The smoke of battle still clung to the Arena as the walls of fire collapsed, revealing the survivors.
Where two hundred had entered, barely thirty stood. They stood scattered across the vast circle, their weapons lowered, their bodies marked with sweat, soot, and blood. The floor was scarred, cracked from lightning and fire, scorched black where flames had burned too hot.
The crowd thundered above, voices shaking the stone. Some chanted names. Others screamed house crests. But more than a few whispered of a single flame—silver, unyielding, devouring.
Elira.
She stood tall at the center of her ruined ring, her flame dimmed now to a faint shimmer around her skin. Marcell leaned heavily on his sword beside her, grinning despite his ragged breaths.
"Well," he panted, "that was fun. Want to do it again?"
Her silver eyes slid toward him. "No."
He laughed, though it sounded more like a cough, and wiped blood from his lip. "Fair enough."
Beyond them, the fire-walls fell from another ring. Serenya strode forth, her armor scorched but her blade gleaming red with flame. Not a single opponent walked beside her. Her face was as unreadable as ever, but her eyes found Elira immediately, narrowing in silent acknowledgment.
From another ring, Vaelith emerged, shadows retreating from his frame like mist at dawn. Three aspirants lay unconscious behind him, their forms already being dragged away by the chains. He adjusted his cloak, his expression calm, though his gaze lingered on Elira's flame as if measuring it.
The four met in the broken center, the surviving embers gathering together.
"You lived," Serenya said flatly, as though it had been in doubt.
Marcell barked a laugh. "Don't sound so disappointed."
Vaelith ignored them both, his eyes still fixed on Elira. "That flame…" His voice was quiet, almost thoughtful. "It consumes not only theirs, but yours. You feel it, don't you?"
Elira's silver flame flickered once, then dimmed further, slipping back into her chest. She did not answer.
Because he was right.
Every time she had unleashed it, the ember inside her had burned hotter, hungrier. It had felt intoxicating, unstoppable—but beneath it, something else stirred. A shadow behind the light. A hunger that wasn't entirely hers.
She clenched her fists.
"I'm fine," she said at last.
Vaelith's gaze lingered a moment longer, but he said nothing more.
Above them, the instructor descended once more, his cloak snapping in the heated wind. The Arena stilled at his presence, silence rippling outward like a tide.
"You endure," he said, his voice resonant. "You fight. But fire is not proven in sparks alone. It is proven when flames clash and only one survives."
His gaze swept the survivors, sharp and measuring. "Rest now. For the final trial begins at dawn."
A roar surged from the crowd, shaking the very stone.
The survivors were herded from the Arena, their bodies weary but their spirits taut with tension. They were led into a vast chamber beneath the stadium, its walls lined with torches, its air heavy with smoke and the metallic scent of blood.
There, cots and basins of water awaited, along with healers who moved quickly among the wounded.
Elira sank onto a cot, her body finally admitting the exhaustion she had refused to show. Her flame had carried her, but now every muscle screamed, every breath scraped her lungs raw.
Marcell collapsed beside her, sprawling like a man at home. "Best bed I've ever had." He groaned, tossing his sword aside. "And the company isn't bad either."
Serenya stood at the far wall, her blade resting across her knees, her eyes closed as though meditating. Vaelith leaned against a shadowed corner, his gaze as sharp as ever, watching the others with quiet intensity.
The chamber buzzed with whispers. Survivors boasting, cursing, plotting. Some glanced at Elira openly, their voices low but carrying.
"Silver flame.""Not natural.""She devoured fire and lightning both.""Dangerous."
Elira lowered her gaze, the weight of their stares heavy. She had not come here to be noticed—but the silver flame refused to remain hidden.
Her hands trembled faintly. She clenched them tight, forcing the tremor still.
That night, she dreamed.
She stood alone in an endless field of ash. The sky burned red, the earth cracked and smoldering. Around her, shadows writhed like smoke, whispering in voices that scraped her skin.
Burn, burn, burn.
Her chest ached. She looked down—and saw the ember inside her burning brighter, hotter, until it split her skin, silver flames leaking through. The whispers rose into a roar.
Consume. Devour. Become.
She woke with a gasp, sweat streaking her skin, her chest burning. The chamber was silent, most of the survivors asleep, their breaths harsh and uneven. Only Vaelith's eyes gleamed faintly from his corner, watching her with the kind of knowing that made her skin crawl.
"Dreams?" he asked softly.
Elira said nothing. She lay back down, closing her eyes against his gaze.
But the ember inside her did not sleep.
Dawn came swift.
The survivors were led back into the Arena, the roar of the crowd greeting them like thunder. The sun blazed overhead, its heat mixing with the stone's fire until the air itself seemed to shimmer.
The instructor waited at the center, his cloak billowing, his presence a blade.
"This," he declared, his voice shaking the Arena, "is the final trial. The forge that will temper you, or consume you."
The ground trembled. Runes ignited. The Arena split apart, sections rising and falling until it formed a jagged battlefield of stone and flame.
"The last trial is simple," the instructor said. "Survive. Until only one stands."
The crowd erupted, their voices a storm.
Elira felt the ember in her chest surge, her silver flame flickering against her skin.
She lifted her gaze across the battlefield. The golden-haired boy stood at the far edge, his flame blazing like a sun, his eyes locked on hers.
The Trial's true fire had begun.