The Ascended — Chapter no 62

Chapter 62

The Forging

THE LIGHT OF SUNDRALIS CRASHED INTO ME, KNOCKING THE BREATH FROM my lungs.

I stumbled through the portal, cursing under my breath. Months in Draknavor's dim light hadn't prepared me for this assault. This wasn't natural sunlight—this was a godsdamned weapon, an aggressive display of divine ego made visible.

"It's…" Marx squinted beside me, her face twisted in discomfort.

"Obnoxious," I muttered. For a domain named after the sun, there was something deeply dishonest about this light. Like it was trying to bully you into submission. I found myself aching for Draknavor's honest darkness, for the shadows that never seemed afraid to be what they were.

"Olinthar has always valued appearances over substance," Xül murmured, voice low. He scanned the horizon with barely concealed contempt.

I followed his gaze. The citadel of Sundralis rose before us, all gleaming white marble and gold. My eyes watered anew. Every tower, every arch, every garden path flaunted a sterile flawlessness.

But there was nothing alive about it. Nothing free.

"This way." Aelix gestured toward the central spire.

My gut twisted. This was it. The culmination of everything that had happened since that terrible day in Saltcrest.

We walked along paths of winding pavement. Divine beings stopped to stare as we passed, their whispers trailing behind us. I kept my chin high,

my spine straight. Didn't let their presence—or the hot brands of their gazes on my back—affect me.

"This isn't like the other Trials," Xül said softly, his shoulder brushing mine. "No viewing portals. Everyone who's anyone will be present in

Sundralis today."

I let out a tight breath. "Naturally."

The citadel's interior was even more oppressive—soaring ceilings, walls of pristine white that made my eyes burn. Olinthar's face loomed from every fresco, every mosaic, every hanging. A perfect, benevolent mask.

Doors opened at our approach, swinging wide on silent hinges. The Ascension Chamber loomed before us. I halted at the threshold, momentarily overwhelmed.

The chamber was vast and circular, topped by a crystal dome that bent and refracted the already painful light. White marble pedestals stood at its center—four lonely islands in a sea of polished floor.

"That's where we'll stand?" Marx murmured beside me. "Like living statues?"

"It would seem so," I said, unable to keep the bite from my voice. The pedestals looked like altars. Like sacrificial stones. In a way, I supposed they were.

Around the chamber's perimeter, twelve ornate thrones formed a semicircle. The Aesymar were taking their places—beings of such power that the air around them warped and shimmered. My eyes found Vorinar first, the God of Fate, slouched on his throne, eyes glassy as he stared at nothing in particular. So he'd shown up to this, but not to the meeting last night. Beside him sat Davina. Next was Morthus. For a brief second, his dark eyes met mine, and he managed a subtle nod.

I counted each one, my unease growing with every face, until I reached the central throne—larger than the others, crafted of gold and crystal. It sat empty.

Divine beings packed the chamber, their combined gazes raining down on the lower levels. Their voices rose and fell in excited waves, a ravenous

ocean of sound.

"Vultures," Marx muttered.

"They've come to witness history," Aelix corrected mildly.

"Same difference." My eyes swept over the masses of immortals, searching for one face that actually mattered. And then—there. A flash of

slicked midnight hair.

Thatcher.

He stood across the chamber in Chavore's colors, but there was no mistaking the fierce determination in his eyes as our gazes locked. For a heartbeat, I forgot to breathe.

I was beginning to miss that carefree, easy smile he used to wear.

But we'd made it. Against impossible odds, we were both here. Both alive. We'd both changed in different ways since our time in Voldaris. I wasn't sure yet if it was for the better.

I felt a hand slide against the small of my back.

"You can go," Xül said, his voice ghosting across my ear. "There's

time."

I glanced up, raising an eyebrow.

"Go," he repeated, nodding toward Thatcher. "The ceremony won't begin for a few minutes yet."

I pushed through the crowd, which parted reluctantly before me. As I approached, I saw that Thatcher wasn't alone. Chavore stood beside him, bedecked in war regalia that glinted blindingly under Sundralis's light.

Beside him clung Elysia, her fingers possessively wrapped around Chavore's arm.

"Hey," Thatcher said, giving me a small smile.

"Well don't you look the part," I replied, keeping my voice light.

He huffed a laugh. "Figured you'd have gotten used to all this by now."

Chavore's gaze drifted over me, his brow furrowing. "You're…" He trailed off, blinking rapidly as if trying to clear his vision. "Thatcher's sister,

yes?"

A chill slithered down my spine.

Elysia smiled. "Her name is Thais, darling," she prompted, her fingers tightening on his arm.

"Of course," Chavore nodded, but his eyes remained unfocused, vacant.

"Thais. My apologies."

"We were just discussing the celebration after the ceremony," Elysia said, her voice sickly sweet. "You must join us, Thais. Assuming you survive the Forging, of course."

The casualness of her words made my fingers twitch, but I kept my face impassive, my voice level. Used all the ridiculous formality Xül had taught

me over the last few months. "Thank you for the invitation. I'll certainly

have to consider it."

"We'd be honored," Chavore said.

Elysia's smile turned brittle. "I suppose we'll see how everything plays out." She tugged on Chavore's arm. "Come, darling, we should speak with your father before the ceremony begins."

Chavore followed without protest, allowing himself to be led away like a docile pet. I watched them go, unease coiling tighter in my stomach.

"What's wrong with him?" I asked quietly, once they were out of earshot.

Thatcher's expression darkened. "I told you. He's been like that since the beginning."

Chavore and Elysia disappeared into the crowd.

I caught sight of Xül across the room. Our eyes locked and my chest cinched—warmer than dread, messier. Last night's memories flickered through my mind.

Then I felt Thatcher's gaze pressing against me. I've never seen you look at someone like that.

I don't know what you're talking about. I jerked my eyes away, tried to deflect.

You can't lie to me, Thais. And it's not just you. He looks at you the same way.

It's complicated. I bumped my shoulder against Thatcher's. And don't look at me like that, with your big sad eyes.

You're allowed to feel, Thais. He mused. Our entire life in Saltcrest, you didn't allow it. But it's different now.

I hesitated, then let a small truth slip through our bond. Things have changed.

With Xül? Thatcher's curiosity pulsed through our connection.

Yes. I wasn't ready to share more, not even with Thatcher. What had happened between Xül and me still felt too fragile, too new. Too easy to shatter.

Thatcher studied me, and I felt his understanding through our bond. He wouldn't push. Whatever happens, I'm with you.

His comfort flowed through our bond, steadying me as it had countless times throughout our lives.

It's difficult to wrap my mind around any of this, I admitted. The idea of having an after at all. It doesn't feel real.

We have a chance now—a chance to make something of ourselves. To live.

Don’t speak too soon. We still have to survive today.

The universe can’t get rid of the Morvaren twins that easily. He pulled me into a hug.

The resonant tone of a ceremonial bell cut through the chamber, silencing the crowd. Olinthar's scribes appeared, clothed in white and gold, their faces serene masks as they directed us to our positions. They looked so much like the priests from Saltcrest. I tried my hardest not to wince.

We should join the others, I sent finally. They're calling for us to take our positions.

Thatcher nodded, squeezing my hand once before releasing it. "When this is over, we'll talk properly. About everything."

"Right," I agreed.

My legs felt heavier with each step toward the pedestals. This was the moment everything changed. Succeed or fail. Live or die. Become divine or be consumed by divinity.

I took my place on the cold marble, suddenly aware of thousands of immortal eyes fixed upon us. Marx stood on the pedestal beside mine, her face composed but her fingers tapping restlessly against her thigh. Across from us stood Thatcher and Vance. If he was scared, he didn't show it.

A hush fell over the chamber as the main doors swung open once more.

Olinthar entered, and the very air seemed to bend around him.

Light seemed to bleed from him.

My father. The bastard who had cost me everything and would soon pay for it. But in reality, how soon was soon? In the face of eternity, how long would we be waiting to take him down? I regretted not asking that.

I forced myself to look directly at him as he took his seat, refusing to cower even as hatred burned so hot in my chest I feared it might show on my skin. His perfect features were arranged in an expression of benevolent command that made me want to scream.

"Welcome," he intoned, his voice resonating throughout the chamber without effort. "Today, we witness the culmination of the Trials of Ascension. These four mortals—" his gaze swept over us, "—have proven themselves worthy of consideration for our divine ranks."

As if this were some great honor he bestowed.

"Ascension is not merely a reward," Olinthar continued, his perfect hands gesturing gracefully as he spoke. "It is a sacred duty, a divine purpose that transcends mortal understanding. Those who join us take on the burden of shaping the very fabric of existence."

"The final trial is not a test of skill or strength or cunning," he explained, his voice dropping to a more solemn tone. "It is the divine forging itself. Each contestant will be bathed in the pure light of Sundralis, which will burn away their mortality and reveal what lies beneath."

A murmur ran through the crowd. I glanced at Thatcher, drawing strength from the resolute set of his jaw, the unwavering determination in his eyes. Together. At least we were together.

"Let us begin," Olinthar announced, rising from his throne. He raised his arms toward the crystal dome above us. The shards of glass began to retract, sections sliding away to reveal the blinding sky above. The crowd fell silent, the tension in the air thick enough to choke on.

For one breathless moment, nothing happened.

Then the world exploded into light.

The beam struck me without warning, driving me to my knees. I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. The burning light threatened to tear me apart from within. Energy crashed through me, a tidal wave shattering every barrier, flooding every cell.

I tried to scream, but no sound emerged. My fingers clawed desperately at the marble pedestal, seeking an anchor in a storm that threatened to erase me completely.

I hadn't prepared for this level of agony.

The light burned. Gods, how it burned. Not just my skin, but deeper— muscle, bone, the very core of me scorched under its blinding assault. Each heartbeat pumped liquid fire through my veins. Each breath filled my lungs with searing heat.

Then, my own power responded. It coiled and twisted, rising to meet the challenge. Violet spirals burst from my skin, meeting gold.

The two forces slithered against each other, thrashing, biting, drinking the other in.

My vision narrowed to a single point of blinding white. I couldn't see the chamber anymore. Couldn't see Thatcher. There was only the light.

A searing slash focused behind my eyes, drilling into my skull. The pressure built until I was certain my head would shatter. Something was changing. My vision flooded crimson, then violet, before plunging me into merciful darkness.

In that darkness, I felt myself coming undone. Unraveling. My essence scattered across the cosmos. I was everywhere and nowhere, stretched across an infinity I couldn't comprehend.

Was this death?

No. Not death.

I clung to myself in that endless dark. To my name. To my memories.

To my hatred. To my purpose. I was Thais Morvaren, and I would not let him take anything more from me. I had fought too hard and for too long to let this cosmic tantrum erase me now. The light could remake my body, could meld my fucking bones, but it would not erase me.

And Olinthar was a fool for letting me get this far.

I held onto the image of Thatcher's face. Of Saltcrest's cliffs. Of our mother's smile, preserved in memory. Of Xül's eyes in firelight. Of Sulien teaching me to braid my hair with clumsy fingers. Of the small, quiet moments that had made up my life before all this. The pieces of myself I couldn't bear to lose.

I might have been on that pedestal for seconds or centuries. The light burned and built and broke, but I didn't. I wouldn't.

And then it stopped.

Darkness crashed down. The sudden absence of pain was its own kind of shock. I gasped, lungs heaving.

Silence pressed against my ears. The chamber waited.

I was alive.

And slowly, light flickered across my vision.

It started as warmth, deep in my chest. This wasn't my power, not the stars I could pull from the heavens. This was something new, something inside me.

The warmth spread, slow at first, then racing through me like wildfire. I wanted to scream but couldn't find my voice.

I raised my hands before my face, desperate for something to anchor me. My skin glowed from within. I tried to call out to Thatcher through our bond, but the roaring in my mind drowned out everything else.

A tingling spread through my fingertips. I watched, unable to look away, as delicate lines of molten starlight began to trace patterns across my skin. The luminous threads started at my fingernails, cosmic rivers flowing upward. They wound around my wrists in intricate designs, then continued up my arms, branching and spreading before fading as they reached my elbows.

Something brushed against my shoulders. I looked down to see my hair falling past my chest, longer than it had ever been, growing before my eyes until it reached my waist. The black strands seemed to drink in the light around them, becoming darker than night itself.

The freckles that had dotted my arms since childhood began to change.

Each small brown spot shimmered, then transformed into a golden fleck.

I could see the individual motes of dust suspended in the air, feel the weight of centuries pressing down upon the realm. The world exploded into colors I'd never known existed, sounds I'd never heard before, sensations I had no words to describe.

The marble walls of the palace—I could see the veins of mineral deposits running through the stone, the individual crystals catching light at different angles, even the subtle variations of texture invisible to mortal eyes.

I could hear every heartbeat in the chamber, distinguish between them, even sense the differences in rhythm and power between the ancient gods and the newer Aesymar. The rustle of fabric as someone shifted their weight three rows back. Each sound was crisp, distinct, no longer blending together into background noise.

My awareness extended in all directions at once. I could feel the currents of power flowing through the chamber like invisible rivers, sense the age of the stones beneath my feet, even taste the remnants of magic wafting through the air. Smell the layered notes of those present, the

fragrances of their domains and magic.

And then, I turned my head.

My gaze focused first on the pedestal directly across from me—empty.

Empty.

But at the base—Gods. Nausea rolled through me. A scorched skeleton, still smoking, crumpled atop the marble. The only thing left of Vance.

Terror seized me.

I searched frantically for Marx. She was hunched over, her skin steaming, wisps of smoke rising from her shoulders. But alive.

Thatcher—

I turned, and found him.

Our eyes met.

But there was no indigo.

Only two blazing pools of pure, molten gold staring back at me.