The coliseum was unlike it had ever been. No cheers. No chants. No rumbling of voices that once shook the very walls. Just silence. Alyc stepped forward, her boots scraping against the worn stone, the weight of Firefang familiar in her grip. The air was heavy, thick with expectation, but there was no celebration, no excitement. Not anymore. This was the end. At the opposite end of the battlefield, Ilyra Duskbane stood, her body poised, her rapier glinting under the high sun. Her breathing was steady, her gaze unreadable. Unlike the others, she was not shaken. She was not enraged, nor desperate, nor hungry for glory. She was simply ready. The Seer’s voice rang out, cold and final: “Alyc Halcyhon of Selenia. Ilyra Duskbane of Emberfall. The last warriors standing. This is your final test.” A single beat of silence. Then, "Begin.” Ilyra moved first. A blur of motion, a silver streak slicing through the air. Alyc barely dodged, twisting out of range as the rapier slashed past her shoulder. Ilyra didn’t slow, didn’t pause, her blade came again, faster, precise, aiming for Alyc’s ribs. Alyc blocked, but the force behind it nearly knocked her back. Ilyra was stronger than she looked. She pressed forward, each strike coming faster, sharper. Her form was flawless, her footwork impeccable. She fought like a phantom, like an executioner who already knew her enemy was doomed. Alyc met her head-on. The moment their blades clashed, the force of it reverberated up Alyc’s arm. Ilyra’s strikes were relentless, calculated, and unyielding. There was no hesitation in her movements, only a precise, mechanical efficiency honed through years of ruthless training. Alyc gritted her teeth, parrying another strike. Ilyra flowed like liquid silver, moving with an elegance that made her impossible to pin down. She was fast, too fast, and every time Alyc tried to press forward, Ilyra was already a step ahead, redirecting her attacks with seamless grace.

  Then came the first real mistake. Alyc barely saw it, a slight delay in Ilyra’s footing, the barest miscalculation in her momentum. It was small, nearly imperceptible, but Alyc pounced on it. She feinted left, forcing Ilyra to adjust, then twisted sharply, bringing Firefang up in a vicious arc. The blade caught Ilyra’s shoulder, slicing through leather and drawing a thin line of blood. Ilyra hissed, eyes narrowing. And then she changed tactics. Instead of retreating, she lunged, pressing forward with unrelenting ferocity. Alyc barely had time to block as the rapier struck again and again, forcing her back step by step. It was a test. Ilyra wanted to see how Alyc reacted under pressure, to see if she could break her. Alyc clenched her jaw.

  She wasn’t the one who would break. Their dance continued, a brutal display of speed and precision. Every strike was calculated, every dodge was a breath away from disaster. The crowd, silent at first, began to stir, murmurs rippling through the arena as the intensity of the duel escalated. Then Alyc shifted, adjusting her stance. She let Ilyra push her back, let her believe she was faltering.

  Then, as Ilyra went for a decisive strike, Alyc dropped low, rolling to the side as the rapier whistled past her ear. Before Ilyra could recover, Alyc slammed her boot into the side of her opponent’s knee. The impact sent Ilyra stumbling. Alyc capitalized instantly.

  She struck hard and fast, forcing Ilyra to go on the defensive for the first time. Their blades clashed in rapid succession, but the cracks were beginning to show, Ilyra’s movements were growing fractionally slower, her breathing more labored. Alyc fought with ruthlessness. She was not here to outmaneuver Ilyra. She was here to break her. And break her, she did. Ilyra stumbled. It was only a half-second misstep, but that was all Alyc needed. With brutal precision, she drove Firefang forward, slashing across Ilyra’s ribs.

  A deep wound. Blood sprayed across the arena floor. Ilyra to one knee. Alyc loomed over her, Firefang poised for the final strike. Ilyra clutched her side, blood seeping through her fingers, her breaths coming in ragged gasps. But even now, she did not beg. She did not yield. She merely lifted her head, dark eyes locking onto Alyc’s.

  "Finish it," she rasped. The words should have meant victory. They should have meant triumph. But as Alyc stared down at her fallen opponent, a cold weight settled in her chest. She had fought to win, but somewhere along the way, she had lost something else. Ilyra had been the last warrior standing between her and the end of the Trials. And now, she was on her knees, waiting for Alyc to end her.

  Alyc didn’t hesitate. She raised Firefang; And drove it down. The blade sank deep. Ilyra exhaled sharply, eyes fluttering as she fell forward, her body hitting the bloodstained stone. It was over. Alyc stood, her breathing harsh, blood dripping from her blade. The coliseum remained silent. No roars of approval. No chants of her name. Just stunned silence. She turned, her mismatched gaze sweeping over the stands, over the faces that once cheered for her but now only stared. Then her eyes found him. High King Desmond Alistar sat on his throne, watching her with an expression unreadable. And then, slowly He smirked. Not in amusement. Not in pride. But in recognition. Alyc felt her pulse pound in her ears. She turned away, but the smirk lingered in her mind, curling like smoke in the back of her thoughts. She had won. The air in the coliseum was thick with the weight of expectation. No cheers. No chants. Only silence. The Divine Council stood in a perfect circle at the heart of the arena, their robes whispering against the stone as they moved. Their presence was otherworldly, each of them glowing faintly with the power they wielded, the power they now prepared to bestow. Alyc stepped forward, her boots slick with Ilyra’s blood. She did not wipe her blade. Did not acknowledge the crowd. She only moved. The Seer raised her hands, and the world around them hushed. "This is the will of the Divine," her voice rang through the arena. "The Champion has been chosen. She shall be granted power, as is tradition. But power is not without cost. Do you accept, Alyc Halcyhon?" Alyc’s fingers tightened around Firefang. There was nothing to accept. This had been decided the moment she had stepped into this city.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  She gave a single, sharp nod. The Divine Council moved as one, stepping closer, their hands lifting toward her. Twelve hands. Twelve gods. Twelve fragments of divinity. Their power surged through her like a storm. It was not pain, not exactly, but it was overwhelming.

  Heat. Light. Shadows. Cold. The rush of time itself. The whisper of death. The weight of the world. She gasped, dropping to one knee as the power flooded her veins. And then the vision struck.

  The world burned.

  Fire raged across the mountains, swallowing entire cities in its merciless hunger. The once-proud banners of Emberfall lay in the dirt, drenched in blood, while Selenia’s grand citadels had been reduced to rubble. The Ignus-Luna Mountain range, the divide that had held the world in balance for centuries, cracked apart like a shattered bone. Above it all, the sky twisted into an unnatural storm of smoke and flame, the twin moons fractured into jagged remains. Their silver glow had vanished, replaced by a void darker than the abyss. Alyc saw herself. Standing at the heart of the devastation. Alone. Her hands dripped with blood, not her own. A blade rested in her grip, its edge reflecting the burning sky. The scent of ash and death thickened the air. Around her, the corpses of warriors littered the battlefield, their faces locked in expressions of terror. She turned. And from the depths of the ruined mountain, something rose.

  Malathrax.

  A monstrous shadow, its wings stretched wide, blotting out the dying sky. A mouth filled with serrated fangs opened in a silent roar, and the earth trembled beneath its might. Its very presence warped the air, a force of destruction so absolute that even the Divine Council’s power would not stop it. Alyc felt it then, the weight of prophecy pressing against her like an iron chain. The gods were gone. The world had no savior. Only her. "Control your flame," the Seer’s voice whispered, distant and fleeting, barely more than a ghost of sound. But then another voice, stronger, deeper, colder rose above it, cutting through the vision like a knife. "Embrace your vengeance." Sammond. No. His voice wrapped around her like smoke, seeping into the marrow of her bones. "This was always the way it had to end." Alyc’s heart pounded. The heat of the vision pressed against her skin, burning into her memory. Her fingers tightened around Firefang. The weight of the vision pressed down on her, suffocating, relentless. She could still feel the heat licking at her skin, the scent of burning ash filling her lungs. Her heart pounded too fast, too hard, like a war drum leading an army into its final charge. She turned, still half-trapped between the world she had seen and the one she stood in now. And her gaze locked onto him.

  High King Desmond Alistar.

  Seated in his throne, draped in black and gold, the symbols of Emberfall gleaming across his chest. His posture was relaxed, arrogant. Unbothered. Like none of this concerned him. Like she was nothing.A piece on the board. A puppet to be used. He had seen her win. Seen her slaughter her way through every trial. And yet, his eyes were unmoved, the same piercing blue as always. And then he smirked. It was not the smirk of a man caught off guard. Not the sneer of a king witnessing treason. It was recognition. Alyc felt something in her snap. The echoes of the vision still burned in her skull, but now, now she understood. The Seer’s whispers were nothing but delusions. Control? That was a lie. Control had never saved anyone. Control had not saved Durk. Control had not saved Durk. Control had not saved anyone. But vengeance? Vengeance was real. Alyc moved. Firefang was in her hand before she had even made the decision. The Divine Council stood around her, their gazes unreadable, their judgment unspoken. But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except this. Her fingers burned against the hilt. A single, fluid motion she threw the blade. It sliced through the air like a streak of fire, a burning promise, a divine reckoning. Desmond did not move. Did not flinch. He only watched. And then, Firefang struck. The blade buried itself deep in his chest, tearing through armor, through cloth, through flesh. His body jerked back, his hands twitching, the golden crown slipping from his head. A single breath left him, a rasping exhale. Then, silence. The entire coliseum froze. No screams. No gasps. Just shocked, horrified stillness. The High King of Emberfall slumped forward in his throne, dead. The weight of her actions crashed down upon the world like a falling star. And then; Chaos.