1. Shadows Beneath the Ceremony
The sky over Astrenys blushed with the colors of dusk—wine-red, ember-orange, and gold. The city below buzzed with anticipation.
The Night of Inheritance only occurred once per reign. Traditionally, it was a symbolic trial for rising nobles—those born of blood but not yet proven. Success meant public favor and political clout. Failure meant irrelevance. Or worse.
For Kaelen, it was more than ceremony. It was the perfect opportunity for Therin to publicly break him.
And for Kaelen… it was a battlefield draped in gold.
Inside the Hall of Swords, palace servants scurried to prepare the rite. Runes lit beneath the mosaic floor, glowing with ceremonial power. On the balcony, nobles gathered like crows on a gallows, sipping wine as though death weren't an option below.
Kaelen stood in a velvet chamber reserved for champions.
Lyse tightened his shoulder straps.
"You'll be fighting with spectacle blades," she said. "Dulled edges. Non-lethal—officially."
He met her gaze. "And unofficially?"
"There's always blood," she said quietly. "And Therin's planted two competitors. One's an assassin."
Kaelen nodded once.
A soft knock came from the doorway. Aelira entered, cloaked in crimson and gold. Her hair was braided with starlight filaments, and her expression was unreadable.
"The arena awaits, heir of D'Zareth," she said. "Try not to die. I just bound my soul to yours."
Kaelen allowed himself a half-smile.
"No pressure, then."
2. The Arena of Masks
When Kaelen stepped into the Arena of Inheritance, the crowd roared.
Twelve noble heirs stood in a circle, each wearing their house sigils, their eyes masked in ceremonial silver. The trial was one of identity—not just combat.
None knew who would betray whom. Alliances could form mid-fight. Each challenger bore three tags stitched into their collar. Lose all three, and you were disqualified. Or dead.
A masked herald called out the rules:
"You fight until ten remain. You may form pacts. Break them. Deceive. Conquer. The phoenix rises only by fire!"
Kaelen's silver mask gleamed under the sun-mirrored dome.
He breathed in once.
Then the bell tolled.
3. Battle Beneath the Gilded Dome
Chaos exploded.
Steel rang out across marble. Heirs lunged at each other with grace and fury. Spectacle blades clashed, cracked, and shattered.
Kaelen moved with a predator's calm. He deflected one heir's charge, spun, and tore a tag from their back with a flick of his blade.
He whispered as he passed, "Your technique is sloppy."
Another heir lunged—twin daggers flashing. Kaelen ducked, let the attacker pass, then delivered a backward slash that tore both daggers from their hands.
Two more tags. Five left.
He turned—and found himself face to face with a masked woman wielding a polearm shaped like a crescent moon.
Her voice, low and teasing: "Didn't think you'd be this good."
"Aelira," he murmured.
"You recognize my voice?"
"I'd recognize your heartbeat in a storm."
She laughed—genuine. Then struck.
Their blades met with a metallic shriek. They moved like dancers—every strike rehearsed, every dodge almost a caress. She slashed near his face and whispered:
"Third heir. Black sigil. Poisoned blade. Watch him."
Then she spun and vanished into the fray.
Kaelen smiled beneath his mask.
4. The Poisoned Blade
Kaelen turned just in time to see the third heir—a muscular boy in violet—drop an opponent with a swift, low slash.
That blade gleamed oddly. Too black. Too smooth.
Poison.
Kaelen rushed him. Their blades met, and the third heir laughed.
"You're not the prince. He died."
Kaelen leaned in, twisting his blade into a lock.
"Then why are you afraid of me?"
He wrenched the blade aside and drove an elbow into the man's throat. As the heir fell, gasping, Kaelen tore his final tag.
Seven remained. The battle slowed.
Only the strongest—or the most cunning—still stood.
One girl dropped her blade and yielded. Another limped to the edge, blood on her neck.
That left five.
Kaelen. Aelira. A stone-faced swordsman in red. A twin-blade rogue in white. And… a fourth figure, robed in black and still hooded.
The robed one hadn't moved the whole fight.
Therin's pet.
Kaelen stepped forward. "Come then. Show me what you are."
The robed figure raised its head.
A porcelain mask.
Another assassin.
5. The Assassin's Game
The assassin attacked without warning—fast, brutal, silent. Their strikes were angled not for tags—but for death.
Kaelen parried, barely, and fell back. The rogue in white tried to interfere and was dropped in a single blow.
The crowd gasped.
Not part of the game anymore, Kaelen thought grimly.
He heard Lyse's voice from somewhere above—calling his name.
Then Aelira stepped beside him, spinning her polearm into guard.
"Two against one?" she said. "That's not fair."
The assassin laughed.
A sound Kaelen knew.
"Rorik," he breathed.
A ghost from his past life. A killer loyal to Therin, thought dead.
"You're not even a true heir," Rorik said. "You're just a memory clinging to a dead name."
Kaelen met his eyes coldly.
"Then let me haunt you."
They moved.
Kaelen and Aelira struck in perfect synchrony—one low, one high. Rorik blocked Aelira but left his side open. Kaelen drove his blade forward.
It scraped bone.
Blood sprayed.
Rorik staggered—but not before slicing toward Aelira's throat.
Kaelen moved between them and took the blow across his back.
He dropped to one knee—but kept his grip.
Aelira screamed.
Then she drove her blade into Rorik's chest.
The assassin fell.
Silence descended.
6. The Declaration
The game was over. The ten survivors stood—or limped—before the Council.
Kaelen bled from his side, but he didn't falter.
Chancellor Veris stood, robes billowing.
"This inheritance trial has concluded. Those who proved worthy shall ascend. Do you have final words, Kaelen D'Zareth?"
Kaelen stepped forward. His voice cut through the hush like a blade.
"Yes. One."
He drew a scroll from his sleeve—sealed in red wax.
"I claim right not only as heir of House D'Zareth—but as rightful Prince of Flame, first in the line of succession."
Gasps rippled.
Even Veris recoiled.
Kaelen turned toward the nobles.
"If you would deny me—then declare war now. Otherwise, kneel before your phoenix."