Tenet walked a respectful number of paces behind the scribe as he was led upward into the Tower of Light, higher than he had ever been permitted before. Around him, several scribes consulted maps and charts, gazes into telescopes, and scribbled hasty notes as they conferred with each other, as the singing of the chanters and the smell of incense filled the room. The scribe led Tenet past much of the commotion to a balcony overlooking the city.

Standing beside the scribe, Tenet placed his hands on the rail to steady himself in awe at the view. The towers and walls of Highhold stretched out before him, commanding a majestic view of the valleys and mountain passes beyond the city.

Tenet waited for the scribe to speak first as was customary. After several long moments, the scribe did so. "Beautiful. Graced by Lux, our city truly shines in the light of her stars" He paused a moment. "But I didn’t bring you up here for a religious lesson. I’ve been going over the examinations, Tenet, and I find myself surprised by you."

The scribe reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of parchment, reading from it. "An ancient riddle from the extinct Ceryan empire. ’Tongues of smoke, always feeding, never fed.’ Every other aspirant gave the answer ’fire’ and yet you wrote ’the grave’. How do you explain this?"

Tenet took a deep breath. "It’s the right answer, sir."

The scribe arched an inquisitive eyebrow. "Indeed? Does a grave produce smoke, Tenet?"

"No sir. But the riddle is mistranslated. Our translations of ancient Ceryan come from translations by the Ilyrian Empire. Ilyrians were superstitious and avoided all talk of death. The word translated as ’smoke’ actually would be better translated as dust of the grave.

The scribe took this in for a moment and then smiled. "Well done, Tenet. You have passed the examination."

Tenet quickly processed this, feeling a lump in his throat. "Does this mean I have been selected as the candidate?"

Another voice, more aged, sounded behind. "Perhaps. Perhaps not." Tenet turned with a start as the scribe gave a respectful bow to the bow to the new arrival "Elder Lightseeker."

"Scribe," the aged elder returned a cordial nod. "You may go." The elder turned his attention to Tenet as the scribe hastily removed himself from the balcony. "You wish to be a wizard, boy?"

"Very much so, Elder. I have dreamed of it my whole life."

The elder measured his words. "The stars know nothing of dreams or fancies. They know only their dance across the heavens, predestined for a millennia of millennia. Anyone who can understand their past is able to gleam some of their future."

Tenet nodded, aware of the core principle of the Temple of Light.

"And by knowing their future, we are able to gleam hints of our own." The Elder looked down over the balcony at the city beyond. "Our land has known peace for too long. The stars whisper a return to war. A return to fighting. We must ready ourselves." He turned slowly to Tenet and considered the young man across a beak-like nose. "But you. You aim to be a wizard. Would you then forsake your loyalty to your homeland, Tenet? Are your aspirations greater than this land that sired you?"

Tenet shook his head, "No, Elder. I love Lytgard. As a wizard, I would seek to serve all the people of all of the kingdoms fairly."

The Elder shook his head. "There is no fair in war, Tenet. And war is coming. And the stars say that without a wizard on our side, our people will suffer. Would your ’fairness’ let you watch your people suffer, Tenet?"

"No, Elder. It would not."

"Then you would remain loyal to Lytgard even if you become a wizard?"

"Of course, Elder."

"Then you have completed the final examination. I name you candidate. May the wizard take as much note of your exceptional skills we have, young Tenet."

Next Chapter: The Harvest Dance