We settled into a steady rhythm as the ponies followed Brent along the road. Hooves struck packed earth in a soft, repeating cadence. The movement loosened something in me, and conversation came easier for it. Brent tossed questions back over his shoulder, asking what we planned to do once the trials began, how we meant to approach them. We answered as best we could, then turned the questions on him in return.

  Amelia took the lead when the topic shifted to the druids. She spoke quietly, measured, explaining the customs as if reciting something she had memorised and tested a hundred times. Titles mattered. Tone mattered. You spoke with respect first, even if you held more power, and you never rushed a response. Formality, she said, was not distance. It was acknowledgment. A way of saying I see you and your place in the world.

  Brent listened, nodding, then filled in the gaps as the road stretched on. Soon the conversation reached the trials. Jerald had never gone into detail about them. Just fragments and warnings. Riding beside Brent, the shape of it finally began to form.

  Most of the aspirants, he explained, would already be in the city. Drilling in courtyards. Studying theory. Learning how to look impressive. We were not doing any of that. We were learning in the field, bruises and mistakes included.

  Brent seemed to think that was an advantage.

  The barracks were full of what he called freshies. Well trained, confident, and largely untested. The academies were no different. He said it like a fact, not a criticism

  As the ponies carried us on, Brent began to explain the trials themselves. Not as we would face them, he warned, but as they were meant to function.

  The first step was separation. Aspirants were divided by style, strength, and capability. There was no value in pitting raw spell power against stealth, or a heavy fighter against a scout. That kind of clash told the judges nothing useful. Power had to be measured against something that could answer it.

  The trials were divided into phases. The first two were knowledge and strength. One tested what you knew. The other tested what your body could endure and deliver. A scholastic challenge followed by a physical showcase.

  “What happens to those who fail?” I asked.

  Brent shrugged, casual. “They aren’t thrown out. The city doesn’t run on strength alone. There are lesser schools. Crafts. Trades. Roles that keep everything turning.”

  His gaze flicked over us, then back to the road. “But I don’t think that will be an option for you three.”

  None of us argued. We understood. Failure would not mean a quiet apprenticeship or a desk in some ledger hall. It would mean being owned. Used. Pointed where needed.

  Something near the edge of the path caught my eye.

  I slowed my pony just enough to look properly. The earth there was pressed deep, the soil compacted into broad, uneven hollows. Too wide. Too heavy. Nothing human left marks like that. The impressions angled off the road, cutting into the undergrowth where branches were snapped and ferns crushed flat.

  My stomach tightened.

  I lifted a hand and pointed.

  Brent reined in beside me and leaned from his saddle, studying the ground. He didn’t look surprised. “Trolls,” he said quietly. “Not the only ones either.”

  I glanced at him.

  “We passed a few earlier,” he went on. “Easier to miss if you do not know what to look for.” He leaned over and nudged one of the prints with the tip of his sword. The edges had softened, the soil settling back in on itself. “These are old. Three days, maybe more.”

  That did little to ease the tension in my chest.

  The tracks vanished into the trees, the forest swallowing the evidence as if it had never been there.

  I straightened in the saddle, eyes forward again, and said nothing as we rode on.

  “Well… I doubt you three would end up failing…” Brent said, his voice light. “I believe in the three of you.”

  He smiled, but his eyes did not quite follow. He knew what we were all thinking. Belief did not change how brutal the trials could be.

  “And the third part?” I asked. “The capabilities test.”

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  Brent’s grin sharpened. “The aspirant challenge. That’s the one people come to watch.”

  He explained that it changed depending on the skills involved. Different rules. Different limits. Structured to test what made you dangerous, not just strong.

  “Think of it like sport,” he said. “Rules shift depending on the game.”

  “Like footy?” Rob asked.

  Brent replied dryly. “Pretty much.”

  Rob nodded as if that cleared everything up.

  “Well,” he went on, waving it off, “like football. There are ways to score. Not all of them involve hitting someone.”

  Rob leaned forward in his saddle, clearly ready to press for details, but Brent lifted a hand before he could speak.

  He turned sharply toward the brush at the side of the road.

  A bird burst from the undergrowth, wings beating hard as it fled. Brent didn’t relax. He raised a finger to his lips and rested a calming hand on his horse’s neck, murmuring softly. We followed suit, quieting our mounts, the moment stretching thin as we listened.

  Nothing else moved.

  After a while, Brent nodded once and urged his horse forward again. The road swallowed the sound of hooves as we continued on. My legs ached from the saddle, muscles complaining in unfamiliar ways, but I swallowed it down and kept pace.

  We had been riding for hours now. Brookfield lay far behind us, its fields and fences replaced by dense forest. Leaves knitted overhead, filtering the light into shifting patches of green. The air felt older here. Thicker. We rode in silence, heads turning constantly, every snap of a twig drawing the eye.

  Time stretched.

  Then something broke the pattern.

  Far ahead, the shape of a wagon emerged between the trees, its outline slowly resolving as it rolled toward us. It was flanked by two large horses, their riders upright and watchful. Green cloaks marked them, deep leaf-coloured and unfamiliar, the fabric moving softly with each step.

  My stomach tightened.

  Brent slowed and glanced back at us, his expression firm. “Alright,” he said quietly. “Here they come. Let me handle the introductions.” His eyes flicked between us. “Be respectful.”

  The road narrowed, the distance closing, and the forest seemed to lean in as we rode to meet them.

  As we drew closer, the wagon resolved into something solid and imposing. Broad shouldered and reinforced with thick rope and woven vines, its dark, weathered wood bore the polish of long travel. A heavy olive-green cover was pulled tight across the top, marked with a deep worked knot.

  Brent lifted a hand and we eased back on the reins. The ponies slowed, hooves crunching softly against the road, and we swung down to meet the guests on foot. Ahead of us, the wagon rolled to a halt, its wheels groaning as they dragged against the packed earth.

  “Greetings,” Brent called.

  The escort did not answer at once. The warriors studied him in silence, long faces calm and unreadable, eyes sharp beneath the shadows of their cloaks. They sat their horses easily, alert without tension, the kind of men who noticed everything and wasted nothing.

  “Where is Master Jerald?” one of them asked at last.

  Brent inclined his head slightly. “His attention is elsewhere, in the interest of your charges’ safety.”

  The formality in his voice was deliberate, careful, as though each word had been placed by practice rather than instinct.

  The warrior considered him for a moment.

  “Then you are the one called Brent,” he said.

  He nodded.

  The warrior’s gaze shifted to us. It moved slowly, deliberately, taking in our ponies, our gear, the way we sat our saddles. His expression did not change, but the pause spoke for him. This was not the escort he had expected. I could hardly blame him. Still, Jerald would not have arranged this without reason. I pictured him somewhere beyond the trees, working himself raw as usual, probably soaked in blood or mud or both.

  The cloth at the side of the wagon stirred.

  A head pushed through the opening. A dark-haired boy, about our age. His green eyes flicked over the three of us, quick and dismissive.

  “And who are these?” he asked.

  His voice was thin, sharp at the edges. When his gaze met mine, something settled in his expression. A decision made. Rob and I, in that instant, were placed beneath him.

  Oh no, I thought. More nobility. Of course. No wonder Doyle had been so careful.

  “Seriously, Calum.” A voice came from inside the wagon, light and smooth. My breath stalled before I realised, I had stopped breathing at all.

  Calum vanished from view with a startled sound, dragged back by someone unseen.

  “Greet them properly,” she said.

  I shifted in the saddle, heat creeping up my neck, suddenly aware of my posture, my clothes, the way I was sitting. Rob moved beside me, restless in the same way. The voice lingered even after the words were done, calm and assured, as if it carried its own gravity. Not loud. Not commanding. Simply certain of being heard.

  Beautiful was the closest word I had, and it still fell short. It felt less like listening and more like being drawn along, warm and steady, with no clear point where resistance would have helped.

  Amelia stepped in beside Rob and gave his ribs a quick, pointed nudge.

  “Fine,” Calum muttered.

  He shoved the wagon flap aside and climbed down, boots striking the road with easy confidence. Up close, he was no common guard or traveller. A fitted jacket of dark, finely woven cloth sat over a lighter shirt, its seams traced with gold knotwork that caught the light as he moved.

  A flute rested at his hip in a polished case, worn where a sword should’ve been. A lyre was strapped between his shoulders, its curved frame visible over one shoulder. The instruments did not look ornamental. They were carried like tools, familiar and ready.

  He carried himself like someone used to being watched. Chin lifted slightly. Shoulders loose.

  Calum turned back toward the wagon and lifted an arm, holding it steady as if offering more than support.

  A pale hand reached out through the opening and closed around his wrist. When she stepped down into the light, my breath caught despite myself.

  Dark hair spilled down her back, catching faint highlights as it moved. Her face was composed and striking in a way that felt effortless rather than practiced, features balanced and calm, eyes sharp beneath it all. She did not rush or hesitate. She simply arrived, as if the space had always been meant for her.

  My heart hammered in my chest.

  It was Celeste.