The second horn did not ring.
It trembled through the Trisolarium like a pulse in the chest of the world—deep, resonant, alive. Marble shivered. Banners rustled. Even the torches flickered as if the sound had brushed their flames with invisible fingers.
Reikika felt it like a weightless shockwave—deep, impossible to ignore, as though the world itself had exhaled in warning. The crowd that moments ago buzzed with anticipation fell into a sudden hush, like a living sea stilled by command.
Her breath caught, fingers curling unconsciously around the hem of her sleeve.
The noise wasn't deafening. It was heavy—as if it had been waiting three years just to land on her shoulders.
She closed her eyes for one heartbeat.
This was it. The day she had feared, dreamed of, bled for.
The Sentinel Trials.
Midarion felt none of that weight.
To him, the horn was a spark flicked onto dry tinder.
It was a challenge.
He stood straight, hands loose at his sides, jaw set—not tense, but expectant. The air hummed around him. Filandra stirred somewhere deep in his spirit, the faint brush of feathers against consciousness.
So, the stage awakens…
Midarion swallowed the tightness in his chest and lifted his chin. The crowd's anticipation crackled in the air like static. The candidates around him shifted nervously, but he remained perfectly still, eyes fixed on the massive platform where light began to gather.
Above, the two heralds appeared—projected on titanic screens of silver light.
A woman with sharp copper hair and a smile that could command battalions lifted her staff.
"Citizens of Astraelis, Sentinels, and candidates—welcome. Let the stars bear witness to this sacred day!"
The crowd answered with thunder.
The man beside her, short and composed with eyes like polished steel, leaned forward.
"Calm down. Our Captains aren't here to eat you."
A ripple of laughter ran through the stands.
He smirked."—most of the time."
Laughter cracked the tension like ice.
Only then did their voices turn solemn.
The woman lifted her staff, its crystal blazing with astral light.
"Behold the guardians of our realm. The Captains of Astraelis."
The man's words rang like tempered steel:
"Leaders of the Four Bastions. Champions chosen by the stars themselves."
The Trisolarium held its breath.
Then—
Four points of the arena ignited—north, south, east, west.
Columns of light speared the sky as armored figures materialized in perfect formation.
Behind each Captain stood ten elite soldiers—judges of the Trials, their auras unmistakably heavy.
The east flared first.
A man stepped forward like a meteor slowed just enough to take human shape.
Tall, power built through war rather than display. His stance was unyielding, his presence contained. Heat shimmered faintly around him, the air bending at the edges. Dark hair tipped with ember-red framed eyes of molten gold.
He surveyed the arena in silence.
It was enough.
"Kael Isander," the herald announced. "Captain of the Citadel of Fire."
The sound that followed wasn't applause.
It was reverence.
Reikika watched, unmoving.
Midarion tilted his head. "He looks… beatable."
A nearby candidate stared at him. "He looks like he could fold you in half."
Midarion smiled. "Then he'd better try."
The west answered with wind.
Banners snapped as air detonated outward. She emerged as if stepping onto invisible currents, long black hair caught in constant motion. Silver runes flickered along her light armor. She landed with an easy bounce, smiling wide.
Her eyes were sharp.
"Astrid Lorrain," the herald called. "Captain of the Tower of the Sky."
The crowd surged.
Reikika's gaze followed Astrid's movements, something tightening in her chest—not fear, not doubt. A measuring instinct.
The north gate rumbled open.
A man stepped forward.
Massive, broad-shouldered, solid as bedrock. His presence didn't crush—it steadied. Kind eyes met the crowd without challenge or hesitation.
"The God of War, Adonis Lerock," announced the herald. "Captain of the Fortress of Gaia."
Midarion exhaled. "He looks like he gives great hugs."
Several candidates laughed before catching themselves.
Then the south gate opened.
No sound followed.
She walked out with quiet precision. Amethyst hair brushed her shoulders. Blue eyes fixed forward, cold and exact. Each step was measured. No wasted motion.
Attention bent toward her without invitation.
"Aelyss Nala," the herald said. "Captain of the Sanctuary of the Tides."
Reikika straightened.
Midarion swallowed. "Okay. She scares me."
"Good," someone muttered nearby.
The heralds stepped aside.
The man who stepped onto the central platform silenced what remained of the noise.
Saint Rennardo Salles, holy representant of the Astral temple.
Silver and white robes. No aura pressing outward. No spectacle. Yet his presence aligned the space around him, as if the world itself had adjusted to make room.
His presence was not overwhelming.
It was holy.
Like a man whose very existence aligned with the world.
The eight-pointed star on his chest shone faintly.
When Saint Rennardo spoke, his voice carried without force.
"Warriors of Astraelis," he said, voice steady, resonant without force. "These Trials are not games. They are a promise. A vow to protect those who cannot protect themselves."
Reikika's throat tightened.
He continued:
"Those who rise as Sentinels are bound to the heavens—but also to every child who sleeps fearing the dark."
Midarion's breath halted.
"These Trials," Rennardo said softly, "are built on the memory of the lost. You who stand here will determine whether history repeats itself… or ends with you."
Reikika's eyes burned.
Midarion's fists trembled.
Rennardo raised his arm.
"Three paths await."
The arena leaned forward as one.
"The Trial of Presence."
A breath.
"The Trial of Unity."
Another.
"And the Trial of Conquest."
Silence spread.
Saint Rennardo lifted both arms.
"Before heaven, before earth, before the gaze of the Astral Flame—let those who step forth prove their worth. And may those unchosen rise again, as stronger stars."
The sky brightened—clouds scattering as though the cosmos opened its eye.
Then—
The third horn sounded.
Not a pulse. Not a tremor.
A summons.
It rolled through the Trisolarium like thunder set loose.
The crowd erupted. Banners bearing the twelve constellations unfurled against the brightening sky.
Reikika drew a steady breath.
Midarion thought of Theomar. Of Keel's laughter. Of the hand that had once pulled him from the mud.
Reikika brushed her knuckles against his.
"It's started," she whispered.
Midarion's smile was quiet. Focused.
"Let's make them remember the name Ashborn."
Above them, the Trisolarium shone beneath a sky of witnesses.
And under that gaze—
their story truly began.