting frustration.

“Enough,” she said, voice cutting through the haze like a blade.

I stood there, chest heaving, drenched in sweat. The wooden sword might as well have been made of lead for how heavy it felt. Lysandra stood before me, barely winded, her expression unreadable. But there was a glint in her eyes—something dangerous, almost predatory.

“You’re fighting yourself,” she said, her words sinking in slowly. “You’re not just clumsy with a sword. You’re divided.”

The room felt colder suddenly, her words echoing in the space around us. Divided. The word hit me harder than any strike she had landed. It wasn’t just about swordsmanship or magic—it was something deeper, something I had been trying to bury ever since I woke up in this strange world.

“I don’t know what you’re holding onto,” she continued, her gaze hard and unflinching. “But it’s tearing you apart. You hesitate. You doubt. And in the Trial, that hesitation will get you killed.”

Her words lingered, settling heavily in the silence that followed. She wasn’t wrong. I had been feeling it for weeks—the strange dissonance, the way my thoughts split, as if two minds were trying to coexist in a single body. There was Aric—the memories, the instincts, the weight of the Oswin family legacy. And then there was... me, or whatever version of me existed before I became part of this.

Aric.

I tried to push the name away, to shove it down where it couldn’t interfere, but it clung to me like a shadow. I know I was now him but I still didn't want to accept it. The memories, the life that belonged to someone else... or was it mine? The more I thought about it, the more blurred the lines became. What was real? Who was I?

The Voice. It had changed me—bound me to something far greater. And now, it was revealing a truth I wasn’t ready to face.

I glanced at the sword in my hand, feeling its weight more keenly now. It wasn’t just the weapon that felt foreign. It was me. Every action, every thought seemed off-kilter, as if my body and mind no longer belonged to the same person.

“You’re holding back,” Lysandra’s voice cut through again. “But whatever you think you’re protecting yourself from, it won’t help you here. You can’t hide behind magic or excuses. Tomorrow, we start again. This time, no distractions. No hesitation.”

She took a step closer, her eyes boring into mine. “Face what’s haunting you. Or it’ll kill you before the Trial even begins.”

I watched her walk away, the door closing softly behind her, leaving me alone in the dimly lit room. Her words echoed in my mind, repeating like a mantra. Divided. Hesitant. Haunting.

I slumped against the wall, my muscles aching from the exertion, but it wasn’t just physical fatigue that weighed me down. It was something deeper. The sense that I was losing myself—losing control of whatever fragile balance I had left.

I closed my eyes, trying to shut out the noise in my head, but it was no use. The memories of both lives swirled together in a chaotic storm, each vying for dominance. Aric. Elijah. Which one was I? Could I even choose?

The Veil trembled around me, a whisper of power just beyond reach, waiting to be grasped. But the Wyrd, the chaos beyond it, beckoned as well. I was caught between them, just like I was caught between two selves.

I didn’t know how much longer I could stand in the middle without breaking.

Tomorrow, Lysandra would push me again. Tomorrow, I would pick up the sword, and try once more to become something whole. But for tonight, I sat in the silence, the weight of my divided self pressing down like a curse.

...