Dawn sharpens everything.
The Tower's courtyard feels stripped bare under the pale sky. Banners hang stiff in the wind, their colors muted, the stone cold enough that breath fogs on contact. Every footstep echoes too loudly as they march me through the gates, guards flanking me in rigid formation.
They don't touch me. No one dares. But their shoulders are stiff, their eyes keep flicking my way. Even before the trial begins, they fear me.
Spectators are everywhere. Tower initiates line one side of the yard, weapons in hand but drills forgotten. Merchants and civilians press at the edges, whispers clinging to their mouths. Nobles in red and silver cloaks watch from balconies, their jewels catching what little light the sun gives.
"That's her…""The Abyssal vessel…""SSS+? It can't be real."
Their voices stop when I pass. Not from courtesy—because my aura demands silence. The shadows stir faintly at my feet, tasting the air. Some nobles step back without realizing it. Others stare, transfixed, unable to look away.
The trial circle waits at the courtyard's center: a broad ring carved deep into the stone, inlaid with metals that shimmer faintly in the cold. Wards hum along the grooves, glowing red and gold, vibrating against my bones. A cage. An altar. Both.
Rhosyn gestures me forward. Her voice is low. "Step inside."
I do. The wards flare, the hum tightening around me, pressing at my lungs, trying to force me down. I don't bow. The shadows under me ripple, testing the circle. The runes shiver.
The Council sits above on their platform, ten cloaked thrones. The winter-haired Arcanist stands below them, staff humming, eyes locked on me with cold fascination.
And leaning casually against the terrace rail—Darius Kael. His bronze hair catches the sun, his smirk cutting sharp. He doesn't blink, doesn't look away. He wants me to see him.
The eldest councilor stands, his voice rolling over the courtyard. "By decree of Bastion, the vessel Veyra Ambrose will undergo the Trial of Concord. Survive, and your rank is recognized. Fail, and your existence ends here."
The wards ignite. The ground trembles.
From the circle's glow, figures rise—first three, then five, then a dozen. Spirits of smoke and flame, eyes white-hot, blades of fire in their hands. Their movements are wrong, jerky, like marionettes pulled by too many strings.
The initiates gasp. Most trials pit a novice against one spirit. Two, at most. A dozen? It's meant to break me.
The councilor's hand drops. "Begin."
They rush.
Flame-blades slash toward me from every side. I drop low, the stone scraping my palms, and roll aside. Heat licks across my cheek as one blade cuts too close. Another crashes down where I stood, shattering stone. Sparks spray across my boots.
Shadows erupt at my heels, spilling outward like a flood. They surge across the ground, sharp and hungry, wrapping around two spirits before they can strike. The creatures shriek, high and hollow, as the dark drags them down into nothing. They vanish, leaving only fading sparks.
Gasps ripple through the crowd.
One spirit lunges, fireblade raised for my heart. I raise my arm. Mist coils upward, hardening instantly into a blade of my own—black steel made from night itself, crimson veins glowing along its edge. I swing.
The impact is clean, final. The spirit splits in two, its body shattering into embers that scatter like dying stars.
The hum in my chest deepens. My body sings with it. Not fear. Not weakness. Power.
The wards flicker faintly. I breathe in—and feel arcane energy flood my lungs like rainwater.
Devour — Activated.
The nearest three spirits stagger. Their flames weaken, flickering low. They tremble as their strength seeps out of them and into me.
A murmur of shock spreads. Even the councilors lean forward.
But the trial escalates.
The remaining spirits twist together, bodies melting into smoke and fire. They fuse into a towering figure—ten feet tall, plated in molten armor, its greatsword a solid sheet of fire. The ground shakes under its step.
The Arcanist's staff rings spin wildly, humming like bees. He isn't alarmed. He's intrigued.
The giant raises its blade, and the heat slams over me. My skin sears. Cracks of red light fissure across my arms, glowing like molten glass. The shadows writhe at my feet, begging to be unleashed.
I let them.
They surge upward in a tide, black and crimson waves crashing into the giant's strike.
Flame meets abyss. The courtyard explodes with sound and light. Thunder cracks, stone splits, sparks and shadows spiral together in a storm that blinds the crowd. The wards scream, runes flickering wildly.
I push forward. Shadows lash up the giant's legs, tearing through molten armor. My blade arcs high, cutting down in a stroke that splits the creature from shoulder to hip.
Its roar shakes the courtyard. Then it collapses, its form bursting apart into a thousand motes of fire that fade into nothing.
Silence.
Dust hangs in the air. The circle's wards flicker, dim and broken. The stone is cracked and smoking.
I stand at the center, steady, shadows curling protectively around me like hounds. My eyes burn faintly red in the settling ash.
The crowd is frozen. Then whispers rise, sharp and urgent.
"Impossible—""She devoured the wards—""She shattered the trial—""SSS+… it's real—"
The eldest councilor rises again, cloak heavy with runes that glow like old fire. His voice is brittle but commanding.
"The trial is concluded. Bastion recognizes the vessel Veyra Ambrose as rank SSS+."
The words echo, but they mean nothing. Not when I see their faces—the Council, the nobles, the initiates, even Darius Kael. Their eyes burn with awe, yes. But mostly… fear.
And I will make sure they never forget it.