The situation with her peculiar group had not improved.

  The twins watched Vhas with unreadable expressions as he issued orders. Gal was only slightly taller than Dot; both were slim, with blond hair falling all the way to their waists. Gal was the more active of the two, chiming in on nearly everything that was discussed, while Dot remained on the sidelines. In fact, Vaenia hadn’t heard him say a single word since they’d been assembled.

  They wore gray leather trousers, a brown sash, and white silk shirts. Dot’s was dirtier, one of its upper buttons torn off—a detail that only emphasized his silence and discretion.

  The midday sun beat down on the sand of the Coliseum. The heat made sweat bead on foreheads even before the trial began, and the dust stirred by hundreds of Lynhes’ wings mixed with the heavy air, making it almost impossible to breathe. From the stands came cheers and laments, a tide of voices crashing against the stone walls like waves.

  Vaenia barely listened to her own group.

  Her heart raced—not because of what she was about to face, but because of Hyura. How was he doing? The knot in her stomach had more to do with him than with her own trial.

  She’d stopped searching for him in the crowd a while ago: spotting him among so many white-winged Lynhes was impossible.

  She gathered her hair with a distracted gesture, as if that small act could somehow order the chaos in her mind.

  “Getting pretty for the trials?” Vhas sneered, raising an eyebrow. “You do know this isn’t a theater play, right?”

  Vaenia glanced at him, tired of his tone.

  “You’d do well not to start like that,” she replied calmly. “We’re here to pass the trials. Nothing more.”

  Vhas let out a short laugh.

  “Start like that?” He stepped closer. “I’m not going to let someone like you make us look ridiculous.”

  “Then watch your tongue,” Vaenia replied without raising her voice. “Or we’ll draw attention from people we shouldn’t.”

  That stopped him.

  Just for a second.

  But it was enough.

  Vhas’s expression hardened. He wasn’t used to being contradicted—especially not without fear.

  “Listen carefully, tunnel rat,” he hissed, his voice thick with contempt. “I have an image to maintain. And I won’t let you ruin it.”

  Vaenia clenched her jaw. Her fists tightened, one breath away from violence.

  She thought of Hyura.

  Of the Coliseum.

  Of what was at stake.

  She looked away and said nothing.

  Vhas smiled, satisfied, as if he’d won something.

  “Good,” he continued, turning back around. “As I was saying before I was interrupted: the plan is simple.”

  He pointed at Bu.

  “He’s the biggest. He’ll carry the scroll.”

  He paused, adding without hiding his disdain:

  “Though I don’t trust his skill. Gal and Dot, you’ll protect him. I’ll take care of getting the other one.”

  The twins nodded without protest.

  “I’ve already spotted a weak group,” Vhas went on, smiling confidently. “I’ll get there first, take their scroll, and then we’ll regroup and move toward the goal together.”

  Vaenia watched him with a frown.

  “And me?” she asked flatly.

  Vhas shrugged.

  “Try not to get in the way. Make sure you can keep up. We all have to cross the line.”

  Heat rushed to her face, but Vaenia held back her response.

  It wasn’t a bad plan.

  Not with that group.

  And yet, something didn’t sit right.

  She adjusted her belt calmly as the idea began to take shape in her mind.

  But she said nothing.

  She would watch closely—and if Vhas’s plan showed even the slightest crack, she would intervene.

  She wouldn’t break the promise she’d made to Hyura for the pride of someone who’d never had to prove anything.

  The trumpets sounded, announcing the start of the trial.

  Groups began moving toward their designated areas. Tension thickened the air; wings beat, stirring gusts of wind that dragged dust across the sand and made tunics ripple.

  Vaenia took in her surroundings.

  Some youths trembled with nerves. Others warmed up with agile jumps or flaring wings, ready to launch. Some whispered improvised strategies; others simply observed in silence, eyes sharp as blades.

  When the soldier gave the signal, they moved as planned.

  Bu carried the scroll, flanked by Gal and Dot, who advanced on either side like attentive shadows. Vhas moved a few steps ahead, with the confidence of someone who knew he was being watched.

  At first, no group dared intercept them.

  It wasn’t just his skill. One look at Vhas was enough to understand that attacking him wouldn’t bring only defeat in the arena. Some names weighed more than scrolls… and no one seemed willing to bear that weight so early.

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  Vaenia noticed it immediately.

  Vhas shot forward like an arrow toward the group he’d chosen: five lightly built youths, all with white wings far too delicate for the brutality of the trial. They wore simple tunics, more suited to training than combat, and moved in tight formation, as if closeness were their only shield. The scroll was carried by a sharp-faced girl with restless eyes, who retreated the moment Vhas lunged.

  They didn’t give in without a fight.

  They moved like a small flock, trying to withstand the assault. One of the boys beat his wings hard, raising a cloud of dust to blind Vhas, while two others dove to flank him. One of the girls twisted midair in a precise maneuver, her silhouette cutting against the sun before she struck downward.

  It was useless.

  Vhas responded with speed and unfiltered violence. He dodged, countered without giving them room, and showed no restraint. Wooden blows rang out sharply, tearing cries of pain from them and dropping bodies that didn’t rise again.

  The scroll-bearer tried to flee. The last of her companions stepped in front of her… and fell instantly.

  Vhas caught the girl by the ankle and slammed her to the ground with a rough motion, wholly unfitting for a trial still called “strategic.” He took the scroll and turned away without looking back.

  From a distance, Vaenia watched.

  It hadn’t been a clean victory.

  Nor a smart one.

  Just fast… and cruel.

  She reached him and stepped directly in his path.

  “You’re despicable,” she said quietly. “And you know it.”

  The insult cut deeper than a slap.

  Vhas turned on her, his face flushed with rage, and raised his hand, ready to strike.

  Then Bu stepped forward.

  He stood out starkly from the rest: dark skin, short messy black hair, a round face, and narrow eyes that rarely showed resolve. He wore an old, dirty tunic in red and black tones, far too big for him, hanging heavy on his shoulders.

  “Try it…” he said, his voice trembling but firm, “and I’ll throw the scroll to the first group I see.”

  He placed himself between them like a wall.

  Silence fell instantly.

  The twins held their breath. Vaenia met Vhas’s gaze without stepping back. Rage burned in his eyes, crackling like a storm on the verge of breaking.

  The trial had advanced, and time was running out. Sweat streamed down faces; wings kicked up clouds of dust across the sand.

  Then it happened.

  The others smelled blood.

  The crack in that feared team was obvious—and there was no better moment to strike. The murmur in the stands swelled into a roar. White wings snapped open violently, and within seconds several formations descended on them like birds of prey.

  One group dove from above, using the sun head-on to blind them. Spread wings reflected the light in a brutal glare, and for an instant Vaenia could barely make out the shapes dropping toward them.

  Vhas surged forward in fury.

  Vaenia moved first.

  She narrowed her eyes, tested the sand with the tip of her foot, and when the first attacker dropped, she stepped aside at the last second. Using his momentum, she shoved him hard into the ground.

  The impact kicked up a thick cloud of dust.

  Blinded, the attacker’s formation broke, and the twins used the chaos to keep them at bay.

  They had no time to breathe.

  Another group—larger, heavier—charged in tight formation, a white wall advancing by brute force. Bu instinctively stepped back, but Vaenia planted herself in front of him.

  She slipped between two attackers with a quick motion, broke their balance with a twist of her wrist, and shoved them aside. Just enough.

  Bu reacted instantly. His strike was clumsy—but powerful. He sent them crashing to the ground.

  The wall cracked.

  Vhas exploited the opening and finished scattering them with sharp blows.

  The arena filled with shouts, dust, and wings beating furiously. The heat was suffocating; every clash stirred small storms that scraped skin and blurred vision.

  Then another group appeared.

  They descended in perfect spirals, planting their feet in the sand with unsettling precision to close the circle. Vaenia stepped forward before they could surround Bu.

  She waited for one of them to turn.

  Slipped beneath his wings and struck his legs. The Lynhe rolled across the ground.

  The pattern broke.

  The spiral lost meaning—like a flock robbed of flight.

  Other rivals tried feints, opening and closing their wings to destabilize them. The wind they stirred made Bu and the twins stagger.

  Vaenia placed a hand on Bu’s shoulder.

  “Watch their wings, not their eyes.”

  Bu nodded, tense.

  When one of the Lynhes lunged, Vaenia darted sideways, yanked the wooden weapon from his grip, and dropped him with a sharp elbow.

  Without rhythm, without coordination, the rest scattered.

  The final challenge was a group that covered one another, rotating in a tight circle like a true flock. They advanced like a white whirlwind—coordinated, relentless. The effect was intimidating: they seemed impenetrable.

  Vhas charged again and again, but couldn’t break the formation.

  It was Vaenia who saw the flaw.

  She studied the pattern. Waited. The moment one of them lifted his wings too high, she sprinted forward. Slid beneath the circle and struck the center with a clean kick.

  The rotation stopped.

  The flock shattered.

  Within seconds, the rest of her group drove them out of the fight.

  After several clashes, they reached the goal. They bore only a few bruises, sweat, and dust clinging to their skin.

  Vhas, by contrast, looked untouched—as if violence itself fed him.

  Vaenia, panting but upright, knew it with certainty: without her intervention, Bu would have fallen long before.

  Vhas was euphoric, intoxicated by victory. But he hadn’t forgotten the slight.

  He took advantage of the chaos at the end of the Strategy trial—the cheers, the dust hanging in the air, the guards’ attention scattered. He moved straight toward Vaenia and Bu.

  She was still sharing the victory with them when, suddenly, the hilt of a sword slammed into her face.

  The sharp blow sent her reeling. Something split open above her brow, and hot blood ran down her forehead, blinding her.

  Vaenia dropped to her knees… and rose immediately.

  She breathed hard but didn’t retreat. She crouched, grabbed her wooden sword, and with a speed no one expected, lunged at Vhas. The blow struck his stomach and tore a harsh gasp from him.

  Vhas staggered back, his face twisted with fury.

  He flared his wings and advanced on her, out of control.

  He never touched her.

  A clumsy sound—half roar, half groan—erupted beside him.

  Bu.

  Face contorted, hands shaking, he’d gathered every shred of courage he had left. He raised the heavy wooden mace—the same one he’d barely used during the trial—and brought it down in a brutal strike against Vhas’s side.

  The impact hurled the boy several meters across the sand, kicking up a thick cloud of dust.

  For a moment, the Coliseum fell silent. No one had expected that boy—old, dirty tunic, gentle appearance, uncertain gaze—to be the one to bring down the feared son of a councilor.

  Vhas rose with a snarl, his face twisted with rage, a dangerous fury burning in his eyes. He took a step forward—but before he could raise his weapon, several guards stepped in, surrounding him with crossed wooden spears.

  “Enough!” thundered a deep voice from above the arena.

  The murmur in the stands collapsed into expectant silence as a man descended the stone steps. He wore a blue tunic embroidered with silver thread, the seal of Lybendol on his chest. His bearing commanded respect—but it was his icy gaze that froze those present.

  It was Lucares.

  The air changed instantly. Guards lowered their heads slightly, tense, as if afraid of erring under that gaze. Even the crowd, boisterous moments before, fell into a reverent, uneasy silence. Some looked away, as though staring too long were dangerous.

  Vhas—who moments earlier had been roaring with rage—hesitated. He stepped back and swallowed, jaw tight. For the first time in the entire trial, he looked uncertain.

  Lucares stopped a few steps from his son. The tension became suffocating.

  “The trial has concluded,” he declared firmly.

  The guards forced Vhas back, restraining him. He lowered his head, but the fury in his eyes betrayed him.

  Vaenia, blood still streaming from her brow, looked at Bu. He panted, weapon still in hand, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d done.

  She clenched her teeth and raised her gaze toward the stands.

  Lucares’s eyes met hers.

  Cold.

  Implacable.

  A chill sank into her chest, as though that man could break her without moving a muscle. She’d endured blows, dust, and wings beating in fury—but nothing had shaken her like that look.

  Anger burned inside her.

  It wasn’t fair. Not to Bu, who had risked everything. Not to her, bleeding before everyone while Vhas hid beneath the shadow of a name.

  Fear gripped her… and at the same time forced her to remember why she was there.

  She closed her eyes for a moment, searching for breath.

  Then she thought of Hyura.

  Of his awkward smile. Of his quiet courage. Of the way he always looked at her, as if he believed in her even when no one else did.

  She clung to that memory like an anchor in the middle of the storm.

  And when she opened her eyes again, despite the blood and the pain, what shone in her gaze was no longer just fear or anger—but a steady spark of determination.