Dawn rose like a pale ember over the rooftops of Arechi, brushing the stone with a gentle warmth that did little to calm Midarion's nerves.
The day had come at last.
The day whispered about since the moment he and Reikika had crossed into the Lawless Lands. The day everything they had endured, survived, and buried under discipline would be placed under a single, merciless gaze.
The day of the Sentinel Trials.
Midarion had barely slept, though he made a respectable effort to pretend otherwise.
Reikika noticed. She always did.
They trained separately at dawn, each guided by the rhythm of their spirits.
Midarion moved beneath Filandra's presence—quiet, coiled, burning just behind his heartbeat. She didn't shout or command. She pressed. Urging him faster. Deeper. Cleaner. Every motion felt heavier than it should have, as if the air itself carried expectation.
Across the courtyard, Reikika trained in silence.
Veynar's cold brushed her breath with frost, not a full manifestation—just a suggestion. A shimmer that clung to her movements like discipline made visible. Her twin blades moved with calm precision, mirrored arcs that never wasted motion.
Serene.
Controlled.
Midarion hated how effortless she made it look.
His own nerves refused to settle. He repeated movements until thought fell away, grounding himself in weight and rhythm. Berserker rested across his back, solid, familiar. He counted breaths. Counted strikes.
Hundreds would compete.
Thousands would watch.
And those from the Lawless Lands were already treated like an inconvenience at best. A threat at worst.
Their paths could split today. Permanently.
The thought twisted something deep in his chest.
So he trained harder.
When it was time to return to Krueger's house, Midarion felt his pulse jump despite himself.
Reikika reached him first, hair damp with exertion, eyes steady."Nervous?" she asked.
He scoffed. "Me? Never. I was born ready."
Her eyebrow lifted. Unconvinced."Mhm."
He grinned anyway. "Okay. Maybe a little."
They walked back together through streets just waking up. Traders raised stalls. Bread baked. Smoke drifted lazily upward. It all felt strangely fragile—like a moment already slipping into memory.
Krueger greeted them with an exaggerated yawn that fooled no one.
They ate together. Warm bread. Spiced goat milk. Stewed fruit. Nothing extravagant. Everything grounding.
Halfway through the meal, Reikika nudged Midarion.
Now.
He straightened, cleared his throat, and produced the first gift.
"Krueger," he began, attempting solemnity, "this is for you. From both of us."
Reikika steadied his hand as they offered the bracelet—volcanic stone beads woven with crimson cloth, Ignis's traditional colors of gratitude.
Krueger blinked. His fingers closed around it slowly.
"You two…" His voice faltered. He turned sharply, coughing. "Tch. Dust. Room's full of it."
Reikika smiled.
Midarion felt warmth bloom—then promptly ruined the moment.
"And—uh—there's one more thing."
Krueger narrowed his eyes. "Midarion…"
"Just open it," Midarion said, grinning.
Krueger did.
BOOM.
Rancid green smoke erupted like a war crime against the senses—rotting eggs, sewage, and something far worse.
The smell was violent.
"YOU LITTLE—!"
Midarion was already sprinting, laughing like a man who knew his life expectancy had dropped dramatically.
Reikika's laughter burst free—unrestrained, bright, rare.
Krueger chased Midarion around the courtyard, swearing creatively while the boy dodged with infuriating agility. Even Reikika had to brace herself against the wall, tears streaking down her cheeks.
For a brief, precious moment, destiny loosened its grip.
Eventually, Krueger caught Midarion in a headlock and ground his knuckles into the boy's skull."If you weren't leaving today, I'd bury you in the storage shed."
Midarion wheezed. "Worth it!"
Krueger released him with a huff. The anger faded, but the smile stayed.
"Take care of yourselves," he said quietly.
"We will," Reikika replied.
At the doorway, weapons secured, the weight returned.
Berserker rested against Midarion's back. Reikika's twin blades crossed over hers.
The sun felt heavier now.
Krueger clasped their shoulders. "If you don't get selected, I'll be waiting at the gates. And if you do…" His voice cracked. "Then the only way I won't see you is if you join the Citadel of Fire. Either way—I'll see you again."
Midarion swallowed. "See you later, old man."
Reikika bowed deeply—not out of custom, but respect."Thank you. For everything."
Krueger turned away, muttering about dust again.
They left the little house that had sheltered them and walked toward the Trisolarium.
The road was flooded with people—families, vendors, pilgrims. All of Astraelis seemed to move toward a single point, drawn by gravity older than memory.
Then they saw it.
Dozens of gates. Endless lines. Thousands of bodies flowing like rivers into stone.
Midarion groaned. "You've got to be kidding me."
"It's expected," Reikika said. "This is the biggest event of the year."
"They couldn't build another entrance?"
"There are twelve."
"Still not enough."
She sighed. "Just think of something that makes you happy."
"So… nothing."
"You're impossible."
They joined the participants' queue.
Time dragged. Midarion stretched. Complained. Leaned on Reikika like a dying man. None of it helped.
She stayed patient.
Eventually, they reached registration.
Reikika stepped forward first."Reikika Ashborn."
The clerk checked his astral slate, nodded."Waiting Room Four."
She glanced back at Midarion—a silent promise.
Then she was gone.
Midarion stepped up.
Filandra pulsed inside him—steady, unwavering.
"Midarion Ashborn."
The clerk froze for half a second.
Then nodded."Waiting Room Seven."
Different rooms.
Already splitting.
Midarion inhaled and entered.
The room was dense with tension. Every participant radiated strength, experience, confidence. Eyes flicked toward him—assessing, weighing.
Elsewhere, Reikika's waiting room cut differently.
Sharper. Quieter.
She felt the gazes—not loud, not hostile, but precise. Measuring her posture. Her breath. The way her hand rested near her blades.
Diffusion artifacts lined the walls, projecting the arena beyond.
The world was watching.
This was not a trial.
It was a declaration.
Reikika brushed her fingers against her hilts. We made it this far.
A horn sounded.
Low. Primeval.
The arena shifted on the projections—stone unfolding, platforms rising, mechanisms older than kingdoms waking.
The second horn followed, shaking bone and breath alike.
Then silence.
A silence so complete it felt sacred.
And only then did Midarion and Reikika truly understand—
Nothing in their lives would ever be the same again.