The second creature was smaller compared to the Burrower but somehow even scarier to look at. It was like a wyvern with huge teeth that were as long as a man's forearm. It let out a high-pitched scream as it dove toward a group of contestants.

  Three knights were thrown around, though one wasn't fast enough. Its wing-blade slashed across his chest, cutting him from shoulder to hip. He fell without making any sound at all.

  "Frost Fangs," Isolde whispered to Eirik. "I've heard of them. They're supposed to be extinct."

  "Apparently not."

  The third monster came up through the snow—a snake-like one. It swam through the snowdrifts like a fish in water, its back fin showing.

  Then it struck.

  The Snow Serpent awakened under Meridia's knight, its jaws clapping shut around his legs. He let out a shriek as it pulled him down into the depths of the snow.

  "This is insane," Isolde said. "They’re being slaughtered."

  The watching deck was silent. The lords and ladies, who had moments before been worried about rank and position, stood still.

  "There." Isolde grabbed Eirik's arm. "Look."

  Lord Caelum Frostgrip was alone within a snow-covered circle. The three Ice Burrowers moved carefully around him, with the Frost Fang dragon sitting on an icy rock, looking for opportunity to flank him.

  The Duke’s son had not yet drawn a weapon.

  "What's he doing?" A noble whispered. "He's surrounded!"

  The first Burrower charged.

  In a single moment, Caelum teleported ten feet to the left of where the mandibles of the Burrower clashed shut on nothing. His hand raised.

  Ice formed.

  A crystal blade of pure perfection appeared in Caelum's hands. He drew it in one perfect swing.

  Burrower's head was separated from its body.

  "Gods," a voice whispered on the platform.

  The second Burrower attacked from behind. Caelum pushed his free hand backward, and a spear of ice shot from his palm hard enough to blast through the skull of the beast's armor. It fell mid-attack, sliding to a stop at his feet.

  The third hesitated, and this hesitation cost it everything. Caelum jumped and landed on the back of the Burrower, striking his blade into the openings in its armor. It flailed wildly, trying to fling him off to no avail. Eventually, the creature went still, and Caelum stepped off its body with not a drop of blood staining his pristine white shirt.

  The Frost Fang screamed and dived.

  Caelum looked up. His hand moved upwards. The air between them became a wall of ice that was almost impossible to see through.

  The wyvern struck it with maximum speed.

  The impact broke not just the wall, but the creature's neck. Its body dropped past Caelum with a shower of ice bits and dark blood, hitting the snow behind him.

  Four kills within about thirty seconds.

  "That," said Isolde softly, "is what Glacier realm looks like."

  The other contestants had noticed too. They started moving toward Caelum like planets spinning around a star.

  "FORM UP!" Caelum shouted above the storm. "DO NOT WASTE YOUR ENERGY ON THE SMALLER THREATS!"

  The spread-out fighters gathered together. Training won over fear. In a matter of moments, a defensive position with around fifty contestants had formed around the son of the Duke.

  A pack of the frost wolves attacked the group. The shield wall stayed together. Spears stabbed over and between the shields, stabbing the creatures as they jumped against the line.

  "He's good." Eirik noted.

  “His Grace saw to that," Isolde stated tightly.

  The Snow Serpent came back up once again, aiming for the group's side. Caelum got there before it could attack, his icy sword cutting off its head with one perfect strike.

  "Magnificent," a voice breathed from somewhere behind Eirik. "Absolutely magnificent."

  The nobles had recovered from their first shock. Now they watched with the hungry interest of watchers at a blood sport—which, Eirik supposed, was exactly what this was.

  "Did you see that move?" A large lord in Valdris colors was gesturing widely. "The way he changed the Burrower's charge into that snow bank?"

  "The boy," his companion snorted, "could have killed that thing with his eyes closed. This is theater."

  "Theater with a purpose, wouldn't you say?"

  "Lady Fenrir." A silver-haired noblewoman had noticed them lurking at the platform's edge. "How delightful to see you've returned to society. And this must be the famous Lord Stormcrow?"

  "Countess Varen." Isolde's curtsy was respectful. "May I present Lord Eirik Stormcrow, Lord Commander of Abercrombie."

  "The demon-banisher himself." The Countess's eyes glittered. "You've caused quite the stir, young man. Though I confess, watching Lord Caelum work, one does wonder if your own accomplishments... might have been somewhat exaggerated by distance."

  Eirik kept his expression neutral. "I've never claimed to be the equal of the Duke's son, Countess."

  "How refreshingly honest." She turned back to the spectacle below. "Though I suspect few would make such claims after today. This is a statement that even the dullest southern lordling cannot misinterpret."

  "And what statement would that be?" Isolde asked.

  The Countess's smile widened. "Why, that the future of the North has already been decided, my dear. We're simply being shown what it looks like."

  More nobles drifted into their orbit, drawn by the conversation or simply seeking familiar faces amid the chaos.

  "—grooming him for something," a heavy baron was saying to his companion. "Mark my words. This spectacle—it's about showing everyone who the realm's greatest warrior already is."

  "The King won't live forever," his companion agreed. "And when the succession crisis comes—"

  "Crisis? What crisis?" The baron laughed. "After today, who would dare contest anything the Duke proposes? His son just killed four apex predators in thirty seconds. The other contestants are following him like ducklings following their mother. This is a coronation rehearsal."

  Eirik's mind drifted to Coyne.

  Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

  Should have actually placed those bets, he thought ruefully. Whatever odds the bookmakers had given on Lord Caelum, they hadn't been generous enough.

  "How many kills is that now?" someone asked as Eirik watched Caelum kill another Frost Fang.

  "Seventeen," another noble answered. "Eighteen, now. The second-place contestant has... four, I believe."

  Laughter rippled across the viewing platform, then died mid-air while then the ground shook again.

  Not the tremor of a burrowing creature. This felt different. The entire snow plain seemed to heave, throwing contestants off their feet and sending cracks racing across the frozen surface.

  "What—" Isolde grabbed Eirik's arm.

  The snow in the center of the battlefield began to rise.

  A massive head emerged first. Then shoulders, each broader than a house. Arms that ended in claws of crystalline obsidian. A torso covered in overlapping plates of ancient ice.

  The creature rose to its full height.

  Eighty feet. Perhaps ninety. It towered over the battlefield like a god surveying insects.

  "Frost Colossus," the Countess breathed beside them. "That's... that's impossible. They're legends."

  The Colossus opened its mouth and roared.

  The sound nearly knocked nobles from their feet. Below, the organized formation Caelum had built shattered instantly.

  The Colossus took a step forward. The ground cracked beneath its weight. Its burning eyes swept across the fleeing warriors.

  Then it raised one massive arm and brought it down.

  Three contestants disappeared beneath the impact. When the arm lifted, there was nothing left but a crater of crushed ice and spreading red.

  "This wasn't supposed to happen," a voice whispered. "This can't be part of the Trial. The Duke wouldn't—"

  "Silence." The command came from somewhere near the Duke's position. "Watch."

  Caelum hadn't fled.

  The Colossus's burning eyes fixed on the tiny figure below. Then, one massive foot lifted, positioning to crush Caelum like an ant.

  Caelum vanished.

  He reappeared on the Colossus's knee, his blade already moving. Ice met ice in a shower of crystalline sparks. The cut was deep—Eirik could see it from the platform—but against a creature of this size, it was barely a scratch.

  The Colossus roared again and swatted at its own knee.

  Caelum was already gone, flickering to the creature's opposite thigh. Another cut.

  "He's fast," a noble murmured. "But he can't hurt it. Not really."

  "Watch the pattern," another said quietly. " He's mapping the weak points."

  They were right. Each of Caelum's strikes landed at seams in the creature's armor. The Colossus's right arm now lagged behind its left, and the creature seemed to notice and rage. Its attacks became more and more frenzied.

  Caelum appeared on the Colossus's chest, directly over where a heart might be if such a creature possessed one. His blade raised high.

  The Colossus's remaining functional arm swept toward him.

  Caelum drove the blade down.

  Ice shattered. The runes across the Colossus's chest erupted in cascading failure, each one going dark in sequence like stars winking out at dawn.

  The creature screamed and began to fall. But the arm completed its sweep.

  "NO!" Someone on the platform screamed.

  The impact caught Caelum mid-teleport. Eirik saw the flash of his ability activating—and then saw the massive claw rake across his torso before the displacement completed.

  Blood sprayed across the falling Colossus's chest.

  Caelum reappeared fifty feet away, tumbling through the air, his white shirt now painted crimson. He hit the snow and didn't move.

  The Colossus crashed to earth behind him. The impact buried half the remaining contestants. But the creature didn't rise.

  Silence fell across the viewing platforms.

  "Lord Caelum!" A voice from below—one of the surviving contestants breaking formation to run toward the fallen prince.

  "Is he—" The Countess's hand covered her mouth. "Did he—"

  The Duke hadn't moved. Eirik noticed that. While every other noble on the platform strained forward, desperate to see, Duke Thorgrim stood perfectly still.

  Archmage Velthan raised his staff. Light bloomed from its tip, casting an image above the platforms—a magnified view of where Caelum lay in the blood-stained snow.

  He wasn't moving.

  "Gods preserve us," someone whispered. "The Duke's heir..."

  Then Caelum's hand moved.

  It was small—just a twitch of fingers against the snow. Then the hand pressed down. An arm followed. Slowly, Lord Caelum Frostgrip pushed himself up from the ground.

  The gashes across his torso were horrific. Blood continued to flow, painting the snow around him in expanding circles of red.

  Caelum stood anyway.

  He swayed. One of the contestants reached out to steady him, but Caelum raised a hand—the gesture somehow both a refusal and a command to stay back.

  Then he turned toward the viewing platforms.

  Toward his father.

  And he raised his blood-soaked blade high.

  "FOR FROSTFALL!" His voice carried across the battlefield. "FOR THE NORTH!"

  The roar that answered him was deafening.

  Contestants, nobles, servants—everyone screaming at once. The sound washed over the platforms in waves. Eirik felt it in his chest.

  "CAELUM! CAELUM! CAELUM!"

  "This..." The Countess's voice was hoarse with emotion. "This is something the kingdom's chroniclers will write about for generations. The songs they'll compose..."

  "Songs?" The portly Valdris lord shook his head in wonder. "This is beyond songs, my lady. I've heard legends. But I've never seen anything like this with my own eyes. Not once in fifty years of life."

  "The narrative is almost too perfect," another noble murmured. "If someone told me this story in a tavern, I'd call them a liar."

  "Yet here we stand. Witnesses to history."

  Eirik said nothing.

  Too perfect, he thought. Far too perfect.

  Archmage Velthan's voice cut through the celebration with the precision of a blade.

  "SILENCE."

  The single word carried power—actual magical force that pressed against Eirik's ears and stilled the voices around him. The chanting died instantly.

  "The First Trial has concluded." The Archmage's staff pulsed with each word. "The results are as follows."

  The magnified image above the platforms shifted, displaying a ranked list of contestants with numbers beside their names.

  "First Place: Lord Caelum Frostgrip. Forty-seven confirmed kills, including one Frost Colossus—the first such creature slain in recorded history."

  The chanting continued, washing over the platforms in waves.

  "CAELUM! CAELUM! CAELUM!"

  "Second Place: Ser Thornheart of House Meridia. Twelve confirmed kills."

  "Third Place: Sister Aletheia of the Order's Ascendant Circle. Nine confirmed kills."

  The list continued, but Eirik's attention had already drifted to the magnified image of Caelum, who had finally lowered his blade. The Duke's son was pale now. The blood loss was taking its toll.

  Healers in white robes were rushing across the snow toward him. Other figures in similar garb were spreading across the battlefield, attending to wounded contestants wherever they lay.

  "Lord Caelum and all injured contestants will be transported to Highfrost Keep's medical facilities," Velthan announced. "The Second Trial will commence tomorrow at dawn. All participants are required to be present—those who are unable to attend will be considered withdrawn."

  The Archmage raised his staff higher.

  "Distinguished guests, please prepare for the evening's festivities."

  The air changed.

  Eirik felt it as a shift in pressure that made his ears pop. The snow-covered viewing platform beneath his feet began to shimmer.

  When his vision cleared, the platform was gone.

  In its place stood a villa.

  Not a building that had been constructed—a building that had appeared.

  Tables appeared, already filled with food and wine. Servants appeared as if they'd been standing there all along. Music began to play.

  The nobles adapted with practiced ease. Within seconds, conversations had resumed, wine glasses had been filled, and the trauma of watching men die had been neatly compartmentalized behind masks of civilized discourse.

  "The Archmage's illusions are quite something," Isolde accepted a crystal goblet from a passing servant. "Though I suspect this is more than illusion. The wine certainly tastes real."

  Eirik took his own goblet but didn't drink.

  "We should circulate," Isolde said. "This is an opportunity to—"

  A hand closed around Eirik's elbow.

  He turned, reaching for power that wasn't there—his ice abilities felt muted in this space, suppressed by whatever magic maintained the illusion.

  Ser Konrad's weathered face stared back at him.

  "Lord Stormcrow. Come with me."

  "Ser—" Isolde glanced at Him. "We were just about to—"

  "Now."

  The knight's grip tightened.

  "Wait." Eirik planted his feet. "Isolde needs to come. I need—"

  Konrad was already moving, pulling Eirik through the crowd with a strength that belied his age. Nobles parted around them, too absorbed in their own conversations to notice the minor lord being escorted away.

  "Ser Konrad, I must insist—"

  "Your insistence is noted and irrelevant."

  They reached the edge of the illusory villa, where silk drapes concealed what should have been open sky. Konrad pushed through them, revealing a narrow corridor of stone that had no business existing.

  Konrad stopped before a section of wall that looked identical to every other section. His free hand traced a pattern Eirik couldn't follow. Stone rippled like water.

  A doorway appeared.

  Beyond it, a portal—smaller than the one they'd entered for the Trial, but unmistakably similar. Light swirled within its surface, pale and cold.

  "What about Isolde?" Eirik tried one last time.

  Ser Konrad's expression didn't change. He simply pushed.

  Eirik stumbled through the portal.

  Cold. Then warmth. Then stone beneath his feet.

  Eirik caught himself against a wall, his equilibrium slowly returning. The portal winked out behind him, leaving only solid stone.

  He was in a chamber. Small. The walls were lined with books and artifacts—not unlike the Archmage's study, but more austere. A single window showed the spires of Highfrost Keep against the darkening sky.

  Two figures waited for him.

  Archmage Velthan stood by the window, his midnight robes somehow already changed from the formal attire he'd worn at the Trial.

  And beside him—

  Lord Caelum Frostgrip.

  The Duke's son sat in a high-backed chair, one leg crossed casually over the other. He wore a simple white shirt—clean, unstained, as if the blood-soaked garment from the battlefield had never existed.

  More importantly, he looked healthy.

  No sign that, less than moments ago, Eirik had watched him take injuries that should have killed any man.

  "Greetings," he said. "Lord Stormcrow."