Wednesday. Challenge Four, Day 2.
Academy. Finn looked sad. I’ll have to talk with him.
Eva and Mara gave me cool looks and ignored me. That suits me fine.
Trial day, but I have better things to do than stick around.
Maybe I should look into getting a class exemption.
Oldetown took a few hours, longer than I wanted, but got what I needed.
This time it will go better.
Rem walked into the cave and stopped just inside the entrance.
It was day again.
Light spilled in from outside, pale but steady, reaching farther into the cave than it had the night before. He stood there, waiting for the cold to hit him the way it had last night. It didn’t. The air was cool, but it didn’t bite. After a moment, he realized his shoulders had dropped.
He took a breath and let it out slowly.
The air moving past the cave mouth felt different too. Not the hard shove of cold wind pouring down from above, but something gentler, pulling outward instead of in.
He stepped back outside to be sure.
The sun hung over the valley, thin behind high cloud. Air rose from below instead of rushing down from the peaks, carrying a faint warmth with it. The lake lay open and liquid. Ice along the shoreline had broken down into slush, the sharp edge gone. Water moved again.
The air smelled of wet stone and thawing earth.
Rem nodded once.
Then he turned and went back into the cave.
He shrugged the pack off his shoulder and set it down deeper in the alcove he’d used the night before. The weight came off with a dull thump. He rolled one shoulder, then the other, working out the ache from the walk.
In his other hand was a lantern. Not the rusted iron one he’d scavenged weeks ago, but a sturdy, hooded brass model he’d bought that morning. He set it on a flat stone where the light would fall across the alcove and struck a spark. The flame caught cleanly and held.
The duplication box came next. Open. Scuffed. Familiar. He set it down and reached inside.
The wooden block came out first.
Oak. Dense. Kiln-dried. About the length of his forearm, wider than his hand, thick enough that it felt solid when he wrapped his fingers around it. The tongue-and-groove notches were cut clean and true, smooth to the touch.
He turned it once in his hands. It smelled faintly of sawdust.
He’d paid extra for the rush job.
“Just one,” he’d said. “But perfect.”
It was.
He set the block back into the duplication box, lifted it, and shook.
Thunk. Thunk.
The sound was heavy and sure. As he kept shaking, the weight inside shifted and pulled harder against his hands.
He set the box down and looked inside.
Two identical blocks sat pressed together.
He let out a breath and stacked them. Same cut. Same balance.
One went back into the box. Shake. Two blocks. Again.
Rem sat cross-legged on the cold stone floor and settled into the rhythm. Drop. Shake. Set aside. The wind still made noise outside the cave, but it didn’t reach him the same way now. The work wasn’t interesting, but it was steady. Useful.
By the time his hands began to ache, he stopped.
There were enough.
He stood and began with the floor.
Bare stone pulled heat fast. He’d felt that clearly the night before. He laid the blocks flat, locking them together into a tight grid. The joints slid into place with small clicks, one after another, until the surface came together level and solid.
It lifted him off the rock by about the width of his hand.
Next, the wall.
He built a windbreak across the mouth of the shallow alcove, stacking the blocks until it reached his waist, then higher. He left a gap near the top—air still needed somewhere to go—but raised it enough to blunt the direct push of the wind.
When he ran out of blocks, he stopped, made more, and kept going.
As the wall grew, the air inside the alcove changed. The constant tug eased. The space grew still.
He noticed it in his fingers first. Then his shoulders.
He unpacked the rest of the haul.
Two thick wool blankets.
The Alpha wolf hides.
A proper sleeping mat.
Rations wrapped in wax paper—smoked sausage, hard cheese, dried fruit.
A bar of soap. Toothpowder.
The Antique Hearthstones he set aside for later.
He duplicated a piece of cheese and ate it slowly, sitting on the new floor with his back against the wall. Outside, the wind still moved. Inside, it barely reached him.
When he finished, he wiped his hands on his trousers and stayed where he was for a moment.
“Phase one complete,” he murmured.
He finished his meal and stood.
The warmth held. Not enough to forget where he was, but enough that he didn’t feel rushed. He took a moment to register that before turning his attention back to the lake.
There was still a puzzle to solve.
If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
The water looked the same as before. Clear. Still. Giving nothing away.
Rem stripped out of his clothes and left them in a neat pile near the cave wall. The air bit at his skin immediately, sharp and honest, but it didn’t carry the weight it had the night before. He glanced once toward the alcove—at the floor, the wall, the lantern glow—and then back to the ledge.
He drank the Potion of Magical Trap Finding. The taste was thin and metallic, gone almost as soon as it hit his tongue. He set the vial aside.
Essence Sight (Minor) active. Duration: 10 minutes.
The world shifted.
Color drained away, replaced by blue and shadow. The glyphs carved into the rock flared to life, lines of essence threading through the stone. Out across the lake, points of light pulsed beneath the surface—large spheres farther out, steady and bright.
Rem leaned forward and scanned closer to the cave.
If something was missing, it wouldn’t be far.
He dove.
Cold crushed the breath out of his chest, shock snapping through his limbs. He forced himself to move anyway, falling into the rhythm he’d practiced. Kick. Pull. Glide.
He didn’t swim toward the distant lights. He angled down instead, staying close to the cave wall.
The lakebed came up fast. His hands sank into silt and loose gravel, the ground shifting under his fingers. Under normal light it would have been hopeless—stone after stone, all the same.
Under essence sight, it wasn’t.
Most of the rocks lay dull and dark. One burned bright.
It was close.
A fist-sized sphere sat half-buried in the mud near where he’d entered the water, glowing a sharp, piercing blue against the lakebed. Rem felt a tight pull of satisfaction in his chest as he kicked down and closed his fingers around it.
He pushed back toward the surface, lungs already burning. He broke the water, dragged in air, and hauled himself onto the ledge. He set the sphere down, didn’t bother drying his hands, and went straight back in.
There didn’t have to be another one.
But the carving had been balanced. Deliberate.
He suspected there was.
The second took longer. He swam back and forth near the shore, cold creeping deeper with each pass. On the fifth sweep, he caught a flicker of blue under a tumble of stones.
Rem dove hard, wedged his fingers between the rocks, and pulled. One shifted. Then another. The sphere came free in his hands.
His lungs screamed.
He kicked for the surface and broke through with a gasp, treading water just long enough to fill his chest before heading for the ledge. He dragged himself out, shivering now, and scrambled up the scree with both spheres clutched tight.
He laid the spheres out as he dripped in the cold air.
Up close, there was no mistaking it.
They weren’t natural. Glyphs were carved into each surface, matching the ones cut into the rock ledge. They were heavy for their size, dense, and perfectly balanced.
Rem sat back on his heels and looked at them.
A miniature set of spheres.
He moved to the carving and knelt by the grooves.
Rem picked up the first sphere and turned it in his hands until the carved glyph lined up with the marking beside the straight groove.
It fit.
He set it into the channel and released it.
The sphere rolled down the groove and stopped hard.
Click.
The sound wasn’t loud, but it carried—stone answering stone. He felt it through his palm where it rested against the ledge.
He picked up the second sphere and set it into the angled groove.
It rolled faster, slid toward the center, and locked in place.
Click.
The carving was complete.
The two spheres sat in their tracks, balanced and still, the stone around them unchanged. For a moment, Rem just looked at them.
Then he put his hand on the first sphere and pushed.
Nothing happened.
He leaned into it, shifting his weight forward.
The sphere moved—barely—then stopped. The resistance was solid, grinding, sending a dull vibration up his arm.
Rem pulled his hand back and tried the second.
The same. A fraction of movement, then a hard stop.
He straightened and looked down toward the lake.
If this was one system, then the pieces out there mattered too.
He exhaled once and turned back toward the water.
“Only one way,” he said quietly.
He swam out to the middle of the lake and filled his lungs. Without essence sight, the large sphere was harder to find. He brushed against it by chance, followed its curve down, and sank to the lakebed.
He felt around the base.
Loose stone. Packed mud. He shifted one rock aside. Then another. His fingers traced something smooth beneath the silt—a curve cut into the lake floor.
He surfaced, dragged in air, then dove again.
More rocks. More mud. Each descent cost more than the last. His chest burned. His hands shook as he worked them free. On the third dive, his fingers followed the groove far enough to be sure.
It was carved.
And it was buried.
Rem broke the surface and treaded water, cold tightening around his ribs. He stared at the far shore while his breathing slowed.
So that’s it.
He took another breath and went under again.
He cleared a short stretch along one side of the groove. Larger rocks he tipped and rolled away. Smaller ones he lifted out and set aside. When the stones were gone, he scooped mud out by hand, handful by handful, until the groove showed clean stone beneath.
By the time he surfaced, his arms were heavy and slow.
He swam back to the ledge and hauled himself out, then lay there on the stone, chest heaving, eyes half-closed, letting the cold bite while his breathing steadied.
After a while, he stood and went back to the carving.
He pushed the small sphere along the straight groove.
This time it moved.
Not far. But enough.
He let out a short breath that might have been a laugh, then stopped himself.
That had taken him the better part of an hour.
Clearing both grooves would take days. Maybe longer.
Rem wiped water from his face and shook his head once.
Swimming, at least, he was getting good at.
He dressed and headed back into the cave.
The cave was dark when Rem came back in.
He set his pack down and struck flint to steel. Sparks caught, the lantern flared, and light spread through the space. The warmth was faint but welcome. More important was the light. With it, the cave stopped feeling hostile and started feeling usable.
He exhaled once.
Time to make this livable.
He gathered the Ancient Hearthstone, a few wooden blocks, the hatchet, and the clay pot of lamp oil, then headed back out.
He split one block down into kindling, soaked the sticks, and built a small fire. When it was burning cleanly, he set the hearthstone into the flames.
The fire dimmed almost immediately. Heat drained out of it, pulled into the stone until the wood guttered and went dark. The hearthstone, meanwhile, glowed with stored warmth—too hot to touch.
He wrapped it in a wool blanket and carried it back inside.
Set into the corner of the alcove, the stone bled heat slowly into the space. Not luxury. But enough. The chill eased. The air softened.
Good.
Rem dropped onto the bed platform and lay there, staring up at the cave ceiling. His body felt heavy all at once. Hungry. Sore. Used up in the best way. He’d planned to practice with his wand before sleeping, but he hadn’t planned on an hour in freezing water.
He forced himself to sit up.
Food first.
He duplicated a strip of smoked meat and chewed it slowly. It tasted the same as always. Getting it down took effort. He managed half before sleep pulled him under.
When he woke, it was dark again.
Night had settled in, and the cold had returned—but not like before. The windbreak held. The raised floor kept the chill off his bones. The hearthstone still radiated warmth. The lantern still burned.
The systems worked.
Rem refilled the lantern, finished the rest of his meal, and reached for his wands.
He selected a charged illusion wand and stepped back into the open space. Feet set. Elbow tucked. He settled into the stance he’d practiced.
Focus.
He pushed his intent into the wand.
Nothing.
Again.
Nothing.
He expected failure and got it. One wand after another emptied and dropped uselessly to the floor. A few split outright. He didn’t stop. He adjusted his grip. Reset his stance. Tried again.
Persistence was part of the work.
Then—light.
A second lantern shimmered into existence beside the first. Solid in shape. Perfect in detail.
Rem let out a short breath.
Success.
The illusion didn’t give off heat, but the light was real enough. For a brief moment, the cave looked brighter, cleaner. Then the image flickered and vanished.
No notification followed.
He frowned, then shook his head and reached for another wand. One success didn’t change the math.
He set his stance again.
Focused.
Pushed.
Crack.
The sound was sharp and wrong—too loud for breaking wood. It rang off the stone like a gunshot.
The wand detonated.
Rem cried out and dropped it, clutching his right hand to his chest. Blood spilled between his fingers and splattered across the clean wooden floor.
“Ah,” he hissed, rocking forward.
He peeled his hand open.
A jagged shard of blackened wood was buried deep in his palm, just below the thumb. His index finger bent the wrong way, already swelling and turning dark. Patches of skin were scorched black.
The cave smelled like burnt ash.
And blood.
