The chamber in which Anne was to face her final test had not been built for such purposes. It was an archive, a place where letters, reports, and missives—everything that passed between the mages and the world beyond—were stored once the enchanters had deemed them read and set aside. Yet, as was so often the case in the ancient halls of the Gallows, rooms took on new meanings when necessity called for it, and now this quiet, dust-laden space had been transformed into a trial chamber where a Templar’s knowledge would be judged.

  The shelves, sagging under the weight of countless documents bound in yellowed parchment and coarse twine, looked like they could crumble at any moment. The air was dry and thick, disturbed only by the slow descent of dust motes in the thin beams of light that filtered through the high, narrow windows. Anne stood still, her back straight, her hands clenched, but despite her best efforts, she could not keep her nose from twitching. She prayed to the Maker that she would not start her test by sneezing directly into the stern, unyielding face of the Knight-Corporal before her.

  Meanwhile, Knight-Corporal Tobias, a man of strong build and cold eyes, regarded her with a gaze that was both assessing and inscrutable. Behind him, a row of Templars stood in solemn observance, their faces like masks, revealing nothing of their thoughts.

  "Templar-Recruit Anne of Lowtown," Tobias began, his rough voice softened by a faint undercurrent of solemnity. "You have trained your body, mind, and soul in service of the Maker and the Order of His Bride. Are you prepared to be tested?"

  Anne swallowed, her throat suddenly dry, and nodded. "I am, Knight-Corporal."

  The test began with a quiet intensity. The questions came swiftly, each one a blade probing the strength of her knowledge. The Chant of Light, the history of the Order, the nature of magic and its perils—all demanded to be answered instantly, and she offered the replies as best she could, her voice steady though her heart quaked.

  After a while, the questions grew more intricate, touching upon the complexities of demonology and the ever-present threat of possession. Anne's mind raced, her thoughts a whirlwind of half-remembered lessons and the hurried teachings Tamlin had imparted during her recovery. She faltered once or twice, but overall, she felt confident that her responses were accurate.

  At last, Tobias nodded, a faint flicker of approval in his eyes. "You have done well, Templar-Recruit Anne. Your knowledge is sound. But knowledge alone is not enough. A Templar must also possess discipline, focus, and unwavering faith. You will now begin your Vigil."

  Anne bowed her head, her heart swelling with relief—the most challenging part was behind her. What came next, the Vigil - a trial of the spirit—seemed almost trivial: three days of constant prayer, without water, food, or sleep, to seek the guidance of the Maker in the silence of a small, dark chamber. It was nothing compared to what Alrik had put her through. The corners of her lips twitched into a faint smile. The bastard had done his job well, hardening her spirit. She didn’t doubt for a moment that she would breeze through this part.

  Yet as Anne stepped into a small, windowless chamber—bare save for a single, battered chamber pot—she quickly found herself humbled. When the heavy door swung shut behind her with a deep, echoing thud, plunging the room into silence and pitch-black darkness, a shiver ran through the recruit, and before she could stop it, memories of her time in the cells rushed to the surface unbidden.

  She was on the floor again, the cold stone slick with her own blood. Her limbs too weak to move and reach for a healing potion, her vision swimming as the shadows stretched long and endless around her. The iron tang of blood on her tongue, her back a burning agony of pain, the despair and helplessness all-consuming.

  Anne’s breaths came in shallow gasps, her frame trembling. She pressed her back against the wall, willing herself to be still, but the panic crawled up her throat, clenching tight like a fist around her windpipe. In desperation, she clung to the one memory that could anchor her. She closed her eyes and called forth the image of the Knight-Captain. His hand, strong yet gentle, resting on her head, the reassuring weight of it as his fingers combed through her hair. She held onto that warmth, that kindness, as if it were a lifeline. He had always been the one to remind her that she could endure, that there was light even in the darkest of places.

  “My hero, give me strength,” she whispered to herself, steadying her breath. Slowly, she sank to her knees, forcing herself to find calm amidst the chaos of her mind. With a deep breath, she straightened her spine, forcing stillness into her shaking limbs. She clasped her hands together and began to recite the Canticle of Trials. Her voice wavered at first, but she did not stop. If the Templar beyond the wall did not hear her prayers—if they doubted her faith for even a moment—she would fail the Vigil. And that could not, would not happen.

  By the end of the third day, Anne felt tired beyond measure—her body hollowed out by hunger, but more than anything, by thirst. Her lips were cracked and raw, her tongue thick in her mouth, saliva turning to something sluggish and useless. Her head throbbed with a dull and ceaseless ache, and yet, in the strangest way, she felt at peace.

  So when the door finally groaned open, the rush of torchlight slicing through the black, she did not startle. Slowly, she pushed herself upright, her limbs stiff, her joints aching in protest. She squinted against the sudden brightness, her head swimming as she stepped forward on unsteady legs.

  Her throat was too dry to speak at first. She swallowed, though it felt like choking, and when she finally forced the words out, they were little more than a hoarse whisper. “Please,” she rasped. “Water.”

  The Templar before her—faceless in the glare of the corridor—did not move to grant her request. His voice was flat as he replied. “Patience, for the moment ordained is still before us.”

  Anne nodded as she passed a hand over her face, forcing herself to stay upright and to keep moving forward.

  She was brought before the Knight-Corporal once more, this time in the dim hush of the Circle’s Chapel. The air was heavy with incense, the candlelight flickering against the solemn faces of the senior Templars who stood in a ring around her. Tobias, his countenance grave, watched her with the patience of one who had seen this moment repeated many times before.

  From the shadows, a Sister approached, a small vial of lyrium cradled in her hands. Its soft blue glow pulsed like a living thing, its light casting long, trembling reflections upon the stone floor. She murmured a prayer, her voice weaving through the silence, low and steady, invoking the Maker’s blessing.

  "First, allow me to offer my congratulations, Anne of Lowtown," Tobias began. "You have endured the trials of mind and spirit and emerged victorious. In doing so, you have proven yourself worthy to stand among the ranks of the Templar Order." He paused, allowing his words to settle, his piercing gaze fixed upon her. "Now," he continued, his tone grave and reverent, "you stand at the threshold of your final initiation. To fully embrace your destiny as a Templar, you must partake of the lyrium. Know this: it is both a gift and a burden. It will grant you the power to smite demons and maleficarum, to shield the innocent, and to uphold the sacred duties of our Order. Yet, it will also bind you, body and soul, for the rest of your days. Once consumed, there is no retreat, no reprieve. The path you choose today is irrevocable. Do you understand the weight of this choice? Do you accept the sacrifices it demands? Speak now, and let your words be true."

  Anne’s throat burned, her very bones aching with thirst. The vial, with its shimmering promise of something liquid, filled her vision. The Templars, the Sister, the solemn rites—all faded into mere shadows behind it. At this moment, she would have sworn to anything, agreed to any vow, if only to quench that unbearable thirst. "I understand and accept it."

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  The Sister stepped forward, lifting the vial to the recruit’s lips, her voice a soft benediction. "By the Maker’s will, may this blessed lyrium quench your thirst, strengthen your spirit, and be a shield against the wickedness of magic."

  The lyrium was cold against her cracked lips, a relief so sharp it nearly undid her. Anne drank greedily, the liquid burning as it slid down her parched throat, its unnatural chill spreading through her like ice in her veins. For a single, blissful moment, the thirst that had tormented her vanished, replaced by a flood of sensation so overwhelming that she barely registered the way her limbs trembled.

  Then the fire came.

  It started deep in her chest, a searing heat curling through her ribs, spreading outward with every pulse of her heart. Her breath hitched. The world around her blurred, colors sharpening and smearing in dizzying waves. The Chapel’s stone walls, so familiar, now seemed too bright, too close, their edges humming with energy she had never noticed before. The Knight-Corporal addressed her again, yet his voice was distant, warping as if carried through water.

  Anne clenched her hands into fists, desperate for something solid—something real—to hold onto. But the lyrium was already sinking deeper, threading through her blood, seeping into the marrow of her bones. She felt weightless and unbearably heavy all at once. Her mind swam, a thousand thoughts splintering into something raw and untethered.

  She gasped, staggering back, and then everything went black.

  When Anne opened her eyes, she found herself standing in an abyss—an endless void stretching beyond sight, where neither sky nor earth existed, only darkness vast and impenetrable. A melancholy tune, strange and distant, began to echo around her, its notes stirring something deep within her soul—a faint longing for something forgotten. But the moment of stillness did not last. Suddenly, from the very heart of the darkness, chains of blue light burst forth, twisting and coiling around her like serpents. Cold and relentless, they wound tighter and tighter, their touch burning her skin with a cruel, searing pain. She struggled, gasped, but the chains only pulled harder, dragging her down, deeper into the nothing.

  Anne clenched her jaw, summoning all her will to resist, but each movement only made the grip of the chains stronger. And yet, as if in answer to her silent cry, a brilliant light erupted from within her. The chains recoiled at once, hissing and writhing like living creatures, shrinking back from the radiant glow. The light swelled, filling the void, and began to take shape—a figure, tall and majestic, materialized before her. It was a Templar, clad in shining armor, his form towering, his sword raised high, gleaming like the morning sun. Anne’s heart leapt with sudden recognition of her hero.

  “Knight-Capt—” she began to exclaim.

  “Stand firm, child,” the radiant figure interrupted, its voice steady and commanding. “You will not be bound by the blood of the Titans, but by the Code of Honor.”

  With a swift and mighty stroke, the Templar’s sword descended, its blade slicing through the chains. They shattered with a sound like breaking glass, scattering into countless shards of blue light that dissolved into the void. The darkness trembled, as if recoiling from the force of his presence, and before Anne could fully grasp the enormity of what had happened, she felt herself being lifted, rising from the depths, pulled inexorably back toward the waking world.

  Anne awoke with a sharp gasp, her breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts. For a moment, her surroundings were blurred, her mind disoriented, still half-entangled in the dream or vision that had consumed her moments ago. As her eyes adjusted to the midday light streaming through the high windows, she realized with a sudden jolt that she was no longer in the Chapel but lying on the cot in the Templar barracks. The chamber was surprisingly still, the wooden cots around her empty, though it would be an expected sight at this hour.

  She pushed herself upright, her muscles aching as if she had fought a great battle. From beyond the closed doors, the distant sounds of footsteps, the clinking of armor, and muffled voices wove together, a steady hum of life beyond her solitary moment.

  And then, realization struck. If she was here—no longer among the recruits—then she had done it! She was a Templar now!

  A voice cut through the quiet, low but clear, drawing her from her thoughts.

  “Awake at last.”

  Startled, Anne whirled around to see the golden figure standing there, his presence as luminous and commanding as it had been in the void. His sword was sheathed at his side, his bearing proud yet at ease.

  “Knight-Captain Cullen!” she exclaimed as she tried to rise from the cot. But her strength faltered, and she fell back onto the thin mattress, her body still weak from the trials of the Vigil. She pressed a trembling hand to her forehead, steadying herself, and spoke again, her tone both reverent and bewildered. “Forgive me, Ser. I have not yet recovered my stamina. I… I saw you. In the void... How did yo-”

  “I am not who you believe me to be, child,” the golden figure interrupted her.

  “What do you mean, Ser?” Just as when she first met him, the helmet hid his face, but the voice was undeniably Cullen's. Yet even as the words left her lips, a creeping realization took hold. The light that surrounded the Knight-Captain was not merely the sun’s reflection upon his polished armor—it was something far more ethereal, a radiant glow that seemed to emanate from within. And…oh, Maker preserve her, the edges of his form flickered!

  Anne scrambled back, her pulse hammering in her ears, instinctively reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there. The figure did not move, nor did he seem surprised by her reaction.

  “What are you?” She hissed. “A demon?”

  "No, child," the Knight’s voice cut through her rising panic, firm but not unkind. “I am Valor, given form and purpose. I came to you when the blood mage sought to bind a foul spirit to your soul. It was I who shielded you from that grim fate, for I have glimpsed the spark of greatness within you and deemed you a vessel worthy of my presence.”

  Anne froze, her breath quick and shallow, her mind reeling under the weight of his words. A spirit bound to a mortal form—there was but one way to sever such a bond. Death. Why had this happened to her? Could she not be granted a single moment’s respite? If she were discovered, it would be the end of her. Dread coiled deep within her, spreading like a poison. Cullen. He would despise her. He would see her as an abomination. He would try to kill her. “No, this—this can’t be real! You can’t be inside me! Spirits possess, they corrupt—”

  “Enough!” Valor’s voice was stern now, full of strength that allowed no room for argument. “You will not speak of me as if I were some foul thing. I am no corrupter, nor do I prey upon your weaknesses or twist your desires. I do not tempt, but strengthen. That which is noble in you, I magnify. I am bound by honor, not malice, and you shall give me the respect I am due.”

  A tremor ran through the young woman. “What do you want?” she whispered.

  Valor took a single step toward her, and though his presence was vast and unshakable, there was no malice in it. Only purpose. “I am here to lend you strength in your hour of need, to uphold the virtue of valor. You shall bear me with you, child, and together, we shall wage noble battles in the name of justice and honor.”

  Anne hesitated, caught between fear and something else—a fragile, desperate hope that perhaps things were not as dire as they seemed. She drew a slow, measured breath, willing her voice to remain steady, “And you will never seek to control me?”

  “I shall not impose my will upon you save for when you do stray from the path of the Code of Honor.” His form began to fade, the golden light dimming, dissipating into the midday air.

  Anne's hand instinctively reached out. "Wait!" she called, but her fingers passed through the light, touching nothing but air. The figure of Valor shimmered, nearly gone.

  "If your resolve wavers," the spirit uttered, his voice now like a fading echo, "I shall be there to guide you back to the light of your purpose."

  And then, he was gone. The barracks were empty once more, the silence pressing down upon her like a bronto. Her mind swirled with questions. What is this Code of Honor?

  Suddenly, a sharp, stabbing pain tore through her left hand. She gasped, clutching her arm, her pulse racing with the shock of it. Slowly, she rolled up her sleeve, revealing her forearm.

  Before the young woman’s eyes, fine red lines began to etch themselves into her skin, stretching from her elbow down to her wrist. She could hardly look away, her heart pounding in her chest as the words appeared, written in blood like some sacred covenant. With bated breath, Anne read:

  Commandment I: Thou Shalt Not Bear False Witness, for truth is the steel that binds the shield-wall of honor.

  Commandment II: Thou Shalt Face the Foe with Unbroken Resolve, for the warrior who falters betrays not only himself but all who depend upon him.

  Commandment III: Thou Shalt Honor the Adversary, for striking the defenseless or taking pleasures in cruelty stains the soul and dishonors thy name.

  Commandment IV: Thou Shalt Master the Arts of War, for excellence is the path of the true warrior.

  Commandment V: Thou Shalt Uphold the Righteous Cause, for justice is the sacred duty of the warrior.

  The writing stopped. The pain faded, leaving only the mark—the commandments—seared into her flesh like a brand.

  Anne’s gaze fixed on the words etched upon her skin. For a few moments, she traced her fingers over them, as if hoping to rub them away, but they remained indelible, a permanent reminder of the oath she now bore. She let her sleeve fall back into place, covering the commandments, and closed her eyes. At least now she knew why she had been so blunt and so hard-pressed to say anything but the truth all this time...

  The barracks were still empty, but she no longer felt truly alone. Valor's presence lingered, like a distant, watchful force that would always be there, waiting.

  Maker’s breath, she thought, her chest tightening. Why can’t I get a break?