He stood in the fog, jaw tight. The yard gates hadn't opened yet. But they would. And when they did, something was going to shift.
Ryvak cracked his knuckles beside him. "You ready to beat some nobles?"
Asher didn't answer. His eyes were locked on a shape perched above the wall.
The raven.
Same one from the desert. The morning he poisoned Beth. The one that led him to the Nyxroot.
It was watching.
The gates opened.
Ten second-years already stood at the far end of the yard, spaced like statues.
Warden Durn appeared first. "This is your final trial. The Trial of the Body."
Forge Master Inverion followed. "Weapons are coated in Nyxroot venom. You bleed, you burn."
No Void powers. No tricks. Just steel and muscle and pain.
"Initiates, when your name is called," Inverion said, "step forward. Let's see what you got."
The first initiate was called forward.
A boy from the east dorm stepped out. Held a long pike. Trembled a little—but not from fear. Cold focus. His opponent was the same second-year who'd crushed Asher during early drills—an ox of a student wielding a massive axe.
The boy struck first. A forward thrust. Clean. Tight form. But the second-year read it. Sidestepped. Axe came down like a guillotine.
Steel cracked bone.
The scream echoed too long.
Second match—an unfamiliar initiate stepped up. Noble stance. Polished grip. His sword was pristine. His breathing steady. His opponent? Nimble. Loose shoulders. Fast feet.
Steel flared. Slashes. Parries. Clash. Reset.
Ryvak leaned in. "My money's on the noble."
"Done," Asher muttered, eyes fixed on the second-year's feet. "He's pretending to slow. Baiting."
Two more feints. The noble stepped in—too deep.
The second-year exploded forward. Low slash. The noble didn't even scream—just fell to his knee, clutching the torn tendon.
Third initiate was called forward.
She entered fast. Low crouch. Blades like claws. Strikes came in bursts—rapid, erratic, desperate.
The second-year barely moved. Slipped a step. Let her momentum carry.
Then countered.
Blade kissed her rib. Venom took hold. She gasped mid-swing—body already betraying her. Collapsed. Twitching.
Fourth, a boy with spiked gauntlets.
He landed a backhand straight to the older student's jaw. It cracked. The crowd even gasped.
For a moment—he had control.
Then the second-year spun. Shoulder dipped. Blade drew a line across his ribs like calligraphy.
He staggered back, choking. Dropped.
Cain Virell.
Elegant. Calculated.
One parry. One step forward. One slash.
Win.
Caesar Draeven.
Tactical. Patient.
Drew his opponent wide. Created a false opening. Three quick cuts.
Done.
Rainley Mirox.
No blade drawn. Tied a ribbon to his arm. Whispered something no one heard.
His opponent charged.
Collapsed mid-stride.
Silas.
Wide stance. Too wide.
Tried to swing. Was already hit. Screamed.
Carried out.
Morgan Kell.
Barefoot.
Smiling.
Opponent laughed.
Morgan didn't.
Took a cut to the arm. Touched the boy's neck.
His opponent froze. Then screamed. A long, awful sound like his throat was caving in from the inside.
He dropped.
Lira from West Wing.
Whip-blade danced. Form tight. Beautiful. Almost graceful.
She almost had it—until she didn't.
One slip. A missed step.
A stab to the hip. Screamed. Carried off.
Ryvak.
Charged like a mad dog. Took a blade to the ribs. Spat blood.
Then bit the guy's ear off.
Still won.
Another boy. Dual hatchets.
Flashy. Overreached. Fell on his own blade.
Another girl. Spear. Too stiff.
Tried to hold her line. Got bulldozed.
Then—
Raven Moore.
The raven dropped from the wall. Shifted mid-air into a scythe.
She caught it.
Didn't blink.
One pivot. One slash.
Opponent folded.
She bowed.
The scythe fluttered back into feathers. Asher blinked. "The raven was her's?"
Then Asher.
His name was called. He stepped forward mind still reeling.
Katana out. Hands steady. Sort of.
Opponent circled. Blade low. Footwork tight.
First strike hit his thigh.
White-hot pain.
Venom.
He grit his teeth. Didn't fall.
Then… he saw it.
Void threads.
Thin, silvery strands curling out from his opponent's shadow. Barely visible—dancing just above the dirt.
Each movement tugged the strands. Echoed a fraction before the real motion.
Like a prediction.
No. A signal.
His mind raced.
He could see them.
They connected to the shadows—projecting intent before the flesh followed.
He didn't hesitate.
Parried the next strike before it landed. Cut high. Redirected. Then spun inside his opponent's arc.
His blade sliced clean across the chest.
His opponent dropped.
Asher stood. Breathing hard. Not from exhaustion—but awe.
His Void Stone had shown him the strings.
He wasn't just reacting. He was seeing intent.
That… changed everything.
Warden Durn passed by slowly.
At Cain: "Sharp."
At Morgan: "Try not to enjoy it."
At Asher: "You adapted. That's enough."
Up above—behind blackened glass—Arbiter Oryn Vireon watched. Silent. Motionless.
But he whispered:
"I have plans for that one."
The yard cleared slowly. Medics carried out the broken. The rest limped to the barracks. No one spoke.
Then Durn's voice rang out:
"Tomorrow… you'll be sorted."
No cheers.
No relief.
Only dread.
THE IRON CHAMBER
Silence like iron.
Three chairs. One table shaped like a fractured continent.
The Wardens.
Malvek Durn leaned forward, void-forged gauntlet humming. His eye hard.
"Your Drifters still stink like dog piss," he said.
Brann Korr smirked. Boots up. Sand on the floor. "They bite harder than your golden boys."
"Ryvak?" Malvek spat. "He's a walking disaster."
"He's loyal," Brann said. "That counts."
Kaelin Vei didn't look up. Just said:
"Loyalty is a leash. Discipline is a blade."
She listed names:
"Cain Virell. Void Echo. Sharp. Dangerous."
"Caesar Draeven. Zone Collapse. Ruthless."
"Rainley Mirox. Pulse Mend. Detached."
"Morgan Kell. Marionette Vein. Unnatural."
"Asher Dren. Unknown signature. Simulation anomaly. Adaptive."
Brann tilted his head. "Terrifying boy."
"Exactly," Kaelin said.
Malvek grunted. "He's Vetrax now. I'll break him if I have to."
"They'll clash," Kaelin murmured. "Let them."
The glyph-wall shimmered.
Footsteps entered.
Oryn Vireon.
Stillness dressed in flesh.
"A war is coming," he said.
They listened.
"These children are not students. They are weapons."
He turned to the relic wall—seven shattered blades.
"Prepare them."
Then he left.
The chamber remained cold.
Kaelin's scroll flickered. Ink shimmered.
One name flashed.
BETH.