I’ll confess a sense of quiet relief when those massive gates opened. My provisions had dwindled to heel-ends of bread and a handful of nuts and dried fruit, my water skin nearly empty after the final day’s climb. If those ancient doors had remained closed, I would have faced the grim prospect of retracing treacherous mountain paths with nothing but hunger and thirst for companions.
The gates themselves commanded reverence. Each stood twice the height of a tall man, built from massive planks of mountain oak bound with iron bands thick as my waist. What caught my eye was the pattern worked into the wood—deeply carved grooves forming the shape of a cube, its lines picked out in iron that had been polished until it gleamed like dark water. The precision of it seemed to vibrate against the weathered grain of the ancient wood.
When they swung open, they moved with the ponderous certainty of seasons changing—neither hasty nor reluctant, simply inevitable.
Far less comfortable was the finality with which those gates closed shut behind me. The sound they made settling into place seemed to compress the very air in my lungs. I wondered what conditions might be required for them to open again, why a monastery tucked away in these remote mountains warranted fortifications that could withstand a siege.
“Gardens protect that which requires guarding,” my mother had once said, her words surfacing with the familiar ache of homesickness. Only when I heard the locking mechanism engage with a decisive clang did I turn to properly inspect my new world.
Buildings rose around the courtyard like ancient sentinels. Walls of stone the color of storm clouds stretched upward, their surfaces broken by windows that caught the afternoon light and scattered it in gentle fragments. No single structure dominated; instead, they flowed into one another like a well-tended forest where each tree finds its proper place without crowding its neighbors.
The courtyard spread before me like a meditation made manifest in stone. Our gardens at home were well-ordered, but this place made them feel like wild tangles by comparison. Paths of fitted stone wound between beds where herbs grew in precise arrangements, their scents rising in the thin mountain air—sage and thyme, lavender and rosemary layered one upon another. Water moved through nearby carved channels with the harmonic chortling of tiny streams.
A small patch of familiar white blooms caught my eye. Arthis flowers. Here? At these elevations? Curiosity overcame caution as I knelt beside them. Had these been cultivated so long they no longer exhibited their natural protective tendency? I reached out to test.
The petals snapped shut and the stem bowed exactly as they did at home.
“The Arthis flower is truly remarkable.”
The voice, warm as a lowland pond in August, spoke from close enough to make me start. It had been a long while since anyone was able to approach without my noticing. I turned to find a man of at least fifty years, his dark brown skin weathered by mountain seasons, his head shaved smooth as river stone. His eyes held a youthful brightness that suggested joy had not been worn away by whatever hardships this place demanded. He wore robes of undyed wool, simple in cut but bearing the dignity that comes from wearing exactly what one needs and nothing more—only the wraps at his wrist had been dyed a rich earthen brown.
“One of only a few capable of such protective measures,” he continued, settling beside me without making a sound. “Yet... with proper technique...”
He began humming, a simple melody that alternated between three notes. His hand moved toward the closed flower with the patience of tree sap, so slowly that the movement was hard to catch. Impossibly, the Arthis began to open beneath his approach. More impossibly still, when his fingers delicately touched a single petal from the central five, the flower remained open, untroubled by his touch.
“Is the plant useful for medicine somehow?” I managed the first question that came to mind, curiosity seeming a better defense than shock. “What do you cultivate them for?”
He looked down at me and smiled. “Wonder. And Beauty.”
I was silenced.
He offered his hand to help me rise, and I felt the roughness of age and labor, though his hand was warm compared to mine. “Elenden,” he greeted me as statement. “I am Brother Abram. We use only our first names here,” he added with a glance at the scattered flowers and a knowing twinkle in his eyes, “partly to avoid the prejudice that comes with family names and presumptions of rank. We have been preparing for your arrival.” It speaks to my state of shock that I accepted his hand without hesitation, not realizing until later that evening that he had become one of the handful of people I had ever touched.
“Similarly, we also part with personal effects and possessions. You will find your quarters equipped with the essentials, and we will provide you with robes suitable for our life here.”
A group of robed figures emerged at the far end of the courtyard, hauling a cart laden with fresh lumber from the lower elevations. They moved with coordinated effort, their breath visible in the cool mountain air, yet there was no strain in their bearing, only the steady rhythm of shared labor. As they worked, I noticed most carried hammers or axes at their belts: not ceremonial pieces, but working tools worn smooth with use.
As we began our tour of the monastery grounds, I noticed Brother Abram’s bare feet moving across the slate paths without sound, each step placed with the unconscious precision of someone who had walked these paths for decades. My own travel boots clicked and scraped in comparison, announcing my foreignness with every stride.
“The dining hall,” he said, gesturing toward a long, low building whose windows glowed honey-colored in the afternoon light. Through the open doors, I glimpsed rows of simple wooden tables, each worn smooth by generations of use.
“Every monastery teaches the four elements and four virtues,” Brother Abram continued as we walked, his voice taking on the cadence of a well-worn lesson salted with genuine belief. “Fire and Justice, Earth and Fortitude, Air and Prudence, Water and Temperance.” Here he gave me an appraising look. “Only the True monasteries teach the fifth element and virtue. But each school specializes, delving deeper into their chosen focus.”
He paused at a courtyard where two young monks practiced with war hammers, their movements deliberate and grounded. “Here at Mountain Monastery, we study Earth and cultivate Fortitude. The war hammer is our traditional weapon: it teaches us about weight, about commitment, about the irreversibility of certain actions.” His eyes followed the students’ forms with a teacher’s assessment. “Truth is available to all who seek it, young Elenden. The virtues stand open like doors for any who would walk through them. But few choose to. Fewer still persist when they discover the cost.”
We continued past workshops where the sound of hammers on anvils rang out in steady rhythm, past gardens where monks tended vegetables with the same attention they might give to prayer. Everything here seemed to embody a particular quality: not haste, not even efficiency exactly, but a kind of patient thoroughness that suggested time itself moved differently within these walls.
“You’ll find we are a practical people,” Brother Abram said, noting my observation of a monk carefully fitting stones into a retaining wall. “Earth teaches us that some things cannot be rushed, cannot be forced. The mountain was here before us and will remain long after. We learn from its patience and its Fortitude.”
As the tour continued, the sun began its descent behind the western peaks, bathing the stone walls in shades of amber and rose. The altitude weighed on me already, my muscles weakened from my three-day trek. Brother Abram noticed my slight struggle and slowed his pace without comment.
“Tomorrow,” he said gently, “you’ll begin to understand why we chose this height, this isolation. For now, let me show you to your quarters. Rest is the first lesson of Fortitude: knowing when to stand firm and when to yield to necessity.”
As we walked toward what would be my new home, I caught sight of my reflection in a window and barely recognized the boy looking back. Already, something had shifted. Perhaps it was the mountain air, or perhaps simply the realization that I had stepped into a story much older and larger than my own. The feeling that bloomed in my chest was hard to name: not joy, not hope exactly, but something like the stirring of life after dormancy. I was still myself, yet felt utterly renewed: like a plant cut to the root yet holding promise of new growth—the same life granted grace to begin again.
The quarters Brother Abram showed me to were sparse in a way that made the most modest chambers seem lavish. A narrow bed with a straw mattress, a small table that served as both desk and dining surface, a shelf for the few possessions I would be provided. The window—unglazed, merely shuttered against the mountain winds—looked out over a precipitous drop that made my stomach lurch.
“Your robes,” Brother Abram said, gesturing to garments laid across the bed. “We rise before dawn for morning observances. The bell will guide you. Leave your travel possessions in your bag by your door this evening and we’ll hold them for safekeeping.”
When he left, I examined my new uniform with the careful attention my mother had taught me to give all clothing. The robes themselves were rough-woven wool, undyed and smelling faintly of lanolin. Simple in design: a tunic that fell to mid-thigh, loose trousers, all of it meant to hang shapeless on the body.
Five long strips of cloth lay beside the robes. As I lifted them, understanding dawned. These were meant to bind the loose garments close to the body—one for the waist as a belt, two for the hands and forearms, two for the feet and calves. The wrappings would transform the shapeless robes into something functional, preventing the cloth from catching on tools or tangling during movement.
What struck me was their color—or rather, lack thereof. Like the robes themselves, these wrappings were undyed, the natural cream color of raw wool.
I practiced dressing slowly, fumbling with the unfamiliar bindings. The hand wraps proved particularly challenging; I couldn’t achieve the neat spirals I’d noticed on other students. After several attempts, I managed something serviceable if not elegant. The foot wraps at least made more sense, similar to the way soldiers bound their feet before long marches.
The unfamiliar roughness of the wool made sleep elusive. I lay on the straw mattress, listening to the mountain wind whistle through the shutters, counting my breaths until exhaustion finally claimed me.
When the bell tolled in the pre-dawn darkness, I was already awake, having slept fitfully on the hard mattress. I followed the sound through stone corridors lit by occasional torches, joining a river of similarly robed figures moving in companionable silence.
The dining hall transformed in the morning into something almost cathedral-like. Long tables filled with students of various ages, from boys who might have been ten summers to young men approaching twenty. I found it odd that the students organized themselves not by age, but by the colors adorning their wrappings.
Brown dominated, earthen tones ranging from rich soil to burnt umber. These students sat together, moved together, even seemed to speak with the same grounded rhythm. Scattered among them were those with wrappings of other hues: the blues of deep water and summer sky, the grey of morning mist and storm clouds, the reds and oranges of embers. And then there was me, undyed as a newborn lamb, marked with no color.
The meal was simple: porridge, bread, water, but I noticed how even the act of eating carried ritual here. No one began until all were served. Movements were deliberate, mindful. When a student with blue wrappings accidentally knocked over his cup, those nearest moved to help with unspoken coordination.
It was after this first meal, as we dispersed to morning duties, that I realized I was being watched. Three boys, all wearing earth-brown wrappings, had been studying me throughout breakfast with expressions that suggested I was something scraped from a boot sole.
“Lost, lordling?” The speaker was around sixteen, with the kind of muscle that came from real labor. Despite his fresh brown wrappings marking him as new as myself, he carried himself with the confidence of someone who knew exactly where he belonged.
I tried for neutrality. “Just learning my way.”
“Learning.” He made the word sound like profanity. “As if gold could buy understanding.” He stepped closer, and I noticed his hands bore deep calluses. “I’ve been preparing for this monastery since I could hold a hammer. Seven years of training with my uncle, learning the forms, studying the teachings. Then you arrive on your mother’s word, soft as new cheese, and they give you the same chance I fought for my whole life?”
“We know what you are, deArthis. Even stripped of finery, a peacock’s still a peacock.”
The accusation stung more for its partial truth. I had Corrin’s emergency fund hidden in my straw mattress. I’d not surrendered it alongside my traveling satchel last night. I arrived here on my mother’s connections, not my own merit. I bore a name that opened doors others had to break down.
“I’m here to learn,” I said, hating how weak it sounded.
“Learn?” Another boy laughed, this one younger but no less hostile. “You’ll last a week. Maybe two. First time your soft hands blister, first time your belly knows real hunger, you’ll run home to mother.”
“Stand down, Tomás.”
The voice carried quiet authority. A figure emerged from the shadows of a doorway: an older student nearing twenty, with wrappings of deep brown that looked almost black. Unlike the fidgeting of younger students, he moved with the loose tension I associated with advanced martial training.
“This doesn’t concern you, Fiske,” Tomás protested, but he stepped back nonetheless.
“Everything here concerns all of us,” Fiske replied, though his eyes never left mine. “Including how we welcome newcomers.” He studied me with an intensity that felt like being weighed on particularly accurate scales. “You’re the dancer.”
It wasn’t a question. Word had traveled even to this remote place.
“I studied truth dancing, yes.”
Something shifted in his expression: not quite approval, but a lessening of hostility. “Then you understand discipline, at least. But understand this, lordling: here, your name means nothing. Your coin means nothing. The mountain judges by different measures.”
He turned to the others. “Leave him be. If he’s chaff, the wind will blow him away soon enough. If not...” He held his hand flat before him, palm down, tilting it slowly side to side like a merchant’s scale that hadn’t yet settled. The gesture somehow encompassed both threat and possibility.
As I watched the three depart, Fiske paused at my side. “Word of advice: volunteer for kitchen duty this week. Gregorin needs young backs, and nothing teaches humility like scrubbing pots.”
“Also,” he added, almost as an afterthought, extending two fingers toward my poorly wrapped hands, “you’re binding those wrong. You’ll have them undone within an hour of real work.”
That evening, after a day of fumbling through tasks I didn’t understand, I found an unexpected kindness. A boy maybe a year younger than myself, wearing wrappings of soft grey, appeared at my door. His brown hair fell in shaggy waves across bright blue eyes that sparkled with barely contained mirth.
“I’m Pait,” he said with an easy grin, holding up his own wrapped hands. “Fiske mentioned you might need help with these.”
“Please.”
He squeezed through the door and settled cross-legged on my floor. “Watch,” he said simply, unwinding his own hand wraps with the sure movements of long habit. “The trick is the anchor. You start here, at the wrist, loop twice for stability...”
His hands moved slowly enough for me to track, creating perfect spirals that wouldn’t slip or bind too tightly. When he finished, he gestured for me to try. Three times I failed before finally achieving something resembling his example.
“Better,” he said, beginning on the foot wraps. “These are easier, but the principle’s the same. Anchor, spiral, lock. The wrappings tell our story, you know. Red for Fire and Justice. Blue for Water and Temperance. Brown for Earth and Fortitude. Grey for Air and Prudence.” He smiled, touching his own grey bindings. “And undyed for those who haven’t found their place yet.”
“When do we... find our place?”
“Depends. This council was summoned to meet on the first new moon after fall harvest. Masters from local schools will gather here at Mountain Monastery to evaluate the new students. Brother Abram said it will be about three weeks from now.”
Three weeks. In my mind, I calculated: thirty days. Plenty of time to prepare, to acclimate, to prove myself worthy.
I took Fiske’s advice about the kitchens.
The kitchen occupied the monastery’s lowest level, carved directly into the mountain’s bones. Heat from massive ovens made the air thick and close, a stark contrast to the crisp mountain atmosphere above. Gregorin, the head cook, was a man who seemed constructed entirely of skepticism and sweat.
“Another undyed,” he grunted when I presented myself. “Wonderful. I suppose you’ve never held a scrub brush? Never hauled water?”
“I can learn.”
He studied me with eyes that had seen decades of students make similar claims. “We’ll see. Start with those.” He gestured toward a mountain of pots that seemed to have been accumulating since the monastery’s founding. “Water’s in the barrels. Soap’s precious—use it sparingly. Sand works just as well for the worst of it.”
The work was brutal. My hands quickly developed blisters that burst and reformed. The rough soap burned. The pots seemed to multiply when I wasn’t looking. Other workers came and went: all wearing colored wrappings, all moving with the easy efficiency of long practice, all carefully avoiding me as if I might be contagious.
Since this is my story, I get to skip the boring parts, but suffice it to say that by the end of my second week in the kitchens, I developed what I thought was a reasonable rhythm. I learned which pots required sand, which responded to patience and hot water, and which needed both in generous quantities. My hand wraps stayed secure now, and I discovered that working in the humid heat actually eased some of the altitude’s harshness on my lungs.
“I think I’m getting the hang of it,” I said to Sebastian as we worked side by side, scraping burnt porridge from a particularly stubborn cauldron. “Though I’m a bit nervous about meeting the council in another ten.”
Sebastian was older than I, standing half a head taller with the kind of steady presence that made others naturally gravitate toward him. His hair caught the kitchen’s lamp light like burnished copper, the red strands damp with steam and curling slightly at his temples where freckles dusted pale skin. His red-wrapped hands moved quickly, and he possessed that rare quality of making hard work feel less burdensome through quiet companionship. Where others in the kitchens seemed to toil in grim determination, Sebastian somehow made scrubbing pots feel like brotherhood.
He paused in his scrubbing, giving me the kind of look usually reserved for someone who had just claimed the sky was green. “Another ten?”
“Yeah, Pait said about three weeks from my arrival,” I explained. “It’s been twenty days now, so—”
“Elenden,” Sebastian interrupted gently, “how exactly are you counting?”
A cold feeling settled in my stomach. “Tens? Imperial weeks?”
The laughter that erupted from nearby workers wasn’t cruel, only amused at my innocent ignorance. Even Gregorin, gruff as a mountain boulder, cracked what might have been a smile.
“The old ways mark seven days to a week,” Sebastian continued, gentle despite the amusement in his voice. “The empire prefers tens for their efficiency. Here, we follow the ancient pattern. Sun-day, Moon-day, and so forth through the seven.”
I felt the blood drain from my face as the arithmetic rearranged itself in my mind. Twenty days. But if they counted by sevens...
“The new moon rises tomorrow night,” one of the older kitchen workers added, not unkindly. “Wisdom Council convenes the following dawn.”
Two days. Two days.
“What happens at the evaluation?” I asked, turning back to Sebastian with something approaching panic.
He set down his scrub brush, studying my face with sympathy. “The masters observe. They ask questions, sometimes. Look for signs of affinity.” He paused, and when he continued, his voice carried a hint of mystery. “Some say they can see into your very nature, discern which element calls to your spirit. Others claim it’s more practical: they watch how you move, how you speak, where your natural inclinations lead.”
“Nah. They just assign you to whatever school needs more dishwashers,” the same old kitchen worker joked. Several laughed.
The cauldron before me seemed to blur as I tried to process this. Two days to prove myself worthy of... what? I realized I didn’t even know what failure meant here. Would they send me home? Transfer me to some lesser institution? The thought of facing my father’s disappointment, of explaining how I had been found wanting by mountain monks, made my chest tight with dread. I’d been washing dishes—what exactly did that demonstrate of my ‘affinity’ to this Wisdom Council?
“Some never choose at all,” another voice added. I looked up to see one of the brown-wrapped students from my first morning, though his expression now held curiosity rather than hostility. “They stay undyed, work in the kitchens and gardens, tend the practical needs. Nothing wrong with it, but—”
He didn’t finish, but I understood. Not failure, exactly, but not the destiny my family had spent considerable resources to secure.
The following day brought one of the busiest kitchen schedules I had yet experienced. Preparations for the Wisdom Council meant feeding not only the regular population but also the visiting masters, guests, and transfers from other schools. Gregorin’s usual gruffness grew pointed as he barked orders and delegated tasks like a battlefield commander.
I threw myself into the work with desperate energy, as if somehow scrubbing harder, moving faster, being more useful might somehow compensate for my complete lack of preparation. By midday, it became clear that Sebastian was struggling. His usual steady presence had given way to sluggish movements and periodic fits of coughing.
“You should rest,” I told him as we hauled water from the deep wells. “You look terrible.”
“Can’t,” he managed between breaths. “Too much to do.”
But his hands shook as he lifted the buckets, and Gregorin finally noticed what I had been watching with growing concern.
“Infirmary,” Gregorin commanded, pointing Sebastian toward the door. “Now. We can’t have you collapsing into the soup.”
That left me working alone for the remainder of the day, handling tasks that had been designed for pairs. By evening, my shoulders ached from hauling water, my back protested from bending over countless pots, and my hands had reopened blisters I thought had finally healed.
As the last dishes were cleaned and stored, I made my way through the stone corridors to Sebastian’s quarters. I found him propped against his pillow, face flushed with fever but eyes alert.
“How are you feeling?” I asked from the doorway.
“Like I’ve been trampled by a particularly vindictive horse.” His voice was hoarse, but he managed a weak smile. “How did the rest of the day go?”
“We managed. Gregorin only threatened to throw someone in the soup pot twice, which I’m told is a good day.” I stepped into the small room. “Do you need anything?”
He shook his head, then winced at the movement. “Just rest...” He looked at me with something that might have been concern. “Tomorrow’s the council. You ready?”
I almost laughed at the absurdity of the question. I’d spent the past two tens—three weeks, I corrected myself—washing dishes instead of learning whatever it is masters look for in students. “Probably not.” I smiled. “I guess we’ll see.”
That evening, I lay on my narrow bed, staring at the ceiling while my body ached from the day’s labor. Somewhere in that darkness, the new moon was rising invisible against the sky. I fell asleep too exhausted to worry.
The knock came while stars still ruled the sky, sharp and decisive against my door. I jerked awake, disoriented by the lack of light and the ache in my shoulders from yesterday’s labor.
“Council preparations; you’re first up today,” a voice called through the wood. “Dress and report to the dining hall. You’ll break fast early.”
My hands fumbled with the wrappings in the darkness, muscle memory finally taking over where sight failed. By the time I made my way through the stone corridors, a faint grey light was beginning to seep through the eastern windows. The dining hall stood nearly empty, its usual bustle reduced to the quiet movements of kitchen staff preparing for the day ahead.
Gregorin himself emerged from the kitchens, carrying a simple wooden bowl and cup. The sight of him serving rather than commanding seemed to violate some fundamental law of nature.
“Sit,” he grunted, setting the dishes before me with surprising gentleness. “Simple fare. Better for the nerves.”
The bowl held plain porridge, the cup fresh water. As I ate, Gregorin lingered, his weathered face unreadable.
“Council chambers are in the north tower,” he said finally. “Through the meditation gardens, up the winding stair. Can’t miss it—the doors alone are worth the climb.” He paused, studying me with eyes that had seen decades of students pass through his kitchens. “Whatever happens, I’ve appreciated your help.”
His simple words stayed with me as I navigated the unfamiliar route. The meditation gardens were silver with dew, their carefully tended beds exhaling the scent of herbs into the morning air. The stairway beyond wound upward in a spiral that seemed designed to induce contemplation—or vertigo. By the time I reached the landing, my breath came short and my legs trembled slightly from the climb.
But Gregorin had been right about the doors.
They stood twice my height, carved from what must have been a single massive tree, though no tree I knew could have provided such breadth. The surface held five interlocking circles, each containing a symbol worked in different materials whose names I was yet to learn. Fire’s tetrahedron gleamed in beaten copper that caught the morning light. Earth’s cube was carved deep into the wood itself, its lines filled with some dark stone that might have been obsidian. Water’s icosahedron flowed in silver that seemed almost liquid in its polish. Air’s octahedron was outlined in something like glass—so fine it looked like captured mist.
And at the top a fifth symbol: a dodecahedron worked in... I couldn’t tell. The material seemed to shift as I looked at it, sometimes appearing as white as fresh snow, sometimes transparent as glass, sometimes reflecting back the pink of my own wondering face.
Two students flanked the doors, both wearing the deep brown of Earth advancement. They acknowledged my presence with silent nods but offered no conversation. I lowered myself against the opposite stone wall to wait, trying to calm the flutter in my chest by studying the intricate carvings. That fifth element—I didn’t even know what it was supposed to be.
When the doors finally swung open, they moved in perfect silence despite their obvious weight. The chamber beyond was even more intimidating. Circular, with windows cut high in the walls that caught and focused the morning light into pure white beams. The floor was polished stone that seemed to continue the spiral of the stairway, drawing the eye inevitably toward the center where five chairs were arranged in a pentagon that matched markings on the floor. Four were occupied. The fifth sat empty, its vacancy somehow more present than an occupant might have been.
“Elenden deArthis,” a woman’s voice rang out, clear as a bell and twice as commanding. “Enter and stand at center.”
I walked forward, each footstep echoing in the curved space, until I stood at the precise center of the pentagon. There was no chair for me, no indication of where I should direct my attention, so I remained standing and tried to take in all four masters simultaneously; suddenly I was grateful there wasn’t a fifth, as it would be even harder to direct my attention.
The woman who had spoken sat in fully-dyed grey robes of Air, her silver hair braided in a complex pattern that crowned her head. Her face bore the kind of lines that came from both laughter and deep thought, and her eyes were the pale grey-blue of winter sky. She studied me like someone listening to music just beyond the range of normal hearing.
“I am Senna,” she said, her voice carrying that same bell-like clarity. “Master of Air, student of Prudence, keeper of the Bow. We speak first because the breath came before all else here.” She gestured to her left. “Continue the circle.”
The man beside her radiated warmth despite the morning chill. His robes were the deep red of banked coals, his dark skin gleaming with health and vitality. Where Senna sat with perfect stillness, he seemed to vibrate with barely contained energy. His eyes, when they found mine, were the bronze color of flame heart.
“Roman,” he said, though the name came clipped, almost dismissive. “Fire and Justice. The sword is ours to wield.” His gaze swept over me once, seemed to find me wanting, and moved on. “Next.”
The woman in blue possessed the kind of beauty that made you think of deep pools and hidden currents. Her robes seemed to flow like water even while sitting still, and her hands moved in subtle gestures as she spoke, as if conducting invisible tides.
“I am Kells,” she said, her voice carrying the rhythm of waves on shingles. “Water’s daughter, Temperance’s friend. The staff and I have danced together for longer than you’ve drawn breath.” She smiled, and there was mischief in it. “Welcome to council, young one.”
The last occupied chair held a surprise that made my carefully maintained composure crack. The man sitting there, wearing robes of earthen brown so dark they were nearly black, was the old kitchen worker who had joked about dishwashers. His weathered face split into a grin at my recognition.
“Kairn,” he said, clearly enjoying my shock. “Earth and Fortitude, and yes, I’ve been watching you scrub pots.” He hefted a war hammer that had been leaning against his chair, its head scarred with long use. “This old friend and I have been together a long time. Now then, Senna, shall we proceed with the usual inquisition, or should I just tell them what I’ve already learned?”
“Protocol exists for a reason,” Senna replied, though a smile could be heard in her response. “Elenden, speak your name and tell us why you are here.”
I swallowed, finding my voice. “I am Elenden deArthis, third son of Aaron deArthis of the Northern Provinces. I come seeking... wisdom. Truth. Understanding of the virtues that—”
Kairn reached beneath the table and produced something that made my stomach drop. A leather pouch, heavy with coin. Corrin’s emergency fund.
“We found this tucked in your mattress,” he said conversationally, hefting the bag so the coins clinked. “Not a great hiding place when your chamber is cleaned by someone with Earth sense.” He set the pouch on the table with deliberate care. “Brings up interesting questions about a noble boy who comes seeking virtue but keeps gold hidden like a thief.”
Heat rose in my cheeks. “My brother gave it to me. For emergencies. I... I wasn’t sure if I should surrender it with my other possessions.”
“Justice demands truth, lordling,” Roman interrupted sharply, his golden eyes flashing. “You stand before us speaking of virtue while concealing wealth you know violates the customs.”
“Oh, leave the boy be,” Kells interjected, leaning forward with interest. “This wasn’t theft; he was only keeping what was his own. I can smell the shame on him from here. At worst, you could say cowardice, and fear makes fools of us all.”
“Prudence would have been asking,” Senna observed, though her tone held more curiosity than condemnation. “Honest uncertainty paired with dishonest action. Interesting.”
I stood awkwardly at the center, uncertain whether my responses to their disagreement were still part of the evaluation.
“We need to discuss.” Senna announced, as if reading my confusion. “Wait outside. We’ll call you back when we’re ready.”
I retreated to the antechamber, where the two Earth students regarded me with what might have been sympathy. The next quarter hour felt like days. Through the heavy doors, I could hear the low murmur of conversation, occasionally punctuated by laughter or sharp disagreement. Roman’s voice rose once, saying something about “corruption” and “noble presumption,” while Kells’s musical tones seemed to argue for patience.
When the doors opened again, the masters’ expressions had settled into something more formal.
“The synthesis is divided,” Senna announced without preamble. “Fire sees no potential, only privilege. Earth appreciates your work ethic but questions your honesty. Water senses depths but wonders if they’re muddy. Air hears too many echoes to distinguish the true voice.” She paused, studying me with those pale eyes. “Tell us, Elenden: what do you know of truth dancing?”
The question caught me off guard. “I... I studied for nearly five years. Performed throughout the Northern Provinces. It’s how I came to be here.”
“Would you share with us what you know? Show us.” Kells said simply.
“Here? Now?” I looked around the chamber, suddenly aware of how different this was from any stage I’d performed on in the past year. No music, no prepared sequence, just four masters waiting to see... what?
“The floor is yours,” Kairn said, not unkindly. “Dance the Truth.”
I closed my eyes, trying to find that still center Whinn had taught me to seek. The stone floor was cold beneath my wrapped feet, the morning light sharp through the high windows. I thought of water, of earth, of all the elements I’d studied. But what came instead was memory: that moment at the Harvest Festival when death whistled past my ear and that voice spoke peace into chaos.
I began with “Stone in the Sun,” feeling my way into the form. But as I moved, I found myself listening: not just to my own body, but to the room itself. Senna’s breathing came in measured intervals, like wind through a precise instrument. Roman radiated heat I could feel three paces away, his presence like a forge at my back. Kells’s attention flowed around me, testing. And Kairn... Kairn was the mountain itself, solid and patient and immovable.
I let their presence guide my movement, each gesture a conversation with the element they embodied. For Senna, I became breath rising, ever-reaching. For Roman, I was the candle flame that dances but never breaks. For Kells, I flowed like—
Distracting shock exploded from my forehead. My eyes flew open. My carefully maintained form shattered as I stumbled, catching myself on hands and knees. Something clattered across the stone: a four-sided die carved from what looked like volcanic glass, still spinning from the force of its impact.
“Nice shot, Roman,” a new voice said from behind me, warm with genuine appreciation. “Though perhaps a bit too much heat on it?”
I turned, still dazed, to see a figure standing in the doorway I was certain had been closed. He wore robes of undyed wool that seemed to reflect more light than they should, and his face... I couldn’t quite focus on his features. Not because they were unclear, but because looking at him was like trying to see too much at once: His hair was spectacularly disheveled, brown shot through with silver. He had a crooked nose, unkempt eyebrows, laugh lines carved so deep they seemed architectural, eyes of bright blue, and a mouth that couldn’t quite decide whether it was smiling or about to share the world’s saddest secret.
“You’re late,” Senna observed, though her tone held affection rather than criticism.
“Delayed,” the newcomer agreed, moving into the room with untroubled ease, as if he belonged everywhere and nowhere at once. “Found some darkness creeping up the mountain passes. Had to have a conversation about boundaries.” He reached the empty fifth chair and alighted with casual disregard for ceremony. “That and those blasted stairs. So this is young Elenden! How wonderful.”
Roman sighed with obvious reluctance, “May I present Master Limerick, though he has other names. He speaks for the Fifth.”
“Spirit,” Limerick said simply. “Or Aether, if you prefer. Love and the dodecahedron’s keeper, though it’s more accurate to say it keeps me.” His attention hadn’t left my face, and I felt seen in a way that was both comforting and terrifying. “And I’ll be claiming this one, if there’s no objection.”
“The lad’s body clearly listens,” Roman began, “but not yet his mind, and certainly not in...” here he made a hand gesture; right hand close-fisted brought to his chest, almost like he was stabbing himself right below his rib cage.
“True.” Limerick pointed an index finger at Roman and laughed—the sound like wind chimes in a gentle breeze. “Turns out he’s not a master yet. But did you not feel how he listened to each of you? How he tried to dance not his own truth but yours? That’s not Water’s adaptability or Air’s perception. That’s something else entirely.” He finally looked away from me to address the others. “Though I agree he needs seasoning. A season with each of you, I think.”
“I won’t have him at Fire until—” Roman started.
“Until he’s visited everyone else first—yes, you’re wonderfully predictable.” Limerick waved a hand and started ticking off his fingers as he said: “winter with Earth, spring with Water, summer with Air, autumn with me, and then next winter with Fire. Acceptable?”
The four masters exchanged glances, entire conversations passing in looks and subtle gestures.
“Acceptable,” Kairn said finally. “He’s proven he can work. Let’s see if he can learn.”
Limerick clapped his hands with delight. “Delightful! Oh, this will be such fun. Well, not fun exactly, quite difficult, actually.” He hopped out of his chair and moved toward me, producing something from his robes. “Here, these are for you!”
I reached out instinctively, catching a bundle of cloth. Wrappings, I realized, undyed, the same as I was already wearing.
He was already moving toward the door. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really must deal with the Dark before he decides to get creative and waylay someone unprepared.”
“Master Limerick.” Senna’s voice wasn’t loud, but it demanded attention. “Dark bold enough to work in daylight warrants caution. Take backup.”
Limerick pointed two fingers at Senna. “Prudent...” He turned to Kairn. “Might I borrow two of your third-years?”
Kairn’s hand moved in a gesture of assent.
“Excellent!” Limerick was already moving again. He paused at the threshold, looking back at me. “Oh, and Elenden? Listen well. See you in autumn, Spirit willing.”
Then he was gone, leaving only the faint scent of summer earth after an afternoon rainstorm and four very different expressions on the masters’ faces.
“Well,” Kells said finally, amusement clear in her voice. “That was more excitement in our first evaluation than we are likely to get the rest of the day.”
“Particularly now that Limerick’s gone...” Roman muttered, sounding forlorn.
“The boy’s schedule,” Senna said, ever practical. “He’ll need to prepare for Earth immersion. Kairn, I trust you can manage?”
The Earth master grinned. “Oh, we’ll manage. Report to the kitchen after evening meal, boy. If you’re going to study Fortitude, might as well start where you’re comfortable. We’ll work our way up to the hard stuff. Until then, the day is yours.”
As I left the chamber, undyed wrappings clutched in my hands and pin-prick bruise forming on my head, I felt the world shifting around me like those loose stones on the mountainside. Five elements. Five virtues. Five schools. And somehow, impossibly, I was meant to learn them all.
The Earth acolytes at the door noticed the undyed bindings in my hands and nodded with something that might have been pity as I passed.