The evil within

Disclaimers:

No underage business or relationships. No one here is a real person, and every similarity is a coincidence.

This is my first story, so have some patience with me pls, English is also not my first language.

There will be Sex, just not mindlessly. The story will build up a bit before that, so if you are too horny, read something else before coming here, so you don't get disappointed. Also, sex between consenting adult family members is a part of this, so if it's not your cup of tea, be advised.

Good day/night, and may my writing help you escape reality for a bit.

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The bell sounded three times from the tower, and Arn was late.

He tossed the buckets toward the pigs and vaulted over the fence. He had waited his entire life for this moment. His parents’ anger sat at the very bottom of his worries—after all, they would kill him for what he was about to do anyway, and his sister could not save him this time.

Ever since he could remember, Arn had wished for nothing more than to become a Maw’s Knight: to wield reality-bending magic and steel, safeguarding mankind from the horrors that sometimes slipped through the goddess’s veil. Tradition demanded that the tower test every willing boy who had seen his eighteenth winter on Soulstice Eve. His father said it was done this way because if the test fell on the proper day—the festival itself—too many boys would miss their calling with their noses buried in a tankard or a skirt.

Crossing his family’s small farm without being seen was no easy task, so his sister helped him. She lured their parents inside, feigning distress, while Arn promised to feed the animals in their stead as they tended to their “inconsolable” daughter—helping her mend both dress and spirit for tomorrow’s festival.

Arn rushed toward the town’s edge as he had done countless times before, but today his steps were surer, his gaze sharper, his heart set like stone. Nine in ten boys who climbed the tower did not return—but if he did not climb it today, in his heart he was already dead.

When he finally saw the goddess’s veil, its blackened waters spread beneath the looming tower, he did not slow. He ran faster, heedless of the sweat matting his dark hair and the burning protests of his legs.

It was only when he caught sight of the Maw that he stopped, along with a line of boys like himself, staring at the gaping hole beneath the Veil. Visible only from the tower’s steps, it was a wound in the world: fire clashing endlessly with the Veil’s waters, dark forms clawing upward, straining for freedom, only to be hurled back by the relentless tide and the goddess’s mercy.

Swallowing hard, Arn fixed his gaze on the tower’s single entrance as it devoured another boy and sealed itself shut. Only two remained before his turn, and anxiety and determination warred in his chest.

He could not help thinking of his family. What would his parents do if he did not return? If his sister confessed to helping her brother walk willingly to his ****? Would his mother cry herself raw? Would his father retreat into work, letting the family crumble? Would Peter find another friend? And would any of it matter, if the tower claimed him anyway?

No! He would not even imagine that he might fail. The real **** to fear was another kind: the slow rot of staying on the farm, regretting and lamenting life away, flesh healthy but soul long spoiled.

Lost in thought, Arn was soon ushered inside by a towering knight clad head to toe in steel, with only piercing green eyes visible through the slits of his helmet.

“In you go, boy. We have much to do today,” the knight said—roughly, but not unkindly.

Arn had no idea what he had expected—but it was not this.

Inside, the knight placed him alongside twenty other boys in a vast circular chamber. The tower was enormous, its curved walls stretching far beyond the size of his family’s house. Along those walls hung the most terrifying hunting trophies he had ever seen: fanged and horned skeletons, twisted bones, and creatures so warped they defied recognition.

Above them all, three men sat on a raised dais.

The one on the left was clad entirely in steel, a halberd resting casually at his side. The man in the center wore fine robes and leaned upon a wooden staff, his sharp gaze cutting through the room. To the right sat a figure dressed in worn leathers, absently picking at his fingers with a knife, a bow slung across his back.

It was the man in the center who spoke.

“Welcome. Welcome,” he said. “I know many of you came here willingly. Still, I tell you this: those who do not desire this path with all their hearts should leave while they can. There will be many trials ahead, and those unwilling to give their souls will surely perish. Gold, status, and fame do not await you here—only tears, toil, and power beyond your imagination.”

Arn could sense the unease around him, but no one left. Whatever was to come, they would face it.

“Well, I tried,” the mage sighed. “Now we will test you all, to see where you might serve us best—and explain how all of this will work.”

The knight who had brought them inside began assembling the boys into a line. One by one, each was led to the dais, and then escorted down to a lower floor before the next boy was called.

The boy before him vomited before being summoned, and only moments later, it was Arn’s turn.

As he climbed the steps to the dais—the last in line—the mage addressed him with clear disinterest.

“Name and occupation, boy.”

“Arn Moor,” he said timidly. “Farmer.”

“You will be tested for magical potential, aim, and strength,” the mage continued, passing a paper toward him. “But fret not—the tower has use for all men and offers training to each, whether in combat or in common service.” He gestured sharply. “Go into the next room, where Sir Lora will aid and arm you briefly, so that we may proceed to your first flight.”

Arn was not expected to sign his name, merely to mark it with a finger. But his mother had taught him to write with care, and he felt there was no better time to show his skill. With firm, deliberate lines, Arn signed the paper—and then descended the stairs, briefly catching a glance of approval from the mage.

Below, in an equally wide chamber, weapons, a shooting range, straw training dummies, and a glowing orb on a platform awaited the boys. Some were already at the trials, and Sir Lora waited beside Arn.

“Everyone is here. Good. Pass through the three tests in any order, one time each, and I will record your results so we can finish this part,” he said briskly.

Arn stepped to the shooting range first. On his turn, he missed every arrow, even catching the cord on his arm. He was definitely not an archer—he had never handled a bow before, and was hardly nimble.

Next came the strength trial. Years on the farm had given him a sturdier body than most. He held the weapons fine, but something felt off, as if he had forgotten something vital.

Finally, he approached the orb. The other boys had begun choosing their occupations with Sir Lora, who observed Arn from afar with little interest.

As his hand touched the orb, he expected nothing—then suddenly, his vision darkened, and searing pain bloomed from his arm. The last thing he saw before darkness claimed him was Sir Lora reaching toward him, calling some name: “Osburg!”

When he awoke, Arn saw the mage and Sir Lora speaking in agitation.

“…is the first magickal recruit in this half-century, and possesses more potential than we have seen in three times that long. The goddess has chosen him,” the mage announced.

“No! We must preserve his rights, Sire,” Sir Lora protested, noticing Arn opening his eyes.

“Arn, you are a rare find,” the mage—likely Osburg—continued. “As such, I will not follow the usual protocol. Normally, young recruits choose their occupation based on trials, and we allocate them to the tower’s orders. Exceptions are made for those who score too poorly—assigned to Maintainers for non-combat but essential work—and those who excel, who are selected by a specific order. Such is your case. By touching the orb, you demonstrated enormous magical potential. You shall be trained by me, beginning the day after tomorrow. Enjoy your last day of freedom at the festival; after that, you will be my apprentice.”

Arn would have been beside himself with elation—had his head not throbbed so much. But it was not over.

“Now,” Sir Lora said, as the other boys panicked and fidgeted, “we will arm you and take you on a shallow expedition on the Maw. Before you become an apprentice, you must see what we are up against.”

“Is it safe?” the butcher’s son asked.

“No expedition to the Maw is safe,” Sir Lora replied. “But we will be with you, so casualties will be minimal.” He led the boys to the floor below, where a boat filled the chamber, already being loaded with supplies and knights cheering the “fresh blood” joining them.

Arn, however, knew the worst was yet to come. The alchemical procedures practiced by the orders were far deadlier than any expedition; mortality here rarely exceeded two out of ten boys, far better than the nine in ten who perished during the tower’s earlier trials.

Summoning his courage, Arn caught the sword delivered to him by Sir Lora and donned the padded purple robe. He joined the line to board the ship.

As the sails caught wind, Arn cast one last glance at his town and everything he had known, before the ship tilted toward the Maw, plunging him into the unknown darkness.