As the golem charged, it passed over the glowing ground where his Flashfire Traps were laid. They erupted in a rush of smoke and cinder. In an instant, the huge construct was obscured, buried deep in a billowing cloud. Skippii dashed to the left–circumventing its shield-side–channeling magia into his fist. His knuckles glowed white with energy as he stalked through the edges of the smoke. He could feel heavy vibrations through his feet as the golem staggered around, confused. One such vibration was louder than the rest and suddenly its form appeared from obscurity. He dashed towards it, eyes keen, his senses unirritated by the turmoil.

Suddenly, there was a whoosh as a huge black mallet swung towards his head. He ducked at the last moment, and it sailed above his head. Thick smoke wisped and curled after the mallet's trail, clearing the air enough for two shadowy eyes to glare down upon him. Skippii lunged forward and struck the construct at the joint of its hips. The power of his Burning Fist turned his hands into hammers themselves, but this was no beast of flesh. Fire and blunt force alone would not harm it. The golem shifted backwards under the blow, but raised its mallet in response.

Channeling the energy of the earth, Skippii ducked and pounded the ground with his fist, evoking a Seismic Quake. The earth split like smashed pottery. Rock and debris were flung into the air as the ground shook violently. Rolling away, shield over his head, he came to a stop, keen to assess the strength of his assault.

The golem's shield was planted in the ground for stability. Its stance was wide and it rocked, but nothing else was amiss. Within moments, it had risen up and was upon him again.

He leapt away as the golem swung its mallet, smashing through spires like a scythe felling wheat. Chunks of rocks battered Skippii's shield and legs as he fled before it. Not for the first time, he regretted leaving his armour behind. It would have been expensive to replace, but so was his life. Two of his best attacks had done nothing to harm it. He had barely even hindered it. He needed a weapon. He needed something new.

His foe glowed in the dark–the seams of its limbs wreathed with a concealed flame which flickered as it moved, like the embers of a charred log dancing in the wind. Smoke emanated from its mouth, and the fires of its chin sprouted downwards over its chest, their red tips flicking upwards, only at the last moment obeying the laws of nature.

He began to draw a Flashfire Trap from the ground, when an idea struck him. If he could strike the golem directly with a Seismic Quake, perhaps it would split like the stone. Wasn't it made of the same stuff?

But the time for strategising was at an end. The golem charged–lumbering, but not overcommitting, as the others had. It strode in a wide girth, adjusting as Skippii dashed around its left side, bringing its mallet in an arch above its head. He danced backwards, empowered by the athleticism of Boiling Blood, but for each of the golem's strides it took four of his to keep at a distance. Where he was forced to navigate the uneven ground, the golem smashed a path through.

The golem swung. Chunks of stone rattled his shield as he raised it against the debris of a smashed spire. But upon lowering it, he saw a great form above him. The golem had deceived him. Outpaced him. All of Skippii's magia was pumped into his arms and chest as he braced them against his shield and suffered the hammer-blow. There was a flash of sparks, and the earth fell away beneath him. He sailed through the air and crashed against a spire. Spinning, he skidded across the floor, but righted himself without pause.

His heart raced. He panted like a hound, drawing magia from the earth, replenishing his reserves, conscious not to grasp it, but to circulate it around his body. Much of his energy had been expelled with the impact of the golem's blow against his Blazing Armour. Recovering his shield, he shook with exhilaration as the ground trembled beneath him. The golem ploughed after him, each of its footsteps like a rockslide. He had to get closer. He could use a direct Seismic Quake to stun it, then he would reach into its mouth and siphon its flame. That was the only sure way to kill it.

As the golem swung its mallet, Skippii dashed backwards. Rhythmically, he retreated, avoiding its blows. All around him, spires split and crumbled to the black marble's impact, and the golem pressed on. He kept just out of its reach, taunting it, encouraging it to overreach. The golem swung once more–backhand, so that its chest was exposed after the fact. Landing on the balls of his feet, Skippii fell forward into a sprint.

His fist was ablaze with magia as he struck the golem in the centre of its mass. Three times, he pounded it, evoking a Seismic Quake. The rock shuddered, but his magia spluttered. It was unlike channeling into the earth–which he would stand upon and connect with. Still, the blows knocked it back, unbalancing it.

Something swung at the edge of his vision. Skippii ducked and skirted around its left side, body as light as an ember, footwork deft while his blood boiled. The seams of its limbs glowed in the dark, and he struck them indiscriminately, forming a wedge with his knuckles, as he'd once been taught by a Brenti man to break a windpipe. His fingers dug into the grooves, pounding the rock, causing its limbs to spasm and contract.

Striking the joint of its hip, his heart soared as the golem's leg gave way. But as it staggered, it pivoted and brought its shield around. Suddenly, a slab of stone obstructed him. He bound around it, but the golem dragged its heavy stone across the ground, keeping it between them. Angered, he prepared another Seismic Quake to attempt to smash it, when the glint of black struck fear in his heart.

Raising his shield, he reacted just in time to absorb the hammer-blow which came down upon him. Bending beneath the force, the magia circling his body rushed into his arms, bolstering his defence. But the golem's attack was precise and punishing, and his shield splintered in his hands.

Staggering backwards, he heaved a haggard breath, dizzily drawing on his power. But the golem was not so slow, and swung its mallet again. This time, all Skippii could do was flinch.

The earth shot away beneath him with an explosion of pain. He soared, limbs splayed, and clattered to the ground. Raising himself shakily, Skippii scrambled to get his bearings. His shield was cloven in two, its fragments scattered before him. Though his bones were not broken, each blow he absorbed rattled through his body like a struck gong. There was only so much he could take.

The golem limped towards him, dragging its injured leg behind it. Skippii had only his kuri at his waist, but wielding as much against a mobile golem felt as though chipping away at a boulder with a twig. His Burning Fists had served him better, used as a wedge, but still, not well enough. Nor had the Seismic Quake shattered its stone body as well as he had hoped.

Getting to his feet, he recovered a fragment of his shield, and held it against his forearm, when something in the willowcore stood out to him: a spot of discoloration–a patchwork in which was buried a small bronze coin. Not bronze, which was normal for patchwork.

"But ten times as lucky." Orsin's words fluttered through his mind.

Snapping the coin free, Skippii gripped it like the oar of a ship in stormy waters. He could use it. He felt so intuitively, and began to pour his magia into the coin before he even fully figured out the evocation it would perform.

The golem strode towards him, looming above him. Skippii retreated as his mind raced for a plan. The coin's shape submitted to his grip as he poured heat into it, forming a sphere of glowing metal. A terrible memory rose in his mind, but with it came a bittersweet salvation. He may no longer have his spear, but a stone, well-thrown, could topple even the most powerful of men.

He let the golem come close. Let it set its shield aside to raise its mallet and strike. But before the blow could land, he launched the super-heated pebble with all his strength. It shot through the air faster than he could track and struck the golem in the shadowy alcove between its eyes. There was a flash, and a splash of superheated metal.

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The golem staggered sideways and fell behind its shield, then clattered to the floor, but Skippii was upon it before the last of its stones settled. Climbing atop its form, he sought the fires of its face, and gripped its skull in both hands. As large as his torso, the construct's head recoiled, but he held on.

The stones shifted beneath him as it struggled to rise. Sucking in the air, Skippii drew into him the essence of its flame in just the same way that he summoned magia from the ground. The golem rattled as the fires of its limbs diminished, but did not go out. A massive gauntlet gripped Skippii beneath the armpit and pressed him away. Evoking a Seismic Quake, he kicked at the arm's joint. It shattered, weakened without the heat of its essence. Rocks collapsed and clattered as Skippii drew even more magia into himself, then rose, drawing a mighty breath.

Falling upon the golem, he slammed his elbow into its neck, evoking a mighty Seismic Quake. With a terrible screech, the construct split at once. The fires went out, and the shape of a guardian turned to lifeless rubble.

Debris tumbled around him, dying like a swift storm, until only the smallest of stones sifted into their place of rest. Skippii crouched, head in his arms, panting atop the construct's ruin. He listened to the cavern for the sounds of more enemies, but silence dominated, broken only by the occasional drip of liquid fire from the roof. Rising on shaking limbs, he attempted to walk but collapsed at the base of a nearby spire. His back to the rock, he panted and rested, relishing in the quiet of his victory.

As the exhilaration of battle wore off, pain rose to the surface. With each heartbeat, his knuckles swelled more bitterly, resenting the abuse he had submitted them to against the stone. Red and bruised, the skin was torn so badly that he could see the whites of bone beneath. A sharp pain twitched in his shield-arm where he had withstood the golem's mallet. His ribs ached, but when didn't they?

Laughing bitterly, he winced and glanced once more at his fallen enemy. He had been battered by many foes over the weeks and barely had time to recover; only the aid of his magia was keeping him alive. But it would not heal wounds alone, and the trials were not over yet.

"What more," he said into the emptiness. "What else do I have to prove?"

His ordinatio was already powerful enough to face the Ürkün hordes, but against the golem's of ancient temples, or the Coven of Kylin, or cyclops in the mountains and the heretic magus behind the city walls… he may be outmatched. Eirene had spoken of an advancement of his might, should he complete the temple's trials. Now more than ever, he felt the need for such a reinforcement.

He sighed and glanced back the way he had come. The stairs had partially collapsed, and would be unstable to climb, but he could manage it if he wanted to. Perhaps he could leave and rest, then return once he was stronger? But that was wishful thinking. A trial created by a God was likely not one easily cheated. He would have to go on, but for the time, he rested and revised his ordinatio.

Melting the coin into a projectile couldn't have gone better, and upon throwing it, the stone had shot like an arrow. He was lucky it had worked so well.

"Arrow…" he said to himself. How would Cliae word the new ability? "Burning… No, I've already used that. Blister Arrow."

That seemed right to him. Giving it a name seemed to solidify its use in his mind. He wondered what he could repeat it on. Any metal object? Perhaps stone too?

He had also drawn upon the guardian's fire magia, using it for his own.

"Siphon Flame," he said, rubbing his fingers, remembering the sensation. Curiously, he pressed his hand to the base of the spire which he leaned against and bent his head to its peak. Pulling on the source of his magia, he subtly directed it upwards, like casting a fishing line in that desired direction. The hot red tip of the spire dimmed as its energy was drawn down his shaft and into his palm. So, the ability would work on the natural fires of the temple. Would it work on the naked flame of a campfire? And at what distance could he learn to siphon a flame–by touching it, or from a few metres away? All queries he would bring up with Cliae, if he ever emerged from this dungeon alive.

Pushing himself to his feet, he set off into the chasm's depths from where the third golem had emerged. Darkness pressed around him, but he welcomed it. Shoulders shrunk with fatigue and limping on his injured knee, he passed from the Trial of Rupture, and into the third and final arena.

***

In the dark, with only his echoing footsteps for company, Skippii slipped into a trance. He walked for what felt like hours, following the only path, which narrowed and wound downwards into the bowels of the earth.

The air thickened as he descended, its mists wetting his parched tongue. It grew hot and his body turned red, masking the many bruises and marks across his skin. His knee had swollen where the golem gripped it; many cuts and bruises ached from where the shrapnel had struck him. The laceration which he had sustained from the Coven had split through its scab, and now trickled fresh blood over his chest and stomach. His knuckles stiffened as he marched until he couldn't move his right hand. Even with the bolstering of his magia, they were still the hands of a man, meant for fine tasks and labour, not an instrument of force to be smashed against stone.

Twice, he stopped and rested against the ground, massaging his swollen hand and leg, catching his breath, focussing on the energy amassing beneath his feet. The further he descended, the more potent he could feel it. Raw power permeated the walls–a living heat which drew into him with each breath. It saturated his flesh, stewed his bones, submerged his mind.

Skippii recognised the feeling. As with when he had walked aimlessly in the wilderness on the brink of unconsciousness, so too did his mind flee him now, and what remained was an acute sense of his body, and the body beyond. His heat-body–the pathways and hubs through which his magia travelled, like commerce through the streets of some great city, feeding and empowering its industry. Before long, all he witnessed was his core–pulsating with each breath and shimmering with his heart.

If he wanted, he could return to his mind… There, in a temple, rested a man: Skippii. With each hour that passed, he grew more and more unfamiliar with this man known as Skippii, as though to bear such a title was a frivolous thing. All he had to do was delve deeper into the catacombs towards the source. No life had touched these depths of the world perhaps since the beginning of time. No mortal, at least. He was a speck. A grain of sand trickling down a mountainside. What use had a grain of sand for a name, and who would ever remember it anyway?

Suddenly, he possessed the inkling to open his eyes. Before him was a pool of crystal waters, similar to that which had been in the Temple of Flux. Beside the pool was a simple bowl for washing. Steam was all around him, filling his lungs and ears, flavoured with a metallic tang. He knelt by the pool and dipped his hand beneath the surface. Though the steam was hot, the waters were refreshingly cool. Immediately, the swelling in his fingers subsided, and his flesh shed its irritated hue. However, as he retracted his hand from the waters, he felt his fingers strangely numb, as though bitten by the cold of a long night on watch. Focussing his magia, he tried to warm them, but the energy was reluctant to flow. Scowling, he sat amongst the mists and rubbed his hands together, flexing and channeling his magia until it broke through the numbness and trickled back into his hand.

"What foolish trick is this?" he muttered to himself.

The pool would take away his pains and strip him of his magia if he desired it. He could return to the surface, a man like any other. Cast aside the source of his power, do away with whatever peril the third trial held, and live a simple life. He could return to his mother in Auctoria, and look after her into her age, and abide while the legions campaigned to protect the world, and a new war was waged in the heavens. A war in which he supposedly had a part to play.

He saw it all play out before his eyes as though in a waking dream. But he shook himself, pulling away from the fantasy.

"It's far too late to bargain. You don't deceive me."

Grunting, he rose tiredly and circumvented the pool. Ahead was a third archway. Above the door in glowing letters read: 'Trial of Absolution.' He passed through it without hesitation.

The mists cleared, though their bitterness still clung to his throat, and the warmth remained in his lungs. He stood in a small circular room. All was black, He lit his fist for light, the magia burned dimly, like a candle on the brink of being snuffed out. Turning, he attempted to sight the archway, wondering if he had somehow made a wrong turn, or if there was something from the room before which he was supposed to bring. Perhaps there were other doors to choose from?

The archway was gone. In disbelief, Skippii spun around, looking upwards and down. The ceiling was beyond his vision, or… was it so close, and yet too dark to see? Reaching his hand up, he jumped, then bent to touch the floor beneath him. Nothing. He could touch nothing, see nothing, hear nothing. He screamed, but no sound came forth, and no sensation vibrated in his chest. Sheer panic flooded his veins as what could only be the final veil of death closed upon him. All that remained was his mind, suspended for a brief moment before annihilation.

Ahh. A sound like a great pyre of coals awoke to frenzy by the wind. The complexities of meaning formed in the smoke of the conflagration–an exchange of consciousness deeper than words could fathom. A being as old as time itself spoke into Skippii's mind.

Lo, behold the staff that was wrought from mine own seed. Display the calibre of thy quality, Skippii Altay.

In a flash, everything changed.

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