Risens blinked to clear the disorientation that blurred his vision. He forced the panic at bay as it took several repetitions before the distorted arrangement of muted colors coalesced into images that made sense again. Dark grains of smoothed stone and pitted tan hues resolved. Starting from the dirty floor in front of him, his vision expanded as the confusion faded into a throbbing annoyance.
Dabbing his hand against his forehead, his fingers came back sticky and wet with blood. That he was still in the training chamber, still in the trial within the Roost, he was certain. The familiar black walls and scarred, packed-dirt floor greeted him with a scene that had already become ingrained in his being. He traced the new marks he’d left in the surface, each one chronicling his repeated failed efforts.
Broad, flat lines stretched out from where his feet had slid across the earthen floor. Small jagged holes pockmarked the soil where his blades had missed their elusive mark.
At the far side of the square training grounds, exactly where he’d expected it would be, the featureless target stood,mocking him with its limp indifference.
Risens grinned—an effort that elicited a wince of pain—as he noted the hilt of a blade. The training dummy had dodged his clear, intended attacks, yet predictability had been its downfall. His perfectly thrown dagger had buried itself in its chest.
Stumbling to his feet, he took stock of the damage he’d sustained. Deep bruises already formed where he’d been struck on both sides. The blows had been intentional. Painful, yes, but they had been strategically applied, none causing true harm. Beyond the lingering discomfort, they would fade with time or a potent draught that Tawny would likely supply with some chagrin and questions he wouldn’t answer. The most damaging blows were a product of his own dangerous yet successful tactic. He’d put himself into the position and had paid the necessary price.
Sliding the blade that remained in his hand into its sheath, he stalked toward the awaiting mannequin. He’d scored a mark, yet the absence of any change or result immediately spurred concern that perhaps he’d misunderstood the non-specific challenge after all. Straw peeked from the “wound” in the chest of the target, though it remained motionless as he retrieved his blade.
As soon as the steel shed its burlap skin, his stationary opponent crumpled, disintegrating with shocking speed. Dust spread, billowing out at an unnatural rate and with an unnatural goal. It thickened as it traveled across the training floor, within moments, covering every meter of the chamber in a dense fog that reached up to Risens’s knees.
Vibrations rumbled from underfoot. At first subtle, they increased until the entire room rattled with a motion that threatened to unseat his normally steady balance. Spreading his stance to maintain his footing, he shifted slowly back toward the portal to the Roost. He couldn’t be sure of the repercussions for failing this specific trial, though his previous attempts had assured him that it would be painful. There was no manual, no instructions for this or the other challenges. He was left to suss out the correct path forward, judging his successes or failures on the response from the training chamber itself.
What if he’d severely misjudged his actions or the expected results?
The tremors ebbed to a point that was manageable as he neared the shimmering void of the door. Here he was close enough to flee if necessary, though he hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Risens rarely had cause to run from a fight, andnow wouldn’t be one of those moments. Self-preservation, an honest understanding of his skills—and the lack thereof—had allowed him to survive as long as he had.
He wasn’t too proud to admit that, more recently than in his previous years, dumb luck had become a potent ally.
From the room’s center, motion in the cloud covering the floor drew his focus. The impenetrable layer of dust that blanketed the ground shifted as something stirred from beneath. Like water pouring off a stone, it cascaded down the sides of the structure that emerged from the fog. A black shape materialized, presenting a disturbing profile as it came into view.
Risens stood tall as the shrine came to a stop. As it ceased its movement, the vibrations from below stilled, and the haze around his feet settled. The cloud’s consistency faltered, the dust falling back to the hard-packed surface, filling in the grooves that marred it. The ground now appeared freshly raked, every particle of dirt perfectly positioned, as if on display.
He’d felt the unfocused lure of the power upon entering the room. Now, its origin was glaring as the shrine waited, calling for his approach. He inched forward slowly, with quiet reverence. Risens could feel the steady thrum of his heart. Only the quiet crunch of the loose grains underfoot disturbed the silence that had fallen over the trial chamber. Glancing back down, he was surprised to see that his footsteps left no visible marks in the dirt, though the sounds were clear.
Not bothering with the discrepancy, he turned his focus to the shrine that had risen from the floor. Set atop a waist-high pedestal of dark gray, polished stone, the figure was clearly that of a raven, though it was twisted into a bizarre amalgamation of the majestic bird.
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The form, like the bordered symbols on the outer door, was split in half. In this iteration, the tips of each wing touched at the center of the feature. On the smoothed surface of the shrine below, a pair of feathers, long, shiny, and black, were neatly crossed over one another as if placed by a delicate, intentional hand. Risens took them, and excitement increased, his heart rate following suit as he expected to understand the gift to be imparted.
He had faced a foe who could seemingly be in two places at one time. His blades had chased shadows as they sought to bury themselves in their target. Understanding and willingly accepting the cost, he stepped forward and collected the offering.
Regardless of the times he’d experienced the discomfort, the pain of the Brands searing into his chest was near unbearable. He collapsed to his knees as tears burned in his eyes. Fire scorched each side of his abdomen to his chest as if invisible blades had been heated to red-hot before being drawn slowly across his skin. Through the haze of agony, tracing the paths in his mind became futile. Giving in, he clenched his jaw, writhing on the ground, desperately hoping for a release from the burden of the pain.
As it had with every iteration prior, the discomfort ended as dramatically as it had begun. Risens remained where he’d collapsed to the floor, tormented by the unyielding memories of pain that lagged behind as his mind struggled to accept itssudden departure.
Slowly, he clambered back to his knees. Untying his tunic enough for him to see inside, the new marking that scarred his chest was clear. The full image had become more defined with the additions. Running up both sides of his chest, from his abdomen to nearly his armpits, were the jagged outlines of the bird that graced his torso. He stared at the Brands with unrestrained shock. Five distinct Brands now decorated his chest, though it was clear that they were a part of a greater whole.
A part of the raven.
Much that had been chronicled by history had been challenged over the previous weeks. Searching back through the information he garnered from his teachings, he considered the rumor that Adalhard himself had only three Brands etched into his royal skin, one of which was the most important of them all.
The Brand of the Bloodheir.
Could the great, ancient King have borne more Brands that remained unknown to historians? Could references to them have been intentionally erased from the slim records that detailed the stories of his age as the ruler of Halthome?
Whether they were documented or erased, either way it mattered not.
That he, the Rightmaker, a bastard child with no hope of ever achieving one Brand now displayed more than any had ever been recorded with was shocking and humbling. It was a secret that none must know. He was skilled, a trained killer, the silent blade of the King. Now, he was the hand of the ominous voice that commanded his obeisance. The question again inserted itself into his mind. Why had he been chosen to bear the marks, to be Branded, as the voice had said, “in his image”?
With his mind cleared of the residual rumbles of discomfort, Risens noted that the thrumming of power that he’d once felt emanating from the room had ceased. The hollow chamber and the shrine were now silent and impotent. With a slight bow, he offered his thanks and regards to the shrine of the split raven.
He’d inspected the feathers clasped carefully in his hand as he padded his way back across the pristine training ground. The muffled crunch of his feet on the dirt was silenced as the voice thundered in his head.
Young raven, you must develop your wings quickly. The Dull Wind is a boon not to be taken lightly, nor are the feathers that have been bestowed. Use them with care, for they will be your first steps toward flight.
Risens exhaled the breath that caught in his throat. His curiosity fell to the feathers in his hand as the sudden pressure that had held his attention in thrall faded. The feathers, in appearance and touch, looked to be identical to those left behind when Mother Raven utilized the skill to shift around the Raven’s Court. There was something he was missing, and he expected he knew where to find the next piece of the puzzle.
With a step, the welcoming void ushered him into the Roost beyond.
The stone ravens watched him as he strode confidently across the dark stones of the chamber to the pedestal with the Raven’s Guide. The impressive tome was still opened to the page detailing the Brand of the Winged Salvation that had granted him the Conspiracy of Ravens. With reverent care, he pulled gently on the solid pages of the tome, and what was hidden from his view on the following page now came to light, flipped as if blown by a gentle breeze.
The page was similar to the descriptions of the hundreds of other Brands. The structure of the page, however, was where the similarities ended. The design and words of the forbidden Brands embodied unheard-of strength. The gifts bestowed by all other marking were trivial in comparison.
He traced the Brand’s design with his finger. A pair of jagged diagonal lines, narrower at the bottom than the top, was separated by a few finger widths of space. It, along with the other key Brands he’d acquired in the Roost, were relatively formless when compared to many of the other Brands depicted in the Raven’s Guide. In the classic tome, there was a relatively clear correlation between the form of a marking and its qualities. So far, none of these Brands within the Roost have had features so clear.
As he now proudly wore five of the Brands on his chest, Risens understood the design’s intentionality. Each marking stood alone, powerful though nondescript. It wasn’t until they were viewed together that the true form and strength came to light. Pulling the small Raven’s Guide from his hidden breast pocket, he opened it to the next blank page before placingit on the pedestal. He committed the words to memory as he watched the text burn into the page.
Brand of the Solitary Rift
One of the twelve key Brands. To the bearer, access to the Dull Wind will be at your command. Moving with the wind does not come without a sacrifice of feather. Further evolutions will allow the bearer to move greater distances.
The thin tendril of sweet-smelling smoke faded as he gently closed the small tome, returning it to the protection of his cloak. He was sore and exhausted from the effort of the trial, but his mind was energized, alight with the possibilities.
The Dull Wind was now his to command. He’d seen the terrifying potential as Mother Raven had used the skill to shift throughout the Raven’s Court. Now, it was his to command.
Trepidation lingered in his mind as a return to the King loomed. With every new skill, every further evolution and upgrade, a piece of the worry faded.
Regardless of the outcome of his return, he would be far more prepared for whatever fate greeted him.