Into the circle

The Circle flared alive with a roar like rushing wind. Flames surged higher than the walls, enclosing the aspirants in a vast ring of light. Within, the arena floor smoothed into pale stone, scored faintly with ancient runes that pulsed as though remembering old battles. The heat pressed close, prickling skin, burning away hesitation.

The examiner’s staff struck once. “Begin.”

The fire convulsed. From it, shapes clawed their way into existence—warriors wrought of molten iron and shadow, their limbs blade-sharp, their faces blank masks of ember light. They carried no weapons, for they were weapons. Three rose at first, then six, then more, until the arena swarmed with them, each set upon a different group.

Lucien’s pulse hammered. His hand went instinctively to his sword hilt, and for a breath he felt the weight of Arian’s gaze at his back—illusory, gone in a blink. Not here. Not now.

A roar split the air as Toren Malrik charged, scarred jaw twisted in a grin. He met the nearest shadow-warrior head-on, fists swinging with reckless force. His blow connected; the creature staggered but did not fall.

“Idiot,” Seraine hissed, darting past him. Her twin daggers flashed, carving shallow lines into its molten form. Where she struck, the fire dimmed, but not enough to end it.

Lucien drew steel, the familiar weight steadying him. He slid in behind Seraine’s feint, blade angling low. His strike cut through the creature’s leg, and this time it toppled, crumbling into smoke that hissed away on the heated air.

“One down,” he muttered.

“Don’t get cocky,” Seraine shot back, already turning to the next.

Across the arena, chaos reigned. Marian Dhoren’s spear blazed as she drove back two opponents at once, her strikes precise, economical, every movement honed by discipline. Kalen Veyr circled her flanks, blade darting in quick jabs to exploit her openings. 

Between them, Caelith stood at the rear, hand pressed to the runes etched into his journal. Threads of cold light spilled from his fingertips, lancing into the enemy like frozen arrows.

Even from afar, Lucien could see the toll it took—his pale hair plastered to his forehead, his shoulders trembling—but Caelith did not falter.

Lucien’s chest tightened, but he wrenched his attention back. Focus. Survive. Don’t falter.

---

Two groups down, the Circle’s cruelty deepened. More warriors emerged, this time larger, their molten bodies glowing brighter, their steps shaking the stone. Three of them descended on Lucien’s team at once.

Toren whooped. “Finally, something worth hitting!” He lunged, fists blazing as he called some inner strength Lucien hadn’t seen before. His strikes landed with a thunderous impact, denting the creature’s chest. But he was reckless, wide open.

Lucien shouted, “Toren, left!” He lunged to intercept another warrior’s blade-arm, sparks flying as steel met molten fire. The heat seared his knuckles, but he held, pushing back.

Seraine darted behind Toren, blades a blur. “Keep him upright,” she barked. “He’ll kill us all if he gets skewered.”

“I heard that!” Toren bellowed, even as he caught a glancing slash across his arm. Blood welled, sizzling on the hot stone.

Lucien gritted his teeth. So this is what Rowan meant. Guard each other, or fall.

He shifted his stance, putting himself between Toren and the second warrior. His sword whistled, biting deep into its side. Flame burst outward, forcing him back, but the creature staggered.

Seraine struck the opening, her daggers plunging into its chest. With a hiss, it collapsed into smoke.

“Two left!” she shouted.

But elsewhere, not all were faring as well.

To the left, a trio of younger aspirants fought desperately. One screamed as a molten blade pierced his shoulder, dropping him to the ground. His companions hesitated, torn between saving him and fending off the relentless enemies. Their formation crumbled.

“Help them!” Lucien started forward, but Seraine’s hand shot out, grabbing his wrist.

“No,” she snapped. Her eyes were hard, calculating. “You break formation, we die too.”

Lucien’s jaw clenched. He looked back—saw the downed boy writhing, his companions overwhelmed. A moment later, the Circle swallowed them whole, their bodies vanishing into smoke. Their cries cut off as if the arena itself had devoured them.

Lucien’s stomach lurched. They’re gone. Just like that.

The Circle gave no second chances.

---

The last of their three attackers pressed hard, swinging its bladed arms in brutal arcs. Toren ducked one strike, only to be clipped across the shoulder. He staggered, teeth bared.

Lucien caught the second strike on his sword, sparks blinding him. The molten heat seared close, threatening to sap his strength.

Seraine slid low, slicing across its legs. “Now, Veynar!”

Lucien roared and drove his sword down, straight into the creature’s skull. With a shriek of steam, it disintegrated, leaving only a scorch mark on the stone.

For a moment, silence. Only the crackle of fire and the ragged breaths of the survivors.

Then the Circle shifted again.

This time, the flame twisted not into warriors, but into beasts—wolfish shapes with ember eyes and fangs of iron. They slunk forward in packs, targeting multiple groups at once.

Lucien’s stomach turned to stone.

---

The beasts descended.

Marian’s spear whirled, fending off two at once, her precision unshaken even as Kalen shouted warnings. Caelith’s voice rose—an incantation this time—and frost spread across the stone, slowing the beasts’ charge. 

But Lucien saw the strain in his friend’s face, the way his lips trembled between words.

“Hold, Cael,” Lucien whispered under his breath, though Caelith could not hear him.
Closer to hand, two wolves lunged at Lucien’s group. Toren met the first with a brutal punch that shattered its jaw, flames exploding outward. The second barreled toward Seraine.

Lucien didn’t think. He threw himself between them, sword flashing. His blade caught the beast across its throat, splitting molten sinew. Fire sprayed, searing his arm, but he held fast until it collapsed.

Seraine’s eyes widened briefly. Then she nodded once, quick and sharp. “Not bad.”

Lucien almost laughed, though it came out more as a growl. “Try to sound less surprised.”

Toren cackled, blood running down his arm. “Finally—some teamwork!”

But their small victories were swallowed by the larger chaos. Another group—this one led by the boastful scarred boy from earlier—fell to the wolves, their screams torn away as fire consumed them. One by one, aspirants vanished from the arena, leaving only smoke in their place.

The Circle did not care for pride, nor for hesitation. Only survival through unity.

---

By the time the beasts thinned, the arena floor was littered with scorch marks and the stench of burnt stone. Of the original twelve groups, fewer than half remained.

Lucien’s chest heaved, his arm seared, his sword hand numb. Toren bled freely but still grinned, while Seraine’s eyes burned cold, calculating their chances.

Across the arena, Lucien caught one last glimpse of Caelith. His friend stood unbowed, though his journal shook in his grasp, frost still clinging to the stone beneath his feet. Their eyes met—icy blue to gold—for the briefest instant.

Lucien straightened, gripping his sword tighter. We’ll endure. Both of us.

The Circle roared anew, flames twisting into fresh horrors. The trial was far from over.

•••