I’m sliding across a smooth floor in the brilliant, blinding light. I grind to a stop. My eyes are closed, and only one thought remains. I’m dead. It’s a simple one, solid and true. I’m dead. I’m alive technically, but soon I’ll be dead. I’m in purgatory. It’s just a matter of time now.

  My eyes adjust quickly as I lie there on my back, sobbing. I don’t want to move; I don’t want to stand and face my death. I just want to cry. So, I do, for a while, time means nothing in this white, wall-less room.

  Eventually, though, the tears just won’t come anymore. I am hopeless and exhausted. But my mind keeps chugging away. All I can think about is my home and my dad. I should be angry at Nyce for her betrayal, and deep down, I am, but all I can think of right now is my dad getting the news. Hearing the rumors about how the Narst family orchestrated my murder, his sorrow and disappointment. He was right all along, and now he’s lost me, just like he lost my mother.

  Your average assassination victim has no time to consider her mistakes and how she got to this place. I have the time and can’t help but beat myself up for all the chances I had to avoid this fate. Ellie warned me to be careful. Alliyah told me that they were a family of assassins. I got out of my bed and followed Nyce to the gallows after EVERYONE warned me of the danger posed by the Crucible. How did I let this happen?

  When the anger arrives, it's pointed at me. How could I be so na?ve? So trusting? Why did I need to trick Ichor into that hideous robe? Dad even warned me about making powerful enemies. I just shrugged it off. It’s because I felt safe there. Untouchable. This is my own fault.

  The worst part is that Nyce's logic is flawless. Her family is correct; this is a good solution to their problem at the Northern Academy. Once word gets around, it’ll be like that nickname never existed. In one move, the family regained any respect lost due to Ichor’s foolishness and then some. The influential nobles will hear of my death and want to pull him close to avoid the same fate. It's a brilliant move and even easier when the victim willingly walks herself to slaughter.

  I open my eyes but make no move to rise. For now, I'm alive. I don't know what the next step is. If I stand, will I meet the draconic Keeper like in the story? Will I be attacked if I stay here too long wallowing? How long is too long? Can I stay like this for days? Would I want to? I’ll have to eat and drink eventually. Maybe death by dehydration is my best option.

  Eventually, I moved for the simplest of reasons. I'm feeling restless and curious. For now, I'm hale and whole and am in a unique and unexplored place, a Crucible. There is a small part of me that sees this as an adventure. As I look around myself, into the endless brightness, I let that adventurous and curious part of myself grow.

  My whole life, I’ve wanted adventure. Well, be careful what you wish for. Stories tell me I am in the most dangerous place that exists, but maybe they're wrong. After all, someone must’ve survived this place to tell tales about it. I turn in a circle and am startled.

  A small bird is standing behind me. It’s about the size of a chicken, but that’s where the similarities end. It’s long and sinuous, with a sharp beak and cherry-red feathers that flow down long wings, like scales. The red is a brilliant color in this white-washed world.

  I place my hand on my dagger, intent on doing whatever I can to die fighting this time. I let Nyce push me in here. I won't go down without a fight again. Its black eyes watch me. There's no malice in its gaze, only curiosity. It doesn’t look wary of my dagger; it watches me like I am a neat, shiny thing that landed in its nest.

  “Betrayal is never pretty, though that one was almost amicable.” Its voice rings clearly, though its beak never moves. The fact that it can speak is more upsetting than its initial presence, and I draw my dagger from its sheath. Its expression doesn't change; it still only regards me curiously. Waiting.

  “You can talk," I say. The creature nods. “You’re not a dragon," I say, confused.

  “Neither are you.” It says.

  “But you can talk.”

  “So can you.”

  “I thought the Keeper was a dragon.”

  “The Keeper was a dragon.” He replies. I look at him skeptically. Something about his voice makes me sure that this bird is a male.

  “Are you the Keeper now?”

  “I am.” He says, as though I’ve solved his riddle.

  "That's odd," I say to myself.

  “How do you mean?” He asks.

  "I was expecting a dragon. That's what the stories say, anyway. And you, well, you’re just …” I trail off, what’s a diplomatic way to say ‘not nearly as impressive as a dragon.’

  “Go ahead, what am I?”

  “Sort of a cute ... little ... bird guy?”

  “Cute? I understand the 'little' part; I was going for little. You’re very weak, and I didn’t want to scare you. But cute?” He looks thoughtful now.

  "I mean it as a compliment, of course. You're a very handsome bird." I quickly remember that my fate is likely resting in this tiny creature’s hands. A little flattery couldn’t hurt too much, could it? He puffs himself up at my compliment.

  “Well, thank you," he bows, then looks back up at me. "I’ve never tested someone like you before, brave to touch the portal out there. And even now, in front of the Keeper, you’re brazen. Yet, you have no levels. Why?” He asks me.

  “My dad didn’t want me to be an adventurer," I say.

  "No? Why didn't you kill him and do it anyway?" The bird asks.

  “I … didn’t think that was an option. Also, I love him? And didn’t want to kill him?” I respond hesitantly.

  “Ah, I see. You’re sentimental. Humans do crazy things for love, don’t they?”

  "I guess they do," I agree.

  “Well, are you ready?”

  “To die?”

  “No,” he scoffs, “to fight.”

  "I don't have any levels," I repeat his earlier statement. “I’ll just die. Nyce, the girl who betrayed me, she pushed me in here to die. So that nobody finds my body.” I say, looking down.

  “Oh. So you’re committed to dying because that hatchling wants you to? That seems silly, but okay. How do you want to die then?”

  “I’m not committed to dying! I want to live! Can’t you just let me out of here? I shouldn’t be here. Please?”

  “No, I won’t let you out. There is only one way out, to pass through the Crucible. You'll probably die. It's been a long time since someone was successfully forged."

  “What do you mean?”

  “Crucibles are trials, they’re tests. Those who come out the other side are said to have been ‘forged’ by the process.”

  “Do you get many challengers?” I ask.

  “Sure, a few every year.”

  “How do they get in? It’s guarded out there.”

  "Bribes mostly, punishment sometimes, although if they survive, you've created a powerful enemy. What does it matter? Where there is the potential for power, a few will always be willing to risk death to attain it. You just aren't one of those people."

  “No, I’m not. How many of them succeed?”

  “Why? Do you want to run the Crucible? I could flap my wings and wipe you from existence, there would be little pain. I’m happy either way.” He reaches his beak under a wing and preens himself idly.

  “How many survive?” I ask. "What are my odds?"

  "You don't want to know that." He responds quickly. "And I won't tell you. Be comforted that I'm still talking to you. Clearly, there must be some hope."

  “But I have no levels.”

  “I know.” He says. “You’re a fresh ingot. You’ve got no good habits and no bad ones. I'm excited to see how you fare."

  “I haven’t decided to challenge it yet.”

  “Sure you have. We're just bantering now. You decided the moment I began to speak to you. When you drew that dagger." He nods his head toward my right hand. Sure enough, my dagger is still there. Held in a firm grip, though largely forgotten at this point.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

  I look at the weapon in my hand and feel the armor on my shoulders. The backpack my dad prepared for me is still slung across my back. It's like I stepped right out of my hometown and into this dungeon. As though this is what I was preparing for all along. I sheath the dagger at my hip.

  “How does this work?” I ask. The bird is smiling.

  “I will take you to the first floor. When you arrive, you’ll be tested. Then again, and again, and again.”

  “For how long?”

  “Why?”

  “How many days?” I ask.

  “Do you have a hot date that I don’t know about? It varies.”

  “I promised my dad, and myself, that I'd be home in eight weeks. Can it be done?”

  “It can,” the bird says, looking at me appraisingly. “It will mean less time to rest, and some of it will be in your hands. You’ll need to move quickly.”

  “I understand. Either I die, or I fulfill my promise. There's no middle ground.”

  “I like you. I hope we get to talk again.”

  "Thanks," I say, meeting his eyes.

  Something is different, though; his black eyes seem to glow with a strange light. I can’t take my gaze off his, and the world is shifting in my peripheral vision. My white surroundings are replaced by brown and green, then it’s over. The Keeper looks different now, larger, and the edges of his feathers are limned in flames. He stands on the branch of a great tree and screeches once, encouragingly, I think. Then he launches himself off and snaps his wings out wide. I am reminded of Prete’s familiar from Harold's story. How it flew away mournfully after the young man's death.

  “He’s a Phoenix,” I say out loud. Making the connection as he disappears into the distance. A powerful creature tied to rebirth and regeneration, and of course, fire.

  I look back to the tree that had been his perch. It’s old and gnarled, standing tall with broad, flat leaves. The leaves have a bright green hue that makes me think of springtime. There are smaller bushes surrounding the tree. A few of them have bright red berries on their branches. This cluster of plants is the only part of the scene that is alive. The rest of the landscape around me is dead.

  I’m standing on a hill. At its peak stands the tree, surrounded by bushes. I approach it, wading through the smaller plants, but I bounce off a barrier, thin as a bubble, around the tree itself.

  I try to appraise the tree from a distance but get no response from my appraisal skill. It’s the first time that’s happened, maybe the barrier is blocking me. When I appraise bushes around the tree, I get some information.

  Cinderberry Bush

  I pluck a berry off one of the branches and appraise it.

  Cinderberry (Rare) – Contains regenerative and fire properties.

  At least I have some food and maybe a way to heal. Hopefully, the berries aren't poisonous. I am no alchemist, but I know some reagents can only be consumed safely once distilled or combined to form a potion. Suddenly, a message pops up in front of me.

  Quest: Protect the Ancient Cinderfruit Tree

  Reward: Cinderfruit

  Penalty for Failure: Death

  Quest Accepted

  Okay, it's safe to assume that the great big tree surrounded by Cinderberry bushes is the Cinderfruit Tree. The fact that it says to protect the tree suggests that I can’t run or hide from whatever’s coming. If I do, it will get the fruit. I will fail the quest and die.

  A piercing shriek interrupts my thoughts. A na?ve part of myself hopes that it is the Phoenix returning. Maybe with a message that he made a mistake, and I can go home. But the shiver that runs down my spine makes the truth clear. This is a threat. There's a predator out there.

  I hear a chattering, gurgling laughter carrying up the hill. Then I see it, loping hectically on four legs. It is a greenish-black, ugly thing about the size of a large dog. Its skull is misshapen, and its limbs are all sharp angles ending in gnarled claws. It has black eyes, and it moves fast. Right at the tree.

  I don’t have time to panic, but I am panicking, nonetheless. I slip the backpack off my shoulders and toss it to the ground behind me, and then I step forward to interpose myself between it and the tree. Its gaze locks on me, and it makes a joyous guttural gurgle.

  Imp – Level 2

  I remember my training. I set my feet correctly and bend my knees. My heart is beating too fast. There's a pain in my chest like it's going to burst. I can’t get enough air, I feel lightheaded. The ungodly sounds it makes are growing louder. I can see the bright red tongue lolling out of its mouth, surrounded by sharp yellow teeth.

  It’s arriving. I step to the side quickly as it swings a claw at me. I plant my foot and drive my dagger into its chest. Its wild blow misses me by a foot, but the angle of my stab is wrong. The Imp is turning, the tip pierces its side slightly, then dagger is ripped from my hand. It's body impacts mine without slowing, and we're rolling together across the earth. The Imp is smaller than me but denser. It's heavy and when we stop rolling, it's on top of me.

  Teeth flash towards my face, and I throw out my arm to block them, hoping for room to maneuver. Hot blood spatters across my cheek as it bites through my hand, severing my fingers. I can't feel the pain.

  I see my dagger lying on the ground by my right hip; I can’t reach it. The Imp pauses and swallows the severed fingers whole, then it tries to lunge around my mangled blocking arm. I raise my forearm again, and its teeth pierce the leather bracer in a few places, but it can’t penetrate deeply. More than that, it’s stuck.

  I rock my hips up, lifting the monster and using my forearm to shift it. I can reach the dagger now. My fingers wrap around the handle, and I position the Imp for a strike. Its fetid breath washes over me as I inhale to stab. My dagger enters under the Imp's chin, and I feel the weapon shatter the hard pallet at the roof of its mouth. It plunges into the soft brain on the other side.

  It screams and gurgles, its breath rattling out as blood pours down its neck and chest. I leave the dagger in its skull and leverage myself out from under it. I’m crying and wailing. I didn't notice that before. I can't escape though; its teeth are still stuck in my bracer. Its jaw is locked tight in death.

  I scream as the pain in my left hand and forearm hits me in full force. I brace my foot against its shoulder and pull as hard as I can; the pain is too much, and the teeth are too deep. I jam my dagger between its molars and twist, prying, but the muscles are locked down. It takes some time, but eventually, I'm able to stab my way through the dead Imp's jaw until I break or tear something essential. The jaw loosens, and I can remove myself from its death grip.

  My left-hand throbs with a stabbing ache. I hold out my mangled left hand in front of me to find that two of my fingers are gone entirely. My pinky and ring finger are only bloody stumps. The other two fingers are bleeding profusely, though still whole. Somehow, my thumb got away unscathed. Seeing it makes the pain worse; I retch and vomit into the bloody puddle around me. At least I am keeping all the gross bodily fluids in the same place. Everything goes dark.

  When I wake up, I gasp for air. I'm laying in thick, congealing blood, and too much of it is coming from my own arm. I remember the berries. Regenerative and fire properties. I use my right arm to push myself to stand, and then I move towards the bushes, breaking branches as I look frantically for one holding a berry. When I find one, I eat it, anything to ease the pain.

  The pain doesn't ease. It redoubles. The berry burns like fire down my throat, moving to my stomach like acid. Then it spreads through my limbs; I whimper; it's the only sound I can make without moving. When the heat finds my mangled left arm, it feels like I’ve poured lemon juice into the wounds. My vision fades as my body is wracked with agony.

  I wake with a nasty taste in my mouth. I’m weak, but the pain is gone. I lie there for a while, grateful for that. Scared to see my hand. But I’ve faced scarier things recently. The wiry strength of that Imp is fresh in my mind. I hold my hand up. It's healed, mostly. Apparently, there is no healing severed fingers. But the stumps are smooth, and fresh skin is stretched over them. All the other fingers are scarred but whole. Maybe the berry could have reattached them if I had fished the fingers out of the Imp's stomach. Oh, well. Something to test out next time.

  I stand and walk over to a large stone. I sit down and lean my back against it. I have something important to attend to.

  Class available:

  Rogue

  Fighter

  Guardian

  Despite my circumstances, I cannot help but feel elated. A Class. Something to help me defend myself in this mysterious place. I examine each option more closely. Flexing my newly altered left hand idly, trying to get used to the gaps where my fingers used to be.

  Rogue – A stealth-focused fighter, using small weapons to devastating effect

  Fighter – A versatile class: fighters are often at the front of a conflict, dealing heavy damage.

  Guardian – A class focused on protection. Guardians hold their ground and defend.

  All the options are based on the fight with the Imp. like the whole fight was being watched and my options decided based on the one encounter. I am naturally inclined towards the Fighter class. That's what the Keeper told me I would be doing. Fighting. Again and again, he said. The Rogue class won’t work for this floor. If I hide instead of fighting, I’ll fail the quest when a creature reaches the tree, then I'll die. Guardian would be suitable for protecting the tree, but it might not be a good fit for the next floor. No, Fighter is the class for me; it focuses on strengthening me in combat. That’s what I need.

  I select Fighter. I feel a new power settle over me like a veil. My earlier exhaustion is washed away as the veil invades my skin, bones, and organs. Then the feeling is gone. I am left feeling fresh and rejuvenated. I open my new status.

  I finally managed it. A class. How long had I dreamed of this day? I can’t help but smile despite my circumstances. I survived and got stronger. If I can keep it up, I'll leave here and see my dad again. I can do this. I just need to be innovative and strategic. I take a deep breath and turn to the Imp corpse. Determined.