Hushed whispers rippled through the frozen masses, agitating the stillness clogging thought and speech. Scattered bonfires radiated an orange gradient, avidly dowsing onlookers in varying shades of amber, highlighting aghast visages. Smoke billowed up, cradling embers that melted into descending darkness, short-lived but brilliant in their own right. A gust swept over, sending these fire wisps fluttering overhead and down stone steps, nudging them towards the heart of the arena.

They fell upon the youths below as specks of gold, illuminating battered bodies and weary souls. But there was one who was different, standing above the rest. One who shined just as brightly as the flames that birthed these sprites. He radiated a conviction, a will that was no less brilliant than their parents. They drew closer, hovering about like fireflies, intrigued by his anomalous form. Was he a friend? A foe? Or something otherwordly? Something alien?

Wafting cinders fluttered past my vision, an orange snow coating everything in a thin layer of antiquity as if it were anticipating the tale that was to come. I sucked in a breath, tasting the smoky scent while repeating, “Whose next!” A group of five kids—four boys and a girl—had witnessed the complete beatdown of their fellow contestant and were so gripped by fear that two broke into tears at the sound of my voice while the girl had a growing patch between her legs.

Looking at his companions, who were in such a pitiful state, the only one who managed to hold onto their wits stepped forward, shaky legs betraying the tough façade he put forth. I patiently waited as he snailed towards me, shield out front in a protective stance. I repeated the same question when he was within earshot, “Who are you loyal to?”

“L-Loyal to?” he stuttered, tone portraying that he didn’t understand my inquiry.

“Yes, who are you loyal to. Has your family given their allegiance to any of the karls?”

He shook his head furiously as if the exaggerated action depicted a greater denial than the norm. “N-No, sir. U-us mudrats come from the outskirts and have no ties w-with any auðgi—I mean karls.”

His clothes were in tatters and caked with mud, bearing the common signs of those hailing from the farmlands. Just a single tunic and trousers, crudely prolonged using miscoloured patches and were not much better than rags. This, paired with his response, was satisfactory, and I made my thoughts known. “Alright, take your friends and leave. Do it quickly before I change my mind.”

He whipped around in a scramble, nearly tripping over himself and falling off but managed to recover just in time. Running down the bridge, he said some incomprehensible words to his teammates while pulling them to their feet. Standing at the head of their group, he led the way, the others sticking to him like tar. I motioned with my head for them to go around as they came up, firmly planting my feet on the off chance they tried anything. The boy was last to go, remaining alert to my movements, reminding me of a frightened kitten. As he walked past, I whispered, “I never forget a face.” His steps faltered, and he nodded in acknowledgment before rejoining his friends.

Hurried footsteps faded out of earshot as those quietly spectating our exchange finally broke their vow of silence. The response was a mixture of applause and rebuke, just as I expected. The commoners would be thrilled that one of theirs was the first to complete the Vesperal Labyrinth, while the upper class took it as a direct slap to the face, and why wouldn’t they. This event was meant to showcase the finest of their young generation. To have not just one but five thralls be the first to finish was a grave insult to them all. It indirectly stated that all the time and money they spent on their children was for nothing, wasted, leaves scattered to the wind.

I made sure the straps fastening the shield to my arm were taut. The gleam of the earthbound knives peaking between the leather, snuggly resting on either side of my forearm. The use of weapons outside those provided to us in the waiting room was prohibited, so this setup was the best I could come up with on such short notice. If I were caught using them, the consequences would be dire, and I dared not think of what would happen to me if it were to occur, but it had to be done. The minor boost it provided allowed me to speed through the labyrinth while at the mercy of the examinees and their preferential treatment.

Telling sounds coming from below soon gave way to another group of children, and from a glance, these ones were definitely from wealth. Their clothes weren’t an eclectic wash of colour and were still in one piece compared to the group before. Most had found like-minded individuals to team up with from its looks, making it a lot easier to differentiate thralls from the karls. If they kept coming in these disjointed groups, it would make it much easier to sift out the unwanted. If it wasn’t already obvious, the only people I intended to let go of had to be unaffiliated or those with links to the Illugis or their vassals.

With this in mind, it shouldn’t be too much trouble to become the de-facto leader of my batch next year. But plans were only foolproof in theory, not reality, so I was on the lookout for any undesirables. If they showed a rebellious or rash character, I would send them careening into the depths below. I didn’t need people that would cause problems and undermine my authority; a sword with cracks will always let down its wielder when it is needed the most.

“What the fuck is he doing,” Skálpr muttered with a foggy breath. He, just like everyone else, had their eyes glued to the brown-skinned boy known as Sǫlmundr. The boy ducked beneath the errant swipe of a sword, stabbing his own into the exposed flank of a girl. She shrieked, releasing her grip on her weapon, staggering back, face a mixture of anger and agony, grabbing the area in question; it would definitely leave a nasty bruise by tomorrow morning. Her plight did nothing to weaken the boy’s assault as he barged into her shield first, shoving her off the bridge into the frigid waters below, her screams only ceasing when her body reached the bottom. The ensuing splashing and sputtering did nothing to abate the already volatile tension of those nearby.

“This makes it seventeen, I think,” someone pointed out.

“I don’t care what the number is! All I know is that the longer this goes on, the worse it will be for all of us!” Skálpr hissed. His hand were balled into fists, squeezing the head of his staff in a bid to quell intensifying anxiety. The calming touch of his wife upon his shaky arm helped steady his nerves, but her worry was apparent from the way she held onto him.

Eyes glued on her grandson, Menglǫð voiced her concerns with a slight tremble. “It has already gone past the point of no return, dear. I’m afraid we can no longer put off attaching ourselves to one of the war houses. Smiðr… did you know he was going to do this?”

The man in question shook his head, watching the scene below in doleful reluctance. “I cannot comprehend what manner of thought forced him to do this… I have failed as his father.”

“Damn right you have. I’ve made the arduous trip here only to witness your son make himself and, by extension, us enemies of every karl in the whole damn city!” Skálpr minced between grit teeth. Their family would take the brunt of the retaliation, as the Illugis were untouchable, and by association, so was the boy to a lesser extent. Smiðr brushed off his father’s words, however incendiary they were, as everything he had stated was true. Everyone here understood what was at stake, with their livelihoods and perhaps even lives suddenly hanging in the balance. One wrong move could send them over the proverbial edge leading to everyone’s doom.

“Tolkr, you were the last to be with him. Did he say anything to you?” Menglǫð inquired from her second son.

The wiry man perked up at his mother’s words, sitting directly behind them amongst extended family and friends. “No, mother, not about this. B-but,” he trailed off at the end, undecided on what to do.

“But?” Menglǫð turned back, tearing her eyes away from the carnage below. Discovering his hesitant and guilty demeanour, her suspicions only grew. “But. What. Tolkr,” she probed. Their exchange became the focal point of everyone’s attention, noticing the odd silence of Tolkr.

His palms went clammy, heartbeat quickening beneath the piercing gaze of his mother and the beady stares of his relatives. His voice was stuck in his throat, blocked by a ball formed from guilt and timidity. The pressure soon became too much to bear, shattering the blockage restricting his speech. “The reason I was late was not that it took longer than I expected to close the store.” Tolkr enunciated each word with care as if their reigns would slip out of his grasp if they were allowed to run. “It was because I was measuring an earthbound weapon… well, two to be exact.”

“And what does that have to do with our situation? I swear if this is more of your buffoonery, so help me, even the Great Guardian won’t be able to save you,” Skálpr warned. The setting was in such a state that the revelation Tolkr handled earthbound weapons was of no more importance than the muck stuck to the underside of their shoes. All they cared about was how it related to the boy, who had just sentenced another bloodied child to ruin.

“The weapons were Sǫlmundr’s!” Tolkr erupted in fright, warranting all those nearby to hush and rebuke the outburst. Thankfully, it seemed no one outside their small group heard him, the cheers and jeers drowning out those implicational words.

“How di—where are they now!?” his mother urged.

“I-I gave them to him once I was finished,” Tolkr confessed. The sound of his father’s cane clattering on the ground was first to reach his ears, followed by gasps and exclamations, cursing and denigrating his foolishness. Menglǫð, ever the peacekeeper, resolved to put forth a calm and steadying demeanour, but her twitching eyelids and face that couldn’t decide if it wanted to frown or smile marred her efforts. Meanwhile, Skálpr had his head in his hands, repeating, “we’re fucked”, while the boy continued his onslaught, oblivious to his family’s worries.

The trial had been in session for a few hours, the moon rising from its slumber, gradually disrobing clouds to reveal luminous white skin. Normally by this point, the arena would be devoid of life, having a few pockets of resistance holding out in hopes their child may appear at the end of the labyrinth. That would have happened if everything had proceeded as usual, but time around, it couldn’t be further from the truth. One boy had single-handedly eliminated roughly thirty candidates that would have otherwise passed.

Fighting was not prohibited, and as they had still technically not finished, he was not breaking any rules, so all they could do was sit and watch as one after another, child after child, tumbled off the Vigningsväg. Their ascension halted by a spawn of darkness, damning them to a world of watery shadows instead. But what really pissed the karls off was that he selectively let individuals through, and from the looks of it, it was only thrallspawn. Now all the thralls, including those cursing and spitting at him a short time ago, were singing his praises, speaking to the fickle hearts possessed by all men. It had even turned into some form of game for them, voices rising in pitch and falling along with those unlucky enough to not meet the criteria.

Guards had to be stationed amongst the people to dissuade fights between the thralls and karls; such was the boy’s effect. In the minds of the common people, no longer was he an outcast but a veritable hero, seeming to ignite a fire in their bellies. Many did not know it themselves, but he gave them hope, however small and fleeting it may be, and they latched on by instinct. Though ignoring the controversy, there was one thing everyone that had the privilege of witnessing this event agreed on, this boy was different. He had something that hard work nor talent can surmount, something that cant be attained or acquired. He had…

The boy paced back and forth on the bridge, stalking the vulnerable prey beneath. His arms were bruised, and every movement evoked shots of pain all over his body as fiery breaths escaped his maw. Frustrated with his peers’ cowardice and lack of resolve, he struck splintered sword upon a scarred shield. The provocative beats, a war drum, shaking the defeated to their very core.

“Come ooonn!” he screamed, warcry overshadowing even the fevered crowds. The boy’s voice seemed to resonate with creation itself, melding with the warbling croaks of a raven, awakening something untamed, primal.

…the trance of fury.