The gates of the floating arena pulsed with radiant light, each portal shimmering open one after another as the heirs and scions returned from the hunting fields. The storm that had rolled over the horizon earlier had begun to fade, leaving behind a stillness that felt almost sacred — or tense.
The silence broke with footsteps.
Boots clacked against the obsidian platform.
Blood. Dust. Mana residue thick in the air.
Eryndor stood where he had been since the test ended, hands buried in his pockets, head slightly tilted as if the chaos around him was no more than passing weather. His black trench coat swayed softly in the upper winds, blue streaks of aura still flickering faintly beneath the surface of his skin like restrained lightning.
One by one, the heirs appeared from their respective gates — each marked by the scent of sweat, smoke, and exhaustion. Some limped, others dragged wounded companions. A few dropped to their knees upon arrival, too drained to stand.
Then came the first wave of murmurs.
"He's still standing?"
"He didn't even look hurt."
"Wasn't he targeted by the strongest beasts in that sector?"
The murmurs turned into glares.
A group of young heirs from the lesser noble families exchanged sharp glances, their pride gnawing at them as they realized who stood untouched.
Some sneered in disbelief; others tried to convince themselves it was luck — a fluke.
From the central portal, three figures emerged.
Their steps were deliberate, steady. Their auras cut through the lingering haze — heirs from the Main Branch of the Nasarik Bloodline, their robes embroidered with gold and silver runes that glowed faintly in the light.
At their center was Caelis Nasarik, one of the recognized prodigies of the Main Branch — tall, broad-shouldered, and emanating quiet authority. His silver hair fluttered like thread in the wind, and the faint pressure of his aura rippled the air around him.
His eyes locked on Eryndor the moment he arrived.
"You finished early," Caelis said coolly, wiping the blood from his jaw with a flick of his wrist.
"I expected you'd need more time, considering what the third branch set loose in your sector."
Eryndor's lips curved, just enough to be considered a smile.
"You're worried about me? That's cute."
Caelis's jaw tightened — not in anger, but in mild surprise. Few spoke to him that way, and none so casually.
Behind him, Ryn Velkar, heir to one of the major allied families, laughed under his breath.
"Looks like someone's not too fond of titles."
Eryndor turned slightly toward him. "Titles only matter to people who can't stand on their own."
Ryn stopped laughing. His smile froze, replaced by an uncertain glare that faltered under Eryndor's calm, unflinching gaze.
The others around them shifted awkwardly, trying to decide whether to be amused or offended.
At that moment, the air grew colder.
A dark ripple passed through the arena as the last gate opened — a crimson light pulsing from within like a slow heartbeat.
Out stepped a group clad in black and red, their presence alone enough to make the weaker heirs instinctively back away.
The Solvik Branch had returned.
Their leader for the test, a man draped in a hooded crimson cloak, raised his head slightly. His eyes gleamed like embers, sharp and aware — though not the same suffocating presence as Lazarus Solvik himself. Still, there was an echo of that same sinister grace in his movements.
He scanned the crowd, then stopped when he saw Eryndor.
Their eyes met.
And for a second, the entire arena seemed to hold its breath.
The man smirked.
"So… the half-line really did survive."
Eryndor's expression didn't change. He simply exhaled slowly, his tone measured and almost amused.
"If you're trying to insult me, you'll have to try harder. I've been called worse by monsters before breakfast."
A low laugh rippled from a few of the younger heirs nearby.
Even Caelis cracked a faint grin, hiding it behind a cough.
But the Solvik heir's smirk didn't fade — if anything, it grew.
He took one step closer, aura flaring subtly, enough to distort the air. The scent of scorched iron filled the space between them.
"You don't understand, do you? The third branch doesn't lose easily.
And when we do, we don't forget."
Eryndor raised an eyebrow, tilting his head just enough to expose one sharp, knowing smile.
"Good. I was afraid you'd be boring."
That was enough to make the Solvik heir's composure slip for just a second — his jaw tightening before he turned away with a huff. The tension broke like glass, leaving behind a mix of shock, admiration, and barely concealed laughter among the gathered heirs.
From high above, the patriarchs watched in silence.
Zephyr Nasarik's gaze flicked toward Aldric.
"Your son is going to ignite every storm before this tournament is over."
Aldric's faint grin didn't fade.
"That's fine," he said quietly.
"Sometimes you need a storm to remind everyone that the sky still belongs to us."
Below, the younger heirs continued to settle in, heal, and prepare for the next phase.
Some shot glances at Eryndor — a mix of envy, confusion, and growing respect.
He ignored them all, his eyes on the clouds above, where lightning quietly coiled behind the veil of dusk.
He could feel it.
That subtle pulse of dread in the distance.
That ripple of unfamiliar energy spreading through the upper currents of the sky.
Something — or someone — was watching.
He didn't know yet that the third branch was already moving.
Or that the ripples caused by this single test had begun to shake the foundation of the bloodline itself.
But for now, he only smiled faintly, whispering under his breath—
"So this is the warm-up, huh?"
Lightning flickered across his hand for a moment before fading into nothing.
The night before the second test began.