The bell in Ashspire central tower tolled once, low and heavy, shivering through the morning mist. I laced my boots with stiff fingers, the echoes of last night still clawing through my thoughts—Caelen's gaze in the corridor, Fynn's bitter warning, Darian's lingering smile.
When I stepped onto the training grounds, the air was cold enough to bite. Trainees clustered in the center, their voices hushed. Master Ilithar stood at the edge of the arena, his black coat snapping in the wind like the wing of some great carrion bird.
"Form up," he barked, and the murmurs died instantly.
I took my place between Samora and Kadyn. Across the yard, Fynn leaned on the hilt of his blade, eyes unreadable. Darian slid in beside me, his shoulder brushing mine, like we were in on some secret together.
Ilithar paced in front of us, hands clasped loosely behind his back. "Today is not about technique. It is not about grace." His gaze swept over the group, sharp and unblinking. "It is about survival. And survival…" He stopped in front of a boy in the front row, close enough for the boy to flinch. "…is not given. It is taken."
He gestured to the racks of weapons—real steel, not the blunted practice blades we'd used yesterday. "You will fight in pairs. When your opponent yields, you win. When your opponent bleeds out, you also win. The rules are simple. There is only one thing forbidden." His smile was thin, humorless. "Mercy."
A ripple of unease passed through the group.
"Those of you who think this is barbaric," Ilithar said lightly, "should remember that the Trials will not pause for your discomfort. Out there, hesitation will kill you. Here, it will merely… educate you."
He clapped once. "Pair off."
I moved automatically, but Ilithar's voice cut through. "Not with your friends, Solace. You—" He pointed at me, then at Caelen. "—with him."
The murmurs grew sharper. I met Caelen's eyes across the yard, and whatever I'd been expecting, it wasn't the flicker of something like regret.
We stepped into the circle. Ilithar's hand lifted. "Begin."
Steel met steel, the clang reverberating through my bones. Caelen's strikes were fast, precise, each one pushing me backward. My heartbeat roared in my ears, but his blade never quite landed where it could kill.
"You're holding back," I hissed, ducking a cut meant for my shoulder.
His jaw tightened. "You want me to try?"
Before I could answer, a scream split the air from another circle. A girl lay sprawled on the ground, her chest a ruin of red. Her opponent stood frozen, blade slick with blood.
Ilithar didn't even flinch. "Continue," he called. "The rest of you—do not waste my time."
Caelen's eyes hardened, and I knew the shift before his blade even moved.
The first strike came fast enough to rattle my bones, a downward slash that would have split me to the ribs if I hadn't twisted away.
"Stop treating me like glass," I snarled.
"You want that?" he said, voice low, dangerous. "Then survive me."
He drove me back with a flurry of cuts, every blow aimed to break—not bruise. Sparks leapt where our blades locked. My arms screamed under the weight of each impact.
He wasn't leaving me time to think, only react. My feet slid over the wet stone, nearly losing balance as he feinted left, then came in from the right with a strike that nicked my shoulder. The sting of steel and the warm bloom of blood jolted me harder than any insult could have.
"Better," he said, circling.
I forced my breath steady, meeting his gaze. His expression was unreadable—focused, unyielding—but beneath it, I caught the faintest flicker of something else. This wasn't cruelty. It was a demand.
He lunged. I parried. Steel shrieked. My counterstrike cut close enough to graze his coat, but he didn't even glance down.
Around us, the ring was chaos—grunts, the clash of blades, the sound of someone falling hard. A boy near the far side screamed for a medic before being dragged away by two trainees, his arm hanging at a wrong angle.
Ilithar's voice cut through it all: "Faster, Solace! Or die slower—it makes no difference to me!"
Caelen pressed harder, forcing my guard high before sweeping low, nearly taking my legs. I leapt back, breath coming ragged, vision tunneling on the cold glint of his sword.
"You're thinking too much," he said between blows. "Stop thinking. Feel it. Move."
Something in me snapped. My next swing wasn't clean or clever—it was raw, vicious, driven by the same pulse of survival that had carried me through every trial before this. I drove him back a step, then another, until my blade was at his throat.
For a moment, neither of us moved. My hands shook, but my grip didn't falter.
His mouth curved into the faintest smile. "There you are."
"Enough," Ilithar called.
Caelen stepped back, lowering his blade. I realized my chest was heaving like I'd just run for miles. The cut on my shoulder throbbed, and my fingers ached from gripping the hilt so tightly.
"Not bad," Caelen murmured as he passed me, low enough that no one else could hear. "Next time, don't wait for me to wake you up."
Before he can reply, the air splits with a sound that doesn't belong here.
A wet, tearing crack—like bone snapping beneath too much force—followed by a scream that rips straight through the training ground.
My heart stutters.
I whirl, scanning the chaos of other sparring matches. Sweat and dust blur faces, and every shout sounds the same over the din. But that… that cry wasn't from someone sparring. It was pain. Final pain.
"Samora?" The name rips out of me, raw and urgent.
My gaze locks on her—crumpled on the ground, clutching her lower abdomen, crimson spilling between her fingers. The stone beneath her is already slick with it."Stay with me," I plead, pressing my hands over the wound, but the blood just keeps coming, hot and slick between my fingers. "You're too good for this. You don't lose."
Her lips tremble, forming broken syllables until I finally catch them. "Tell….my…family that I love them."
The words are so faint I almost convince myself I imagined them—but the look in her eyes is real. Desperate. Final.
"No," I shake my head, refusing to hear it. "You're going to tell them yourself."
Something inside me cracks wide open. Tears blur my vision, streaking down my cheeks as I reach inward, deeper than I've ever dared before. Past the familiar warmth of my own magic, into that dangerous, shimmering space where old power sleeps.
Please…
The air around us sharpens, humming with energy, and the shadow of a form begins to take shape—sleek and silver, with eyes like molten gold. A rare creature from the stories my mother used to tell me, one I never truly believed in until now: the Mendwyrm, bringer of restoration.
Its gaze meets mine. It doesn't speak, but I understand the cost.
"I don't care," I whisper, voice breaking. "Take it. Take everything."
The Mendwyrm's light floods through me, burning away every ounce of strength I have. My palms glow, the warmth spreading into Samora's torn flesh, knitting muscle and sealing skin with threads of pure gold.
Her breathing steadies. The bleeding stops. She's alive.
The world tilts violently. My vision fractures into shards of white and shadow. I hear voices shouting my name, but they're far away, muffled.
The last thing I see before the darkness swallows me is Samora's eyes—blinking, confused, alive.
The last thing I see before the darkness swallows me is Samora's eyes—blinking, confused, alive.
Then a strong arm wraps beneath me, steady and sure.
I'm being lifted—cradled like I'm fragile glass.
Through the haze, a familiar voice murmurs close. "Hold on, Elena. I've got you."
Caelen.
His grip is firm but gentle, and despite everything, it anchors me.
My eyelids flutter like broken wings, heavy and slow. The world blurs, softens, then slips away entirely.
I come to with a sharp breath, muscles aching as if I've been weighed down by stones.
Slowly, I push myself upright, eyes blinking against the dim light filtering through tall, narrow windows.
The room is quiet, unfamiliar—yet somehow intimate.
My gaze falls on the dark wood furniture polished smooth, the thick rugs muted beneath my bare feet.
On the far wall hangs a tapestry embroidered with ash and flame—the symbol of Ashspire.
I'm not home.
A soft knock draws my attention.
The door creaks open, and there he is—Caelen.
His expression is unreadable, but there's something softer in his eyes than I've ever seen before.
"You're awake," he says simply, stepping inside and closing the door behind him.
I swallow, still dizzy, still aching—but grateful to be alive.
"Where… am I?"
"Safe," he answers, settling into a chair nearby. "This is my room."
The weight of that truth sinks in like a stone.
I'm in Caelen's room.
And somehow, that feels both frightening and… necessary.
Caelen's eyes didn't waver as he watched me gather what little strength I had.
"I didn't think you'd wake this soon," he said quietly, voice low but steady.
I rubbed the back of my neck, still dizzy. "What happened? How did I get here?"
He stepped closer, hands resting lightly on the edge of the bed. "You pushed yourself too hard. Summoning the Mendwyrm takes more than just power—it drains you, body and soul."
I swallowed, the weight of exhaustion pressing down like a stone. "I… saved Samora."
A flicker of something crossed his face—relief, maybe. "You did. Barely. She's stable now."
I looked away, ashamed. "I should've been stronger. She shouldn't have been hurt at all."
Caelen shook his head, slow and deliberate. "This world doesn't care how strong you are, Elena. It only cares if you survive."
His gaze softened for a moment, and I almost missed the way his jaw clenched. "And sometimes, survival means relying on others."
I met his eyes, searching. "Are you saying I should've let her die?"
"No," he said sharply, then immediately softened. "I'm saying… you don't have to carry it all alone."
For a long moment, silence stretched between us.
Then he cleared his throat. "You should rest. The Trials won't wait."
I nodded, the fatigue finally winning. "Thank you, Caelen. For… everything."
His lips twitched, barely a smile. "Don't mention it. Just… be careful who you trust."
The words hung heavy in the room as my eyes closed again, the last thing I heard his quiet voice: "And be ready. The real fight has only just begun."
The soft glow of dawn seeped through the stained glass windows of Ashspire's infirmary, painting the room in hues of amber and rose.
I stepped quietly through the rows of cots, the air thick with the scent of herbs and healing salves. Every face I passed was etched with exhaustion or pain—reminders of the brutal cost of the Trials.
At the far corner, I found her. Samora lay still beneath a heavy quilt, pale but breathing steady. Tubes and bandages wrapped around her like armor, yet her presence filled the room with a stubborn resilience.
I pulled up a chair beside her bed, heart pounding. "Hey."
Her eyes fluttered open slowly, focusing on me. A faint, weary smile tugged at her lips. "You came."
I reached out, taking her hand gently. "I wouldn't be anywhere else."
She squeezed my hand, voice barely above a whisper. "I was scared."
"I know." Tears pricked my eyes. "I was too."
For a moment, silence settled between us, fragile and precious.
Then Samora's gaze sharpened, voice stronger. "You did something incredible. The Mendwyrm… that kind of power isn't meant for anyone, let alone someone like you."
I swallowed hard. "I didn't have a choice."
She shook her head slowly. "Maybe. But you're more than you realize, Elena. More than any of us."
The door creaked open behind me, and Kadyn slipped inside, a cautious smile on his face.
"Good to see you up," he said quietly, nodding toward Samora.
I looked back at my friend, feeling the weight of what we'd all been through settle around us.
"We have a long way to go," I said softly.
Kadyn nodded. "And the Trials only get harder."
As I sat there, holding Samora's hand, I knew I wasn't just fighting for myself anymore.
I was fighting for all of them—my family.
The morning sun filtered softly through the high windows of the dormitory hallway as I slid the door to my room open.
Pinned carefully to the weathered wood was an invitation — elegant parchment, embossed with silver filigree and the royal seal of Ashspire.
Formal Ball, this weekend.
I scanned the hallway. One by one, each door bore the same ornate invitation. A ripple of murmurs drifted from the corridor as students gathered, their eyes flicking between the notices and each other like sparks in dry grass.
Despite the ache in my muscles and the heaviness in my chest, something inside me clenched.
I shouldn't go.
But part of me—perhaps the part still desperate to feel normal, to reclaim whatever was left of my life before the Trials—wanted to say yes.
Later that day, I found Samora in the infirmary, resting but alert.
"I'm going," I told her quietly. "To the ball."
She smiled, faint but genuine. "Good. You deserve it."
Before I could say more, Kadyn appeared in the doorway, hesitation in his stance.
"Elena," he said softly, stepping inside. "Can I talk to you for a moment?"
We moved to a quieter corner, away from Samora's bed.
Kadyn's eyes flicked to the floor before meeting mine. "I… I want to ask Samora to the ball."
Surprise hit me. "You do?"
He nodded, voice low but sincere. "She means more to me than I can say. I just don't know how to ask."
I studied him carefully—the way his fingers twitched, the tension in his jaw.
"She's lucky to have you," I said.
He gave a small, grateful smile. "Do you think she'd say yes?"
"I think she would," I said firmly. "You just have to be honest. Tell her how you feel."
Kadyn's gaze softened, and for the first time, I saw the weight he carried—not just for Samora, but for all of us caught in this brutal Trial.
"We all need something to hold onto," he said. "Maybe the ball can be that."
I nodded, a small hope flickering in my chest.