Back in the open field, the candidates shared their first real, rare moments of respite. Some laughed and wrestled in the grass like boys unburdened. Some were chatting, their laughter bright, almost nervous. Others sat off to the side, eyes distant, still processing the brutality of the previous trial. A few were already preparing for what came next, fidgeting with their gear, steeling themselves for whatever the Dragonrite would demand.
Then—he arrived.
A man emerged with casual grace, arms wide like he was greeting old friends. His cloak fluttered behind him, and he wore a suit strikingly similar to the ones they had worn in the arena. He was very tall—almost unnaturally so—and his smile looked strange, like a crack in a broken plate. His eyes had a wild, crazy look in them.
He laughed. Loud. Sharp.
"Ha ha ha! This generation's candidates surely have potential!"
The candidates moved—tired and sore—their eyes fixed on the strange man who had shown up so suddenly.
Then—he vanished.
In a blink, he reappeared behind Eira. She didn't see him come—just felt him. His breath warm against her ear, his nose buried in her hair.
"Mmm," he hummed low, dragging the sound out like a purr. "The princess… who shocked us all."
He slid one hand down her arm—slowly—until his fingers grazed hers. He took her hand without permission, lifting it gently. His thumb brushed the pads of her fingers with deliberate curiosity.
"Calluses," he whispered, delighted. "So delicate… yet hardened. A story in your hands… exxxquisite."
Eira froze, her face pale and her body tense like a cornered animal. Her shoulders twitched, as if she were struggling not to flinch.
"Hey!" Gravier shouted. Several boys stepped forward, protective.
But he vanished again.
Now before Gravier.
He grabbed the boy's arm, lifting it high. His fingers pressed into bruises, lingering.
"Look at that! Bruises blooming like Velvet petals… and this muscle—" he squeezed hard enough to make Gravier wince. "Ohhh, yes. Power formed in pain. Beauuutiful."
Gravier clenched his teeth and narrowed his eyes. He didn't move back, but his body was tight, shaking with anger he was trying to hold in.
Then—gone again.
This time, he knelt before Hunter, his face unsettlingly close to the boy's thigh. He placed a hand just above the knee, squeezing the muscle with an appreciative nod.
"These legs… long, strong, built for speed," he muttered, his eyes flicking up to meet Killian's face, a mix of disgust and uncertainty in his gaze. "You'll run far, won't you, little deer?"
He blinked again. Suddenly beside Hank.
He rapped his knuckles against Hank's head—once, twice—then cupped the back of his skull with a mockingly tender grip.
"And you, tough one… You survived those claws. I wonder what else you can survive."
Hank flinched at the touch, but didn't speak. No one did now.
In the blink of an eye, he was at Hunter's side. His fingers brushed across Hunter's cheek, and for a moment, the air felt too close, too charged.
"Those teeth of yours…" he mused, his voice almost playful, "like wolves. And your instincts, your battle style, so wild—so untamed."
Hunter's teeth bared, a reflex more than anything, and with a growl, he lunged, trying to bite the man's arm. But before his teeth could even sink in, the man was gone—vanished, as though he'd never been there at all.
The others were still frozen when he reappeared, now standing directly in front of Johnquis, as if he'd been there the entire time.
He didn't touch immediately. No. He stared—gazed—like a starving man seeing a feast. Slowly, deliberately, he reached out, taking Johnquis's hand. His fingers threaded through the prince's, caressing the spaces between them with slow reverence.
"Ah, that warmth," he breathed. "A miracle, finally walking among us. A half-elf prince… golden hair, pointed ears… FABULOUS!"
Johnquis tried to pull away, but he held firm, his grip too tight for comfort.
"Catch him!" Hunter shouted.
The candidates lunged—but he vanished before their hands could close on him, reappearing at the edge, laughing with delight.
"Did you know," he said as if nothing happened, "in the Trial of Combat… some batches lose half their number. Yes, half the candidates die in that arena."
A wave of uneasy whispers swept.
"Wh-what…?"
"But yet, yet, YET! Prince Johnquis, Princess Eira, and that boy Gravier—you three were exceptional! Heroes of your teams! Your bravery, your strength—glorious! You even managed to—"
"Enough."
The voice was low, calm—but it silenced everything.
Head Councilor Arté stepped forward, a quiet gravity in every step.
The candidates instinctively straightened. Even the mysterious man suddenly stilled.
"Finally. The Head Councilor is here," someone whispered.
Hunter's anger hadn't faded. "Who is this creep?"
Arté didn't answer him directly. He turned his gaze to the man, eyes sharp behind his glasses.
"You didn't introduce yourself, did you?" he asked, dryly. "Of course you didn't. I expected as much."
"Oh, but my apologiezzz, dearest candidates!" Helthor swept into a dramatic bow, cloak curling behind him like dragon wings. "I am Helthor of the Six-Headed Dragon—Rank Ten Dragonborn!"
A collective gasp swept through the line.
"That's Helthor? The Helthor?" someone murmured, eyes wide.
"We're sorry for our behavior," another said quickly. "We didn't know—it's just—we've never seen your face. You're always raiding beyond the borders…"
"Apologiezzz accepted," Helthor said with a wink. His tone was cheerful, but his eyes were not. "I quite enjoy being underestimated. It keeps things… fun."
Arté cleared his throat sharply.
"Let's explain why you're here, Heltor," he said. "Instead of infiltrating our enemies in the cursed land where you belong."
Helthor chuckled. "Oh yes, that. Well…" His face changed but the smile didn't fade.
"I've been assigned to train you… to death."
His voice got deeper, and his eyes grew wider. A heavy pressure seemed to come from him.
Several candidates stumbled back instinctively. One of them whimpered.
He stepped forward, his smile gone.
"I'm not here to train you," he said. "I'm here to break you. Shatter your bones. Snap your minds. Then—rebuild you."
Arté interjected again, his voice a grounding anchor.
"Candidates. A decree has come from the King and Council. Your training time has been shortened."
Gasps rose again.
"What? Why?"
"The Twisted," Arté said simply. "They've become… active."
Helthor's expression turned grim.
"We're in Tiamat, the very heart of the continent," he said, his voice thick with unease. "If the Twisted breach our borders, they could attack from both the north and west. We'd be completely overrun within weeks."
"So," Arté said calmly, "your six-month training has been cut down to—"
"A hundred days!" Helthor interrupted with a grin.
The murmuring grew louder. Panic bubbled beneath the surface.
"That's not enough time…"
"How can we —!"
"Silence." Arté's voice silenced them again.
"You will train every day. Combat, survival, mental fortitude. You will live, eat, and bleed in the dirt. Helthor will oversee your conditioning."
Helthor clapped, a single slow beat.
"When the time comes," he said, "you will drink the dragon's blood. And it will try to kill you. The only question is—who among you will kill it back?"
The candidates were still.
Gravier looked down at his bruised hands, jaw locked.
Eira swallowed hard, then squared her shoulders.
Johnquis looked up to the sky. The clouds were breaking, letting the sun pour gold across the highlands—but his eyes were shadowed with doubt.
"Let their training begin," Arté said.
Helthor's grin returned, sharp and hungry.
"Yessss," he hissed. "Let's begin."
The morning sun finally broke over the mountains, but its light felt cold.
None of the candidates moved.
Something had shifted.
This was no longer training.
This was survival.