Jos sat at the highest of the tables, idly fiddling with his meat knife. Once, twice he let it spin in his hand before sticking it in the pheasant’s thigh he had no appetite for. His eyes roamed the hall, flitting from face to face without really seeing them. A sea of fine dressed lords and ladies spread out below him, their rank and thus the elevation of their seat determined by the number of chosen they counted kinship to. While the purest of the nobles filled this massive hall the adjoining chambers were packed to the brim with Lesser Houses and well-landed commoners. This was the first time in over a decade that House Arress had hosted such a gathering, yet the giant keep easily rose to the challenge.

Food was everywhere. Stacked on tables and carried about by hundreds of servants who wove through the nobility like busy bees. Entertainers were also present, stuffed into every nook and cranny of the feasting hall. No matter where you looked you would see a harpist or sword juggler or contortionist, but they paled in comparison to the creatures that floated in two massive tanks at the bottom landing of the hall.

When Jos had first entered the room, at the level appropriate to his station, he hadn’t even noticed them, situated as they were at the foot of the cascading levels of tables, like two ten-foot tall pillars of glass. But after he sat, he could hardly look anywhere else, even when new arrivals into the room had gasped or cried out in shock at seeing the containers. The bodies within were obviously Feral, and they might have been more frightening if they were still alive, but Jos found them plenty unnerving drifting silently in their watery confines. He knew that Feral became what they ate--tales from wars past were some of the few stories his father ever told--but to see the mish-mash of human flesh, fins, gills, and everything else that seemed to live below the deep was surreal. One appeared almost attractive in part, with shimmering scales running down her chest and belly, like a tightly worn bodice, but her face was a horror with bulbous eyes twice as large as they should have been and a stemmed growth out of her forehead that ended in a bulb. The other might have been a man once, but its mouth and limbs were a cluster of tentacles with patches of orange crab shell attached seemingly at random.

How his father had managed to procure such exotic specimens was a topic Jos heard repeated throughout the night as the Festival progressed. Some spoke so loudly about it on the levels below it was obvious they wanted Lord Arress to overhear and answer, but Jos's father never did, sitting at his large chair to Jos’s left with an almost satisfied air as he surveyed the gathering.

Looking at the squid-like Feral again now, its many appendages hanging limp, Jos couldn’t imagine the cost involved, not only in finding them but then shipping them from the coast to here. Had they died on the way? Or had they been killed to avoid transferring their curse? Jos had heard the House Gavel nobles directly under him, dressed in their tan and silver, say that Lord Arress had brought the Feral to remind everyone why it was that chosen’s blood could resist poison. Jos could hardly imagine turning into something like that from a simple bite, but he doubted his father had historical education on his mind. Seeing his father almost preen out of the corner of his eye at the continued whispers, more than two hours since the Festival began, made it obvious what his father hoped spending a fortune on two carcasses would achieve: he wanted to be remembered, remembered for anything other than the failing of his father before him, Silver the V.

Or my failing when the Rebirth begins.

Jos clenched his jaw in frustration at the unwanted thought. There was no reason to believe that he would fail, not really. And failure simply meant not birthing another gate, which mattered little to him. He was sure he’d manage to perform poorly at Kellingherth--just as he had in the rest of his life--whether he possessed one gate or six, so why bother with more? Still though…

His father had barely looked his way for the duration of the meal thus far, and he didn’t seem inclined to break the silence between them. In truth, they hadn’t spoken in the more than a day since Aryn’s unexpected departure, and Jos kept waiting for some sign from the man of displeasure or frustration, but his Lord gave him neither. Jos also hadn’t talked with his mother, but in the time since the cancelled duel he had questioned her hand in events more and more. Had she heard his father’s threat? If that were true, Jos wasn’t even sure how that made him feel. The idea of her protecting him was so...foreign.

It’s not like he could ask her now either, situated as she was on the other side of his father, beside the Queen of Neden no less, dressed all in silver with two guards behind her, who Jos could just make out over his father’s head. Of course, trying to look past his father would have been improper and staring in his direction at all might invite his ire, so Jos kept his eyes forward because in the end, it didn’t matter.

Even if his mother had shielded him once, there was nothing she could do about what was to come. The Feral had been a nice distraction, but as the candles around him burned steadily down and plates of food were replaced with deserts and then eventually removed, his stomach began to tighten. Jos had guessed how this night would end months ago, and his mother’s servants had confirmed as much while dressing him before the feast. He was used to being hit by his father and stabbed on the practice green, but Jos was less than enthused by the idea of the two things combined, especially in front of an audience this size.

Some fiddlers came to play, with acrobats cartwheeling down the lengths of the now cleared tables, but not nearly long enough after, Jos's father rose from his chair. Three servants saw this and lifted their trumpets to the ceiling, belching out a few notes. The sound focused the teeming masses below Jos, all raising their heads to look at the High Lord Arress.

His father took a moment before speaking, gazing up at the great chandelier that dominated the ceiling. Over a hundred years old and made of gold leaf, the massive light fixture was worth even more than the Feral, Jos was sure. As if drawing inspiration from its divine light, his father grinned and looked down at the nobles.

“My lords, my ladies,” he began, his voice echoing perfectly through a chamber built for speeches. “Long we have waited for this night, and now are patience has been rewarded.” His father lifted a thick arm sweeping it towards him, and Jos begrudgingly rose. “My son,” Lord Arress said, and the hall erupted with cheering and clapping. Anger Jos had been waiting for but was still surprised by snapped in his father’s eyes at how slow he had been to stand. The look was quick, but it twisted Jos’s gut further to see it. The cheering subsided, and his father continued, angling the same arm slightly down. “House Gavel’s eldest.” A boy maybe a year younger than Jos stood up from the next level down. He had cloudy black skin around just one eye, making him look like a mangy mutt, and twig-like arms. Clapping also began when he rose. When it finished, Jos’s father motioned with his left arm to the side. “House Filad’s gem,” he boomed. The table at the top level was curved, so Jos could just see a young girl beside the Queen rise, curtsy to the masses, and then incline her head toward Lord Arress in respect. Her cheeks were flushed what Jos assumed was excitement, and she was annoyingly beautiful. It didn’t help that she was the one Jos’s mother wanted to chain him to or that the cheers for her went on and on, much longer than for those who had preceded her. Jos sneered at the crowd’s blind adulation and almost sat back down in disgust before he realized that his chair had been moved. All he had now was a useless servant in green and black, bowing at the waist.

His father went on to name a red-headed boy, certainly common, as well as no less than five commoner girls. They were all chosen, but Jos didn’t bother listening.

“Come children,” the High Lord said when the introductions were done. He turned, ascending a set of nearby steps that led to the highest point of the hall, a small dais carved out of the stone wall. Jos reached the bottom of the short but wide staircase along with the stick boy and only moments before the Filad girl, the commoners staying one level down, apparently understanding their place in things. The girl bumped into him when she got there, causing Jos to glance at her in disgust. She flashed him a nervous smile, and he was seized by an impulse to ruin her too perfect hair. Instead, he rolled his arm away and turned back to his father who was now looking down at them with a grim cast to his features. “Each of you has reached your maturity,” he began, speaking not only to them but the people spread out below. “It is time to discover how much our nation can rely on you.” The onlookers hushed at that, everyone waiting with such obvious anticipation Jos could feel it lapping at his back. His father turned to a silver box that sat on the dais, opening it on oiled hinges that made not a sound and slowly removing what lay inside. When again he faced the young chosen and crowds he held a double-edged dagger, the blade more than a foot long. Absently, Jos thought it must be Keldese made, so ornate was the crossguard and pomel.

“It is time,” Jos's father rumbled to the assemblage.

On clear cue, a side door banged open, and a screaming man was brought into the hall.

More theatrics, Jos thought, but like the Feral, it was effective--the man’s cries stirring those that lived unvoiced in the most frightened part of Jos’s soul.

The man was dressed finely, but one could easily tell that the clothes had been thrown on him for the Festival and were not his own. He had little hair--that which he did was dark and cut close to the sides of his head. Two soldiers brought him toward the young chosen, who stepped back as they came. The man punched and kicked, but it was little use against the well-muscled guards dressed in green and black. As the trio passed by Jos, he caught the stench of the man. He smelled like he had soiled himself in fear. Probably nothing more than a beggar who had been seized only an hour ago. The men forced the wretch down on the steps no more than a few feet from his father, who slowly knelt over the man.

Lord Arress looked one last time at the expectant crowd and said, “There are no tricks here.” With that, he slipped the blade over the back of one of the beggar’s hands. The man shrieked again, high and echoing through the chamber. Not once but over and over until his voice came in gasps, and he started to weep. The soldiers let him go then, curled in a ball on the steps with Jos’s father looming over him. Jos counted the seconds and when it hit ten, he braced himself for the horror to come. The man began to spasm--spasm and scream yet again. He twitched and jerked, so hard his bones began to break. On and on it went, the screaming and the cracking. And then, silence. His father waited a moment to make sure that the man was truly dead and then motioned for the guards to carry the twisted flesh away.

He turned then to the expectant crowd and pronounced. “And now my son.”

Jos felt his legs go weak at that, but he steeled himself against the fear. The blood ran thickly in House Arress. None of his line had ever perished during the test. As he marched up the steps a wicked voice echoed in his mind there is always a first. When he reached the step just below his father he stopped and waited. The knife his lord held had yet to be cleansed, lest the poison be removed, and so a few drops of beggar’s blood clung to it. Looking at the stained blade made Jos think of Aryn and their last duel.

His father leaned down beside his ear and unlike the other night each whispered word was crisp though pitched low for him alone. “This trial you cannot avoid. Let’s see how you fare with twice the dose.”

Before Jos could fathom how to respond, his father grabbed his right hand and cut his palm with the other edge of the dagger. His skin burned at the slice, but his father’s words echoed in his mind louder along with the screams of the dead beggar--twice the dose. In shock, Jos stumbled back and surely would have fallen if his father hadn’t kept a tight grip on him. Once Jos was steady, he let go and roughly turned him around. Jos looked down at all the people staring up at him: his mother, the Queen, the other chosen, the nobles, the performers, the servants, waiting to see the miracle occur. Waiting to see his blood devour the black worm poison that broke lesser men. But could it stop that much?

Jos held his breath, waiting along with the crowds for it to begin. He waited and waited and nothing happened. Ten seconds, twenty seconds, so long he finally had to start breathing again. It was better than he imagined. Some in the crowds began to applaud, thinking like Jos that it had already come and gone. And that’s when it struck him, the most excruciating pain in his life. He collapsed, and the crowd’s encouragement turned to cries of concern. The sensation blossomed in his hand and ran straight to his chest, gripping it like a vice. He tried to rise, but failed both times, the second leaving him face down on the cold stone steps. He tasted ink on the back of his tongue before his breathing became ragged and then his vision blurred.

Is this it? Is this how I end? He had spent his whole life training. Every second of every day it seemed. His father constantly hammering at him to be better, always better, and yet none of it mattered. It had been pointless because his blood wasn’t pure enough. It never had been. If Jos could have moved how he wishes, he would have shouted the injustice of it all. But he couldn’t. He just lay there in a twisted heap, every muscle in his body taught to the point of agony. His arms suddenly flailed involuntarily, then his legs spasmed. Next, his body jerked so hard he flipped over, his face propped up by a step toward the ceiling. His vision was clouded, but he could still see the light of the great chandelier looming over him. It was like a kaleidoscope of gold and white, and he latched onto it. This would not be his end, flailing like some landed fish in front of half the city. If he was going to die, he would do it standing upon his feet. He concentrated on stilling his body. Becoming nervous would only increase his heart rate and speed how quickly the poison spread. His blood was obviously fighting against it, otherwise he would already be dead.

As Jos clung to the light shining above him, the twitching began to slow until it became only an occasional murmur of his flesh. He rolled his head to the right, his neck burning in protest, but a slight wiggle of his fingers meant much more to him than that. If he could move them, it was only a matter of time until the rest followed.

After another minute he was able to sit up, experiencing the most jarring head rush of his life. Another pause and he was standing, looking at the thousands that stretched out below him.

The hall erupted, so loud Jos winced at the noise. Despite his weakened state, he couldn’t help but quirk his lips at their praise. Surprisingly, the cheering vanished as quickly as it had started. Jos instinctively turned, only to find his father at his side. The High Lord looked down at him coldly, lifting a hand. For a terrifying moment, Jos thought his father meant to strike him, knocking him down the stairs. As he was, Jos wouldn’t be able to dodge the blow or halt his momentum as he tumbled down one step to the next, which would likely lead to a broken neck.

Instead, the hand landed on his shoulder, and his father spoke quietly and firmly again. “At least your throat has a use now. And perhaps you do, too.” Jos was still digesting those words--My throat? Did I birth a gate? Is that the burning I felt?--when Lord Arress turned to the masses and answered one question for him. “The rebirth...has succeeded,” he proclaimed. The crowds shouted their approval, longer and louder than anything before, and inundated with their cries, his father’s hand heavy on his shoulder, Jos thought that maybe, just maybe, this was what happiness felt like.