The Gaze of Molech

“Are you ready, apprentice?”

 

No, Bellame thinks, although he would never say it out loud, especially not to the mage who has dominated every waking moment of his life for the best part of a decade. 

 

Instead, he nods sharply, jaw clenched as he wills his voice not to break like a frightened child. 

 

“Yes, Master Seratrin.”

 

A wry smile curls at the corners of the mage’s thin, cruel mouth. 

 

“And so I would hope, especially after everything I’ve sacrificed to drag you from the gutter.”

 

Seratrin’s gray eyes drift past Bellame, settling on the olive-skinned apprentice standing silently behind him in identical robes, an empty bronze sphere at his waist catching the light from the flickering sconces. 

 

“The same goes for you, Caelis.”

 

“Of course, Master,” Bellame’s fellow acolyte replies, his voice, as ever, dripping with confidence. “We won’t let you down.”

 

Seratrin chuckles. “It matters little to me whether you succeed or fail. It’s your necks on the line. Or should I say, your sanity.” Those cold eyes flick back to Bellame, searching for the smallest crack in his composure. Bellame looks straight ahead, his face an impassive mask. 

 

Hold it together, Bell. Don’t give him the satisfaction.  

 

He can almost see the amused expression on his companion’s face. Same old Caelis. Always relaxed. Always prepared. 

 

Not like him. 

 

Seratrin sniffs, finally tiring of the game. There’s no going back now. Without another word, the master turns and strides from the antechamber. 

 

Bellame doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until the mage’s sharp footsteps fade away.

 

The silence lasts all of three seconds before Caelis snorts with laughter. “Miserable bastard. He just can’t help himself, even today, of all days.”

 

Bellame turns sharply. “Quiet. They’ll hear!”

 

Caelis cocks an amused eyebrow. “The other masters? They’ll all be safely in the observation gallery by now, waiting to see if we rise to the challenge…”

 

“Or spend the rest of our lives talking to phantoms.”

 

Caelis’s eyes go wide. “Oh, by the Everlasting! You genuinely think your brain’s about to dribble out of your ears, don’t you? For Molech’s sake, Bellame.”

 

“Caelis, we’re about to go through the trial…”

 

“To face the dread Gaze of Molech,” his friend intones, flinging his arms wide as if addressing an arena of overawed aspirants.

 

“This is serious!”

 

“Of course, it’s serious. Which is why we’ve trained every day for the last ten years. Why you’ve trained harder than most.”

 

“Because I had to. I’m not like you.”

 

Caelis grabs his shoulder, squeezing hard. 

 

“You’re exactly like me. Just not as good-looking.”

 

The grin spreads wider still, as infectious now as it was when they first met all those years ago. “You’ve got this, Bell. I promise you.”

 

Behind them, the great doors to the Oracle chamber groan open, the creak of ancient hinges echoing through the hall beyond. 

 

The jokes fall away, Caelis’s smile smaller, but just as warm. 

 

“Go. Show them what you’re made of. I’ll be right here, waiting for you.”

 

 

---

 

They had been boys when they first met, little more than fourteen or fifteen. It was hard to remember now. Liastrum did that to you, changing you little by little until you lost track of mundane concerns like your age. 

 

But he remembered what it was like to first come to Gateway, a name he had heard all his young life. The city, perched alongside the Churning Sea, had seemed impossibly vast after a life in the country, a sprawl of stone, sailcloth and opportunity. Crowded streets choked with shouting stall-holders, weather-beaten sailors, and wide-eyed aspirants. Harbour fowl crammed into cages, salt spray hanging in the air, tangled with the stink of fish, sweat, and desperation. 

 

People flocked to the Quinvalan coast from every corner of the Wystral, drawn to the promise of fortune and power.

 

People like him. A scrawny runt of a lad with dust on his boots and dreams in his head. 

 

Dreams of joining the Conclave of the Spheres.

 

Of becoming a mage. 

 

It was all he’d ever wanted. His father’s fault, really. All those years filling Bellame’s young head with tales and wonder, even going so far as emptying the family coffers to pay for safe passage to Gateway when the time came.

 

Not that they had much to spare. 

 

He could still hear the pride in the old peddler’s voice. Still see the tears glistening in those rheumy eyes. 

 

“My boy… the apprentice. The mage. You’ll do great things, lad. You’ll keep the likes of us safe, me and your old ma.”

 

“Oi, less of the old,” Mother had scolded, before planting a perfunctory kiss on his head. 

 

But she’d shed tears of her own as she stood in the doorway of their tumbledown shack, one hand raised in farewell while the other stifled her sobs. 

 

He’d marched down the road without looking back, heading for the wagon train that had agreed to take him at least part of the way. 

 

That had been five weeks ago. A whole month of picturing the moment he’d stride up to the doors of the Conclave and declare his intention to become an apprentice.

 

The reality had been slightly less dignified. Getting jostled and shoved in the crowded streets, his senses battered from all directions. Cries, shouts, and wails. The stench of unwashed bodies and steaming cesspits. 

 

“Excuse me,” he’d asked the constant stream of passers-by. “Where do I find the Masters? Where do I apply to the Spheres?”

 

At best, they swept past as if he were invisible. At worst, they batted him away, so hard in the case of one harassed dockworker that he ended face-first in a steaming pile of pig’s muck.

 

That’s when he’d felt a hand at his belt, reaching for his purse. Bellame’s fingers snapped around a thin wrist as he spluttered through dirt. “Hey! What do you think you’re doing?”

 

“Helping you up, of course,” the would-be thief said, yanking his hand free. “What do you think I was tryin’ to do?”

 

“Rob me blind,” Bellame spat, finally getting a proper look at his assailant. Wiry and barefoot, the boy was barely a year older than he was, all sharp elbows and sallow cheeks, bright blue eyes sparkling through the grime. 

 

“Nah, I was trying to help you up, weren’t I?” the street urchin said, rubbing his wrist. “No harm meant. Besides,” he added, dirty face breaking into a shit-eating grin that would become a familiar sight, “there’s no point filching a purse as empty as that ol’ thing. Spent every last coin getting here, I ‘spose?” Bellame nodded, still not sure whether to trust the boy or not.

 

“Come far?”

 

“From Anastrane.”

 

The boy whistled. “That’s some trek. And all to become a mage, I’d wager.”

 

Bellame glanced at the chaos all around. “Is there any other reason to come to this… this…”

 

“Hellhole?” 

 

Bellame smiled, despite himself. 

 

“Now you’re getting it,” Caelis said with a laugh. “Gateway’s grand if you’re already rich. In the towers they’re counting coin. Down here, we’re counting fleas.” He thrust out a hand. “Name’s Caelis, and you are…”

 

“Filthy,” Bellame said, letting the boy haul him back to his feet. “This wasn’t how I was expecting it to be.”

 

“It never is, my old mate,” his new friend said, slapping him so hard on his back that he nearly ended up back in the brown stuff. “Not around ‘ere. Come on, let me show you what’s what before some other bastard nicks what’s left of your purse.”

 

And the young thief had been as good as his word, teaching Bellame how to survive on the streets, pilfering food without getting caught, which corners to avoid, and—most importantly—the best places to glimpse a mage!

 

---

 

“That’s one there,” Caelis said one day, pointing at a dark-robed figure pushing his way through the crowds along the harborside. 

 

“One what?” Bellame asked, taking in the mop of curly hair and a smooth face, cobalt-blue makeup smeared beneath cold eyes.   

 

“A Master.”

 

Bellame blinked. “I thought they’d be… older.”

 

Caelis sniggered. “Long white beard and pristine robes.”

 

He shrugged. “I’m not sure what I expected. He just looks so… ordinary.”

 

“For pity’s sake, don’t let him hear you say that. Name’s Seratrin. Nasty piece of work, but our best chance if we want to get noticed. See the sphere he wears on his belt?”

 

“Looks like gold,” Bellame said, peering at the intricate orb.

 

“Brass. But worth more than any precious metal from here to Astaris.” Caelis leant in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s where he keeps his magic.”

 

“How do you know?” 

 

“Because I keep my ears to the ground and my face out of pigs’ shit. Trust me, Belly-Boy. That’s the guy we need to impress if we’re ever going to get robes of our own.”

 

Bellame still wasn’t sure. Yes, there did seem to be an otherworldly glow pulsing from the sphere at the man’s waist, but nothing about the stranger matched the stories he’d been told as a kid. The mages of his father’s tales were near gods, individuals who had dragged themselves from the drudgery and trauma of everyday life, seizing hold of their own fate. Unbeholden to anyone else, they were masters of progress and destiny. They bent the world to their will, proof that a person could become more than they were born to be. 

 

They were glorious. 

 

But this man… this Seratrin… snapped and barked at anyone foolish enough to come near. Beggars, would-be aspirants, all were dismissed with an irritated flick of a hand and a sharp tongue. 

 

“Away with you. Move aside.” 

 

And when he wasn’t snapping at his petitioners, he was barking at a flame-haired lad who hurried after him, arms laden with tomes and scrolls, a human pack-animal struggling to keep up with Seratrin’s long strides.

 

“For Molech’s sake, stop dawdling, Dren. I knew I should’ve brought a bahig’udjin.”

 

“Sorry, Master. I’ll do better, Master.”

 

“Well, that would be a pleasant surprise.” 

 

“Y-yes, master. At once, master.”

 

Bellame felt Caelis’s gaze on him.

 

“Disappointed?”

 

He didn’t respond. He didn’t have to.

 

“Seen it before,” Caelis sniffed. “Country types like you, making your way to the city expecting champions and finding… well, miserable gits like Seratrin.”

 

Bellame nodded at the trailing youth, the boy’s face almost as red as his hair. “And that’s…”

 

“Said git’s brave and noble acolyte, one brisk scroll away from collapsing in a heap. It’s no life, that’s for sure.”

 

Bellame blinked. “But… you said you wanted to be an apprentice.”

 

“Of course I do. Just like you. Life in the Spheres is a horror show, Bell, my old pal. One that will chew you up and spit you out. But it’s the only way I know to achieve real power around here. You just have to beat the system before it beats you.”

 

Bellame thought he was going to be sick.

 

“You make it sound so easy.”

 

“It is,” Caelis promised with another infuriatingly reassuring grin. “We just have to find a way in.”

 

But how? That was the question. It wasn’t as if Seratrin was letting anyone get close, and Dren looked ready to expire at any minute. The pair bustled past, Caelis scurrying after them, calling out only to be ignored like the rest. 

 

Bellame could only stand and watch, his hopes dying with every passing second. Was everything he’d believed a lie? Had he wasted his family’s meagre savings for this, a broken dream on a dirty road? 

 

That’s when it happened. 

 

That’s when his life changed. 

 

Something small and shiny slipped from an open satchel on Dren’s belt and bounced across the cobbles. 

 

No one else seemed to notice. Like Caelis, they were too busy trying to attract Seratrin’s attention. 

 

Bellame bent down and retrieved the object. It was a disc, no bigger than his hand, crafted from the same brass as Seratrin’s sphere. Elaborate runes spiraled across the metal, twisting and turning like living things, a nest of serpents forever chasing their own tails. 

 

Bellame almost cried out, suddenly afraid. Whatever it was, the object throbbed in his hand, both hot and cold at the same time. He wanted to throw it back to the ground, to turn and run, to forget any notion he’d had of becoming a mage.

 

If this was magic… if this was Liastrum, he wanted nothing to do with it.

 

And yet, he couldn’t move. His fingers remained locked around the unnatural metal while his gaze sank deeper into those twisting runes. 

 

“What have you got there?”

 

All at once, Caelis was back at his side, eyes widening as he caught sight of the disc.

 

“I don’t know,” Bellame stammered. “It fell from Dren’s satchel. It was just lying there and—”

 

Caelis didn’t wait for him to finish. He snatched the artifact from Bellame’s hand and whirled around, arm thrust in the air. 

 

“Master Seratrin. Master Seratrin. I believe this is yours.”

 

Maybe it was the confidence in Caelis’s rough voice. Or maybe the strange energy thrumming from the disc. Either way, Seratrin’s head whipped around to see what Caelis was holding. 

 

In the blink of an eye, the mage moved, crossing the crowded street faster than Bellame’s eyes could track. 

 

“Give that to me,” he growled, holding out an expectant hand.

 

“Of course, your mage-ness,” Caelis quipped, as if this were an everyday encounter. “Your apprentice dropped it.”

 

The master’s gaze snapped to Dren, whose ruddy complexion immediately went white. 

 

“Master, I’m sorry. So very sorry.”

 

Seratrin turned back to Caelis. “You saw my idiot of an apprentice lose this… item.”

 

“Not me,” Caelis replied, jerking a dirty thumb toward Bellame. “My pal over there.”

 

Don’t bring me into this, Bellame thought as Seratrin’s sharp eyes settled on him like a drawn blade. 

 

“Is that correct, boy? Is that what you saw?”

 

“With his own eyes,” Caelis said before Bellame could utter a sound, which was fortunate as he seemed to have lost the ability to speak. All he could do was nod, his mouth as dry as the Pale Expanse.

 

Seratrin held his gaze with eyes that seemed immeasurably older than the face surrounding them. Caelis had been right. Nothing about Seratrin was how it appeared to be. 

 

“Do you know what this is?” the master said, turning his attention back to Caelis. 

 

“Expensive,” the thief grinned. 

 

The ghost of a smile played on Seratrin’s lips. “More than you’ll ever know. It’s a seal. A key of sorts. Allowing the holder access to my private laboratory.”

 

“Not the kind of thing you want falling into the wrong hands,” Caelis said, handing the disc over with mock graveness.

 

“Not at all.”

 

The poor apprentice looked ready to faint, clutching Seratrin’s books tight to his chest as he squirmed on the spot. 

 

“It must have fallen from my bag, master. A terrible accident, but one that will never happen again, I promise.” 

 

“You’re right,” Seratrin announced, whirling on the boy. “It won’t. If you can’t be trusted with something as simple as this, how can you be trusted with the secrets of Sphere Virtahn?”

 

All at once, Seratrin’s hands were empty. The seal had vanished, but the master’s rage remained.

 

“Your apprenticeship is at an end.”

 

“But master, after everything we’ve been through…”

 

“There is no we, Dren. Only a contract you have forfeited by your constant ineptitude. A contract that is now null and void. The doors of the Conclave are closed to you. All that you owe must be paid back in full. My time. My Liastrum.”

 

Dren’s mouth worked silently before his pitiful defense finally came. 

 

“P-paid back? But… but how? I have nothing. Am nothing without you.”

 

Seratrin’s chin thrust higher into the air. “Then you will work in the factories until your debts have been paid. Under Master Vaelor.”

 

Tears rolled down the boy’s face as he shook his head. “No. Please. I can’t go back there. Not again. I can’t. I… I won’t.”

 

With that, he turned and ran, still clutching the books, the crowd parting from where they had been watching the spectacle. 

 

Bellame never saw Seratrin move, but there was no missing the bolt of brilliant blue that lanced through the air, striking Dren between his shoulder blades. The apprentice shrieked, Seratrin’s books tumbling from his arms as he hit the ground hard, smoke rising from his scorched skin.  

 

 

The harborside was silent, save for the sobbing of Dren, face down on the cobblestones. 

 

Seratrin sniffed, picking lint from his sleeve. “Report to Master Vaelor by sundown or expect the Spellbound to find you where you hide. Am I understood?”

 

He didn’t wait for an answer, instead turning to face Bellame. 

 

“What’s your name, boy?” 

 

“B… Bellame.” 

 

“And I’m Caelis,” his newfound friend added quickly, his voice wavering slightly for the first time. 

 

“Bring the books and the scrolls,” Seratrin commanded, already striding towards the Conclave as if nothing had happened.

 

“What? Us?” Bellame breathed.

 

“Of course us,” Caelis hissed, scooping the heavy tomes into his arms. “And the satchel, too.”

 

Bellame did as he was told, trying not to look at Dren’s sobbing body as he snatched up the leather bag. 

 

He scampered after Caelis, ignoring the stares of the crowd, the master striding ahead. 

 

“And that, my old pal,” the young thief said as Bellame fell into step, hurrying to keep up, “is how you get noticed.”

 

 

---

 

Caelis had been right as always, although carrying a pile of musty books hadn’t been enough to get them through the Conclave’s doors. 

 

Of course it wasn’t. Apprentices didn’t get picked on a whim. They had to prove their worth. 

 

First came the tests. Puzzles to solve. Physical trials to endure. Even clandestine missions that made full use of Caelis’s more questionable talents. Seratrin had them slipping into libraries and private collections to steal whatever artefacts and codices caught the master’s eye, treasures he couldn’t procure through official channels. 

 

 

Then there were the moments when Seratrin deigned to show them a flash of Liastrum. Levitating an object they’d stolen from their hands. Burning evidence of subterfuge with a gout of blue flame. Always enough to keep them eager, a tantalizing glimpse of the glory that awaited them if he chose them as his acolytes.

 

Enough to keep them on the hook. To prove that they would do anything for the opportunity. 

 

That they were willing to become just like him.

 

Did Bellame still have doubts? 

 

More often than he cared to admit.

 

Did he follow Caelis down dingy alleys and grand avenues alike, doing whatever was needed to stand out from the crowd? 

 

Without question. 

 

Did he endure days in Conclave factories, blistering his fingers and choking on the fumes, all because Seratrin decreed it? 

 

Without hesitation. 

 

Because it all paid off. Every agonizing moment. Every lock picked. Every guard rendered unconscious. 

 

Every fellow aspirant outmaneuvered. 

 

He would never forget the day when Seratrin finally accepted them as apprentices, when they walked through the doors of the Conclave into another world. 

 

So many years ago. 

 

---

 

Bellame takes a breath, forcing his mind back to the present, as a different set of doors close behind him. 

 

He had been in this chamber before. Of course, he had. Gazing up at the Oracle in all its splendor, marveling at how the immense sphere with its rings of bronze hung in the air with no physical means of support. Or how Liastrum swirled around the orb like mist. The source of the Conclave’s power, the gift Molech himself had left behind. 

 

The sight still takes his breath away all these years later, a vision usually shared by other masters and apprentices going about their business or drawing new quantities of raw Liastrum from the source. 

 

Now the cathedral-like space is silent. Empty. Although Bellame can feel the eyes of the masters looking down at him from their viewing gallery, Seratrin no doubt among them. 

 

He is alone. Perhaps for the first time in years. Caelis no longer at his shoulder, but waiting beyond the doors for his own chance to face the Gaze. 

 

To become a master in his own right. 

 

It shouldn’t just be the two of you, a voice whispers in his ear. I should be with you. 

 

Bellame turns, glancing around. There’s no one there, dust motes dancing through shafts of colored light. But there is a smell. A faint but familiar scent.

 

Duskmint. 

 

He hasn’t smelled that since…

 

Since Vey.

 

All at once, the chamber is gone, along with the bronze orb Bellame has painstakingly crafted for months. 

 

He is back in Seratrin’s laboratory, his cerulean robes replaced by the simpler tunic he wore in his seventh year as an apprentice. He looks around, struggling to understand what he’s seeing. Caelis is beside him, grinning like a skritch-cat that has got the cream. Younger again, the hardships of the last few years not yet etched across his face. 

 

“You doing okay, Bell?”

 

A woman’s voice. Her voice. 

 

Vey. Vey stands to his right, hair cut short, dustmint subtle but distinct. His heart stumbles as she peers at him, dark eyes full of concern. 

 

He tries to speak, but no words come.

 

“He’s nervous, that’s all,” Caelis says. Years of discipline have worn away the rough edges of his accent, but not his instinct to defend Bellame. 

 

“What else is new,” Vey mutters, keeping her head down as Seratrin sweeps into the room, Liastrum orb glowing and face solemn. 

 

“This is a momentous day, my apprentices,” their master says, regarding each of them in turn. “One where you increase your debt to me.”

 

“Yes, master,” they answer in unison. 

 

Seratrin smiles, thin lips framed by the neat beard he’s taken to wearing, much to Caelis’s amusement.

 

With a sweep of Seratrin’s hand, three bronze bowls jump from a nearby shelf, stopping in the air before them.

 

The master approaches Caelis first, drawing a stream of Liastrum from his orb into the apprentice’s bowl. 

 

Not a gift. Never a gift. 

 

Every scrap will be paid back in full after they gaze into the Oracle. 

 

Next, Seratrin strides in front of him, making for Vey. She nods in thanks as her bowl fills, Seratrin finally turning towards Bellame. 

 

The master meets his gaze, but no Liastrum springs from the orb.

 

Not yet.

 
“Are you sure about this, Bellame?” Seratrin asks.

 

“He is,” Caelis cuts in. 

 

“He must speak for himself, Cal,” hisses Vey. 

 

Seratrin says nothing, but waits, searching Bellame’s eyes for the answer. 

 

His mouth is dry. His throat tight.

 

He nods. “I am sure, master,” he replies, surprised at how easily the lie comes these days. 

 

Better to be in the belly of the beast. 

 

Liastrum flows into his bowl, shimmering like moonlight, its unnatural glow dappling the walls.

 

Seratrin steps back, observing his students with customary indifference. 

 

“You will cast the Liastrum into a weapon. The choice of arms is yours. Dagger, sword, spear, or even shield.” His eyes rest once more on Bellame. “And this time you will not fail.”

 

He can almost hear Caelis urging him on, not the young man beside him but the scrappy kid from the docks.

 

You’ve got this, Belly-Boy. I believe in you.

 

We all do, Vey adds in his head, not rigid, as she is now, hands clasped behind her back, but how she’d been in the Gardens of Neverlight, fingers in his hair, pulling him down towards her. 

 

Focus, Bellame scolds himself. You don’t want to let them down. Not again. 

 

The door to the storeroom swings open, all three apprentices glancing in surprise as a large crate is dragged in by shuffling mounds of flesh.

 

Bellame feels the bile rise in his throat. 

 

Spellbound. 

 

The bahig’udjin always make him feel sick. Silent save for the unsettling ticking beneath their tarnished cowls, like someone forever clearing their throats. Their bulky bodies are misshapen and bloated, writhing tentacles where hands should be. Bellame had been appalled when he saw them on his first day in the Conclave, and the horror hadn’t subsided since. 

 

Some say they are little more than constructs, molded from flesh of the departed, but no one knows for sure, no apprentice daring to ask. Instead, their hideous presence is tolerated, an army of willing servants for the masters.

 

Bellame fights to keep the disgust from his face as the Spellbound maneuver the crate to the front of the class. 

 

The box finally in position, the bahig’udjin lumber away, back through the door which Seratrin snaps shut with a click of his fingers.

 

What’s in the crate?

 

Do you really want to know? Vey asks in the garden, nipping his ear with her teeth. 

 

The box is fashioned from dark wood, its sides covered in runes, each mark glowing dimly of Liastrum. 

 

“Look into the crate,” their master commands. 

 

Bellame frowns. How can they? The wood is solid, and there are no hatches or windows. 

 

“It’s a beast,” Vey answers, her hand hovering over the Liastrum in her bowl, dark eyes turned blue. 

 

“From the forests of Paxos,” Caelis adds, drawing power from his own portion.

 

Seratrin peers expectantly at Bellame. He holds out a shaking hand, willing the mist to jump to his fingers. It barely stirs in the bowl. 

 

“I…” he begins, staring at the box, before admitting the inevitable. “I cannot see.”

 

He hears Vey sigh, feels the wave of encouragement from Caelis. Sees the disappointment on Seratrin’s face.

 

“The trial begins… now,” the master snaps, banishing the light in the sigils with an annoyed flick of his fingers.

 

Whatever lurks in the box wakes in an instant.

 

---

 

Bellame jolts. He is back in the Oracle chamber. Liastrum pulses from the Oracle. Seratrin’s laboratory gone. Caelis no longer by his side. Vey…

 

Her body beneath him, legs wrapped around his.  

 

What is happening? 

 

Another test. It has to be another test.

 

Vey moans.

 

Vey screams.

 

Bellame swallows, resting his hand on the container by his side and starts towards the steps at the foot of the Oracle. Above him, on the raised dais, Liastrum swirls within the poll.

 

He feels her body quiver.

 

“I stand before you,” he mutters as he takes the first step, reciting the words Caelis helped him learn. “Source of all power. Secret of the Spheres.” Mist flows over his boots as he continues to ascend.  “Today I take what is mine by right. What I have earned. What I command.”

 

His back arches as she calls his name.

 

No.

 

He’s reached the platform, the largest of the spheres above him, the smaller orbs rising up to the vaulted ceiling. 

 

Blood on the floor. At his feet.

 

He banishes the thought. That was a long time ago. 

 

The roar of the beast. 

 

He has worked too hard for this. It is his time. 

 

Bellame raises his hand above the pool. 

 

---

 

The creature hurls itself against the inside of the box. 

 

No. No, this isn’t right. 

 

He shouldn’t be here, struggling to forge the Liastrum in his bowl into a weapon. He’s gone beyond this. He’s on the cusp of becoming a master. He should be standing before the Gaze.

 

“It’s a tarok beast,” Caelis says beside him. “I know it is.”

 

“It is not a tarok beast,” Vey snaps. “The growl is too high-pitched.”

 

Caelis has a ball of Liastrum between his hands. “You’ve never heard a tarok beast.”

 

Vey is drawing her smoke into a long shaft. “And neither have you!”

 

“What do you think, Bell?” Caelis asks as Seratrin watches on. 

 

“I’m trying to concentrate,” he shoots back, desperately trying to call the Liastrum to his hands. Only a few wisps obey. Pitiful. Not nearly enough.

 

Dren sobs on the ground.

 

Raptors circle in an unfamiliar sky.  

 

Vey leads him into the grove.

 

The crate explodes apart, hooked claws tearing through the black wood as if it were parchment. Red eyes blaze in the darkness within.

 

“Is that…?” Bellame stammers, transfixed. 

 

 

“It’s a tarok beast,” Vey confirms matter-of-factly, the shaft between her fingers becoming a spear.

 

It’s already too late. 

 

The monster bursts from the crate, splinters shooting towards Bellame like angry wasps. He raises a hand to protect himself, the Liastrum finally obeying his command. The mist snaps into a shield, jagged shards rattling harmlessly against its surface, not that it would stand against a beast of the Primal Blood.

 

“It’s just an infant,” Caelis cries out as if that makes any difference. The thing is the size of a lion, barbed spikes running along its back, bursting out of its limbs. In the distant forests of Paxos, taroks hunt in packs. Here, the abomination is alone, but just as dangerous. 

 

Its senses on high alert, it leaps for the apprentice who has already completed their weapon, the biggest threat in the room. Vey’s eyes widen as the creature’s claws reach for her. She snatches the glowing spear from the air, but the tarok is too fast, the full weight of the creature crashing into her before she can bring the weapon to bear. 

 

Vey screams—

 

Vey laughs

 

Vey gasps

 

Vey smiles

 

Vey frowns

 

—as ferocious claws close around her shoulders. She tumbles back, the monster falling upon her, its jaws biting down on her neck. 

 

Garden

 

City

 

Sky

 

Dockyard

 

Bellame had planned on crafting a knife. Simple and uncomplicated. But even that is beyond him, especially as Vey’s cries cut through him, the tarok’s tail thrashing in the air as it feasts. 

 

His Liastrum remains an amorphous blob, as unsightly as the Spellbound. 

 

He will not let Vey down.

 

He mustn’t.

 

Chamber

 

Boneyard

 

Library

 

Gallery

“Let me,” Caelis shouts from his left. Bellame yanks his hands away as the apprentice reaches across his bowl, an ornate dagger already clasped in his other fist. 

 

The Liastrum responds instantly. 

 

“Take it,” his friend barks as a perfect replica of the knife Caelis bears forms from the mist. Bellame does as he is told, snatching the dagger from the air and turning to face the creature. Its spiked back is hunched towards them, blunt head down low.

 

Vey has stopped screaming, her spear returned to smoke.

 

No more laughs.

 

No more gasps.

 

No more smiles.

 

No more frowns.

 

As one, they strike, blades lengthening at a shout from Caelis. The knives sink deep into the tarok’s back, the hideous creature throwing up a blood-slick maw to wail in pain. There is no elegance in the attack. No finesse. They stab, and they hack, dark arterial blood spraying across their faces. The monster tries to throw them aside, but the apprentices grip hold of its barbs, the spines slicing into their palms. All that matters is that the creature dies, and fast. 

 

They have to get it off Vey. 

 

They have to save her. 

 

Save them 

 

Save yourself

 

Save me

 

With a final grunt, Caelis reaches around the tarok’s head and draws his Liastrum blade across its thick throat. The creature throws back its head and gives one final, choking roar. With a scream of fury, Bellame plunges his dagger into the beast’s eye, jelly and blood gushing down its dying muzzle.

 

The monster collapses in a heap atop Vey. Caelis leaps over its corpse, both knives dissolving into Liastrum that hangs in the air like fog. Together, they throw themselves at the beast’s flank, rolling the damned thing away from their friend. 

 

Their dead friend. 

 

Vey’s eyes are open. Her mouth hangs slack. The side of her neck is gone, shattered bone glinting through the growing pool of blood.  

 

Bellame wants to cry, to hurl himself at Seratrin, wrap his fingers around the bastard’s neck. 

 

This is his fault. 

 

His fault. 

 

Her skin beneath his

 

Caelis’s face twisted beyond recognition

 

Dren collapsing to the ground 

 

The master doesn’t even spare Vey’s body a second glance as he steps forward, drawing what’s left of his Liastrum from their bowls, from the air itself. 

 

He leaves without a word. No sympathy. No comfort. Only the shuffle of the bahig’udjins’ clubbed feet as they reappear to clear away the mess.

 

---

 

But that was then. Bellame is not the apprentice he was. Vey’s death was the shock he needed to step up his studies, Caelis cheering him on through every trial. They never talked of her again, never even mentioned her name. 

 

Save them

 

Save me

 

Save yourself

 

The pool swirls beneath his open hand, the Liastrum his to command.

 

Definitely not the apprentice he was.

 

Bellame looks up at the Oracle, his challenge clear. 

 

“Gaze on me as I gaze on you. Obey my call. Obey my will.”

 

The great orb glows. 

 

This is it, Bell, Vey whispers from the garden.

 

The moment you’ve worked towards, she says, on the day they first met. 

 

The moment I should’ve shared, she says as the Spellbound drag her away. 

 

He lifts his hand towards the orb, teeth bared. “Give it to me. Give me what is mine by right.”

 

Light erupts from the globe, brighter than a thousand suns. Bellame gasps. Despite himself. Despite his training. 

 

Those long nights, toiling away in the laboratory, mastering what had failed him as the tarok beast struck. Nothing compares to this. Then he was playing in a stream. Now he is trying to hold back an ocean. 

 

Raw power floods over him. Around him. Through him.

 

His skin is on fire. His eyes blind. Memories thought lost burst back to the surface, more vivid than ever before. 

 

Fighting a barrow defiler, plunging the horror’s own shovel deep into its diseased heart. 

 

Stealing a Scroll of Transposition from Master Triaden in the Amblis archive. 

 

Caelis using the last of his Liastrum to save a child beneath a collapsed wall.

 

The first touch of Vey’s lips against his own. 

 

The Liastrum has no choice but to obey, pouring into his sphere.

 

“It’s not just for you?” she asks as they pull on their clothes.

 

“Of course not,” he says, bending over to kiss her shoulder. “It’s for you. For Caelis. For everything you did for me.”

The scream of the defiler.

The greed in Seratrin’s eyes.

The gratitude of the child’s parents.

The blood pumping from Vey’s neck.

 

There’s something else. Something impossibly old. 

 

With him. In the Liastrum. In the Oracle.

A voice.

A presence.

 

“It’s him,” screams Dren. “Molech himself.”

 

Can it be?

 

“Of course it is,” Seratrin laughs. 

 

Stories whispered throughout the Spheres.

 

Molech didn’t just create the Oracle. 

 

He became one with the Oracle.

 

See me.

 

Feel me. 

 

Run. 

 

Save yourself. 

 

A voice, burning through him. 

 

In the defiler’s final breath. 

 

In the gasp of Master Triaden as Bellame’s blade punctures his chest. 

 

In the laugh of a child.

 

In the tears as Vey pushes him away. 

 

You presume to command me? You dare to steal what should never be yours?

 

“It is mine,” Bellame screams back. “I have earned it. Through discipline.”

 

Through sacrifice.

 

The tarok biting through flesh and bone. 

 

Vey telling him it was a mistake. 

 

“You will submit to me. I will have mastery.”

 

You deserve it?

 

“Yes.”

 

You desire it, come what may?

 

“Without question.”

 

Then it shall be yours.

 

Another shift. Another place.

 

He is a master now. A Seeker. Strong, his sphere full and his gaze clear. There is no confusion. No distraction. They have travelled to the Malediction, Seratrin’s vambrace on his hand.

 

Where it belongs.

 

Caelis is with him. Naturally. Older. More cobalt-blue masking the scars on his face, the Legacy of the Liastrum he has wielded since becoming a master. 

 

But this city, buried deep beyond the Wall. It’s like nothing they’ve ever seen before, the buildings twisted, towers like melted wax.

 

Melted flesh.

 

This isn’t a memory. It is the future. 

 

They made it. Both of them. They survived the Gaze. 

 

“Bell…”

 

Caelis’s voice is wrong. 

 

“Bell… help me.”

 

He turns, looks at his friend.

 

“Save… me…”

 

Caelis’s skin bubbles and warps, veins blackening beneath the surface, his eyes filling with blood. He tries to speak again, but his mouth is too full of fangs.

 

The man who used to be a boy picking pockets to survive surges forward, lost to whatever horror has corrupted his soul.

 

Claws burst from his hands, reaching for Bellame’s neck. 

 

Save me.

 

Save yourself. 

 

Liastrum leaps from Bellame’s sphere, instantly forming an axe, its blade sharp and true. His hand finds the shaft, and he strikes without hesitation. 

 

Caelis’s head tumbles to the ground and comes to rest at Bellame’s feet, blood-red eyes staring up at him. 

 

No. 

 

No! 

 

---

 

The Oracle is silent. The air clear. Liastrum whirls in the pool beneath his feet. 

 

He is a Master and Caelis will die. 

 

One moment, two truths. 

 

He will die at your hand.

 

Bellame doesn’t look up at the masters’ gallery as he leaps down the steps two at a time. He throws up a hand as he races to the back of the chamber, the doors to the antechamber springing open.

 

Caelis turns to see his friend approach, his eyes darting down to Bellame’s sphere, full and glowing. 

 

“You did it,” he exclaims, grinning from ear to ear. “I knew you—”

 

“Get out,” Bellame bellows as he reaches the threshold. “Get away from here.”

 

Caelis’s smile falls away. “What are you talking about?”

 

“You mustn’t take the test. You cannot become a master.”

“What?” Caelis’s hand goes to his own sphere, hanging patiently at his side. 

 

“Why?”

 

“Because you will die, Caelis. You’ll… you’ll die.”

 

The apprentice’s face hardens. “Is that right… Master.”

 

Bellame goes to grab his arm. “You don’t understand.”

 

Caelis shrugs him off. “And you do?”

 

“Yes,” Bellame pleads, desperate for his friend to listen. “Step into that chamber…”

 

“And I will fail. Is that what you’re telling me? I won’t make it.”

 

“No… I mean, yes. You must not take the test.”

 

Caelis turns away, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable.”

 

“Caelis…”

 

“You can’t let me have this. After everything we’ve been through.” The apprentice whirls back toward him, face flushed. “After everything I’ve done for you. All those hours holding you together, making sure you got to this point.”

 

He takes a step closer, his voice dropping low.

 

“You wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for me.”

 

Bellame looks at him straight in the eyes, seeing the pain. The betrayal. 

 

“Trust me, Cal. This will not go well.”

 

Caelis breaks his gaze, glancing into the distance, before turning back. “You don’t get to call me that. You’re not her.”

 

And with that, he is gone, barging past Bellame, their shoulders colliding. 

 

It can’t happen again, Bell. It was a mistake. I love Cal, not you. 

 

The doors slam shut. 

 

“Damn,” Bellame spits, knowing full well that no force in Selejia can open them until Caelis’s trial is complete. 

 

Abandoning the antechamber, he tears along the cloisters, drawing surprised glances from the acolytes he passes, not that they matter to him. The marble stairs leading to the masters’ gallery blur beneath him as he uses precious Liastrum to soar up the tower, a talent he could’ve only dreamt of before but now feels like second nature. There’s no triumph in the moment, nor when the gallery doors spring open on his approach. 

 

A few of his fellow masters glance his way as he sweeps towards them, although most remain transfixed on the spectacle unfurling below. Seratrin is among them and gives no word of congratulation as Bellame lands at his side. 

 

“There’s no need to show off, my boy. That’s not how I taught you at all.” 

 

Below, Caelis is marching towards the Oracle.

 

“We need to stop him,” Bellame insists.

 

“He has earned his right to Gaze upon Molech.”

 

“But—”

 

Newly-minted master or not, Seratrin still has the ability to silence him with a raised finger.

 

“It is beginning.”

 

Caelis is on the raised platform, bellowing at the orbs, the Liastrum thrashing in the pool beneath him. 

 

“Odd,” Seratrin comments. “Caelis is usually so controlled, so precise—aside from his feeble attempts at humor.”

 

Finally, he turns to Bellame.

 

“Did something happen to enrage him so?”

 

Bellame can’t answer. His hands grip the edge of the gallery as a tidal wave of Liastrum bursts from the Oracle, fiercer even than before. 

 

It should be flowing around the apprentice, dancing to Caelis’s whims. Instead, it cuts through him, his robes erupting into blue flame. 

 

It was you, Vey whispers. You did this.

 

They are standing in Seratrin’s chambers, listening to a rare moment of guidance from their master. 

 

“When you face the Gaze you must be calm. Molech will test you, pull you apart if he sees fit, but you must never respond in anger. Focus on yourself and what you want, and you will be rewarded. Rage, and you will be overwhelmed.”

 

There had been no kindness in Seratrin’s words. They were a transaction, nothing more. Even after elevation, they would remain in their master’s debt for years to come, a debt passed onto the Sphere itself on Seratrin’s death.

 

That was the way of the life they had chosen. 

 

“I tried to stop him,” Bellame mutters, although no one can hear.  No one but Vey. 

 

You tried to save him.

 

Yes. 

 

As he saved you, time and time and time again. 

 

Caelis’s sphere falls from his belt, clattering down the steps. His arms are spread wide, a grotesque mockery of the pose he’d struck in the antechamber to make his friend laugh.

 

You’ve got this, Bell. I promise you.

 

The mists tear through his skin, shredding what’s left of his robe, slicing deep into his flesh. His bronzed skin chars, his handsome features melting away. Those eyes that sparkled. That grin so freely given. The nimble fingers, trained on the streets of Gateway, twist and flatten, losing their shape, becoming flailing tentacles. His body swells, bones breaking only to reform, a tangled, twisted mess. When the glare of the Oracle subsides, nothing of Caelis is left in the chamber below, only a shambling abhorrence, wheezing and clicking in bewildered agony. 

 

 

“I’m sorry,” Bellame breathes. 

 

“What was that?” Seratrin asks, glancing up at him.

 

Bellame shakes his head, not trusting himself to speak. 

 

Seratrin nods as if he understands. “I know how you feel. Disappointing. All that wasted Liastrum. I should’ve known.”

 

“I tried to warn him…”

 

And look what that did, Vey whispers, fading away.

 

Seratrin’s hand claps against Bellame’s arm. “Still, I always knew you had it in you. My prize pupil.”

 

His skin crawls, but the words come anyway. 

 

“Thank you, Master. I owe you—”

 

“Everything,” Seratrin cuts in before Bellame can finish. “Yes. Yes, you do. And you will repay my kindness until your dying day.”

 

Unless he dies first, the miserable bastard, says a runt of a boy on the harborside.

 

Bellame wants to scream. To shout. To plunge a Liastrum dagger into Seratrin’s eye. 

 

Instead, he smiles. 

 

Seratrin returns the gesture. The expression isn’t pleasant. 

 

“We will accomplish great things, you and I,” Seratrin tells him, leading him away from the gallery’s edge. 

 

“I am sure of it, Master,” Bellame replies, not looking down as a pair of bahig’udjin shuffle into the chamber and lead their new brethren away.