A low murmur filled the tent as aspirants crowded around the board. The official slipped out through the rear fold to fetch the instructors.

  Rob drifted closer without making a show of it. “You good?” he muttered.

  I kept my eyes on the board. “Define good.”

  Amelia stepped up on my other side. Her voice stayed tight. “There has to be a mistake.” Her gaze fixed on my name.

  I did not look at her. “No mistake. Just…”

  “Something complicated,” she finished.

  I gave a small nod. “Later.”

  Rob studied the board again, then glanced at me. “It’s going to be rough for you, mate.”

  I shrugged.

  “You were in that gate a while,” he said.

  I nodded once.

  I kept my expression steady, though my jaw stayed tight. “Long enough.”

  Rob searched my face. “Yeah. Same.”

  He tried to smile. It faltered before it reached his eyes.

  Amelia leaned in slightly. Her lips parted, then pressed together again. Whatever she meant to say stayed unsaid.

  If their trials had been anything like mine, we would need time to untangle it. All of it. Together.

  This was not that time.

  Not here.

  I met both their eyes and kept my voice level. “Later.”

  They understood. Each of them gave a small nod.

  The tent flap snapped open.

  A tall blonde woman entered, and the chatter thinned at once. Her battle attire fit close and exact, reinforced at the joints. A woven badge rested at her shoulder.

  Head Instructor, LD.

  The fabric lay perfect against her frame, not a crease out of place.

  “Listen carefully, aspirants,” she said.

  Her gaze moved across us, sharp and assessing.

  “I am Head Instructor Aleria Whitcombe. I will be overseeing the preliminaries.”

  She let the silence settle, then continued.

  “You will listen. You will follow instructions. Or I will remove you from this city myself.”

  No one laughed.

  Her voice never lifted.

  It did not have to.

  “Now. You will be divided into groups. Learn the faces in your group. In the first trial, these are the people you will face.”

  The air in the tent shifted.

  She did not hesitate.

  Her finger traced down a slate as she began calling names. Assistants moved quickly, directing bodies with clipped commands and firm hands. The loose crowd fractured into ordered lines under sharp instruction.

  Names echoed.

  People moved. Rob and Amelia moved away to join their own groups.

  Within minutes, I stood in a tight block of thirty-two aspirants.

  Group Four.

  We looked each other over without speaking. Some wore expensive gear, polished and reinforced. Most did not. Leather straps hung loose. Mail sat uneven across shoulders. Every one of us carried something, from blunt staves and heavy clubs to a few proper blades.

  Two figures stood with their backs to me. The hilts at their belts caught the light. Not standard issue. Too clean. Too precise.

  “Group One. With me.”

  The first group stepped forward at once. They formed lines without hesitation and followed her out, boots striking the ground in steady rhythm.

  The rest of us remained inside the tent, keeping with our assigned groups. No one spoke at first. A few boys muttered under their breath. Others tried to stand loose and confident, but their shoulders gave them away.

  One of the aspirants stepped out from my group.

  He looked about my age, but his armour set him apart. The leather fitted close to his frame, dark and well kept. The metal caught the light with a clean edge, polished and maintained. Nothing on him shifted or sagged when he moved.

  He turned slowly, studying the rest of us.

  His eyes did not linger on the broadest shoulders or the heaviest weapons.

  They paused on loose straps. On scuffed boots. On dented mail.

  He was not looking for the strongest.

  He was looking for someone to break.

  “Where is this, Sean Mitchell?” he called out, a smirk pulling at his mouth as he scanned the tent. “Come on. Where’s mister dead last?”

  A few heads turned.

  No one spoke.

  His attention moved over the many shy faces then he leaned toward the boy beside him.

  “Plenty of dead weight,” he muttered.

  The boy next to him matched his height and the hard set of his jaw. Brothers, I guessed. Their armour mirrored each other, as if they had stepped out of the same forge.

  Their eyes settled on our side of the ring.

  “Els to Ogham,” the second one muttered, just loud enough for us to hear. “Figures.”

  They were already placing us.

  Then his gaze caught on my hair.

  It flicked to Rob. Back to me. Measuring.

  He straightened and stepped closer.

  “You,” he said.

  I didn’t move.

  “You the one they’re calling Butcher?”

  The name carried farther than it should have.

  “One of the barracks lads said there’s a ginger joining the outsider aspirants to watch out for,” he said, eyes sweeping over me with open contempt.

  His gaze dragged from my boots to my hair, measuring, dismissing.

  “That you?”

  I held his gaze. “No,” I said flatly. “That’s not me.”

  I did not like that nickname, and I was not about to claim it.

  A few of the others reacted to it. I saw the looks. The caution. The shift in stance.

  The name carried fear.

  I had no intention of encouraging that.

  He watched my face, waiting for a reaction.

  He did not get one.

  “Yeah,” he said at last. “You don’t look like the type.”

  He straightened and raised his voice so the whole tent could hear him.

  “Nathaniel Norwood,” he announced, chin lifted. “And this is my brother, Alex.”

  Alex stepped forward beside him, cracking his knuckles as if warming up for something.

  “Remember the names,” Nathaniel continued. “We’re not here to make friends.”

  “Top five,” Alex added. “That’s where we’re finishing. The rest of you can fight over what’s left.”

  The circle around them shifted. No one argued. No one laughed.

  Nathaniel let the silence sit for a moment, then drifted closer to me. His eyes dropped to my hip.

  “That’s a fine dagger,” he said, his tone smooth and edged. “Would be unfortunate if it changed hands.”

  I held his gaze.

  “What exactly are you suggesting?” I asked, easing half a step back.

  His eyes dropped to the ring at my hand. A slow smirk touched his mouth.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  He said nothing.

  Instead, he turned away and rejoined his brother, already scanning the rest of the group for someone easier to unsettle.

  They knew something.

  It showed in the way they carried themselves. Relaxed. Certain.

  Around me, voices stayed low. No one looked settled. No one stood as solid as the brothers.

  Their gear cost money. That much was clear.

  But the way they spoke, the way they looked at the rest of us, stripped away any illusion of noble upbringing. Nor were they sons of merchants.

  They did not wear armour passed down through family. It was taken.

  Soon, group Two was called.

  Amelia left with them without looking back.

  The tent felt smaller once she was gone and Rob shot me a look across the tent.

  Then soon group three then finally my group was called.

  The Head Instructor stepped forward and called us up. “Once your name is called, you will file out one at a time,” she said.

  No one argued.

  Names were spoken.

  We moved.

  The tent flap opened and light flooded in.

  We stepped out high above the arena floor.

  The amphitheatre dropped away beneath us, carved deep into the earth. Stone tiers circled downward in vast rings, ancient and worn smooth by time. The structure felt older than the city above it, cut straight into the ground and built to endure.

  Thousands of faces filled the seats. They leaned forward as we appeared, their voices rising into a single rolling wave.

  A voice boomed across the arena.

  “And here comes Group Four!”

  Names followed, each one sharp against the air. Some drew cheers. Others passed in silence.

  “Norwood, Nathaniel. Norwood, Alexander…”

  A section of the stands erupted.

  “…Mitchells, Sean.”

  The false name struck harder than I expected.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the brothers glance at me. One nudged the other. They pointed, laughing under their breath. A few nearby aspirants turned to study me. Smirks spread. A couple of low chuckles followed.

  I kept my head forward.

  The field below stretched wide and circular, large enough to swallow an entire battlefield whole. A massive canvas structure covered most of the centre, still and silent, hiding whatever waited beneath.

  When we reached the lowest tier of the grounds, instructors directed us toward a large marker painted with the number IV. We took our places behind it. The Norwood’s loud boasting quieted into low, focused murmurs as they leaned close and began discussing tactics.

  More groups entered and spread out across the marked sections.

  Then I saw her.

  Red hair caught the light as she stepped into the arena with the group beside mine. Her expression was sharp and measured, the same controlled calm I had seen in the fog the night Calum and I pulled her and her goons clear. She stood with her arms crossed, watching everything.

  The red dagger at her side rested easy against her hip.

  Now, after seeing Rob’s and Amelia’s weapons, I knew exactly what it was.

  A few more groups including Rob’s filled down. And soon we were all sitting, ten groups of thirty-two.

  The crowd swelled as the announcer worked them into a frenzy, shouting of duty, glory, and strength. The sound rolled through the stone tiers and pressed against my chest.

  The instructor stepped forward as her assistants moved behind her, straightening lines and forcing space between us.

  “It is time,” she called.

  The same voice that had announced our names rolled across the amphitheatre.

  I looked up.

  A man stood on a raised platform high above the tiers, heavy ceremonial robes shifting in the wind as he opened his arms to the crowd. He did not need to shout to command them.

  “Greetings,” he called, his voice carrying across the stone. “These trials exist for one reason. To determine who among you is worthy to stand as true heroes of these lands. To protect. To serve. To lead.”

  The noise in the stands faded until only a strained hush remained.

  “This year,” he said, his voice measured, “will not be like the others…”

  He paused and let the weight of it settle.

  “Unlike past years, the victor of these trials will be granted a prize never before awarded.”

  The amphitheatre leaned in as one.

  “The final winner shall receive a title. And land.”

  The words barely left his mouth before the stands erupted. Gasps carried first, then shouts.

  Beside me, someone swore under their breath.

  The Norwood’s stood taller, shoulders squared as if the prize already belonged to them.

  At the edge of the field, the instructor lifted the amulet at her throat and pressed the rune set into its centre. A pulse of light flared beneath her fingers.

  “Greetings,” she said.

  Her voice carried across the arena.

  “I am Aleria, Head Instructor for today’s preliminaries.”

  Her eyes moved over us, one row at a time.

  “Young aspirants, you stand where brave knights once stood. This ground holds their names. Their victories. Their failures.”

  She let that settle.

  “What you do here will be measured against them. It is time to reveal your first trial.”

  The amphitheatre erupted.

  Horns sounded from every side of the arena, deep and layered, the notes vibrating through stone and bone. The air above us shimmered.

  Coloured ribbons shot upward in a sudden burst, not scattered, but directed. They twisted together midair, weaving through one another with deliberate precision. For a heartbeat, they formed the outline of a knight astride a rearing horse, lance lowered, banner streaming behind him.

  The shape held, bright against the sky.

  Then it shattered.

  The ribbons unfurled and spiralled outward, catching the sunlight as they fanned across the arena. They descended in sweeping arcs and coiled around the massive canvas at the centre of the field.

  The colours pulled tight around the canvas. Then they dropped.

  In a single breath, the ribbons and canvas vanished, revealing the first trial.

  The centre of the field had been transformed into a towering sprawl of obstacles. Stone barriers rose at harsh angles. Timber walls tilted inward, threatening to throw off anyone who climbed carelessly. Narrow beams cut across open gaps. Shallow channels of water glinted between sections. Ropes dangled from high frames. Platforms rose at uneven heights, forcing choices at every turn.

  Through the maze of stone and timber, I caught sight of something familiar.

  Wooden training golems stood scattered across the course, still and silent.

  The same type I had broken in the training room.

  So that was why it had been illegal. They were reserved for this.

  Each one stood upright and balanced, carved limbs fixed in place, waiting for someone to step too close.

  There was no single route through the course.

  Every path required something different. At the heart of it all, high above the central platform, a golden chalice rested on a raised stand, bright and impossible to ignore.

  Aleria’s voice cut through the rising noise.

  “Each group will run the gauntlet,” she said. “As the knights of old once did. Reach the centre. Claim the Grail.”

  The design left no room for mistakes. Dozens of routes led toward the centre.

  Just as many led nowhere.

  It demanded balance. Strength. Precision. Judgment.

  The crowd answered with a roar, swept up in the legend as much as the spectacle.

  Aleria raised her hand.

  “But not all may embark on this quest.”

  She held up five ribbons. They caught the sunlight and burned bright against the stone. The amphitheatre went quiet as she placed them one by one into a velvet bag.

  “To pass this trial,” she said, her voice carrying clean across the arena, “you must take a golden ribbon and place it into the chalice at the centre. Only then may you advance.”

  A low murmur moved through the groups.

  She stepped toward the first group and held out a velvet bag. “Forward.”

  The first name was called. The boy stepped out stiffly, shoulders squared, and reached inside. He pulled free a ribbon.

  Black.

  It crumbled to ash in his hand.

  A ripple of uneasy laughter ran through the stands.

  The next name was called. Another hand reached in. Another black ribbon. It dissolved just the same.

  Again and again they stepped forward, drawing dark strips that vanished in their palms, until at last one of the aspirants pulled free a ribbon that gleamed in the sunlight.

  Gold.

  The crowd reacted at once.

  Only then did the shape of the trial settle in my mind.

  This was not just a race. It was an all-out brawl.

  Soon all five golden ribbons rested in the hands of aspirants. Those who had drawn black watched them with sharpened focus. Determination replacing disappointment.

  “Remember! This is a chance to prove yourselves!” Aleria called.

  She recited the rules without raising her voice.

  There were not many.

  No maiming. No killing.

  Everything else was permitted.

  “Use whatever power you carry,” she said. “Blessings. Runes. Items. Nothing is restricted.”

  The words carried across the field and did not soften.

  “The ribbons are up for grabs,” she said. “Until it is placed in the chalice, it belongs to whoever holds it.”

  A few heads snapped toward one another.

  “Any weapon or item can be taken. This is not just a contest. It is war. The spoils go to the victor.”

  The circle tightened at once. Grips shifted on hilts. Shoulders squared.

  At that, I glanced sideways.

  Nathaniel’s eyes were already on my dagger and ring.

  There was no attempt to hide the greed in his eyes. His earlier words settled into place. He had already decided he would try to take something from me.

  The trial had shifted from spectacle to threat.

  Instructors moved quickly, gathering the aspirants of the first group and spreading them around the outer ring of the course. Those holding gold ribbons stood out at once. Eyes followed them from every angle. Distances were measured. Paths were judged. Targets were chosen.

  When they were all in position, Aleria’s voice carried across the arena once more.

  “At the sound of the horn, you may begin. Time ends only when all five ribbons are placed in the chalice.”

  The crowd fell into a tense murmur. Coins changed hands. Vendors shouted over one another.

  I ignored the course.

  I watched the others.

  I studied how they stood. Where they placed their weight. Who bounced on their heels and who stayed still. Some held themselves with easy confidence. Others kept adjusting straps that did not need adjusting.

  If this trial measured potential, it would show in those first steps.

  A horn sounded.

  The amphitheatre erupted.

  The first group surged forward. At the same time, the course came alive.

  Walls shifted. Beams rotated on hidden pivots. Ropes snapped tight and swung without warning. What had looked like a simple obstacle course transformed into a living structure.

  The aspirants ran straight into it.

  They ducked swinging beams and vaulted moving barriers, boots slipping on timber that tilted under their weight. Gold ribbons flashed as their holders tried to break for the centre. Eyes locked onto them at once. Paths shifted from escape to pursuit.

  I caught sight of one girl who charged up a rising ramp and launched herself toward a ribbon holder. A wooden golem clipped her midair and sent her spinning. She hit the ground hard, but the surface dipped under the impact and absorbed the worst of it before springing her sideways. She rolled, regained her footing, and seized a hanging rope, hauling herself upward without hesitation.

  They were fast. Not as fast as Rob, but fast enough to survive.

  Wood and metal cracked together as skirmishes erupted across the course. On top of a wooden pyramid, a boy stood with a golden ribbon clenched in one hand, a training blade in the other. He kept three attackers at bay for several seconds, feet planted wide as the structure swayed beneath him.

  Then someone came from behind.

  A sharp strike to his ribs. A hand tore the ribbon free.

  The thief barely had time to turn before two others crashed into him. The ribbon changed from hand to hand.

  It happened all at once.

  The course shifted. Bodies collided. Shouts cut through the crowd.

  Then a pulse of yellow light shot upward.

  A golden ribbon had been driven into the chalice.

  The light spread in a thin wave across the structure, running along stone and timber before sinking back into it.

  Moments later, another flare rose from the centre. I watched closely, taking in the range of skill. Some fought with disciplined sword work, clean strikes and measured footwork. Others leaned on their blessings. Sparks flared from hands. Bursts of force shoved opponents off balance. A few movements faltered, magic spilling unevenly as control slipped under pressure.

  They all had power, but not many of them had mastery.

  But none of them slowed.

  Each failure only drove them faster.

  Every flash from the centre sharpened their movements.

  A third burst of gold rose from the chalice. Then a fourth.

  The instant it flared, every remaining aspirant fixed on the final ribbon.

  They converged at once.

  Bodies crashed together. Fists struck without pause. Hands tore at fabric. Someone went down and disappeared beneath boots. Others slammed into moving timber as the structure shifted beneath them.

  The gauntlet fought back.

  Walls rose between those who clustered too tightly. Platforms tilted and spilled groups apart. Beams dropped low without warning, forcing fighters to break formation or fall.

  Still, the ribbon changed hands again and again. A strike from behind. A tackle at the knees. A hard shove that sent someone tumbling down a slanted wall. It was messy.

  Then the girl I had seen fall from the ramp broke free of the chaos.

  She ducked under a swinging beam, cut through a narrow gap as two boys collided behind her, and ripped the ribbon from an outstretched hand. Green light flared around her boots as she surged forward. She took the final incline in three hard strides, climbed the last rise without hesitation, and forced the ribbon into the chalice.

  The horn sounded.

  The amphitheatre erupted.

  I found myself clapping before I realised.

  Aleria’s voice cut through the noise. She called out the five names of the winners, one at a time. Each name drew cheers from different corners of the stands.

  Assistants flooded the field, pulling the injured clear and guiding the winners aside.

  The five who had claimed their ribbons stood taller as they were led away.

  Those who could still walk made their way back, shoulders lowered, eyes lowered.

  For most of them, the dream had been over almost as soon as it began.

  I took in the field, the scale of it, the pace of elimination. There would be far more hollow looks before the day was done.

  My gaze shifted to the next marked section.

  Amelia sat rigid within her group, fingers flexing at her sides. She looked toward Rob’s position. He caught her eye and gave a firm thumbs up.

  She managed a tight smile.

  The instructor stepped towards Amelia’s group.

  It was her turn.