We managed to get there with five minutes to spare. The square was divided into two zones, an external circle where people could observe the results, and an inner circle, slightly elevated, for the participants. Everyone rushed for the best result, but it was a fact that not all of them would finish. The Drak'oora would reserve the adequate space according to their expectations; the harder the challenge, the smaller the area.

  We had to split the crowd apart along our way to finally reach the candidates zone. I was already expecting it to be small, but I had never imagined it would be so tiny. At most it would fit a hundred people, perhaps twice if you didn't mind being skin to skin with others. Nothing stopped you from submitting your work and claim your fame for a successful creation. Likewise, your reputation could easily be tarnished if it turned out to be a failure.

  I was confident on my key, but honestly, seeing that only about twenty people had come forward with their work, it made me hesitate. I didn't have much to lose, though. I had controversially joined the tribe and gotten some enemies along the way, thus some more bad publicity wouldn't really harm me.

  I stepped inside, just enough so that Makka and Yaira were still right next to me. I inspected my competition, trying to catch a glimpse of their key, but ultimately didn’t manage to cast much light on the matter.

  The remaining one or two minutes passed rapidly. I was the last one to cross the line, so it would seem the challenge was going to be disputed among the few of us. I was expecting the same show as the day before, someone speaking from the building's window, yet that didn't happen. The crowd started parting apart, leaving way to two lone figures. The creaky old Drak'oora and his improvised assistant carrying the chest.

  "Oh," his face lightened as he inspected the candidates, "I wasn't expecting this multitude!" One could debate if the term multitude was accurate, but it was true that he might even have assumed there would be no contenders at all.

  The chest dropped to the wooden platform with a loud thump, threatening to break it and throw us all to the ground. After a series of groans, moans, and a raised arm waving with disdain, Drak'oora Weirar left. Either he was offended at being used as a carry-boy, or he believed none of us would manage to open it. The challenge host, however, remained still, unfazed by his little pout.

  "Then..." His eyes traveled from one candidate to another, staring into their souls, and, at least in my case, scaring them with his shaking and broken grim. "Who will be first?"

  How amazing would it be if I said I was first, and that there were no need for more tests. Or what if I actually was the last one, saving the show when everyone thought we were all presenting failures. Life doesn't work like that, and I'm afraid mine was no exception.

  A bulky man—not precisely from too much exercise—made his way to the chest. I wouldn't say he exuded confidence, but his determined steps showed he didn't doubt his own creation. Halfway to the chest, his hand shone with a white tone that gave way to the appearance of a metal rod. It had large protuberances and spikes of varying lengths at seemingly random locations. The square went quiet as he inserted it on the lock. Everyone's gazes were wide open as the metal went in the hole, fitting almost perfectly.

  The man scoffed, letting air go through his nostrils with contempt. His hand twisted, even if so slightly, and the metal followed his rotation. A loud click filled the air, some hidden parts moving into action and clicking into place. It kept rotating, several more clicks resounding from within the lock.

  But, how? I couldn't help but ask. For a moment I thought he might also have been able to see the Ink inside, but after a brief moment of consideration I remembered his key didn't have any Ink engraved at the tip. My best hypothesis to date—which frankly makes that key a true masterpiece—is that it had some kind of mechanism activated by Ink that could retract or expand the spikes so that they could perfectly press the levers.

  After three tense seconds filled with clicking noises and tension, a final and louder metallic sound reverberated through the platform. The key came to a standstill, and I'm sure that the man's face was all smiles as he gripped the lid with his other hand. Mine was the exact opposite. My eyes were so squinted that hurt, my eyebrows had merged into a single mass of hair, and I swear I still have scars on my palms from my own nails.

  That last bit might be an exaggeration, but my heart stopped as the lid raised. Yes, it actually moved, its hinges squeaking as it revealed its insides. The crowd, with the exception of the other candidates—me included—broke into loud exclamations. I understood it, I knew the feat that man had just achieved. Yet I was too puzzled to cheer for him. I trust every other person was cursing his bones, frustrated not to get a chance. I, however, was busy trying to figure out how he had bypassed the formation.

  Isn't it required for the chest to open?

  I was going over the thought in loop when I heard a sound discordant with the overall revelry; someone had clicked their tongue. I raised my head, looking for the source of the disapproving noise. It had to be near us, otherwise it wouldn't have gone through the cacophony of voices. None among the other candidates seemed to be the origin, forcing me to inspect near the chest. And there he was, the Drak'oora was shaking his head from one side to the other.

  Why does he look disappointed? The answer didn't take long to reveal itself. The same man that just a moment ago opened the chest collapsed to the ground. Like a puppet whose strings had been cut, he folded over himself, not even attempting to cushion the fall.

  "Alas!" The Drak'oora spoke in a crestfallen voice. "Another one has fallen prey to the chest." Suffice to say, all heads—and particularly ours, who were still waiting for our turn—turned to look at him. "You should know that those who open the lid with an inadequate key will die in the process."

  "What!" The cry came from the audience as I was still processing the information. "We could die!? And you didn't tell us before!?" Whoever it was that shouted; they were right. Even if they hadn't considered their work apt, they were still Inkers, they might have considered going up there with the rest of us.

  The voices of protest, which where increasing by the second, were silenced by a single finger. The old man, with what remained of his Line clearly visible on the exposed wrist, brightly smiled.

  "I will soon pay the price," he said.

  His intentions were clear, he was planning to pay for it with his own life. He had absolutely nothing to lose. If he had said from the start that one could die while trying to open the chest, then nobody might have partaken in that insanity. "Well then, next?" He closed the chest while his wrinkled eyes stared at us: either one of you steps up, or I will choose one.

  Should I go? My mind was a mess. I might have been able to stop that madness if my key worked, and nobody else would have to die. Yet, I had no guarantees that it would. If my formation wasn't the exact match to the one on the lock, then I'd be the one dropping to the floor. And, honestly, I hand't even looked at my creation yet. I didn't know what I would be using to open the chest.

  Do you remember how I said this is not the perfect story? My indecision costed another life. One more woman stepped up while I was debating, and she too opened the lid. Just to plop down on the floor, inert, dead. That should have served as a warning, it should have made me act. Either to stop that madness, or to try my luck. But I cowered, and let one more girl not much older than me walk to an early death.

  She was shaking, struggling to make the key meet with the hole, scratching the metal garnishment. And even when she managed to make them fit, she had to place her other hand around the other to gather enough guts. She forced the key to the left, putting her whole body behind the motion. The key struggled to make a few mechanisms activate. We heard a series of metal clicks, yet it was stopped in its tracks; that key wouldn't open the chest. The poor soul dropped to the floor on her knees, crying as her whole body shook.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  She wouldn't die. She hadn't managed to open the chest; hers were tears of joy.

  "Enough!" I shouted, unable to bear any more of it.. Had that girl died... I couldn't help but picture the scene of first girl turning the key and opening the lid.

  I ignored all the heads turning to me, startled by my shout, and made my way to the front. Drak'oora Kasd had an smug smile on his face, an attitude that seemed to say that was what he had been waiting for; me. I was already shivering, and that feeling of having just fallen to someone's trap didn't help at all. I gave the order to my Ink, making a cold bar materialize in my right hand.

  It was smooth and flat, too much for something that should be a key. Fearing the worst, I lowered my sight while letting the rod rest on my open palm. It was a metal stick, nothing more and nothing else; it had no dents nor cuts. Nothing. Cold sweat dripped from my forehead, my hand threatened to drop the key. Not everything is lost! I reminded myself. There's still the formation, it can still work!

  "Are you sure?" The Drak'oora whispered to my side, in a low, quivering, and trembling voice.

  Do I even have any other option? If I backed out then someone else would have to test their luck, and I didn't expect anyone to successfully open it. I nodded, without strength to articulate any words.

  Audibly swallowing the dry paste on my mouth, I placed the key in the lock. It entered without obstacles, perfectly aimed at the hole and fitting like a glove. As the metal deepened inside, there were no clicks, no sounds, no mechanisms. It smoothly slid inside until it touched the end.

  At first I thought that nothing had happened. Indeed, nothing suggested my key had actually worked. I was about to rotate it, using it as if it were an actual key, but I stopped on my tracks. Anyone else wouldn't have sensed it, yet, from the corner of my eye, I saw a bright ray escaping from the keyhole. A quick flash that I intuitively knew meant Ink was acting up.

  I placed my hand over the lid, and pulled. I felt a brief resistance, panicking when the wooden frame wouldn't budge a single inch. Why!? I inwardly cried, struggling to find the reason of my failure. I pulled once more, this time with both hands, doubling my strength, and with my eyes closed. And I heard it; I heard the metal squeaking, the hinges working to move the lid.

  I had done the first part, opening it; now it was only a matter of waiting. Either I lived, or I died. My heart was racing, my legs shook from the tension, my whole body was seconds away from collapsing. I didn't know if it was the sheer nervousness or the chest slowly making its way to me.

  Opening my eyes, I checked the other doubt that had been assaulting me from the very first moment that the challenge was announced. What does the chest contain that it's worth dying for? I looked inside, yet all my eyes could see were the wooden frame and the metal reinforcements. It was empty.

  Of course, I realized. The opener dies, but what stops someone else from getting the contents of the already opened chest?

  It was stupid. Both not to have noticed before, and the mechanism itself. Why wo-

  "Congratulations!" The words woke me up from the trance. "You are the first one to successfully open it without dying!"

  I... I won? I was still thunderstruck, processing what had happened. Then, my key works? I won't die? It was no just me winning; that was nothing compared with the relief of knowing you would see another day. And even that faded in comparison to the deepest meaning it all had. I could replicate the unlocking formation by just seeing the energy emitted by its Ink. True sight was even wilder than my initial assumptions; it was not about seeing connections, rather about understanding the contents at plain sight.

  I could hear the claps around me, the whistles and shouts of congratulations, yet I couldn't care a bit less; they were celebrating the wrong achievement. Drak'oora Kasd closed onto me and took me by the shoulder.

  "We have a few things to discuss," he said low enough so that only me would hear it. "Come with me, please."

  Although it might have seemed as if he was asking me to follow him, it was a direct order. He didn't wait for me to accept. He just turned around and made the crows leave way for him. I follow behind, lagging only a second or two and chasing him inside the building. I knew the way to Drak'oora Layan's office, but he took me in the opposite direction, towards what I suspected was his own wing of the building. After entering a room, he pointed towards a sofa directly facing a small table and another sofa.

  "I wasn't wrong, then," he said after sitting right in front of me. His eyes stared in mine, trying to pry out an answer for a question I didn't even know what meant.

  "I'm sorry?" I barely managed to say.

  "The day you went under judgement of light," he continued, not making any more sense of the conversation, "what do you think Layan asked Spare?"

  I didn't have a clue as to why he was asking about that event, yet the memory naturally came to me, spoken in words I could perfectly understand.

  "What is it that you saw in him?" I answered, "and..." I hesitated, unsure of what my following words implied.

  "And?" He urged me with his hand.

  "And Spare," I noticed my eyebrows wrinkling, "said that the Drak'gath listened."

  I knew what he meant with that, he was telling Layan that the Drak'gath Calligraphic Pen obeyed my intentions from the first moment, even if barely and roughly.

  "Do you know how many uninitialised pupils can draw with that?" I shook my head, still wondering what any of that had to do with winning the challenge. "None. Do you even know how many of them have one of them? It requires years of assimilation with your predecessor—assuming he knew how to use it. And even then, it is one of the hardest techniques to master."

  I didn't know what to say. I had mastered something I wasn't supposed to? Does that have any hidden meaning? He shook his head, and before I could voice any of my doubts, he continued.

  "Do you believe in coincidences?"

  The question was left in the air; I didn't answer, yet if I had had to, I would have said no. Me being there, with the Drak'ga, was not a coincidence. I might have thought it at some point, but know I knew Spare had always been training me for the occasion. Hoping that I would take the weight of the old ways.

  Why would anything else be a coincidence?

  "Your first day at the Compendium, you didn't stumble upon a secret book," his voice turned dark, any trace of his old age was gone. It didn't shake nor stutter. "I made you find it, I wanted you to read it."

  I couldn't help but stare into the eyes of the person in front of me. He was the same Drak'oora, about to die from old age. Yet his presence, his soul, spoke with the energy of a revelious youngster.

  "W-why?" I managed to say.

  "You know why," he scoffed, "haven't you just opened the chest?"

  I remained still for ten seconds, probably not even blinking, asking myself if I was drawing the right conclusions. If he is telling me that, it means he can also see it, right? That was the only explanation I had.

  "Can you als-" There was no need for me to finish the sentence, as he energetically moved his head. His eyes were down, and his mouth was wrinkled in a sorrowful gesture.

  "No, neither of the Drak'oora as far as I know." The revelation, although something I somewhat had already expected, came by surprise. "I can hear Her, but I haven't been able to progress anymore."

  "Wait," I adventured, emboldened by his gesture of trust, "didn't the book say only one out of a million could feel it?"

  I was caught off ward by his sudden burst of laughter, barely managing to contain my anger.

  "I'm afraid you misunderstood. Understandably so," he said after calming down. "The nuance of that particular phrase comes from the fact that it's trying to establish how hard it is for one to achieve said level." His voice went back to his usual old one, albeit more tired than it had been before. "Everyone could, theoretically, enter communion and be granted true sight... But there are no such cases since long ago, thousands of years for that matter. Why do you think that is?"

  "Someone," I said, trying to test the waters before saying out loud something that could make me a new enemy, "might have a vested interest in hiding it." His eye twitched, even if only so little.

  "And, how would he do so?" He was bitting his lip, perhaps afraid of his own question and its implications. Perhaps under the constant surveillance of the Empire.

  "By controlling the population, making their truth prevail, and, perhaps," I thought back of my conversations with Spare, "manipulating the Ink's supply."

  "I see," his shoulders dropped and his whole body came to a rest on the sofa, releasing his teasion for the first time since we had started talking. "You have arrived at the conclusion that the Empire is behind it." I inspired, coming to the conclusion that lying now would be useless, and nodded. "Then you must also know that the only reason we can't achieve that communion, is because our Ink is tainted, diluted, poluted, and simply purposely downgraded."

  I resisted all my efforts to look down at my ankle. Perhaps he already knew, and perhaps it was precisely what he was after; I couldn't give him any more reasons.