Dawn broke cold and clear, frost clinging to the grass outside the inn. Adrian and Edric broke their fast quickly—hard bread, cheese, and watered ale—before mounting their horses for the final stretch of road.
The countryside changed as they rode. The rolling farmland gave way to more ordered landscapes: stone markers along the road, regular patrols of kingdom soldiers, and merchant caravans growing thicker with every mile. The air itself seemed to hum with a different energy, as though the capital's presence reached out to pull travelers inward.
"Look there," Edric said, pointing ahead.
Adrian's breath caught despite himself.
The city rose from the plains like a mountain of stone and steel. Arathor. Even from miles away, its outer walls dominated the horizon, their battlements crowned with banners that snapped in the wind. Spires and towers pierced the sky beyond, their tips catching the morning sun until they blazed like spears of light. The road ahead was choked with travelers—merchants, pilgrims, soldiers, families—all flowing toward those massive gates like rivers to the sea.
"First time?" Edric asked, noting Adrian's expression.
"Yes." Adrian's voice was quiet. He had stood against demons, commanded armies in another life, yet nothing had prepared him for the sheer scale of humanity's greatest city. Northwatch, for all its strength, was a fortress. This... this was civilization made manifest in stone.
"She's something, isn't she?" Edric's voice carried genuine pride. "They say you could ride from one end of Arathor to the other and still not see all her streets. The capital isn't just a city—it's the beating heart of the kingdom."
As they drew closer, the press of travelers thickened. A merchant cursed as his overloaded cart broke an axle, blocking traffic. Guards in the king's colors moved efficiently to clear the road while a priest sang blessings over the crowd. Children darted between wagons, their laughter bright against the general din.
Adrian's trained eye cataloged everything: the guard rotations at the gate towers, the inspection stations where goods were checked, the tension in certain travelers' faces that spoke of contraband or fear. At the border, such a crowd would be a feast for raiders. Here, in the shadow of Arathor's walls, it was merely commerce.
"Stay close," Edric said as they joined the queue approaching the gates. "The guards know the Halborne crest, but they'll still want to verify our purpose."
*The gates loomed ahead—bronze and iron, tall enough to swallow the tallest trees Adrian had ever known, carved with scenes of ancient kings and legendary battles. Guard towers flanked them on both sides, crossbows visible at every window. This was more than a gate. It was a declaration: Arathor stands, and none shall pass unwelcome.
The line moved slowly but steadily. Guards checked papers, inspected wagons, questioned travelers. When their turn came, a veteran guardsman stepped forward, his tabard bearing the royal lion.
"Names and purpose," he said, his tone professional but wary as his eyes swept over their travel-worn appearance.
Edric straightened in his saddle. "Edric Halborne, heir to House Halborne, and Adrian Blackthorn of Northwatch. We're here for the Knight Trials."
The guard's eyebrows rose at the names. He glanced at the crests they wore—the silver stag and the emerald thorn—then consulted a ledger one of his subordinates held.
*"Blackthorn and Halborne," the guard repeated, making marks in the book. Whispers rippled through those waiting nearby. Halborne grain... Blackthorn steel...
The guard studied Adrian more closely, his expression unreadable. "You're from the border."
"I am."
"Long way to travel alone." It wasn't quite a question.
"I didn't travel alone," Adrian said simply, gesturing to Edric. "Not for the last stretch, anyway."
The guard's gaze shifted between them, then he stepped back and saluted. "Welcome to Arathor. May your Trials be worthy of your houses."
The gates groaned open.
Adrian urged his horse forward, and the city swallowed him whole.
The streets of Arathor stretched endlessly, paved in stone, lined with buildings that rose three and four stories high. Flags of every noble house snapped from windows and balconies, painting the sky in a living tapestry of color. The noise was overwhelming—merchants hawking wares, blacksmiths hammering steel, wagon wheels clattering over cobblestones, thousands of voices blending into a constant roar.
Adrian's senses, honed for the quiet vigilance of border patrols, reeled under the assault. Every sense screamed with input: the smell of spices and bread and horse dung and smoke, the press of bodies on all sides, the cacophony that never ceased. He forced himself to breathe steadily, to process rather than simply react.
Edric noticed his tension. "Overwhelming, isn't it? You get used to it. Eventually."
"How long did it take you?"
"About a week," Edric admitted with a grin. "But I grew up visiting the capital with my father. You're getting the full experience all at once."
They navigated through the crush, following the flow toward the inner districts. Street performers juggled and sang, beggars called from corners, and guards maintained order with practiced efficiency. Adrian noted the patrol patterns, the strategic placement of watch posts, the way certain alleys were blocked or avoided.
"There," Edric pointed ahead. "The Academy Registration Hall."
The building rose before them, its marble columns gleaming white, its bronze doors already open to swallow a steady stream of young hopefuls. Flags of the six knight academies snapped above the entrance—Dawnspire's sun, Ironfang's wolf, Stormwatch's hawk, Ashbourne's raven, Silverkeep's crown, Stonewall's shield.
Adrian felt something shift in his chest. Not fear, but recognition. This was the threshold. Everything before this had been preparation. Everything after would be proof.
They dismounted, handing their horses to waiting stable hands. As they approached the steps, Edric paused and turned to Adrian.
"Whatever happens in there," he said quietly, "whatever the Trials bring—thank you for the journey. It was... better than I expected."
Adrian met his gaze. "The journey isn't over. The Trials haven't even begun."
"True." Edric's grin returned. "But when they do, don't think I'll go easy on you just because we shared a meal."
"I wouldn't dream of it."
The two heirs climbed the steps together, the bronze doors yawning wide before them. Inside, they could hear the echo of hundreds of voices, the scratch of quills on parchment, the beginning of something that would forge them or break them.
Adrian's hand brushed the Blackthorn crest at his chest—the emerald shield with its golden thorn. For nearly a year, he would surrender it, training as an equal among all the other hopefuls. But first, he had to cross this threshold.
He took a breath, steadied himself, and stepped into the Hall.
Arathor had opened its gates. Now, the true test would begin.