The Path to Promotion

THE REST of the night passed normally. The leaves occasionally rustled in the trees and across the ruins.

Lucien actually slept for a couple hours after Sirius insisted he rest before the three of them head out again.

Aisling, naturally full of energy, was eager to stand upon the Dais of Promotion.

Because of Sirius’s condition, they hiked to the site, walking over debris and crushing leaves underfoot. It led them to some unstable steps, with gaps on the way up. Other stairwells had some broken columns blocking their way, but this area was their best chance at reaching the Dais of Promotion directly.

Along the way, Aisling consistently asked questions about the possibilities that awaited her if she was promoted to something besides a Pawn. In the company of a Bishop and Knight, she had an idea of their roles in channeling mana.

Sirius lectured as they continued their trek on pavilions overrun with thick roots, moss, and other foliage. “For Rooks, they’re the opposite of a Knight. In battle, they can create constructs for defense, so they could make use of their ranged weapons.”

“Like what?” she asked, stepping on an uneven portion of the ground.

“Something like this.” He drew the wheellock pistol from his right hip holster. “Or a bow, something you can throw, but often custom-fitted to their preference. And these are called chronarms.”

Lucien chimed in. “We’re actually meeting someone later who’s a Rook, so you might get a chance to see her in action.”

She nodded. “Oh, okay. Then, what’s getting promoted like? Does it hurt?”

Sirius shook his head. “You won’t feel anything, but at the same time you’ll feel refreshed and energized.”

“Hm, but I already feel energized. Wait, that’s too much energy… I’ll burst like a bubble!”

He blinked, raising an eyebrow in quiet disbelief, while the Knight turned aside, poorly stifling a laugh behind his hand. “Uh… no, I don’t think that’ll happen,” Sirius managed, the corners of his mouth curling into a faint grin.

Aisling giggled, a pleasant and radiant sound that pierced the stillness of the Primorigial Sanctuary.

Sirius’s smile softened, but his eyes flicked to more unstable steps ahead. “Alright,” he murmured, the hint of seriousness returning to his tone. “We’re close.”

They carefully scaled the stairs, which had some loose rubble midway, but nothing that would crumble like before. After climbing a few levels, they reached the square promotion grounds, the playful ease of moments before gave way to sharp vigilance.

Lucien drew his sword, extending his left hand in a silent signal to halt. “Appears to be clear,” he reported in a harsh whisper. “What do you think, Sirius?”

“All clear,” he confirmed, detecting no more strains of tainted mana.

Faint shadows of the Chesslandic statues were casting upon the ancient structure as Aisling squinted up at them. “So, this is the Dais of Promotion?” she uttered in awe.

Sirius nodded. “This was where Lucien and I were promoted six years ago,” he recalled. “And hopefully where you’ll get promoted too.” The Pawn asked what she had to do, and he simply pointed ahead. “Just stand in the middle, and the ceremony should take place.”

Aisling drew a slow, steady breath, and adjusted her veil. Her fingers trembled just enough for the bow to slightly quiver in her touch. Then, with deliberate grace, she stepped forward.

Each footfall echoed faintly against the stone, the sound swallowed by the hush that fell over the Dais of Promotion.

The breeze stirred, gently tugging at her clothes and teasing strands of scarlet hair across her cheek.

What should’ve been a short walk felt unending. Every step weighed with unseen consequence.

From the edge of the platform, Sirius and Lucien watched in silence, their gazes focused on her as if a single misstep might shatter the fragile calm.

It felt as though every passing second carried the weight of an obligation long overdue.

And when she stood at the center, they held their breaths. Sirius clenched his jaw while Lucien tightened his grip on the handle of his sword.

This was the moment of truth.

Aisling waited patiently, every muscle still, every shred of anticipation pressing against her nerves. She was expecting something—anything—to happen, but silence was all she got. Not a glow of any statue, nor from the platform she stood on.

The promotion ceremony wasn’t taking place at all.

Aisling’s Pawns were still present on both of her hands. She made eye contact with her companions and pointed up at the statues, cueing them of her visible confusion. “Did I break it?” she piped up, presenting her hands to them.

Sirius and Lucien exchanged looks, then gazed upon the Pawns she still possessed.

“Or maybe there’s things I need to do first,” she speculated, acting out the movements as she called them. “Like prayer, or dance, or reading something, you think?”

The Bishop shook his head, recalling, “Lucien and I just took turns standing on the platform, and our ceremony took place naturally.”

Aisling nodded as she reverted back to standing with both arms at her sides. “So…what do we do now?”

The two friends stood pondering for a moment.

“I guess we complete our mission by taking you to Throne’s Edge,” Lucien replied, then met Sirius’s eyes for confirmation.

Before he answered, he recalled his notebook. Sirius scanned the pages for several minutes, attempting to piece together this conundrum on the spot.

The mural.

The individual scenes from each side of the coffin.

But it was futile.

The sketches only narrated the journey that he and Lucien underwent until the moment they encountered Aisling’s coffin. He sighed, grumbling as he stowed his journal away, “Yeah, I don’t know what else we could do here. King Dajayatan… he better have these answers too.”

“Great,” Lucien sighed, sheathing his blade. “It never ends.”

Sirius rubbed his forehead with both hands, then passed them over his hair.

Aisling looked at the silent statues again before turning back to them, her expression soft and flat. “Maybe it’s not broken,” she murmured. “Maybe it just wasn’t meant to happen here.” For a moment, a stray beam of light slipped through the ruins, glinting softly against her veil. She let the motion linger, almost savoring the quiet.

Sirius placed a hand on his chin, grimly contemplating further, while Lucien spoke on what he was thinking.

“Maybe she’ll promote at Throne’s Edge, dude.”

“Maybe,” he muttered, his gaze distant.

The silence of the Primorigial Sanctuary pressed in around them, boundless and silent. Its ruins stood stark beneath the pale light of day, their fractured stones casting long, cold shadows.

Lucien placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder, acknowledging his disappointment, and gave a faint nod to Aisling. “Come on,” he said softly. “We’ve got a lot of ground to cover.” He proceeded to walk away, his boots trudging against the old stone.

Aisling cast one last glance at the unresponsive site. Her gaze lingered, a silence suspended between what was and what should’ve been.

Sirius remained where he was for just a moment longer, his thoughts anchored to the failed ceremony and the weight of what it meant. He glanced up at the statues once more, and murmured, “There might actually be another option…”