Chapter 99: The Trial of Silverveil
The tomb opened without sound.
There was no grinding of stone, no burst of energy—just a soft, harmonious hum that resonated through the snow-laced air like a forgotten lullaby. Glyphs across the obsidian gate flared one by one, then dissolved into starlight.
And the great doors simply parted.
The gathered factions stood frozen.
Even Atheon sat upright.
Prince Volmyr's arms lowered to his sides.
No one moved first.
Not even Isaac.
Because the tomb had opened only when he approached.
"So… do we knock, or just walk in?" Lira murmured, hand on her dagger.
Isaac stepped forward slowly, the others watching him like hawks. He glanced back once at Lira, and then up toward Sylvalen, who stood beside him without a word.
The cold wind curled between them.
Then Sylvalen said, softly, "Let's see what it let us in for."
They crossed the threshold together.
The interior was dim—lit only by soft blue lines carved into obsidian walls. It wasn't a tomb.
It was a corridor.
Long. Silent. Perfectly preserved.
As the others began to follow—Lira just behind Isaac—a sudden pulse surged from the glyph-lined floor.
Light erupted beneath their feet.
Barriers flared—like translucent walls of force—and the rest of the world vanished.
Isaac spun, reaching back.
"Lira!"
But she was gone.
Or rather, he was.
The corridor, the cold air, the watching eyes—all of it blinked away like a dream burned out of existence.
He was no longer at the tomb entrance.
He stood in a vast, open expanse of mist.
The floor was pale stone, cracked and ancient. The air shimmered with faint echoes—like the memories of battle long forgotten. Floating swords were scattered through the fog, each one impaled into the ground, humming with barely restrained power.
And beside him stood only one person.
Sylvalen.
She looked around slowly, her usual calm replaced with quiet awe.
"Well," she said. "This is new."
Isaac exhaled slowly. "Where are we?"
Sylvalen turned, eyes catching faint lines of runic script etched across a broken monolith at the platform's edge. She walked toward it and read aloud:
"Only those who carry the will of Silverveil may walk the Trial."
Isaac stepped beside her. "It triggered when I entered."
"And it brought me too," she said quietly. Then, glancing at him, added: "So either the tomb accepts me… or it recognizes that I walk beside you."
They stood in silence.
The mist whispered between the ancient blades.
Then Sylvalen spoke again, more softly this time.
"You copied it, didn't you? The sword. Silverveil."
Isaac nodded. "Back at the auction. I didn't know its history then."
"But you felt something."
"…Yeah."
Sylvalen looked out across the mist-filled expanse. "My family bought the blade for its beauty. For its recorded battles. But we never realized it was his." She said the name like a reverence, not just a man.
"Takeshi Silverveil," Isaac murmured.
"Now we stand in his trial," she said. "And I wonder what he left behind—for people like us."
They began walking.
Each step echoed as if time were holding its breath.
Sword hilts glimmered in the fog—some broken, others still pulsing with faint light. The deeper they moved, the more surreal the space became: floating platforms, slivers of memory frozen in suspended air—scenes of a lone swordsman striking down dragons, spirits, divine beasts.
And then, voices.
Not loud.
Not real.
Just echoes.
"A blade without a heart is just hunger.""To surpass gods, I must first surpass myself.""One perfect cut can divide heaven."
Sylvalen slowed beside him. "He wasn't chasing power," she whispered.
Isaac nodded. "He was chasing purpose."
Their eyes met, and for a moment, no words passed between them.
Just understanding.
And something else.
Unspoken.
Finally, they reached the center of the trial space: a circular arena floating above a void of stars.
A single sword stood upright at the center—simple, unadorned.
Waiting.
Isaac took a step forward.
Then the air shifted—and a figure appeared.
Draped in ghost-light and mist, it bore no face.
But it held a blade in each hand.
One looked like Silverveil.
The other… was cracked.
Sylvalen instinctively stepped forward, magic flaring at her fingertips.
But Isaac raised a hand to stop her.
"No," he said. "This one's for me."