The conclave chamber was a vast, austere space, its high ceilings echoing the weight of history. Scythe Faraday sat at in between you and your fellow apprentices the flickering light casting shadows on the faces of the gathered candidates. To his right sat you and Citra and Rowan, their expressions a mix of anticipation and trepidation.

You, your eyes darkened with the intense situation, had just received the honor of being ordained as a new Scythe. The Citra, in disbelief and anger, clutched her hands tightly, the failure heavy upon her. Rowan, caught in the turmoil of the moment, stared at the floor, grappling with the implications of the impending challenge.

Faraday’s gaze moved between them, the gravity of the situation palpable. With the new Scythe’s success came the harsh reality for the others: a brutal showdown awaited them. The rules were clear—one must fall for the honor of wearing the scythe ring at next winter’s conclave.

Silence enveloped the room as the candidates absorbed their fates, a reminder of the cold, calculated nature of their world. The stakes were set; only one could emerge, and the weight of that decision hung in the air like a storm cloud, ominous and inevitable. Citra spoke up.

“Isn’t this usually when you try to lighten things up? We could really use it right now.”

Citra spoke to you. Citra seemed to want to get over this feeling while Rowan kept drifting off to his own little world thinking about the challenge set forth for them both. Scythe Faraday sighed quietly.