Elarion 7 year:-
The year ended in silence.
No celebration, no warmth in the cold wind, no candles on cakes. In Crimsonveil, every child was born on the same day. January first, the day they were sent to die.
The night before the Bloodgate Trial began, the training ground emptied earlier than usual. The veterans said nothing, but their bodies moved slower, sharper eyes lingered longer. A few stayed behind, polishing weapons that didn't belong to them, adjusting armor meant for smaller shoulders.
It was tradition. No farewells, no blessings. Just presence.
For Crimsonveil's, 7 is an year of terror, when real bloodshed starts.
Elarion sat alone in the hallway connecting the courtyard and dormitories, Herua by his side.
The twins, Bour and Bon, hovered nearby, unable to settle.
Not nervous—restless.
As if something ancient stirred beneath their skin and they didn't yet know how to name it.
Then after some time of silence they all left to their forms quite, no unnecessary words exchanged— Not today.
-----
Elarion sat on the bed and after some time Sirus and Rior arrived.
They didn't come like nobles. No horses. No cloaks. No guard.
Just footsteps and stolen time.
Rior bounced forward, too loud, too bright as usual. "We brought some illegal things," he whispered like a devil with a grin that gleamed.
Sirus rolled his eyes but held the parcel tighter. "Don't say it like that."
The scent hit first—caramel and sugar, warm and wrong. Wrapped poorly in cloth, stuffed into hidden compartments, there were confections from the Royal East. Some dusted with powdered cinnamon.
Others filled with cream that would go bad in half a day. A short-lived sweetness, meant to be devoured, not savored.
Elarion raised a brow, calm as ever. "You stole sweets?"
"We borrowed."
"We risked everything."
"We would do it again," Rior said, voice softer this time.
Sirus crouched in front of him, pressing the bundle into Elarion's hands. "Because tomorrow, no one will care if you've eaten or not. So eat now. Not as a warrior. Not as a son. Just as… someone we want to see alive."
Elarion stared at the sweets for a long moment, then picked one—a small square of hardened sugar and ginger—and bit into it.
No reaction.
But Rior still laughed. "He likes it."
Elarion didn't confirm or deny it. He chewed slowly, eyes half-lidded, speaking in a flat tone, "So what?"
But his grip didn't loosen. And he finished every bite.
They didn't stay long.
Crimsonveil didn't allow long goodbyes. Emotions festered, made you weak. So after the sweets were gone, and Rior had made one too many jokes, the brothers stood.
Sirus placed a firm hand on Elarion's shoulder.
"Live. That's an order."
Rior just ruffled his hair, whispering something too quiet for anyone else to hear.
And they left.
---
Next Morning:-
Morning broke cold and dry.
The veterans lined the courtyard in armor and silence.
They didn't cheer. They didn't speak. But their nods were steel blessings. A tilt of the chin. A pause of the gaze. A silent message burned into every child:
We've seen hell. You're walking into it.
But Elarion had seen the real one.
Each of the chosen ones stood with their assigned group. Dozens of boys. No girls. No exceptions. Just warriors-in-training, all born on paper today.
They were Hundred and fifty.
Some shivered. Some stood in daze. Some literally holding themselves from fainting.
Some clenched their fists, trying to mimic Elarion's stillness.
A few had tears in their eyes, but not from fear. From not knowing what came next. From knowing that their childhood—whatever scraps of it remained—would end the moment the gate opened.
Elarion stood at the center. Not tallest. Not oldest. But unmistakable.
His red and blue eyes, no longer hidden. His black hair tied back cleanly. His face, calm. Entirely unreadable.
Herua stood beside him, lips tight. The twins behind them, eyes burning like the sun was inside them.
And then—the gates opened.
A groan of rusted iron and time-worn stone. Beyond it, the path to Bloodgate. The cursed land. The training field carved into madness itself.
The warden waited at the mouth of the canyon, eyes like frostbitten coal.
"Step forward," he said, voice harsh enough to scrape bone. "You have three years to live. Use them wisely."
One by one, they walked.
None looked back.
But behind them, the veterans gave one final bow.
Not to mourn.
But to honor.
---