The shock became real. Amazons were collapsing left and right—something was terribly wrong.

  "Seraphine, wake up!" Virelya cried, shaking her sister’s shoulder in panic.

  "What’s wrong with you?" she whispered desperately.

  She grabbed Seraphine’s hand—and froze. It was cold, heavy, the same as the strange sensation that had radiated from the Living Core just moments ago.

  Virelya turned to find her mother, to plead for help, but before she could speak, Head Isla raised her voice to address the hall:

  "My people, there is nothing to fear," she said coolly, her tone calm but firm. "The fainting must have been due to fatigue—or perhaps some were not strong enough to endure tonight’s ceremony drinks. My deepest apologies," she continued, voice steady as marble.

  "I must annul the ceremony for another time," Isla declared, her expression unreadable. "Guards, escort the fallen to the Temple. Notify the available Vessels immediately and pass the command to begin healing. If there are not enough, ring the summoning bell to call more."

  The guards moved quickly. Two of them reached for Seraphine, lifting her limp body carefully—but Virelya refused to let go.

  "I want to go with her!" she demanded, clinging to her sister as tightly as she could.

  "No," one of the guards replied, his voice hard. "Orders from Head Isla—only the fallen go to the Temple. No one else."

  "But I am her sister!" Virelya cried, refusing to release her grip on Seraphine.

  The guard at the center had had enough. He shoved her aside roughly, sending her sprawling across the marble floor.

  Pain burst through Virelya’s abdomen as she hit the ground, and she gasped, trying to get up. But other guards restrained her while her sister was carried away, disappearing into the crowd.

  "Seraphine!" she screamed. "Sera!" Her voice echoed helplessly as the ceremony dissolved into chaos around her.

  She stumbled to her feet, heart pounding, and forced her way through the dispersing crowd. She rushed toward the hall’s main doors—where the last of the guards and Head Isla stood, still giving orders, still managing everything with cold precision.

  "Mother!" Virelya cried, her voice cracking in desperation.

  Head Isla turned briefly, her gaze cold and detached. For a moment, it seemed she might acknowledge her—but then she simply looked away, continuing her commands as if Virelya didn’t exist.

  "Mother!" Virelya screamed again, stumbling forward.

  A terrible silence fell over the hall as all eyes turned. Breath froze in the air, a chill descending like a living thing.

  "Leave," Head Isla commanded, her voice cutting through the room like a blade.

  "Yes, Head Isla!" the guards answered, moving swiftly. They began transporting the unconscious Amazons, including Seraphine.

  The guards hesitated only a moment before obeying. They ushered the last of the fallen out, leaving Virelya standing alone, trembling in the vast, frozen emptiness of the hall.

  It felt like facing a titan at the end of the world—and being found wanting.

  Virelya stood frozen, heart hammering against her ribs.

  “Please!” she cried, louder now, desperate. “I’m her sister — she needs me!”

  The hall fell into a stunned silence. Head Isla’s gaze sharpened, as cold and cutting as a drawn blade.

  “You presume to call me without title… and to demand favors in public?” Isla said coolly, her voice carrying to every corner of the hall.

  Virelya shook her head, trembling. “Seraphine— she needs me—”

  “And what would you do, standing beside her?” Isla interrupted sharply. “Weep? Cling? Offer nothing but weakness?”

  The words hit like knives. Virelya tried to speak again, but Isla had already turned her back.

  “Guards,” Isla commanded, her voice like stone. “Escort her to her chambers. This scene has wasted enough of my patience.”

  Two guards moved toward Virelya, but she stood rooted to the spot, fists clenched at her sides.

  “I won’t— I won’t leave her!” she screamed.

  The next moment came faster than thought.

  A crack—sharp and brutal—echoed through the great hall as Isla slapped her across the face.

  Virelya stumbled back, striking a marble pillar. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth.

  She stared, stunned, as her mother coolly wiped her hand with a silk cloth — as though wiping away dirt.

  “You are not fit to question me,” Isla said. “Worry only about what you can control — and you control nothing.”

  Then, without mercy, Isla stepped forward and placed her hand on Virelya’s forehead — the ancient symbol of blessing.

  But the touch burned.

  It was no blessing — it was a branding.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  "Now leave," Head Isla commanded, her voice sharp as iron.

  In that moment, through the searing pain, Virelya made a vow—silent, unbreakable:

  "Seraphine is my sister. I will get to her."

  Isla said nothing more. She turned and walked away without another glance.

  Blood staining her lips, Virelya stood alone in the fading light, her heart breaking.

  Morning came.

  The second day of the Spire Trials awaited: the Trial of Oblivion.

  A new class of Amazons prepared for the test—the Mindseekers, warriors who bent the laws of the universe itself.

  Some could lift objects with a mere touch of their minds, others could weave illusions with a flick of a finger, and some could tear through the world with storms born of thought alone.

  Amidst the lingering chaos of the night before, the Council of L'Oubliée convened in the Hoolkeep's sacred meeting room.

  "I announce the 530th Cycle Meeting open," called a robed woman cloaked in hidden garments of white and beige, her face veiled from all eyes.

  "We accept," answered the gathered council members in unison.

  "We must calm the people's fears," spoke the Third Seat, cloaked in a dark robe embroidered with the Stormcallers' emblem—lightning stitched across a mountain peak. "Even though Head Isla gave a passable explanation last night, we must reassure the masses with something that neither invites too many questions nor reveals too much truth."

  "I agree," said the Second Seat, bearing the Mindseekers' sigil upon her back—an orb that floated, ever-shifting like falling stars.

  "It is troubling enough that the Core could emit such an unnatural light."

  "You have spoken your concerns," Head Isla responded coldly, the green emblem of the island's Living Core glinting on the band wrapped around her wrist—a color impossible to mimic to an untrained eye.

  "I already know how to smooth this matter," she said, stepping into the center of the chamber.

  "I present to you the Herald," announced a woman in white robes trimmed with gemstones, bowing her head low.

  "We accept her presence," said the Fourth Seat.

  "Why bring her here?" demanded the First Seat, suspicion in his voice.

  "It is necessary," Isla replied. "The people must believe what we tell them. To make them believe, we must choose someone they trust—someone pure. Who better than the one who guards L'Oubliée’s most sacred place? Who better than a Vessel from the order of the veil itself.

  "I hear your argument," said the Third Seat, "but from the color of her mask, it’s clear—she’s only a novice. Why not bring the Archantrix herself?"

  "It would be... difficult to convince her," Isla admitted. "But do not worry. This one—"

  she motioned toward the veiled figure—

  "is the future. Many already recognize her prowess. She needs only a cause... and a stage to seal her fate as the next Archantrix."

  "But this matter is too important for your games," Isla said to the First Seat coldly. "Future or not, she is only a novice. Unless the Archantrix. can conceal that fact, they will see only a half-formed girl."

  Isla looked at the First Seat with quiet amusement and responded, "The Arch Vessel is not just a figure. The others who could have been chosen — the Veilwalkers — are also high members of the Order. Their support matters greatly, maybe even as much as the Archantrix herself, who rarely involves herself in matters beyond the Core."

  "I already have a few of them quietly agreeing to this point," she continued. "All that remains is for us to reach agreement here as well. This is no stage for heroes or parades. Only necessity."

  The Third Seat rose first, her voice steady as she declared,

  "For the Second and Fourth, I abide. For the Fifth, I oblige."

  The Fourth Seat stood next, placing a hand over her chest.

  "For the Third and Fifth, I abide."

  The Fifth Seat, younger and slower to rise, finally bowed his head.

  "For the Fourth and Second, I oblige."

  All eyes turned to the First Seat, who sat unmoving for a long moment, the weight of the hall pressing down. Isla waited; her hands calmly folded before her.

  At last, the First Seat spoke, voice like iron.

  "For Oubliée, I abide."

  Far across the western wing of the Keep, Virelya moved quietly, slipping like a shadow between corridors and side halls. She ducked beneath the heavy arches, skirting the patrols, until she reached the final door leading out — only to find herself too late.

  Two guards were stationed there, standing at rigid attention.

  Virelya hesitated, heart pounding. She considered bolting past them — but as if fate itself conspired with her, the guards were distracted, deep in conversation.

  "I still believe the Second Spire could never measure up to the First," one of them muttered, his voice carrying faintly. "After all, the First had the Stone Warden — how do you top that?"

  "You're way over your head," the other scoffed, leaning casually against his spear. "Mindseekers aren’t just about strength. Their trial’s called Oblivion for a reason. You can’t even imagine what they deal with."

  "Then if you’re so sure," the first guard challenged, "who do you think will win the so-called 'Spectacle of the Century'?"

  "Dame Lorée, of course," came the proud reply. "She's in line to be the first Mindseeker to be formally accepted into the Order of the Veil."

  "Dame Lorée is participating?" the first asked, surprised.

  "Yes," the second whispered. "I heard she demanded it herself. Needs to prove she’s worthy — not just a Vessel, but something more. Maybe even..." she trailed off, glancing around.

  "...maybe even the next Archantrix."

  The words hung heavy in the air, thick with wonder and fear.

  But the guards, lost in their gossip, failed to notice Virelya slipping past like a whisper. Her heart pounded against her ribs as she seized the opening, darting down the corridor and vanishing into the night.

  Her destination was clear: the Temple of Sisabeth, far to the south, where her sister was said to be healing.

  But it was a dangerous road.

  She would have to cross the Dark River and slip unseen through the southern districts — and time was against her.

  Virelya raced through the twisting alleys, shadows swallowing her whole. She had nearly reached the river’s crossing when —

  — a voice rang out, sudden and sharp through the mist curling over the port.

  "Vire?"

  It was soft, almost disbelieving, yet unmistakably familiar.

  Virelya spun around, startled, every nerve alight.

  "Who’s there?" she demanded, her voice low but fierce.

  "It’s me," the voice answered, threading straight into her mind.

  She blinked — and saw her.

  A girl with wild, honey-blonde curls and wide, stormy blue eyes that shimmered like her own.

  "Eppine?" Virelya gasped, racing closer. "What are you doing here?"

  "I was just... looking for something," Eppine said brightly, though her hands fluttered nervously. "I could ask you the same! It's been so long, Vire!" she added, her face lighting up with excitement.

  Virelya hesitated, torn. She shook her head. "I'm sorry, Eppine. Maybe another time."

  She glanced toward the ferry boat already pulling away from the dock — her only chance to cross.

  "Maybe later!" Virelya shouted, already sprinting toward the dock.

  She leapt aboard the ferry just as it shoved off, the boat rocking beneath her boots. Turning once, she cupped her hands and called across the widening gap:

  "Good luck with your trial!"

  The words hit Eppine like a spell.

  She blinked. Her breath caught.

  "My trial..." she whispered aloud, as if only just remembering.

  And then her eyes widened in panic.

  "My trial!"

  She spun on her heel and bolted down the port street, cloak flaring behind her like a comet's tail. Her thoughts scattered in a dozen directions — spells, timing, what seat she was supposed to report to — but one single truth burned at the center:

  she was out of time.

  Ahead of her, the arena loomed, a colossal structure rising from the ground like a dark monument to the unknown. She could hear the crowd's rising hum — a chorus of excitement, eager whispers building into a deafening roar. The arena doors stood wide open, the air electric with anticipation.

  A woman levitated through the threshold, her beautiful purple hair flowing in waves, her eyes gray like moonstone. She stood there, calm and serene, waiting for her opponent to appear as the sun set high in the sky of Oubliée.

  The Spire Trials of Oblivion had begun.