The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and steel as Alyc stepped onto the training grounds for the final time before their departure. The weight of the coming Trials pressed down on all of them, yet none spoke of it. They didn’t need to. The tension in the air said enough. Jesta stood before them, her hands clasped behind her back, scanning each of the five competitors with the sharp eyes of a commander who had seen countless battles. “This is it,” she said, her voice steady, unwavering. “Your last training session. Make it count.” There was no hesitation. They fell into their drills, each movement honed through months of relentless practice. Torren’s strikes came like thunder, his blade carving the air with brutal force. Selwyn fought differently, never meeting power with power, always sidestepping, redirecting, forcing his opponent into making a mistake. Kaelen’s twin blades were precise, a blur of steel and cold calculation. Lyra danced across the battlefield, slipping through gaps, attacking from angles no one expected. And Alyc? She didn’t hold back. She came at them with everything she had. There was no mercy, no restraint. When she fought, she fought to break them. To remind them why they should fear her. Kaelen faltered under her relentless assault. Selwyn barely managed to avoid being caught in a trap he had seen too late. Even Torren, solid as a wall, grunted when her strikes forced him to retreat. She was faster, stronger, and they knew it. Jesta watched, saying nothing. When the final spar ended, the five warriors stood before her, sweat-drenched and breathing hard. She let the silence stretch, her gaze sweeping over them one last time. “You’re ready,” she said, and there was no pride in her voice only certainty. “I don’t say that lightly. You’ve trained. You’ve bled. You’ve endured. And now, you carry the weight of Selenia on your shoulders.” Her sharp gaze landed on Alyc. “Make no mistake this isn’t just about winning. This is about proving that Selenia does not kneel. That we do not break.” Jesta let the words settle like the weight of a blade pressed against their backs. None of them flinched. Not Kaelen, not Torren, not Lyra or Selwyn. And certainly not Alyc. She met Jesta’s gaze with steady, unwavering eyes, her fingers still curled into fists at her sides. “You’ve learned how to fight,” Jesta continued. “Now, remember why you fight.” A pause. A flicker of something crossed her face perhaps the closest thing to pride she would allow herself to show. “I’m proud of you.” The words hit harder than any strike Alyc had taken in training. She had spent months under Jesta’s instruction, enduring her merciless standards, her sharp words, her unrelenting tests. Never once had she sought approval. Never once had she needed it. And yet… hearing it now, spoken so simply, carried more weight than she expected. Jesta turned away, giving them no time to linger in the moment. “Go clean up. The feast begins soon.” The five warriors hesitated only briefly before breaking away, heading toward the barracks. The training grounds, which had been their home for months, now felt like the past. Ahead, Solaria and the Trials awaited. Alyc lingered for a heartbeat longer, her mind already shifting forward, already calculating what came next. The feast. The departure. And then finally the fight she had been waiting for. With a final exhale, she followed the others inside.The Great Hall of Selenia was a spectacle of fire and gold. Candlelight flickered across polished stone walls, banners of deep blue and silver swaying gently in the high arches. The scent of roasted meat and spiced wine filled the air, a feast fit for warriors. Laughter and conversation hummed around the hall, voices rising and falling in waves of celebration. Alyc barely noticed any of it.

  She sat at the far end of the Shadecloak table, her fingers absently tracing the rim of her untouched goblet. The hall was filled with warriors, nobles, and commoners alike, all gathered to send off the chosen competitors before they embarked on their journey to Solaria. The five of them had been given seats of honor, placed at the forefront of their respective divisions. A position of respect. A symbol of the strength they were expected to carry into the Trials of Valor. Yet, as Alyc sat among them, she felt no pride in the title. No sense of belonging. The Great Hall was alive with energy, torches burning bright against the stone walls, the hum of conversation punctuated by bursts of laughter and the clinking of goblets. The feast laid before them was grand platters of roasted meats, golden loaves of bread, flagons of dark Selenian wine but Alyc barely touched her plate. She had no appetite for celebration. She glanced around the hall, noting the way the crowd reacted to each of them. Torren Valehart, seated beside the Frostblade Vanguard’s general, was greeted with approving nods, warriors raising their drinks in recognition of his brute strength. Lyra Vesswyn, ever the enigma, was effortlessly charming, engaging in light conversation with her commanding officer. Kaelen Frostveil remained composed, his demeanor sharp as ever, while Selwyn Draeven listened intently to a council member speaking about the significance of Selenia’s presence in the Trials. Then there was Alyc. The weight of gazes pressed in on her, but not with admiration. Whispers followed her, hushed and uneasy. "That’s the one, the Shadecloak girl."

  "Malice, they call her. You saw how she fought." "She’s dangerous. She doesn’t fight like us." Alyc clenched her jaw, staring into the flickering candlelight in front of her. She could feel the weight of it all the distrust, the hesitation. Even in victory, they looked at her as though she was something to be wary of. She had felt this way before, in Emberfall. In Solaria. And now, here, among her own people. She didn’t care. Jesta’s voice rang out through the hall, cutting through the murmurs and the weight of unspoken doubt. The gathered warriors fell silent, eyes turning toward the front of the Great Hall as Jesta took her place beside the king. Her stance was firm, her expression unreadable, but Alyc knew the way Jesta’s eyes flickered across the room she had noticed the shift too. “As we stand on the eve of the Trials,” Jesta began, her voice carrying through the chamber, “let us not forget what this means.” She swept her gaze over the assembled soldiers, her sharp tone leaving no room for interpretation. “This is not just a competition. This is Selenia’s strength given form. This is our message to the world that we do not falter, we do not yield.” A roar of approval followed, warriors slamming their tankards against the tables, voices raised in agreement. Alyc remained still. Jesta’s expression didn’t change, but for a fraction of a second, her gaze settled on Alyc before moving on. King Cyros Selsta stepped forward then, his deep blue cloak shifting with his movements, the silver crest of Selenia gleaming under the candlelight. “You five do not fight for yourselves alone,” he declared. “You carry the weight of this kingdom with you. We expect nothing less than excellence.” His gaze moved across the chosen warriors, nodding slightly as his eyes passed over Torren, Kaelen, and Lyra before finally settling on Alyc. He studied her for a moment, something unreadable in his cold silver stare. It wasn’t doubt, nor was it pride. It was calculation. Alyc held his gaze, unflinching. One by one, the generals stepped forward to announce their chosen representatives. The hall erupted in cheers for each name, warriors raising their drinks, commanders clapping their chosen champions on the back. Then “Alyc Halcyhon of the Shadecloaks.” The moment stretched. The applause was there, but it was slower, more hesitant. The shift in energy was immediate. Some warriors clapped, others murmured among themselves. Whispers. Uncertainty. She stepped forward anyway. Her boots echoed against the polished stone floor as she approached the dais where the others stood. She did not bow her head. She did not wait for their approval. Let them fear me. Let them see me. She returned to her seat, ignoring the continued whispers. The feast carried on, the hall alive with laughter, music, and the clinking of goblets. Platters of roasted meats, fresh bread, and golden fruit filled the tables, but Alyc had no appetite. She picked at her plate, absently swirling the wine in her goblet as voices droned around her. The other competitors engaged in conversation Kaelen speaking in measured tones with Selwyn, Lyra laughing at something Torren had said but Alyc remained silent. She could still feel the weight of eyes on her, the lingering unease that clung to the room like smoke. The people of Selenia cheered for their champions, yet when their eyes landed on her, their voices dimmed, their expressions tightened. She had grown used to it. She had been raised in a kingdom built on strength, where warriors earned their place through battle. But even among her own, she was not seen as a warrior to be celebrated. She was a weapon to be wielded carefully, or not at all. A shift in movement caught her attention. She glanced up just in time to see Jesta rise from her seat and lift her goblet. The hall quieted. “To our champions,” Jesta said, her voice clear and steady. “You carry the pride of Selenia with you. You fight not only for yourselves but for the strength and honor of this kingdom.”

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  A murmur of approval swept through the hall. Jesta’s gaze flicked briefly to Alyc, unreadable. “May you return with honor.” The hall erupted in cheers, goblets raised, voices ringing out in support. Alyc lifted her own cup, but she did not drink. Instead, she let the wine catch the flickering candlelight, watching the dark liquid swirl as the noise swelled around her. She set it down untouched. The feast stretched long into the night, but Alyc slipped away before the final toast. The air outside was crisp, the sky a deep indigo scattered with stars. She let the cool breeze sting against her skin as she leaned against a stone railing, exhaling slowly. Footsteps approached. She didn’t turn. “You always know how to kill a party,” Sammond’s voice was light, laced with amusement.

  She huffed, shaking her head. “Didn’t feel like celebrating.” Sammond stepped beside her, arms crossed, watching the sky. “Big day tomorrow,” he mused. “First step toward Solaria.” Alyc nodded, silent. Sammond turned to her, something different in his gaze. He reached into his coat and pulled out a small, sheathed dagger, holding it out to her. “Here,” he said simply. Alyc frowned, eyeing the weapon with suspicion before taking it from his outstretched hand. The hilt was smooth, carved from bone, the blade thin and balanced. She unsheathed it slightly, catching the dim light of the moon on its razor-sharp edge. “What is this?” she asked, turning it over in her hands. “A gift.” Sammond smirked, but it was softer than usual. “I was going to wait until you won the Trials, but… maybe you’ll find better use for it before then.” She closed the sheath with a sharp click. “Why?” Sammond shrugged, leaning back against the stone railing. “Because I know what’s coming for you, Malice. And I know you’ll do whatever it takes to survive.”

  Alyc swallowed, her grip tightening on the dagger. For months, she had carried her anger, her grief, her hunger for vengeance like a second skin. She had worn it well, let it shield her from anything that might threaten to break through. But now, standing beneath the night sky, holding something that had been given without expectation, something in her chest ached. “I miss him,” she admitted, the words slipping out before she could stop them. “I miss him, and I don’t know how much longer I can” Sammond’s hand landed on her shoulder, firm and steady. “Then use it,” he said, voice quieter now. “You can’t go back. You can only go forward. Do what needs to be done.” Alyc exhaled sharply, pressing her lips together. She didn’t want to talk about this, didn’t want to acknowledge the weight pressing down on her. She had a mission. A purpose. That was all she needed. She forced herself to nod.

  Sammond gave her shoulder a small squeeze before stepping back. “Besides,” he added, his smirk returning, “I wouldn’t miss the Trials this year. I’ll be traveling with you all.” Alyc’s brow furrowed. “You’re coming?” “Of course.” He grinned. “Somebody has to make sure you don’t set Solaria on fire.” Alyc huffed a laugh, shaking her head. “That’s not my plan.” “No, but it’s not exactly off the table either.”

  She didn’t deny it. Sammond stretched, rolling his shoulders. “Well, you should get some rest. Big day tomorrow.” Alyc hesitated before sliding the dagger into her belt. “Good,” she said. “You’re the only person I can count on right now.” Sammond's smirk faltered for the briefest moment, his green eyes flickering with something unreadable. Then, as quickly as it had slipped, he recovered, his usual easy grin returning. "I know." Alyc turned away first, the weight of the dagger at her hip grounding her as she strode toward the barracks. The night air was cool against her skin, the echoes of the feast still lingering in the distance. Laughter, music, the clinking of goblets it all felt detached, like a memory from another life. One she had no place in. As she entered the dimly lit barracks, the heavy silence greeted her like an old friend. The others had already retired for the night, their breathing slow and steady, the exhaustion from the day’s final training settling into their bones. Alyc moved toward her cot, lowering herself onto the thin mattress. She ran her fingers over the bone hilt of the dagger, tracing its smooth edges, its hidden lethality. It was a gift, but more than that, it was a reminder. A reminder of what she had to do. Of what still lay ahead. She exhaled, staring at the ceiling, her mind restless despite her body's exhaustion. The Seer’s words haunted her, latching onto the corners of her thoughts like shadows that refused to be banished. This year, the Trials will decide the fate of us all. Alyc didn’t believe in fate. She believed in action. In will. In doing what had to be done.

  Yet, as she lay there, the cold weight of the dagger pressing against her hip, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something had already begun shifting something beyond her control. The barracks were quiet when Alyc returned, the low sounds of steady breathing filling the space as the others slept. She moved through the dim room without a sound, her fingers brushing against the hilt of the dagger Sammond had given her. It felt heavier now, as if his words had embedded themselves into the bone handle, weighing down her every thought. She slid onto her bunk, staring up at the ceiling. Sleep should have come easily her body ached, exhaustion settling deep in her bones but her mind refused to rest. The Seer’s words echoed in the silence. The Trials will decide the fate of us all.

  Fate. A foolish notion. A lie people told themselves to justify the things they couldn’t control. She didn’t believe in fate. She believed in strength. In will. In carving a path forward, no matter what stood in her way. Yet, even as she repeated those truths to herself, her grip on the dagger tightened. Eventually, the weight of exhaustion overtook her. Her breathing slowed. The world slipped away.

  And then, she was in the colosseum. The arena stretched wide around her, empty and endless. The sky above was a deep, burning crimson, the sun low on the horizon, casting long, sharp shadows across the stone. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of something she couldn’t quite name. She stood alone at the center, Firefang clutched in her hand. Then, she looked up. On the highest balcony, draped in black and gold, stood High King Desmond Alistar. Their eyes met. His expression was unreadable, his stance relaxed, but Alyc could feel the weight of his gaze. It was not the look of a ruler observing a warrior. It was something else. Something colder. Neither of them spoke. Neither of them moved. Then, the world burned. Flames erupted from the stands, swallowing the colosseum in a roaring inferno. Fire raged around her, devouring the stone, twisting and warping the world into something unrecognizable. The sky cracked open, splitting apart as if the heavens themselves were being torn asunder. Alyc didn’t move. She stood in the fire, watching as the High King remained above it all, untouched. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the flames reached her. And she woke. Her breath came sharp and fast, her body damp with sweat. The barracks were dark, quiet, unchanged. The only thing burning was the slow, steady rage in her chest.

  She exhaled, forcing herself to sit up, forcing herself to shake off the lingering heat of the dream. It meant nothing. Just a trick of her mind. A reflection of her hatred, of what she knew she had to do.

  She reached for Firefang, running her fingers along its edge. Tomorrow, they would leave for Solaria. And soon, the flames would be real.