The Trial Of Steel

    Beneath a sky ablaze with golden sunfire, the Selection Provinces thundered with the unmistakable cadence of war-made symphony—swords clashing, horns blaring, and spectators roaring in a frenzy of anticipation. The proving grounds, a sacred field of valor, pulsed with tension and ambition. Rows upon rows of flags flapped violently against the wind, each bearing the heraldry of noble houses and ancient provinces united under the banner of the realm. Within that crucible stood the next generation of warriors, dreamers, and future legends. Among them stood Kael Veythar.

He was no longer the uncertain boy who had stumbled through grief and desperation. His expression was firm, his movements measured. He stood straight-backed, shoulders squared, a worn blade at his side and scars crisscrossing his calloused hands. His eyes, no longer clouded with sorrow,

now gleamed with focused purpose—the kind only born from pain, tempered by fire.

From the edge of the field emerged a familiar figure. Elira.

"You made it,"

she said, stepping beside him with the calm air of someone long used to war. Her armor bore the wear of daily training, polished only enough to shine with pride. Her smile was sharp, playful, and unwavering.

"Try not to disgrace yourself out there," she teased.

Kael allowed a smirk.

"Only if you don’t trip over your ego."

Their banter, sharp as blades, gave way to silence as the horns blared—the signal had been given. The trials had begun.

The first trial tested each contestant’s mettle in one-on-one combat—no allies, no tricks, just blade and resolve. Kael was soon called forward. Across from him stood Droven, a beast of a man with shoulders like tree trunks and a reputation for crushing sparring partners in training.

Droven sneered.

"You look like you’d shatter if I blinked too hard."

Kael drew his sword.

"Then don’t blink."

What followed was an eruption of power. Droven charged, swinging his greataxe with reckless fury. Kael ducked, weaved, and countered. His strikes were precise—cutting into Droven’s flank, then shoulder. The larger man howled, twisting violently. The crowd gasped as Kael stepped inward, redirected the brute’s weight, and sent the greataxe flying across the sand.

"Victor—Kael Veythar!"

the judge called.

Kael didn’t celebrate. He merely bowed and stepped back.

His next challenge came swiftly. A rogue—slender, quick, and armed with twin daggers—descended upon him like a shadow. She was swift, unpredictable. Kael blocked with difficulty, narrowly avoiding slashes to his ribs. Then came an opening—a shift in her footing. Kael swept her leg, disarmed one dagger, and pinned the other with his own blade.

"Didn’t expect a swordsman to move like that,"

she said breathlessly.

Kael offered a hand to help her up. "You weren’t the only one."

By sunset, the trials reached their apex. The final round: a three-way duel between Kael, Elira, and a third—Rhaven, a knight known for his flawless discipline and gleaming silver spear.

"Ready?"

Elira whispered, twirling her sword.

"Always,"

Kael replied.

The fight began in a blur. Elira attacked first, her strikes swift and bold. Kael parried, maneuvering into a defensive rhythm. Rhaven bided his time, striking only when it mattered. At one point, Kael deflected Rhaven’s spear while simultaneously dodging Elira’s blade—a feat that drew murmurs from the crowd.

Kael danced between them, his every move a testament to the year of brutal training he’d endured. He deflected Elira’s strike and spun behind Rhaven, knocking the spear aside. A final feint tricked both opponents, allowing Kael to disarm Rhaven and slip past Elira’s guard.

The judges conferred, then raised their hands.

"Kael Veythar, Elira Averayne, Rhaven Torkel—you stand as the final three."

The selection hall was a grand structure, its stone walls etched with centuries of names—heroes, traitors, kings. Within it, each of the final victors would swear their allegiance.

Three divisions stood before them:

Royal Guard – The sword and shield of the throne.

Wanderers – Masters of reconnaissance, endurance, and strategy.

Reapers – Wielders of blessed or cursed relics, feared and revered alike.

Elira stepped forward with fire in her stride. "Reapers," she said.

Rhaven, the model of order, bowed deeply. "Royal Guard."

Kael stepped forward. The silence in the hall was palpable.

"Wanderers," he said.

A murmur ran through the hall. The least glorious, the most grueling—but Kael’s choice was clear. He didn’t need prestige. He needed purpose.

For five days, the chosen few underwent further training—refinement of skills, strategy briefings, unit formations. The Wanderers trained under relentless instructors, learning to become ghosts in the field, blades in the dark.

At night, the grounds came alive with celebration. Colored lanterns floated like stars. Songs old and new echoed through the camps. Food stalls, dance circles, and merchant tents lined the corridors. Laughter intermingled with war cries. Hope had not died—it had evolved.

Kael found himself beside Elira one night, watching fireworks explode over the horizon.

"We made it,"

she said.

Kael nodded.

"But the real war begins now."

On the seventh day, all stood assembled. The Grand Marshal, a relic of wars past, addressed them.

"You have faced steel, blood, and fear. And you have triumphed. From this day onward, you are Knights of the Realm. May your blades serve with honor until your final breath."

The sky answered with fire and thunder. Cheers erupted.

Kael, cloaked in the insignia of his division, stood still amid the celebration. His journey had only just begun.

As the crowd thinned, he made his way to the main gate. There, leaning against a post, was Celis.

Her arms were crossed. Her smile was knowing.

"Took you long enough," she said.

Kael grinned. "Had to give the crowd something to remember."

She turned and began walking.

"Let’s go home,...... knight."