Lucien moved through the maze as if he had built it himself.

  Every turn came before thought. Every dead end whispered no before his foot ever crossed the threshold. Shadows pooled, stretched, and leaned—subtle, obedient—guiding him without words.

  Left.

  Now right.

  Don’t stop.

  He didn’t run.

  He flowed.

  Within seconds, he was already closing the distance.

  Valor burst through a corridor ahead of him, the mark on his temple flaring as the maze shifted again. Leon followed close behind, breathing hard, eyes sharp, already adapting to the changing paths.

  Lucien slipped past them both.

  Leon glanced sideways, startled.

  “How—”

  “Later,” Lucien said, already moving.

  The three surged forward together, the maze reacting too slowly to keep up.

  Behind them, Dialos lowered his head and inhaled deeply.

  Lucien’s scent was unmistakable now—shadow, iron, and something ancient beneath it all.

  Dialos followed without hesitation, claws scraping stone as he took the path Lucien had already carved through the maze.

  He emerged moments later, grinning through the pain.

  “Knew it.”

  Elsewhere—

  “Over here!” a contestant shouted.

  “This way! I saw an opening!”

  Luna ran.

  Men cleared paths for her without thinking, hands reaching out, voices eager to be useful. Even without her magic—without the quiet pull of her blood—people moved around her as though she were already their queen.

  She hated how easy it was.

  She used them anyway.

  Athena did not bother with corridors.

  She spread her wings.

  Not fully—the mark behind her eyes throbbed, vertigo tugging at her balance—but wings were wings for a reason.

  She jumped.

  Stone blurred beneath her as she bounded across the tops of the maze walls, boots striking briefly before launching again.

  Below her, voices shouted in outrage.

  “That’s cheating!”

  “Is that allowed?!”

  Athena didn’t look down.

  If the gods gave me wings, she thought, they intended me to use them.

  She landed hard near the exit, knees buckling slightly as her wings flared to keep her upright.

  Luna burst out moments later, hair loose, breath sharp.

  Dialos emerged from the opposite corridor soon after, shoulders smoking faintly where the light had burned him earlier.

  Behind them, the maze groaned.

  Walls folded inward. Corridors collapsed and reshaped, swallowing the remaining contestants whole—resetting, rearranging, offering no mercy but another chance.

  Six doors stood before the survivors.

  Stone.

  Light.

  Shadow.

  Symbols carved too deeply to be erased.

  Lucien didn’t hesitate.

  He chose.

  Dialos saw the decision and followed, stepping through the same door without question.

  The others scattered.

  Athena.

  Luna.

  Valor.

  Leon.

  Each choosing their own path.

  The doors closed.

  The maze fell silent.

  And the trial continued.

  Alicia stood alone.

  Bodies floated around her—contestants, knights, strangers—suspended mid-motion like shattered statues trapped in glass.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  A man mid-scream.

  A woman reaching for a weapon.

  A drop of blood hanging perfectly round in the air.

  Time had stopped.

  Not broken.

  Not shattered.

  Stopped.

  Her breath fogged slowly, drifting forward in painful increments. Even blinking took effort—each motion stretched thin, dragged out, unbearably slow.

  Ahead of her stood a single door.

  Far.

  So far.

  Every step she took toward it felt like hours passed in her muscles before her foot ever touched the ground.

  She wasn’t frozen like the others.

  But she might as well have been.

  She clenched her fists.

  This is just like my dreams.

  The domain of the Angels of Time.

  The frozen faction.

  The world she had seen while asleep—beautiful, quiet… wrong.

  She had always moved faster than light.

  Now she moved the way she had always seen others move through her galaxy eyes.

  Slow.

  Agonizingly slow.

  Alicia swallowed, jaw tightening.

  “I’ll walk through hell like this,” she whispered, her voice barely carrying through the stillness,

  “if it means freeing you.”

  She took another step.

  And another.

  And the door waited.

  Athena stepped through her door—

  —and found the coliseum.

  Empty.

  The stands were silent, massive tiers of stone rising into shadow. No crowd. No cheers.

  Only one figure stood above.

  Astrid Skjaldryn.

  Her mother.

  Before Athena could speak, another presence shifted the air behind her.

  A man stood there.

  Taller than her.

  Broad-shouldered.

  Winged.

  Bronze-skinned like a living statue carved from war itself.

  A Valkyrie helmet hid his face, but golden eyes burned beneath it—familiar.

  Too familiar.

  He looked up toward the stands.

  “Mother,” he said calmly.

  Astrid’s lips curved slowly.

  “My child,” she answered.

  “The one I’ve been waiting for.”

  Athena’s chest tightened.

  Astrid’s gaze slid to her then—cool, appraising.

  “I always wanted a son,” Astrid said quietly.

  “Now end my weakness.”

  For one heartbeat—

  Athena faltered.

  Then she smiled.

  A wide, feral grin split her face as she cracked her neck, wings flaring slightly behind her.

  “Finally,” she said, rolling her shoulders.

  “A real fight.”

  She stepped forward.

  Steel sang.

  Leon stepped through his door—

  —and entered nothing.

  White stretched endlessly in every direction.

  No walls.

  No floor.

  No ceiling.

  Just absence.

  He walked.

  The ground felt solid beneath his boots, but nothing changed.

  No matter how far he went, the void remained exactly the same.

  He shouted once.

  His voice vanished without echo.

  “…Hello?”

  Nothing.

  He stopped.

  Waited.

  Minutes passed.

  Then hours—or at least, it felt like hours.

  No doors opened.

  No figures appeared.

  The trial did not rush him.

  It simply left him there.

  Leon exhaled slowly and sat down.

  “If this is a test,” he muttered, staring into the endless white,

  “you’re a cruel bastard.”

  He waited.

  And the trial continued—

  without him.

  Dialos stepped through the door—

  —and smelled iron.

  Cold stone pressed beneath his bare feet. Heat flickered faintly from braziers long extinguished. The air tasted old.

  Rotten.

  He knew this place.

  His castle.

  The one buried deep in demon territory, far from banners and courts. Far from the trials.

  Far from hope.

  “Father…?”

  The sound answered him before the sight.

  Scrrrraaaape.

  Chains dragged across stone.

  Dialos turned—

  —and his breath caught.

  The thing that stood where his father should have been was no king.

  No ruler.

  No man.

  Diablo Morvayne had been reduced to a beast.

  Black fur split and torn where bone and wing burst through. Massive bat-like wings hung crooked from his back, membranes scarred and bleeding as if they had torn themselves free again and again. His claws were warped, bent at impossible angles, nails cracked and dark.

  Horns jutted from his skull in jagged spikes—uneven, grotesque.

  Red eyes burned with no recognition.

  Slobber dripped from his open mouth, thick and hungry. His fangs had grown too long for his jaw, stretching his face into something permanently screaming.

  Chains lay broken at his feet.

  The seal was gone.

  “Father…” Dialos whispered again.

  The creature roared.

  The castle shook.

  Dialos staggered back—

  —and froze.

  His hands were small.

  Too small.

  He looked down.

  He wasn’t a man anymore.

  He was a boy.

  Thin arms.

  Shaking legs.

  The body he had worn the first night his father’s screams had echoed through the castle walls.

  The night the curse had begun.

  “No,” Dialos breathed. “No—this isn’t—”

  The beast lunged.

  Dialos turned and ran.

  Bare feet slapped against stone. Tears burned his eyes as corridors twisted and warped around him, doors slamming shut ahead of his escape.

  The roar followed.

  Closer.

  Louder.

  Chains snapped behind him with impossible strength.

  “You were sealed,” Dialos sobbed. “You did it to save me—”

  Claws slammed into the wall beside him.

  The boy screamed.

  And the trial watched.

  Luna opened her eyes—

  —and was small again.

  Her hands trembled in front of her.

  Smooth.

  Untouched by blood.

  No rings.

  No power.

  Ten years old.

  Her room.

  The bed was too big.

  The walls too high.

  Moonlight crept through the curtains like a witness that refused to leave.

  This isn’t the trial, her mind tried to insist.

  But her body didn’t listen.

  She slid from the bed and hid behind it, pulling her knees tight against her chest, arms wrapped around herself.

  Her mother was gone.

  The castle was quiet.

  Too quiet.

  Then—

  Footsteps.

  Slow.

  Measured.

  Familiar.

  “Princess,” a voice called softly from the hallway.

  Lance.

  Her breath caught.

  She crawled under the bed, hands clamped over her mouth as her heart pounded so loudly she was certain he could hear it.

  The door creaked open.

  Boots stepped inside.

  “I know you’re here,” Lance said calmly, amusement curling through his voice.

  “You always hide in the same places.”

  Luna squeezed her eyes shut.

  She wasn’t thinking.

  She wasn’t planning.

  She was ten again.

  The footsteps moved closer.

  Closer.

  Her vision blurred as fear swallowed everything else.

  Outside the Trial

  The crowd saw none of this.

  They saw Luna Sangrelle standing still, trembling violently, nails digging into her palms.

  They saw Dialos Morvayne shaking like a leaf, sweat pouring down his face.

  They saw powerful contestants—

  princes,

  royalty,

  warriors—

  frozen.

  Shattered.

  And the trial continued.