Chapter 14 – The Price of a Dream
The smell of steel, blood, and sweat hung thick over the arena.
To the nobles watching from the marble balconies, it was entertainment.
To those below, it was hell.
Rheon Valen had dreamt of this moment his whole life.
Son of a blacksmith from the border village of Kareth, he'd grown up with soot in his lungs and hunger in his bones.
His father used to tell him, "Become strong enough, and one day they'll open the gates the world closed to us."That dream had carried him through years of cold nights and empty stomachs.Now it brought him here , to Ashford's Trial of Entry.
He stood shoulder to shoulder among hundreds of others, the air buzzing with fear and adrenaline.
Above, nobles lounged in shaded balconies, sipping from golden goblets, their laughter cutting through the tension like knives.
"Look at them," one noble snickered. "Like rats fighting over crumbs."
Another smirked, a jeweled ring tapping the rail. "Don't blink. They die fast."
Rheon gritted his teeth. He wasn't here to die.
The horn sounded.
The world exploded.
The arena gates slammed open and chaos poured out. Blades flashed, spells flared, screams filled the air.
A girl next to Rheon screamed as a spear punched through her throat. Blood sprayed across his face, hot and metallic.
Rheon ducked, swung his sword it was a crude, chipped thing he'd forged himself. It met another boy's blade in a jarring clang. They pushed against each other, faces inches apart, both terrified.
Rheon whispered, "We don't have to—"
The boy's eyes went wide as a fireball caught him in the chest, blowing him off his feet.
Rheon staggered back, horror twisting his gut. There were no alliances here. No mercy. Only survival.
He ran, sliding behind a broken slab of stone as spells detonated around him. A noble laughed from above, clapping. "Look at them scramble!Just Beautiful !"
And then Rheon saw him.
A man no- no, a boy, maybe fourteen he stood in the center of the killing field.
Tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair tied back in a rough knot and eyes the color of a dying ember.
While others swung wildly, he moved with terrifying calm, each motion deliberate.He carried a massive iron cleaver, it had no enchantments, no artistry, just raw, brutal metal.
Every swing crushed something. Bone. Steel. Flesh.
A scream echoed, cut short.
Then another.
"Who— who the fck is that?" someone whispered near Rheon.
"Kael Draven," another answered shakily. "From the prison camps near the northern mines. They say he killed a orge barehanded once. Just for food."
Rheon swallowed hard. Kael's blade came down again, splitting a boy in half from shoulder to hip. Blood hit the ground in wet rhythm, painting his boots red.
Above, laughter. "Now that's some good shit!"
Kael didn't even glance up.
Rheon's heart hammered. He had to move. He had to survive.
He sprinted toward the edge, ducking low as a wind spell screamed past. His sword caught another boy's leg, sending him down, and for a second, guilt flared in his chest.
Then the boy lunged with a knife. Rheon drove his blade into his chest, trembling as he felt the life leave him.
The killing didn't stop.
Fire and lightning tore through the field, sand turned to glass beneath feet slick with blood. The air reeked of burned flesh and mana ozone.
Rheon's breath came ragged. He was one of the last twenty still standing. His arms shook. His legs screamed. But he was alive.
Until he wasn't.
Kael's shadow fell over him.
The cleaver's edge gleamed faintly, black blood drying along its length.Kael studied him like one might study a broken animal. "You fight to live," he said simply. "Good."
Rheon raised his sword with trembling hands. "I won't die here."
Kael tilted his head. "You already have."
Then he moved.
The impact of his strike shattered Rheon's guard, the sword splitting clean in two. Pain lanced through his forearm as the cleaver caught him across the ribs, tearing flesh. Rheon stumbled back, gasping.
"Stop— we're both commoners—" he rasped.
Kael's expression didn't change. "That's why I'll kill you quickly."
Their blades clashed again, steel against iron, until Rheon's strength failed.
Kael stepped in close, driving his knee into Rheon's gut. The world tilted.Then the cleaver came down.
Rheon didn't even feel it.
From the stands, nobles applauded."Magnificent!""Remind me to recruit that one."
Kael stood over Rheon's body, breath fogging the air. Blood dripped from his weapon, steaming against the frozen ground.
He turned toward the noble balcony. His eyes found the loudest of them , a young man in velvet robes, gold chains glittering, smirk cruel and perfect.
Lord Edran Voss.
He was heir to the Voss duchy, patron of this "Trial." The one whose family had replaced real training with bloodsport.
Edran raised his goblet in a mock salute. "Splendid work, mongrel. You might even survive the year."
Kael didn't bow. "You think we bleed for your amusement."
Edran's smile widened. "No. You bleed to prove you belong here. If you die, it's proof you never did."
A hush fell.
Kael's knuckles whitened on his cleaver. For a moment, Rheon's blood still dripping from it, it seemed he might strike but not down, but up.
But he didn't. He turned away.
In hour the Trial's survivors stood in silence, lined before the academy gates. The field behind them was unrecognizable it was a graveyard of children. Broken blades, torn limbs, shattered dreams buried under snow and ash.
Kael stood among the survivors, eyes dead, breath slow. He had killed seventeen people in one hour.
Principal Kaelen's voice carried over the silence. "This is the cost of power. Remember it. Cherish it. Fear it."
The gates of the academy opened.
And from somewhere far back in the line, a quiet boy with gray eyes stepped forward, unnoticed.
Auron Andler.
He stepped past Rheon's body without looking down