The others take this trial far too seriously.
Everywhere I look, it's the same faces wearing the same grim expressions. The "warriors-to-be" of our proud island — foreheads damp with sweat, eyes blazing with determination. Hah. These challengers fight with hunger, like dogs over scraps. But that outsider… he fought with something else. Not skill, not discipline. Conviction? No… something wilder. Something I can't yet name. And it gnaws at me.
And then there's me.
The difference is obvious at a glance. While they bind themselves in dull leather and stiff cloth, I drape fashionably and wear my hair loose, untamed. A little gold glints at my wrist and throat, catching the sun whenever I move. Why not? A warrior without presence is nothing more than a blade without shine.
This trial is not just about strength. It's a stage. And every stage needs its leading man.
I stroll down the ridge with my hand resting casually on the hilt of my dagger, humming a tune only I seem to know. Around me, the mountain winds whip, carrying with them the sound of grunts, of stone scraping against calloused hands, of people clawing their way toward blossoms like desperate animals.
Pathetic.
I will pass this trial with ease. Of course I will. But my real curiosity lies elsewhere.
The outsider.
That boy — Kael, was it? He defeated me and my brother even though we were disadvantaged. It's still impressive. Even now, I can feel the echo of that humiliation buzzing in my bones. To lose is one thing. To lose to an outsider? Who doesn't know martial arts? That is something I cannot ignore. He is more interesting than any flower, more intriguing than any title the Order of the Ember can offer.
Yes… the trial may be mandatory, but finding him again? That will be the real prize.
The canyon narrows as I press forward, jagged stone rising like fangs on either side, a magnificent stage. Shadows swallow me whole, the air cooler here, damp with hidden springs. The wind funnels through the gap, whispering like a thousand unseen voices. My boots scrape against loose gravel, each step a reminder of the void yawning below. Somewhere above, a hawk screams, cheering me on, my audience. The path demands focus—misplace a foot, and the act ends before I can give my performance.
Voices ahead.
I slow my step, slipping into the shadows of a jagged boulder. Two challengers kneel near a cluster of rocks, debating, their tones sharp with suspicion. They've spotted a couple Keahi Blossom's sprouting from the cliffside above, but neither wants to be the first to climb for it.
Perfect.
"Gentlemen!" I call, stepping into view with arms flung wide, grin painted across my face. "Fate is too kind! She delivers me two brothers-in-arms when I needed them most."
They tense instantly, blades half-drawn.
"No tricks," I add quickly, raising a hand. "Only cooperation. You two climb, I watch your backs. When we return with the flower, we move together. Safety in numbers, no? After all, once you have the blossoms, others will come sniffing like jackals. Better to walk back with a friend."
The taller one narrows his eyes. "And why trust you?"
"Because, my friend, unlike the others, I am not desperate." I pat the blossom already at my belt, one I'd taken earlier. "See? I have mine. I simply prefer good company over solitude. A long climb, a long road back… why make it dreary?"
A moment's hesitation — then their shoulders ease.
Good.
We speak lightly as they prepare, exchanging names I do not bother remembering. They turn, one bracing the other's climb. Their voices grow casual, laughter slipping into the wind. I laugh too, hand over heart, every inch the trustworthy companion.
And when their backs are to me…
Steel flashes — not to strike, but to cut their ropes.
A sharp tug, a yelp, and they tumble to the dirt below, flailing and cursing as the climb slips from their grasp. A steep fall I doubt they will recover in time to pass the trial.
Their eyes when the rope snapped… ah, priceless.
I sigh, spinning my blade once before sliding it back into its sheath. "You really should not trust strangers."
I pluck the blossom they had been reaching for, twirl it between my fingers, then let it drop, watching it tumble into the grass at their feet.
"I don't need it," I say with a flourishing bow. "I only wanted the look on your faces. That… that is the real music of this trial." Undeserving of becoming warriors.
Their outraged shouts echo behind me as I saunter away, light as a feather. Ah, betrayal — it really does bring out the realest performance in people.
I pause at a bend in the canyon, glance back, and let myself grin. Their faces — oh, I'll be replaying those for days. I should bottle that look, sell it at market as a tonic for boredom. "One sip, and even the dullest man may taste betrayal." Perhaps I'll patent it someday. Malik's Miracle Elixir: cures monotony, induces despair.
The path narrows to a ledge so thin it could make a sober man pray. Me? I spread my arms for balance, as if striding across a tightrope before an eager crowd. Below yawns the abyss, a black pit begging for drama. I almost consider slipping just to see if anyone would gasp.
Three more challengers block the way at the next ridge, blades out, sweat dripping from their brows.
"Hand over your blossom," one snarls.
I sigh, as though burdened by the sheer mediocrity of the script. "Behind me," I whisper, lowering my voice to a conspiratorial hush. "A whole patch of blossoms — untouched."
Their eyes widen, doubt warring with greed. I tilt my head, let my earring catch the light like a wink from fate itself. "Go quickly, before others find it. I will… delay them."
They break instantly, scattering like startled pigeons, feet pounding back down the trail.
I watch them vanish, then laugh, pressing a hand to my chest. "Truly, the easiest victories are the ones won with nothing but words."
The wind here tastes of rust and stone. Old scars mar the cliffs — blades, axes, desperation. History written in scratches. I clap politely at the artistry.
And then, at the far end of the ledge, my next act appears: broad-shouldered, scarred, eyes sharp as a hawk. No patience for charm, no softness to exploit. I grin, already feeling the thrill coil through me.
Finally, someone who doesn't fall for smiles. How refreshing.
"Move," he growls.
Ooh the attitude stings. Someone who wants to dance.
I sweep into a bow so deep it borders mockery, my blade spinning in lazy arcs of silver light. "As you wish, good sir. Let's give them a show worth remembering."
He doesn't waste time. He lunges, blade crashing down with the force of a falling tree. The strike rattles stone when it misses, chips flying. Brutal. Heavy. He fights like a storm given flesh.
But I am no anvil. I am the wind.
I flow backward, sidestep, lean, letting his strikes carve through nothing but air. My laughter rings bright, mocking, as I spin out of reach, blade flickering in and out like tongues of flame. Every time his steel crashes down, mine brushes past his guard — shallow cuts across his arms, nicking his side, teasing him with the reminder that he is always a heartbeat away from loss.
"Too slow," I sing.
He roars and charges, his swings wild with anger now. Good. Anger is heavy. Anger drags the feet.
I dart forward, a blur of motion, my kris blade crossing in a flash. He blocks one strike, the clash ringing sharp — but my second attack dances under his guard, grazing his ribs. He gasps, stumbling from the sudden pain, his footing lost to the uneven ground.
He lunges, blade crashing down with the weight of an avalanche. The stone shrieks where he misses, sparks bursting like fireworks. A fine display. Very dramatic. But unfortunately for him, the audience came to see me.
I pivot, light as silk caught in the wind, my dagger flashing like a dancer in a duet. Each clash sings sharp and bright, a perfect rhythm. I could almost set it to music.
"Ah, but you're giving me too much!" I call as he swings again, wild, furious. "You roar, you stomp — the audience already knows your role. You are the beast, my dear brute. And what becomes of beasts?"
He charges, his scars taut with fury, his guard wide open. My kris blade slips in with a kiss of steel across his ribs. He stumbles, groans, then collapses, wheezing. The crowd — imaginary though it may be — goes wild.
I bow, flourish, as if basking in thunderous applause. "And the beast falls to the leading man. Curtain falls."
The man groans on the ground, clutching his ribs, while I sweep into a bow as though I've just concluded the finale of a grand play. "Encore?" I ask him, but he's already slipping into unconsciousness. Shame.
Every scar is a story, yet his tale ends with me. How poetic. Perhaps someday they'll carve my victories into the cliffs — though I'd prefer a grander canvas. A mural in the square, perhaps? Gold-leafed.
I twirl the blossom between my fingers, its petals catching the light like a spotlight just for me. Another prop for my collection, another audience left breathless. Do I need it? Hardly. But trophies do make the story sweeter.
I skip along the canyon path, humming as the cliffs narrow again. Sunlight slants through the rocks in golden shafts, painting the dust in glitter. It feels like walking down a gilded aisle — fitting for me, no?
And yet, as much as I revel in the stage, there's something nagging at me. That outsider. The one who humiliated me and my brother. He doesn't fit the script. He's not supposed to be here, and certainly not supposed to win.
My lips curl into a grin. Oh, how I do love an unexpected twist.
The path evens out into a ridge where the sunlight spills golden across the stone. Blossoms grow here in lonely clusters, their petals swaying like dancers waiting for their cue. I pluck one, twirl it in my fingers, then toss it skyward. It catches the light, spins, falls.
I watch it land, my smile fading just slightly. This trial, these blossoms… it's all the same performance I've seen a hundred times. Predictable. Boring.
But him…
That outsider. Kael. He doesn't move like these other ants. Doesn't fight like them. He's awkward, yes — stiff, unpolished — but when I fought him, there was something there. Not skill. Not training. Something wilder. A rhythm out of tune, yet strangely captivating. A note I can't name, stuck in my ear ever since.
The others, they bore me. But him? He keeps me awake.
I lick my lips, anticipation thrumming in my veins. Ah yes. He's close. The script is finally getting interesting.
There.
Across the ridge, boots grinding against stone, shoulders tense with effort — Kael. The outsider. He moves differently than the rest. Not scrambling like an ant, not snarling like a beast. Just steady. Quiet. As if he doesn't even realize the world is watching.
My heart thrums, faster than it should. The memory of defeat still burns, sharp and delicious. He doesn't know the part he plays, but I do. He is the rival. The foil. The unexpected twist in Malik's grand story.
I step forward, slow, deliberate, my shadow stretching long across the stone. The gravel crunches underfoot and he looks up. His eyes narrow, wary — oh, perfect. He remembers me.
I spread my arms wide, blade glinting at my side, a grin splitting my face like a mask. The canyon swallows my words, carries them like a trumpet announcing the next act:
"I finally found you, outsider."