As Era regained consciousness, two things became immediately clear. First: she was in the exact same position as before—slumped before the grand oak table in the library, surrounded by open books, scattered parchment, and curled scrolls. Second: she was bleeding.
Rivulets of blood and pus oozed from raw burns across her flesh, the wounds weeping a vile mixture that glistened against her skin. Pain lashed her with every breath, each movement of air searing against her exposed injuries.
Shit.
She wasn't going anywhere. Even the thought of summoning help felt as unreachable as the stars. Era clenched her jaw, forcing herself to keep her heavy eyelids open.
"You're bleeding all over my books," a deep voice said dryly.
Era turned her head sluggishly toward the sound, her gaze locking onto a figure leaning against a bookshelf. Arms crossed, dark eyes pinned on hers, the stranger watched her with a scowl.
She'd never seen him before. Era glared back.
His obvious disdain sparked a flicker of defiance in her, cutting through the haze of her pain.
"I hadn't realised," she said, voice hoarse but steady. "Be a doll and fetch Geoffrey."
"No."
Her gaze sharpened, incredulous. "Excuse me?"
The man didn't flinch, his scowl unwavering. He studied her as if her suffering were a mild inconvenience.
"Fine," she snapped, venom dripping from her tone. "I'll just bleed all over your books some more."
He tilted his head, considering her with maddening nonchalance. Without a word, he turned, hands in his pockets, and walked away.
What the hell?
"Sure, just leave me here!" Era muttered bitterly, her head lolling back. She drifted in and out of awareness, the agony swelling and ebbing like waves. Ironic, she thought dimly, to survive her first trial only to die like this. Somewhere in the haze, she felt hands lifting her. Darkness swept over her again.
-----------------
When Era woke, she was in a modest bedroom. The narrow bed beneath her creaked as she shifted, her bandaged wounds aching but dulled. A wooden dresser sat against one wall, its age evident in the groan of its joints, while a single window spilled soft light into the room. Carefully, she slipped out of bed. Her bare feet met the cold floor as she padded to the door, opening it to find herself back in the familiar maze of the library. Relief flooded her. Geoffrey must have found her and patched her up. Eager to thank him, she navigated the labyrinthine shelves until she stumbled upon an unexpected scene.
Geoffrey sat at a small table, a teacup in one hand and a sandwich in the other. Across from him sat the rude stranger, relaxed and entirely at ease.
Freed from her earlier agony, Era took a proper look at him. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in casual loungewear that clung to his gym-ready frame. Midnight hair framed his sharp features in lazy waves, and a pair of glasses perched on his nose, lending him a misleading intellectual air. He looked more suited to a battlefield—or better yet, buried under one, Era mused darkly.
His dark gaze met hers, piercing and infuriating.
"Era!" Geoffrey exclaimed, delighted. He stood, rushing to usher her into a seat.
"You're awake! How are you feeling?"
"I'm fine, Geoffrey," she replied, though her attention remained fixed on the stranger. He stared at her like she was a curiosity to be dissected.
"What?" she asked bluntly.
The man didn't answer. His obnoxious stare only deepened.
"Oh, where are my manners!" Geoffrey exclaimed, flustered. "Era, this is Silas. Before you started visiting, he was my most frequent guest."
Era narrowed her eyes. The implied territorial claim grated on her. "What are you doing here?" she asked, her tone cold.
Geoffrey glanced nervously between them. "He's researching for his next project," he explained.
Before she could probe further, an alarm rang out, sharp and urgent. Geoffrey apologised profusely before hurrying off, leaving Era alone with Silas. And his insufferable stare. She sat down opposite him.
"Got a problem?" she snapped.
Silas tilted his head slightly, like a cat amused by a mouse. Finally, he spoke. "You're not what I expected."
"Excuse me?" she replied, bristling.
"You're the Curse-bringer," he said flatly.
"The one they've been whispering about. And it seems you survived your first trial."
The air between them grew heavy.
"And what if I am?" Era asked, forcing her voice to remain neutral.
Silas leaned back, arms crossed. "If that's true, congratulations. You're alive."
"Thanks for the observation," she snapped, though unease curled in her stomach.
"Barely," he added, gesturing at her bandaged arms. "Judging by the state of you, it's a miracle."
Her chair scraped as she stood abruptly, anger flaring. "Listen, I don't know who you think you are, but—"
"I'm someone who doesn't have time for flukes," Silas interrupted smoothly. His tone wasn't cruel, but it cut nonetheless.
Era's fists clenched. "If that's what you think, then don't waste your time sitting here." She turned on her heel, ready to storm off, but his next words stopped her cold.
"I'm here to take you to the meeting."
She spun back to face him. "What meeting?"
"The higher-ups. They've been waiting for your return," he replied, rising from his chair with infuriating calm. He adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves, his gaze steady. "I'm your escort. Shall we?"
Era's mind raced. She wasn't ready—not like this, battered and weak—but she'd made an agreement.
"Fine," she said, brushing past him. "Let's get this over with."
Behind her, Silas followed, his footsteps measured.
"Do you even know the way?" he asked. She froze. Damn it. His smug amusement radiated as he walked ahead.
Era clenched her teeth. The second she got her blessing, she was testing it on him.
-----
Silas was annoyed.
Since his last project, his creativity had dried up. His annual presentation to Aueron loomed, and he had nothing to offer. The idea of failure didn't bother him. What infuriated him was the cause: a lack of inspiration. His desire and drive still burned hot, but his imagination had failed him. Perhaps he'd been cursed he wondered dryly. It wasn't uncommon for the children of Aueron to entertain dirty tacticts to compete- stealing projects, sabotage and even murder. That sort of behaviour was common among the weak.
Silas was not weak. He had no competition. His downfall would be by his own hand.
When he first heard the rumours about the curse-bringer, he hadn't cared. Admittedly, he had chuckled when he heard she had killed Peter. Then the chairman, had mentioned her trials. That piqued his interest.
A mortal given access to the divine realm.
The dam over his creativity burst, and suddenly ideas flooded him. The possibilities- they were endless. He could almost taste the greatness just beyond his fingertips. He plotted all through her first trial. Driven close to mad with his anticipation- it would all depend on her. When she awoke, he knew it immediately. Wounded, bloodied, stinking and teetering on the doorstep of death, she regarded him with those gleaming sharp green eyes. Like he was an ant.
He was certain- using her, he would create a masterpiece. She was the key.
-----
The meeting was as uneventful as Era had expected. The chairman had extended invitations to all the archangels, but only a couple bothered to attend—including Glasses and Danny. None of the top three ranked agents showed up. That's when Era learned Silas was ranked fourth in the agency. Predictable—she could already tell he wasn't "pedestal" material.
She found the whole affair pointless. Without a blessing, what was the use of their tutelage? In a fistfight, she was confident she could take on both Glasses and Danny without breaking a sweat. What she needed wasn't another coach—it was a strategist. Someone who could help prep her for the trials, and decode the riddle. Of course, the gods wouldn't let her bring a partner along. What she needed wasn't a person.
It was a weapon.
The idea fit.
As the others rambled through introductions and pleasantries, Era tuned them out, her mind turning over the cryptic couplet she'd been given. The first line, "the jester's crown," had clearly pointed to her first trial.
That meant the other lines probably hinted at the others. There had to be more clues buried in the riddle if she could just piece them together.
Her focus narrowed on the next line: "a warrior's sword."
A realisation struck her. Was she the warrior in question? Was this the clue she needed to arm herself?
The moment the meeting concluded, Era slipped past the crowd of new faces trying to introduce themselves, evading their greetings with well-practiced ease. She made a beeline for the chairman, her expression set with determination.
"How exactly do I ascend to the divine realm?" she asked, her tone abrupt.
The chairman's brows lifted slightly in curiosity, but he answered readily. "Your body doesn't actually disappear," he explained. "The divine essence of your soul leaves and traverses the divine realm. When your soul returns, your body recalibrates to match any injuries or aging your soul experiences while there."
Era latched onto that detail. "So, if I had a weapon—one imbued with ichor—would it ascend with me?"
The chairman paused, considering her question. Then, he nodded. "I don't see why not."
Perfect. She'd cracked it.
As her thoughts raced, the chairman chuckled, clearly amused. "This must be fate," he said, his voice light. "Silas has been interested in meeting you, as well."
Her focus snapped to him at the name.
"Silas?"
"He's a blacksmith," the chairman explained. "Blessed by Aueron, the God of Forge and Craft."
Era's thoughts clicked into place. So that's why he was in the library. He wanted something from her, and now she wanted something from him too.
---------
Back in the library, the room was cloaked in the dim light of flickering sconces and moonlight filtering through high, arched windows. Era sat at the same grand oak table, her bandaged arms resting on its worn surface. Across from her, Silas leaned back in his chair, the faint glow of a lamp catching the sharp angles of his face. Between them lay an open parchment and a quill.
"You're serious about this?" Era asked, narrowing her eyes.
Silas smirked faintly. "I wouldn't waste my time otherwise. It's a fair trade, Era. You need a weapon, and I need something only you can bring back."
"And you're sure this is even possible?"
"Of course," he said, his tone clipped with certainty. "Just as the gods can form contracts with humans, their blessed can make lesser, binding contracts with each other. It's a perk of having divine ichor in your veins. This one's simple: I create a weapon for you, and in exchange, you bring me something from your next trial."
Era tapped her fingers against the table, her expression thoughtful. "And this 'something'—what are you expecting?"
"That depends entirely on your trial," Silas replied smoothly. "You're venturing into the divine realm, a place teeming with relics and materials that exist nowhere else."
She tilted her head, her green eyes gleaming with curiosity. "And why do you need it? You don't strike me as the altruistic type."
Silas's smirk widened slightly. "Perceptive. It's not about charity. As one blessed by Aueron, the God of Forge and Craft, I'm expected to create objects of power, it's a stipulation of his contract. It's a wonderful ability, I can create anything I want. But each divine objects must surpass anything I've made before. Each piece must outdo the last—more creative, more powerful, more exceptional. That creates an issue of resources. The best objects are those imbued in divine power, and in order to do that, I need to use divine materials. As you can imagine, on earth, those are scarce to come by. That is why half of our job requires quests in search of mythical items. For my first craft, I used strands from the Golden Fleece to create healing potions. This time, I can't go on a quest. I don't have the time, or the interest of anything on earth. I need you to bring me something back from the realm of gods from your trial to use and present at my next check-in with Aueron. If we fail…." He paused, his expression tightening.
"What happens?" Era pressed.
"Aueron's disappointment," Silas said flatly. "He removes his blessing—or worse, stagnates my ability to improve. For someone like me, that's the same as death."
His dark eyes locked onto hers. "So, you see, this isn't a favour. It's necessity."
Era leaned back, absorbing his words. The stakes were clear. "And what do I get out of this?" she asked.
"You'll get a weapon crafted specifically for you for use at your next trial, and then after you bring me back something, I'll upgrade it to a divine weapon. It'll be yours on loan until your trials are complete. Afterward, it returns to me."
She frowned. "On loan?"
"Did you think I'd give you my masterpiece for keeps?" he asked dryly. "Once I present it to Aueron, it's technically his. You'll have to manage with it until your trials are done."
Era didn't like the thought of borrowing something so essential. She also didn't like the fact she'd have to wait for her divine weapon for her third trial. Era wanted her next trial to be her last.
"And if I don't bring back what you need?"
"Then the contract enforces itself," Silas said, his tone hardening. "Failing to uphold your end will bring consequences. Divine contracts don't break without punishment."
Her jaw tightened, but her gaze didn't waver. "Good thing I don't plan on failing."
Silas's lips twitched into something like approval. "That's the spirit."
He slid the parchment toward her. Elegant script outlined the terms they'd just discussed, the black ink shimmering faintly with a golden hue. At the bottom, two empty lines awaited their signatures. Era scanned the document, her mind racing. A weapon forged by Silas could give her the edge she needed to survive the trials. The risk was undeniable, but she'd come this far betting on herself. She wasn't about to stop now. Besides, she might not have to bring him something back anyway- she might already have something to offer.
Gripping the quill, she dipped it into the ink and signed her name with a flourish.
Silas leaned forward, his hand steady as he added his name beneath hers. The moment his pen lifted from the parchment, the words glowed brighter, then faded back to black. A faint pulse of energy rippled through the air, leaving Era with an odd sense of weightlessness, as though something intangible had clicked into place.
"It's done," Silas said. He watched her, his expression unreadable. "Now, don't forget: I'll hold up my end. But if you fail…" His voice trailed off, leaving the unspoken threat hanging in the air.
"I won't," Era said firmly, meeting his gaze. "You'll get what you need."
The air in the library hung heavy with tension as Era and Silas faced each other. The weight of their freshly inked contract lingered between them, a reminder of the stakes they'd just set. Era's fingers tightened around the hilt of the dagger she'd taken from her first trial. Its blade gleamed faintly in the dim light, the edge marred by dark stains that wouldn't come clean.
" I'd rather go into my next trial with a divine weapon. I have something I brought back from my first trial." she said.
Era slammed the dagger onto the table between them. The metal clinked ominously against the wood, the sound reverberating through the cavernous space. Silas didn't flinch. He reached forward slowly, his eyes narrowing as he examined the weapon. The moment his hand closed around the hilt, the faint glow of ichor emanating from his skin made the blade shimmer.
"This is from your first trial?" he asked, his voice low and intense.
"Yes," she replied. Her arms crossed over her chest, defiant.
Silas turned the dagger over in his hands, his expression unreadable. "Remarkable" he said finally." I can work with this." His dark eyes flicked up to meet hers, a hint of something dangerous in his gaze. "In fact, I can make something quite exceptional, but It won't be divine. This weapon is not from the realm of the Gods. You'll still need to retrieve me something"
Well it was worth the try.
Era's lips curled into a faint smirk. "Then do it. I need something that can actually make a difference in my next trial."
Silas stepped closer, the intensity of his presence palpable. "You've given me the material. Now I'll show you what I can do with it. But understand this, Era—once I forge this weapon, it will carry your soul's weight. Every failure, every weakness—it will reflect that. If you falter in your trial, this blade will break long before you do."
"I don't plan on faltering," she shot back, her voice steady despite the tightness in her chest. "So stop talking and start forging."
He held her gaze for a moment longer, then smirked. "You've got guts. Let's hope they're not spilled in the next trial."
Silas turned on his heel, the dagger gleaming in his hand as he walked away, his pace purposeful and unyielding. The sound of his boots echoed through the library until they faded into silence. Era exhaled, her jaw tight and her fists clenched. The deal was sealed, and the weapon she needed was one step closer to being in her grasp. But she could feel it—this wasn't just a bargain. It was a test, one more layer of pressure added to the already crushing weight of the trials.
She'd survive. She'd fight. And she'd wield that weapon to carve her path through whatever the gods threw at her. Failure wasn't an option. It never had been.