The clock had just struck twelve when Slate was roughly shaken awake. They opened their eyes slowly, mumbling incoherently. They hadn't been asleep for very long, but they were not at all pleased about being woken up like this. There was an unpleasant churning in Slate's stomach. The room was dark and blurred, foggy and distant. Slate couldn't tell whether they were awake or dreaming.
"It is time, Slate," a deep male voice said. Slate squinted through darkness trying to identify the voice. There were four men at their bedside. Still groggy, Slate shook their head yanking the covers back up. This was too weird even for Slate; they were going back to bed. One of the men snickered. Slate was shaken even more violently. They groaned loudly. "Slate you must come, your harrowing is upon you," the voice said sternly. The pieces began falling into place as Slate slowly removed the covers from their face. In the darkness they could just discern that the person shaking them was indeed First Enchanter Irving. The three hulking men behind him must be Templars then. Slate slowly sat up. They ignored Irving's disapproving stare. "Hurry up."
Slate slid off their bed and two of the Templars promptly grabbed Slate's arms. Slate bridled at the intrusion into their personal space, but said nothing. Irving and the other Templar, who Slate assumed was Gregoir, began marching through the darkness. The Templar's holding Slate walked very quickly, almost dragging them along. Slate was not fast in general and the tower was almost pitch black, causing them to stumble every couple of steps. The stairs were even more of a trial. Of course there had to be so many of them. Slate chewed on the inside of their cheek, highly irritated with the whole ordeal. They still hadn't quite processed that what they were approaching was their actual harrowing. Slate felt like they were sleep walking, wanting nothing more than to lie down again. The tower was frigid and Slate's toes were almost numb. As they began to wake up more, Slate focused on these physical discomforts. It was easier than facing the reality of this long walk. The metallic sounds of Templar armour. The slap of Slate's feet on stone. The chill in the air. Other things Slate tried their best to ignore: their growing sense of unease, the tower's gloom, the feeling of being watched, the Templar's tight grip on their arms. Slate was grateful that the Templar's wore gloves. They didn't think they would have been able to stand this much contact without some kind of barrier.
Slate was dragged up another set of endless stairs, internally cursing every Templar they'd ever met and their impatience and rudeness. The stairs ended suddenly and if not for the Templars secure grip, Slate would have fallen. The room the company had entered was enormous. The wind howled outside and Slate assumed they had reached the top of the tower. This room was slightly warmer than the hallways, but not by much. It was lit by a circle of flickering torches. In the centre a bowl full of a luminous blue liquid swirled. Lyrium, from the look and way it inexorably dragged Slate's essence towards it. They shivered and the Templar's released them, a hand on their back propelling them into the circle. The room echoed with a heavy thump. The door was barred, escape now impossible. The Templar's returned to stand behind Slate as Irving and Gregoir came to stand in front of them. The nape of Slate's neck prickled with the Templar's so close. Something in Slate was screaming of danger, warning them to run while they could. Their heart began to pump faster, sweat slicking their palms. This was really it. Nausea crept through them as Irving began to speak solemnly, his face made eerie in the torchlight.
"Apprentice Slate Lenever, the moment of your harrowing is upon you. You will be sent into the fade to face whatever demon you find there and if you are successful in defeating it you will return a mage of The Circle. If you fail your life is forfeit. Are you ready to proceed?"
Slate considered asking for an alternative, but as much as they struggled to admit it to themself, they knew there wasn't one. This was it. The harrowing was happening. Slate could feel their heart pounding in their chest as they replied, barely breathing.
"I am ready."
"Every mage must go through this trial by fire. As we succeeded, so shall you." Irving moved around the basin of lyrium so that they stood on the same side. He dipped his fingers into the basin, dotted Slate's forehead, cheeks, then drew a line down their mouth. Slate found, surprised, that they didn't mind the contact, intimate and personal as it was.
"Look into the basin," Irving commanded. Puzzled, Slate obeyed. They glanced back at Irvin who scowled in return. "More closely." Slate bent over the glowing lyrium. They only saw their reflection, short brown hair, pale skin, the dark circles beneath their eyes, all with a strange cast because of the light, but that wasn't unusual. Slate wondered what they were supposed to be looking for. They leaned even closer. They saw something, a shadow maybe. Slate had just enough time to wonder if that was it before their head was thrust into the lyrium. Reflexively Slate struggled, inhaled the lyrium. They fell unconscious, Gregoir grabbing their limp body before it could crash to the floor. The harrowing had begun.