The Sap Cascade

Rylanor, Argast Continent, Rivenholt Village.

The village of Rivenholt awoke to the old church bells and the scent of rising bread. By dawn, the green at the heart of the village was already transformed: pennants fluttered from fenceposts, the rough dirt lanes swept clean, every shop closed save the baker and the tavern. Awakening Day always brought life to the bones of this quiet place. The air vibrated with anticipation. Today, five of their own would stand before the Empire’s stones and discover their fate.

Vaelius Linden, Vael, shifted his weight from foot to foot, wishing he could disappear into his threadbare but freshly pressed coat. His mother, Molly, had spent the better part of the morning smoothing his hair and brushing imaginary lint from his trousers until the dark strands sprang up in rebellion again. He lingered with Efrosinia Alexeeva, Frosya, beside her mother’s cheese stall, between stacked rounds of pale, nutty Kestrel and sharp blue wedges, which her mother, Marina, offered to passersby in tiny cubes.

Frosya was radiant and uncomfortable, standing stiff in a green dress that caught the sunlight and called attention to the silver streaks in her hair. Her arms, marked with faint Artificer lines beneath the sleeves, rested lightly at her sides. There was a nervous energy in her: she looked ready to fly. Their breath mingled in the cool morning.

“You’d think after all these years, I’d be used to being stared at,” she mumbled, glancing at an elderly neighbour who was clearly tallying future prospects.

“We look like we’re about to be auctioned off,” Vael replied.

Frosya’s lips twitched. “You look fine.”

A snort from behind them: Violet, Vael’s younger sister, was helping Marina rearrange the cheeses and had been eavesdropping. Tall and lively at nineteen, her hair braided back. She surveyed her brother with a grin. “Just try not to faint, Vael. It’ll be the talk of the village for years.”

“Thanks, Violet,” he replied, but the tension in his jaw eased a little. He felt the press of his mother’s hand on his shoulder, firm, familiar.

“Don’t worry so much,” Molly said. “You’re as ready as you’ll ever be. Just remember to breathe.” She shared a look with Marina, who nodded in silent agreement.

“We’re proud of you. Both of you,” Marina added, her accent still thick from the Artificer’s territory, though her smile was as warm as the rising sun. “No matter what the stones say.”

Frosya’s father, Vasiliy, stood slightly apart, a solid presence with silver filigree gleaming along his arms, his eyes resting thoughtfully on his daughter. Frosya’s older brother, Vladimir, Vovo to family, had left the mine early to attend, and was in lively conversation with Robert Linden by the stall, the pair comparing the merits of goat cheese and wild thyme.

The market square filled as the morning wore on. Stalls pressed into every available patch of shade: brightly painted carts selling preserves, honeyed nuts, dried apples, small loaves. The blacksmith’s daughter was running a tombola with a basket full of coloured ribbons for prizes. Children chased each other between barrels, voices shrill with excitement; the fiddler and his wife tuned their instruments beneath a garlanded arch. Even the most taciturn villagers wore festive sashes pinned with sprigs of green.

As noon approached, the crowd thickened, everyone speaking in low tones about the coming ceremony. The ritual space, roped off beside the old well, had been swept and dressed in banners showing the Pickaxe of Rivenholt and the seven-pointed star of the Empire. Wildflowers threaded through every post, and lanterns filled with sap-light that would lite at sundown.

A hush fell as the bell sounded again and Mayor Osric Bamsure, deep-chested and dignified in his ceremonial sash, mounted the low wooden dais. He raised his hands, a beaming smile splitting his round face. “People of Rivenholt, honoured families, friends—welcome! On this Awakening Day, we celebrate the youth of our village and the hope of its future. And today, as is our proud tradition, five of our own will come forward to meet their fate and, perhaps, the favour of the World Spirit.”

A ripple of anticipation swept the crowd. The five candidates stepped forward, summoned by the mayor’s rich, steady voice,

Vaelius Linden, son of Robert Linden and Molly Linden, who run the village apothecary.
Efrosinia Alexeeva, daughter of Vasiliy Alexeeva, Foreman at the Imperial mine, and Marina Alexeeva, renowned for her artisanal cheeses.
Bram Holtz, son of Edwin Holtz and Lisbet Holtz, who own and operate the village mill.
Tessa Renfield, daughter of the late Samuel Renfield and Marta Renfield, and granddaughter of Drusilla Renfield, the village seamstress.
Janek Orlov, son of Piotr and Magdalena Orlov, the village shoemakers.

Bram was tall and broad-shouldered, his freckled face set in determination, though his hands shook at his sides. Tessa, slim and quick-eyed, had a nervous smile that flickered as she glanced at her grandmother in the front row. Janek, the youngest of seven, looked pale but resolute, fingers tracing a small wooden amulet at his throat.

Each candidate’s family pressed close—hope and pride mingling with worry in every glance.

Mayor Bamsure continued, his tone solemn. “The Spirit Stones, gifted by the Empire, are not to be taken lightly. These awaken the sap within, awaken your affinity or for some, affinities. Opening the path of cultivation, and with it, new responsibilities. Some will find their calling today; some may not. All of you stand for the best of us. Let the World Spirit bear witness.”

He turned, and the village priestess stepped forward, bearing a black velvet tray on which rested five smooth stones, grey as river pebbles, each faintly luminous in the sunlight.

The priestess’s voice was gentle but clear. “Take a stone, speak your name, and listen for the echo within.”

One by one, the candidates stepped forward. Bram’s large hand shook as he took a stone, bowing his head. “Bram Holtz, I stand before the Spirit.” Tessa followed, her voice barely above a whisper. “Tessa Renfield.” Janek gave his full name, voice cracking but proud. Frosya, steady-eyed, took a stone last but one: “Efrosinia Alexeeva,” Her fingers were steady, though her cheeks flushed. Vael, last, managed not to trip over his own tongue. “Vaelius Linden, I am ready.”

The mayor held up his hands, and the crowd fell silent as the priestess chanted, “Let the sap awaken the affinities within your souls. Let fate answer.”

A tremor ran through Vael as he closed his hand around the stone. Warmth radiated from it, rising up his arm and flooding his chest. Light seemed to dance behind his eyelids—first the exhilarating rush of wind, the sensation of standing on the edge of a precipice, air swirling and lifting him. Then, at the very edge of his senses, a sharp clarity: the cool shimmer of metal, the resonance of strength and purpose. He caught his breath, as if the world’s heart rang within him—a note of steel, carried on the wind.

Beside him, Frosya’s eyes flew wide with wonder. She stumbled slightly, gripping the stone more tightly, a sharp gasp escaping her. A warm surge—like a gentle wave—rushed through her body, filling her with an exhilarating energy that made her heart race. Later, she would describe it as feeling like she was being swept along by a current, filled with a vibrant strength that ignited her senses and left her breathless, even as she embraced that first taste of power.

Everything paused, impossibly still. Then—without warning—a pulse of energy tore through the square. The stones in each candidate’s hand blazed with silvery light. The air rippled, a low hum building to a sting in every ear. Then the sky flashed, turning brilliantly, impossibly blue. The ground itself seemed to shudder.

A gasp swept through the crowd as the stones crumbled to dust, sifting away from the candidates’ trembling hands. For a moment, they stood alone in silent awe, the world shimmering at the edges. And then, as if some inner door had swung open, knowledge arrived—clear and unforgettable.

Vael drew a shaky breath, a slow smile spreading as the truth settled inside him: air and metal —wind’s promise, and the clarity of forged strength. Frosya steadied herself, understanding blossoming within her: water—fluid, adaptable, filled with quiet power, a source of potential that flowed through her veins like a gentle river. Bram blinked, grounding himself as he felt the deep resonance of earth—a foundation of stone. Janek, hands still trembling, sensed a breeze at his back: air—the call of freedom.

The priestess stepped forward again, her gaze gentle as she touched Tessa’s shoulder. “Some are chosen, some are not. Today, four awakenings are granted—Bram Holtz, Janek Orlov, Efrosinia Alexeeva, Vaelius Linden. May your paths be strong, and may you honour the gifts the Spirit has revealed.”

The crowd burst into applause and cheers. Wine bottles were uncorked; hugs and laughter rippled from one side of the square to the other. Frosya was swept into the arms of her mother, who whispered blessings and pride in her ear, while Vasiliy squeezed her shoulder with silent strength. Vael found himself clapped on the back by his father, Robert, who pretended not to wipe his eyes.

“You did it,” Violet said, her voice low and proud. Vael felt elation, relief, and a strange underlying unease. “I felt something strange, and I don’t think it was the Spirit Stone” he murmured to Frosya as they slipped through the crowd, glasses of tart, young wine pressed into their hands by Marina.

“Me too,” Frosya replied.

The celebration blossomed as the sun dipped toward the hills. A feast—long trestle tables laden with stews, roast chickens, fresh breads, and wheels of cheese—filled the green. The baker’s fruit tarts vanished in minutes. Casks of ale and elderflower wine were rolled out, and cups clinked with every toast to the new cultivators.

After the meal, the fiddler and his wife struck up a lively tune and, soon enough, the entire village was dancing on the grass. Young and old linked arms, spinning and laughing. Bram, who had awakened, was dragged up by his sisters, his earlier nerves forgotten. Tessa, after a time, rejoined the festivities, clinging to the comfort of her friends. 

All through the night, talk circled back to the strange flash during the ceremony.

“Did you feel it?” someone asked near the fire, passing around a jug of strong spirits.

“My hair stood on end,” said one of the miners, eyes wide.

“The sky changed,” murmured Drusilla, her sharp eyes narrowing as she scanned the horizon. “I’ve seen storms, but never a flash like that. It’s not just the weather—there’s something in the air, a buzz I’ve never felt before. No natural thing.”

Vael listened, the taste of wine sweet on his tongue, questions laced with excitement in his mind. He found Frosya near the bonfire, dancing with her brother, face lit with a light that was part flame, part something else. When the music slowed, he joined her. 

“You know,” Frosya said, her gaze drifting toward the distant hills, “Back in Nordkova, today marks Pioneers Day. All the Artificer’s worlds will be alive with celebration—gatherings, music, fireworks, laughter. It feels so far removed from here, like a dream from another life. Most people here don’t even know what Pioneers Day is—why would they?” She chuckled softly, a bittersweet smile playing on her lips, remembering the warmth of home and the way the air would hum with excitement.

They fell quiet for a moment, celebration fading around them. Vael finally broke the silence, his voice low yet earnest. “What if one day we chase our own legends? Not just stories told in taverns, but real adventures across the stars. I need to see it all—it’s why I’m drawn to life as an Adventurer.”

She squeezed his hand in excitement, sharing the wild energy of the night. The heat of the day and the wildness of the celebration humming through his veins.

“Tomorrow tier 1 skills, train a little, pack, then…” he said softly, as they stood beneath the lantern-lit trees, the village spinning around them, “we go to Nexara, and to the Adventurers Guild.” 

He smiled, feeling the strangeness in his bones and the promise of something vast and unknown. The future waited just beyond the edges of the firelight.