The weight of oaths

The courtyard felt larger than it had before the labyrinth, as though the trial had hollowed out the world and left only stone and silence. Moonlight washed the square in pale silver, setting the marble colonnades aglow and turning every face into a mask of shadow and bone.

Lucien’s legs ached from the long hours of testing, but he stood tall among the survivors, refusing to let his exhaustion show. The warmth of the flame still lingered in his chest, but it did not feel like victory—more like a brand. He had reached the heart of the labyrinth. He had passed. Yet the triumph was muted by the memory of illusions too vivid, too cruel. Arian’s face, smiling in that familiar way, his pale eyes gleaming with mischief. Lucien had almost faltered then, had nearly given in to the comfort of that falsehood.

Almost.

Rowan moved through the dispersing mist, the tall man’s presence steady as a pillar. His keen gaze swept over Lucien, lingering just long enough to judge his posture, his breathing, the subtle tremor in his hand. Rowan nodded once. “You’re steady,” he said in that clipped tone of his.

Lucien forced a smile that felt more like a grimace. “Barely.”

“They’re all like that,” Rowan replied, voice low so only he could hear. “You think you survived because you were clever, or stronger than the rest. But the labyrinth isn’t about strength. It’s about endurance. Who holds when the world itself begs you to break.”

Lucien’s gaze flicked toward the far side of the courtyard, where a slender figure stood slightly apart from the crowd. Caelith—his pale violet hair disheveled, robe rumpled, the thin journal he carried clasped tight in his hands. He looked fragile, delicate almost, as if the faintest wind might scatter him. But his eyes—icy blue, steady as frozen water—were fixed on Lucien.

Lucien exhaled slowly. He made his way over, ignoring the dull throb in his legs.

“You made it,” Lucien said softly.

Caelith inclined his head, lips quirking into a faint smile. “As did you.” His voice was quiet, a thread of calm over something brittle. “I feared the labyrinth would…” He hesitated, his gaze dropping briefly to the journal. “But you endured.”

Lucien huffed a breath, half laugh, half sigh. “Endured is one word for it.”

“It suits you.” Caelith’s tone was dry, but not unkind.

Rowan joined them, folding his arms across his broad chest. “Don’t grow too comfortable. One trial down, many to come.” His eyes softened as they moved from Lucien to Caelith, and back. “Still. You’ve proven you’re not easy to break. Both of you.”

Caelith ducked his head slightly at the praise, though a faint color touched his ears.

---

The sharp-eyed examiner strode forward, staff in hand. His presence silenced the whispers instantly. He struck the stone once, and the sound carried like a crack of thunder.

“The first trial is concluded,” he said, his voice cutting through the night. “Those who failed to reach the flame are dismissed. Those who remain—steel yourselves. The second trial begins with the rising of the moon.”

A ripple of unease spread through the gathered aspirants.

“This next test,” the examiner continued, “cannot be endured alone. It is the trial of Steel and Circle.”

His staff flared, and a ring of fire blossomed in the center of the square. The flames leapt high, bending inward until they joined into a blazing circle. Inside, the cobblestones warped and shimmered, reshaping themselves into an arena of pale stone and shadow. The Circle’s heat licked at Lucien’s skin even from a distance.

“You will face the Circle’s summons in groups of three. Strength alone does not win wars. Cohesion does.”

Murmurs broke out.

A boy with a jagged scar down his jaw laughed harshly. “So we’re shackled to each other’s weaknesses now?”

The examiner’s eyes narrowed, cold as tempered steel. “Mark this well, aspirant. While you may survive if your companions fall, you cannot pass if you stand alone. The Circle is merciless. It recognizes no hollow victories. If your company perishes, your endurance will not earn you glory—only emptiness.”

The boy’s grin faltered, though he muttered something under his breath about “carrying the lot.”

Lucien glanced around. He saw fear in some faces, determination in others, and a thin gleam of ambition in a few more. Already, lines were being drawn. Some would fight to preserve their company. Others would use the Circle to prove themselves, even at the expense of allies.

So you can survive alone, Lucien thought grimly, but not truly win. A cruel test.

---

They were granted a short reprieve before the trial began, time enough for the moon to climb higher.

Lucien found himself sitting on the cold steps of the colonnade. Rowan lingered near, silent but reassuring in his presence. Around them, aspirants gathered in small clusters.

There was Marian Dhoren, tall and stern, the spear across her knees gleaming with fresh polish. She moved the whetstone down its length with the precision of a ritual, her expression hard as carved stone. Few dared interrupt her.

Nearby, Seraine Vos leaned against a pillar, her dagger spinning between nimble fingers. Her eyes missed nothing—sharp, assessing, calculating who might be useful, who might falter.

And Toren Malrik, the scarred boy, paced with restless energy, throwing practice punches at the air. “The Circle won’t know what hit it,” he boasted loudly, making sure everyone heard. “I cut down more phantoms in the labyrinth than half of you put together. My company better keep up—or step aside.”

Kalen Veyr, lean and long-limbed, smirked at him. “Boast all you like. The Circle favors those who adapt, not those who bark.”

That drew a ripple of laughter from a few aspirants, though Toren only sneered.

Lucien watched them all, memorizing names and faces. Allies? Rivals? In this place, the line blurred too easily.

Beside him, Caelith sat quietly, his journal balanced on his knees. He did not write, only traced his fingers along its worn spine. His pale hair caught the moonlight, silvered to near-white.

Lucien leaned closer. “I saw him,” he murmured, voice hoarse.

Caelith glanced up, his eyes cool, probing. “Who?”

“Arian.” The word burned on his tongue. “In the labyrinth. He was waiting for me. Smiling. I almost—” Lucien broke off, jaw tightening. “It felt so real.”

Caelith was silent for a long moment. At last he reached out, his hand brushing lightly against Lucien’s. “The labyrinth strikes where it hurts most. It takes from the heart. That you walked out means you were stronger than its illusions.”

Lucien searched his face, aching for that steadiness. “And you? What did it show you?”

Something flickered across Caelith’s expression—quick, sharp, gone as soon as it appeared. He shook his head. “Nothing worth speaking of.” His gaze shifted toward the arena. “Save your strength for the Circle.”

Lucien wanted to press, but the look in Caelith’s eyes warned him away.

---

When the moon reached its zenith, the examiner returned.

“Form ranks.”

The scroll unfurled, glowing with names.

“Group Six. Caelith of Elorien. Marian Dhoren. Kalen Veyr.”

Lucien’s chest tightened. Not with me.

Caelith rose with quiet grace, shoulders squared despite the faint tremor in his hands. He stepped forward, pausing only long enough to glance back. A faint smile ghosted his lips. “Don’t falter, Lucien.”

Lucien managed a crooked grin. “Only if you don’t.”

Then the scroll shimmered again.

“Group Seven. Lucien Veynar. Toren Malrik. Seraine Vos.”

Toren cracked his knuckles and grinned wolfishly at Lucien. “Try not to slow me down, Veynar. I don’t carry corpses.”

Seraine said nothing, but her dagger stilled in her hand as her gaze slid over him—cool, clinical, as though measuring his worth.

Rowan’s voice carried from the sidelines, firm but steady. “Remember—resolve alone will not save you. Guard each other’s backs, or you will all fall.”

Toren snorted. “We’ll see.”

Lucien’s fingers brushed the earring at his ear, his resolve steeling. I will not be the weak link.

The examiner’s staff struck stone.

The arena blazed with light.

The Circle’s fire roared higher, twisting into forms that broke free of the flame. Shadows hardened into shapes with blades for arms and faces like molten masks.

The trial had begun.

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