I take another step, and another. My foot slips on rock underneath the Ether, and I tumble off an unseen ledge. Not liquid, not mist, the Font is something else, something indescribable. It sucks me under, and I fight against it on instinct. My feet find purchase on the rocky bottom, and I push up, frantically gasping for breath as my head clears the surface.
Waves of gold obscure the vicar before he comes back into focus. There’s an inquisitor—no, a Mercy Knight with him now.
I’m pulled under again.
The Font cradles me. Every joint in my body aches with a distant and unyielding pain from the sharp, persistent surge of power. It’s too much, but something in me wants more—needs more.
For a moment, I think I see someone, deep within the endless field of gold. There’s a man, standing in front of countless others on a precipice. The vicar? No…someone else.
Another crash of power slams into me, and with it, I hear the screams of thousands in chorus. The weeping of a thousand more. It’s as though I’m somewhere else entirely yet still trappedwithin my body. Like I’m on the edge of realizing something—knowing something—just beyond my grasp.
My heart is beating so fast, I can hardly breathe. This raw magic is going to destroy me.
I’m pulled farther down, or maybe I’m not moving at all.This is the only way to save humanity, I hear someone whisper between my ears—more like a thought.
I finally resurface, gasping. My eyes swing back to the entrance, but the vicar’s gone.
I can leave.
Fighting with gritted teeth, clawing at rock, pumping my legs and arms, I struggle toward the rocky strip in front of the still open and empty gate. For something that looks light as air, the Font is as sticky as tar, sucking me down, as if trying to consume me. The world continues to blur and oscillate.
Tell no one. Distant screams persist.What’s happening?I don’t know what thoughts are my own anymore.It must be done. What is reality and what is the fiction of magic.We will survive.
I struggle to find my footing on the rock.If I don’t get out, I might die here.
Gasping, I manage to climb out onto the narrow strip of stone at the edge of the Font. I catch my breath and look down, expecting to find my body bruised, torn, and bleeding under a coat of golden Etherlight. But even though the unbearable pain persists, I find my skin uninjured and clear, with only scattered patches of Etherlight remaining. I groan as it hisses off, evaporating in a blood-red haze. I think I’m going to be sick. I want to tear off my skin. It feels as though it doesn’t fit. Like it’s notmine.
What’s happening to me?
The Font behind me is bubbling.Groaning. I force myself to find the strength to stand. I try to run for the gate, but my feetslip, and I land hard, the stone cutting my skin. My blood steams off the rock, making me wonder just how hot the stone is from the Font. How I’m not cooking alive.
Maybe I am?
I manage to right myself somewhat. I’ll crawl to that gate, if I must. Hand over hand, knees and feet dragging, I make my way. The body isn’t made for this much exposure to raw magic. No wonder humanity lost our ability to draw Ether on our own—it was a survival mechanism of our species. Those who could do it must’ve died off. Because this…this agony…
I grit my teeth so hard my jaw pops. I willnotdie here. The gate is close, and something tells me if I can make it to the other side of the threshold, it’ll be better. There must be something about the threshold that buffers the overwhelming nature of the Font. Otherwise, how did I not feel such agony until I had crossed from the tunnel to the rocky beach? There is a reason the vicar didn’t enter. If he thought he was safe there, then it must be safe. I’ll work out by whatever magic later.
Just as I reach the entry, boots appear. The gate slams shut with a heavyclang. The same terror the bells inspire sinks into me, making my blood run cold even as my skin burns.
The prelate stands on the other side. I know her by the scuffs on her boots. “I don’t think you’re done in there.”
“Let me out.” The words are gravelly and low from pain.
“Make me.”
I snarl at her like a beast. She lets out a low hum of amusement in response.
“The vicar had some urgent business to attend to but left me in charge—told me to ensure you don’t come out until you can properly wield Ether.” She crouches. “And if you can’t make me open this gate, then it looks to me like you’re not done.”
From this angle, for the first time, I can see more of her face. It’s still shadowed by the hood she keeps drawn to its fullest, butthe haze and glow of the Font illuminate strange angles on her cheeks and jaw. I can’t make out finer details, but I can see one notable absence.
“Your eyes,” I wheeze. They’re both a dark shade of brown. Not a particularly noteworthy color on its own. But the prelate is easily in her mid-twenties. She’s a Mercy Knight. All that combined means she’s a full citizen of Vinguard and thus should have received the gilding. The fact that it’s notably absent has only one explanation: she didn’t go through the Tribunal. Which is impossible.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She stands and, one blink to the next, the gold is there.
I try to make sense of what I just saw. “What…”
With a final look, so disapproving that it could wither fruit on the vine, she says, “Show us what you’re really made of. If you’re meant to save this world, then do it,” and leaves, the gate locked shut behind her.
