A young noble with pale skin and dark circles under his eyes sat alone on a polished stone bench in the courtyard behind House Draemir. In his hands, he held a short sword, running his fingers along the hilt as if it could whisper secrets about what awaited him. He had cleaned and oiled the blade himself—an old habit he could still control, unlike the Trial that would soon be forced upon him.
Tonight, his life was about to change.
He tapped the edge of the sword lightly against the stone. A fine edge… better than my own resolve, he muttered to himself. The sound echoed faintly through the empty courtyard. Guards passed by, muttering quietly among themselves, glancing at him with suspicion and disdain. Cassian barely noticed. Their opinions had never mattered. Survival mattered.
"Polishing it won't help if they break me in the first five minutes," he whispered, a smirk tugging at his lips. "But maybe it'll slow them down."
He rose from the bench, folding the cloth used for cleaning his sword and tucking it neatly into his sash. His robes were immaculate, yet he moved with the slouched, hesitant gait of someone trying not to draw attention—though in truth, he was always noticed. Too thin, too pale, too cowardly by appearance. The perfect image for a noble who wished to survive rather than conquer.
A young guard approached, armor clinking, eyes narrowed.
"Draemir," the guard said sharply, voice wary. "Your trial begins soon. Are you ready?"
Cassian tilted his head, eyes flicking over the man. "Ready enough," he said evenly. "At least, ready to pretend I am."
The guard's brow furrowed. "Pretend? This is not a game. Fail, and—"
"Don't finish the sentence," Cassian interrupted, lips twitching. "I already know how it ends if I fail."
The guard gave a low grunt and motioned toward the dungeon wing. Cassian walked toward it slowly, boots clicking against the stone. He noted the runes etched into the doorway, faintly glowing—a warding spell, old and functional. The chamber beyond would test him, as it had tested countless others. He didn't care for tradition or honor. He cared for survival.
Inside, the magister waited. Gray hair, weary eyes, robes immaculate but heavy with age. He inspected Cassian as though weighing a fragile object, then finally spoke:
"Cassian Draemir. How much do you know of the Trial that awaits?"
Cassian shrugged. "Enough to know it won't be pleasant."
The magister sighed. "Not the stories, the songs, or the histories. Truly. Once you step beyond that threshold, you will enter a crafted world—monsters, yes, but also illusions. People, perhaps. Remember: none are real. Your task is simple: survive."
Cassian's pale eyes flickered with amusement. "Illusions, real… it doesn't matter. They die, or I do. Either way, I survive."
The magister leaned closer, voice low. "You may have to kill them. Best you think of them as shadows."
"Shadows die easy," Cassian muttered.
The runes on the floor began to pulse brighter. The chamber dimmed. Sleep tugged at him, slow and relentless, drawing him into the Trial before him.
And then, in the void, a cold voice rang out:
[Candidate. Welcome to the Trial of Shadows. Prepare for your First Ordeal…]