The candidates gathered in the central yard of the Academy, boots grinding against the hard-packed dirt. The afternoon sun stretched long shadows across the training ground, the heat drawing a faint shimmer above the stones. At the far end, a raised wooden platform had been erected for the examiners—eight instructors in the Academy's deep blue livery, their cloaks stirring lightly in the breeze.
From where Eleres stood, the air felt thick, heavy with unspoken rivalry. Armor straps creaked as fighters shifted their weight. Someone was idly tapping the pommel of a sword against his thigh; another was rolling his shoulders as if loosening for a brawl. The scent of oiled leather and steel hung between them, sharp as the anticipation.
In the center of the platform stood the chief proctor, a tall man with silver threading his dark hair and a voice that cut through the murmurs like a blade through cloth.
"You have passed the gates of strength and speed," he began, his gaze sweeping across the crowd like a hawk's. "Now comes the Combined Trial—a test not of muscle alone, nor of fleetness of foot, but of your ability to survive and prevail when both are demanded. You will be armed with standard Academy steel and armor. Each of you will receive a brass nameplate—your mark of life in this battle. Lose it, and you are out."
A low murmur rippled through the assembly.
"Sounds easy enough," someone muttered behind Eleres.
Another voice, mocking: "Then I'll be sure to take yours first."
The first voice scoffed. "You can try."
The proctor's gaze sharpened, pausing briefly on the section of the crowd where the whispers had sparked. He gestured toward a rack at the platform's side where Academy-issued gear was neatly arrayed: plain steel short swords, iron-buckled leather armor, and the thin chain holding each nameplate.
"Strip away the frills," he continued. "Here, your family's coin, your village's pride, or your patron's favor will mean nothing. Outlast, outthink, or outfight—that is all."
Some candidates smirked, confident. Others shifted uneasily, aware that without their favored weapons or enchanted trinkets, they were stripped to the same level as everyone else. A tall blond youth—Eleres recognized him from the speed trial—leaned toward his friend and said, just loudly enough, "This will be over quick. Some of us are hunters; some of us are prey." His eyes slid deliberately to Eleres.
Eleres met the stare without blinking, his expression unreadable.
The proctor raised a hand for silence. The murmuring died.
"The field is enclosed. Inside, you will find forests thick enough to hide a hunter, ruins with shadows deep enough to swallow you whole, and high ground for those with the nerve to take it. The terrain will be your ally—or your doom. There will be no quarter. The more nameplates you collect, the higher your standing. Top rank brings the highest reward."
This time the reaction was sharper—some clenched their fists; others glanced sideways, already measuring their competition.
A voice from the front, sly and edged: "Hope you've got a plan, farm boy."
Taron, standing two places down from Eleres, bristled. "Hope you've got more than a mouth, city rat." Cedric, beside him, placed a steadying hand on his shoulder without looking away from the proctor.
Above them, the examiners exchanged faint glances. One, a lean woman with a scar cutting across her jaw, tilted her head toward Eleres's group. "That's the third time today someone's tried to bait them," she murmured to the instructor next to her.
"Good," the man replied. "Let's see if they take it."
The chief proctor's voice cut through again. "You will enter in thirty breaths. When the gate opens, you may engage at will. Your trial ends only when you are removed from the field—or the horn calls the close."
Eleres tightened the strap of the plain leather vambrace issued to him. The weight of the standard dagger in his palm felt alien compared to the cord-wrapped blade he usually carried, now locked away. That weapon was an extension of himself; this was just steel and leather, heavier than it needed to be, slower in the hand.
Across the yard, Cedric was checking the fit of his armor with deliberate motions. Taron, less patient, was bouncing on the balls of his feet, rolling his shoulders like a man eager for the first strike.
From the far side of the crowd, the blond youth from earlier cupped his hands around his mouth. "Better hope you can run as fast as you did in the speed trial, stranger!" His friends laughed, the sound carrying in the stillness.
Eleres didn't answer. He simply adjusted his grip on the dagger, eyes fixed forward.
The proctor gave a small nod to the gatekeeper. Iron bolts were drawn back with a grinding scrape.
The gate clanged open.
A wave of bodies surged forward into the arena—a vast enclosure bounded by stone walls high enough to block all sight from the outside. Sunlight spilled over broken rooftops, twisted tree limbs, and ridges of uneven ground. Somewhere in the distance, a bird took flight at the sudden noise.
The moment they were inside, chaos erupted. Metal clashed in rapid bursts, boots thundered against stone and dirt, and voices rose—shouts of challenge, of pain, of victory.
Eleres didn't join the first wave of violence. Instead, he slipped into the shadow of a half-collapsed building near the perimeter, letting the first collisions burn themselves out. From the dark cover, his eyes swept the field—counting bodies, marking movements, mapping escape routes. Without his necromantic sight, every detail had to be taken in with pure human perception.
To his left, a tall candidate in chainmail pursued a smaller opponent into the trees, the glint of a brass nameplate swinging with every stride.
Eleres adjusted his position, crouched low, and moved.
The fight ahead was over quickly—the smaller candidate fell with a cry, his plate snatched away. The chainmail-wearer barely had time to draw a breath before Eleres was on him.
He struck from the side, shoulder slamming into the man's ribs, one hand wrenching the nameplate free while the other kept the short sword between them. The man's startled shout cut off as Eleres shoved him back and melted into the treeline.
Somewhere above, on the wooden platform overlooking the field, an instructor leaned toward his scribe. "Mark him. That was a clean take—no wasted motion."
The scribe's quill scratched against parchment.
By the time Eleres slipped deeper into the arena, the sound of combat had already begun to scatter across the terrain. He had drawn first blood without drawing attention—exactly as planned.