I woke up in a warm twilight. It wasn't the hard "landing" the green vortex had promised. The forest around me breathed: thick resin, wet bark, damp, living earth. The silence was so dense I could hear my own heart—it beat like a muffled drum locked inside my chest.
Where were my people? Faurgar? Gellia? Flint? Silence. Not a rustle, not the familiar scent of tobacco or steel. My pride was left somewhere on the other side of the portal. The thought that I couldn't hold them together stung worse than a broken rib. "Hold the line, hold your word," my parents always said. But how do you hold the line when you’re the only one standing in it?
Fine. I’ll leave the philosophy to Faurgar. Narrow the scope of tasks to a military minimum: survive, find the others.
I sat up, giving my head a chance to catch up with my body, which was still trying to fly somewhere. My shoulder was pulling, and my ribs—a parting gift from our dragon acquaintance—ached with every breath. But I could move. My palms were intact, my grip firm, my fingers obeyed.
But there was a hitch with my gear. I felt my dagger, but the Shield was gone. The artifact that had only yesterday recognized me and hovered around like a living thing had vanished. I was alone with the forest and my own skin.
Funny—my fingers instinctively caught a falling leaf. The veins on it seemed familiar, as if I had already held this very leaf a long time ago, as a cub on my first night trail. It was scary back then, too. The forest seemed endless back then, too.
I looked up. Through the thick canopy seeped light—the cold sign of Sel?ne. Since childhood, I knew: if you don't see the road beneath your feet, follow the light from above. Between the gnarled roots lay a thin silver stripe—a moonlight glint, sharp as a blade, leading somewhere deep into the thicket.
Panic is a poor advisor. Stop. Breathe. I forced myself through that classic cycle: a slow inhale for three counts until the air hit my aching ribs, and an equally measured exhale for three, pushing the green mist out of my head. One-two-three—inhale. One-two-three—exhale.
My heart stopped tripping over my bones. The plan was simple: follow the light, mark the path, listen to the forest. Every sound must be quieter than the wind. Meet a trail—become that trail. Meet an enemy—become their wall. I tightened my straps and stood up. The voice inside—the leader's voice—growled:
"A leader is the one who goes first. Even if he goes alone."
A clearing opened before me so suddenly it was as if someone had jerked open a door into a dark room. Grass knee-high, sullen trunks at the edges, and the moon caught in the branches like a forgotten lantern. And, of course, a guest. At the edge of the woods stood a silhouette. A large Hadozi, short sword, round shield. A scar on the collarbone, a low stance, weight on the lead foot—a professional. Internally, I just knew: it was him. The Black Wolf. Flint’s father.
There was nothing to talk about. I moved into the attack line, raising my blade to my shoulder. The first exchange of blows was like diving into an ice hole—sharp and sobering. His shield moved so easily it seemed to weigh nothing, catching my blade exactly where I planned to break through. My blade slid off, he gave a short thrust forward, and the rim of his shield slammed under my ribs. The air was knocked out of me with a crunch.
I stepped back, leveling my breath: one-two-three. He followed, silent and inevitable, as if reading my thoughts. I dove inside his defense, aiming my blade under his wrist. He simply turned his sword—hilt higher, spine to the wrist. And then it hit me. This wasn't the "Wolf." The handwriting of the movements, the cold fury he called "restraint"... It was my father. Primefield Senior. My muscles recognized him before my head did.
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I widened my stance, trying to impose my rhythm, but he cut through my tempo with a short shield shove. A second—and I was on my knee, the taste of metal on my teeth. He pressed the blade to my throat. Stopped half an inch from the skin.
"You are unworthy to rule," he said. Without malice. "There is no strength in you."
The moonlight flickered. The face beneath the helmet's slit flowed, turning back into the stranger Hadozi, and then dissolved entirely. The clearing was instantly empty. I stood alone, clutching the leaf in my palm. My heart pounded in my ears. My knee was dry; there were zero signs of a struggle on the grass. Only the skin under my armor burned where the steel had been pressed against it.
"Strength," I muttered to the void, "is holding the line when there’s no one in it but you."
The moonlight thread led me to the next opening. In the center waited another silhouette. This time—a long spear. The point froze at the level of my eye, elbows tucked—the signature of a good school where they beat your heels for extra movements.
The pressure began from the first step. The spear literally breathed: thrusts aimed at the knee, then the chest. My imaginary shield caught the point with a ring that made my palm numb. One-two-three—inhale. One-two-three—exhale. The opponent was trying to make me blink, to catch that split second when I lost focus. An old trick.
I dropped onto my hip, shifting my shield only half a palm to the left—enough for the steel to slide into the void. I lunged into a counterattack, bursting into that close zone where a spear becomes a useless stick. Toes in the dirt, hip—a lever. I "cut" the space, forcing the error. And she faltered.
A moment. I ducked under the thrust, put my shoulder into the strike, and diagonally cut off the escape route. My blade swept toward the neck in a clean arc... and everything flowed.
The figure began to melt. The shaft became shorter, the hands—more graceful. Standing before me was She. My mother. The same clear eyes and a gaze capable of stopping a fight with one quiet word.
"You are unworthy to rule," she whispered. "There is no compassion in you."
My hand froze. The blade hovered at her throat. The silver light around me flickered, and the clearing began to crumble into grey mist. I was back at the very beginning of the trail. The leaf lay in my palm.
"Compassion," I muttered to the forest, "doesn't mean withdrawing the blade when it’s time to cut. It means cutting so precisely and cleanly that you don't have to repeat it. So as not to multiply unnecessary pain."
The moon rose higher. Well then. I’m going.
"Unworthy to rule" isn't a verdict. It’s just a to-do list.
I used to think a leader was the one who was first in everything. The fastest, the wisest, the infallible. But looking at this still reflection of the moon, I realized: trying to be the best at everything means being no one.
I will never be able to calculate the world in numbers and probabilities the way Faurgar does. His mind is a mechanism that sees the hidden springs of reality while I only see an obstacle. Let him find the paths. Let him count resources and build algorithms. I will trust him with that.
I will never be able to burn away the darkness with such icy and absolute fury as now lives in Gellia. She has a core that doesn't bend where I begin to doubt. She is our moral compass, even if its needle is now fixed on "retribution." Let her judge. I will trust her with that.
And I will never learn to glide so skillfully between truth and lies as Flint. His instinct for a setup, his ability to be one of "them" among strangers—it’s what has saved our hides more than once while I was trying to break down a wall with my forehead. Let him scent the trap. I will trust him with that.
And my place? My place is here. In front.
Leadership isn't about knowing everything. It’s about being the foundation upon which the others stand. I permit myself not to be the smartest. I permit myself not to be the most righteous.
My gift is simpler and more terrifying. I am the wall. I am the one who takes the first blow on the shield so that Faurgar has time to think, Gellia to strike, and Flint to scheme. I am the one who turns monsters into mountains of dead meat, clearing the way for their talents. It is what I do best. And that is enough.
The darkness approached softly. Surprisingly, this time it had no teeth. I blacked out—not from weakness, but on the schedule the water had mercifully returned to me.
The Foundation of the Pride.
Key Analysis:
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The Shadow Dueling: The fights with the "Father" (Strength) and the "Mother" (Compassion) weren't about winning; they were about defining his limits. He realized he doesn't have to be the smartest or the most righteous — he just has to be the Wall.
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The Acceptance: This is a beautiful moment of group synergy. Priorin acknowledges Faurgar’s logic, Gellia’s justice, and Flint’s cunning not as threats to his leadership, but as essential tools. He’s no longer leading "above" them, but "for" them.
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The Vanished Shield: The fact that the Shield disappeared during the trial suggests it was testing his worthiness without its help.
Questions for the readers:
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The Visions: Do you think these were real ghosts, or was the Island’s magic simply scanning Priorin’s memories to build a trial?
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The "Wall" Philosophy: Is being "the one who takes the first blow" enough to lead a group of such complex individuals?
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What's Next? If Priorin is alone in this forest, where are the others? Are they having their own trials?
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DM Vault for Chapter 14:
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Mechanic: The Trial of Archetypes. Rules for running 1-on-1 psychological encounters where "Willpower" is the primary stat.
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Lore: The Spirit of the Island. Why does this place test its visitors? A deep dive into the "Sentience" of the Forbidden Lands.
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Priorin’s New Trait: Unyielding Foundation. A new mechanical buff for Priorin based on his realization in this chapter.
[Link to Patreon — Become the Wall]