The Seal of Bewitching Slumber : Episode Two (Part One)
The Trial of Aspilos — Roman battles
Author’s Note:
When I sat down to write this chapter, I didn’t expect it to run so long—but Roman had other plans. To keep things moving (and publishing consistent), I’ve decided to break the chapter into parts.
I hope Part One is enough to whet your appetite.
Enjoy this action beat as Roman begins the Trial of Aspilos.
The Encounter' by Scott Buckley
…….in case you’d like some mood music…
CHAPTER TWO : THE TRIAL OF ASPILOS | PART ONE
BY SILAS TIBBS
Roman’s hand sinks into the moist black earth, scooping a dense handful of soil, fallen leaves and bark. He clenches it into a fist, feeling the coarse texture grind against his palm. As the earth seeps slowly through his fingers, he lifts his hand to his nose, inhaling deeply—the scent rich and strong. Finally, he was here.
A wind surged, engulfing him, pressing his tunic tight against his skin. The air, gathering sharply in his ear, spoke:
“Do not be beguiled by the Onyx Serpent.”
The wind chanted in whispers, swirling around him with a voice older than the ancient trees surrounding him. Roman opened his hand, releasing the earth into the wind, which carried it away—down an unmarked path, deeper into the stretching shadows of the dense wood.
That was the way he must go:
Beyond the threshold of his next step. Deeper into the dark. Away from guiding voices. Farther into its belly. Standing here, he could still hear their voices—one more step and he’d be on his own. He had always dreamt of coming here, but why this way? That thought almost pulled him back to the anger he felt as a child, staring up at his father.
But it had been twelve years since that day, and four since the death of Zahar. He was his own man now, although the color of his tunic and the length of his locs, bound to one side, made him question how different he truly was—now a journeyman of the Order.
The light of day was fading, and the cold hand of the air slid its dying fingers around his shoulder, reminding him—today was the day of the trial, his Trial of Aspilos. One last Trial, the consummate test of the order of dream-walkers was in front of him—again.
"What do you see?" asked a voice, carried by a western gust of air.
"A wood… Lethenwood, I think. The trees are high, the path ahead is dark," he remarked. "It's like I've always imagined it to be, but... darker. I feel eyes watching me."
A wind from the north spoke, "Look beyond the wood. What do you see?"
Careful not to slip forward, he held his feet in place and narrowed his gaze, peering beyond the long twisted shadows cast by the reddened light of the failing sun, into the indiscernible depths of bark and shadow. But his eyes could render no image—he sensed that it was the wood itself refusing to reveal what lay beyond, unless he allowed himself to take a step forward.
"I do not see the serpent."
"It draws you forward. Dispel diversion—" shouted the four winds in unison. "Delay your feet no longer. It seeks to consume you—do not be beguiled."
One final gust of wind pressed him forward. And with a single step, in an instant, the failing light of day warped into the palest bluish dusk—not lightless; he could still perceive the forms of things, their edges and color—but the world had succumbed to something strangely pale, as if light of the sky itself were under a spell, entranced in a middle place between light and no light.
The air and wind around him fell stolen, replaced by something cursed. At once, he felt a tug from behind—a pull, a quiet sense to simply... fade away. His eyes grew heavy. His breath, slow and labored. But this he was prepared for—it was the first mesmerism of his adversary.
And far off, he heard it—the faintest crack, like ancient scales dragged across the tangled hush of root and branch, leaf and soil.
Fear pulled at his fingertips, then crept along the back of his neck—the Onyx Serpent was aware of him—and so came the second mesmerism, terror.
“Something is here,” he whispered—But the quiver in his voice, as it bounced from the unruly trees, made him doubt it was his own… or a thought whispered from the tongue of the Serpent, casting a mimic of his voice back to him to seep hollowing dread into his mind.
The wind returned—voiceless. It only nudged him forward. There would be no further aid.
The trial had begun.
But terror—he was disciplined for. A tired tactic—one he’d faced before. He had stood firm through the Trial of Nightmares, not giving way to its madness. As fear’s metal spikes crawled steadily up his sides, he relaxed his breath, letting it pass through him.
But wood resisted him now—it demanded fear.
The trees ahead loomed, threatening.
The trees behind him breathed treachery.
Their tangled roots slithered beneath the rolling mist, which poured from the twisted bark of their trunks. Like a warning, he recalled the tales of elder journeymen from distant orders—those who spoke with trees, and warned that they conspire.
This was the serpent’s woods now. What deceit have we conjured? Challenged the rustling leaves.
But Roman countered, knowing doing so would be a declaration to engage—an acceptance of battle. He stretched forward his right hand, palm turned upward.
From his chest to his bare forearms, reaching to his open hand, luminous sigils—etched in pearl-light—inscribed themselves in floral and circular patterns across his brown flesh. The effulgent paths pooled at the center of his palm, forming a seal—and above it, what seemed a lantern began to take shape, bearing a numinous flame.
This was his Nier—his weapon, his compass against the perils of bewitched air.
Immediately, the wood defied him. The wind returned, raucous—leaves, twigs, and earth launched themselves at him in a furious, near-blinding horde.
But the power in the Nier, and the sigils written into his flesh like a divine ward, caused the horde to spiral madly around him—vicious in its circling, but never permitted to assail him.
He stood at the center of the whirling rage—
yet he himself found power in stillness. His breath did not tremble, nor did his foot shake. He stood firm, his frame transforming into the shape of a formidable battler, wielding the arcane power of his Order—a conduit of its might.
In a whisper, he spoke a word—a mystery, indecipherable—throwing his voice like the wind-born voices that had once spoken to him. And the luminous power in the Nier ignited into a horizontal pillar, cutting a path of light through the chaos. Its power released a deep echo, cutting through the wood.
In retaliation, the wood grew darker—not merely a lightless pale now, but shadowy and spiteful, as if its darkness rose to the challenge. A guttural bellow shook ground and tree trunk—the onyx serpent voicing its hatred of the Nier and its power. A warning to the wielder, that their destruction had been prepared.
The Serpent has killed many of my Order before—stronger and more vigilant, mimicked the Serpent’s tongue; once more sowing false thoughts into Roman’s mind—thoughts that wore his voice as their disguise. …perhaps… even my father.
In this moment, Roman did not feel fear, but inevitable violence—a consequence for insolence. His courage or fear were no longer of concern to the fury hidden in the pall—only from which side it would choose to tear at him from its hiding place.
From his depths, a rising luminous sense urged him forward—Forward. Do not delay. Compelled by the power in his Nier, he moved swiftly into the winding dark. With every step, he felt drawn closer to the center of the Serpent’s coil—its body obscured by bark, drifting mist, and dusk-born shadow.
As he traversed with haste, his foot nimbly dodged malformed roots that appeared in the mist to twist and leap at his ankles, baiting him to trip, so the Serpent might find him on his back. But Roman gave his instinct to the guidance of the Nier, each step landing firmly on flat ground, untouched by the malevolence of vile roots—which had bent their purpose to the Serpent’s hunger.
Around him, he heard cracking and breaking—like dull lightning—tree trunks snapping beneath the enormous weight of the Onyx Serpent as it approached. But in the cloaking tempest, he could not tell from which direction.
Enough. Roman found himself in a clearing of trees, and determined that this is where he would take his stand—and his Nier agreed, increasing its glow.
Releasing it from the unseen influence of his own hand, he allowed the Nier to rise, levitating above him. He reached high, and the seal in his palm once again blazed effulgent. From it, spiraling sigils writ themselves across his entire body—his flesh now a living tome, power inscribed upon it.
The light drawn from the sigils in his flesh reached for the Nier above him—and as they connected, it released a force so immense, the shockwave of its light dispelled both the darkness and the raucous, revealing what had been hidden:
He was now truly within the enclosing coil of the Serpent—its massive body encircling him, its breadth half the height of the tallest tree. Its scales were black as onyx, and twice as strong as obsidian, mailed like armor.
Rapidly, its fearsome body began to close in—to crush him to pieces. Roman felt eyes above him and looked up, beholding the vile head of the Serpent descending upon him. Its eyes were sheathed in dark crystal, armored and unreadable; its open mouth revealed long, slender fangs of the same crystal—curved to a fine, smooth point, more like talon-blades than teeth, made for rending and tearing.
From its tongue whispered a torrent of vile, unthinkably perverse thoughts—words designed to disorient and consume the minds of any not of the Order, those untempered to withstand its wicked barrage. From this tongue had come Roman’s false thoughts—and more still came. Was this the breath that consumed my father?
And the Serpent’s head fell—but was violently repelled by the Nier, now a ward overhead, encircling Roman like a radiant shield.
Roman withdrew his hand, but his Nier remained above him. He spoke another arcane word, drawing from the Nier a portion of its power, gathering like a charge in his palm. Turning swiftly, Roman released it—a force sharp as a blade—rending the belly of the creature.
The Serpent, in agony, recoiled and unraveled, sliding back into the shadow. But Roman’s eyes, now vigilant, discovered its hiding place. He leapt forward to strike again, coiling power in his hand, the sigils on his body still aglow.
Roman, now as formidable as the Serpent, had become the power of the wood—and the wood submitted. It launched a horde of stone and soil at the Serpent, betraying its cover.
The Serpent bellowed a wail—and in an instant, the raucous and the night dispersed, returning the wood to a world of gilded light and still trees painted in autumn. All seemed quiet. The air settled. The wood exhaled. The serpent — gone.
Slowly, the natural harmony of the glade returned. The wind flowed gently in whispers, carrying the grateful chirping of distant birds, and the air itself seemed to bestow an easing melody—a repentance for the raucous it had unwillingly assailed Roman with before, while under the tyranny of the Serpent.
The once-bloodthirsty horde of leaf, wood, soil, and stone now lay still—resting in their places like spent warriors returned from war, each to their coves, gently restored to life by the low afternoon sun. Even the green of the grass and firs had returned to sight.
This was the Lethenwood he’d been told tales of—a healing sanctuary from the ancient war.
This was the Lethenwood he had always dreamed of escaping to… He was finally here.
My reward for triumph over the trial…
…TO BE CONTINUED
MUSIC:
'The Encounter' by Scott Buckley - released under CC-BY 4.0. www.scottbuckley.com.au
Ethics Statement:
This publication was proofread using ChatGPT and includes two images generated with DALL·E.