The Hall of the First Nyx was among the few monuments of the Origin Bloods that still stood untouched by time.
Myths claimed it had never been carved by mortal hands, but willed into existence.
A cathedral of obsidian and star-glass rose from the mountain's heart, its vast ceiling stretching upward into a darkness no torchlight could reach. The walls shimmered faintly with Origin Blood runes etched bone-deep into the stone, their pale glow swallowed by the immense void above. The floor was a single seamless slab of black stone. Etched across its surface were the Mantles of every survivor who had clawed their way through the Chambers of Night. Thousands of names spiraled outward like the rings of a fallen star.
Tonight, no one looked down. They looked up.
Sixty-seven figures stood atop the raised dais, the living remnants of the 38th Generation, the last great flame of the bloodline. They formed a crescent, a wall of living relics clad in battle-worn armor. Each warrior's blade was plunged into the stone at their feet, held upright like a silent, steel vow.
Behind them, atop the Throne of Obsidian Fang, sat the Patriarch: August Nyxvalis. He did not blink. He did not seem to breathe. Flanking him were the Three Heavens — monsters in human form, judging the cubs of the 39th with the cold eyes of apex predators.
The 39th Generation entered in funeral silence.
Forty-seven remained. They walked the long central aisle beneath the weight of centuries, their footsteps echoing through the hall like distant hammer strikes against an anvil. Armor creaked. Breath slowed. The eyes of the 38th followed them with silent scrutiny.
Violet walked fourth. Her jaw was locked tight, shoulders squared beneath the faint glow of her dusk-threaded armor. She did not lower her gaze as she passed the dais. She had not survived the trials by showing soft places to predators. Though the pressure of sixty-seven veterans bearing down on her felt like standing beneath a falling mountain, she gave them nothing.
Chion came later, Eighteenth in the Spiral. But first in every whisper.
He walked with his hands clasped behind his back, posture straight, eyes fixed calmly ahead. The silence around him seemed thicker than the rest, as though the air itself refused to move too close. Some among the 38th watched him with resentment. Others with open hunger. A few,far more dangerous, watched him with quiet curiosity.
Chion noticed. He said nothing.
When the final Mantled took their place, the great doors of the hall slammed shut behind them. Runes flared. Stone thundered. The sound echoed like a tomb sealing shut.
Silence followed.
Then the Patriarch stood.
The motion alone bent the atmosphere of the room. Shadows seemed to recoil from him as he descended a single step from the throne. He did not speak immediately. He let the weight of his presence settle over the room first — a pressure, heavy, unavoidable. Several of the younger Mantled felt their breath shorten beneath it.
When he finally spoke, his voice did not echo. It did not need to.
"You sit beneath the swords of your betters."
His gaze swept across the hall like a blade drawn slowly from its sheath.
"You walk a path carved by the dead."
Another step down.
"And yet." His eyes hardened. "I wonder which of you will be remembered."
Silence stretched across the chamber. No one coughed. No one shifted. Not even the armor dared to creak.
August continued. His voice did not rise. But it sank deeper.
"We are not noble. We are not kind. We are not human in the way the world wishes us to be."
Another step.
"We are the consequence. The cost. The scar left behind after the gods abandoned their children."
The words sank into bone.
"You are the 39th Flame."
A pause.
"And you are dim."
A ripple passed through the ranks of the younger Mantled. August ignored it.
"Seven hundred and thirty-one entered the Chambers." He raised a hand slowly. "Forty-seven crawled back out."
His gaze swept them again.
"I have buried more promise than your generation possesses. You are not feared." A pause. "You are barely remembered."
Several among the 39th stiffened. One clenched his fists hard enough for his gauntlets to groan. Another lowered his gaze.
Chion did neither. He simply listened.
August descended another step.
"The path before you is fixed — the Exodus Trial. You will hunt. You will kill. You will carve glory into the name Nyxvalis."
His voice grew colder.
"But make no mistake. Just as you hunt the world, the world hunts you. Centuries of resentment await you beyond these mountains. Decades of preparation. They have sharpened their best wolves for this cycle."
His presence flared suddenly. The hall trembled beneath it.
"They will not offer mercy. They will not honor the laws we uphold. They will only seek your blood."
His voice lowered to a deadly calm.
"You would be better served dying with a blade in hand than kneeling for forgiveness."
Another step.
"If you desert this law." His gaze turned lethal. "The Clan will descend upon you in its entirety. Death would be mercy compared to the judgment that follows dishonor."
He turned slightly, gesturing toward the ranks of the 38th.
"We do not send you into the world to protect it."
His voice dropped to a whisper that carried to every corner of the hall.
"We send you to remind it. Remind it of fire. Of ruin. Of what a single Nyxvalis becomes when denied mercy and filled with purpose."
He raised his hand. The runes carved into the walls ignited. Crimson and silver threads flared across the stone, outlining the figures of the 39th like living constellations.
"That is the Exodus Trial. That is your burden. That is your curse."
His eyes darkened.
"That is your flame."
August raised his arm.
"Rise."
The 39th stood as one.
"Raise your blades."
Silver steel flashed into the air.
"Return only when those blades burn crimson with the blood of empires."
His voice thundered now.
"Prove you were not a mistake."
The hall erupted with heat. August roared:
"Blessings of the Wing!"
The warriors of the 38th struck their swords against the obsidian floor — steel rang like thunder.
"Blessings of the Moon!"
The 39th lifted their blades higher, voices rising together.
"Blessings of the Blade!"
August finished the rite, his voice cutting across the hall like the final stroke of a blade:
"And to the glory of Evernight!"
The sound shook the hall.
Then silence returned.
August turned and ascended back to the Throne of Obsidian Fang. As he sat, shadows stirred behind the Three Heavens. Black-armored emissaries emerged from nothing, stepping forward through the ranks of the younger generation. In their hands were sealed scrolls of midnight parchment, each bearing the sigil of the clan. One was placed into every waiting hand.
August spoke once more.
"The Exodus Trial begins in three days. The Black Envoys Commission is compulsory — it will determine whether you are fit to walk your own path, or die before ever leaving the Vale."
He leaned back into the throne. A faint smile touched his lips.
"For now — we feast."