The morning arrived with a crisp chill that clung to the air, but within the Shadecloak training grounds, the heat of combat never wavered. The clashing of blades, the quick footfalls of warriors maneuvering through drills, and the sharp, commanding voices of instructors all blended into a familiar rhythm. Yet, beneath it all, there was an undercurrent of tension an unspoken weight pressing on every recruit’s shoulders.
The Trials of Valor loomed ahead, and with them, the selection of Selenia’s champions. Alyc had known this day was coming. She had trained harder than anyone, fought without hesitation, and pushed herself beyond every limit placed in her path. And yet, as she moved through the day’s routine, something gnawed at her.
No one pushed her. No one challenged her. She had already risen beyond the rest. Even as she faced her fellow Shadecloaks in combat, she felt the hollowness of each encounter.
Ghost tested her ability to vanish; she slipped into the shadows with ease. Hollow pressed her with relentless blade work; she countered every strike before he even committed to them. Echo tried to throw her off with distractions and feints, but she recognized his patterns before he even completed them. It wasn’t arrogance that set her apart. It was reality. And that reality made her restless. The final spar of the morning ended with Alyc standing alone once again, her opponents defeated, winded, or unwilling to face her. The moment settled uncomfortably in the silence. Then, Jesta’s voice cut through the stillness. “We’re headed to the Great Hall,” she announced, her tone leaving no room for argument. “The selection begins.” Alyc’s hands clenched into fists at her sides. She relaxed them just as quickly, rolling her shoulders before falling into step behind Jesta. The Shadecloaks moved in unison, their silent formation a stark contrast to the murmuring soldiers gathering outside the barracks. The selection for the Trials of Valor was more than an announcement it was a spectacle. As they passed through the training grounds and onto the main path leading toward the Great Hall, Alyc caught glimpses of other warriors soldiers from the Frostblade Vanguard, the Glacial Wind Corps, the Moon Guard, and the Iceforged Artificers all making their way to the ceremony. Some exchanged confident nods. Others whispered, their eyes flickering toward the Shadecloaks, toward Alyc. She ignored them.
The walk-through Selenia’s capital was short, but the weight of what awaited made it feel longer. The Great Hall of Selenia was a fortress of power and prestige. Banners of deep blue and silver lined the towering pillars, catching the flickering light of torches set in iron sconces. The ceilings stretched impossibly high, their archways carved with stories of past champions, warriors who had proven themselves in the Trials before. Hundreds had gathered. Soldiers, nobles, and commoners alike packed the vast chamber, eager to witness the selection. The hall was filled with tension anticipation from those who hoped to be chosen, whispers of speculation about who would represent Selenia. At the front of the hall, five long tables stood, each marked with the sigil of Selenia’s five military divisions: The Shadecloaks, the Glacial Wind Corps, the Frostblade Vanguard, the Iceforged Artificers, and the Moon Guard. Beyond them, at the highest dais, sat King Cyros Selsta, flanked by the five generals of Selenia. Their gazes were unreadable, their presence alone enough to quiet the gathering crowd.
But they were not the only forces watching. Near the far side of the hall, standing like shadows of fate, were six members of the Divine Council: The Seer, The Dreamweaver, The Shadow Keeper, The Stoneheart, The Lifebringer, and The Skywatcher. Alyc felt their presence as a weight in the air, an unseen force pressing against her skin. But it was The Seer’s eyes she felt the most. As Alyc moved with the Shadecloaks, she heard the whispers that followed her not of admiration, nor of excitement. Fear. Curiosity. Wariness. Awe. They weren’t looking at a competitor. They were looking at Malice. A hush fell over the Great Hall as King Cyros rose to his feet. His silvered hair caught the firelight, his deep blue cloak embroidered with Selenia’s crest shifting as he moved. When he spoke, his voice was absolute. “The Trials of Valor are upon us,” he declared, his words reverberating across the chamber. “This year, the path to victory will be forged by those who embody the heart of Selenia by warriors who do not falter in the face of the storm.” He turned his gaze toward Jesta. “And so, the sword that forges them must be sharper than any before.” Jesta stepped forward, her stance rigid, her expression unreadable. “Jesta Valance will serve as Swordmaster for this year’s Trials.” A murmur rippled through the hall. Some nodded in approval. Others glanced at her with measured expressions. Alyc’s gaze flickered to Jesta’s face. No reaction. The King’s voice dropped slightly, carrying something unspoken, weighty. “I expect a Selenian champion.” Jesta stood firm. No acknowledgment. No response. But Alyc saw the tension in her shoulders. Then, The Seer moved. She stepped forward, her celestial robes glimmering like woven constellations. Unlike the King, she did not command attention. She simply had it. When she spoke, her voice was neither loud nor soft, but it cut through the silence like a blade. “The Trials of Valor are more than a competition,” she said. “They are a reflection of who we are. Of what we will become.” Her gaze did not sweep across the room. It remained on Alyc. “This year, these Trials will shape not just champions, but the destiny of Divinia.” Alyc’s spine stiffened.
“For there are fates that have already been sealed,” The Seer continued, “and fates that have yet to be decided.”
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A chill crept up Alyc’s spine. The Seer knew something.
But she did not explain. Then, it began. One by one, the five generals stood to announce their chosen warriors.
Commander Vaelith Serowind of the Moon Guard was the first. “The Moon Guard stands as Selenia’s shield. Our champion will be one who has never wavered.” Her sharp gaze swept over the gathered warriors before settling on a single figure. “Kaelen Frostveil.” A murmur spread through the crowd as Kaelen stepped forward. He was composed, precise, his every movement deliberate. The twin blades strapped to his back were a testament to his skill. He bowed slightly to Vaelith before taking his place among the chosen. The cheers that followed were respectful, measured a warrior of his caliber was expected to compete.
Next, Commander Ysari Grimholt of the Frostblade Vanguard rose from his seat. A formidable man with ice-grey eyes and a voice like grinding stone, he wasted no words. “Strength. Resilience. Endurance. These are the virtues of the Frostblade Vanguard.” His expression did not change as he turned toward the warriors assembled before him. “Torren Valehart.”
Torren was a brute of a man, standing nearly a head taller than most in the room. He moved with a quiet confidence, his heavy steps carrying him forward without hesitation. A warrior built for war. The applause that followed his selection was louder Selenians valued strength, and Torren embodied it. Commander Rhenvar Skythorne of the Glacial Wind Corps took his turn. He was lean, with sharp eyes that missed nothing. “Speed, precision, and instinct win battles,” he declared. “And there is no one who embodies these better than Lyra Vesswyn.” A flicker of movement, barely noticeable, and Lyra was already stepping forward. She moved like the wind itself graceful, fluid, untouched by hesitation. Her presence was a stark contrast to Torren’s, but no less commanding. The crowd’s reaction to her was mixed admiration from those who respected her skill, doubt from those who placed brute strength above all else. Commander Varek Colmere of the Iceforged Artificers rose next. He was older than the others, his expression calm and thoughtful. “Intelligence is as deadly as any blade,” he said simply. “Selwyn Draeven.”
Selwyn was a man who did not look like a warrior at first glance. Slender, with sharp features and a calculating gaze, he carried himself with the air of a scholar rather than a soldier. But those who had seen him fight knew better. He wielded his spear not with brute force, but with precision, strategy, and an uncanny ability to read his opponents. His selection drew murmurs of intrigue rather than thunderous applause. Then, the hall fell silent as the final general stepped forward. Jesta Valance. She did not pause. Did not build tension. Her voice was steady, decisive. “The Shadecloaks choose Alyc Halcyhon.” The murmurs were immediate.
Alyc stepped forward without hesitation, ignoring the reactions around her. The unease. The whispered doubts. The speculative glances. She had known this was coming. Knew the moment Jesta had called them to the Great Hall. Still, she felt the weight of the Divine Council’s eyes on her. The Seer watched, her expression unreadable. The Shadow Keeper tilted her head slightly, as if considering something new. The Lifebringer showed no emotion at all. Alyc reached the stage and stood beside the others, her expression blank. The selections were complete.
The cheers returned, though they felt distant, muted beneath the hum of tension in the air. Alyc didn’t care. This was just another step. Another path forward. Jesta found her after the ceremony, away from the crowd, standing near the outer walls of the Great Hall. “You don’t just represent yourself,” Jesta said, her arms crossed. “You represent the Shadecloaks. You represent Selenia.”
Alyc met her gaze, unflinching. “And?” Jesta’s expression hardened. “That means your decisions don’t just fall on you. They fall on all of us.” Alyc didn’t respond. She already knew that. She just didn’t care. The warriors were chosen. The Trials of Valor had begun. Alyc was one step closer. The night air was crisp, the echoes of celebration still carrying through the Great Hall as Alyc stepped away from the commotion. The weight of the selection didn’t sit on her shoulders the way it seemed to for the others. She had known this was coming. She had fought for it. What came next didn’t concern her only that she moved forward. She made her way toward the barracks, weaving through the quieter parts of the stronghold, when she felt the presence before she heard it. A figure emerging from the shadows, moving with an ease that most wouldn’t notice. But Alyc did. Sammond. “You’ve got the whole kingdom talking,” he murmured as he fell into step beside her, hands in his pockets. “Some are saying Jesta’s gone mad for choosing you.” Alyc snorted. “Let them.” Sammond smirked. “And the rest? They think you might just be the one to win it all.” Alyc glanced at him then, her mismatched eyes sharp. “I don’t care about winning.” Sammond hummed in amusement, tilting his head. “Then why are you here?” Alyc didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. Sammond didn’t press her. He knew her well enough to recognize that she wouldn’t give him an answer he didn’t already expect. Instead, he simply walked beside her, silent, the two of them moving through the empty corridors of the stronghold like shadows. Finally, he sighed. “You know, they’re going to be watching you now more than ever. The generals, the Divine Council, the king himself.” Alyc smirked. “Let them.” Sammond chuckled under his breath. “That’s what I thought you’d say.” They reached the barracks, the doors looming before them. Sammond lingered for a moment before turning to her, his expression unreadable. “Get some rest, Malice.” Alyc didn’t watch him leave. She pushed the door open and stepped inside. The barracks were quiet, the other Shadecloaks already asleep. She moved to her cot, stripping off her cloak and boots before lying down. The events of the night swirled in her mind, the weight of the selection pressing against the edges of her thoughts. She stared at the ceiling, letting the silence settle over her. The Trials had begun. And she would be ready.
