Chapter 4

Vik cautiously made his way to the secluded part of the forest where the mysterious ponds were hidden. The thick canopy above ensnared the light, casting a perpetual dusk on the ground below and disorienting any who wandered this far in. Glancing at the tock, Vik noted that nearly two-thirds of the sand had already fallen to the bottom chamber. There was no time to waste.

The ground grew increasingly spongy beneath his feet as he neared the first pond. Each step released tiny bubbles of gas that popped with soft hisses, releasing the faint metallic scent that always lingered around these waters. As he approached the nearest pond, he encountered a darkness so intense it seemed to swallow any light that ventured near. The surface was unnaturally still, reflecting the trees above like a perfect mirror despite the breeze that rustled through the leaves. Leaning over the edge, he tried to peer into its murky center, but the depths were impenetrable—more like a bottomless abyss than water. No fish disturbed its perfect calm. A shiver ran through him as he stepped back, reminded of why this part of the forest was universally shunned.

The sudden squawk of a crow startled Vik, snapping him back to the present. Focus, he silently commanded himself, trying to quell his rising panic. Damian would already have a plan by now, he thought, then immediately chided himself for the comparison. Damian might act quicker, but his impulsiveness often led to complications. This situation called for methodical thinking, not rash action.

He drew the clue from his pocket once more, spreading the parchment flat against his palm:

In shadows deep, a key aglow, Plunge to find the summons few may know. Within the stillness, where dangers bind, A path to great wisdom is yours to find.

“Plunge,” then, surely suggested the key was concealed within one of these ponds. But which? Casting a quick survey across the swampy expanse, he counted no fewer than twenty sizable pools scattered throughout the clearing.

Vik closed his eyes, focusing on the second line of the riddle. The scholars wouldn’t have created an impossible test. There must be something distinguishing the correct pond from the others — something he was missing. Opening his eyes, he scanned the clearing again, this time slowly looking at each pond for a clue.

A gleam in the distance caught his eye—then vanished. He blinked, wondering if he’d imagined it. There it was again: a subtle pulse of light on the surface of a pond near the center of the clearing, visible for just a moment when the canopy shifted and a shaft of sunlight penetrated the gloom.

Perhaps this challenge wasn’t as formidable as he’d first assumed, he mused, a chuckle breaking his tension. With renewed purpose, he strode toward the pond that had momentarily shimmered with promise, weaving his way through the gloom of the others.

Nearing the expansive pond, Vik positioned himself where the occasional sunbeam struck the water. From this angle, he could intermittently see a gleam beneath the water’s center — appearing and disappearing with the shifting light. Though its exact size eluded him, its shape suggested it could be the key. The light emanating from the object was surprisingly clear against the murky depths when visible, like the distant lights in the night sky. It seemed the mechaneers had infused the key with special properties, allowing it to interact with natural light in a way that distinguished it from the water’s consuming darkness.

“That has to be it,” Vik whispered, watching the rhythmic appearance of the glimmer in the water. All he needed now was to retrieve it. He dropped his pack by the water’s edge, methodically laying out his supplies. Unlike Damian, who would likely already be splashing into the pond, Vik preferred a measured approach to problems.

He hadn’t thought to bring any fishing gear, given the limited fishing opportunities in the forest. Yet, he had packed string and a knife. For a river fisher’s son, those were more than enough to fashion a basic but effective tool. As he worked, Vik felt a newfound confidence rising within him. This challenge was meant for someone like him — someone who could plan carefully and execute with precision, qualities the Academy of mechaneers surely valued.

Vik paused, considering his options. Crafting a throwing net felt too dicey; one misaimed toss could send the glowing key plummeting into the depths, possibly lost forever. He wasn’t even sure what mechanism kept the key suspended where it was, and the last thing he wanted was to disturb it with a clumsy attempt.

The academy wouldn’t have created a test where success hinged on luck alone. There must be a reliable way to retrieve the key — a way that demonstrated the qualities they sought in potential students.

Deciding against taking unnecessary chances, Vik opted for a safer approach — a scoop net. It seemed like the best shot at carefully retrieving the key without causing any trouble. He searched the nearby trees for a branch that was sturdy and long enough to reach the center of the pond.

Spotting a tall ash with several promising limbs, he took out his small ax and set to work. Each chop filled him with anticipation, the familiar rhythm reminding him of days spent gathering wood with his father and brother. As the branch fell with a satisfying thud, he began to think maybe he had the makings of an mechaneer after all. Not all their creations required complex machines — sometimes a simple, well-crafted tool was the perfect solution.

He climbed down, dragged the branch towards the shimmering water, and started stripping it down. The bark peeled away in long, damp strips, revealing the pale wood beneath. The air here felt heavier than the rest of the forest, as if the ponds themselves exhaled some invisible vapor that made every movement more laborious. Vik paused briefly to catch his breath, wiping sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.

A slight movement at the clearing’s edge caught his eye. Assuming it was just an animal seeking reprieve from the heat, Vik focused back on his task. In no time, he had shaved the branches off and carved the perfect pole for his net. Next, he quickly wove the smaller discarded branches into a circular shape and fastened them to the end of his pole. Almost there, he thought, skillfully cutting and tying four long strings. This task was so familiar, he felt he could do it blindfolded — fish traps and nets had been part of his daily life for as long as he could remember.

The pulsing light beneath the water’s surface seemed to intensify as he worked, as if responding to his presence or purpose. It reminded him of the folklore about wisplights that lured travelers into bogs — though this light promised opportunity rather than doom.

Suddenly, the bushes behind the tree from which he had taken the branch rustled loudly. Vik’s hand darted to the long knife in his bag, his eyes locked on the source of the noise. The knife’s worn handle fit his palm perfectly, a reassuring weight in his grip. Although animal attacks were uncommon, the forest was always fraught with potential dangers.

A bird burst from the bush, darting over Vik’s head, and he exhaled in relief. Its dark wings flashed red underneath as it soared away—a ruby-necked thrush, unusual for this part of the forest. Returning to his task, his fingers moved faster with practiced precision, finishing a net that fit snugly within the circle of branches.

With the last knots secured, Vik stood, armed with his newly crafted fishing tool, and made his way to the pond’s edge. The soil grew increasingly soft and yielding with each step closer to the water. Stretching the pole out, he was relieved to find it reached the gleaming object perfectly. As he shifted for a better stance, some stray leaves from the trimmed branches tumbled into the pond. Watching his step, he noticed the leaves suddenly dragged under by small, mossy tendrils.

Vik instinctively stepped back, placing the makeshift net beside him while keeping his eyes locked on the water’s surface. His hand found its way to the long knife, ready for whatever might emerge. The murky water rippled slightly where the leaves had disappeared, then settled back into its mirror-like stillness.

He picked up another broken branch and gently lobbed it to the far side of the pond. It floated briefly, nudging the edge, when suddenly, three mossy tentacles shot out from beneath and yanked it into the depths. The water barely rippled — the branch was simply there one moment and gone the next.

Vik’s heart sank as he identified the lythia moss. It was unusual to find it so far from the riverbanks, where it typically ensnared anything that came too close. Years ago, he and Damian had accidentally walked through a patch of lythia, forcing them to leave their shoes behind in the river forever. Thankfully, their father was understanding and just relieved that they hadn’t lost their feet along with their shoes. Ever since that day, Jacob had drilled into them the warning signs of lythia-infested waters and the deadly speed with which it could strike.

Vik couldn’t help but wonder if this was part of Scholar Veridian’s plan to make the challenge harder. The old mechaneer’s eyes had twinkled with that peculiar mix of encouragement and mischief when he’d explained the test. Searching through his bag, Vik found a stubby candle wrapped in oilskin and struck it alight with his flint. The small flame sputtered against the damp air before steadying.

He held the flickering light over the pond’s edge, the warm glow revealing an expanse of lythia that seemed to cover every inch of the water’s boundary. In the candlelight, the moss took on an almost beautiful quality — its deep green tendrils shimmering with an iridescent blue tinge that belied their deadly nature. Vik frowned, noticing how unnaturally uniform the growth appeared — as if it had been deliberately placed there in a single moment rather than spreading organically over time. The tendrils all seemed exactly the same length, and they grew in perfect concentric patterns unlike any natural lythia he’d ever encountered on the riverbanks. The overwhelming presence of this meticulously arranged moss was a clear indicator that this challenge was far more complicated than Vik had initially anticipated.

They either want me to join or die trying, Vik mused darkly, eyeing the makeshift net with trepidation. Beads of sweat formed on his brow despite the cool air around the pond. The notion of fetching the glowing key seemed simple enough, but without something solid to anchor himself, the risk was undeniable. One slip, one moment of imbalance, and the lythia would have him.

His gaze swept the area, searching for a solution to prevent a potential fall into the murky depths. The forest seemed to hold its breath around him, the usual chorus of insects and birds noticeably absent near these ponds. That’s when he spotted it: a robust oak, its ancient trunk twisted and gnarled, conveniently located a few steps from the pond’s far edge. If he could tether a rope around that tree and secure the other end around his waist, he’d have a safety line. This way, he could reach out for the key with his net without worrying about falling in.

Vik didn’t give himself time to second-guess his decision. Hurrying back to his bag, the leather worn smooth from years of use, he grabbed the coil of rope — the same one he and his father used on their boat during rougher waters. The familiar weight of it in his hands brought a measure of comfort. He made his way to the sturdy tree, its bark rough under his palm as he wrapped the rope around its trunk, tying a fisherman’s knot that he was confident wouldn’t give way. With the rope’s other end in hand, Vik returned to the edge of the pond.

He took one last look at the glowing key in the water, its light pulsing like a heartbeat beneath the dark surface. I’ve come too far to leave without it, he thought. Securing the rope tightly around his waist, the coarse fibers digging into his skin through his shirt, he left just enough length to reach the water’s edge safely. Vik grabbed the net once more, its weight now a comfort rather than a burden. Now fully prepared, he took a deep breath, the scent of damp earth and moss filling his lungs as he readied himself to retrieve the key.

In his haste, Vik had not allowed enough slack in the rope, a mistake he regretted as he extended the pole over the pond. The wood creaked in his grip as he strained forward. As he maneuvered the net under the glowing key, which seemed to dance just beyond his reach, he found himself straining against the rope’s tight grip around his waist, the fibers digging painfully into his flesh.

He leaned as far as the taut rope would allow, muscles burning with effort, the key’s miscalculated distance pulling him further over the water’s edge. The struggle for balance became desperate, his feet slipping on the muddy bank. Then came a sharp, impossible snap — the sound of rope that shouldn’t have broken. Before Vik could even process what had happened, he pitched forward into the icy embrace of the pond, a strangled cry escaping his lips. Instinctively grasping for the key as he fell, his fingers closed around the cold metal just as he felt the chilling clasp of lythia tendrils snaking around his ankles.

The water shocked his system, far colder than it should have been on such a warm day. It felt wrong, unnatural, as if the pond existed in its own separate winter. Struggling to keep calm against the rising panic, Vik knew he had to act fast. He shed his top layer, the sodden fabric heavy as lead, fighting for freedom as he swam to the pond’s edge, tearing his foot away from the clutches of the moss. All around, more tendrils reached out, hungry for a hold, their touch leaving trails of burning pain across his skin. In a quick decision, Vik used his outer shirt as a barrier, pressing it against the mossy edge to block its grasp, sacrificing the garment to save himself.

As Vik struggled to escape, the moss clung to him fiercely, wrapping around his limbs with a grip that felt almost deliberate in its cruelty. The tendrils tightened like living ropes, each one seeking to pull him back into the depths with a coordinated purpose that no wild lythia should possess. Trying to pull away felt as if he was tearing his own skin. The pain was sharp and relentless, white-hot where the moss made contact. Just when Vik reached the side and started to pull himself up, his palms slipping on the wet earth, the moss yanked him back into the icy water with a strength that defied natural explanation—far more powerful than any lythia he’d encountered before.

Vik didn’t give up. His lungs burning, vision blurring at the edges, he summoned all his energy for another attempt to break free. Kicking and thrashing, he fought the moss’s grip with everything he had, his father’s voice echoing in his mind: Never give up, never surrender to the water. On his second try, with a burst of desperate energy born of survival instinct, he managed to loosen the moss’s hold. With a final push that sent daggers of pain through his torn muscles, he freed himself and fell onto the bank, crawling further away from the edge on bloodied hands and knees.

Vik collapsed onto his back, gasping for air, each breath a ragged victory. He was a mess of blood and dirt, his clothes torn to ribbons, but overwhelmed with relief at his narrow escape. The sky above him seemed impossibly bright after the darkness of the pond. Wincing in pain, he dared a glance at his battered limbs, angry red welts crisscrossing his skin where the lythia had gripped him, then quickly shut his eyes against the sight of his wounds.

In his clenched fist, the key, which had ceased glowing once removed from the pond’s murky waters, was now just an ordinary piece of metal—cold and unremarkable save for the intricate engravings along its shaft that his fingers could feel but his eyes were too exhausted to examine. At that moment, Vik’s priority shifted from the scholar’s challenge to the much more pressing matter of returning to the clearing. He needed to deliver the key and urgently seek healing attention before infection set into his wounds. Through the haze of pain, he found himself wondering if all prospective students faced such trials, or if he’d somehow earned himself a special test.

Struggling to his pack, each movement sending fresh waves of pain through his lacerated limbs, Vik tucked the key inside, concealing it beneath his equipment with trembling hands. The metal seemed to grow heavier as he buried it, as if it had absorbed the malevolence of the pond. He then unfastened what remained of the rope from his waist, the fibers still damp against his skin, and gathered the severed end, neatly coiling it with the automatic precision of someone who’d been handling ropes his entire life.

Upon examining the end of the rope, his relief at surviving the pond morphed into cold dread. The edge wasn’t frayed or torn as it would be from strain or age — it was cleanly cut, the fibers severed in one decisive stroke. A shiver of apprehension coursed through him as he surveyed the surrounding forest, suddenly aware of how the shadows between trees might conceal a watcher. It was evident he wasn’t alone, and hadn’t been from the moment he’d entered this part of the woods.

Gripping his pack tightly against his side, Vik drew his long knife, the familiar weight offering little comfort now. The blade caught what little light filtered through the canopy as he readied himself for any threats, his ears straining for sounds that didn’t belong to the forest. He began to stagger away from the treacherous ponds, each step a negotiation between speed and agony. In his wounded condition, confronting the unseen adversary who had sabotaged his rope was out of the question — he wouldn’t stand a chance. All that mattered now was making his way out of the dense, shadowy forest as quickly as his battered body could manage. The tock in his pocket continued its relentless countdown, sand streaming through its narrow passage with indifference to his plight. Vik was barely confident he could complete even this simple task of walking back to the clearing.

~~~

“Does it usually take this long for someone to finish your challenges, Scholar?” Jacob asked, shifting from one foot to the other at the edge of the forest. The worn leather of his boots had collected a fine layer of dust from his hours of anxious pacing.

He stood alone, wishing Damian could have been there alongside him. His younger son had spent most of the day at the cleanary, shouldering the workload meant for all three of them to meet their latest shipment deadline. By now, though, Damian would be preparing for his dinner with Captain Mandrake, perhaps even walking toward the inn.

As the sun began to lower, signaling the day’s end, Jacob’s concern for Vik heightened. The scorching heat had given way to a muggy air that clung stubbornly, making the wait even more uneasy. Jacob studied the tree line, searching for any movement, any sign of his eldest son emerging from the shadows.

The once blistering sun now cast long shadows across the forest entrance, offering a slight reprieve from the day’s intensity. Yet, the air remained thick, heavy with the day’s warmth, wrapping around Jacob like a damp cloak. Jacob watched Veridian closely, observing as he paced back and forth, his expensive boots leaving precise imprints in the soft ground. The scholar’s movements were measured, his hands clasped behind his back as he seemed lost in contemplation. After a moment, the scholar lifted his gaze and addressed him, his eyes reflecting the amber hues of the setting sun.

“It takes as long as necessary,” the scholar replied simply, his tone neither concerned nor reassuring.

The response grated on Jacob, like sand in an open wound. His patience, already worn thin by hours of waiting, was nearly depleted. He was on the verge of retorting, his mouth opening to deliver words that would surely sever any goodwill between them, when a noise from the forest’s edge caught his attention — a cracking of twigs, a rustling of leaves that didn’t match the rhythm of the wind.

Vik stumbled into view, leaning heavily on an impromptu walking stick fashioned from a young sapling. Blood and grime stained his tattered clothes, and his face looked as though he’d been mauled by a wild animal, welts and scratches criss crossing his skin in angry patterns. His eyes, however, burned with a fierce determination that transcended his physical state.

Jacob moved quickly to his son’s side, his heart hammering against his ribs, catching him just as Vik’s strength waned and he began to sink to the ground. Scholar Veridian, equally quick despite his age, reached out to support Vik’s other side, his slender fingers surprisingly strong as they gripped the young man’s arm.

Vik, with effort that cost him visibly, pulled his arm away from the scholar, instead pressing something firmly into the scholar’s hand — a small metal object that felt unnaturally cold against Jacob’s palm.

“Here is your key, Scholar Veridian,” Vik rasped, his voice dry as autumn leaves, yet carrying an unmistakable edge of accusation. His gaze locked with the scholar’s, communicating something beyond his simple words.

“No, young man, the key is yours,” he responded, his expression shifting to one of genuine concern as he tried to piece together what had occurred in the depths of the forest. “You’ve earned it through trials I never intended to be so severe.”

“Help me get him back home, please,” Jacob demanded, his voice tight with tension as he supported more of his son’s weight. “After that, you can explain to me exactly what you put him through.” The unspoken threat in his words hung in the air between them, a promise that this conversation was far from over.