Chapter 8 – The Trial Begins
The morning light crept in through the tall, arched windows of Leo's room, spilling gold across the stone walls and pulling shadows into sharp relief. The air was cool and faintly scented with the distant aroma of baking bread. Somewhere below, boots thudded against flagstones in an uneven rhythm, and voices rose and fell in the murmured language of servants preparing for the day.
Leo sat on the edge of his bed longer than usual, his thoughts still lingering in the library—on the moonlit shelves, the smell of parchment, and the flash of crystalline blue eyes watching him from the shadows. Eliza.
He rose and washed quickly, changing into a fresh tunic and trousers. When he stepped into the corridor, Jack and Ralph were already waiting.
"You ready?" Jack asked, his voice carrying the kind of nervous excitement that was half challenge, half reassurance.
"As ready as I can be," Leo replied. He didn't quite manage to match Jack's grin.
The Draxler estate's carriage waited at the gates—a black coach trimmed in gold, the imperial crest painted boldly on its side. Four tall white horses pawed at the cobblestones, their silver barding catching the light like small suns. Lyra sat inside, speaking quietly to a retainer. Mira joined a moment later, her expression unreadable.
Leo's eyes flicked toward the carriage steps almost involuntarily, searching for a certain figure with white hair. She wasn't there. He said nothing and stepped inside.
The city grew more alive as they rode toward its heart—vendors calling out the freshness of their wares, the smell of ripe fruit clashing with hot oil, the tang of iron from the blacksmiths' quarter. The streets narrowed, then widened again into the military district. The air seemed colder here, the chatter of the market replaced by the measured pace of armored patrols.
Then the road curved, and the Empire Fortress came into view.
It dominated the horizon—blackstone walls rising like the bones of a mountain, banners snapping in the wind with a sound like a beast breathing. Sunlight slid across sheer stone faces and caught on the gleam of metalwork and armor. A deep moat encircled the base, the water so still and dark it seemed to swallow light. The drawbridge was down, its massive chains groaning with the weight of history. Above the gate, the imperial crest—phoenix and twelve stars—was carved deep into the stone, gilded so it burned faintly gold in the sun.
As they crossed into its shadow, Leo felt the weight of centuries settle over him. This was more than stone and steel. It was the Empire's will made solid.
Inside, the courtyard opened wide—a parade ground lined with disciplined soldiers, their boots perfectly aligned, their helms polished to a mirror sheen. Beyond them, the central keep towered over everything, pale granite framed by four watchtowers bristling with siege engines.
They were led toward the Hall of Examination, a long, solemn building with carved archways and stained-glass windows that caught the light in shards of crimson and gold. The great iron doors opened with a groan that echoed like a tolling bell.
The hall inside was cooler, the air thick with parchment and polished wood. Rows of desks stretched beneath a vaulted ceiling painted with constellations from the Twelve Ages. At the far end, an elevated dais waited for the examiners in black and gold robes.
Lyra's voice was soft but carried an edge of command. "This is it. Once you enter, there is no leaving until the written trial is complete."
She and Mira left as the candidates filtered in. Each desk bore a small brass plaque with a name engraved in neat block letters. Leo found his and sat, the wood smooth and faintly warm beneath his hands. Jack was to his right, Ralph to his left.
The exam began with the slow chime of a bell. The first questions tested judgment—how to respond in battle, when to retreat, when to hold. Then geography, imperial law, history of the legions. The scratching of quills filled the hall, the only sound beside the occasional cough.
When the final bell rang, Leo stretched his cramped fingers. Jack leaned over, grinning. "Not too bad."
Ralph gave a small shrug. "We'll see."
They were making their way toward the exit when a voice from the dais halted them. "Practical examinations will be conducted on the training grounds at the rear. Follow the others."
Jack glanced at Ralph. "Do you even know where that is?"
"Nope," Ralph replied.
"Then we follow the crowd," Leo said.
They stepped into the sunlight again, joining the flow of examinees toward a wide archway. Beyond it lay the training grounds—a vast space of packed earth and scattered sandpits, ringed with sparring circles and weapon racks. Instructors barked orders as candidates formed into groups.
That was when they met Ethan, Noah, and John.
Ethan was tall, broad-shouldered, his hair tied back in a short tail. Noah was leaner, quick-eyed, already assessing everyone in sight. John looked calmer than both, his arms folded, his posture relaxed in a way that somehow still suggested readiness.
"Looks like we're in the same group," Ethan said with an easy grin. "Good. I don't like fighting strangers I don't know at all."
The sparring began in pairs, group against group. Steel rang, the air filling with the thud of boots and the sharp hiss of blades sliding against each other. Dust rose from the packed earth, catching in the morning light.
Leo faced an opponent from another group—quick but reckless. He stayed patient, blocking and sidestepping until the other overreached. One twist, one precise push, and the match was over.
Their group won more bouts than they lost, and by the time the sparring ended, they were speaking like comrades. Laughing at close calls, replaying moments where luck had favored them.
But the atmosphere shifted when a commotion rippled across the grounds. Heads turned toward the elite ring at the far end.
Leo caught only a sliver of motion at first—a flicker of white against the sun. The crowd shifted, and the scene opened before him.
She was there.
The white-haired figure moved like the air obeyed her. Every strike was measured, precise—less a blow, more a decision being carried out. Her hair followed her in perfect rhythm, never out of place, as though even the smallest thread had been commanded into discipline.
Steel clashed like shattering ice. Her opponent pressed hard, yet she turned aside each attack with steps so slight they seemed almost dismissive—until the opening appeared, and her counter struck with surgical inevitability.
It wasn't the brute rhythm of soldiers' drills. It was something else—an art sharpened to the point of danger. The sunlight caught the edge of her blade, flashing like water, then vanishing again as she moved.
Around her, the noise of the crowd seemed distant. Leo noticed the way her boots landed with no wasted motion, the way her balance shifted a heartbeat before each attack. The rhythm of it—steel, step, turn—was like a dance no one else could join.
Ethan leaned toward him. "You know who that is?"
Leo's silence was answer enough.
"That's the second daughter of the Draxler family," Ethan continued. "When people say their name can change the tides of the Empire... she's one of the reasons why."
Noah gave a crooked grin. "Think she's got a boyfriend?"
The match ended not in triumph, but in stillness—her blade resting at her opponent's throat, her breathing unchanged, her eyes unreadable. She stepped back, saluted with the same precision she had fought with, and left the ring.
Wherever she passed, space opened—not because people moved aside, but because her presence was something that could not be crowded. The murmurs followed her like the wake of a ship, each voice unsure whether to admire or fear.
Leo didn't speak. His gaze stayed on the empty ring long after she was gone, as though trying to hold onto the image before it could dissolve into the ordinary noise of the training grounds.
"Hey." Jack's voice cut through, light but probing. He and Ralph had returned from another sparring circle, both a little dusty, both wearing matching smirks. "What are you thinking about so hard?"
Leo blinked, shaking himself back into the present. "Nothing," he said, though the word felt too small for the truth.
"Uh-huh. Sure." Jack gave him a knowing look, then glanced at the three standing nearby. "And you're not gonna introduce us to your… what, new team?"
Right—Leo turned slightly. "Jack, Ralph—this is Ethan, Noah, and John. We were grouped for the sparring trials."
Jack gave a short nod. "Good fighters?"
"Better than the people we faced," Noah answered before Leo could speak, his grin quick and easy.
Ralph chuckled. "That's what I like to hear."
For a moment, the two groups mingled, trading quick comments about the matches, replaying certain moments with sharp gestures and bursts of laughter. It felt… natural, as though they'd fought together far longer than just one morning.
But before the camaraderie could settle, a horn's deep call rolled across the training grounds, its tone commanding silence. The instructors turned, their eyes sweeping over the gathered candidates.
A senior examiner, robed in black and gold, stepped forward. His voice was not loud, yet it carried, unshaken by wind or distance.
"The final phase of the trial," he declared, "will be conducted here, on these grounds. There will be no written instructions, no set pairings. Your actions will decide your standing."
A ripple of unease moved through the candidates, the earlier laughter gone. The air seemed heavier, the bright sun now casting sharper shadows across the arena's packed earth.
Leo felt it too—that subtle shift, as though the fortress itself was watching. The noise from the crowd dimmed in his ears. This wasn't just a test anymore. This was the threshold.
...
A stir ran through the crowd, pulling every head toward the far end of the grounds.
Two figures were approaching.
They walked with measured steps, their silhouettes outlined by the noon sun. Both wore long, black robes stitched with curling silver symbols that shifted in the light, as though alive. Whatever those markings were, they weren't ornamental — they pulsed faintly, like breathing.
The air changed before they even reached the center of the arena.
A sudden weight slammed down, invisible yet merciless, driving knees toward the dirt. The packed earth itself seemed to groan under it.
"Wh–what is this pressure?" Ethan gasped, his voice strained. "I can't… even stand properly…"
The two strangers stopped in the middle of the grounds, setting down a small, cloth-draped bundle. The pressure intensified in slow, deliberate pulses, making every breath an effort.
One of them spoke, his tone calm yet heavy as a hammer. "All candidates — step back ten meters."
The crowd obeyed, boots dragging as if through water. Leo's own legs felt twice their weight.
The second figure raised his voice, carrying easily over the field. "This is the final part of the examination. Your task is simple—" he paused, letting the silence stretch "—walk forward… and claim the object before you."
The first figure bent, unwrapping the bundle.
When the cloth fell away, the ground seemed to tilt.
A dagger lay there. Its blade was not steel, but some dark, glass-like material shot through with veins of deep crimson. The hilt was etched with lines that formed no language Leo knew, yet staring at them made his eyes ache. The instant it was revealed, the pressure became a storm, pressing bodies down. Somewhere to Leo's left, a candidate collapsed with a groan, unmoving.
One by one, names were called.
One by one, most failed — some crumpling halfway there, others reaching the blade only to faint the instant they touched it.
"Ralph Grey."
Ralph inhaled slowly, stepped forward. His every move was measured, his eyes locked on the dagger. Leo saw his friend dig his nails into his own palm, hard enough that blood slid down his fingers, pattering dark spots onto the dust. Step by step, he reached it.
He knelt, his hand hovering above the hilt — then, with a final breath, closed his fingers around it.
A soundless wave seemed to ripple through the air. Ralph's eyes widened — and he dropped, unconscious, the dagger sliding from his grip.
One of the robed figures smiled faintly. "This year will be… interesting."
The trials continued. Only a handful even managed to touch the dagger before falling. Most never made it halfway.
Then —
"Leo Vail."
The name seemed louder than the others.
He stepped forward. The weight in the air grew with each pace, as though the ground itself resented his presence. By the halfway mark, it was worse than before — heavier, more suffocating, as if the dagger itself was aware of him.
His hands shook. His focus frayed.
Then—
"Leo…"
The whisper was so close it might have been at his ear. He froze, scanning the crowd, but no one was looking at him.
"Leo… come."
It came again, clearer, from nowhere. His vision blurred. Shapes bled at the edges, melting into fragments. Flashes of… something — faces he didn't know, places that burned with light — tore through his mind, too fast to hold.
And then—
Silence.
When the haze cleared, he was standing over the dagger, his right hand wrapped around the hilt. The air had gone utterly still. Every gaze in the arena was locked on him — wide-eyed, pale-faced, horrified.
Something wet slid from the corner of his eye. He touched it — and his fingertips came away red.
The world tilted. The edges of his sight turned crimson, the colors draining into a deep, pulsating red.
And then the ground rose up to meet him.
Darkness.