Page 39 of The Ascended
"It’s complicated," Vesper said, but there was a warning in his voice. "Mentors have absolute authority over their contestants. What happens in those training sessions is considered private. Even if everyone knows it's wrong. Xül certainly restricted his access in Draknavor afterwards, even though he’s not supposed to retaliate."
I absorbed this information while Vesper stalked over to the wardrobe, pulling out a deep blue mess of sheer fabric. He shot me a look over his shoulder. "Also, the fact that your brother managed to do what fully ascended gods struggle with is causing quite the stir. It’s the most interesting thing to happen in centuries."
"My brother killed someone and it's interesting," I said flatly.
"Your brother killed someone who desperately needed killing," Vesper corrected. "There's a difference. Though I admit, the method was rather spectacular. Very dramatic."
"How are you all so casual about this?" I demanded. "Don't you understand what this means? They'll see Thatcher as a threat now. They'll?—"
"They'll be fascinated," Lyralei interrupted gently. "The Aesymar aren't scared, dear. They're intrigued."
That somehow made it worse.
"How many made it through the Proving?" I asked, needing to distract myself from whatever that might mean.
"Thirty-seven," Lyralei answered, pulling a comb through my hair.
"And how many competed?"
"Close to three hundred."
Gods. I'd known it would be bad, but three-hundred? "That's..." I swallowed hard. "That's a lot of people."
"Sometimes it's higher, sometimes lower. Depends on the quality of the candidates and how creative the Legends feel like being." Novalie’s voice had lost its cheerfulness.
“How do the Legends decide how to choose?”
“Well, traditionally, they are encouraged to choose a contestant that will assimilate easily into their domain. Someone whose abilities complement their own.” Lyralei said.
Vesper shrugged. “Sometimes they abide. Sometimes they don’t.”
"What happens after?"
"Your mentor will explain everything," Novalie said, dusting my cheekbones with a golden shimmer. "They'll train you, guide you, hopefully prepare you enough for survival."
"Train us how?"
"Your abilities," Lyralei cut in. "Hone them. Teach you to use them creatively. Try to bring them to their full potential.”
“But there are other things you’ll need to be prepared for as well," Vesper added, lifting the blue gown. "Basic survival skills. Combat. Strategy. Tracking. And how to navigate divine society of course.”
"Seriously?" I held back an eyeroll.
"Politics, alliances, presentation," he explained, helping me into the gown. The fabric whisked across my skin, falling in sheer waves down my frame. "This process isn’t simply about raw power—it’s about proving you can function here if you ascend."
"Lovely." This time, the eyeroll broke free from my restraints.
“And darling, you could certainly use some of that.” Vesper laughed. “Although, feel free to behave as barbaric and uncouth as you like around us. It’s endearing.”
“You think this is barbaric? You don’t know the start of it.” Ishrugged, bit back a grin. “Bar crawls, chugging contests, arm-wrestling matches with dirty fishermen?—”
“Delightful, truly,” Lyralei cut in, blinking tenderly. “Now, be still so I can figure out what to do with all of this.” I obliged, and she got to work.
I caught my reflection in the mirror as Vesper worked on the gown's final adjustments. The deep blue fabric was structured at the bodice, reinforced with narrow metallic panels that traced down my torso like armor, but the skirt flowed in translucent layers that offered glimpses of my legs through the dark folds.
Soon, I'd be standing before the Legends again, waiting to learn which one would own me for the duration of this nightmare.
Miria seemed like my best option. If I had to be mentored by one of them, at least she appeared to have retained some memory of mortality. The fact that she'd tried to stop Drakor's torture of Thatcher spoke well of her character.
