The morning air was crisp, carrying both the bite of early autumn and an electric buzz of anticipation that seemed to hum through the very stones of the academy.
The bells had not tolled for drills. No instructors barked orders for formation on the training grounds. Instead, word had spread through the dormitories like wildfire in dry grass—urgent whispers passed from room to room, carried by squires who'd overheard stewards preparing something unprecedented: all squires were to report to the main courtyard. Immediately.
Adrian left the dormitory with Brann, Finn, and Edric at his side, their usual morning banter absent, replaced by tense speculation about what could warrant such an unusual summons.
"Maybe they're announcing early academy selections," Brann suggested, though his tone suggested he didn't believe it.
"Or washing out the bottom performers," Finn said grimly. "Cut the dead weight before wasting more resources."
"Cheerful," Edric muttered, pulling his cloak tighter against the morning chill.
The courtyard was already crowded when they arrived—hundreds of squires pressing shoulder to shoulder, their breath steaming in the cold air, voices creating a low murmur of unease and curiosity. The usual open training space had been transformed overnight into something else entirely.
Their familiar sparring circle had been remade into a grand arena: fresh sand laid smooth and pale across the ground, wooden rails erected in concentric circles to separate spectators from combatants, torches mounted on iron stands and lit despite the morning sun—creating an atmosphere of ceremony and significance that set Adrian's instincts on edge.
But it wasn't the transformed arena that drew every eye and stilled every tongue.
It was the dais.
Constructed at the far end of the courtyard, rising above the crowd on platforms of carved wood, the dais dominated the space like a throne overlooking subjects. The six banners of the knight academies fluttered in the autumn breeze, their colors vivid against the gray sky: Dawnspire's golden sunburst blazing with promise of light and glory; Ironfang's black wolf, fierce and unyielding; Stormwatch's silver hawk soaring with speed and precision; Ashbourne's crimson raven burning with controlled fury; Silverkeep's jeweled crown gleaming with noble heritage; Stonewall's iron shield, immovable and eternal.
Beneath those legendary banners sat the headmasters themselves—six figures who commanded respect and fear in equal measure, arrayed in their formal regalia. Adrian's eyes cataloged each one with the tactical assessment of someone who'd once commanded armies:
Headmaster Theron of Dawnspire, his white robes trimmed in gold, radiating an almost palpable aura of sanctity and power. Headmistress Kara of Ironfang, scarred and battle-worn, her black armor polished but bearing the marks of a thousand combats. Master Valen of Stormwatch, lean and hawk-like, his silver cloak rippling in wind that seemed to obey his presence. Mistress Elara of Ashbourne, her crimson robes the color of controlled fire, her expression sharp and assessing. Lord Cassius of Silverkeep, resplendent in ceremonial armor that probably cost more than most squires' family estates. And finally, Commander Brynn of Stonewall, built like a mountain, immovable and eternal.
But surrounding the headmasters, filling the elevated benches in a display of power and wealth that made the air itself feel heavier, were the true elite of Arathor: nobles in their finest silks and jewels, ministers of the crown bearing the seals of their offices, officers of the royal guard in ceremonial armor, merchant lords whose wealth rivaled minor houses, guild masters who controlled the kingdom's trades. Hundreds of the kingdom's most powerful individuals, all gathered to witness... something.
Even from a distance, Adrian could feel the weight of their collective gaze—assessing, judging, measuring every squire against standards known only to them.
Brann's voice was barely a whisper, stunned. "Gods... half the kingdom's nobility must be here. What in the hells is happening?"
Edric tugged at his collar nervously, his face pale. "This isn't normal. They don't gather like this for... for anything routine. Why would they summon all of us like this?"
Finn's jaw tightened, his dark eyes scanning the dais with tactical precision. "Because something significant is coming. Something that requires witnesses."
Adrian said nothing, though his gray eyes flicked briefly to the center of the dais where a figure sat apart from even the headmasters—King Aldric Valebright himself, sovereign of Arathor, his posture regal and cold as winter iron, his blue cloak bearing the royal lion, his crown catching the torch light. The king's presence alone transformed this from important to historic.
The murmur of the crowd—questions, fears, speculation—stilled instantly when Marshal Sir Alaric stepped forward to the edge of the dais. His lantern-staff, inscribed with runes that seemed to pulse with inner light, blazed brilliant white as he raised it high. His voice, enhanced by some technique or rune Adrian couldn't immediately identify, thundered across the courtyard, filling every corner, reaching every ear with perfect clarity.
"SQUIRES OF ARATHOR!"
The shout carried physical weight, the kind of command that had been honed over decades of battlefield leadership. Even the most restless squires froze, attention snapping forward as if compelled.
Alaric lowered his staff slightly, his scarred face grave, his eyes sweeping across the assembled hundreds with the gaze of someone who'd seen too many young warriors die. When he spoke again, his voice carried both pride and sorrow.
"Six months you have endured. Six months of dawn bells that tolled before the sun rose. Six months of drills that broke your bodies and patrols that tested your courage. Six months of wounds earned and lessons learned in blood. You have tasted the foundation of your spirits, touched the edge of the sacred bond between your soul and your steel. You have stood where your ancestors stood, walked the path that has forged knights for generations."
He paused, letting the weight of that legacy settle over them.
"But endurance alone is not enough. Training is not enough. Will, however fierce, is not enough." His voice hardened. "The time has come for you to show the kingdom—" he gestured toward the assembled nobility "—what you have truly become. To prove yourselves worthy of the title you seek. To demonstrate that the blood, sweat, and sacrifice of these six months have forged you into something more than you were."
The tension in the courtyard was palpable now, every squire leaning forward, breath held.
Alaric lifted his staff high again, the runes blazing brighter. "Two months from today, you will face one another in the Trial Tournament!"
The courtyard erupted.
Gasps and curses and exclamations crashed together in a wave of sound. Squires grabbed at each other, seeking confirmation that they'd heard correctly. Some faces went pale with fear, others flushed with excitement or anger. The news hit like a thunderclap, shattering the morning's tension into something far more volatile.
Brann swore loudly enough to be heard over the chaos, his eyes wide. Edric went pale as parchment, his hand moving unconsciously to his sword hilt. Finn's expression locked into grim calculation, already processing implications and strategies.
Adrian only folded his arms, his face unmoved, gray eyes steady. He'd suspected something like this was coming. Every knight academy in history had used tournaments to evaluate candidates. The timing was predictable, the format inevitable.
What mattered now was how to navigate it without revealing too much.
Marshal Alaric's voice boomed again, cutting through the clamor like a blade through silk. "SILENCE!"
The word carried command that couldn't be ignored. The noise died, replaced by heavy breathing and the rustle of nervous movement.
"The tournament is no simple exhibition," Alaric continued, his tone brooking no misunderstanding. "It is the crucible. The forge in which the worthy are separated from the pretenders. Each of you will stand in that arena—" he gestured to the transformed courtyard "—one against one, steel against steel, will against will, until victory or defeat decides your worth."
He paused, his eyes hard as flint.
"These duels are not to the death. We are not barbarians, and you are not expendable fodder for entertainment. But neither are they child's play, nor mock sparring with wooden toys. You will fight with real steel, enhanced by your spirit flames. You will strike with intent to win. Blood will fall upon that sand. Bones may break. Steel will cut flesh. And in those moments of truth, when pain and fear and exhaustion strip away all pretense, your spirit—your true spirit—will be laid bare for all to witness."
The weight of those words settled like stones on every shoulder. This wasn't training. This was proof.
Alaric gestured toward the dais, toward the six banners and the six figures who sat in judgment beneath them. "The headmasters of Arathor's knight academies will witness every duel. Every strike, every defense, every moment of courage or cowardice will be seen and weighed. They seek not just skill, but character. Not just strength, but will. Not just victory, but how you achieve it and how you face defeat."
His voice grew quieter, which somehow made it more intense.
"At the end of the tournament, those who have proven themselves—through skill, through determination, through the quality of their spirit—will receive invitations to join one of the six academies as full squires. There you will train for three years under master knights, learning to harness your true color, to develop your unique path, to become the knights this kingdom desperately needs." He paused. "Fail to impress them, and your road as a knight ends here. No second chances. No appeals. Only the judgment of those who have walked this path before you and know what it demands."
The brutal finality of it struck like a physical blow. Some squires clenched fists so tight their knuckles went white. Others shifted with barely contained anxiety. A few—the truly confident or truly foolish—grinned with anticipation.
Brann's mutter was audible in the shocked silence. "Three years of academy training? Just to be called a knight? Damn near half of us will be corpses before we see that graduation."
"Better half than all," Finn said grimly, his tactical mind already calculating survival odds.
Alaric raised a hand, commanding silence again though none had spoken. "The process is thus: All names will be cast into the Urn of Fate—" he gestured, and a massive bronze urn was carried forward by two stewards, placed at the center of the dais "—an ancient vessel blessed by the crown and untouched by mortal interference. By lot alone, you will be matched. No favoritism. No bribery. No manipulation of opponents to favor the well-connected or disadvantage the common-born. Fate alone, blind and impartial, will decide your opponents."
He let that sink in—the promise that even noble-born heirs could face commoners, that connections wouldn't save anyone.
"Each bout will be fought in this arena until one squire yields, is incapacitated, or can no longer continue. The victor advances to the next round. The defeated are removed from the tournament. This will continue, round by round, eliminations narrowing the field, until only one remains standing."
His gaze swept across them like judgment itself.
"But know this—" and his voice carried something that might have been mercy "—the tournament is not solely about who stands last. Victory alone does not guarantee selection. The headmasters seek potential, not just prowess. They seek those who will become legends, not just survivors. Courage, mastery, spirit—these are the qualities they hunger for. Even those who fall in the first round may yet be chosen, if they burn brightly enough in their moment. And those who win through treachery or cowardice may find themselves rejected despite advancing."
The murmurs rose again, this time carrying different notes—hope mixing with fear, determination cutting through despair. The message was clear: how you fought mattered as much as whether you won.
"Two months remain," Alaric declared, his voice rising to fill the courtyard one final time. "Two months to master the foundation of your spirit, to forge your white flame into steel that will not falter when the eyes of the kingdom are upon you. Two months to become worthy of the title you seek."
He lowered his staff, and the white light dimmed but didn't extinguish.
"Train harder than you have ever trained. Bleed more than you have bled. Push past every limit you thought you possessed. For when those two months pass, when you step into that arena, there will be no excuses. No second chances. No mercy for the unprepared. Only truth. Only the naked reality of what you are and what you can become."
He struck his staff against the dais platform, the sound echoing like a judge's gavel.
"You are dismissed. Return to your training. And may whatever gods you pray to grant you the strength to endure what comes."
The courtyard rang with silence for a heartbeat. Then, with elaborate ceremony, the headmasters rose one by one, their movements synchronized and deliberate. Their banners swayed as they departed the dais in procession, each one a legend walking, each one holding the futures of hundreds in their judgment.
The nobles followed, rustling silks and clinking jewelry creating a sound like wind through leaves. Ministers, officers, guild masters—all departing with the slow dignity of those who knew their presence commanded respect.
King Aldric Valebright rose last, his blue cloak sweeping across the platform's wood, his crown catching torchlight and throwing it back like captured stars. His cold gaze lingered on the squires below—not assessing individuals, but measuring the whole, weighing whether this generation would be worthy of defending his kingdom.
Then he too departed, and the weight of royal attention lifted like pressure released.
The courtyard remained frozen for several heartbeats, as if the assembled squires had collectively forgotten how to breathe. The echo of Alaric's words still hung in the air, heavy and inescapable.
Then someone moved. Then another. And suddenly the space erupted with noise—not the earlier shock, but a roar of overlapping conversations, fears being voiced, strategies being debated, alliances being whispered about.
Brann exhaled shakily, running a hand through his red hair. "Two months. Bloody hell, we'll be eating steel every sunrise until then. Training's been brutal—this will be worse than anything we've endured."
Edric's voice was tight, his usual humor completely absent. "If I don't collapse from the drills before the tourney even starts. Two months of this intensity? Some of us won't make it to the arena."
Finn's eyes had never left Adrian, studying him with that analytical precision that had become familiar over six months of living together. "Two months to prove ourselves... or be forgotten. Everything we've done until now was just preparation for this."
Adrian said nothing at first, his arms still folded, his expression unchanged. But inside, thoughts moved with the precision of a general planning campaigns. The crimson fire stirred in his chest—not with eagerness for combat, but with the cold calculation of someone who'd fought in tournaments before, in another life, under circumstances far more deadly than this.
The academy wished to see white flame. And white flame would be more than enough. He did not need crimson to defeat squires who'd been training for only six months. He had wielded steel before most of them had been born—before their parents had been born, before their grandparents had drawn breath. Three hundred years of warfare lived in his soul, even if his body was only fifteen years old.
"Adrian?" Edric's voice pulled him from his thoughts. "You alright? You're... quieter than usual."
"I'm fine," Adrian said. Then, because they were watching him with concern that felt genuine: "The tournament will come. And when it does, we'll show them what Thorns and Halbornes and—" he glanced at Finn and Brann "—fishermen and rogues can accomplish when we stop holding back."
Brann's grin returned, though it carried an edge. "Damn right we will. Let those noble pricks see what real fighting looks like."
"Just don't get yourself killed showing off," Finn said dryly. "Dead heroes don't get academy invitations."
As they moved with the crowd dispersing toward training grounds and dormitories, Adrian felt the weight of what was coming settle over him like armor being donned. Two months to prepare. Two months to calibrate exactly how much skill to show—enough to impress the headmasters without revealing the depth of his true capability.
Two months to perfect the mask of exceptional-but-mortal that would carry him through the tournament and into an academy where he could continue his mission.
The tournament would come. And Adrian Blackthorn, demon prince hidden in human flesh, would show them the strength of controlled white flame—never letting them see the crimson that burned beneath, waiting for the moment when it could no longer be contained.
But that moment was not today. Today, he would train. He would prepare. He would ensure that when he stepped into that arena, every move would be calculated, every strike measured, every victory achieved with just enough difficulty to seem hard-won rather than effortless.
The game was entering a new phase. And Adrian had always been very, very good at games.