The carriage smelled like sweat, dust, and fear.
Hardly surprising—nearly thirty children were crammed into a space made for half that number. Though smaller than grown men, children still took up space, and the air had long since turned stifling.
Kael wedged his scrawny body into a cramped corner, silently watching the others. It didn't take long to see that the group had divided itself—into layers.
At the center sat a boy in embroidered robes, clearly the oldest—maybe thirteen. His name was Darian Vale. The trial was supposed to be for children under twelve, but Kael had overheard whispers that Darian's cousin was a high-ranking member of the Celestbound Covenant.
Rules, it seemed, bent easily for the well-connected.
Darian came from a wealthy family. He'd trained in martial arts since childhood. Not that he was particularly skilled, but compared to boys like Kael—who'd never thrown a real punch—he was a mountain.
Naturally, Darian was the self-declared boss of the group.
Clustered around him were eager flatterers—sons of shopkeepers, apprentice craftsmen, stable boys. They had nothing in common except a keen nose for hierarchy. They called him Young Master Vale or Big Brother Darian and laughed at all his jokes.
Kael's kind—the quiet, the poor, the rural—huddled near the walls. There were maybe five or six of them. They said little, eyes down, trying not to be noticed.
The carriage rattled westward from Ashveil Crossing, stopping in towns along the way to gather more candidates. Dust clung to their skin. The days blurred into cramped limbs, whispered stories, and sleepless nights.
On the fifth day, they arrived.
Emberfall Ridge rose before them like a wall of flame. Jagged cliffs bathed in gold and crimson towered into the sky, their edges catching the last light of the setting sun.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Then came a barked command. "Eyes up! Keep moving!"
Protector Wynne led them forward.
The ridge had once been called Phoenixfall, named for a legendary five-colored phoenix said to have died there. Since the Covenant took over, the name had changed—and so had everything else.
The main peak, Sunreach, loomed high above. Thirteen checkpoints—some hidden, some obvious—lined the only path to its summit. It was said to be impenetrable to outsiders.
As the children climbed the stone steps, a voice boomed across the path.
"Wynne! Two days late!"
A red-faced elder stood at the gates, arms crossed.
Protector Wynne bowed. "Apologies, Master Yuren. We were delayed on the road."
Yuren grunted. "Seventeenth batch?"
"Yes, sir."
Yuren scanned the group. "Guest Quarters. Let them rest tonight. Selection begins at dawn. Any failures—send them down before they break something."
"Understood."
Excitement hummed in the air, but no one dared speak. Even Darian kept quiet now.
They climbed higher, passing disciples in teal robes who nodded as they passed. Some carried blades, others bows, and still others strange pouches or scrolls. Even unarmed, they moved like wolves—quiet, alert, dangerous.
Eventually, they reached a smaller peak with a few earthen buildings. That night, Kael lay awake, heart pounding.
He dreamed of golden robes. Of a shining sword in his hand. Of defeating the blacksmith's son from the village.
He woke smiling.
But there was no breakfast.
Without a word, Wynne marched them to a bamboo-covered slope, where Master Yuren waited with several younger disciples in the robes of the inner sect.
The trial was about to begin.