Kiron's fingers closed around the hilt of the black-wood sword. It wasn't smooth like a nobleman's rapier or cold like the sky-steel he used to scrap. It felt like compressed stone, rough and unyielding.
When he tried to lift it, his shoulders gave a sickening pop. The sword didn't budge. It felt as though it were rooted into the very foundation of the Shadow-Shelf.
"It's not just wood, boy," Vahn said, his voice echoing off the vaulted obsidian ceilings. "It's carved from the heart of a sunken isle. It holds the weight of the air that used to support it. To lift it, you must stop fighting the sword and start fighting your own weakness."
Kiron let out a strained grunt, his face turning a dark, blotchy red. He pulled until his vision swam with black spots. Behind him, Taz took a step forward, his face etched with worry, but Nyra caught his arm, shaking her head.
"If he can't do this, Taz, he dies," Nyra whispered. "The Gods don't use 'weight.' They use pressure. If Kiron can't stand under a piece of wood, he'll be crushed the moment a Zen-Zun looks at him."
Kiron's hands began to slip. The sweat from his palms made the hilt slick. Suddenly, the heat returned. It started at the base of his spine and shot toward his chest—the "Blood-Prayer" trying to answer his desperation. He felt the familiar surge, that terrifying urge to let the gold fire leak out and shatter the sword just to prove he could.
"No," Vahn's voice was like a whip. "If you use that power now, I will take your head myself. A warrior who relies on a miracle he cannot control is just a loud corpse. Quiet the blood, Kiron. Force it down."
Kiron gasped, gritting his teeth so hard he tasted copper. He fought the urge to let the power flare. He visualized a lid slamming shut over a boiling cauldron. He pushed the heat back down into his marrow, leaving his muscles feeling hollow and pathetic.
Then, he stopped pulling with his arms.
He remembered the way he used to pry sky-steel plates from the hulls of derelict ships—using his entire body, his breath, and the tension in his legs. He shifted his stance, digging his heels into the obsidian floor. He took a long, shaking breath, filling his lungs until they felt like they might burst.
He exhaled, and in that moment of total emptiness, he heaved.
The sword groaned. It rose an inch, then two. Kiron's muscles screamed, his tendons feeling like overstretched wires. With a final, guttural roar that tore at his throat, he swung the tip of the black-wood blade upward.
It wasn't a graceful movement. It was ugly and jagged. But the sword was off the ground.
CRACK.
Kiron collapsed to his knees, the sword falling beside him with a sound that shook the chamber. He stayed there, panting, his forehead pressed against the cold stone. His hands were shaking so violently he couldn't even close them into fists.
Vahn walked over, his bare feet stopping inches from Kiron's face. He reached down and picked up the heavy sword with one hand, spinning it as if it were made of straw.
"You lifted it with your bones, not your spirit," Vahn said, though his tone had lost its edge of mockery. "That is a start. But look at your palms."
Kiron turned his hands over. They weren't glowing. They were raw, the skin peeled back in several places, weeping clear fluid and blood.
"The prayer didn't save you. You saved yourself," Vahn noted. He turned his sightless gaze toward the dark opening of the ruins. "Rest now. Tomorrow, we begin the 'Stripping.' We are going to peel away everything that makes you a boy until only the weapon remains."
As Kiron drifted into a dreamless, exhausted stupor on the hard stone, he didn't see the way Nyra looked at him—a mix of pity and a dawning, terrifying hope.
Nor did he see the shadow that had been watching them from the high rafters of the Oru-Gate. A shadow with too many joints and eyes that burned with a pale, sickly violet.
The first God wasn't coming. He was already there.