He found them near a low wall of rune-stone, where the arena's light pooled like oil. The faux-priest's stole was immaculate; his eyes were the practiced grey of someone who had learned to read need. He bowed with the right mixture of humility and entitlement.
"You carry something of value," he said, voice honeyed. "A reliquary. A dangerous thing for two such young champions. The gods will hunger for it. I can take it to safety. I can keep it from the gods' hunger. Leave it with me and your partner will be spared the next test."
The offer was surgical. It promised a clean solution: the reliquary removed, the path forward cleared, Lyra's safety guaranteed. The satchel sat between them like a bright, simple answer.
Daryn felt the old calculation rise—efficiency, leverage, the possibility of moving faster, striking harder, prying open the temple's secrets without the slow, bureaucratic caution Lyra favoured. The thought was not dishonourable; it was practical. He imagined the reliquary sealed away, the next trials easier, and the gods delayed.
Next, he imagined Lyra returned, unscathed, as the priest promised.
Already knowing his thought process, Lyra's hand tightened on his sleeve. Her eyes were steady. "We do not bargain with hostages," she said, low enough that only he could hear. The veto they had written was not a flourish; it was a line drawn in ink and intent. The priest smiled as if pitying a child. "Temporary safety," he said. "A test of trust. You will have the reliquary and the time to act. She will be returned when the gods are satisfied."
Daryn's hand hovered over the satchel. The crowd's breath felt like a hand on his neck. He remembered the ledger they had discussed in the antechamber: rune-cascades that could be triggered later, traps that would punish a moral shortcut with blood. He remembered Lyra's face when she had explained why the temple recorded bargains—so that choices could be accounted for, so that the gods and priests could weigh a soul's currency.
He did not touch the satchel.
Instead he tapped Lyra's forearm once—short, sharp—the agreed signal for no bargain. The gesture was small, bureaucratic, and absolute. The faux-priest's smile thinned; he bowed and moved on, already seeking the next mark.
The theater did not stop at offers. It layered cruelty. As the faux-priest retreated, a mirrored panel angled and an illusion bloomed: Lyra's figure stepped forward, her foot moving toward a rune-scarred tile that glowed with a hungry red. The image was perfect—Lyra's hair, the tilt of her head, the exact cadence of her breath. From Daryn's angle it looked as if she had misstepped, as if she had chosen the hazard.
The illusion's design was precise. If Daryn intervened physically—if he grabbed her wrist and pulled her back—the tile would register the interference as a breach and trigger a trap that would cascade through the arena, ensnaring both of them. The designers wanted to know whether he would save his partner at the cost of both their lives, or whether he would preserve his own advantage.
Daryn's muscles tensed. The reflex to protect rose like a tide. He saw Lyra's foot arc toward the red rune and felt the urge to lunge. He imagined the tile's red flame licking at her ankle, the sound of her cry, the taste of failure.
Lyra's real voice cut through the illusion—calm, clipped. "Hold," she said. The single word was a command and a plea. She did not move toward the tile. The image was a lie.
Daryn's heel-stomp landed without thought—two quick beats that meant wait—and his body obeyed. He did not reach for her. Instead he did something more precise: he slid his blade from its sheath and, rather than draw it to strike, he wedged the flat of the blade into the seam of the tile beside her foot. The metal bit into stone with a dull sound and became a physical brace.
It was not a heroic gesture. It was mechanical and practical: a wedge that would prevent the tile from shifting its angle for a breath, a small, physical anchor that bought time. The blade's edge did not flash; it held.
Lyra's real hand moved to the sigil at her belt. She whispered a cancel—an administrative charm that unmade illusions in a narrow radius. The mirrored image flickered and dissolved. The tile remained inert. The trap did not trigger.
They had not been reckless. They had not been dramatic. They had been careful, bureaucratic, and precise. Their covenant had not been a romantic vow; it had been a set of rules that kept them alive.
Trainers and priests took notes. The arena's ledger recorded the faux-priest's offer and Daryn's refusal. The illusion's attempt to bait him was logged as a failed provocation. The crowd's appetite for spectacle was unsatisfied, but the pair had passed the test the designers had set: they had preserved mission ethics under pressure.
Lyra wiped a smear of dust from her palm and looked at Daryn. "You could have taken it," she said, not accusing but factual. "You could have made the choice that would have saved time."
He met her gaze. The temptation had been real. "I thought about it," he admitted. "For a breath. Then I remembered the ledger."
She nodded.
They left the ring with the reliquary still in their possession and the rune-slates safe. The faux-priest melted into the crowd, his eyes already calculating where the next bargain might be profitable. Trainers murmured about discipline and restraint; priests noted the pair's ethical choices in their ledgers with the cool interest of archivists.
Outside the ring, under the indifferent torchlight, Lyra and Daryn stood for a long moment. The Trial had not only tested their skill; it had tested their willingness to be bound by rules that were not their own. They had chosen the harder path: to refuse easy advantage in favour of a covenant that might save them later.
Perhaps this trial will teach them something sharper than victory: that ethics can be a weapon as precise as any blade, and that sometimes the only way to win is to refuse the prize that would cost tomorrow for the sake of today.