The glow faded, the silver brilliance pulling itself back into Rigorus's chest until the halo dimmed behind him. His bare feet touched the stone floor of his chamber with a soft thud. Slowly, his eyes opened no longer the dull gray of exhaustion, but shimmering with a silver sheen, like moonlight woven into flesh.
And there she stood.
Princess Aelistra, frozen in the doorway, her hands trembling as though she had just witnessed a god descend. Their eyes met, and Rigorus felt his chest tighten.
"Oh… hey, Aelistra " he began, his voice calm yet uncertain.
But the words died in his throat.
She stepped forward without hesitation, closing the distance, her silk gown brushing the floor like flowing water. Her hand lifted gentle, deliberate and pressed against his bare chest, just above his heart. His body stiffened, every scar, every wound from his battles seeming to vanish under her touch.
"You've done it," she whispered, her eyes glistening. "Your first enlightenment… Rigorus, you're becoming something beyond mortal."
Rigorus's breath hitched. His cheeks flushed faintly crimson, and he turned his head away, bringing a hand to the side of his face as if to shield the embarrassment.
"Y-you already know I have a wife, Your Highness…" he muttered.
"Yes." Her reply was sharp, almost desperate. "I know."
She let her hand linger a moment longer before withdrawing, clutching her fingers to her chest. Her voice trembled, not with fear, but with frustration.
"But even after knowing that… even after trying to bury it… my heart can't seem to let you go. Damn it, Rigorus it's maddening. To lose you before I even have you." She closed her eyes, drawing a sharp breath. "But perhaps… for one to win, another must lose. That's how the world is, isn't it?"
Rigorus turned back to her, his expression heavy, conflicted. He opened his mouth but could not form words.
The silence stretched until she broke it, her tone shifting back to something colder, more formal, though her eyes still burned with longing.
"I came here to warn you."
"Warn me?"
Her lips pressed into a thin line. "The Imperial Protector will be participating in the tournament. He is… without doubt, the strongest warrior in these lands. Even among the Emperor's chosen, he stands alone. If you wish to claim victory, you must be ready."
The weight of her words hung in the chamber. The air between them was still charged half divine, half human, threaded with longing, restraint, and the looming shadow of the coming trial.
The sun rose over the Imperial Capital like a crown of fire, its rays gilding the marble towers and silver spires with divine brilliance. The streets had never been so alive.
Flags bearing the Varkhain crest the black dragon coiled around a golden spear hung from every wall. Musicians played in corners, children chased each other with wooden swords, and vendors hawked roasted meat, honeyed wine, and bright trinkets for luck.
The city breathed joy, yet beneath it all was a thrum of anticipation. Today was no festival. Today was the Trial of Blades where the strongest warriors of the empire would fight before the throne.
A group of guards marched past, spears clattering in rhythm.
One of them muttered under his breath, "Thirty participants… but I've my coin on the Protector. No man alive matches his blade."
Another scoffed. "Don't be a fool. Did you not hear? Outsiders, prodigies, even nobles' children are competing this year. The king promised the victor any wish he can grant. Tell me what warrior would not sell his soul for such a prize?"
They laughed, the sound rolling into the crowd.
At the fountain square, peasants pressed together, eyes sparkling.
"Will we see blood?" a boy asked, tugging his father's sleeve.
The old man ruffled his hair. "Blood, glory, and shame. That's what the Trial gives us. Mark my words, son today, names will be carved into history."
Nearby, a noblewoman in violet silks whispered to her companion as their carriage rolled toward the arena.
"They say the Draeven boy will appear," she murmured. "The one they call Rigorus. Survived VAELUS wrath."
Her companion scoffed. "Superstition. A miracle, they say? Bah. Let's see if miracles bleed."
Trumpets blared from the palace walls, and the chatter of the crowd swelled into roars. The ground itself seemed to shake with expectation.
"Make way!" heralds shouted, pushing the masses aside as the colossal bronze gates of the Imperial Colosseum swung open.
From every corner of the capital, voices rose:
"Let it begin!""Glory to the Empire!""Who will claim the king's promise?"
Children climbed onto rooftops for a better view, guards lined the pathways with spears glittering, and nobles leaned forward in their cushioned seats.
The Colosseum itself was a cathedral of battle, vast enough to hold fifty thousand souls. White stone walls soared into the sky, carved with ancient runes of victory. At the center lay the arena a wide circle of sand and steel, its floor scarred from centuries of duels.
The herald stepped forward, his voice booming, echoing off every wall, carried on the wind:
"Warriors of the Empire… the Trial of Blades begins! Step forth, and let the gods bear witness to your strength!"
The crowd erupted. Feet pounded the ground, hands clapped, voices thundered as banners waved.
And so, beneath the blazing sun, the tournament that would shake the Empire… began.
The roar of the crowd dimmed as a tall, broad-shouldered man stepped into the center of the arena. His robes were crimson trimmed with gold, his bald head gleaming under the sun, and his voice carried like thunder when he spoke.
He was Callidus Varrow, the Imperial Announcer the voice of every great duel for nearly two decades.
Raising his staff of black oak, he shouted:
"People of Varyndor! Today you witness the Trial of Blades thirty champions, thirty souls, each daring to grasp the prize promised by His Imperial Majesty: one wish granted, should it be within the throne's power!"
The audience erupted, cheers shaking the very stones of the colosseum. Callidus let the noise swell before lifting a hand for silence.
"But hear me well! This is no brawl in the gutter. There are rules to this sacred trial:– Surrender, and your life will be spared.– Refuse, and risk death by steel.– No outside interference, no poison, no trickery.The sands of this arena decide fate, not cowardice!"
The crowd cheered again, stamping their feet in agreement.
Nobles in Attendance
Callidus's voice boomed, rolling across the stands:
"Look, and behold the honored guests of this trial! From the western reaches, the Lords of Rhaemos. From the east, the high magisters of Eryndral. And here our Imperial family itself!"
All heads turned as trumpets blared. The Prince Draxis and Princess Aelistra stepped into their balcony seats, banners unfurling behind them. Whispers followed their arrival, nobles murmuring about the prince's sharp gaze and the princess's radiance.
The Top Five Warriors
Callidus raised his staff high.
"And now… the champions to watch. The five blades of fire, each feared across the empire!"
He pointed first to the gate on the north side.
One by one, the titans emerged from the gates:
Kaelen Vorath Nemoran — The Imperial Protector.His armor black and crimson, his greatshield strapped to one arm, sword like a slab of iron in the other. His very presence bent the air, the aura of unyielding steel crushing the noise of the crowd into awe.
Selvara Moongrace — The Blade Dancer.A blur of silver hair and moonlit sabers, her every step carried grace that seemed closer to dance than battle. Her blades flashed once, twice, too fast to follow the crowd gasped as petals she passed by fell sliced into halves.
Doran Veyth — The Iron Tempest.A mountain of muscle, his hammer twice his height. Lightning crawled across its head with each step he took, every footfall cracking the stone beneath him. Children shrieked in delight, men muttered prayers.
Ilyra Fencrest — The Silent Huntress.Cloaked in shadows despite the blazing sun, bow in hand, eyes like a predator's. She drew once without arrow and the crowd swore they felt the wind of a shot pass their cheek.
Vaelor Kynar — The Crimson Monk.Bare-chested, tattoos glowing faintly beneath the sun, flames licking at his fists. He pressed his palms together, bowed, then struck the ground with a punch that turned sand into glass.
The crowd lost itself in frenzy chants of names, banners flapping, drums pounding like war itself had begun.