The path to Frostyard curved through low hills brushed with early spring.
Wildflowers bent beneath the wind, pale petals lifting and settling again like unhurried breaths. Frost still lingered beneath the surface, firm enough to carry weight, soft enough to weep faint moisture where sunlight pressed too long. Birds called from distant branches, their voices thinning into the open sky.
Stoneheart's group moved in quiet formation.
Kaelric walked at the front, hands loose at his sides, gaze fixed ahead. The ground accepted his steps without resistance.
Thalen followed half a pace behind, posture upright, shoulders squared, expression held in something that resembled calm from a distance. The space between them was deliberate, a line neither crossed.
No words passed as they crested the final rise together.
The Frostyard basin opened below, rocky slopes circled a wide natural hollow, stone worn smooth by generations of contests. Temporary banners marked the presence of the clans, their colors tugged by the wind, but the land itself bore no sigil. No ownership. The air felt thinner here, cooler, as though the ground remembered older violence and had never fully released it.
Figures gathered along the rim. Frostyard's representatives stood nearest the basin, arranged with ceremonial neatness. Hollowpine lingered in looser clusters, voices low, eyes attentive. Stoneheart remained compact, Orven near the front beside Thalen.
Irondusk arrived last, Morvus not hurrying.
He stepped into place with the ease of someone accustomed to being watched. His cloak settled around him like it belonged there. His gaze drifted across the field once, then found Thalen.
A thin smile touched his lips. "You look older," Morvus said mildly. "Going to need a cane soon?"
Thalen inclined his head a fraction. "Age teaches patience."
Morvus's eyes lingered on him longer than necessary before he turned back to the basin.
No further words followed, but the air between the two clans tightened all the same.
Kaelric did not turn, standing at the edge of Stoneheart's group with his eyes on the arena.
Seryn was not among them, her absence leaving a small, quiet gap in their formation.
Orven stepped forward when the elders gathered near the rim. His voice carried without strain.
"Rules remain unchanged. No killing. No crippling. You are here to demonstrate control."
His gaze passed over the assembled cultivators and paused briefly on Kaelric before moving on.
"Do exactly as you were trained."
After Orven stepped back, another elder raised a hand. "Lower and mid grades will proceed first. Matches will remain within adjacent ranks."
A pause.
"A-grades will enter once the field thins."
No one questioned it. Power did not need demonstration when it could wait.
The basin began to fill with motion.
Boots scuffed stone. Cloaks shifted. Relics were checked and secured. Low conversations threaded through the wind. Some cultivators tested footing. Others rolled their shoulders. A few stood perfectly still, conserving breath.
Kaelric remained where he was.
He watched.
Gavric stepped forward when the first bout was called.
Wind stirred around him in small, obedient eddies, brushing his sleeves and circling his ankles. Nothing dramatic followed him into the basin. No surging pressure. The air simply adjusted to his movement.
Across from him stood Cyran of Hollowpine.
C-grade.
Spear grounded. Stance forward. Weight balanced on the balls of his feet. His presence carried aggression without haste.
Then the signal was given.
Cyran moved first.
The spear cut forward in a clean arc, its tip slicing air with a sharp snap. Gavric yielded immediately, wind lifting him just enough to carry him clear, his retreat smooth and efficient, feet touching down already angled for the next shift.
Steel hissed past fabric.
For several exchanges, neither pressed fully.
Cyran advanced in measured steps, shortening his reach with each strike. Gavric gave ground in careful increments, letting the wind carry him aside again and again, never allowing the spear to settle. His movement favored redirection over commitment, slipping away from pressure rather than meeting it head-on.
The basin quieted, sound narrowing to breath, to footfalls, to the soft resistance of moving air.
Then Cyran closed the distance, not with speed but with pressure.
His steps tightened. The spear's angles narrowed. Each strike arrived closer than the last, forcing Gavric to draw the wind tighter around himself to preserve space.
The air thickened.
What had carried him began to resist him.
Stone rose behind Gavric's heel.
Cyran saw the boundary and leaned into it, spear driving forward in a controlled advance, certain now that the corner belonged to him.
Gavric let the pressure build for one more breath.
Then he released it.
Not outward.
Sideways.
The compressed wind slipped along the basin wall instead of fighting it, dragging Gavric with it just enough for Cyran's next thrust to pass where his chest had been.
The spear committed.
Gavric stepped inside the opening.
His palm struck the shaft near the head. Wind twisted around Cyran's wrists. The weapon wrenched off-line, its point carving empty air as Gavric moved past his guard and placed two fingers against Cyran's collarbone.
Stillness.
The signal sounded.
For a moment neither moved. Then Cyran withdrew his spear with a slow exhale, and Gavric stepped back, shoulders square, breath controlled. The wind unraveled around him and faded into the open basin.
Kaelric's gaze lingered on Gavric a fraction longer than on the others.
A man on the dais raised his voice.
"First bout, Gavric Vale of Stoneheart advances."
Murmurs rippled through the gathered clans.
Names were recorded. Marks were made.
The trials continued. Several lower-grade matches followed in quick succession. Stone rang beneath hurried steps. Techniques flashed and vanished. Some bouts ended in seconds. Others dragged on until one side faltered from exhaustion.
Kaelric did not move, remaining at the edge of the crowd as he watched without expression.
By the time the sun dipped lower, shadows stretched long across the basin floor. Torches were lit along the perimeter, their flames steady in the evening wind.
More names were called.
Winners stepped forward while others withdrew.
Above it all, the elders observed in silence.
Kaelric stayed where he was as the first day of Frostyard drew to a close.
Tomorrow, the higher grades would be called.