“Robyn aye?” I said under my breath.

  The first time I saw her, it was in the fog. She had been rude and sharp, a desperate killer cornered and ready to strike first.

  The second time was in the trial. There had been no desperation then. No doubt. She moved with control and a kind of quiet cruelty that made her more dangerous.

  And today, she had caught me off guard. She spoke without barbs. Without that sharp edge she wore like armour. Almost pleasant. Not warm. Not careless. Just… controlled.

  I could not decide which version of her was the truth. Maybe they all were.

  Next time, I would not lower my guard around her.

  She knew too much. She had mentioned Sable. I could not shake the thought that it might be the same woman who followed her. The same one who attacked me.

  Robyn had secrets. That much was clear.

  But she was not on the Nobles’ side.

  For now, that was enough.

  At least I was not about to be dragged off in chains before the next trial even began.

  That danger had at least passed.

  Which left the real question.

  What’s the next trial?

  I stepped into the ring and walked its width, counting quietly as I moved ignoring the faces of growing crowd. Thirty steps. Thirty-five at most from edge to edge. I crossed it again, slower, feeling the ground under my boots and marking the distance in my head.

  That meant my range would only cover about a third of the circle.

  I looked up at the seating that curved around the arena and measured the elevation with my eyes. Lines of sight. Angles. Escape routes, just in case.

  When my turn came, I intended to know every inch of this place.

  I spotted a few aspirants gathering around the tent above. More arriving by the minute, voices low. It would not be long now.

  I climbed the amphitheatre steps and joined the early arrivals.

  Amelia was already there with her team. I headed straight for her, ready to pass on what Derry had told me. Her teammates stepped in front of her before I could reach her side.

  “Hold up,” one of them said. “Back away, Butcher.”

  “Wait.” Amelia raised a hand. “He’s a friend.”

  Her team did not move straight away. They studied me, weighing the word. Then she gave them a sharp look, irritation flashing across her face. That was enough. They stepped aside.

  Rob had not been wrong. She commanded them without lifting her voice. When I studied their faces more closely, I saw no fear. No tension in their shoulders. Just attention. Focus.

  Not bad, I thought. She was growing into the role.

  “There’s been a rule change,” I said quietly, keeping it brief. “No personal weapons inside the ring. They’re stripping gear advantages.”

  Her eyes sharpened. “You’re sure?”

  “Heard it directly from Derry.”

  She nodded once, then turned to her team. “You heard him. Adjust. Assume equal footing.”

  A few exchanged looks. No one argued.

  More teams filed into the tent, filling the space with low conversation and the scrape of boots against timber. The air grew warmer as bodies packed in. The scent of leather and lanolin polish hung thick, oil worked deep into scabbards and grips in preparation for what was coming.

  The head instructor stepped onto the raised platform at the front.

  “Settle down.”

  The murmur thinned.

  Beside us, the large, enchanted board flickered. Light moved across its surface as names shifted and settled into new positions. Blessing levels remained unchanged, but failed aspirants from the previous day began to disappear one by one.

  When the glow stabilised, only forty-six names remained.

  My name still sat at the bottom.

  Dead last.

  Typical, I thought. Though it seemed strange that they didn’t ask me to review my card. That, at least, was a blessing in disguise. Maybe the soul cards are reactive to their system?

  I’ll have to ask Amelia later. She would know.

  Assistants moved through the crowd, calling out names and dividing us into our assigned groups.

  A second line of assistants spread along the tent walls, bronze rings fitted over their hands. They pressed their palms toward the canvas.

  The rings began to glow.

  Light crawled from metal into cloth. The seams tightened.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  “What are they?” I asked.

  “They’re sealing it with rune work,” Amelia said quietly.

  “Sealing it?”

  She nodded toward the canvas. The glow traced the edges, then settled.

  The lead instructor stepped inside. We were all staring at the tent walls.

  “Silence,” she called. “The sealing runes are in place.”

  The light faded.

  “The tent is soundproofed. Each group enters the arena without prior knowledge of the trial. No one gains advantage from another’s attempt.”

  Her gaze passed over us and paused on me for a fraction of a second. “Today the field remains equal.”

  “First rule,” she continued. “Some of you may already be aware. Any item deemed above the level of basic runes will remain outside the circle.”

  A ripple of protest moved through the aspirants. Voices rose. A few curses.

  Rob’s group exchanged irritated looks. Amelia’s team did the same. Neither looked surprised.

  “And you’re wondering why,” the instructor said once the noise settled.

  She let her gaze move across the tent, then fixed it on me.

  “Yesterday made something painfully clear. Several of you arrived with equipment far beyond your station.”

  A few heads turned in my direction.

  “This trial measures your strength. Runes and weapons have always been permitted. What has never been permitted is outside interference. Or cheating.”

  She did not look away.

  The meaning landed without subtlety. Not just for me. For everyone watching.

  She had reduced what I achieved to theft and deceit. Murmurs spread through the tent, the word passing from one mouth to another. “Cheating.”

  “Today will be different,” she continued. “When you placed your golden ribbon into the cup, it recorded your strength at that moment. That measure will determine the difficulty of this trial for each group.”

  Silence returned.

  “Those who rely on advanced runes or clever enhancements may find this round less forgiving than the last.”

  Her eyes shifted to Rob.

  “But you will not be left unarmed. Each of you will choose a new weapon before entering the ring.”

  She clapped once.

  Assistants hurried out and returned pushing racks on wheels. Metal clattered and wood creaked as they rolled them into place. Row after row of weapons filled the tent.

  There were meant to be fifty aspirants after the first trial. Because of me, there were forty-six.

  Fifty weapons waited regardless.

  Blades caught the light, some bright with fresh polish, oil still dark along the steel. Others bore scars and wear. Spears, staves, sceptres, bows. Every style stood in ordered rows, ready for hands that would claim them.

  “Listen carefully,” the instructor said. “Each of you will select one weapon. Order is determined by current blessing rankings. Highest first. Lowest last.”

  She called out the first name.

  The top-ranked stepped forward without hesitation. A broad-shouldered kid who had snapped another’s arm with a single punch in the eighth round.

  I caught Robyn’s eye across the racks. She held my gaze for a moment, then gave a small nod.

  I returned it.

  One by one, the decent weapons vanished. Clean steel disappeared first. Amelia selected a staff that carried a faint hum of power beneath its surface. Rob selected a well-balanced sword. Robyn secured a solid short blade, nothing extravagant but sharp and dependable.

  I waited as the last of the good steel vanished.

  Each name called stripped the racks further. Another used blade lifted. Another worn spear claimed. What stayed behind almost sagged on its hooks, dulled and forgotten.

  One aspirant stood between me and the final semi-decent weapon. He reached without pause, took it, and walked away.

  The instructor lifted her gaze from the list. “Sean Mitcheles. Your turn.”

  I stepped forward and faced what remained.

  Five weapons.

  My eyes moved across them.

  One sword caught my attention first. Clean lines. Polished guard. From a distance, it looked worthy of the arena.

  I stepped closer and ran my thumb along the edge.

  There wasn’t one.

  The blade was smooth on both sides. Shaped like a weapon, finished like a showpiece. Balanced well enough, but made for ceremony, not blood.

  The next three did nothing for me. A heavy staff, more a chunk of wood than a crafted weapon. It would hit hard, but that was all. A bow with a sagging string that would never hold tension under strain. Another short blade with a massive crack down its length.

  None of them fit.

  Only one remained.

  The final weapon looked as though a chunk of rust had been hammered into the shape of a sword. The surface was pitted and scarred. Near the hilt, I saw the faint outline of a rune, worn thin but still there.

  That mark was probably the only reason it had not disintegrated.

  “Hurry up and choose,” the head instructor snapped.

  I swallowed the response that rose to my tongue and offered a polite smile instead.

  My eyes shifted back to the only two real options.

  A sword that could not cut.

  Or a relic that could barely hold together.

  Lumi hummed softly at my side. “Check the threads.”

  I closed my eyes and reached inward, searching for that thin thread of white light inside me. It flickered to life.

  I rested my hand on the polished sword first.

  There was something there. Faint. A dull glimmer. It felt untried. As if it had only ever been drawn once for show. The blade had never truly been tested.

  I let it go and turned to the rusted sword.

  My fingers closed around the hilt.

  White exploded through the cracks in my vision. Not a spark. Not a flicker. A deluge. Shapes moved within it. Blurred figures. Steel striking steel. Mud under boots. Blood across worn leather grips. Hands I did not recognise tightening around this very hilt.

  Breath left my lungs in a sharp pull.

  The light did not fade. It steadied. Layered. Echoes of motion folded over one another.

  I opened my eyes.

  “I’ll take this one,” I said.

  Laughter spread through the tent. Heads shook. Someone called out, “Scraping the bottom.”

  The head instructor allowed herself a faint smirk.

  Amelia did not laugh. Neither did Robyn. Nor Rob.

  They watched.

  They all saw rust.

  I felt history.

  “That’s it. First group. Move,” the instructor called.

  Five aspirants stepped forward. The tent flap lifted.

  For a brief second, sound rushed in. Wind across the arena. The swell of the crowd. Then the canvas dropped.

  The noise cut off clean.

  I turned and walked toward Rob. He looked at the sword, then back at me. “You serious?” he asked quietly. “You didn’t want the shiny one? That thing looks like it’ll snap.”

  I angled the blade so he could see the faded rune near the hilt.

  His expression shifted. A small grin tugged at his mouth.

  “Right,” he said. “Fair enough.”

  His teammates pulled him back almost immediately, already talking over one another. I let him go. They needed to sort themselves out.

  I stepped aside and took up a spot near the edge of the tent. From there I watched and listened.

  Most of the conversations sounded the same. Loud plans. Big declarations. Half-formed strategies built on guesswork. Too much confidence, not enough thought.

  They spoke like children rehearsing a battle they had never seen.

  I did not interfere. Their noise dulled my own nerves. It gave my mind something to rest against while the minutes stretched.

  An assistant entered and called Amelia’s group.

  She walked past without hesitation. As she reached the flap, she glanced at Rob.

  He straightened and gave her a look meant to be reassuring.

  Then she disappeared through the opening.

  The flap dropped. Silence returned.

  I caught fragments of whispered conversation from assistants moving in and out. The first group had failed. The word carried quietly, but it carried.

  My grip tightened around the sword.

  Time dragged. Long enough to let doubt settle in.

  Group three was called next.

  When one of the assistants began murmuring again, the lead instructor stepped back into the tent.

  “Enough,” she said sharply. “No discussion inside.”

  The assistants fell silent.

  And I was left without any idea what had happened to Amelia’s team.

  I waited.

  Not as long as Amelia’s group had been gone. Long enough for the noise in the tent to thin. Long enough for the air to feel tighter.

  The flap lifted.

  The lead instructor stepped back inside.

  Her eyes found me at once. The corner of her mouth curved.

  “Mitcheles,” she said. “Your turn.”