NYX
“The Crypteia has been many things throughout history—in Sparta, it was a brutal initiation ritual after surviving the rigors of the agoge to serve in the secretive, militaristic police force by the same name. In our world, it’s been a rite of passage: where epiphaneia is the divine awakening of power, the Crypteia is the claiming of that power—when one accepts the mantle of purpose Fate has bestowed. The challenge itself has changed over time, naturally, but at Dreadhurst, it takes place in a limestone cavern system not far from campus. Glacial snowmelt flows like blood through a network of tunnels, caves, and grottoes before it meets the sea—hence the name “Vena Strata”.
“Following its discovery, the founders shaped the stone entrance to create an antechamber with five paths, one for each elemental affinity, and one for those without, such as those with divine magic, or your necromancer friend, for example.”
“And me.”
“For now. The order and location of the entrances change every year to preserve the integrity of the challenge as students advance, but each one leads to the appropriate challenge fortheir respective magic. Air wielders must cross a vast canyon near the cliff of a two-hundred and fifty foot waterfall—the source of the subterranean river that water wielders must traverse downstream. That river feeds a hot spring cenote that non-elemental wielders must find their way out of, heated by the coal-seam fire further underground that fire wielders must walk through. Earth wielders must clear caved-in tunnels without collapsing them.”
“Wait—how dangerous is this shit?”
“There have only been a handful of fatalities over the centuries since the Crypteia has been held at the Vena Strata, usually due to students choosing incorrectly and either panicking, or attempting to push through without having the skill necessary to survive the challenge. Safeguards have been put in place since the last death more than fifty years ago.”
“That’s not as reassuring as you think it sounds, actually.”
“Now, with your having succeeded academically in your advanced classes, you will be evaluated at the Practitioner level of mastery. Do you recall what that is?”
“Novices sense their inner power, Apprentices sense primordial magic, and Practitioners connect the two.”
“Correct. After speaking with the Headmaster and Board of Trustees regarding your current capabilities with primordial and bloodmagic, we’ve determined that you will be considered a non-elemental wielder for the purpose of this challenge.”
“So then, primordial magic only?”
“Yes. At your level, the Crypteia has two parts: first—can you sense the magic of each path and choose the correct one, and second—can you wield magic to overcome the obstacles and find your way out, all within the allotted time?”
“What happens if I don’t?”
“You fail. And repeat the previous year.”
“I think the fuck not.” I mutter to myself as I follow the winding, narrow slot canyon, recounting everything Brandt told me about the Crypteia. Mild claustrophobia sets in, and I realize I’ve lost it when death almost seems preferable to repeating this fucking nightmare of a year. Brandt lauded my tenacity and intelligence when he petitioned the Board of Trustees to let me advance as a Sophomore for my second term, but as much as I truly love learning, I just want to get the fuck out of here. Now more than ever. The less time I spend here, the more time—and money, thanks to my scholarship—I’ll have when I leave.
Maybe I’ll travel. Or, God forbid, actually find a hobby that doesn’t involve being poor.
Or other people.
I spend more time than I probably should daydreaming of my own version of Heaven when I cross the threshold into the cold, damp, dark tunnel. Running my fingers along the wall until my eyes adjust to the low, hazy light up ahead, I walk until my foot hits the first step of a wide, shallow staircase leading to a large, domed cave with five large archways, each with various runes and sigils around the edge—some I recognize, most I don’t.
I take a deep breath and step up to the first archway, grounding myself in what I can hear, smell, touch: it’s cold. It sounds… empty. Gotta be the canyon. Door number two is also quiet, but the cold air smells like musty rock and fresh dirt. Earth.
Should… I be concerned at how easy this feels?
The low, thunderous sound coming from the third archway, combined with the faint traces of mist clinging to the rough tunnel wall—that’s the river. The fourth sounds similar to the third, but it’s the only one that’s warm and dry. Fire. The fifth and final—it’s not cold, not warm. The air smells like cut grass. That has to be the cenote.
Just to be sure, I visualize my power flowing down my arm—like water in the shower—dripping from my fingertips in rivulets and spreading across the stone floor until it reaches each archway. When Brandt first started showing me how to consciously bring it forth, I felt like a moron sitting in his office and closing my eyes, trying to find my “inner self”. Turns out I looked like a moron too, when I realized he was just fucking with me so I’d loosen up and relax. After he finally stopped chuckling at the look on my face, he suggested I try visualizing my power like water wielders do—theorizing that the association would come in handy when I started wielding bloodmagic.
I hated to admit that it worked a few minutes later when I managed to make the lights in his office flicker without exploding.
Again.
My power tastes the magic in the stone, like it’s… licking the floor. Scenting the air.
Smoke and black ash.
Hard stone and fertile soil, teeming with life, even here so far underground.
Spring water rushing over slippery, algae-covered rock.
Cool wind bearing the combined scents of them all.
