The carriage rattled over the cobblestone path, each jolt sending a sharp reminder through Lost Voss's body. He sat rigid, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, a simple yet finely balanced blade that had been his constant companion since that night. The Vanguard Academy loomed ahead, its towering spires piercing the gray sky like accusing fingers. This was no ordinary school; it was a forge for warriors, where the weak were broken and the strong tempered in blood. Rumors whispered that a quarter of its students never left alive, claimed by duels, trials, or the shadows that lurked in its ancient halls.
'Ten years,' Lost thought, his gaze fixed on the approaching gates. 'Ten years since they took everything. And now, I'm here, in their den.' The memory surged unbidden, as it always did when he let his guard down.
It had been a stormy night, the kind where thunder drowned out screams. The Voss estate, a sprawling fortress of stone and legacy, had been alive with laughter earlier that evening. His family—guardians of ancient relics, wielders of swords passed down through generations—had gathered for a feast. Father at the head of the table, Mother beside him, their smiles warm. Lira, his clever sister, arguing playfully with Thorne, the youngest, about some trivial strategy game. More than twenty souls: uncles, aunts, cousins, loyal retainers. All gone in hours.
The attackers came like ghosts, ten masters of the blade, their faces masked but their styles unmistakable. Lost, only eight at the time, had hidden in the shadows as instructed by his father. He watched as blades flashed, blood spilled across marble floors. His father's final stand, parrying three assailants at once before a treacherous strike from behind felled him. Mother's cry as she shielded Lira and Thorne, buying them time to escape through a secret passage. The massacre was swift, merciless, driven by greed for the Voss relics—artifacts said to hold secrets of unparalleled swordsmanship.
Lost had emerged from hiding to find the estate in ruins, bodies strewn like discarded puppets. He, Lira, and Thorne were the only survivors, spirited away by the family's remaining súditos—fifty loyal espadachins who had been away on patrol. Now, those warriors served his siblings in hiding, waiting for the day of reckoning. Lira managed them with her sharp mind, sending coded messages and resources. Thorne trained relentlessly, his impulsiveness a fire that needed taming. But Lost? He had chosen the path of infiltration, honing his skills in secret academies, preparing for this moment.
'I will find them,' he vowed silently. 'The ten who orchestrated it all. Starting here, at Vanguard, where half of them teach or pull strings.' His hand tightened on the hilt. The first on his list: Instructor Harlan Drake, rumored to be one of the conspirators, his style matching one from that night.
The carriage halted at the massive iron gates, adorned with crossed swords. A guard in academy livery approached, his eyes scanning Lost with practiced suspicion.
"Name and purpose," the guard demanded.
"Lost Voss, applicant for the first-year class," Lost replied evenly, handing over his forged documents. The Voss name was dangerous, but he used it boldly—let them wonder if he was a distant relative or a fool.
The guard nodded after a moment. "Proceed to the courtyard. The entrance trial begins at noon. Fail, and you leave in shame—or not at all."
Lost stepped out, the weight of his past settling like a cloak. The courtyard was a vast arena of packed earth, surrounded by stone walls etched with the scars of countless duels. Dozens of applicants milled about, some nervous, others arrogant. Upperclassmen lounged on the sidelines, smirking, while professors in flowing robes observed from raised platforms.
One caught his eye: a stern woman with silver-streaked hair, Professor Elara Voss—no relation, but the name twisted like a knife. She was known for her alliances with powerful families, perhaps even the ten. Another, a burly man with a scarred face, Instructor Garrick Stone, barked orders at aides. Allies or enemies? Time would tell.
A horn blared, silencing the crowd. The headmaster, a towering figure named Darius Kane, stepped forward. His voice boomed like thunder.
"Welcome to Vanguard Academy, where the blade reveals the soul. Today, you face the Trial of Shadows. You will be divided into groups and sent into the Whispering Woods bordering our grounds. Survive the beasts within, retrieve a marked token, and return. But beware—two guardians patrol the depths: massive dire wolves, bred for ferocity. They hunt in pairs, and they do not discriminate. Work together or die alone. Begin!"
Lost was herded into a group of six: himself, a lanky boy with nervous eyes (Finn Reed, he introduced himself), a sturdy lad from the farms (Garrick Thorne—no relation to his brother), a noble girl with poised grace (Mira Sol), an idealistic youth preaching about fair fights (Joren Hale), and her—a striking young woman with sharp features and eyes like storm clouds. She moved with the fluid grace of a born fencer, her sword at her side simple but well-worn.
"I'm Athena Kade," she said curtly as they were shoved toward the woods' edge. "Don't get in my way."
Lost nodded, his interest piqued. 'She carries herself like someone who's fought for survival, not glory.' The group exchanged quick names, tension thick as they entered the dense forest. Trees loomed like sentinels, their branches whispering in the wind. The air grew heavy, shadows dancing unnaturally.
They moved cautiously, Joren leading with his optimistic chatter. "We stick together, right? Share the token if we find it."
Mira rolled her eyes. "As long as it gets us in."
Finn fidgeted. "What if the wolves find us first?"
"Then we fight," Garrick grunted, gripping his blade.
Lost stayed silent, scanning for threats—and opportunities. This trial was perfect cover to observe potential allies or spot clues about the academy's secrets.
A low growl echoed ahead, freezing them. From the underbrush emerged not one, but two massive dire wolves—each the size of a horse, fur matted with scars, eyes glowing with predatory hunger. Their fangs dripped saliva, muscles rippling under thick hides. These were no ordinary beasts; academy-bred guardians, trained to test the unworthy.
"Form up!" Athena shouted, drawing her sword in a swift arc.
The wolves charged, one leaping at the group while the other circled to flank. Chaos erupted. Joren swung wildly, missing as the first wolf snapped at his leg. Mira parried a claw swipe, her noble training holding. Finn dodged, yelping, while Garrick charged head-on, his sturdy frame absorbing a glancing blow.
Lost drew his blade, the familiar weight grounding him. 'Focus. Like Father taught.' He moved like a shadow, slashing at the flanking wolf's hind leg to draw its attention. But the beast was fast, twisting to counter.
Athena was there in an instant, her sword flashing to intercept the wolf's jaws. Their blades met the creature's hide together—his precise thrust piercing its shoulder, hers intuitive parry forcing it back. For a split second, their eyes locked amid the frenzy.
"Nice timing," she said, a hint of a smile breaking through.
"You read its move before it happened," Lost replied, impressed.
The wolf howled, retreating momentarily as the group rallied. The second wolf lunged at Garrick, who held it off with brute force. Joren and Mira flanked it, their strikes coordinated now. Finn, surprisingly agile, darted in for a quick jab.
Working as one, they drove the beasts back. Lost and Athena took the lead against the first wolf, their movements syncing effortlessly—he the calculated strike, she the instinctive flow. A final combined assault: Lost's Echo Strike, a feint followed by a rapid series of thrusts, weakened it; Athena's finishing blow severed a tendon.
The wolves fled, wounded but alive—the trial's mercy, perhaps. Panting, the group found the marked token in a nearby glade: a silver medallion etched with the academy's emblem.
"We did it," Joren gasped, grinning. "We're a team now."
Mira nodded, wiping blood from her blade. "Edge Alliance? Sounds fitting—we're on the edge of survival."
The others murmured agreement, even Lost. 'Allies already. Useful.' But his mind wandered to Athena, who cleaned her sword nearby. There was something about her—strength without arrogance, a quiet fire.
As they returned to the courtyard, cheers erupted from survivors. Headmaster Kane announced the successful groups, including theirs. Upperclassmen eyed them with mixtures of envy and disdain; one, a smug boy named Royce Blackthorn, sneered. "Fresh meat. Won't last a week."
A professor approached—Instructor Harlan Drake himself, his eyes narrowing at Lost. "Voss, eh? Interesting name. We'll see if you live up to it."
Lost met his gaze steadily. 'You were there that night. I remember your stance.' But he said nothing, the seed of vengeance burning brighter.
That evening, in the dorms, the Edge Alliance shared a meal, bonds forming over stories. Athena sat across from Lost, her presence a subtle pull.
"Good fight today," she said quietly.
"You too," he replied. 'There's more to her. Maybe... trust?'
As night fell, Lost lay awake, the weight of his quest heavy. But for the first time in years, a spark of something else flickered—connection.