The courtyard felt wrong that morning.
Too quiet. Too still. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Cael stood among the rows of trainees, the cold biting through his shirt, the stale scent of old blood drifting from somewhere deeper in Shadowspire. Weeks of endless drills had hardened him, but today there was a different kind of tension coiling beneath his ribs. His muscles ached the same as always, yet something inside him felt… heavier.
Brenn wasn't shouting.
None of the instructors were.
They watched.
That alone was enough to set Cael's pulse on edge.
He breathed slowly, steadying himself. He wasn't the same boy who had stumbled into Shadowspire with dirt on his face and grief thick in his throat. The memories of Elbhollow still clawed at him—screams, fire, the smell of burning straw—but the hatred that once raged blindly inside him had sharpened. He had carved order out of the chaos. Not peace. Never peace. But direction. Purpose.
And part of that purpose stood beside him.
Lysa shifted restlessly, jaw tight. She never admitted fear, but Cael had learned to read the stiffness in her hands. On his other side, Brenn cracked his knuckles with forced calm. A small part of Cael was surprised by how natural it felt to stand with them. He didn't trust easily—not after losing everyone he had grown up with—but Shadowspire had taught him that surviving alone was a fool's path.
Friends didn't make him weaker.
They made him harder to kill.
A door slammed open at the far end of the courtyard.
Instructor Varas stepped out.
A man carved from scar tissue and cold discipline, his presence alone silenced even the reckless ones. His eyes swept across the trainees, and Cael felt the weight of that gaze like a stone pressed against his chest.
"This is the day you stop being children pretending to hold blades," Varas said. His voice echoed against the walls—deep, measured, merciless. "The Trials begin now."
Even the veterans among the trainees stiffened.
Cael exhaled slowly. He knew the Trials were coming, but hearing it spoken aloud changed everything. Every hour of pain, every bruise, every stumble had been nothing but preparation for what began today.
Varas continued, "The first stage will test your body. The weak will break. The foolish will die. The stubborn—" His eyes flicked to Cael for a heartbeat. "—might crawl through."
A cold dread coiled in Cael's stomach.
He didn't fear pain. He feared failure.
He feared being powerless again.
"Follow."
The gates opened, revealing a narrow corridor descending underground. Damp air wafted out, thick with the scent of mold and metal. The walls glistened with condensation, torches casting wavering shadows.
Cael stepped forward with the others, feet heavy but steady.
As they descended, Brenn whispered under his breath, "Feels like a tomb."
Lysa elbowed him lightly. "Then walk faster. I'd rather not be buried with you."
Cael almost smiled. Almost.
The corridor opened into a chamber—vast, circular, marked with faded runes and deep gouges in the stone floor. Rusted restraints hung from the walls. A long table stood at the center, covered with vials, straps, and tools that looked more like torture implements than training equipment.
Varas entered last and shut the gate behind them.
"The Path of Flesh begins," he said. "Your blood will be altered. Your bones strained. Your senses torn apart and rebuilt. Some of you will scream. Some will beg. A few may even try to flee." His eyes narrowed. "Those who run will be put down."
No bravado. No threats. Just a fact.
Assistants in dark coats moved between the trainees, distributing leather straps and ordering them to sit on stone platforms encircling the chamber. Cael's heart hammered, but his hands were steady as he fastened the bindings around his wrists.
Lysa sat across from him.
Brenn to his left.
He was grateful for that.
For a moment, silence fell.
Varas approached the table, selecting one of the vials: a viscous, dark-red liquid that clung to the glass like something alive.
Cael's breath caught.
He didn't need an explanation.
Varas held up the vial.
"This is the catalyst. Survive it… and you will earn the right to continue the Trials."
He nodded to the assistants.
Needles glinted.
Someone whimpered.
Someone else cursed under their breath.
Cael swallowed the rising fear.
When the needle pierced his arm, the burn struck immediately—cold at first, then boiling hot, as if molten metal flooded his veins.
He gritted his teeth.
His vision blurred.
His spine arched involuntarily against the restraints.
Screams erupted around him—high, raw, terrified.
Brenn was cursing violently.
Lysa bit down so hard on her lip that blood ran down her chin.
Cael's heartbeat roared in his ears.
Then the real pain hit.
It wasn't physical anymore.
It was deeper.
A tearing inside his mind, a pressure clawing at the edges of his thoughts, probing, whispering.
Images flashed—death, fire, distorted faces, memories twisted into nightmares. He fought them, but they pressed harder, trying to dig into the cracks left by Elbhollow's destruction.
He refused to break.
He had lost everything once.
He would not lose himself.
The pain escalated—white-hot, merciless, endless.
He screamed, but he did not beg.
And through the agony, a shard of clarity surfaced.
This wasn't suffering.
This was transformation.
This was the first step toward becoming something that could survive in the world that took everything from him.
He held onto that thought like a blade.
And he endured.