And then—morning broke.

  The first day of the Spire had come.

  The air itself seemed to hold its breath, thick with anticipation, shimmering faintly with the promise of trials to come.

  A surge of energy rippled through the Warbron Arena—the battleground now transformed for the Clash of Dalia, where the Stormcallers would rise.

  This marked the first phase of the Trials—an ancient rite steeped in breathtaking danger. The Amazons chosen for this path, bonded to an element, gathered upon the sacred sands. It was time for the Trial of Elemental Dominion—a contest of raw channeling, where these wielders must summon and bend the primal forces of the world: lightning, fire, stone, tide, wind, shadow, and earth—each force bound to a warrior by fate, blood, or will.

  Each bore a different bond: one to the thunder that roars in the heart of mountains, another to the ember that sleeps deep beneath the earth… and some to the mist that veils the breaking dawn.

  This was not mere battle—it was convergence.

  “Hear me!” cried a voice from the citadel’s arch.

  A robed stormcaller stepped forward, lightning coiling around their fingers, one hand raised high like a beacon against the pale morning sky.

  “I declare the Spire Trials open! Let those of the stormcallers class who deem themselves worthy step forth—not merely to clash, but to awaken, to endure, and to uphold the sacred rite of the Amazon Oath. Let your power speak true, your spirit remains unbroken, and your honor be your guide.”

  A chorus of war cries answered, rolling through the arena like the howl of a rising tempest.

  “May the strongest soul win,” continued the robed Stormcaller, rising from her pedestal seat, her voice ringing with ceremonial weight.

  High above in the stands, Virelya sat with Seraphine and Head Isla, watching as the arena shimmered with anticipation. But their attention was divided—not just by the spectacle below, but by the lingering tension from the night before.

  “Well, my daughters,” Head Isla said, her voice even but edged with steel. “One of you owes me an explanation for the disturbance last night.”

  “We were just chatting, Mother. Nothing more,” Seraphine said quickly, casting a wary glance at Virelya.

  “Chatting?” Isla arched a brow, her gaze still fixed on the arena. “And what was this chat about, then?” She turned slightly, just enough to see both daughters in her periphery.

  Virelya stiffened. She could feel Seraphine’s silent gaze reading every flicker of her thoughts, urging her to stay quiet—to protect what had been spoken. But Isla’s stare was like a blade resting at her throat.

  “It was... the Spire, Mother,” Virelya said at last, her voice strained but steady. “We were discussing battle strategies. That’s all.”

  A long pause. Isla studied her with unreadable eyes, letting the silence press down like a weight.

  “Very well,” she said finally. “Let us hope that is all it was.”

  In the arena, the winds shifted, and the crowd erupted into wild cheers as one amazon stepped forward, her presence as heavy as the wind she commanded.

  her voice boomed over the arena:

  From the Firm Circle of the Trinities—here she comes! The Stone Warden, one of the finest of all Amazons: unmatched, undefeated! The crown of the Stormcallers... Selka of the First Trinity!

  A roar of approval shook the coliseum as Selka with green, emerald eyes, she entered, her every step echoing with confidence. The earth seemed to hum beneath her, responding to her will. Her affinity with stone and soil was beyond words—raw, ancient, immovable. She was the pillar, the Stone Warden, the warrior no one dared challenge lightly.

  But then—

  Another name was called.

  And now… from the last of the Trinities, the Thirteenth— The flame at twilight edge —Kalithas of the Fixxn Wings!

  Gasps spread like wildfire.

  Born with wings—among the Amazons, the Fixxn-blooded were a rarity. In L’Oubliée, these women were destined for the sky, daughters of the island’s mythical creatures. Half Amazon, half legend—Kalithas stepped onto the field with a grace that defied gravity. Her feathers shimmered like obsidian, and her eyes burned with the quiet intensity of one who had soared above the world.

  She was a whisper of myth. A force of freedom.

  Now, she stood ready—wings poised, gaze unwavering—as the storm above mirrored the tempest stirring within.

  Across the arena, Selka stepped forward. Each step cracked against the stone, the earth trembling beneath her. She raised her voice, pride and challenge coiled in every word.

  So you’re the one they call Kalithas,” Selka said, conjuring earth into her palm. “I’ve heard your mastery of thunder and fire is… promising.” The rock in her hand cracked under the pressure of her grip.

  Kalithas tilted her head, a smirk flickering. “And I’ve heard of you, Selka—the Stone Warden. I only hope you don’t make it too easy.”

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  Selka chuckled. “Easy? Then I hope you’re ready.”

  “I am,” Kalithas replied as her wings flexed with anticipation.

  The announcer’s voice rang above the roar of the crowd:

  “Begin! And may the strongest soul win!”

  Both warriors echoed the rite, voices resonant like ancient steel:

  “May the strongest soul win.”

  They launched toward each other like arrows loosed from a divine bow.

  Kalithas took flight with a shriek of flame. The sky bent; clouds swirled, and lightning struck the arena sands like a pack of howling wolves.

  Selka braced herself.

  The first strike came fast—Kalithas’s whip of fire lashed through the air.

  Selka grounded herself, stance wide, palms pressed to stone. A wall of rock surged up around her—but the fire coiled, burst through her guard, and scorched her shoulder.

  Gritting her teeth, Selka punched the ground. The earth responded.

  Pillars of jagged stone erupted in a ring around her. She vaulted from one to the next, closing the distance between them with practiced precision.

  Above, Kalithas soared from a pillar of cloud. Wings outstretched, she let out a cry, cloaked in thunder. She dove—her body wrapped in a spear of lightning.

  Lightning collided with stone. The sky lit up in electric fury.

  Selka rose with a surge, riding a column of stone that burst from the earth. She punched through Kalithas’s lightning, the force scattering them in opposite directions.

  The crowd gasped.

  Kalithas landed hard on one knee, her wings arched and crackling like a burning hawk.

  “So this,” she muttered, breathing hard, “is why they call you the Stone Warden.”

  The impact echoed like a war drum—deep, final, undeniable.

  Selka didn’t answer. She stepped forward, and the stone bent beneath her feet like a loyal beast. Each footfall carved a perfect line between them—warrior to warrior, earth to sky.

  Across the arena, Kalithas smirked. Her wings rose with effort, trembling but defiant. And then came the Storm—her most powerful move.

  From her side of the heavens, Kalithas became a blaze of fury. Her figure ignited—pure flame and crackling lightning. Power surged outward in all directions, searing arcs of fire raining from above like meteors.

  Thunder tore across the sky, splitting clouds. Smoke surged, swallowing the arena whole.

  The crowd held its breath, frozen in time.

  Had Selka fallen?

  Had the Stone Warden lost?

  And then, as the haze began to clear—

  Selka stood tall.

  Encased in a dome of stone and crystal, her eyes shimmered, her breath slow and measured. She whispered, “I am the Quake.”

  Sigils ignited across her body, glowing bright as topaz. The ground beneath her pulsed in rhythm. She had done the impossible.

  She had opened the Second Door of the Element.

  Kalithas spread her wings, straining to lift off—but it was too late.

  A colossal burst of granite erupted beneath her, striking like a mountain's wrath. Caught mid-flight, Kalithas spiraled across the arena and crashed hard—her wings unfurled across the sand like fallen banners.

  The crowd was hushed. Something ancient stirred in her bones—a low hum, like an echo from the past. She had done what most never dared, what few had ever achieved. She had opened the Second Door—the impossible made real.

  The Second Door had been opened.

  Selka stepped into the center, her landing shaking the ground. Her fists were sheathed in stone, her gaze unblinking.

  “So,” she called, voice echoing across the arena, “will you forfeit… or perish?”

  A beat of silence.

  Then Kalithas’s voice came—rough, defiant, rising from the settling dust.

  “Never.”

  A memory flickered behind her eyes—the Fixxn Wings, long exiled to the fringes of L’Oubliée, confined to North high mountains -bound corner, living in obedience, never defiance. She remembered her sisters’ quiet rejection of the sky they were forbidden to claim. And then came the image of the Living Core, aglow in the distant peaks of home—a pulse, a promise.

  With it, a vow.

  Never to lose without a fight, even if it meant giving her life.

  She clenched her fist.

  Flames roared, lightning sparked from her skin—rage and thunder gathering to rise—

  But Selka was already too far.

  The silence returned, heavy and absolute.

  In the stands, all bore witness as something singular had awakened—raw, radiant, and unshakable.

  Kalithas groaned, blood on her lips.

  Selka appeared, stepping forth, gaze sharp as steel.

  “Yield,” she said, looming. “Or fall.”

  Kalithas looked up, her eyes blazing.

  “I’d rather die.”

  When the declaration echoed across the arena, Selka emerged atop a crumbling rise of sand, her body coiled like a drawn bow—ready to strike the final blow.

  “Enough!” called the voice from the tower. “The victor is Selka of the First trinity!”

  The crowd erupted.

  Kalithas closed her eyes. The sting of defeat sharper than the pain.

  Selka stood tall, the storm still whispering around her.

  That evening, in the Thalemer Ceremony Hall on the eastern edge of the island—a vaulted chamber aglow with silver banners and floating chandeliers—representatives from every Order gathered. The Mistworn of Yetros, the Trinity of the Academy, and the Circle of L’Oubliée stood united, drawn together by a single purpose: to witness the rise of a new singularity.

  And tonight—one such name would be spoken.

  “You were incredible, Selka!” Seraphine cried, eyes gleaming as she approached—with Virelya pacing quietly in the distance.

  “I am honored, Battle Commander,” Selka said. “I only hope I made the First trinity proud.”

  “You’ve done more than that,” Seraphine said, nodding toward the doors.

  Head Isla—the Circle’s Chancellor—approached, her presence like distant thunder wrapped in silk. Selka straightened.

  “Head Isla,” she said, bowing with the weight of respect.

  “Enough with titles,” Isla replied, a rare smile warming her stern features. “Tonight is for your honor. And Selka… you’ve opened one of the Doors. I am proud.”

  Murmurs stirred through the ceremonial hall—some in awe, others whispering with unease.

  Isla lifted her ceremonial glass. The hall fell silent, reverent.

  “Today,” she proclaimed, her voice resonating through crystal and stone, “we recognize an extraordinary Weaver of Element. Selka of the First Trinity has not only shattered expectations—she has redefined what is possible.”

  “There are those who learn to command their element—who wield fire, earth, or wind as weapons. These are the walkers of the First Door. But beyond that lie deeper truths.”

  “The Second Door is not simply about strength—it is resonance. It is the moment when the element no longer obeys... but becomes part of you. In all matter. In all form.”

  Gasps stirred the gathered crowd. Isla’s voice grew softer, reverent:

  “Few even glimpse the path beyond. Fewer still walk it. For those who do, are no longer merely mortal. They are Singularities.”

  She turned to Selka, eyes fierce with pride.

  “And Selka has opened that Door. Her bond with earth now transcends command—it responds as one with her spirit. Her will is unshakable. Her power, undeniable.”

  A hush fell over the hall. Then, from the great doors above, a faint breeze stirred the silver banners. No footsteps. No sound. Only the whisper of feathers.

  “She stood against sky fire and did not fall. And so, by rite of the Circle, she shall bear a new name …”

  She turned to Selka.

  ''Stonebreaker.”

  Gasps followed. Then cheers.

  “She has earned it through strength, through resilience, and through unyielding spirit. Let all who stand beneath the Veil know her name.”

  “To Selka, The Stonebreaker!” the room cried.

  Applause thundered.

  Selka stood in the chandeliers’ light, not with pride—

  But with purpose.