Torvin stood utterly transfixed, his gaze snagged upon the vast panorama that had unfurled before them. It required a considerable duration for his faculties to reassert themselves, during which the prodigious arrogance that typically animated his bearing visibly receded, shrinking like a flame deprived of oxygen. The sky above the Ash Vein Peaks, a perpetually brooding expanse, was presently crisscrossed by an array of shimmering stone shards. These ethereal constructs, imbued with a fleeting luminescence, descended with an almost spectral grace. For each shard that dissolved into the ambient air, a member of the Stone Vein Conclave materialized, typically accompanied by several youths of approximately fifteen years. Both male and female adolescents, upon their arrival, exhibited expressions remarkably congruent with the dazed wonder that had just departed Kaelen’s own companions, their eyes wide with an unconcealed awe at the formidable spectacle surrounding them. All the Conclave members responsible for escorting these aspiring youths convened at a designated perimeter, engaging in low-toned discussions regarding their charges. After an interval sufficient for all the recommended candidates to arrive at the Conclave grounds, a figure emerged. Clad in garments the color of obsidian, a middle-aged man surveyed the assembly with an gaze devoid of discernible warmth or interest. His voice, when it came, was flat and resonant, carrying an unmistakable authority. “Among this collective, a mere fraction shall be deemed worthy of the Stone Vein Conclave’s tutelage.” A collective gasp, sharp and involuntary, rippled through the gathered youths. Kaelen felt a distinct tremor initiate in his own chest. He performed a rapid mental inventory, concluding that a total of forty-eight individuals now stood poised to undergo the initial assessment. “The Path of Ascent, the very avenue to attuning with the Ash Veins, is predicated upon one’s innate predisposition,” the Elder continued, his voice maintaining its uninflected cadence. “The preliminary assessment is designed to ascertain the potency of your latent Ash-flow. Now, any youth upon whom my finger alights shall present themselves for examination.” He then extended a digit, pointing with clinical precision at a youth near the front. The designated youth advanced with perceptible caution, his limbs exhibiting a tell-tale tremor. The Elder, without preamble, placed a hand upon the crown of the youth’s head. After a brief moment of quiet contemplation, he withdrew it. “Insufficient latent Ash-flow. Unqualified. Proceed to the left.” The youth’s composure seemed to collapse instantaneously, as if the very sinews supporting him had abruptly disintegrated. His countenance assumed a bleak, almost vacant cast, and he shuffled silently towards the designated area, his movements devoid of any discernible volition. Another youth was selected, stepping forward with an expression of palpable apprehension. Ten consecutive candidates underwent the same procedure, each receiving the same pronouncement. Up to this juncture, the Elder’s right side, designated for those deemed qualified, remained conspicuously vacant, a stark testament to the rigorous, or perhaps simply unforgiving, nature of the Conclave’s initial discernment. Then, it was Torvin’s turn. The erstwhile prodigious arrogance that had been so characteristic of him had entirely vanished from his features. His face, now strikingly pale, belied any lingering vestige of his prior bravado as he stepped forward. Upon the Elder’s hand making contact with Torvin’s head, a subtle, yet undeniable, transformation occurred on the Elder’s usually impassive visage. A flicker of something akin to interest, perhaps even approval, animated his eyes. “State your designation.” Torvin, his voice a strained whisper of deference, responded promptly. “Esteemed Elder, my designation is Torvin.” The Elder nodded, a barely perceptible gesture. A slight smile, a rare curve of his lips, manifested. “Ah, you are the one Conclave Elder Brenn spoke of. Excellent. Torvin, proceed to the right.” Torvin’s relief was immediate, palpable, and quickly transmuted into a wave of unadulterated exaltation. He strode towards the right, the collective gaze of the other youths, now tinged with something resembling admiration and envy, tracking his progress. His eyes, sweeping across the remaining candidates, were once again replete with a familiar arrogance, a fresh coat of contempt, as if he had ascended to an untouchable plane of existence. “May the Ancestors curse his fortune; he is undeniably a favored mongrel,” Joris, a youth of a rather pragmatic disposition, murmured to Kaelen, his lip curling in an expression of undisguised sourness. Kaelen’s own heart, already taut with apprehension, tightened further. Before his inner eye rose the vivid specter of his parents’ visages, their expressions imbued with an almost unbearable burden of expectation. His hands, hanging at his sides, clenched into silent fists. “Commendable, you too shall proceed to the right,” the middle-aged man declared, a hint of genuine surprise infusing his tone, as he addressed the young girl who had just presented herself. After a comparatively brief period, the majority of the youths had undergone their assessment. Only two individuals now occupied the coveted position to the Elder’s right. Joris was next in line. Joris approached the Elder with a speed that bordered on undignified haste. Before the Elder could even initiate the customary testing procedure, Joris dropped to one knee, executing a series of kowtows with an almost theatrical flourish. “Esteemed Elder, may your path be long and your veins ever abundant! My designation is Joris. You have expended such considerable energy assessing so many; you must be experiencing a degree of fatigue! Why not avail yourself of a brief respite? I am under no duress, my assessment can readily await your convenience.” The Elder, a man not typically prone to overt displays of emotion, emitted a low, dry chuckle. He had encountered a succession of countenances etched with fear and desperate hope. This youth, however, devoid of the slightest tremor of trepidation, was engaged in a rather transparent display of pragmatic ambition, attempting to curry favor with an almost brazen casualness. The Elder placed his hand upon Joris’s head, the customary prelude to assessment. “Your latent Ash-flow is… lacking. Not…” The instant Joris heard the pronouncement regarding his deficient latent Ash-flow, his hopes plummeted with a perceptible thud. Without waiting for the Elder to complete his sentence, Joris swiftly produced a small, intricately carved geode from within his tunic, presenting it with both hands. His voice, remarkably steady, carried an air of carefully rehearsed innocence. “Esteemed Elder, my progenitor chanced upon this relic whilst prospecting in the deeper fissures of the Peaks. He found himself unable to discern its nature, and so I have brought it specifically to offer to the Conclave, for your sagacious inspection.” The Elder merely chuckled, shaking his head with an air of mild amusement, clearly poised to politely decline Joris’s offering. However, as his gaze swept across the surface of the geode, his pupils underwent a sudden, involuntary contraction. His face, moments before indifferent, illuminated with an almost avaricious gleam. “Remarkable! This is, without question, a Sunken Fungus of at least three centuries’ maturation! And observing the crystalline casing, it was clearly sealed by an Awakened Vein-Master. Small wonder your progenitor found himself unable to access its essence.” He paused, his voice now imbued with a peculiar, almost hesitant quality. “I find myself in need of an assistant for my Essence-Forge. Are you amenable to such a position?” Joris, whose initial surprise had rapidly given way to a surge of elation, sprang to his feet. The radical disparity in his fortunes was akin to a sudden shift between the barren wastes and the verdant heart of the Peaks, causing him to experience a profound surge of excitement. “Indeed, Esteemed Elder, I am more than amenable! I am utterly devoted to serving the Conclave!” The Elder, his dry chuckle returning, nodded. “Since you will be assisting me, you shall not be subjected to disadvantage. You may pursue your attunement with the Ash Veins alongside the other disciples. Proceed to the right.” Joris, his internal state a tempest of joyous vindication, practically bounded to the right side of the Elder. He favored Torvin with a stare of unadulterated triumph, a silent declaration of his own cunning victory. The countenances of all the youths who had failed the initial assessment turned a uniform, ghastly pale. A pervasive gloom descended upon them; several were overcome by their despair, succumbing to open weeping. The Elder’s brow furrowed slightly, a rare expression of displeasure. He barked an order, his voice devoid of any pretense of courtesy. “Remove those who have commenced weeping from the Conclave grounds.” Several Conclave members, heretofore observing from the periphery, stepped forward with an air of swift efficiency. They quickly apprehended the distraught youths, and with a casual indifference, vanished into the air, carried away on brief, shimmering shards of light. The Elder’s finger then, with an almost mechanical precision, designated Kaelen. Kaelen inhaled deeply, a breath that felt impossibly thin and cold. He walked nervously towards the side of the Elder, his mind a sudden, terrifying blank slate. He offered a silent, fervent supplication to the Ancestors, an almost desperate plea, as the expectant gazes of his parents, vivid and haunting, resurfaced in his memory. “I shall undoubtedly be selected!” Kaelen’s internal resolve, though shaken, hardened into a fierce determination. The Elder’s hand settled upon his head, a weight both physical and metaphorical. With a face utterly devoid of expression, he articulated the two words Kaelen dreaded most, words that echoed with the finality of a collapsing cavern. Kaelen retained no conscious recollection of how he had traversed the distance to the designated left side. All that registered in his stunned awareness was the sensation of distant thunder roaring within his ears, an incessant, reverberating echo of the two pronouncements the Elder had delivered. After a further brief interval, every youth had been assessed. Only three individuals now stood poised to the Elder’s right. In the collective consciousness of those who had failed, these three appeared to possess an almost insurmountable stature, their forms elongated and imposing, casting long shadows over the many. Torvin cast a fleeting glance at Kaelen, his expression an undisguised tableau of contempt, a final, emphatic declaration of his disdain for those who had proven themselves wanting. “While a potent latent Ash-flow is indeed a requisite for an Awakened, perseverance holds an even greater import,” the Elder declared, his gaze sweeping across the remaining youths, a stark contrast to his earlier focus on innate talent. “Even common aspirants, such as yourselves, may yet attain the status of a Conclave disciple if your endurance proves sufficient! The second assessment is thus, a test of perseverance!” The Elder paused, allowing his words to settle amongst the crestfallen youths, before continuing in his flat, deadpan tone. “You will ascend the Conclave’s ancient stone steps. Should you reach the apex within a span of three days, you shall be deemed qualified. Should you fail to complete the ascent within that timeframe, you shall be deemed to have failed. Those who fail will be duly returned to their ancestral homes. Should you find your endurance at its limit, or encounter any unforeseen peril, you have merely to cry out, and a Conclave member will arrive to ensure your safe extraction.” The Elder then turned his attention, and indeed, a slight smile, towards the three successful youths on his right. “You two,” he indicated Torvin and the young girl, “will accompany me to be presented to the Conclave’s Matriarch. We shall also secure for you your initial Stone-Guides. Joris,” he added, his gaze resting upon the opportunistic youth, “you need not accompany us there. Instead, come with me to the Essence-Forge, where you may commence your acclimation.” Having delivered his final instructions, the Elder then, accompanied by the three selected youths, vanished into the verdant depths of the mountains, leaving the remaining multitude to contemplate their next arduous undertaking. Kaelen took another profound breath, his eyes now alight with a fierce, unwavering determination. He advanced towards the ancient stone steps without a moment’s hesitation, commencing the second, and perhaps more brutal, assessment of perseverance. Minus the three youths who had been selected, and the six weeping individuals who had been summarily removed, a total of thirty-nine aspirants remained. Among these thirty-nine, ranging from those still plunged into the depths of despair, to those fortified by a renewed, grim determination, and still others paralyzed by an acute and debilitating fear, all advanced, each towards their own uncertain, yet inexorable, future.

The Conclave's Discernment