The examiner moved through the clearing like a slow tide, handing out papers with the same impassive calm he wore in every other moment. When his fingers finally stopped in front of their little cluster—Shawn, Lucas, Drew and Jennie—the world seemed to narrow to the scrape of parchment.
Lucas took his sheet with hands that still shook from the duel. He unfolded it, eyes scanning the neat, stamped lines. A small, honest grin tugged at his mouth. The numbers were modest—mostly ones and twos, endurance and adaptability a touch higher—but the verdict at the bottom was clean and bright.
Overall: Pass. Eligible for next act.
"That's… not bad," Lucas said, almost to himself. He lifted the paper and showed it to Drew with an easy, proud little bounce. "Look—passed."
Drew leaned over, eyebrows rising at the same lines Lucas had read. "Solid," he agreed, clapping Lucas on the shoulder. "You held your own."
Shawn leaned against a post, arms folded, pretending to be the picture of bored indifference as he tucked his paper out of sight like a kid hiding candy. Drew, who'd never mastered subtlety, cocked an eyebrow and made a show of reaching for Shawn's hand—then dove in, grabbing and wrestling him in a loud, silly scuffle. Shawn elbowed, shoved, and put on a mock stern face, but the whole thing smelled of play; the two of them rolled like boys in a game, more giggle than grudge.
Lucas waited until Drew had Shawn pinned with an exaggerated groan, then darted forward with the speed of someone stealing a cookie. He plucked the paper from Shawn's sleeve and froze, eyes going wide.
All five stars.
Jennie, who'd been watching quiet as a shadow, stepped up and leaned over his shoulder, peeking at the sheet with the same calm curiosity she'd worn in the duel. Meanwhile Drew and Shawn continued their noisy, good-natured wrestling in the background—Drew gloating, Shawn feigning outrage—so absurd it made Lucas laugh despite himself.
He read again, slower. Combat: 5 stars. Endurance: 5 stars. Tactical IQ: 5 stars. Every column glittered with the same impossible rank.
Jennie had been the only one in their quartet to lose her duel
"What did you get, Jennie?" he asked.
She lifted her own paper the way she always did: guarded, as if sharing numbers were revealing something private. When Lucas glanced down, he saw rows of fours and a smattering of twos and threes. Strong. Calm. Efficient.
"Passed," she said, voice small, and then folded the sheet away.
Drew slapped Shawn on the back with the sort of loud, delighted force that made heads turn. "Five stars? Of course you got five stars. Not surprised at all—only kind of mad I had to find out like that."
Shawn only shrugged. "Don't make a thing out of it." But the way he loosened a shoulder showed his satisfaction.
The examiner watched this little human drama with the same patient expression he used with the trials. He stepped forward and cleared his throat. "That concludes Act I," he announced, voice carrying across the clearing. "Those who have passed are eligible to continue to the next phase. Any disqualifications have been noted. Rest. Prepare. The trials will continue tomorrow."
A ripple of sound moved through the crowd—relief, applause, low murmurs of speculation. For Lucas, the moment was quieter: a struck, private mix of pride and hunger. He'd passed, yes—but the numbers on his sheet pinched at him like a challenge rather than comfort. Shawn's five stars glinted in memory like a light he wanted to reach.
Drew bumped his shoulder, pulling Lucas back from the loop of thought. "Come on," he said. "Celebrate tonight. You passed. We all did. That's what matters."
Lucas folded his paper, tucking it into his bandages. Around them, the camp began to wake with the rhythm of preparation—meals, mending, whispered plans. Jennie stepped closer to the little group for the first time, her expression softening by degrees.
They had finished phase one. They had qualified. But as Lucas watched Shawn walk away—easy, composed, impossibly competent—there was a steady, bright ember under his ribs. Passing was good. Getting stronger was next. And the next act would test more than just who could swing the hardest.
Night had settled on the camp like a soft blanket. Lanterns guttered; the low murmur of other tents made a warm hush around their small circle. Lucas, Drew, and Jennie sat near the fire. Shawn stood apart by his tent, silhouette sharp against the dim light. Lucas made a casual gesture—patting the ground beside him—and after a few curt signs and a reluctant look, Shawn walked over and folded himself into the circle as if he'd always meant to be there.
"Let's play a small game," Drew said, voice bright and a little too eager. "Everyone brings one question. We all answer."
Jennie's eyes slid from face to face, then she spoke, voice calm and precise. "Why do you all wish to be a warrior?"
Her question hung in the air and hit Lucas deeper than he expected. He braced to answer, but Shawn cut in first, as if he'd been waiting for the right night to say it aloud.
Shawn's jaw tightened. He stared into the fire for a long breath before speaking, each word measured. "I wasn't born into a kingdom," he began. "I came from a small tribe—closed off, proud. They had their own rules, their own little king. They kept us in a bubble, told us the outside was poison. We believed it because that's what they fed us."
He swallowed, and the line of his mouth softened. "When I was eight, everything burned. Raiders—maybe bandits, maybe soldiers—I don't remember clearly. I was away from the village. By luck, an old woman found me and took me in. Her son taught me to string a bow. He showed me how to hold steady when the world wanted me to shake."
Shawn's gaze lifted from the coals and found Lucas's face in the firelight. "That man died on a mission." He drew a slow breath. "Since then I wanted to be the thing he was—a warrior who does, who protects. To be stronger for those who can't be. And… maybe, if there's justice to be had, to answer with steel for what happened to him."
Silence followed—not the uncomfortable kind, but the kind that felt like everyone listening had leaned forward. Drew's face was raw with sympathy; Jennie's gaze was steady and small things—nodding, a soft tilt of the head—said more than she spoke. Lucas felt a tight, crowded ache in his chest: admiration for Shawn's honesty, and that small twist of selfish hunger he'd always tried to deny—the urge to be the one who could change a past like that.
Drew clapped a hand on Shawn's shoulder in a clumsy, affectionate salute. "That's… heavy. Good. That's real." His grin returned, but gentler.
Jennie folded her hands. "Thank you for telling us," she said simply.
Shawn gave a flat, almost embarrassed shrug. "Don't make it dramatic. I'm not looking for pity. Just… don't get in my way, okay?" The corner of his mouth twitched. It might have been a smile.
The game went on, but the fire felt warmer and their circle closer—each question a small crack that let them see one another's edges.
Lucas drew a slow breath, his fingers tightening around the hilt of the short stick he'd been poking the fire with. "I'm… an orphan," he began quietly. "I used to live in an orphanage at Oakridge. It wasn't much, but we had food, and a man who raised us like we were his own. He taught me swordsmanship, told me it wasn't about swinging harder—it was about knowing why you swing in the first place."
He paused, his eyes reflecting the dancing flames. "I had a friend there too. Someone brilliant. The kind of person you only meet once in a lifetime—smart, fast, always ahead of me no matter how hard I tried. He was... unstoppable."
Lucas's voice wavered. He swallowed hard, his jaw clenching, and when he continued, the warmth in his tone had burned away. "But one night… I found him. Standing over our master's body. The sword—our master's sword—was buried in him. And when he saw me, he ran. I tried to follow, but…" his hand trembled slightly, the knuckles whitening around the stick. "It wasn't enough."
The fire cracked loudly, the silence afterward heavier than before. Lucas's gaze dropped. "My master's last words were to find him—to pull him out of the darkness. But now…" His eyes narrowed, voice low and strained. "He's an outlaw. And to fight an outlaw…"
Drew's voice broke through, soft but steady. "You'd need to be a high three-star, maybe even a four-star warrior. You can't go outside without a mission permit."
He leaned closer, brows furrowed. "So… who's your outlaw friend?"
Lucas hesitated. His lips parted, then closed again. He stared into the fire as if it might swallow the truth for him. But finally, he forced the name out.
"L... L–Leo."
The sound of it was like a stone dropped in still water—small, but endless in how far it rippled.
Shawn's head jerked slightly, surprise flashing through his otherwise calm face. Jennie froze completely, the color draining from her expression. Her eyes widened, and she whispered almost under her breath, "Leo…?"
Even Drew, usually the loudest of them all, fell silent.
Lucas felt their stares—suspicion, shock, maybe even a touch of fear—but he didn't look up. He only added in a low, brittle tone, "I don't know what he's become now… but someday, I have to find him. No matter what it takes."
Jennie went still, the firelight melting from her face. For a long breath she said nothing, eyes fixed on the ground. Then the words came, slow and cold.
"Leo?" she repeated, as if testing the name. Her voice broke and then hardened. "The leader of the Phoenix—of the outlaws?" She rose like thunder, sudden and fierce, tears flashing at the corners of her eyes. "That bastard killed my brother."
She stormed toward Lucas, fury propelling her forward. Shawn was up in an instant, hand on her shoulder, steadying her before she could close the distance. The motion was firm, not violent—an invisible barrier that held her back. Jennie's shoulders heaved; after a moment she breathed out sharply and sat down again, the fight in her receding into a tremor.
Drew's voice cut through the aftershock, calm and flat. "That guy's caused the world enough pain."
"I know," Lucas managed, his voice rough and small. Jennie's words had punched a hole through whatever composure he'd tried to keep.
She spoke again, quieter now, as if forcing herself to shape the memory. "My brother was a four-star. He was assigned to hunt outlaws—specifically to track those tied to Leo. Back then Leo wasn't the shadow he is now. My brother followed him, thinking he was doing the right thing. It was a trap." Her hands clenched at her knees. "In his last moments… he chose to give up the names. He gave the locations of Leo's network instead of his own life."
Silence fell heavy. Even Shawn—who rarely showed more than the surface—remained motionless, watching her with a slow, unreadable intensity.
Everyone fell silent for a breath — the kind of silence that comes just before something breaks. Shawn's eyes flicked left and right, catching whispers and measuring them like a scout. Drew rose and cast one long look back toward the kingdom's outer gate, the great stone walls looming dark and immovable.
"Wanna know something inte—" he started, and the word died in his throat.
The wall answered for him.
A thunderous detonation ripped the morning apart. Stone screamed and broke; a cascade of boulders tore free and hurtled down the slope toward the camp like rolling suns.
Jennie moved before thought could reach her. She snatched up her spear and twisted, slipping through the impact of the first rock as it smashed into the earth where she'd stood a heartbeat before. Sand and dust sprayed up in a choking bloom.
Lucas froze — the sound of the blast had gone straight through him. For a second his legs would not obey; he stood rooted as more stones came, each one a falling mountain.
Shawn's hand closed on his shoulder with iron speed. He hauled Lucas out of the line of flight and shoved him behind a low mess table as a boulder thundered past, throwing up a geyser of grit. "Move!" Shawn barked, voice a blade.
Drew met another boulder head-on and shattered it into fragments with one savage swing. Grain and pebbles exploded outward like rain. Examiners came running from their posts, cloaks snapping, whistles shrieking orders, but the sky itself had changed its mood.
On the ramparts a silhouette unfurled, enormous against the broken stones: a dragon, scales glinting like dark metal. Figures perched on its back — too distant and high to make out clearly, only ragged shapes. The creature hurled flame that was not merely heat but hungry, molten fire that hissed and turned tent canvas to steam in an instant. Great gouts of lava-rough flame hit the ground and started swallowing tents.
Smoke and the reek of singed rope filled the air. Campfires were lost under falling masonry and rivers of heat. Screams braided with the snap of splintering wood. Drew moved like a machine, throwing himself between incoming fire and candidates, dragging people from the path of collapsing poles, pushing a stretcher clear of a burning tent. His face was a hard thing — angry, furious, unafraid.
Shawn shoved Lucas toward a nearby examiner and then vanished into the chaos, running to pull others to safety. For a sliver of a moment Lucas felt almost detached, the world around him becoming a smear of motion and sound.
Then he saw the arc — a single, terrible fireball carved high from the dragon's throat and tumbling in slow, murderous descent straight for the place where he crouched. He did not move. Shock held him like ice.
From somewhere to his left came the hiss of a bowstring and the sharp crack of an arrow. Shawn's voice cut through the roar: "FOCUS, Lucas!" The flaming missile fractured in mid-trajectory where Shawn's shot met it, scattering embers that rained harmlessly away.
Lucas groped for his sword as if for a lifeline. His fingers closed around leather and steel, but the world had narrowed to a thin, distant sound: someone shouting, the roar of the dragon, the crack of collapsing stone. Before he could gather himself, something heavy struck him full in the shoulder and sent a pain so bright it stole breath and sight.
He sagged and saw the ground tilt. For one ragged, lucid second his eye opened and caught a figure looming over him: tall, shoulders like a wall, an axe held easily in one scarred hand. The metal of the blade flashed, too bright and clean in the smoke. The man's hand — marked with lines of old scars — closed around the haft as if it had always belonged there.
Fire, screams, pain — then the dark swallowed him.