Standing back, he growled to himself, chewing over the conundrum. He must be on the right track. Perhaps there was a better way to empower the pipes. Where was the weak link in his method? Skirting around the pool's edge had been ungainly. Perhaps, if he lay in the pool's waters and stretched out, he could power four pipes with each of his hands and feet, then spin himself around and, as accurately as possible, and empower the remaining four?

He shook his head as he entered the pool. It seemed like a clumsy method for powering a very complex system of pipes. Was that really the answer which Oyaltun had intended? Stopping at the pool's edge with his feet in the water, he reconsidered. Indeed, he had been heating the water beneath each pipe as though they were separated by stone. But all the pool was one body of water. What if he could create a current of some sort–a swirl of heat which turned in a circle, as the cogs upon the wall–its heat swirling from one pipe to the next without the need for a count?

Slipping into the pool, he spread his limbs out, floating atop its surface. Closing his eyes, he let his mind wander away from his body and towards the source of his power. He sensed a vast lake beneath him and drew upon its power, filling his limbs. Clenching his fists and curling his toes, he grasped at the energy like heavy weights, lifting its fires into him. All around, the water began to boil, but then Skippii remembered his task. Pure strength of magia would not cut it–the steam vents would only work against themselves, and the cogs would not move.

Waving his arms, he attempted to rotate his body. But doing so was clumsy, and he soon drifted to the pool's edge, unable to keep at balance in its centre. If he could not rotate his body, then perhaps he could remain still and turn the energy within. The conceptualisation clicked gratifyingly in his mind. That was it. It had to be.

Lying still, he breathed steadily, drawing energy from the pool's depths. Always, he had held it within his core–the conduit of his power. But that now seemed to him like damming the lakes–forcefully directing his power by constraining it. But now, he set the fires free and felt them wash over him. If he had tried to cast an evocation then, the magia might flee his grasp. But that was not his goal. He sweltered with heat, pouring it over himself, feeling his whole body come alight. The current rose from the base of his spine into his skull, splashing back on itself at his crown, running down his neck and shoulders and through his arms to his fingertips. Fire tingled in his veins like grooves of many streams, flowing into the rushing lakes of his arteries, burning through his limbs.

He kept the flow steady, building it as one balances logs atop a conflagration. The water about his chest began to boil. But he resisted the urge to send his magia after it, allowing instead for it to swell inside him, stirring the pot as a cook attends the stew.

His blood boiled, as it had before, but with no movement or evocation to release it, the pain seared him. The heat festered, almost too painful to contain. Without realising, he had clenched his teeth and made fists as the pressure built. Breathing deeper still, he relaxed his muscles and pumped the bellows. He sensed the energy begin to swirl inside him, rushing out to his limbs, then back in on itself, like waves in an aqueduct. And there was a rhythm to the waves, frantic at first, but as he matched his breathing to its sway, they steadied. Like the sea's rough waters easing with a storm's passing, so too did his energy begin to flow in tandem, swirling in his heart and lungs, forming currents throughout his body.

Relaxing into the sensation, Skippii opened up to the source, which Eirene had named Cor. His core glowed softly, yet deeply, like the sun rising on his power. It expanded within him–the red ruby, orange swirls and golden halo–growing to encompass his whole body as never before. Energy poured into him, but rather than burst into open flames, it smouldered, growing brighter with each breath. He was the sword thrust into coals, radiant with heat. With the smallest of thoughts, and most gentle of touches, he tipped the current. Turbulence spat in his veins as the magia adapted to his will and heat spilled from him, boiling the water about him. But he did not release it to the pool, nor clench and control it. Rather, he let it flow–let it burn him–aligning it with a single momentum.

Like a ball on a chain, he felt the tides within him spin, and that of the pool respond. The light of his core was the whirlpool of a riptide. He envisioned the fires of each layer merging and expanding–a unity of power. He opened his eyes to see the brass pipes spinning above his head. The pool had adopted the pull of his energy, and a swirl of tremendous heat rose from its surface. Trails of steam, like the thread of an engineer's spring, spiraled into the pipe's vents, passing between them seamlessly.

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Skippii shut his eyes again not to be distracted, and channeled his magia in a constant rhythm. Above, he heard the clinking of cogs as steam was sent to the mechanism. Each wheel must have aligned, and were turning unperturbed by their predecessor. Greater, he summoned his magia, and faster, the current swirled, until finally, marble slid across stone. The great doors ground open before him.

Slowly, one breath at a time, he reduced the flow, sensing his heat dissipate into the boiling pool. He knew too well the risks of expelling too much energy at once–the last time he had done so was to save Tenoris' and his life from the Ürkün trapped in a gorge, and it had taken him more than a day to recover. He could not risk such brashness now, no matter how eager he was to rise and approach the doorway.

Gradually, his fires ebbed and the waters returned to a simmer. Skippii remained floating on his back, staring at the dark ceiling. All was silent again, except his heartbeat, which pattered in his chest. Dimly, he could sense the currents of heat as they remained in his veins, flowing through the pathways of his body. And looking inward, he was shocked to see that his core too had remained expanded. He envisioned, not a lone orb, but an entire heat-body of power. What was his core was now sweltering in every muscle-fibre of his body, radiating in his bones.

It was like cracking an egg, and for a moment, he panicked. But the layers of his power glowed in tandem. The halo of golden light shone beneath his skin, pooling in his head; the orange smoke swirled in his veins, and the ruby centre shone within his skeleton. He sighed with relief. It was still his, only changed.

Rising from the pool, he flexed his shoulders and rubbed his wrists. His tunic hung from him limply, stretched by the heat, its fibres coming loose. But his body was intact. Veins bulged over his body like engorged worms, swollen from the effort of summoning his magia, and the intense heat of the pool. How much fire could he withstand, he wondered?

Collecting his spear and shield, he approached the marble doorway. Two slabs had opened wide enough to admit a man. Beyond was darkness.

Lighting his hand was a mere thought; much residue magia remained in his limbs. He left behind the misty pool, striving into the cave beyond, descending a flight of stairs into the bowls of the earth. After some time, alone in the dark, he came upon an enormous cavern. Inscribed in the rock above the doorway, and glowing as before, were the words: 'Trial of Rupture'.

Ahead, a flight of stairs continued downwards as the floor fell away either side, revealing pillars of stone shaped like cones. Similar such pillars hung from the roof, black at their bases, but red at their tips. The pillars suspended above and below appeared like the blood-tipped teeth of a gigantic, shapeless beast. At a distance, they glowed as a predator's keen eyes.

A fleck of light fell from the ceiling, and a minute tapping sound echoed about the walls. Their red tips were alive–not like solid gems–but liquid, dripping and forming the spears below. A sense of foreboding tailed Skippii as he ventured out onto the steps. They were but four-feet in width. One misfooting here, and he would break a limb on the fall. That was, if he avoided being pierced by one of the spear-headed pillars. Using his spear as a staff, he descended the crude stones. His eyes longed to wander on the cavern above–marvel at its monstrosity–but he drew them back to his feet, making sure of his step.

In the distant depths, something clattered. The sound was minute at first, but it drummed louder with each echo until, reaching Skippii's ears, it thrummed and shook the walls. Gripping his shield tighter, he quickened his pace, eager to get off the stairs and onto the cavern's floor where his footing would be surer. Though, even there, it appeared treacherous, as pillars and grooves were formed by the liquid fire dripping from above. There was no flat, easy ground, only frozen waves.

Behind him, the stone creaked. His head shot around to face the entryway, brightening the light in his fists to illuminate the source of intrusion. There, pressed against the roof of the staircase was a granite man, clothed in black marble armour. The rivets between his muscles shone yellow with fire, and flames burned in his eyes. Opening his mouth, the fire poured out, forming a bright beard and mane. Skippii recognised this visage: the temple guardians who were poised at its entrance, and above, at the precipice of his first trial.

The statue stumbled lumberously through the entryway. With a flicker of fear, he saw another approaching behind it. Its helmet-shaped head scraped against the roof, chiselling free a chunk of stone which clattered into the chasm below. They were like no other enemy he had ever faced, but another of boyhood tales. Golems: creatures of stone and fire, as unbreakable as the rock itself.

There was another clatter from behind. Far off in the cavern were more footsteps on a rising echo. The two above descended towards him, rattling the steps like a rickety bridge of rope. A foolish hope occurred to him–perhaps they were allies. Eirene had spoken of guardians of the temple. These must be them. But this trial was named Rupture. He could tell by their glowing heat that they were readying to fight. He would be a fool to take them lightly.

Shifting his foot backwards, he braced himself, raising his shield and spear to their approach. With a breath, he set his heart in stone. This was it–the treachery Eirene spoke of. This was his battle.

"Victory or death," he said, and brought his body to light.

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