Ashen's eyes blinked open, greeted by a harsh sky — not the pale, broken heavens of the outside world, but the ceiling of a tent dyed crimson with age and dust. The dreamlike realm of the trial was gone. The surreal landscapes. The strange choices. The memory of taking his own life in that test still lingered like frost on his skin.
He was alive. And yet, changed.
His hands gripped the rough cot beneath him, nails dragging across the splinters. His body ached, but deeper than that was something new — a pulse not in his veins, but in his mind. He knew things he shouldn't. He remembered sights that weren't his. Voices. Names long forgotten. And all of it sat heavy behind his eyes.
The trial had awakened something.
A power.
And in the Blood Kingdom, that was dangerous.
"On your feet."
The tent flap opened, and in came a soldier wearing the sharp black-and-red armor of the Kingdom's military. His face was unreadable, but his eyes held the cold weight of someone who'd seen many die — and not regretted a single one.
Ashen rose, silent, wary. His clothes had been changed — dull gray uniform with a blood sigil stitched at the chest. Standard for new recruits.
"You passed the trial. Impressive," the man said, voice like gravel dragged across steel. "You're not dead. That means the Blood God has granted you strength. We'll see what kind."
Ashen nodded. He kept his mouth shut. A voice inside screamed at him to lie. To bury everything the trial had shown him. The voices. The whispers. The name of a god long dead, carved into the walls of some place that should not exist.
"Come. Commander wants to see you."
Outside, the camp sprawled like a wound carved into the land. Metal poles held up banners dyed crimson. Tents lined in perfect rows, soldiers training in silence, their boots pounding the cracked earth in time. No laughter. No conversation. Only orders and obedience.
Ashen kept his head low, trying not to stare.
The Kingdom's army wasn't large anymore — not like the stories of the Old War — but every man and woman here had survived the Trial of the Heart. The same test Ashen had barely passed.
And everyone here had been granted a weapon.
Ashen could feel it too — a weight strapped to his side. He hadn't noticed it until now. A sheathed blade with a name he had yet to learn. A part of him. Born from the trial.
"You'll report to Lieutenant Grey now," the soldier muttered as they approached a larger tent. "Say only what is asked. No more. Understood?"
Ashen nodded.
He was led inside.
The man who had once given him food, the one who'd appeared in his moment of starvation, sat at the head of a long table. Grey's face was the same — gaunt, sun-worn, eyes sharp — but now there was a weight in the air around him. Authority. Power.
"Leave us," Grey said.
The escort obeyed without question.
Ashen stood still. The flap fell shut behind him.
Grey did not speak immediately. He stood and poured water into two cups from a steel canister. He handed one to Ashen.
"You've changed."
Ashen took the cup, hesitant. "I passed the trial."
"You did more than that."
Grey turned and sat, motioning for Ashen to do the same.
"I've seen dozens come through the trial. Hundreds, if we count the dead. But very few come out with… that look in their eyes."
Ashen froze. He fought the urge to reach for his temple. He could still feel the strange weight there — not physical, but mental. The echo of the god. The burden of memory.
"I don't know what you mean," Ashen said carefully.
Grey smiled faintly, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"You'll learn this quickly, Ashen. In this Kingdom, we do not ask about gods. We don't speak their names. We don't even imagine them."
Ashen said nothing.
Grey leaned in.
"The Blood God is the only god allowed. The laws are strict. If the officers so much as suspect you carry the mark or power of another… they'll slit your throat before you can blink."
Ashen's hand tightened around the cup.
Grey's voice lowered.
"But I was like you once. Hungry. Broken. Gifted."
The word hung in the air.
"I'm not going to ask what you saw in the trial," Grey said. "I don't want to know. But I'll give you this warning once, and only once: hide it. Bury it so deep inside yourself that even you forget. No dreams. No slips. Not even a whisper."
Ashen nodded slowly. "I understand."
"I hope you do," Grey replied. "Because I didn't. Not at first."
For a moment, Grey's eyes drifted — not to Ashen, but to memory. Whatever he saw there, it wasn't pleasant.
"I lost people. Others like me. Too bold. Too proud. They called their powers a gift. Called their gods by name." He paused. "One screamed it while burning alive."
Ashen's throat tightened.
Grey stood and walked to the back of the tent. He opened a wooden crate and pulled out a scroll, tossing it onto the table. It unrolled partially — a list of names, ranks, and tasks.
"You're assigned to Unit Nine. They'll teach you the basics. You'll be treated no differently than the others, and you'll be expected to prove yourself. The weapon at your side is yours now. It will grow with you, reflect you."
Ashen looked down. The hilt of his weapon was strange — wrapped in black cloth, engraved faintly with a symbol he didn't recognize. Not blood. Not bone. Something… older.
He quickly covered it with his sleeve.
"Tomorrow evening, they'll hold a small welcoming fire. Tradition in Unit Nine. Nothing too grand — just a fire, some stolen bread, and a dozen half-truths. They'll want to know who you are."
Ashen stiffened. "What should I say?"
Grey's voice turned firm. "Say enough to make them trust you. But never enough to damn you."
Ashen stood. "Yes, sir."
Grey's face softened, just for a second.
"I'm not your enemy, Ashen. I brought you here because I see something in you. But I can't protect you from this Kingdom. Only you can do that."
Ashen left the tent with the weight of a hundred thoughts pressing into his spine. He walked in silence, past rows of new recruits, their faces marked with tired hope or blank fear.
He reached his assigned tent.
Inside were three others — recruits, like him. They looked up as he entered.
One was a small girl with pale eyes and cropped hair. She sat thier eating something and with mouth full of food said. "Another new one."
A shorter boy with a nervous look raised a hand. "Hey. Name's kerr."
Ashen nodded. "Ashen."
The third recruit didn't speak — a quiet, sharp-faced one polishing their weapon with a cloth.
Kerr smiled awkwardly. "We're Unit Nine. We will be team in this war.
The girl rolled her eyes. "They're all hard now."
Kerr added, "You got lucky though. Tomorrow's the fire night. Every time someone new joins, we have one. Helps break the ice. Just don't expect wine or smiles."
Ashen dropped his pack beside the empty cot. The tent felt tight. Not in space — in pressure. Like at any moment, one wrong word could make it all collapse.
He lay down, staring at the fabric above him.
The god of memory. That's what the voice had whispered. That's what had wrapped around his soul during the trial. The Will of something old, something lost.
And now… it lived in him.
He couldn't let it show.
Only the Blood God is allowed.
Ashen closed his eyes.
And began to forget.
Or tried to.
But as night fell, and sleep pulled at his limbs, the dreams came anyway.
Not of fire. Not of blood.
But of a stone library sunken beneath the sea. Of voices calling names no tongue had spoken in a hundred years. Of mirrors that did not reflect flesh, but memory.
The god's gift would not sleep.
And Ashen realized: hiding it would not be enough.
He would have to master it — or die