The morning wind was heavier than usual. Not with chill—but with something stranger. A silence that didn't belong. The kind of silence that came before storms, or bloodshed.
They stood at the edge of the Bloodgate.
A cracked field stretched out before them, dried earth veined with scars of past battles.
Creakkkkkk...
Iron gates, taller than any fortress wall, stood half-open—moaning on ancient hinges that had not been oiled in centuries.
The walls surrounding the trial ground were made of red-black stone, stained from within. A scent lingered in the air—old sweat, metal, and smoke. No flowers grew here. Not even weeds.
Veteran knights, cloaked in black, stood in formation beside the gates.
Not nobles.
Not guards.
These were the forgotten blades of Crimsonveil—men who had outlived every trial and walked out with dead eyes and living strength. They didn't speak. But when the children passed them, they gave the faintest of nods. The silent kind that said: survive.
Elarion didn't look back. Neither did the others.
Sirus and Rior hadn't been allowed to come see him off. But the night before, they had slipped forbidden sweets into his pocket—wrapped messily, poorly hidden, still warm.
He'd eaten them without hesitation. Didn't say thank you. But sat longer than usual by the candlelight, not blinking once.
So what?
Still, something inside him had loosened. A silent thread tied to memory. But it didn't effect him, everything is fine as long as it doesn't effect him negatively.
---
They were divided immediately.
Names were called one by one by a voice that came from the walls themselves. It wasn't human—just a mechanical echo with no warmth, no flaw.
> "Elarion. Rank 1." "Bon. Rank 3." "Herua. Rank 2." "Bour. Rank 2."
Even the strongest were separated.
It didn't matter how fast you ran, or how precise your blade was. Bloodgate Trial ignored merit. Rank assignments were random. That was part of the madness.
"Don't run to each other. You'll meet again—if the Trial allows," said a man dressed in red leather armor. He had one eye. No one knew his name. But everyone knew his face.
He'd survived the Trial without serious injury but only drenched in blood.
Some whispered he had eaten his own comrades to survive. Others said the truth was worse.
Children were pushed forward. Some cried. Most didn't. That had been beaten out of them long ago.
---
The Bloodgate itself was not one place.
It was a hundred locations, walled off and caged with gates, each child assigned to one. Some were barren, like cracked deserts.
Others were stone pits filled with darkness.
Some had forests, filled with beasts that were not quite animals, not quite demons. The only shared rule?
> "You will not know hunger," said the One-Eyed Instructor.
"Because the hunger will know you."
---
Elarion didn't react.
He was taken to his Rank 1 area, alone, past a corridor of crimson banners and stone teeth. He didn't speak. He didn't ask questions. He just observed. Every scent, every sound, every layout. Eyes calm, sharp.
The others glanced at him—but said nothing.
No one dared speak to the boy with mismatched eyes.
And yet, behind them, the veterans eyes lingered, watching. Just for a moment.
Some recognized that look in his eyes.
He's not scared of death.
Because he's already walked past it.
' That child will survive' was the only thing in their minds.
--