Every Trial in Astraelis had a purpose.
Some forged strength. Some forged unity. Some forged courage.
But this one—this one stripped you bare.
The Trial of Presence was the mirror of the soul. A single moment where a candidate stood alone at the center of the world and let their Cosmo speak. No monsters. No riddles. No teammates. Just the light that leaked when a spirit overflowed its body.
Kosmo: the breath of the universe inside every living thing.Aura: the color and shape that breath took when it could no longer be contained.
Today, thousands would look into that light—and judge.
The central platform rose as if waking, a ring of pale stone lifting until it broke the floor like an island. The Trisolarium sighed with expectancy. Projection plates flared in the stands, and aristocrats, priests, soldiers, and common folk leaned forward as though distance itself might decide fate.
Candidates emerged by blocks. Each waiting room sent its line together, faces entering the arena at once before settling into formation. Names were called in turn, each candidate stepping forward only when summoned. No one stood alone for long—ritual guarding against hesitation as much as spectacle.
Waiting Room One moved with practiced confidence. Auras bloomed—crimson edges sharp as blades, cool rivers of blue, pale greens that smelled faintly of rain. Some flared easily; others stretched thin. The crowd rewarded what it admired and hissed at what unsettled it. The rhythm took hold. Waiting Rooms Two and Three followed.
In Waiting Room Four, where Reikika sat, the air tasted faintly of peppermint. Above them, the projection hovered—feeding stolen light to places beyond the walls. The Black Post had bled nights for that connection, routing the stream through sympathetic hands so Selina, Ren, and Theomar could watch from a back room, breath held like prayer.
Selina's hands were locked together, knuckles pale. Ren stood still, jaw tight. Theomar—who had taught discipline with rough kindness—hovered too close to the device and refused to blink.
Reikika sat straight-backed. She watched how others breathed—who rooted themselves like trees, who cracked like dry wood. Her palms were steady. Not calm. Wired. She had practiced this in the dark, counting breaths until fear became familiar.
Her name was called with ceremonial calm, and she rose with the others from Room Four. They entered the arena together, shoulders squared, forming the central line. The herald's voice moved down the row, each name drawing one step forward onto the island.
"Candidate Reikika Ashborn."
The name stirred the crowd.
"Ashborn?""What house is that?""She's from the slums.""She's too young—absurd."
The weight pressed in, but Reikika didn't turn her head. Whatever burned in her ribs—anger, defiance, something fiercer—she kept it folded tight. She stepped onto the island.
The stone hummed beneath her boots.
Thousands watched. Noble faces. Veterans. Priests with iron eyes. Ordinary people who had saved coin to sit beneath the dome. Above it all, the stolen projection carried her image to a small room where Selina wiped her eyes and Ren's fingers tightened once.
Reikika inhaled.
She didn't summon a technique.
She breathed.
Her Kosmo rose like winter dawn—slow, crystalline, inevitable. Her Aura bloomed white. Not blinding. Not harsh. A warmth that softened edges and steadied hearts. It spread in a luminous sphere, and the front rows leaned forward without realizing why.
The murmurs faded.
The white wasn't weak. It was absolute. Comfort and courage braided together, clear and unyielding. For a suspended moment, the Trisolarium forgot where it was. Those who had sneered glanced at one another, unable to reconcile such Light with a birthplace like Arechi.
From her dais, Captain Astrid inclined her head a fraction and murmured—caught by a few channels—a note of surprise. Clean. Unadorned. Rare.
When the release ebbed, Reikika bowed and returned to her line. Her knees trembled, but something solid had taken root beneath her ribs.
In Waiting Room Seven, Midarion watched the projection and felt pride strike like a fist to the gut—hot, sharp, undeniable. He wanted to shout. Etiquette held him still. Pride tightened into a grin he swallowed down hard.
"That's my little girl," Selina whispered.
Theomar let out a broken sound near laughter. Ren remained composed, but his eyes shone.
The roster continued. Rooms Five and Six followed—some auras brilliant, others dim and wanting. Then Waiting Room Seven was called to the line.
They stepped forward together.
"Candidate Midarion Ashborn."
The whispers returned, sharper now.
"Another Ashborn?""They let anyone in.""He's thin."
Midarion stepped onto the platform.
Nothing happened.
He breathed. Held. Let go.
Filandra hovered at the edge of his mind—curious, urging—but the river resisted. The arena's silence stretched. Patience thinned.
A laugh cut the air.
Midarion tasted blood where his teeth met skin. Don't listen. The world will speak. Let your Kosmo answer.
The gate broke.
His Kosmo tore free like something unchained—a purple-black tempest threaded with violent lightning. The air cracked. The platform groaned. Smoke-dark energy unfurled, jagged and unstable, hammering outward with barely contained force.
Midarion dropped to one knee—not in reverence, but necessity.
The crowd erupted. Awe tangled with alarm.
"Incredible power—no control.""Dangerous."
From his bastion, Captain Adonis murmured, "Interesting."
Midarion held the storm for one breath longer, then cut it hard. The energy collapsed inward, leaving him panting, sweat cold against his skin.
As he rejoined the line, a boy laughed. "That was insane!"
Another added, "Maybe don't destroy the arena next time."
A girl elbowed him. "You've got thunder. Learn where to throw it."
Midarion smiled—small, embarrassed, real. This time he didn't collapse.
At the Post, Theomar laughed outright before catching himself. Selina whooped under her breath. Ren finally exhaled.
The Trial continued. A mountain-steady aura. A brittle gold light that glittered more than it endured.
When the herald announced the Trial's end, it sounded less like closure than a threshold crossed.
"The Trial of Presence is complete. Prepare yourselves. The Trial of Unity begins soon."
Reikika felt a line of cold draw down her spine.
Midarion flexed his hand, the echo of lightning still humming beneath his skin.
They had been seen.
Under the dome of the Trisolarium, the sky bore witness. Two children from the Lawless Lands had bared their souls.
Whatever Astraelis decided to make of the name Ashborn—
it would not forget it.