Sol's boots echoed against the iron grating as an attendant led him to the center arena. Beneath the arched ceiling was now filled to the brim with people. The gas lamps lit up the place, and the ground hovered in the middle, with heavy chains.

  The air stunk faintly of burnt oil and wet cloth from competitors wringing sweat. From somewhere above, the muffled roar of the crowd still rumbled through the steel walls with a single oppressive pulse. The arena's heart was beating fast.

  Sol was raised to the platform in the lift, gears roaring to life as the mechanism functioned. shivering beneath his boots. He stepped forward, and the attendant in white and gold robe remained still behind as if he were a statue, simply judging if Sol were to make an unnecessary move.

  On the other side, Ector entered with the confidence of someone who had already won. He was all arrogance, and the crowd chanted his name. Sol grimaced, it must not be the man's first time participating. He watched the tall man grin at him, clearly looking down on his timid stature.

  "Kid, this isn't a playground," Ector barked, "But not as if I will go easy on you."

  Ector got into a stance, ready to strike. Sol gripped his gun, holding it in his hand like an anchor. He gulped once, sweat dripping down the side of his head in nervousness. Stop shaking, damn it! This is do or die. And I cannot fucking die!

  The crowd counted down eagerly until the bell rang. When it resonated though the air, Ector moved in a blur, Sol's gun already up, but the first shot bounced off an empty metal platform.

  "Gonna have to aim better than that, boy. Or maybe you just close your eyes when you shoot?" Ector was gone in a blink and reappeared mid air.

  Sol's eyes widened upon seeing the speed. Ector lent a kick on the boy's face. But Sol was not slow, he lifted up his arms and took the blow, easily thrown back with the impact. Pain bloomed so raw, he barely pushed through it.

  "Ugh." He dropped his hands, ache unbearable. His first opponent was not weak, quite the opposite. He was experienced as hell, matched with the speed—he was unbeatable.

  Sol gritted his teeth in frustration, he cannot shoot him down. Sol fired a quick shot, but Ector had already been elsewhere again, bullet striking empty floor once more. It was futile. Every strike Ector delivered tested him, prodded him, measured him. Each cut across his skin, every jab to the defensive shield that were his arms, told a story Sol was beginning to understand: this was not merely a fight. Should he step on the wrong platform, the plates would drop him to his demise. Either way, he was cornered.

  As the steam vents wend off, Ector danced around him once more; short blade flashing, delivering a shallow slash across Sol's shoulder and a hard kick to the ribs in the next blur. The force made Sol stagger toward the arena's edge, where the hex plate dropped without warning. Ector tried once more, attempting to force him off the arena's edge. Sol ducked another kick, sidestepping with clumsy footwork.

  Each blow landing made the crowd roar in excitement.

  He barely rolled away from the next drop, watching it fall into the pit.

  Into the abyss.

  When all was in his favour, Ector was playing around, he was having fun bullying a kid. Ironic, when he claimed it was no playground. Sol huffed, shooting again with a small opening. He knew well it was useless and he took a glance at a shallow cut across the shoulder exposing fresh red, feeling a bruise no doubt forming on the ribs showing Ector's ability to whittle him down without intending to lend a killing blow yet.

  The steam vents hissed again, and Ector dashed again, landing a kick to Sol's abdomen and he rolled all the way to another edge. He limped up, holding up a defensive stance, awaiting another attack, but Ector simply grinned.

  The crowd demanded an end to the fight so loudly, overwhelming the boy who had been cornered, letting Ector taste victory in his tongue. His eyes widened, and his foot leaned over the edge. He didn't look back. He couldn't move his eyes from the man who held his flickering pulse in his hands.

  "Get ready kid!" He laughed. Sol did not respond, eyes focused on the surroundings. His breathing evened, and he watched Ector get in position, ready to dash. It was slow for him, as he observes. The crowd became a blur, and the vent next to him came to life.

  Sol gripped his gun. Ector dashed. Sol fired.

  The sleek bullet ricocheted off metal and Ector diverted his path.

  Got you! Victory tasted of metal and pain, and there were more trials to come. He didn't dare celebrate just yet.

  "Can't shoot what you can't see!" Ector mocked like a fool.

  But Sol stayed quite, mentally preparing a way to take him down. The timer ticked above them, and the crowd roars for Ector to deal the final blow. It was time. Ector rushed in for the kill, but Sol sidestepped at the last second, letting him dash straight into the path of a shifting hex plate.

  The plate dropped, throwing Ector off balance mid-step as he barely made it back onto the hanging platform with a curse. Sol took the opening, capitalized with a kick to Ector's weak side, his knee, knocking him down.

  But Ector sprung up, trying one last lightning dash, but his fist was slower now. Sol caught it easily, ignoring the pain jolting with the impact, and dug a knee into his gut, right into his prior injury this time. Ector coughed at excruciating pain that shot through.

  "Damn it, brat!" He choked just as Sol had.

  Ector leaped back, but this time, Sol could keep his eyes on him. Slower. The man blessed with speed dashed again, body blurring, and Sol shot to a side. He had learned, learned from the best (The best who was named Loen.), to see not just with his eyes, but through the spaces between attacks, through the pauses, the tells, the microsecond flickers of intentions.

  Ector had not realized it, the boy wondered. He raises a fist and it lands square into the man's face before he could land one on Sol. It had began to guide his path with deflecting bullets. The crowd was reduced to a shocked silence around them, as they watch the brute fall. Another vent shrieked, steam engulfing Ector's side before he could get up. Sol took the opening, smashing the butt of his gun across the man's jaw.

  One final shove sent Ector skidding across the trembling plate toward the arena's edge.

  Sol walked forward, ready to tackle him again. The man got up angrily, wiping blood off his face.

  "I will kill you!" The platform dropped.

  The crowd roared once more. Though, no longer for Ector, now for him, the boy who had won, the boy who had endured, who had measured and overcome, whose blood and sweat had bought him the smallest taste of triumph. Sol breathed hard, letting the echoes of the arena wash over him, but said nothing, mind already on the next challenge. But for the first time, he felt the faint thrill of mastery, the quiet satisfaction that the crucible had recognized him. He silently thanked Loen moved.

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

  Sol turned away, black cloak fluttering behind him, the next time he would be here, it would be to enter the battle of dusk.

  Two robed officials stood by the exit as he descended the arena's platform once more, their brass scopes tucked under their arms, faces hidden. Sol looked past them as he passed, and gazed at the city skyline beyond the trial grounds. A horn sounded from deep within the hanger, a start of the next battle, sending shudder down Sol's spine.

  He looked down at his gun, he was outmatched, exhausted and cornered, but he had one remaining bullet from the battle. He had ended it before it could end him. He would survive again. And again. And again.

  The metal grate at the walkway's end revealed a stairwell as the boy passed by it. It descended into the dark beneath the ruined structure. Warm air pulsed upward from it, smelling of rust, and damp stone.

  · ? ·

  The underground hall sat colder than the rest of the area, its air heavy with the scent of old stone and torch smoke. The halls were dark, and the only sound was the muted noise of the outside. Competitors sat on worn benches, their eyes fixed on the archway to the arena where the battles took place.

  A guard in black stepped inside, adorned in all black. His boots thumped against the concrete as his gaze swept the room. "Participant Oliver," he said.

  A man near the wall stood, rolling his shoulders. The guard gave him a single nod and led him into a narrow side corridor. It was one that bent away from the arena gates. The man was silent. Confusion showed on his face for a split second, but no words spoken.

  The noise of the crowd seemed to hush for a moment. Somewhere far down that passage, a sound echoed. It was sharp, and metallic, followed by an eerie silence.

  Mattheos sat on the bench, simply observing the stairs that lead him up. Besides him sat a man in similar white robes, but with a hood. The priest in silk murmured something in his ear, too low for anyone else to hear.

  The guard returned, his gloves were darker at the fingertips. "Oliver has... chosen to withdraw," he said, voice even. "Mattheos will face a substitute."

  Mattheos rose without comment, only tightening the wraps on his hands before heading toward the stairs and the light.

  · ? ·

  In the medical bay, all Sol could smell was the sharp antiseptic. It was littered with brass instruments, bandages on the floor. Dirty and damp, like they only cared to do what was necessary to be done. Sol sniffed in disgust as he settled on the bench.

  The medic's hands were quick but impersonal as they wrapped the bandage across his ribs. Rows of surgical tools lined up like a collection of tiny weapons. The man's face was a blur to him, but his thick circular glasses stood out.

  The Cathedral officials spoke with him briefly, offering praise but no warmth making it clear this was only step one in their designs Their behaviour ironic as they would praise the Sun in the same breath.

  Ava leaned in through the doorway, goggles perched on her head and a smudge of grease on her cheek. Probably some prior tinkering with her gadgets, he didn't comment.

  "Don't get comfortable," the girl called out. "They'll make sure put you against someone built to dismantle your style," she continued, "Again."

  Ava tossed him a rag and left without waiting for a reply but signalling to follow. Sol stood, the bandage tightening against his breath, and caught sight of a tall woman in the adjacent chamber, throwing controlled strikes into a hanging sandbag, eyes fixed not on the bag, but on Sol.

  He nervously smiled, one side of his mouth lifting, but quickly scurried past.

  He had not thrown a cloak over his head, the air was chill despite the crowd and the gas lamps. Or maybe, Sol felt nervous for what was to come. He stood behind the rusted railing, sweat cooling on his skin, the ache in his limbs now a constant throb.

  Ava was besides him, leaning back on her floating board that she was always on.

  His flame-colored eyes observed the arena as Mattheos stepped into the ring. His hood off, and golden eyes locked forward. His cathedral-stained cloak trailed behind him like a banner.

  "Does he always look like he's judging everyone for breathing?" Ava muttered through a yawn. Sol frowned, seeing his behaviour appeared different compared to the first trial.

  The bell rang and the crowd rose up again, excited to see the round. But Mattheos didn't rush. He stood in the center like a statue, golden eyes fixed on the man circling him with dual knives.

  "Already baiting him," Sol muttered under his breath.

  Ava leaned forward on the railing, goggles glinting. "Or daring him to try and see!"

  Mattheos moved like a hammer breaking glass, each strike heavy, and deliberate. His opponent, a wiry man with dual knives, darted in and out, but Mattheos didn't chase. He let the man come close, then punished him with brutal precision.

  "Patience," Sol murmured. "He waits, then he kills the opening."

  Ava whistled as Mattheos caught a blade mid-swing and twisted, disarming the man in a heartbeat. "Smart and strong," she cheered.

  The opponent feigned a stumble and leaped, aiming for Mattheos' legs. The other didn't flinch as he stepped into it, letting the blade score shallow across his thigh, just to twist and land a crushing punch to the man's jaw.

  The sound cracked even through the din of the arena.

  "Trades damage for control," Sol noted. "That's a questionable tactic… it works..."

  "That's dangerous," Ava commented, "What a dangerous man."

  Sol rolled his eyes.

  The opponent tried one last time, blade flashing but again, Mattheos caught a knife, twisted, and this time ripped it from his grip. A knee to the gut folded the man in half, and Mattheos hoisted him bodily.

  "Uh oh," Ava said flatly, but leaned forward in interest.

  The crowd roared as Mattheos finally drove his opponent into the arena's boundary. he lifted and threw him over the edge like tossing a sack of grain. Some in the crowd gasped. The man screamed as he fell, bleeding in with the cheers of the crowd.

  A short battle.

  Sol straightened from the railing, the faintest curl of a smile on his lips. "He'll be in the final round...He is sure to win."

  "Yeah," Ava said. "So will you be, and that should be fun."

  "Not at all." Sol sighed.

  "You nervous?" she asked, not really asking—just poking at him the way she always seemed to do so.

  "No."

  "Liar." To which, he didn't bother arguing. He was scared as hell.

  The sharp bell rang through again. The crowd was elated seeing an aggressive battle.

  It wasn't that long as they stage was beginning to prepare for another round of battle. The airship hanger thrummed faintly, as it breathed in anticipation.

  Ava drifted toward the back of the hanger where small workshops littered the space with overpriced collections displayed. She seemed familiar with the chaos, when she was ducking beneath a suspended hull without the hesitation. She does not explain how she knew the layout.

  Sol followed her through the cramped aisles. The hanger workers glance at them with a look that stops short of acknowledgment. No greetings are exchanged.

  Sol realized, no matter where he goes, the feeling of dread and suffocation remained. How strange, to not find comfort in a promise. The Trials were supposed to strip uncertainty by giving him a path. Instead they clarified nothing but the shape of the weight he already carried

  And so he asked, "Why did you join the Trials?"

  Ava didn't answer at first. She circled a half-assembled courier rig, running a thumb along a weld line that hadn't cooled properly. The metal hissed faintly under her touch.

  She examined it with silence, memorizing it into her mind.

  Only then did she look at Sol.

  Ava's response came without flourish. "People join for glory. Some for absolution. Some because they think the Sun will rewrite what they were because that is what's promised to them..."

  Her eyes drifted back to the rows of half-finished rigs, the scattered tools, the abandoned projects left to collect dust. "I came because I already know what I am. The Trials don't change that. But they revealed whose path interferes with mine, such as yours."

  Ava's tone was enveloped in mirth, but she didn't elaborate. Her answer was the final pressure that forced his inner question into clarity: what outcome had he intended?

  An attendant appeared at Sol's elbow, brass tokens clinking in her palm. It was not Miss Sophia this time, like he hoped. Perhaps, he could have bothered her with a few more philosophical debates.

  "Participant Sol," the unknown woman said. "Report to staging. Your trial begins soon."

  Ava slapped him on the shoulder as he turned. "You know what I'm gonna say, right?"

  "Don't die?" Sol guessed. Ava laughed in response, sending him a thumbs up.

  "Don't die a stupid death!"