The hex arena smelled of hot stone and old dust kicked up by a hundred feet. Rune-seams glowed faintly beneath the tiles, a lattice of light that pulsed in time with the herald's drum. Champions took their marks; the crowd's murmurs folded into a low tide. Daryn and Lyra stood side by side at a marked edge, shoulders nearly touching, sharing the same small square of shadow. Around them, the arena hummed like a beast waiting to be provoked.
The announcement came at noon in the citadel's great hall, where columns threw chessboard shadows, and the announcements of gods sounded like law. A brass gong whispered once; priests read the pairings from a carved scroll; champions shifted and measured the air like men who were always estimating risk.
"Each champion will participate in the second phase in teams," the herald intoned. "Pairs will be tested for cooperation, deception, and the capacity to stand when gods look away."
The announcer called out their names, and they answered. Daryn and Lyra stepped on the stage: Two different people, but one team.
Where Daryn showed promise of strength, a sort of calm, reassuring power with a hint of the unknown, his partner...Lyra displayed grace and an aura of great intuition mixed with maturity.
They were not the strongest duo; in fact, this contest, orchestrated by the gods, promised way more capable people and fighters. But the one thing every soul in this arena agreed upon was the feeling of the unknown these two both shared.... the mystery that came from having Selene's touch.
An afterimage - subtle, silver shimmers sizzled from the top of the girl's staff and worked its way around both of them. Surrounding them as they exchanged plans, plots, strategies, and warning signals to chart their course ahead.
Lyra's magic moved quietly and precisely—tendrils of moonlight that could bind or reveal, that could whisper directions in a language of sensation rather than syllables. Daryn's blade answered with blunt honesty: cuts, shields, the kind of presence that made a hole in the world and kept others from falling through.
The great hall filled with the low hum of expectation: champions in their colors, priests in their stoles, a scattering of nobles whose interest was pleasure and position.
A murmur traveled through the crowd—some faces asked if the moonborn would be paired with a priestess of Selene by design, others weighed the tactical pairing of magic and blade.
Their first practice together was more negotiation than training. The arena for the team trial was a hexagonal field stitched with runes that shifted underfoot—puzzles and traps layered over combat. The rules were simple and hard: achieve the objective together, minimize collateral, and resist divine interference.
Their objective sat in the arena's center: a glass reliquary sealed with a sigil that would open only when both holders placed a hand upon it at the same time. The path to it threaded across exposed platforms separated by rune-fields that could flip allegiance
The challenge favored those who could read each other without speaking. A design that punished hesitation and rewarded the kind of trust forged by small, repeated agreements.
They met in a quiet antechamber, the air cooled by the scent of incense. Lyra stood with measured poise, her staff resting lightly against her palm. She was courteous, practical, her voice even—trained to read danger in silence.
Tiles shifted as if a slow beast underneath the floor had flexed; platforms rose and dropped in a lazy pattern meant to unmoor certainty. Lyra's breath was a practiced metronome. She touched Daryn's forearm once, a cool press that meant "watch the seams."
He nodded, planting his feet and feeling the hum of the moon-sigil at his sternum turn into a steady focus.
Daryn entered taut with energy, his body still remembering the roar of the crowd. He wanted direction, answers, and action all at once. Lyra noticed his hurried pace and tried to calm him a little.
"You fight like someone who doesn't trust the ground beneath him, " Lyra said, studying him.
"And you speak like someone who trusts too much," Daryn replied, sharper than he intended.
Her lips curved faintly, not quite a smile.
"Then tell me what you need before the fight starts," she said. "Not after."
Suddenly, the first divine poke came, like a whisper of wind and a slap of cold. A low thunder rolled—someone unseen had tapped the arena's edge—and a thin wash of mist slid across the tiles. The mist was the kind of interference the gods favored: it did not strike, but it blurred perception, made edges uncertain.