Chapter 32: Trial by Fire

*Date: 33,480 First Quarter - Chalice Theocracy*

The morning bells rang heavy and final, echoing through the stone halls of the dormitory like a death knell. Each toll seemed to vibrate through the walls and into Aris's bones, carrying with it the weight of what was to come.

Aris stirred in his narrow bunk, nerves twisting his stomach into knots. He had barely slept, spending the night listening to the lizardkin's groans from the common room, the teachers' cold dismissal of violence, the muttered whispers of "tradition" that seemed to follow every act of cruelty in this place. He had hoped for another slow day of study, maybe another chance to sneak into the library with Lyra's help and gather more intelligence. Instead, the bells kept tolling with relentless finality. Today was no ordinary day.

The door creaked open with deliberate slowness. An Academy official, robed in gray and carrying a heavy ledger bound in black leather, stepped inside. His eyes swept the boys' dormitory with clinical detachment, like a butcher examining livestock.

"First-years," he said flatly, his voice carrying no warmth or encouragement, "prepare yourselves for transport to your first dungeon trial. You will leave within the hour. Bring only your Academy-issue tunics, belts, and your own hands. No familiars. No potions. No contraband of any kind."

His gaze lingered briefly on Fox, who raised his head from Aris's bed with alert amber eyes.

"That beast remains behind," the official said sharply, pointing directly at Fox. "Is that understood?"

Aris nodded stiffly, biting his tongue to keep from protesting. Every instinct screamed against leaving Fox behind, but he had learned the cost of defiance in this place.

"Report to the courtyard when ready. Templars will escort you to the city portal." With that, the man ticked something in his ledger with mechanical precision and left, closing the door without ceremony.

The silence that followed was broken by Auren's nervous laugh, but the sound was hollow and forced. "Well, that's it. Guess we're getting thrown into the meat grinder now."

Orric shook his head, his wolf ears flicking with irritation. "You don't have to sound so eager about it. Remember what he said: no familiars, no potions. They're stripping us bare before sending us into danger."

"Stripping us? More like slaughtering us." Irielle the fae-blooded boy with the moth familiar lay back on his bunk, wings of pale shimmer folded against the wood. His moth fluttered once in distress before he waved it off with gentle fingers. "Good luck to anyone who can't light a spark or swing a blade. Half of us will be eaten before we find the exit."

Daro, the halfling, fiddled nervously with his empty satchel. "Don't say that. They wouldn't send us to die, right? It's the first trial. They said it's about learning."

"Learning who survives, maybe," Kaelen muttered darkly. He was standing near the door, already dressed in his Academy tunic, his scarred face set in grim lines. His eyes avoided Orric's completely.

"I thought you had a new room now," Orric said, his voice carefully neutral.

"I'm just looking to see who might survive," Kaelen replied coldly.

Aris tied his laces with shaking hands, his heart pounding against his ribs like a caged bird. No familiars. Fox couldn't come. The thought of stepping into some unknown dungeon without even his silent companion felt like losing an arm. Fox had been his constant presence, his source of wisdom and comfort in this nightmare place.

Fox padded to his side, pressing his warm head against Aris's knee. "I'll wait. Don't get yourself killed, boy." His words were low, meant only for Aris's ears.

Aris swallowed hard around the lump in his throat. "I'll come back. I promise."

They filed out together, joining the stream of other first-years heading toward the Academy's eastern courtyard. The stone square was filled with nervous chatter, one hundred students in pale gray tunics and leather belts, stripped of everything else that might help them survive. The chill morning air did nothing to calm the fear that radiated from the gathered students like heat from a fire.

At the front, rows of templars in steel half-plate and white tabards waited with military precision, swords belted at their sides like promises of violence. Priests stood among them, their staves capped with silver Chalice emblems, their faces serene in a way that felt deeply unsettling.

When the tally reached ninety-nine, the templars barked for silence with voices that brooked no argument. The official with the ledger returned, closing the book with a snap that seemed to echo in the sudden quiet.

Aris frowned, whispering to Orric, "Wait. Ninety-nine? Weren't there supposed to be a hundred of us?"

Orric's ears twitched, his wolf-blood sharpness catching the same detail. "Didn't you hear? One of us died. Down in the basement alchemy labs."

Aris blinked in shock. "What? How?"

"Brewing alchemy," Orric muttered, his voice grim. "They said he inhaled something wrong while experimenting. No one stopped him. No supervision. Guess he won't be counted in our class anymore."

Aris's stomach churned with a cold realization. They hadn't even entered the dungeon, and someone was already gone. The Academy's casual disregard for student safety was becoming clearer with each passing day.

The march began with military precision.

The templars led the way, their boots striking the stone road in perfect rhythm that echoed off the surrounding buildings. Priests followed, murmuring prayers that sounded more like incantations than blessings. The ninety-nine students trailed behind, hemmed in on all sides by their escorts like prisoners being led to execution.

Once, Aris had seen old Realmforge promotional videos, where players paraded proudly through cities before their trials, celebrated and showered with flowers and cheers from admiring crowds. This procession was nothing like that fantasy.

The streets of Chalice were lined with townsfolk, their curious eyes peering over shoulders and under hoods with the morbid fascination of people watching a funeral procession. Mothers lifted children to see, their faces solemn. Merchants leaned from their stalls, business forgotten. Nobody cheered. Nobody smiled. The procession moved in silence but for the clank of templar armor and the whisper of priestly robes against stone.

And everywhere, guards. Templars stationed at corners like sentinels, priests at intersections, the ever-present eyes of the Chalice Theocracy watching everything and everyone.

Aris shivered despite the morning warmth. It didn't feel like a parade of heroes heading to prove themselves. It felt like wolves escorting sheep to a dragon's maw.

At last they reached the city's heart, where the portal complex dominated the central square. Once, the portals had been open to the air, Realmforge's shining centerpiece of magical technology. Now a colossal canvas tent smothered the square, its sides reinforced with wooden stakes and guarded day and night by armed templars.

The templars ushered them inside with sharp commands and sharper glares.

The swirling portal dominated the tent's center like a captured storm, silver and blue energy coiled within an iron ring etched with runes that hurt to look at directly. It pulsed with alien life, hungry and waiting.

Aris's throat went dry as desert sand.

"This portal," a priest intoned in a voice that carried absolute authority, "is your path to trial. Remember our words: no aid from others, no familiars, no potions. Only your hands, your minds, and the Chalice's judgment will determine your fate."

Students were taken one by one, names called from the ledger, shepherded forward by robed officials who showed no more emotion than butchers processing cattle. Each student vanished into the swirling light with a ripple, disappearing as if they had never existed.

Minutes stretched like hours. Aris's palms were slick with sweat as he watched his classmates disappear. He saw Daro vanish with a terrified whimper, then Irielle with his head held high, then a boy he'd never spoken to who looked barely old enough to be here. Each time, the portal swallowed them whole, leaving no trace of their passage.

Finally, a hand tapped his shoulder with impersonal efficiency.

"Aris Orvellis."

The shepherd official looked him up and down with cool detachment, measuring him like a piece of meat. "Ready, shorty?"

Aris stiffened at the casual insult. He wasn't particularly short, not really. But he caught the hint the man was trying to provoke a reaction, maybe even trying to be encouraging in his own twisted way.

He nodded, though his legs trembled like a newborn colt's.

The portal roared like a living thing. He stepped forward into the swirling energy.

And the world shattered around him.

They reappeared in a cavern vast enough to house a cathedral, its ceiling lost in shadows that seemed to move and writhe. Stalactites dripped moisture from above, and the walls showed clear signs of being carved by intelligent hands rather than natural forces. The air reeked of damp stone and something metallic that might have been old blood.

Aris staggered as the magical transport released him, catching his balance as the shepherd guided him forward with an impersonal hand on his shoulder.

The cavern's center was a circle of smooth stone, worn by countless feet over untold years. Around its edge yawned two dozen smaller tunnels, each marked with glowing runes: A1 through A24. The symbols pulsed with their own internal light, casting eerie shadows on the cavern walls.

The shepherd raised his hand, pointing toward one of the tunnel mouths. "Aris Orvellis. You'll be entering A7. Good luck."

And just like that, the man vanished in a flash of magical light, leaving Aris completely alone before the dark mouth of his trial.

Aris's breath echoed in his ears, too fast, too loud. His chest rose and fell rapidly as panic threatened to overwhelm him.

He wasn't ready. He didn't feel ready. None of them were ready for whatever lay beyond that threshold.

But this was it. This was the moment that would define whether he lived or died, whether he had what it took to survive in this twisted version of the world he had once loved.

With one last gulp of stale cavern air, he stepped toward the tunnel marked A7, his footsteps echoing in the vast space like the heartbeat of some great beast.

Behind him, the portal chamber fell silent. Ahead, darkness waited with infinite patience.

The trial had begun.