"I finally found you, outsider."
…He's different this time not wearing simple guardsmen clothes, but something much, much flashier.
Aria said I beat those two only thanks to them not having their equipment, this time his blade was different, the scabbard adorned with jewels.
My ribs throb in answer, like they're mocking me. Every step I've taken up this mountain has been one long argument between willpower and gravity, and gravity has been winning. The blossom at my belt feels heavier than iron.
And now this guy stands there — not a scratch on him, grinning like he's about to take a bow on some grand stage. His clothes aren't even dirty. How? Did he fly up here?
I straighten as best I can, though my body's not buying the act. "If you're here to fight," I rasp, "make it quick."
His smile falters. Just a little. Not much, but enough.
Huh. Didn't expect that.
For a heartbeat, I almost think he'll just strike. But instead, he tilts his head, gold glinting at his throat, and sighs — long and theatrical, like I've ruined his evening.
"Look at you," he says. "All beaten, half-dead. Where's the fun in that? You're supposed to be the surprise, the twist in my story. And right now, you look more like the tragic side character who dies in act two."
I blink at him. "…Sorry to disappoint?"
He waves a hand, striding closer as though we're old friends meeting for drinks. "Oh, don't apologize. It's not your fault. The script just hasn't caught up yet."
The script? What is he talking about?
My head spins, exhaustion tugging at me. I almost wish he would fight me — at least then things would make sense.
He stops suddenly, planting his boots in the dirt with a screech like he's just remembered something important. Then, to my utter disbelief, he scratches his head like a man deciding which drink to get.
"Hm. Hm. Yes… no… ah, but what if—" He spins on his heel, finger raised as if delivering some profound revelation. "I've decided!"
I stare at him, waiting for the blade.
Instead, he slips to my side, hands clasped behind his back, strolling as though we're partners on a leisurely walk. "I, Malik, shall escort you down the mountain."
"…What?"
"Think about it, outsider." He leans closer, his grin sharp. "What a shame it would be, hm? If Malik's rival, his destined foil, was beaten not by Malik, but by some faceless side character while limping about half-dead? No, no, no. Absolutely unacceptable. My story demands more."
I blink at him. Slowly. "…You're insane."
"Ah, but charmingly so," he replies, patting my shoulder like we're comrades. "Besides, I don't want anyone else stealing my curtain call. You fall to me in the second trial — not before. Understood?"
I mutter something under my breath that sounds suspiciously like this island is cursed. He only laughs, bright and theatrical, as though the very cliffs were his audience.
And just like that, I'm being escorted down the mountain by a self-proclaimed leading man who may or may not be planning my dramatic death scene.
The path narrows, a single ribbon of dirt cut into the cliff. Below it, the slope drops away into a scatter of jagged rock and scrub—one bad step and you don't get to be a tragic antihero, you just become a corpse the elders have to explain to the families. Lovely.
My legs feel like someone rewired them with lead. Each step is an argument: move, don't move, hurt more if you try. The Keahi Blossom at my belt bobs with every hobble; it looks ridiculous against the grime on my shirt, like a clean little lie tied to a broken man.
Malik hums something tuneless under his breath, all too comfortable on the narrow ledge. He's striding along like the canyon is his promenade and the cliff a mere accessory to his shoes. I should hate that. I do hate it. But it's doing a weird thing to my patience—chipping it down to a fine, brittle edge.
Halfway down a crooked switchback, the rock under my left foot shifts. Not just gravel—this chunk of ledge decides it would rather be a landslide. There's a thin, terrible crack that sings under my weight, and my stomach drops before my feet do.
Instinct moves faster than thought. I lurch, arms windmilling for purchase on nothing. My boot scrapes, finds air. For one stupid, glorious second, I remember falling from the cliff above the harbor—only this time there's no miracle truck waiting at the bottom.
"Oi!" Malik's voice snaps, not the teasing lilt but a sharp, precise cut. He leaps.
He doesn't run like the rest of us; he floats—really, it's the only word for it—closing the gap with three smooth bounds that make the cliff look docile. He catches my arm at the elbow with one hand, like he's plucking a loose thread, and hooks my belt with the other. The world tilts; my ears ring. For a second I see nothing but sky and the awful, honest drop.
"Not today," he says, as if I needed permission to live. His hand is warm. Unsettlingly steady.
He hauls me back onto the solid ledge with a practiced tug that throws muscles I didn't know I had into motion. My chest hits rock. Sand grinds into my palms. I cough, taste blood and dust. My heart is a hammer.
"You got a death wish, or are you trying to ruin my evening?" Malik asks, breathing not hard at all. The performance is back on; the grin is polite, ravenous. "If you go and die now, how am I meant to properly savor revenge later?"
I gag out something that's supposed to be a curse but sounds more like a wheeze. "You're impossible."
He helps me sit up—too nicelike—and brushes a sliver of stone from my shoulder like it's lint. His fingers are absurdly clean. "There, there. Rest. Take in the view. We're not in a rush. I want you coherent enough to appreciate the pain when I beat you, yes?"
My breath comes too fast. I force one slow inhale, then another. The cliff keeps humming beneath my hands—a low, dangerous sound. I check my feet; the cracked slab is gone, replaced by loose gravel and an angry edge. If Malik hadn't grabbed me, I'd be a smear below.
"Why bother?" I say finally, because sarcasm is the only functioning muscle left in my face. "You could've just… not saved me."
He tilts his head, surveying me with something that almost looks like amusement and something else I can't name. "Ah, but then the story would be ugly. No drama. No build. You're too important to the plot, you see." He flicks his hand as if dusting imaginary applause from my shirt. "Besides, a true leading man doesn't let his rival be embarrassed by a supporting actor."
I snort. It hurts. "Your ego will be the death of you."
"Possibly," he admits readily. "But I'll go in style."
We move again, slow and deliberate. Malik keeps one hand close to me—near enough to catch, not near enough to be kind. The cliff narrows further, and the sun throws the world into sharp contrast: bright white stone and deeper, darker shadows where the next collapse could be hiding. My ribs burn with every breath. My foot finds purchase; then slips; then finds purchase again. I'm learning to trust the rhythm of the descent and the single infuriating fact that Malik's steady presence is the only thing between me and a much shorter life.
"Promise me one thing," I say, voice rough.
He glances at me, eyebrow arched. "Oh? What's that? A dramatic monologue?"
"Don't make me your curtain call before the tournament."
His grin softens into something like curiosity. "We'll see. Try not to disappoint."
We keep going. Behind a bend, the path opens into a wider shelf where other challengers—some bloody, some plain bitter—crawl and mutter like scavengers. The mountain seems to relax, for the moment, as if satisfied we survived the first act.
I tighten my hand around the blossom, feeling its impossible, quiet weight. Whatever happens next, I'm still breathing. And for now, that has to be enough.
I squint into the narrowing path ahead. Shadows move where there shouldn't be any, figures crouched low, waiting. My stomach tenses. Not all challengers had found a blossom, apparently—and some were willing to take what wasn't theirs.
Malik hums behind me, the sound unnervingly casual. "Ah… trouble. How inconvenient."
I glance back at him. "You gonna… help?"
"Why wouldn't I?" His grin sharpens. "Besides, the audience would complain if I let you be embarrassed so early in the act."
Two figures burst from the underbrush—one swinging a crude spear, the other lunging with a flurry of rapid punches. Body arts, weapon style… predictable, but dangerous enough.
I roll forward instinctively, barely avoiding the spear tip that whistles past my ear. Gravel skitters underfoot. Malik sidesteps, effortless, as if the cliff were his stage and the wind his prop. He flicks a hand, and the spear user stumbles, caught in the edge of the ledge.
I mimic Malik's calm precision as best I can, using the moves I copied from Aria and my previous fights. A quick sidestep, a redirected punch, a counter to the body arts assault—enough to keep them at bay. The attackers' confidence falters when they realize they're not catching us off-guard.
Malik laughs softly, like a man watching a play unfold perfectly. "Oh, come now. Is that all you've got?" He steps closer to the spear wielder, the curved blade at his side gleaming, and with a simple flick, the weapon spins harmlessly from the challenger's grip, clattering against rock.
I use the opening, kicking the second challenger back against a ledge. Not hard enough to kill, just enough to incapacitate temporarily. My heart hammers in my chest. I can't afford a misstep here—the drop is merciless.
The two retreat a few steps, panting and wary. Malik tilts his head, watching them like an amused predator. "Run along now. And do try to survive the next act."
I exhale slowly, muscles trembling. The cliff remains narrow, unforgiving, but for now, we're safe. Malik's hand brushes mine momentarily—not kind, not friendly, just… present. Enough to remind me how absurd this temporary alliance is.
I glance at him. "You know, you're insane."
He shrugs, casually leaning against the cliff wall. "Yes. But effective. Remember that."
The path narrows again, leading toward the lower switchbacks. The Keahi Blossom at my belt bobs with every careful step, a quiet reminder that the trial isn't over yet. I can't help but wonder: how many more of these desperate challengers are waiting down there?
And somewhere in the back of my mind, I realize—Malik isn't just an obstacle anymore. Not for this moment.
The path finally opened into the clearing, dust settling around our feet. The sea breeze had faded, replaced by the low murmur of the other challengers gathering. Some were limping, some battered, others flushed with the adrenaline of their journey—but all alive.
Malik's stride didn't falter. He moved with the same casual grace, curved blade sheathed at his side, and only glanced at me once. "See? Not dead yet. And you didn't ruin the performance."
I grunted, clutching the Keahi Blossom to my chest. My ribs still screamed in protest, but the sense of relief was undeniable. We'd survived.
"Here," Malik said abruptly, stepping aside to allow me through first. "Take the lead, outsider. You've earned the spotlight."
I shook my head. "I think I've had enough spotlight for one day."
Ahead, the elders waited atop the small rise where the trial had begun. Their eyes swept over the gathered challengers. Only ten had made it back with flowers in hand. I exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of the climb, the fights, the near-falls, all lift slightly as we approached.
And then I saw her.
Leilani. She was speaking softly to someone I didn't recognize. The boy had a quiet confidence about him—lean, upright, hair catching the sunlight in faint streaks, and a calmness that made it clear he wasn't just another challenger. His movements were precise, deliberate, almost effortless, and the way he held himself made it obvious he was strong. Even from here, I could feel it.
Leilani. She was speaking softly to someone I didn't recognize. The boy had a quiet confidence about him—lean, upright, hair catching the sunlight in faint streaks, and a calmness that made it clear he wasn't just another challenger. His movements were precise, deliberate, almost effortless, and the way he held himself made it obvious he was strong. Even from here, I could feel it.
Malik nudged me lightly. "Go on. Present your blossom. Let the elders see the curtain call."
I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and stepped forward. The trial was over. But the story, I realized, was far from finished.
The elders nodded approvingly as each challenger presented their Keahi Blossom, and a quiet tension lifted from the clearing. The morning sun caught the petals, making them glow like embers in our hands.
Aria stepped forward, her presence commanding yet calm. Even after all this, she carried the aura of the island's champion. "Well done," she said, her gaze sweeping over all of us. "You've faced the Trial of the First Bloom with courage, skill, and perseverance. Those of you who stand here have proven yourselves worthy—at least for now."
A few of the challengers exchanged tired, relieved smiles. I sank slightly to my knees, letting the tension in my shoulders ease as the adrenaline faded. Malik gave me a brief, amused look and a nod, still carrying that infuriating confidence of his.
Aria continued, "Rest for a day. Recover your bodies, your focus, and your strength. The next trial awaits, and you will need every ounce of both."
She gave a small, knowing smile. "Remember this moment—the first step on your path. It is only the beginning. The mountain tests you, yes, but it also reveals who you truly are."
With that, she stepped back, leaving the ten of us to catch our breath and absorb the quiet sense of accomplishment. Around me, laughter and murmured conversations began, low but genuine, as the survivors of the first trial finally allowed themselves to relax.
I pressed a hand to the Keahi Blossom at my belt, feeling its faint warmth. This was only the beginning. Tomorrow, the mountain would call again—and I had to be ready.