Arion’s muscles burned, a familiar ache from weeks of relentless training. His breath came in sharp bursts as he slashed at the training dummy, sweat stinging his eyes. The clatter of swords and instructors’ shouts filled the air, but he heard none of it. His focus was on the trial ahead.

  Since his fight with Rezar, Arion had transformed. No longer just a student, he had become sharper, deadlier. His swordplay fused muscle with magic, honed through morning drills, midnight practice, and an obsession that left no room for rest. Kaelen and Kony had tried to lift his spirits, but their words went ignored. Rezar had exposed his weaknesses and he wouldn’t let it happen again.

  With a swift spin, his wooden blade struck the dummy’s head, followed by a windblast spell that sent it toppling. His chest heaved, but his mind was clear. Today, he would rise or be left in the shadows.

  A prickle ran down his spine. Watched. Arion’s eyes flicked to the shadows. Rezar had been lurking, always near, always watching. Studying him? Judging him? Waiting for another challenge? Arion’s grip tightened. He didn’t care. Today, everything changed.

  As if on cue, the deep gong of the temple echoed through the grounds, silencing the clamor of training. Students stopped sparring, their eyes turning toward the trial gates. Whispers filled the air, tension thick enough to cut.

  The Custodian Trials, held once every year, it tested the mind, magic, and combat skills of the students. Only the best would ascend as guardian warriors, earning the right to wield the templar gauntlet. The rest? They would serve the temple in just as important, but simpler roles; such as healers, scholars and scribes.

  The Trials spanned a full month, each candidate tested in the discipline they had chosen; guardian, healer or scholar. Every path demanded its own trials of skill and spirit, but it was the Guardian’s crucible that drew the greatest anticipation, from students and masters alike.

  Arion exhaled, steadying his grip. His moment had come.

  The gong echoed across the grounds. Arion’s heart pounded. This was it, the moment he had trained for, bled for. He wouldn’t be denied.

  A hand landed on his shoulder. Kaelen. “You ready for this?”

  Arion nodded, jaw set. “Never been more ready.” His gaze locked on the temple gates, waiting for the Grand Overseer to appear.

  Kony stood beside him; eyes wide. “You’re going to be the best, Arion. I just know it.”

  Arion managed a smile. “We’ll see.” But his mind was already on the trial. The crowd murmured as students formed ranks, the air thick with anticipation. Rezar’s unseen gaze pressed on him, mingling with the weight of his father’s expectations and his friends’ silent support.

  The trial arena loomed ahead, a vast stone coliseum, its gaping maw swallowing the morning sun’s light. Long shadows stretched across the sand, the warmth doing little to ease the chill creeping up Arion’s spine. The gathered crowd blurred into a hum. Across the arena, his father sat high on the dais, gaze sharp, unyielding.

  The heavy gates creaked open. Silence fell. Arion stepped forward; wooden sword gripped tight. At the far end, Rezar stood waiting, dark eyes filled with disdain and expectation.

  “Welcome to the Trial of the Temple Warrior,” Rezar’s voice boomed. “You have trained for this moment, Arion Faris. Show us your worth.”

  The gong struck again, marking the first round.

  The Sparring Duels.

  Darian stepped forward; a formidable fellow Custodian, fast and precise. They circled each other, eyes locked in silent challenge.

  Arion exhaled. This was it.

  Darian lunged first. Arion parried, their wooden swords cracking against each other. Blow after blow, he matched Darian’s speed, muscles burning but he shoved the strain aside. He had trained for this. But this wasn’t training. The stakes were real.

  Darian swung low, aiming for Arion’s legs. Predictable. Arion sidestepped, countering with a sharp strike to the shoulder. Darian staggered. Now. Arion pressed forward, knocking the sword from Darian’s hand with a decisive blow.

  The weapon clattered to the ground. Victory.

  Applause erupted. Arion exhaled, but he knew this was only the beginning.

  The gong sounded again. The Team Combat Challenge.

  Arion stood at the center with three peers who had passed their trials earlier. Before them, spectral wraiths shimmered into being conjured by mage custodians at the arena’s edge. Their task was clear: defend the stone-marked ring.

  “Stay close!” Arion commanded. His team tightened their formation, each guarding the ring from a different direction. The wraiths slithered forward like living shadows.

  “Conserve your magic,” he warned. The aether had no limits, but their bodies did.

  A wraith lunged. Arion blasted it back with a gust of wind magic. Another struck from the side, he quickly ducked, countering with a sharp slash. Steel met shadow. Magic met darkness.

  Leira summoned ice, freezing a wraith mid-step. Talon scorched another with fire. They fought in perfect sync, magic and blades intertwining.

  Then… silence. The last wraith dissipated. The arena erupted in cheers, their victory ringing through the temple grounds.

  The gong sounded three times.

  The Duel of Shadows. The final test.

  Darkness swallowed the arena, shadows creeping across the stone floor; an illusion woven by the temple mages. Aether-fed. Designed to unsettle.

  A ring of light flared at the center. The Shadow Ring. The one who fell outside it, would lose automatically. Designed to test the combat, magic and survival skills in unfavorable conditions.

  Arion picked up a new wooden pratice sword as he stepped inside, heart steady. Across from him, Rezar. His expression unreadable, he slowly stepped inside the circle himself.

  “This is it,” Rezar said, voice low but clear. “Show me what you’ve learned.”

  Arion met his gaze. Of course, you chose yourself, he thought to himself as he readied himself in his fight stance, I wouldn't want it any other way.

  The crowd held its breath.

  The final duel began.

  Rezar moved first, a blur of speed and precision. Faster than before. Arion barely kept up, his wooden sword parrying strike after strike. Too fast.

  Then Rezar wove magic into his attacks, the message was clear; no holding back now.

  Grass-root tendrils surged from the arena floor, twisting toward Arion like living serpents. Rezar's will, drawn from the Aether, the force that bound all things; Fire. Air. Earth. Water. And even the plants, which was much more difficult to summon.

  Arion felt the tendrils closing in, the vines tightened, cutting into his ankle, panic flared; if he couldn’t burn through, he was finished. He quickly conjured fire. A burst of heat roared forth, driving the tendrils back. They recoiled.

  Rezar steadied himself, lowering his stance. “Better,” he admitted. “But not enough.”

  Arion exhaled, gripping his sword. He knew Rezar’s patterns. He was ready.

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  Rezar lunged. Arion met him, their weapons clashing in rapid succession, a flurry of sword attacks and magic. Strikes. Feints. Counters. A relentless dance.

  Then—water. Rezar twisted mid-air, hurling a crashing wave toward Arion. An unexpected choice of magic attack.

  But Arion had trained well, his muscles reacted fast as he flipped backward, narrowly avoiding the splash as it hit the arena floor.

  Arion landed on his feet, Balanced and ready.

  Rezar was already mid-strike. Arion sidestepped, deflecting the attack and used his momentum directing it into the ground.

  Arion slammed his sword penetrating into the ground and unleashed a windblast on top of the hilt to drill it further down in the ground. Dust exploded upward, slowing Rezar’s charge.

  Rezar’s eyes widened. He struggled to free his weapon.

  Arion didn’t hesitate.

  Another windblast, this time straight at Rezar’s chest.

  The force struck Rezar like a freight train, knocking him to one knee, but he didnt let go, his hand gripping the sword still lodged in the earth.

  Rezar’s eyes widened, he understood too late.

  Arion's trapping his sword in the ground, was just the first part of his plan. Vines erupted from the ground, coiling around Rezar’s sword, locking it in place.

  A murmur ran through the crowd. Raw Aether magic, without a gauntlet? Unheard of. Rezar had underestimated Arion’s connection to the Aether.

  But Rezar wasn’t out yet.

  He chanted swiftly; his voice sharp. Fighting Arions summons with his own... using his advantage of the gauntlet for finer flow. The vines withered; the magic unraveled. His sword was free.

  He kicked Arion in the chest to make some distance just as he gripped and plucked his sword from the ground, but Arion was already airborne.

  A leaping stab. Fast. Precise.

  Rezar barely conjured a shield in time. The impact forced him back, but Arion didn’t let up. He struck again. And again.

  The energy shield cracked. Buckled. Shattered.

  Rezar staggered, scrambling to defend. Too late.

  Arion feinted left then reverse pirouetted, striking Rezar’s hand with full force.

  The wooden sword connected. Rezar’s weapon flew from his grasp.

  Clatter. Silence. Then—

  The arena erupted. Cheers, applause, shouts of disbelief.

  Rezar looked up at Arion, surprise flickering in his eyes. Then, something else. Respect perhaps.

  Arion stood tall, chest heaving. He’d won. His eyes found the Grand Overseer clapping, eyes glistening with pride. I did it, Father.

  Arion looked at his friends Kaelen and Kony jumping up and down in disbelief and celebration.

  But before the victory could properly settle, a siren shrieked. The sound of the royal sirens filled the temple.

  The crowd fell silent as the arena gates swung open.

  A procession of royal guards marched in.

  And behind them, a figure clad in regal armor and a signature red cape. At the head was the Crown Prince Theron, his presence commanding, his steed moving with practiced precision.

  A herald stepped forward, his voice ringing across the hushed arena. "Announcing the arrival of His Royal Highness, Prince Theron of Aetheria!"

  The riders dismounted with seamless grace. One of the guards removed his helmet, Akeem, Arion recognized him. His piercing gaze met Arion’s for a brief moment, a silent moment passing between them.

  Arion glanced at Rezar, still on his knees, likely still reeling from his defeat. He scanned the crowd for his father. The Grand Overseer, Omid Faris, was already descending the steps, white robes flowing behind him, his expression unreadable. Royalty rarely visited the temple unannounced.

  The students exchanged uneasy glances. The excitement of the trials had vanished, replaced by tense anticipation.

  Arion stepped forward. He approached the regal figure with the best bow he could manage, though he knew it was far from perfect. As he straightened up, he saw the disdainful expression on Theron’s face.

  "Hmph... So uncouth," Theron scoffed, his lip curling in distaste.

  Arion felt heat rise to his cheeks but held his ground. "Welcome, Your Highness."

  Theron barely acknowledged the greeting, his sharp gaze sweeping over the arena. "I wish to see the Grandmaster."

  Arion suppressed a sigh. "Grand Overseer, my Prince," he corrected carefully. "He is on his way."

  Theron’s eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of annoyance at being corrected. "Seems like the temple guards are not trained in etiquettes," he muttered.

  Arion ignored the jab, watching as the prince’s gaze lingered on the arena.

  "Looks like the templars are having a tournament. And by the looks of it, you're winning." Theron said.

  "Graduation trial, my Prince," Arion corrected again.

  Theron barely reacted, shifting his attention to the spectators, the senior custodians, and finally Rezar—still kneeling, lost in thought. The tension in the air was thick, the excitement from earlier completely gone.

  At last, the Grand Overseer arrived, his white robes flowing behind him, flanked by senior custodians. He bowed formally. "Your Highness. To what do we owe the honor of your visit?"

  Theron remained rigid; his tone clipped. "Must the Crown Prince have a reason to visit the temple?" He let the question hang before adding, "Last I checked, it still stood within our kingdom."

  Arion clenched his jaw. The condescension was unmistakable.

  The Grand Overseer remained composed. "Of course, Your Grace. We serve King Eldrion in all things. If there is an urgent matter, I invite you to discuss it privately in my chamber."

  For a moment, Theron hesitated, his eyes flicking toward the crowd as if contemplating a spectacle. Then, almost begrudgingly, he nodded. "Very well. Lead the way."

  Arion watched them depart; the prince flanked by his golden-clad guards. He had no doubt Theron had intended to make a scene, to exert dominance over the temple custodians. But something had made him reconsider.

  As the royal procession vanished through the temple gates, the students exhaled, murmuring amongst themselves. But Arion remained still, his mind racing. Whatever had brought Theron here today—it was serious.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Rezar standing beside him, a rare look of pride in his eyes.

  “Well done, Arion,” he said quietly. “You handled yourself well, both in the trial and with the prince.” Rezar said.

  Arion nodded respectfully, still watching his father and Theron disappear into the shadows of the temple.

  ***

  The heavy wooden doors of the Grand Overseer's chamber creaked open, revealing a dimly lit room filled with the scent of burning incense. Theron stepped inside, his boots echoing against the stone floor. He waved a dismissive hand, signaling his royal guards to remain outside. The doors closed behind him with a resounding thud.

  "Please, Your Grace, take a seat." Grand Overseer Faris gestured to a chair opposite his intricately carved desk, his voice calm and measured.

  Theron glanced around, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings. The chamber was adorned with symbols of the Aether and ancient scripts he couldn't decipher. Everything about this place felt foreign, almost alien to him, as if he had stepped into a different realm altogether.

  It was a stark contrast to the grandeur of the palace, simple, yet commanding an aura of authority. The very air seemed different, charged with something he couldn't quite place. He felt a sudden surge of irritation at how disconnected this place seemed from the rest of his kingdom.

  Choosing to stand, Theron masked his frustration behind his usual confidence. "My mother, Queen Thenna, has been ill for months," he stated sharply. "To put it plainly, the healers from the temple have been piss-poor in their efforts to treat her."

  Faris’s expression remained unreadable. "I assure you, Your Grace, I sent two of my best Aether healers to the palace. I would never entrust the Queen’s health to anyone unworthy."

  Theron tried to hold his composure, but his voice betrayed a hint of desperation, the kind he fought hard to conceal. "The crystal is said to be the gods' gift to Aetheria. Isn't the purpose of the Aether to help our people?" His tone held a note of entitlement, a demand rather than a request.

  Faris' eyes narrowed slightly. "Gifts from the gods are not to be taken for granted, Your Grace. One should be grateful for the fruits they bear."

  Theron clenched his jaw, irritation flashing in his eyes. "I'm not here for a lecture, Overseer," he snapped, his patience wearing thin. "With all due respect, I want the full cooperation of the temple to ensure my mother is healed properly and soon."

  Faris kept his calm demeanor, his gaze steady. "As I already conveyed, your grace, I have sent my senior healers to attend to the Queen."

  Theron, feeling cornered, pressed on. "Perhaps the crystal is too far from the palace? Maybe the magic of the Aether is not flowing with full... conductivity," he said, grasping for the right words, "rendering your healers ineffective."

  "That theory is baseless, Your Grace. If conductivity were an issue, the palace wouldn’t shine so brightly each night. The green sand light orbs, drawing directly from the Aether, are used three times more there than anywhere else in the kingdom." Omid reasoned.

  Theron listened to the explanation, but he wasn't ready to relent. His pride stung, he continued, "Move the Aether to the palace until the Queen is fully healed."

  For the first time, Faris' expression showed a flicker of surprise. "Move the Aether stone?" he repeated, his tone now tinged with incredulity. "The Aether is more than just a source of magic, Your Grace. It is divine.”

  Theron rolled his eyes at the excuse as Grand Overseer continued to reason, “And moving it would disrupt the balance within the kingdom, leaving half the realm vulnerable, rendering the custodians guarding the outer gates useless."

  Theron, determined to get his way, insisted, "It would only be temporary."

  Faris' patience seemed to thin. "Your Grace," he began, his voice firm but respectful, "Are you here on the order of King Eldrion?"

  Theron faltered for a moment, caught off guard by the question. "I am the Crown Prince," he retorted, recovering quickly.

  Faris's expression hardened. "The decision to move the Aether is significant, and I’m afraid it would require the King's consent, as well as mine," he said diplomatically. "It is impossible to relocate the crystal without causing great harm. Half the kingdom would be plunged into darkness, and our outlying regions would suffer. And even if we did move it, it would not hasten the Queen's recovery, closer proximity does not equate more effectiveness if the flow is already conductive, which it is."

  Theron bristled at the rebuke, his frustration boiling over. "Are you denying a direct request from the prince?"

  Faris met his gaze steadily. "I am upholding my duty to the kingdom and the Aether, Your Grace."

  The room fell silent. Faris stood, signaling the end of the conversation. "The most I can do is send two more healers to the Palace by morning for your satisfaction.” Overseer Faris stoof up as he continued, “You are welcome to tour the temple if you wish, Your Grace," he said, his tone polite but final. "But I have urgent matters that require my attention."

  Urgent matters? Theron felt the sting of humiliation. His face flushed with anger, he turned sharply and stormed out of the chamber, his cape billowing behind him.

  As he exited the temple, he could still feel the Overseer's piercing gaze on his back, a reminder of the power and independence this place held, a place he suddenly loathed more than ever.

  ***

  LORD OF THE SEAS

  The sea does not bow… it judges.

  Julien Fronterra, had everything—fame, legacy, and a shot at immortality in the world of combat sports. But in his moment of triumph, his body betrayed him. As his vision faded and regret swallowed him whole, he made one final plea—to live again, to find his own people, to carve out a life worth more than just titles. The gods listened.

  “A saga with mythic depth and tidal stakes.”

  Chapters being posted 7 days a week, Monday to Sunday (For the Time Being)