The arena doors slammed shut behind them with a metallic finality that sent dust trembling from the rafters. The sound rolled through the Grand Arena like a closing tomb. The air felt different inside—denser, older, holding onto echoes of every battle it had ever witnessed. Even the sand beneath their feet felt colder than the morning outside, as if remembering the blood spilled in ages past.
The first-years and second-years lined opposite sides of the ring, the formation almost instinctive. No words were exchanged; no taunts, no bravado, no threats. The silence itself was threatening enough. The second-years looked at them not with the smug arrogance of the courtyard bullies—but with the tight, uncertain posture of soldiers who suddenly realized they were standing on a battlefield written about in forgotten books. The first-years stood bruised, tired, and tense, but something steely had settled into their faces. Not confidence—something sharper. Preparedness sharpened by desperation.
Then Commander Eira Caldrin stepped inside.
The arena breathed.
Her cloak sliced clean lines through the wind, the deep embroidered Phoenix crest catching the pale light filtering through high arches. Her boots left crisp impressions in the sand. Behind her came the registrar and three clerks, carrying scrolls so old they looked like the next decade might crumble them into dust.
Every cadet straightened. Even the second-year captain lowered his gaze a fraction.
The clerks arranged themselves in a rigid pattern behind Eira. The registrar held the largest scroll as though it might break from mishandling. Eira glanced once at the scroll, then lifted her gaze to the assembled trainees.
"This arena," she said, her voice cutting through the stillness like a drawn blade, "has not hosted a Rite in one hundred and seven years."
The second-years stiffened. The first-years froze. Even the upper-year spectators whispered among themselves.
Eira unfurled the scroll with a sharp crack that echoed around the walls.
"Since none of you have knowledge of how the Rite proceeds," she said, "I will read the law exactly as written."
Serene steadied her breath. Rowen folded his arms, eyes narrowing. Kael lifted his chin with barely disguised fire. Taren clutched his spear tighter than necessary. Alden inhaled through his nose, absorbing every detail. Lira's fingers curled into the edges of her sleeves for courage.
Eira raised the scroll higher.
The parchment glowed faintly under the torchlight as she began to read.
"The Rite of Challenge shall consist of four phases, each designed to test a different cornerstone of knighthood."
A murmur swept the arena—uneven, nervous, disbelieving.
"And a cohort must endure all four to claim victory."
A hiss of breath escaped from multiple trainees. Serene's heartbeat didn't quicken—it slowed. She listened the way a diplomat listens to a treaty that determined the outcome of nations.
Eira continued.
"The first phase: the Gauntlet of Earth."
The arena trembled—just faintly, like a beast stirring in its sleep beneath the sand.
Eira explained:
"The ground will not remain still. It will rise. Collapse. Shift. Strike. You must cross the entire length of the arena before the terrain consumes you."
Consumed.
Not defeated.
Consumed.
Lira took a sharp breath. Taren's eyes widened. Kael muttered something furious under his breath.
Rowen did not react.
Serene watched the floor—not in fear, but in calculation. She imagined the patterns, the timing, how each roll of sand might telegraph the next shift. A map was already forming in her mind.
The scroll crackled as Eira moved on.
"The second phase: the Formation Trial."
The second-years straightened—this was their strength.
"You will fight as units," Eira said. "Your cohort must hold formation while countering your opponents' unified assaults."
Rowen exhaled slowly.
"This favors them," he murmured to Serene.
"They'll underestimate us," she replied, low and steady.
"That's our advantage."
The clerks shifted behind Eira, trading scrolls with ceremonial precision.
"The third phase: five duels."
Gasps again.
Five platforms rose from the arena floor—some cracked stone, some glistening with water, others narrow like tightropes.
"Each cohort will choose their five strongest combatants," Eira said. "Terrain will vary. Duels are simultaneous. Victory is determined by ring-out or submission."
Kael's eyes sharpened.
Alden's hand tightened on his spear.
Taren swallowed hard.
Lira looked sick.
Serene didn't flinch.
She knew her time was the fourth phase.
The only phase that mattered.
The scroll's last section was thicker, ink darker, lettering older.
Eira's voice dropped lower—almost reverent.
"The final phase: the Crest-Stone Clash."
The arena fell completely silent.
"The crest-stone will rise in the center. It must be held for fifteen uninterrupted seconds."
Kael whispered, "Fifteen seconds… in a war zone?"
"With both cohorts fighting," Alden murmured.
Rowen's gaze sharpened.
"That could last minutes. Or hours."
Lira whispered, "Or leave only one standing."
Serene's fingers closed slightly, her torn ribbon brushing against her wrist.
Her eyes didn't move from Eira.
"Phase Four continues," Eira read, "until the crest-stone is secured… even if only a handful remain.
Even if only one."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Second-years shifted uncomfortably.
First-years stood rigid.
Upper-years leaned forward with morbid fascination.
Commander Eira rolled up the scroll, sealing it.
"That," she said, "is the Rite you invoked."
The second-year captain finally gathered enough courage to ask:
"Commander… this is madness. Half of us could be injured—"
"This was not our choice," Eira cut sharply.
"It is law.
And law has already been invoked."
The captain shut his mouth.
The arena felt colder.
The registrar took a step forward and read the formal decree:
"By the authority of the Aurellian Knight Academy—
Both cohorts shall remain within the arena grounds until dawn tomorrow.
Training is restricted to designated zones.
Instructors will not intervene.
Upper-year students will not participate."
A buzz of fear and excitement spread immediately.
"So we're locked together?"
"It's real isolation."
"We can't leave?"
"Not until after the Rite."
Then Eira delivered the final blow.
"Prepare yourselves," she said.
Her voice was softer now—but infinitely more dangerous.
"Now, the arena stops being a classroom."
She stepped past Serene, and for a heartbeat—just one—Serene felt the weight of Eira's gaze settle on her, not heavy with disapproval…
…but with respect.
Silent.
Exact.
A recognition of someone who had just dragged history out of the grave.
The first-years watched Eira go.
The second-years watched Serene.
And Serene—
She watched the center of the arena, where the crest-stone would rise in just hours.
Rowen stepped near her.
"You don't regret invoking it?"
"No," Serene said softly.
"I regret that it took a Rite to make them see us."
Her ribbon fluttered.
A oath made of torn silk.
The arena would now open its jaws.
And Serene Valehart would walk into them willingly.