Once a year, the five kingdoms that reside across Tristerria send out their next generation. From crowded capitals layered with stone and banners, from quiet towns tucked between fields, from distant villages most maps barely bother to name, young fighters leave their homes and follow the same roads. Some travel for weeks. Some for months. All of them head toward one place.
Rivenden.
For a brief span of time, the continent narrows around it. Trade slows. Borders loosen. Old rivalries quiet, at least on the surface. Because no matter where you're from, the Ascension Trials stand above politics, above bloodlines, above personal pride.
No one truly knows when the Ascension Trials first came into existence. Their origin sits too far back in history, buried under collapsed records and rewritten timelines. Even scholars can't agree on a single truth. Some claim the Trials were Rivenden's gift to the continent nearly a thousand years ago, created after a period of devastating wars.
According to that version, Rivenden offered something no other kingdom could—an organized way to raise protectors not bound to any single crown, knights trained to defend the continent as a whole rather than just one banner.
Others believe the Trials are far older. Not a political invention, but an inherited ritual left behind by the so-called "sky people." A civilization said to have existed long before the five kingdoms ever formed, whose ruins still appear in places no one remembers building.
According to those stories, the Trials were never meant to choose soldiers, but vessels—people capable of carrying power without being consumed by it. Whether the sky people were gods, scholars, or something else entirely has never been proven.
The truth likely lies somewhere between those stories, blurred by time and convenience. What matters isn't where the Trials began, but that they endured. The structure of the Trials has changed over the centuries, refined and controlled, but their core purpose has remained untouched.
They are meant to test.
Every generation adds its own legends to the pile. Stories of impossible victories. Of brilliant prodigies. Of failures that became warnings whispered to children. Some speak of the Trials like they're sacred. Others like they're cruel.
Because passing the Ascension Trials is the only way to become an Ethereal Knight.
Ethereal Knights are Tristerria's primary military force, but calling them soldiers doesn't quite fit. They don't belong to a single kingdom, even if they often serve under one. They are trained to respond to threats that ignore borders—rogue factions, ancient beasts, internal collapses, wars that could spill across the continent if left unchecked. Wherever stability is most fragile, Ethereal Knights are sent.
They are respected. Feared. Sometimes resented.
An Ethereal Knight carries authority that even nobles hesitate to challenge. They answer to the highest powers of the continent, and in Rivenden's case, directly to the crown.
That level of trust isn't given lightly. It's earned through years of training at the Aethereal Academy of Knights, where those who pass the Trials are shaped into something more disciplined, more controlled, and far more dangerous than they were before.
The tap on my desk wasn't subtle.
It wasn't aggressive either—just persistent. Like someone testing how long it would take before I came back to earth.
"Kin."
I blinked and turned my head. Jasper was leaning halfway across the space between our desks, one finger hovering near my sleeve like he was about to poke me again.
"What?" I said.
"Class is over," he replied.
I glanced around. Half the room was already empty. Chairs scraped against stone as people shuffled toward the door. The teacher was stacking papers with the quiet patience of someone who'd long accepted that no one was listening anymore.
"Oh," I said. "Guess I missed that." Slowly standing up from my desk.
"You okay dude?" Jasper asked.
"Of course, just got lost in thought."
I grabbed my bag and stood, slipping into the current of students heading into the hallway. The noise hit immediately—layers of voices, footsteps echoing off the high stone ceiling, laughter cutting through everything else. Someone shouted across the corridor. Someone else nearly tripped over their own feet.
Jasper walked beside me, adjusting his bag strap as he gave me another sideways look.
"You seem more like yourself today," he said.
I smiled and rubbed my chin. "I was unaware I had stopped being myself."
He bumped my shoulder lightly, "Yesterday you were quieter, like a lot quieter."
"I was tired."
"Since when did tired mean acting all emo?"
I bumped his shoulder lightly with mine. "Relax. I'm better now."
He studied me for another second before nodding. "Good. I prefer you this way."
I laughed. "You're dramatic."
We stepped around a knot of first-years blocking the middle of the hall for no reason. Jasper muttered something about spatial awareness as we passed.
"So," he said, brightening slightly, "what are you doing after school?"
I raised an eyebrow. "Depends."
"I'm running a session," he said immediately.
Of course he was.
I grinned. "Already?"
"The party made it past the canyon," he said, and his voice shifted into that familiar excited rhythm. "Barely. You only survived because I was generous."
"You were definitely not generous."
"I absolutely was."
"Kendra's barbarian tripped a trap and you had to save us from dying in a cave."
"That's called improvisation." He said with his head held high.
I pat him on the back, "That's called plot armor."
He ignored that. "Anyways, you guys are about to enter the ruins. I have a full layout. I spent three hours on it."
"Three?"
"Yes."
I snorted. "That's concerning."
"I added some hidden chambers as well," he continued, clearly proud of himself. "And a puzzle door. And something in the fog that reacts to sound."
"That sounds... pretty cool."
"It is."
We walked past a bulletin board cluttered with announcements and badly drawn flyers. One of them read DO NOT TOUCH THE RELIC in messy ink. Someone had drawn horns on it.
"That one's new," I said.
"Definitely cursed," Jasper replied.
"Obviously."
"So you're in?" he asked again, bringing us back around.
I hesitated—not long.
"I want to," I said honestly. "But I can't today."
He sighed immediately. "Training."
"Training."
"The Trials are in two days," he said. "And you've been training for months."
We slowed slightly as the hallway thinned, students peeling off toward different wings.
"You don't have to train every second," Jasper said. "You're already ready."
"I know," I replied. "But it helps."
He nodded slowly at that. "Fair."
There was no pity in his tone. No concern. Just understanding.
"I'll postpone then," he said finally. "For now, you should worry about how your characters fate is gonna get altered."
"You can do that?" A small laugh mingling with my words.
"Of course I can!" he exclaimed, pointing at me, "A mere Cleric like you stands no chance against my Sorcerer."
We reached the split in the hallway where we usually went different directions. Jasper adjusted his glasses and hesitated for a second before speaking again.
"Hey," he said casually, "have you seen Xaviar today?"
I paused. "No. Why?"
He tilted his head. "He was in my first class this morning. Covered for Instructor Hale."
"That tracks."
"He seemed… normal," Jasper added.
"That's good."
"Are you going to ask him to train you today?" Jasper asked.
I hesitated.
Normally, I would've said yes immediately. That had been the routine for a while now. Find Xaviar. Get thrown around. Repeat.
But today felt different.
"No," I said.
Jasper blinked. "No?"
"I don't need him to train me today."
"Oh," he said, surprised. "Then what are you going to do?"
"I want to talk to him."
"About?"
"Something else."
Jasper studied my face for a moment, clearly trying to read between lines that I wasn't giving him.
I shrugged lightly. "It's nothing dramatic. I just… want to ask him something."
He held my gaze for another second, then nodded slowly. "Alright."
He stepped back, shifting his bag on his shoulder.
"Well," he said, "I'll see you later."
"Yeah."
"Don't let him throw you through a wall."
"No promises."
With that, Jasper turned and disappeared down his corridor.
I stood there for a moment longer.
The hallway noise carried on around me, loud and ordinary. Someone laughed too hard at something. Someone dropped a stack of papers. A teacher called out for quiet that no one listened to.
I adjusted my grip on my bag and turned toward the wing where Xaviar's classroom was.
**
The classroom door was half-open.
I didn't knock like a normal student.
I lifted my hand and tapped the wood twice with the back of my knuckles.
"Yo, Xaviar."
The sound echoed lightly into the room.
Inside, a few students were still packing up. The air smelled faintly like dust and chalk. At the front of the room stood Xaviar Zavaleta.
He looked up at my voice.
Sweat dripped from his temple, sliding down the sharp angle of his jaw before falling to the floor. His sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, shirt slightly wrinkled from movement. He reached up with one hand and pushed his dark hair back, slicking it away from his forehead in a smooth motion like he hadn't just been sparring someone into the ground.
He wore a long tan coat over his dress shirt and tie — the kind of thing that looked formal until you realized it moved too easily, like it had been tailored for someone who fought in it.
One black glove covered his right hand.
His eyes settled on me, calm and unreadable as always.
"Class is over," he said flatly. "You're late."
"I wasn't in your class.
Xaviar didn't say anything at first. He just studied me with those sharp eyes of his.
"What is it?" he asked.
I scratched the back of my neck. "I need to ask you something."
"That narrows it down."
"It's about the Trials."
His expression didn't change. "What about them?"
I exhaled through my nose. "Do you think I'm ready?"
That got a slight pause out of him.
"Why would you want to know that?" he asked.
"Because I'm not sure myself."
The honesty sat between us without feeling heavy. I hopped up and sat on top of one of the nearby desks, letting my legs hang off the side.
For a second, I stared at my palm.
Then I lifted it.
Black energy flickered into existence, curling in my hand like smoke pulled tight around a core. The aura was deep and heavy, edged faintly in blue as it stabilized. It didn't flare wildly — just enough to make the air around it tighten.
"I can still only push about fifteen percent," I said. "Anything more than that and I start losing control."
The dark matter pulsed once, responding to my words. I closed my fingers slightly, keeping it contained.
"If I try to force it, I lock up," I continued. "Body spasms. I know you've seen it."
Xaviar nodded once.
"I don't know how that's not going to hold me back in the Trials," I said. "Everyone else is going to push their output. I can't."
The matter dimmed and dissolved as I let it fade, the air relaxing with it.
Silence hung for a moment.
Xaviar stepped forward, stopping a few feet away.
"You think brute force is what decides the Trials?" He said as he shook his head once.
"Raw output is not what makes someone pass." He stops, thinking about what he's gonna say next, "I'm not saying strength is irrelevant but what I am saying is that it's not the deciding factor."
I leaned back on my hands, studying him. "Then what is?"
"Judgment," he said. "Control. Adaptation."
I stared at him for a second, before nodding.
He crossed his arms. "If you walk into the Trials believing that your percentage is the thing that will determine whether you pass or fail, then you have already narrowed your own thinking."
I frowned. "So you're saying it won't matter?"
"I'm saying it won't matter the way you think it does."
That wasn't exactly comforting.
"I still can't push past fifteen," I said. "That's a problem."
"Yes," he agreed calmly. "It is."
I blinked. "That's it?"
"It is a limitation," he said. "But limitations also make us smarter."
He turned slightly, looking out the window at the academy yard below.
"You are not meant to overpower every situation," he continued. "You are meant to understand it."
I let that settle for a second.
"And if I don't?" I asked.
"Then you adapt."
I slid off the desk and stood, rubbing the back of my neck again.
"I just don't want this to be the thing that sets me back," I said. "If I fail, I don't want it to be because I couldn't control my own power."
Xaviar was quiet for a moment longer.
Then he nodded slightly, like he'd come to a decision.
"If you are that concerned about your matter," he said, still looking out the window, "then stop by Igon's shop before you leave."
I blinked. "Igon?"
"Yes."
"What about him?"
Xaviar finally looked back at me.
"He has been working on something for you."
I stared at him. "You're serious."
"Yes."
I folded my arms. "Why didn't anyone tell me?"
"He wanted it to be ready first."
"And what is it?"
"If I tell you," he said, "it ruins the point."
I let out a short breath of disbelief. "That's not helpful."
I paused for a slight second before continuing.
"Will it help?" I asked.
Xaviar shrugged, "Maybe, Maybe not. All I know is that Igon's put a lot of time into it."
"That's not reassuring."
He didn't smile, but there was the faintest shift in his eyes.
I let out a slow breath. "…Alright, I'll go pay him a visit."
Xaviar nodded once.
I pushed off the desk and adjusted my bag. "This better not be something ridiculous."
I moved toward the door, pausing just before stepping out. "Thanks,"
He didn't answer right away.
"Do not thank me yet," he replied.
I stepped back into the hallway, mind already shifting toward Igon's shop.
Whatever he'd been working on…
I was about to find out.
**
Kendra and Jasper were still arguing about something as we reached the academy gates.
"Your barbarian can't just suplex everything," Jasper said.
"She absolutely can," Kendra shot back. "You just don't understand strength."
I laughed at the two of them, raising a hand. "I'll see you two tomorrow."
"Training?" Jasper asked.
"Something like that."
Kendra squinted at me. "Don't go disappearing on us."
I waved them off and turned down the stone road leading toward the older part of town.
Redmere always felt different once school let out. The energy shifted. Less chaotic. More grounded. Merchants rolled carts back into place. Shopkeepers stepped outside to sweep dust off their thresholds. The smell of fresh bread mixed with metal and wood smoke.
It wasn't a flashy town either, it doesn't have the polished towers of Central Rivenden or the massive outer walls of the capital. But it's old. Older than most people realize.
The stone roads aren't decorative — they've just been there that long. Buildings lean slightly where foundations settled centuries ago. Archways carved with faded symbols still stand in corners of town, worn down by time but not erased.
Redmere was one of the first towns ever formed in Tristerria.
Before the kingdoms solidified their borders. Before Rivenden became what it is now. Back when settlements were small, scattered, and constantly rebuilding after whatever came next.
You can feel that age here.
Some of the structures look like they shouldn't still be standing — thick stone walls with iron beams older than anyone alive. There's a well in the center of town that supposedly predates the current ruling families.
I adjusted my bag as I walked further down the road, boots scraping lightly against stone.
Igon's shop sat toward the edge of town, near the older smithing district. It was loud even from a distance. The kind of loud you felt before you heard.
I met Igon when I was twelve.
I wasn't supposed to be anywhere near his shop alone.
Kids aren't allowed inside without an adult. Too many weapons. Too many tools. Too many ways to lose a finger.
Naturally, I ignored that rule.
I remember pushing the door open just enough to slip inside. The place had smelled like hot metal and oil. Racks of unfinished blades lined the walls. Spearheads, daggers, broken hilts waiting to be repaired.
I'd been poking through a bin of discarded scrap when I felt a shadow fall over me.
"What in the seven f***in' seas d'ye think ye're doin', boy?"
I'd nearly jumped out of my skin.
Igon had been standing there, arms crossed, grey beard practically swallowing his chest, eyes sharp under wild strands of long silver hair.
Instead of throwing me out—
He handed me a file.
"Tidy that edge if ye're gonna touch it."
That was the beginning of it.
I started showing up more often. At first, he pretended I annoyed him. Then he started explaining things. The balance of a blade. The difference between decorative steel and battle steel. Why weight distribution mattered more than length. Why flashy designs usually meant weaker weapons.
He never called it teaching.
But that's what it was.
Eventually he stopped pretending I wasn't welcome.
The shop came into view as I rounded the corner.
Two stories tall. Thick wooden beams reinforced with iron. Smoke rising steadily from the chimney. The sign above the entrance was large and slightly crooked, letters carved deep into wood:
IGON'S SMITHERY
The paint had faded in places, but the carving was solid. Like everything else he made.
I reached the door and pushed it open.
The smell hit first — burning coal, hot iron, oil, and something sharp like metal filings.
The second thing was the sound.
"—an' I'm tellin' ye that's the price!"
Something whistled past my head.
I froze as a massive knife embedded itself into the wooden wall beside me with a violent thunk.
I stared at it.
The blade vibrated slightly from the force.
"…Good aim," I muttered.
"DON'T YE WALK OUT O' HERE LIKE THAT, YE—"
I turned toward the front of the shop.
Igon was in the middle of the floor, face red, beard practically bristling as he pointed at a man who looked two seconds away from fainting.
"I ain't lowerin' the fin' price 'cause ye can't count!" Igon roared. "That blade's worth more than yer entire fin' cart!"
The customer sputtered something about robbery.
"Robbery?" Igon barked. "ROBBERY? I poured three nights o' work into that steel, ye cheap b*****d!"
The man glanced at the knife in the wall.
"…I think I'll come back later."
"Ye'll come back with coin or ye won't come back at all!"
The customer bolted.
Igon stood there for a second longer, chest rising and falling.
Then he exhaled sharply and rubbed his face.
"F***in' idiots," he muttered.
He turned—
And spotted me.
The shift in his expression was immediate.
His eyes lit up.
"Well I'll be damned," he said, voice dropping from thunder to something closer to warm gravel. "If it ain't the boy."
Before I could react, he crossed the floor in three heavy steps.
Igon isn't tall — maybe 5'8 — but he's built like someone carved from stone. Broad shoulders. Thick arms. Every inch of him muscle and old scars. His long grey hair was tied loosely at the back of his neck, strands escaping around his face. His beard was thick, braided slightly near the end.
He grabbed me and pulled me into a bear hug so tight my ribs protested.
"Still in one piece, eh?" he laughed.
"Barely," I wheezed. "You trying to finish the job?"
He released me with a booming chuckle and clapped a hand against my shoulder hard enough to rattle me.
"What brings ye in, lad?" he asked. "Ye here to finally learn how to swing proper steel?"
"I thought that's what you were for."
He grinned wide, eyes crinkling beneath his brows.
"Careful," he said. "I'll start chargin' ye for that attitude."
I shook my head, stepping further into the shop.
The bell above the shop door hadn't even stopped ringing before Igon jerked his thumb toward the back.
"Downstairs," he said. "C'mon."
He didn't wait for me to respond. Just turned and pushed through the heavy wooden door that led into the rear of the shop.
I followed.
The staircase down was narrow and worn from years of boots scraping against it. The heat hit first — thicker, heavier than upstairs. The smell changed too. Less oil and wood. More fire. More iron.
This was where the real work happened.
I'd been down here before, but it still felt different every time.
The basement of Igon's shop wasn't small. The ceiling was supported by thick stone arches that looked older than the shop itself. Redmere's age ran deep — even under it.
Forges lined the far wall, flames roaring steadily inside their stone mouths. Worktables were scattered across the space, cluttered with half-finished blades, clamps, blueprints pinned under metal tools.
And near the largest furnace—
A blade glowed white-hot inside the fire.
I slowed without meaning to.
Igon didn't look at me. He walked straight toward it.
"Grab the gloves," he said, nodding toward a hook near the wall. "And the tongs. The long ones."
I slipped on the thick leather gloves and grabbed the heavy iron tongs leaning against the workbench. They were worn smooth from use.
"Careful," Igon added casually. "Ye drop it, I drop ye."
"Encouraging," I muttered.
The furnace roared louder as I stepped closer. Heat blasted against my face. I adjusted my grip on the tongs and reached into the flames.
The metal resisted at first, stubborn and bright. Then I clamped down and pulled.
The blade slid free with a hiss, heat radiating off it in waves.
Even unfinished, I could see it.
The shape.
It wasn't long — maybe two feet of blade at most. Straight, clean, precise. Not oversized. Not flashy. The hilt extended nearly a foot, balanced to allow for either one or two hands.
The design was intentional.
I turned it slightly, holding it steady in the air.
The glow dimmed just enough for the details to come into focus.
The hilt was carved in smooth, flowing curves — layered patterns etched into the grip like waves frozen in motion. The craftsmanship was sharp but elegant. No jagged edges. No harsh lines.
Dark blue.
Even beneath the heat, I could see the deep navy hue in the metal of the hilt.
The blade itself…
It wasn't silver.
It wasn't steel-gray.
It was white.
Not dull.
Not chalky.
Mesmerizing.
Like polished bone or moonlight pressed into metal.
My breath slowed.
Then I saw them.
Three narrow slots ran along the center of the blade, spaced evenly from base to tip. Small. Precise. Designed for something.
"…What is this?" I asked quietly.
Igon snorted behind me.
"What does it look like, lad?"
I kept staring at it.
"It's not normal steel."
"No."
"And those slots—"
"Aye."
"For what?"
Igon finally stepped up beside me.
"Ye always did notice the details."
I couldn't look away.
The balance felt perfect even through the tongs. Not front-heavy. Not awkward. Built for movement.
"For you," Igon said simply.
I blinked.
"For me?"
He barked a laugh. "Don't look so surprised. Ye think I build toys?"
My eyes drifted back to the blade.
"For the Trials?"
"Aye."
My mind moved quickly now. The slots. The white steel. The design.
"This isn't just a sword," I said slowly.
Igon's grin widened under his beard.
"Told Xaviar ye'd freak over it."
I glanced at him. "I'm not freaking out."
"Ye are absolutely freakin' out."
I wasn't.
…Maybe a little.
I carefully lowered the blade and set it gently against the stone wall near the forge, letting it cool. The metal hissed faintly where heat met air.
I stepped back, pulling the gloves off slowly.
"It's… insane," I admitted.
Igon crossed his arms, clearly pleased.
"Mesmerizin', ain't it?"
"Yeah."
My eyes traced the white steel again. The smoothness. The craftsmanship.
"This isn't regular forging."
"No," he agreed.
"What did you use?"
He shrugged casually.
"Phenomena."
Of course he did.
Igon was known for it. People said he could create anything — replicate strange properties, alter steel behavior, forge weapons that responded to more than just muscle.
I looked back at the slots.
"They store something," I said.
"Aye."
"Matter?"
He didn't answer right away.
Instead, he tilted his head slightly.
"What do ye think?"
I stared at the blade again.
The three slots were small but deliberate..
"You made this because you know I can't push past fifteen percent," I said quietly.
Igon didn't look surprised.
"Ye don't need to," he said.
That made me glance at him.
He stepped closer to the blade and ran a calloused hand along the air just above it, not touching the hot metal.
"That sword ain't meant to replace yer matter," he said. "It's meant to hold it. Redirect it. Stabilize it."
My heartbeat picked up slightly.
"Stabilize?"
"Aye."
I looked back at the slots.
"You're telling me I can store output inside the blade instead of pushing it all at once?"
Igon grinned.
"Now ye're thinkin'."
My mind raced through the possibilities.
Controlled bursts. Distributed strain. No overloading my body.
"You've been working on this for how long?" I asked.
He shrugged. "Long enough."
"You didn't even tell me."
"Would've ruined the surprise."
I huffed a small laugh.
The blade sat there against the stone, cooling, silent but heavy with potential.
I stepped closer again, this time without the tongs, just looking.
The white steel reflected the forge light differently than normal metal. Almost like it absorbed it.
"This thing is insane," I muttered.
Igon clapped a hand onto my shoulder.
"Aye," he said proudly. "It is."
I couldn't stop smiling.
"Let's test you out."