The morning after the selections, the five chosen warriors gathered on the training grounds. Alyc Halcyhon, Lyra Vesswyn, Torren Valehart, Selwyn Draeven, and Kaelen Frostveil stood shoulder to shoulder, their breath misting in the crisp air. There was a shift now, an invisible force pressing down on them. No longer just recruits, they were the faces of Selenia’s future, expected to bring honor to their divisions in the Trials of Valor. Jesta Valance stood before them, arms crossed, her face as unreadable as ever. Her gaze swept over the group, her presence alone silencing any lingering murmurs. When she spoke, her voice was sharp, cutting through the morning chill. "You have five months to prepare," she said. Her eyes locked onto Alyc, as if measuring something unspoken. Then she continued. "The Trials of Valor are more than a competition," she stated, her tone void of warmth. "You aren’t training for glory. You’re training for war." The words settled over them like a weight. Alyc didn’t flinch. Neither did Torren. The others nodded, absorbing the gravity of their selection. "The world is watching," Jesta said simply. "We start now." Training began immediately, and it was merciless. Each warrior had their strengths. Torren Valehart fought like a living fortress, his strikes slow but devastating, his body unshaken by pain. Kaelen Frostveil moved with flawless precision, every motion calculated, his dual blades a blur of disciplined efficiency. Lyra Vesswyn was speed incarnate, darting like a shadow, her acrobatics making her impossible to pin down. Selwyn Draeven relied on strategy, adapting to each battle like a scholar dissecting a problem, wielding his spear with an intellect few could match. And Alyc? Alyc fought like a storm relentless, unyielding, impossible to contain. She didn’t fight for honor or recognition. She fought to break them down. During a sparring session, Kaelen attempted to outmaneuver her, his footwork quick and precise, his blades dancing in perfect synchronization. He was skilled. He had been trained to fight with grace. But grace was meaningless against brutality. Alyc caught his movement a fraction of a second before he committed to it. He stepped in, aiming a quick slash at her side, but she was already moving. She pivoted sharply, catching his wrist and twisting with enough force to send his blade clattering to the ground. He barely had time to react before she drove her knee into his ribs, knocking the air from his lungs. Kaelen staggered, his stance breaking for just a moment just long enough for Alyc to sweep his legs out from under him. He hit the dirt hard.

  A sharp whistle cut through the air. “Enough,” Jesta called, her tone even. Alyc stepped back, fists still clenched, waiting for the order to continue. But there was no order. Kaelen groaned, pushing himself up, but he didn’t look at her. None of them did. They had all seen it now. Alyc wasn’t fighting for control. She wasn’t fighting to prove herself. She fought to destroy. And that terrified them. Jesta didn’t reprimand her. She simply moved on, treating the day like any other. But her methods were clear. She wasn’t training them to win a tournament. She was training them for war. The lessons were brutal. They learned to read an opponent’s breathing, the subtle shifts in muscle tension that betrayed an incoming strike. They learned how to disable rather than simply defeat. How to break a formation, how to anticipate the flow of battle before it even began.

  Jesta didn’t hold back, drilling them with a sharp efficiency that left no room for weakness. “These Trials will be different,” she told them one evening. “They always are. But one thing never changes the ones who hesitate, lose.” She rarely spoke about her own experience in the Trials, but that night, she did. “The final round,” she said, her voice void of its usual indifference. “I made it all the way. And then I faced Vienna Hast.” The name carried weight. Everyone had heard it whispered in the hushed voices of Selenian warriors. Vienna, the champion of Emberfall. The one who had bested Jesta. The one who had taken victory from Selenia’s grasp.

  Jesta’s expression remained unreadable, but something in her voice something unspoken revealed the truth. “She fought like she had nothing left to lose,” Jesta continued. “And that’s why she won.”

  Alyc clenched her fists. The thought of Vienna standing victorious, bearing the High King’s colors, made something burn deep in her chest. Did Vienna know what had happened that night? Had she known Desmond Alistar would order Durk’s death? Had she stayed silent? The thought was suffocating. Jesta moved on, continuing the lesson, but Alyc barely heard it. Her mind was elsewhere.

  She would not hesitate. She would not lose. Not to Vienna. Not to anyone. Throughout the months of training, Sammond lingered at the edges. He never joined, never interfered, but he was always there. Sometimes, he called out to Alyc, his voice laced with amusement. “You’re getting faster, Malice,” he’d say. “Almost like a real Shadecloak.” Other times, he simply watched, leaning against the training yard fence, his green eyes sharp and knowing. Alyc ignored him. Or at least, she tried to. But his presence was always there, constant as the blade in her hand. Sometimes, she could feel his gaze more than she could see it a quiet pull in the back of her mind, a reminder that he was watching, waiting. For what, she wasn’t sure. She refused to acknowledge it. Just as she refused to acknowledge the way her instincts sharpened under the weight of Jesta’s training, how her body moved faster, struck harder, adapted quicker. The others were improving too. Kaelen’s movements became even more calculated, Torren’s already-unshakable defense only solidified, Lyra’s speed turned deadly, and Selwyn’s strategy grew more refined. They were strong. But none of them were Alyc. And she knew they knew it. It wasn’t arrogance. It was reality. She was something else entirely. And yet, she wasn’t the only one who noticed. One afternoon, while she was sharpening her blade, she felt it again that weight of unseen eyes. She turned slightly, her gaze shifting beyond the training grounds. The Seer. She stood at the edge of the field, draped in celestial robes that shimmered like liquid light. Unmoving. Silent. Watching. Alyc met her gaze, waiting for her to speak, to give one of her cryptic warnings. But the Seer only stood there, saying nothing, offering nothing. Alyc hated it. She tightened her grip on the whetstone and dragged it across the edge of Firefang, refusing to let the weight of that stare settle on her. The silence stretched, thick and unmoving, pressing against Alyc’s skin like a phantom touch. She forced herself to focus on the rhythmic scrape of steel against stone, a familiar sound that grounded her. But no matter how much she tried to ignore it, she could still feel the Seer watching her, her presence like an unanswered question that clawed at the edges of Alyc’s mind. Finally, she snapped. “If you’ve got something to say,” she muttered under her breath, barely loud enough for anyone else to hear, “say it.” The Seer did not move. Did not blink. Her gaze, endless and knowing, stayed fixed on Alyc as if she was looking at something far beyond what was in front of her. And then, just as Alyc was about to turn away, the Seer spoke. “There are fates that have already been sealed,” she murmured, her voice carrying through the wind like an echo from somewhere far away. “And fates that have yet to be decided.” Alyc’s grip on Firefang tightened. “What does that mean?” The Seer only smiled soft, distant, unreadable. And then, in the space between one breath and the next, she was gone. Alyc cursed under her breath, shoving Firefang back into its sheath before standing. She refused to let the unease settle in her chest. The Seer always spoke in riddles, always danced around the truth like it was some game only she understood. Alyc had no patience for it. She had enough weighing on her mind already. She turned on her heel, striding toward the barracks, willing the strange encounter to slip from her thoughts. But no matter how much she tried to shove it aside, the Seer’s words coiled inside her like a whisper she couldn’t shake. Fates that have already been sealed. And fates that have yet to be decided. What did that mean for her? The question gnawed at her, but she refused to let it take root. It didn’t matter. She wasn’t here to be guided by cryptic visions or divine prophecies. She was here to win. To carve her own path, with her own strength. She pushed open the barracks door, stepping inside the dimly lit space where the others were already settling in for the night. A few warriors murmured quietly among themselves, their voices hushed, their exhaustion evident. Across the room, Lyra was meticulously sharpening one of her daggers, while Torren sat on his cot, methodically wrapping his knuckles in cloth. Selwyn was seated near the wall, writing something in a small leather-bound book, his expression unreadable. Kaelen, as always, was composed, his back straight as he adjusted his armor straps, his focus unwavering. None of them paid her much mind, which suited her just fine. Alyc moved to her own cot, lowering herself onto the firm mattress. The air in the room was thick with unspoken tension the weight of the upcoming Trials hanging over all of them. Five months had passed, and now they were on the precipice of something greater. Something final. She laid Firefang across her lap, fingers tracing its worn grip. The sword had beena gift from her father.And soon, it would taste blood again. The weight of that thought settled in her chest, heavy and unshakable. The Trials weren’t just a test. They were a reckoning. A stage where strength was proven and where the weak were discarded. Alyc exhaled slowly, tilting her head back against the cold stone wall behind her. Five months of relentless training had led to this moment. Five months of pushing herself past exhaustion, past limits she hadn’t even known she had. And yet, she still felt like she was waiting for something unseen, lurking just beyond her reach.

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  She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the distant hum of voices in the barracks fade into the background. She could hear the steady sharpening of Lyra’s dagger, the low rustle of Selwyn flipping through the pages of his book, the rhythmic tap of Torren’s fingers against his knee. Familiar sounds. The sounds of warriors preparing for what lay ahead. A shadow shifted in her periphery, and Alyc’s eyes snapped open. Sammond was leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, watching her with that infuriating smirk.

  "You're brooding again," he remarked, pushing off the frame and striding toward her cot. Alyc didn't move, only lifted a brow. "You always lurking, or do you actually have something useful to say?"

  Sammond feigned offense, placing a hand over his chest. "You wound me, Malice. Truly." He dropped onto the edge of the cot across from her, studying her with an unreadable expression. "You look like you’re thinking too much. Dangerous habit." She scoffed. "And you don’t?" He grinned. "Oh, I think all the time. Just not about the same things you do." Alyc rolled her eyes, running a hand over Firefang’s hilt. "What do you want, Sammond?" His grin didn’t fade, but something in his posture shifted, his casual ease giving way to something sharper. "I just wanted to see if you’re ready." "For what?" she asked, though she already knew the answer. "For what's coming," Sammond replied, voice quieter now. "The Trials are a spectacle for most, but for us? It's something else entirely."

  Alyc met his gaze, unflinching. "I know." "Do you?" Sammond leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. "Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’re still holding onto something that’s keeping you from going all the way.”Alyc’s jaw tightened. "I don’t hesitate." "I didn’t say hesitation," Sammond corrected smoothly. "I said holding on. There’s a difference." Her fingers dug into her palms as she studied his expression. There was something infuriatingly patient about the way he watched her, like he already knew her answer and was waiting for her to catch up. She exhaled sharply, shifting Firefang against her hip. "You think you know me so well." "I don’t have to think," Sammond said simply. "I do know you. And I know that whatever’s holding you back Is going to get you killed." Alyc didn’t respond, but her silence was telling. The weight in her chest was suffocating, but she shoved it down, forced her expression to remain cold, distant. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her waver. Sammond sighed, stretching his legs out in front of him. "You want to win the Trials? You want revenge? Then stop pretending you can carry the past with you into the future. The two don’t mix. "She scoffed. "You sound like the Seer." His lips twitched. "That’s insulting." Alyc finally turned to face him fully, her gaze sharp. "You act like you know everything, but you don’t. You don’t know what it’s like to have your entire world ripped apart and to stand there, powerless to stop it. You don’t know what it’s like to have everything stolen from you."

  Sammond’s smirk faded. For a brief moment, something unreadable flickered in his green eyes something dark, something knowing. His usual ease wavered, just for a second, but then it was gone, smoothed over like it had never been there. "I know more than you think," he murmured. Alyc narrowed her eyes, the sharp retort on her tongue dying as she studied him. There was something in his voice, in the way he held himself, that felt wrong. For all his teasing, for all his effortless confidence, there was something lurking beneath the surface. A shadow in the way he looked at her. A weight in the way he spoke. But before she could press him, he stood, stretching his arms over his head with a lazy grin. "But hey, you don’t have to listen to me, Malice. You’ll figure it out one way or another." Alyc’s glare hardened. "Stop calling me that." He chuckled, already stepping back into the dimming light. "I’ll stop when it stops being true." And just like that, he was gone, disappearing into the night as effortlessly as a ghost. Alyc clenched her fists. She hated the way Sammond’s words burrowed into her mind, lingering like a whisper she couldn’t shake. He always did that pushed just hard enough to leave something festering in her thoughts, something she couldn’t ignore even when she wanted to.

  Malice. She despised the name, but she couldn’t deny that it fit.

  The barracks were silent, the air thick with the exhaustion of warriors worn down by the day’s brutal training. Alyc lay in her bunk, staring at the wooden beams above her, Firefang resting within reach against the wall. She ran her fingers along the hilt, tracing the worn leather grip. It felt solid beneath her touch real. Something to hold on to. Her body ached, but she welcomed the pain. Pain meant she was getting stronger. Strong enough to win. Strong enough to end this. Sleep did not come easily. When it did, it came in pieces fractured and uneven. She was standing in the dim glow of a torchlit hall. A long table stretched before her, lined with faces she knew but didn’t recognize. Warriors. Rivals. Ghosts. They were all there, waiting, their eyes locked on her, expectant. Durk sat at the head of the table. He looked the same as he always had broad shoulders, the hard set of his jaw, the quiet weight in his gaze. But there was something wrong about him. His face was too still, too hollow. His eyes, once so sharp, so full of something real, were empty. In front of her, Firefang was already in her hands. Blood dripped from the tip. She tried to move, to look away, to breathe, but her body wouldn’t obey. Her heart pounded, her grip tightening around the hilt. Durk’s mouth moved. No sound. His gaze never wavered, never softened.

  It was her choice. It had always been her choice. Alyc gasped awake, her breath sharp and ragged. The barracks were dark, the only sound her own pounding heartbeat. Her fingers were locked around Firefang’s grip, her knuckles white. She swallowed hard, releasing the blade and pressing a hand to her face. It was getting worse. The dreams, the silence, the way it all felt so real. She exhaled, long and slow, forcing the tremor from her hands before trying to get more sleep. The barracks were silent, save for the slow, steady breaths of those already lost to sleep. Moonlight filtered through the wooden beams above, casting pale streaks across the cold stone floor. Dust floated in the air, shifting in the dim glow like whispers of something unseen. Alyc lay awake in her bunk, her body aching from the day’s relentless training, but her mind refused to still. Thoughts circled like vultures, tearing at her from every direction her selection for the Trials, Jesta’s expectations, Sammond’s words, the way the people in the Great Hall had looked at her, like she was something to fear.

  She exhaled sharply and shut her eyes. Sleep. She needed sleep.

  Then, something shifted. A presence that hadn’t been there before.

  Her eyes snapped open. A figure stood at the foot of her bunk, tall and still, draped in robes that shimmered like mist woven from moonlight. The air around her was heavier now, charged with something beyond the natural world. The Seer. Alyc’s breath caught in her throat. Her fingers moved on instinct, reaching beneath her pillow, her hand curling around the hilt of her dagger. Cold steel met her palm, grounding her as she forced herself to breathe, to think. But the air had changed. The barracks, once filled with the quiet rhythm of sleeping warriors, now felt distant, removed from reality, as if time itself had paused. The Seer stood unmoving, her robes shifting without wind, her eyes glowing with something unreadable. Alyc didn’t trust it. Didn’t trust her. “You stand at the edge of something vast, Alyc Halcyhon,” the Seer said, her voice neither loud nor soft, but weighty, pressing against Alyc’s ribs. “The fire in you must be controlled.” Alyc’s fingers tightened on the dagger. Her heart slammed against her chest, a raw fury igniting within her.

  “Controlled?” she snapped, swinging her legs over the bunk, planting her feet firmly on the cold stone floor. “Where was your control when my father was slaughtered?” She stood in a single, sharp motion, shoulders squared, the heat in her veins rising. The Seer did not react. She remained still, detached, as if Alyc’s grief, her rage, was nothing more than a predictable outcome in a story already told. “I cannot intervene in fates that have been decided,” the Seer murmured. “Only in those that are still being woven.”

  Alyc’s breath came faster, harder. Her grip on the dagger was white-knuckled. “Then what use are you?" she snarled, her voice low and sharp, barely above a whisper but carrying the weight of all the rage coiling inside her. The Seer did not react. She stood as still as the night itself, her glowing gaze steady, unfazed by Alyc’s fury. The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.

  “Your fire is not just yours,” the Seer finally said, her voice as smooth and distant as flowing water. “It will consume or it will forge. But it will not remain unchanged.” Alyc’s jaw tightened. The words grated against her, stirring something raw beneath her skin. More riddles. More empty wisdom. It was the same with all of them the gods, the Divine Council, the so-called forces that claimed to watch over this world. Watching. Always watching. Never doing. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. She hated it. “Then let it burn,” she spat. For the first time, something shifted in the Seer’s expression. A flicker of what? Disappointment? Pity? It didn’t matter. Alyc’s chest heaved with steady, controlled breaths, her anger puls