The walls loomed over them, their dark stone kissed by the first light of dawn. A cold wind rolled in from the north, carrying the scent of frost and distant pines, a silent herald of the journey ahead. Beyond these gates, Solaria awaited. The capital had turned out to watch them leave. Nobles, soldiers, commoners alike hundreds lined the streets, their faces a mixture of pride, hope, and quiet apprehension. Some cheered, their voices ringing through the cold air, while others whispered, their gazes shifting toward Alyc with something else. Fear. Uncertainty. She didn’t care. At the forefront of the procession, King Cyros Selsta stood, a figure of unwavering authority, flanked by the five generals. His silver eyes swept over the gathered warriors before he stepped forward, his voice steady as it carried through the courtyard. “Selenia thrives because of its warriors,” he declared, each word deliberate, calculated. “Because of those who give their lives to protect it. The Trials of Valor are not just a test of strength, but a test of will, of honor, of sacrifice.” His gaze locked onto the five competitors Alyc, Lyra, Torren, Selwyn, and Kaelen. “You have trained, you have bled, and now, you will stand before the gods themselves. In the heart of Solaria, you will carve your names into history, not only for yourselves but for all of Selenia.” Alyc watched him, but the words barely reached her. Did he believe in them, or was this speech only for the people? A performance to inspire? The thought soured in her mind. The cheers that followed the King’s words rang hollow in Alyc’s ears. She kept her expression still, her hands resting at her sides as the people of Selenia roared their approval. It was all ceremony. She had seen it before leaders standing tall, speaking of honor and sacrifice as if those words alone could turn a battlefield into something less cruel, less final. The weight of so many eyes settled on her, but she didn’t flinch. Let them watch. Let them wonder. She had no time for words. Only actions. Jesta stepped forward next. Her presence cut through the lingering echoes of the King’s speech, slicing away any pretense of grandeur. She stood before them like a soldier, not a noble, her stance firm, her voice void of flowery declarations. "You already know what’s expected of you," she said. "You either rise, or you fall. The Trials do not care about your name, your title, or your past. The only thing that matters is whether you fight harder than the one in front of you." A pause. Jesta’s gaze swept over them, cold and calculating. "The road to Solaria is long," she continued. "Use it wisely. Because when you arrive, there will be no more time to learn. Only time to fight." Alyc felt the weight of those words settle over the group. It was different from the King’s speech. His had been meant to inspire. Jesta’s was meant to prepare them. And she preferred it that way. When Jesta stepped back, the signal was given. The gates of Selenia groaned open, revealing the long stretch of road that led north through Frostvale. A cold gust swept through the open gates, carrying with it the scent of frost and pine. The road ahead was long, winding through the heart of Frostvale, where towering trees and frozen streams stretched endlessly toward the western mountains. This was the path to Solaria the last stretch before they faced the Trials. Alyc took the first step forward without hesitation, her boots crunching against the icy ground. The others followed, their movements measured, shoulders squared beneath the weight of their armor and the expectations of an entire kingdom. Behind them, the gates began to close, shutting Selenia away with a deep, resonant groan. The capital was behind them now. There was no turning back. The first day passed in near silence. The company of warriors, commanders, and chosen escorts moved in disciplined formation, their movements steady, their voices scarce. The deeper they traveled into Frostvale, the denser the trees became, their thick branches heavy with ice, their dark trunks rising like skeletal sentinels against the pale sky. Snow drifted lazily through the gaps, carried by the same wind that stung against exposed skin. Alyc and Sammond lingered at the back of the group. Neither of them spoke much, though Sammond occasionally shot her a knowing smirk, as if waiting for her to say something first. She didn’t. Her focus was ahead, on the distant horizon, where Solaria lay waiting. The others occasionally exchanged words. Torren muttered to Kaelen about battle formations, Selwyn questioned Lyra about past competitors, but it was all just background noise to Alyc. She had no interest in their discussions, no desire to form bonds that wouldn’t matter in the end. She wasn’t here to make friends. She was here to win. As the sun dipped lower , streaking the sky in deep purples and ember reds, the cold seemed to settle deeper into the bones of the forest. The towering pines swayed with the wind, their branches creaking under the weight of the ice. The road through Frostvale was silent, save for the crunch of boots against the frozen earth and the occasional jingle of bridles from the mounted escorts. By the time Jesta gave the order to make camp, the temperature had dropped significantly. Fires flickered to life across the clearing, their warmth drawing warriors closer, but Alyc remained at the outskirts, near the trees. She watched the others settle in Torren sharpening his blade, Kaelen running a whetstone over his twin swords, Lyra stretching out her limbs, her movements fluid even in the biting cold. Selwyn sat cross-legged by the fire, his fingers absently tracing patterns in the frost-dusted dirt, lost in thought. Sammond, as always, lingered nearby, though he made no attempt at conversation. He didn’t need to. His presence was enough to remind her that she wasn’t alone, even if she felt like she was. Alyc rolled her shoulders, exhaling a slow breath. Tomorrow, they would continue north, moving beyond Frostvale’s dense forest and toward the open valley roads that led to Solaria’s western gates. The thought should have steeled her, should have pushed away the restless feeling gnawing at her stomach. Instead, it only made the unease worse. That night, the cold seeped into her sleep, wrapping itself around her like unseen chains. The flickering candlelight dimmed. Shadows stretched long against the wooden walls, creeping inward like living things, swallowing the edges of the room. Alyc stood at the head of the table, Firefang gripped tightly in her hand. The air was thick with something suffocating anticipation, inevitability. Seated before her were Brook Browner, Bregund Forwart, Magra Broost, and Durk Halcyhon. They did not move. Did not flinch. Their eyes were on her, filled with something she did not understand not fear, not anger. Acceptance. She had seen this before. She had lived this before. And still, she could do nothing to stop it. Brook’s lips parted, but he did not speak. Bregund’s fingers curled around the edge of the table as if bracing for what was to come. Magra let out a slow breath, her throat shifting, as if she wanted to say something as if she wanted to beg. And Durk. Durk simply watched. Her body moved before she could stop it. The first strike landed. Bregund slumped sideways, his chair tipping over with a dull thud. Brook was next. Firefang drove through his chest in a smooth, practiced motion. He exhaled softly, as if relieved. Magra barely had time to react before the blade was at her throat, a flash of silver followed by silence. And then, only Durk remained. Alyc’s breath hitched. No. She wanted to stop. To turn away. To scream. But the room darkened. The candlelight sputtered and died, the walls vanishing into nothingness. Durk did not move. Alyc’s fingers clenched around Firefang’s hilt, her pulse roaring in her ears. The darkness swallowed her sight. She could no longer see him.

  But she could feel it. The blade driving forward. The quiet resistance of flesh giving way. The sharp inhale of breath. The sound of steel meeting bone. And then Nothing. The world collapsed into silence.

  Alyc woke up. Her gasp cut through the quiet of the camp, sharp and ragged. Cold air hit her lungs, but she still felt like she was drowning. The dying embers of the fire barely cast enough light to push back the dark. Sweat clung to her skin despite the frigid night air. Her fingers curled into the blanket wrapped around her shoulders, but it did nothing to stop the tremor running through them. She exhaled, slow and controlled, forcing the breath to steady her. It was just a dream. But the weight of Firefang against her hip, the phantom pressure of the hilt in her grip, said otherwise.

  “You’re getting louder.” Alyc’s head snapped up. Sammond sat a few feet away, perched on a fallen log. His usual smirk was absent, his face half-hidden by shadow. He wasn’t looking at her his gaze was on the fire, watching the last bits of charred wood crumble into glowing embers. Alyc swallowed. Her throat felt tight. “You heard me?” Sammond finally turned toward her. His green eyes glinted in the dim light. “It’d be hard not to.” Alyc scowled, looking away. “Tch.” Silence settled between them, thick with unspoken things. The wind shifted through the trees, a quiet whisper against the frozen branches. “You want to talk about it?” Sammond’s voice was light, but there was something behind it something knowing. Alyc almost scoffed. “Do I ever?” Sammond tilted his head slightly, considering her. “No,” he admitted. “But you always look like you want to.” Alyc exhaled sharply through her nose. She didn’t argue.

  The dream still clung to her like frostbite. She could feel the weight of it pressing against her ribs. Durk’s silence. The way they all just sat there. The way Firefang felt in her hands. She clenched her jaw, fingers flexing against the fabric of her blanket. Finally, she muttered, “It changed again.” Sammond raised a brow. “How?”

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Alyc hesitated, the weight of the dream still pressing against her ribs, coiling around her lungs like something alive. “I didn’t see it,” she admitted, voice quieter than she intended. “I just… felt it.”

  Sammond’s expression remained unreadable, but he didn’t speak, waiting. Alyc’s fingers curled into the blanket, her knuckles aching. “I always stop before him,” she murmured, more to herself than to him. “I always kill the others. Magra. Bregund. Brook.” Her voice caught for a fraction of a second before she pushed through. “But not him. Not Durk.” Sammond tilted his head slightly. “But this time?” Alyc swallowed hard. The sensation still lingered the press of the hilt in her hand, the cold steel cutting through flesh, the sharp, wet gasp of breath. And then nothing. The world had gone black, swallowing her whole before she could even comprehend what she had done. She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “This time, I did it.” Sammond hummed low in his throat, his gaze flickering toward the fire. “And?” Alyc’s brow furrowed. “And what?” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his green eyes gleaming in the dim firelight. “How do you feel?” Alyc’s fingers twitched. She didn’t want to answer, didn’t want to give life to the truth that sat heavy in her chest. But it clawed its way out of her anyway. “Lighter. The word hung between them, more dangerous than any blade. Sammond smirked, but there was something colder beneath it. “You were always going to do it, Alyc.” Alyc’s jaw clenched, the muscles in her throat tightening like a noose. She wanted to argue, to deny it, to say that this this thing inside her wasn't inevitable. But the words wouldn’t come. Because she knew. She knew. Sammond’s smirk didn’t fade. If anything, it sharpened. “That’s the real reason the dream changed, isn’t it?” His voice was smooth, careful, each word sliding beneath her skin like a blade. “Because you finally stopped resisting.” Alyc turned sharply to face him. “I wasn’t resisting.” Sammond lifted a brow. “Weren’t you?” Her fingers curled into fists, nails digging into her palms. He was baiting her, pushing her, and damn it, it was working. “I didn’t have a choice,” she snapped. “It just happened.” Sammond hummed, tilting his head slightly. “Nothing just happens, Malice.” She hated that name. She hated how easily it rolled off his tongue, how natural it felt coming from him. And she hated gods, she hated that he was right. Her breath came faster, shallower, the memory of the dream flashing behind her eyes. The weight of Firefang in her grip. The sound of steel meeting flesh. The silence. The silence. She turned away, glaring into the fire, as if the embers might burn the thoughts from her skull. But Sammond didn’t let her escape. He leaned in, his voice softer now, but no less dangerous. “You feel lighter because you finally let go,” he murmured. “You stopped carrying the weight of something that was always going to happen.” Alyc forced herself to breathe, steady and slow, but her pulse still thrummed in her ears. She had spent months convincing herself that she was still in control, that she could choose how this path ended. But what if she had never had control at all? Her voice was quiet when she finally spoke. “I think I’m finally ready.” Sammond didn’t gloat, didn’t grin, didn’t taunt her like she expected. Instead, he nodded, like this had all been a foregone conclusion. “Good,” he said simply. “Then don't hesitate.” Alyc closed her eyes for a brief moment, letting the words settle into her bones. When she opened them again, the fire reflected in the green of Sammond’s gaze. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t look away. She was ready, ready to do what needed to be done. The twin moons of Divinia hung low in the sky, casting an eerie silver-blue glow over the frost-laden fields as the Selenian party made their way toward Solaria’s gates. The cold morning air bit at their skin, swirling through the breath of their war Thyndar’s, their exhalations steaming against the frigid dawn. Snow crunched beneath their boots and hooves, but no one spoke. The tension was as thick as the mist curling along the edges of the road, a silent acknowledgment of what lay ahead. The first golden light of dawn stretched across the horizon, illuminating the towering white-marble walls of Solaria. The city stood like a beacon, its grandeur untouched by time, as if the gods themselves had carved it from the heavens. Massive archways adorned with celestial engravings marked the city’s entrance, and above them, the Sun Gate loomed, a masterpiece of divine craftsmanship. Alyc barely noticed.

  She had seen Solaria’s splendor before its gilded balconies, its immaculate avenues lined with statues of past champions, the divine torches that burned eternally at every major intersection. The capital of the gods’ chosen was a place of legend, of history, of power. Now, it was just another battlefield. Her gaze swept across the road leading to the city, lined with banners bearing the sigils of past champions. The gold plaques beneath them gleamed, etched with names long remembered. Some were still whispered in reverence, warriors who had won the Trials of Valor and left their mark upon history. Others had faded, their legacies forgotten as new blood took their place. Alyc did not stop to read them. Names meant nothing. The only name that mattered was the one that would stand victorious at the end of the Trials. The Sun Gate grew larger with each step. Its colossal stone doors, carved with the figures of the gods, stood imposing, eternal. They depicted the celestial battles of old, the shaping of Divinia, the divine hands that had crafted Solaria’s foundations. The symbols of the gods shimmered in the morning light, their sacred inscriptions catching the golden hue of dawn. Despite the overwhelming splendor, no one in the Selenian party spoke. Each of them had their own reasons for being here, their own burdens to carry. Torren walked with his usual unshakable resolve, his massive frame moving with measured precision. Kaelen’s sharp gaze never lingered in one place for too long, analyzing every detail of the city’s defenses. Lyra moved as fluidly as ever, light on her feet even in the heavy morning air. Selwyn, ever the strategist, was already studying the walls, the watchtowers, the layout of the city’s approach, his mind working through dozens of possibilities for the battles ahead. And Alyc?

  Alyc was focused only on the fight ahead. A welcoming party stood at the gates, clad in ceremonial robes, their faces solemn. City officials, priests, and divine attendants lined the courtyard beyond, their posture formal, their expressions unreadable. But one figure stood apart from them, her presence effortlessly commanding.

  At the forefront stood Dreamweaver. Her robes, a shifting tapestry of silver and blue, moved like liquid mist around her form. The air around her shimmered as though reality itself bent in her presence. There was no doubt she was not mortal. Her gaze, pale and endless like the sky before a storm, settled upon the arriving warriors.

  The silence deepened. Alyc met Dreamweaver’s eyes, and for a fleeting moment, the rest of the world faded. There was something in the goddess’s expression. Not welcome. Not warning.

  Expectation. Dreamweaver’s silver-blue robes shimmered in the soft glow of the morning, shifting like liquid stardust with every subtle movement. There was an otherworldly stillness about her, a presence that existed beyond time, beyond understanding a force untouched by mortal concerns, by war, by loss. Her gaze, pale and vast as a starless sky, swept over the gathered warriors. “You have arrived early,” she said, her voice as smooth as running water. Serene. Certain. Final. The air felt heavier. The Selenian generals and warriors hardened by battle, by discipline, by a lifetime of war stood like statues beneath her gaze. Even Jesta, whose expression never wavered in the face of kings or execution orders, held herself unusually still. Alyc did not shift. She did not lower her head.

  Instead, she met Dreamweaver’s eyes with the same quiet defiance she had always carried. She would not bow. The goddess did not blink. If she was offended, it did not show. Instead, something flickered at the edges of her lips a whisper of amusement.

  “You will be the first to settle within the competitors’ quarters,” Dreamweaver continued. Her voice was like a lullaby and a warning all at once. “Emberfall’s delegation arrives tonight.” A pause.

  Then, “The Trials begin tomorrow at dawn.” The words carried weight not as mere fact, but as something etched into fate itself.

  Alyc remained motionless. It was not the announcement itself that unsettled her. It was the way Dreamweaver spoke, as if the gods themselves were waiting for something to unfold. As if the Trials were no longer about warriors proving themselves, but about something far greater. Alyc clenched her jaw. The gods had no place in her war. Without another word, Dreamweaver turned and began leading them through Solaria’s immaculate streets.

  They walked in silence, their footsteps echoing off the golden-bricked roads. Statues of past champions lined the path, their weapons raised, their expressions frozen in determination and victory. Each one had once stood where Alyc stood now. Some had become legends. Some had faded into irrelevance, forgotten as new warriors took their place. Alyc barely glanced at them. She had no use for history. She only cared about what came next. The Selenian competitors were led through the winding streets of Solaria, past the towering statues of past champions, past golden-bricked roads that whispered of ancient battles. At last, they arrived at their destination a vast stone hall, perched at the edge of the Coliseum of Valor, where the Trials would take place. From the exterior, it was an imposing structure, built from t