I have watched men return from trials carrying the weight of the dead on their shoulders long before they carry their own wounds.
The knight who bore Erias through the Sanctuary gates felt that weight immediately.
The forest's edge fell behind them, and with every step forward, the scale of what had been lost became impossible to ignore.
Bodies.
Too many.
Stretchers lined the stone paths. Knights moved in disciplined silence, armor stained with blood not their own. Healers worked without pause, hands glowing faintly as they pressed life back into those who still clung to it.
But for every wounded carried in, there were two who did not move at all.
The knight's jaw tightened.
More than half, he realized.
More than half of the contenders were dead.
His mind betrayed him then, pulling him backward in time to the day he himself had stood beneath the ritual flame, young, untested, convinced he understood what survival meant. He remembered the screams. The way the Sanctuary had smelled afterward. The way the names of the fallen were carved into stone while the survivors learned to sleep with what they had done.
The ritual had never been kind.
But this one…
This one was worse.
He laid Erias down gently beside the healers, who immediately began wrapping his ribs, arms, and shoulder in layered bandages infused with restorative salts and prayer-thread. The boy's face was pale beneath the grime, but his breathing was steady.
Alive.
The knight exhaled once, sharply.
Then he turned and walked.
The council chamber was already gathering when he entered. The High Priest stood at the center, hands folded, listening as names were spoken, counted, crossed off. Each confirmation of death settled heavier than the last.
When the moment came, the knight stepped forward.
"High Priest," he said, voice steady but edged with urgency. "There is something you must hear."
The chamber stilled.
"A follower of the Cult of Zyrakel breached the first trial," the knight continued. "The boy Erias encountered them directly. They killed participants."
The effect was immediate.
Murmurs rippled outward like disturbed water.
The High Priest's expression did not change, but something behind his eyes darkened.
"Zyrakel…" he murmured.
A trickster cult operating alone was dangerous.
But a god's cult moving during a ritual of Torvas?
That was something else entirely.
His thoughts turned inward, unbidden.
If the cult had acted, then perhaps they were emboldened.
And if they were emboldened…
Were they acting alone?
Or
His jaw tightened.
Or were they working with the demons.
With the beings.
The thought lodged itself deep and unwelcome.
He lifted his staff once.
"Enough," he said. "This information will not remain here."
He turned to one of his most trusted knights and spoke quietly, urgently.
"You will ride to the king at once. Tell him exactly what was discovered. No embellishment. No delay."
The knight bowed and departed immediately.
The council dissolved soon after, dismissed not in chaos, but in grim understanding.
When the High Priest entered the healing wing, the scent of herbs and blood greeted him. He moved slowly, stopping beside Erias' cot.
The boy lay wrapped in white, bandages crisscrossing his torso and arms, his face drawn but calm in sleep.
The High Priest studied him for a long moment.
When Erias' eyes opened, they met without fear.
"Tell me," the High Priest said softly, "who did you face in the forest?"
Erias considered him carefully.
"A group," he answered. " Not one of the ten."
Relief flickered through the priest's posture before he could stop it.
"That is… fortunate," he said. "Had it been otherwise, the ritual would have ended today."
He straightened.
"Rest," he told Erias. "Tomorrow, the next phase begins."
And with that, he turned and left.
Erias watched him go, then shifted carefully from the cot.
Across the room, Shylis sat beside Lira, who was propped against pillows, color slowly returning to her face.
"You're awake," Erias said.
Lira smirked faintly. "Apparently. So tell me where did you learn to heal like that?"
Erias didn't answer.
He simply said, "You both did well."
Then he turned away.
A pillow flew.
Erias caught it one-handed without looking.
Shylis burst out laughing.
"Lira," he said between breaths, "calm down before you reopen your wound."
Erias glanced back once, tossed the pillow gently onto Lira's lap, and walked to his bed.
As he lay down, staring at the stone ceiling above, his body screamed for rest.
His mind refused it.
The first trial had ended.
The second awaited.
And whatever the ritual demanded next, he knew one truth with absolute certainty.
It would not be easier.
I watched him close his eyes, preparing not his body but his will.
Because the ritual was no longer asking who would survive.
It was asking who would endure what comes next.