Chapter 2
Ashvale
The road to Ashvale camp narrowed until it became nothing more than blackened earth, packed so tight it felt closer to stone than soil. No birds crossed its sky. Even the wind seemed careful here, slipping low and quiet, as if afraid to draw attention.
Training had already begun.
Steel rang once—clean, final. A body hit the ground moments later.
No horn signaled the end. No instructor stepped forward. The duel was over because one of them could no longer stand. That was Ashvale's rule.
The fallen trainee dragged himself away on one arm, teeth clenched, refusing to cry out. Blood followed him in a thin line before vanishing into the ground, swallowed as if it had always been there.
None of the others looked away.
Watching was part of survival.
From the high ridge overlooking the field, Master Elaris observed in silence. Her cloak hung straight despite the wind, her expression unreadable, her eyes sharp enough to cut. She did not raise her voice. She did not interfere.
Ashvale did not correct mistakes.
It punished them.
A trainee hesitated—half a breath too long. His opponent didn't.
The impact echoed.
A messenger reached the ridge, breath uneven, bearing the mark of Romiya. Even here, he lowered his head.
"Master Elaris," he said. "A decree from the capital."
She stopped.
"The Eclipse Ground," the messenger continued. "After ten years, the tournament will be held again. All nine camps are commanded to attend."
Elaris said nothing.
"They expect champions," the messenger added carefully.
"They always do," she replied.
The messenger hesitated. "Ashvale will be watched."
As the messenger departed, the wind shifted. .
Near the far edge of the field, something—or someone—stood still. A black coat hung from the shoulders, moving slightly with the wind. In the right hand, a sword rested—its hilt black and white, chipped and worn, catching the faint light.