Chapter 1

“Our resolve is dwindling faster than our food supply. I fear we won’t reach the mountain’s summit before half of us are taken by the storm’s winds. When I promised my people sanctuary from the storm’s destruction, I had not anticipated our grueling climb would make this mountain side our gravesite. But never in all of the history of Atoraxis, did I account for glass. It rains from the black sky like silver daggers and slices the air as it does our skin. Many have succumbed to death by a thousand cuts. If we ever break through this storm’s grip, and if my hypothesis is correct, I vow that the first object of beauty I lay eyes on will be the name of our new home.”

Excerpt from Callanth’s compendium, page 3, signed Italus, the first High Chemist of Atoraxis.

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“Crap,” I curse while assessing the back of my bare right hand. “Not now.”

I turn it over and notice my skin has started to grey at the heel of my hand. I sigh in frustration as I don my brown, leather hand-guard again.

“As long as the symbol’s still visible, I’ve got some time,” I deduce, and shake off my initial shock. Today is not a good day for my Carving to fade.

“Choose your weapon!” The booming voice of the stocky weapons handler rebounds off the walls of the stone corridor.

I right myself and take stock of the display before me. Resting on metal brackets jutting from the stone wall are rusty swords of varying shapes and sizes, primitive spears standing at attention, some prototype grappling hooks, and a couple of the current model of flasklock pistols. The creative collection spans from the heavy metal door I’d entered to its twin at the opposite end of the corridor.

I’ve always been fascinated by the selection of weapons we are offered. The outdated combined with the modern presents a tempting array. Through the years, I have grown acquainted with each one, which is how I know that I want none of them.

“Do I have to, Corson?” I whine at the middle-aged man positioned by the door to the arena.

Corson folds his arms across his chest, causing the two leather belts and navy blue status tassel wrapped around his bicep to creak.

“You know the rules, Ryn,” he says with a wink, his crooked smile exposing the copper metal tooth substituting his canine. I return the smile before sweeping my own dark green status tassel braided into my hair behind my ear.

Each candidate may be allowed one helpmeet of their choice that they believe would give them a better chance at success and survival, but you can’t bypass the selection.

Okay, which one this time? I think to myself as I consider a flasklock pistol held delicately on the brackets. I grab the device, trailing my fingers along the decorative silver cogs lining the brass barrel. I test out the top break mechanism and crank open the spherical container currently holding a round flask. I thumb the flask’s glass, mesmerized by the silver liquid sloshing around inside.

Would it have the same effect as Carving if I drank this? I speculate. What do you think, Hesperia?

My right hand twitches, and I quickly return the flasklock pistol. Gunfire wouldn’t make a difference.

I continue my perusal and bypass the grappling hooks and spears, already well-versed in their uselessness. I glance over the swords till one weapon catches my attention. Among axes and broadswords, I find a small silver dagger adorned with wiry cast iron flowers wrapped around the cross guard.

Why not? This could be fun. I smile with satisfaction and lift the dagger off its brackets, admiring the cool steel against my fingers.

I walk to the arena door and present the dagger to Corson, who raises one bushy eyebrow. He takes the dagger and assesses it with his metal-clad hands. The sun shining through the window above the door reflects off his metal gauntlets, casting a brass sheen onto the cracked stone floor.

“Looks like it’ll be another interesting Trial,” he says with bemusement, and hands the dagger back to me. “Good luck out there. Hope you’ll make it this time.”

Corson steps past me, saunters down the corridor, and disappears through the workshop’s door across from the spears.

Dagger in hand and nerves setting in, I face the heavy metal door embellished with cogs and gears forming the city’s insignia; a large circle with a straight pillar penetrating the top to the center of the circle. I straighten my back and run through my personal checklist with methodical and practiced movements: I trace the coins tied to the leather cord wrapped around each bicep, then pull at the black knit stockings I’d cut and repurposed to function as arm warmers. I slip the dagger between the three leather belts buckled around my waist and tuck my blue shirt into my pants. As my final step, I kneel down to retie my right, black knee-high boot, and repeat the motion on my left lighter-colored boot, which only goes ankle-high.

Maybe I can find a closer match in boots in the Market one of these days.

I stand with a huff and roll my shoulders.

This time I can do it. This time I’ll get there. Guide me, Hesperia, I pray before using both hands to push the solid door open, the high sun immediately blinding me, and the cheering of an arena full of Callantheans flooding my ears.

I steel myself, ignore the light tingling of my right hand, and stride out into the rugged stone arena that sits like half a teardrop carved into the mountain side.

The first time I had walked into the arena, I had marveled at how each row and its terraced seats tapers elegantly upwards, each seat enhanced with accents of sleek metal. The metal contrasts with the raw rock, crediting our ancestors’ artistry while paying homage to its natural beauty. Shaped like a crescent, the arena floor itself is designed for one thing; spectacles.

At the center, stand five figures in various stages of prep work, flaunting their selected weapons. The first to turn around at the sound of my approaching footsteps is Raiden, his blonde hair tied into a low knot giving him away. Three months ago, my heart would’ve leapt into my throat at the sight of his angular features and stature of a miner, but now I just feel the undeniable urge to push him off the cliff. As expected, Raiden greets me with his usual glare, his brown eyes piercing. In response, I pull my hair up and tie it without breaking eye contact. He always hated when I did that. It reveals how many red strands actually lay hidden in my brown hair and broadcasts my tassel’s color and Trader status.

Raiden grimaces and turns away as I walk up to the rest of the candidates. I only recognize two others; Kaida and Kyrell, both frequent visitors in my mother’s shop and both standing in the arena for the first time. The other two contestants, both boys, seem eager and energized by the way they bounce around each other, feigning a fist fight. Their light hair poking out from under their leather helmets bobs in sync with their movements. I would’ve found it quite amusing if the incessant jingling of collected small bells tied to their belts didn’t irritate me. Judging by their lightheartedness, I suspect they had both enthusiastically signed up for this Trial as soon as they’d turned 21.

Kyrell notices me staring. “Think you can manage to fail another year, Ryn?” he scoffs, the sun adding a distinct blue hue to his black hair. He adjusts a bright yellow fabric sash that’s draped across his torso from his shoulder. It holds a couple of vials of what looks like different sediments.

I stretch my arms over my head. “I could, but the idea of beating you is just too tempting,” I say in a light voice.

Kaida pushes her metal-rimmed goggles further up on her forehead. “I think it’ll be a victory if we all just make it back,” she says and proceeds to nervously tinker with the gauge on the small oxygen canister tied at her hip. It’s a common misconception that we’d need oxygen for this, but I know it’s redundant.

Raiden snorts, and folds his arms over his black leather vest. A string of silver and gold rings hangs from his neck.

“This isn’t about everyone getting back, Kaida. It’s about getting back first,” he glances at me out of the corner of his dark eye. “Some people don’t seem to grasp that concept.”

My natural instinct has always been to retaliate to assert myself, which usually only fuels the argument, but it also keeps people at a distance, which I need. But this time, I don’t acknowledge Raiden’s obvious jab at me, because I’m enjoying my favorite part of being in the arena.

I tilt my head back and bask in the grandeur of the infinite sky. The undisturbed view above, the clean and wispy streaks of harmless clouds, the limitless expanse colored a white-washed blue by the high sun. Even the churning sea of the black storm below doesn’t seem so nocuous. It’s something I never get tired of.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

I throw a cursory glance to the mountain’s peak behind me. The dozens of streamers tied to the metal pole swirls lazily in the breeze, their colors ranging between a pale green and blue. I know it won’t be long before the colors of the thermochromic streamers will darken, but for now, the green color range indicates safe temperatures.

The sound of the flared, brass horns bellows across the arena, and I turn to await the king’s ascension. At the pinnacle of the audience’s seating sits a square box dressed in shimmering steel reserved for the royal family and guests.

As the final note of the horns rings out, the king stands and raises his arms to cue applause. The audience, as per usual, does not disappoint. From where I’m standing, the steel box and the king are the size of the pad of my thumb. But I know from Maven that King Aramis is a stoutly man who prefers formal wear to his casual attire, even for events such as the Trials, and always wears his gold-lined mantle.

“He thinks it makes him look more regal,” Maven had explained once.

The sun reflects sharply off the metal plates fused together to form the mantle. “Callanth!” King Aramis shouts into another flared horn. This one mounted to the edge of the steel box intended to project his voice to the arena. “I give you our six candidates!”

The entire arena erupts into a roar of excited cheers. The five other candidates have lined up beside me and are relishing the attention. Raiden and the two new boys are lapping up the encouragement, and fist-punch the air for effect. Kyrell and Kaida wave without a grand display. I hold my breath, preparing myself for the inevitable.

The king gestures dramatically to where me and the rest stand. “We live in a world where strength is coveted and trials test the limits of humanity. But with the unmatched resilience of our Scavengers, we prevail!” He declares and initiates a crowd-wide applause for the ten figures sitting on the second row below the steel box. I don’t have to be close to know the ten Scavengers are decked in navigational gear and enhanced sight mechanisms. The ten stand to bow and wave, enjoying the spectacle they procure. On the row above them, the long beards of the six older men indicate where the High Chemists sit. King Aramis likes a good spectacle. And nothing puts on a better show than the ten cocky Scavengers soaking up the attention on the row below the High Chemists’.

King Aramis turns his hands in the air, calling for silence. “In the face of great loss among the Scavengers, we hold these trials in search of a replacement. To glean the ones with an eye single to the crown, to our people. Nothing can truly replace the life lost in the storm, but to remain the thriving community we are, we persevere, in the name of Hesperia!”

The call of our goddess’s name sends a reverent hush over the crowd as all raise their gazes to the sky. I raise mine as well, drawing the strength I need from the hidden constellation there.

“In her name, I endorse the commencement of The Stormglass Trials!” The king announces, and once again the crowd’s vigor soars. Then his tone shifts to one of gravitas. “The Stormglass Trials are a test of skill, courage, and most of all, sacrifice. Our candidates must descend the mountain through the storm in order to collect and retrieve one shard of Stormglass. The first to present their shard in the center of the arena, will qualify for a spot on the Scavengers’ roster. At the Scavengers’ discretion, the candidate will then continue onto the second phase, training with them in preparation for the final phase of the Trials; the trial run of a full Scavenger expedition into Old Atoraxis. To achieve this, the candidates must embody the ethos of the Scavengers: Your path, your hands.”

I keep my expression blank, but on the inside I squirm. In short, the motto of the Scavengers means “help yourself, no one else.” Candidates in the past have failed due to struggles with gear, weapons, descent, or ascent, but I’m the only one who has been disqualified four times for helping another candidate.

King Aramis begins to announce each candidate one by one. To Raiden Abbott, he gives the title of stoic warrior. To the two boys, a cunning duo. Kyrell Ellery, a gifted blacksmith, and Kaida Decatur, an angel with the skill of a fighter. The king then coins me Ryn Leander the Stubborn.

At the mention of my name, the crowd sniggers, but I hold my head high. It carries a sting, but I wear it like armor.

Good, I think. I want them to laugh. Then they won’t notice my right hand, which rests unnaturally still at my side, its joints slowly growing stiff like ice. I maintain my poise, accustomed to the jeers. I close my eyes, my tenacity only deepening amidst the taunts.

I remember what I must do, and this time, I must hold my ground, I chant my mantra mentally.

Suddenly a singular brass horn bellows, shattering the moment of reflection. I could feel the vibrations through the ground, and the crowd erupts into cheers once more.

“Let the Trials begin!” The king finalizes before taking his seat again beside his daughter, Princess Atarah, and the royal Astrologist, his advisor.

My eyes snap open, determination radiating. An intensity fills me as I square my shoulders, ready for what I know lies ahead.

This time it’ll be different. This time, I’ll make it.

The arena pulses with excitement as the candidates spread out, the crowd’s atmosphere practically sparking with electrifying anticipation.

I glance at the others, each preparing in their own way. I clench my left fist, and for an instant, my right hand remains still. My breath hitches, but then my right hand obeys, and I shake off my initial panic.

Another deafening bellow from the brass horn calls the candidates into action. I charge forward along with the five beside me. We race to the six devices perched at the cliff’s edge, each stopping to secure straps around waist and thighs.

But I know better.

I grab the straps tied to the device and leap over the sheer precipice, wasting no time in securing it till I’m falling through the air. As the wind rushes past me, the sun warms my face one final time before I’m swallowed by the storm rapidly approaching. I know I’m ready to carve my name into history.

With deft speed, I finish fastening the harness and position the brass lined harpoon in my grasp. But I don’t fire it yet. The ominous clouds roil beneath, but I’m not scared. During my first Trial, I’d shot off my harpoon spear as soon as I’d jumped from the cliff. Ultimately, my rope had run out before I’d even reached the first layer of the storm, having forgotten to recoil and redeploy my spear. But it was my aiding another candidate in untangling their harpoon’s rope that had disqualified me that time. This isn’t my first time though, so I know I need wait till I’m as close as possible to the second layer of storm clouds.

The two younger boys launch their harpoons with excitement, their harpoons’ spears embedding themselves in the rock face just below the top of the cliff. In an invasive blur, Raiden speeds past me, his confidence palpable, Kyrell close behind. Knowing Raiden, he’ll focus on outsmarting his greatest threat, while ignoring the rest. It looks like Kyrell is that threat. That means Raiden will leave me alone at least.

Kaida, despite her timid spirit, carries an innate grace in the way she zips through the air, eyes focused on the clouds. No, they’re focused on me. I spread my limbs to slow my descent, watching as Kaida’s eyes flick between me and the approaching tempest. Kaida copies my pose as she dons her oxygen mask.

What are you waiting for, Kaida?

The air grows moist as we fall through the first layer composed of wet mist. We whiz past Kyrell and Raiden who have fired their harpoons and are now controlling the speed of their descent. I smirk at the two boys fumbling with the axes they’d chosen for their helpmeet, Kyrell and Raiden also fidgeting with their weapons. It had taken me two Trials to realize that the weapons array is purely a distraction, a smokescreen to complicate and divert attention from the real skill; timing.

Kaida and I are the last to deploy, and I’m not ready yet. I focus on Kaida, paying more attention to how the air feels around me than what my eyes tell me. The blue sky above us starts to darken, the mist taking on a murky texture, and I notice how the added moisture clings to my clothes. It’s almost time, and Kaida is still following me. Is she waiting for me? Waiting to see when I’ll would deploy my spear?

The world around us is quickly darkening, and just before visibility will be nil, Kaida’s eyes widen. After repositioning, Kaida relents and shoots her spear off in a flash of silver, the spear penetrating the growing darkness in a high arc. Kaida was close, because only a few moments later, once I feel the pressure change in my ears, do I straighten and aim for the mountain wall. A puff of silver smoke mixes into the swirling mist as I pull the first trigger, sending my spear flying. The rope attached to the spear loses its slack as the spear pierces the mountain. But before the rope can yank me to an aggressive halt, I pull the second trigger on the harpoon. The windup mechanism releases as my fall continues unhindered. I look down, watching the inky blackness open its maw to consume me. Adrenalin surges.

I will hold my ground.

I’m well ahead of the rest, and I haven’t felt the instinctual tug to confirm the others’ positioning. A burgeoning hope blossoms in my chest at the prospect of completing my Trial and making it onto the roster.

I can make it. This could be it. I just need to rappel down the mountain, pluck a shard of Stormglass, and get back up as fast as possible. I’d be one step closer to having a direct line to Stormglass, something I desperately need.

I swing towards the face of the mountain, and push off in one fluid motions. The fierce wind slaps against my face, but I still hear the faintest shout from above. In what little sunlight peaks through the cloud cover of the second layer, I can see Raiden and Kyrell taking the lead with the two boys close behind. But where is Kaida?

I narrow my eyes. Behind the rest rapidly gaining on me, is an anomaly in the mist. Something is churning directly above me, and for a moment I’m worried that a Stormglass surge is forming earlier than anticipated. But when I examine the movement more, I realize it’s something spinning erratically in the air.

Kaida.

She tosses around helplessly with a panicked scream escaping sporadically through the loud storm around her. I can’t take my eyes off Kaida’s spinning form, my face contorting with concern. The roar of the storm only intensifies around me as I grip my harpoon tighter, my instinct battling against the clock. I know all Kaida needs to do is find purchase on the rock face, even if it means slamming herself into the wall to stop herself from spinning. The only reason I know this, however, is because I’d made the same mistake of descending too slow during my second run of the Trials.

The Stormglass Trials demand sacrifice… but at what cost?

My eyes dart from Kaida to the black thickness beneath me and around me, calculations racing.

If I help her, I lose my chance… again. But how can I just let her struggle? If she continues spinning, her harness or rope could snap. She’d fall. She’d die.

I watch, falling parallel to the mountain now, ready to recoil and redeploy my spear any second, the storm shrieking like a beast.

I will hold… my ground.

There’s no question as I bolt into action.

I can’t watch this happen. Hesperia, forgive me.