The Blood Trials were never meant to be fair.They were a tradition built on bloodline, brutality, and politics dressed in ceremony. In Vireon, survival wasn't simply about loyalty or merit—it was about spectacle. And nothing was more spectacular than nobles spilling one another's blood for prestige, inheritance, and power beneath the emperor's silent gaze.
But this time, there was no emperor.
Only a queen—and a prince trying to wear a crown that had never truly fit.
The Field of Names was a sacred arena, carved into the southern edge of the capital, half inside the mountain and half exposed to sky. The crowd filled the stone amphitheater by the thousands: nobles in velvet balconies, merchants in shaded pavilions, and commoners packed into the outer terraces like thunderclouds waiting to roar.
The air was charged. Trumpets blared. The court's colors waved: gold, crimson, and obsidian, rippling like fire. Beneath it all, a stage had been erected—carved obsidian, lined with enchantments, bearing the names of every competitor.
And Caelan—still wearing the face of Rael Aurelian—stood at its edge.
He wore no armor.
Just a dark tunic, a half-cloak clasped with silver, and a thin sword at his hip—a ceremonial blade, elegant and precise. He wasn't here to fight, not unless provoked.
He was here to move pieces.
Already, he had seen the lineup: fifty-eight competitors across five categories—Inheritance Disputes, Combat Trials, Noble Challenges, Foreign Delegation Matches, and the Duel of Claims. Each one carried risks. Some would die. Many would fall. But all eyes would be watching.
And Caelan's moment was coming.
Up in the royal balcony, Queen Elaria sat with unshakable poise, her red velvet gown pooling around her like spilt wine. Beside her, Prince Theron leaned forward, golden armor catching the sunlight. He looked young. Bold. Reckless.
Like a boy trying too hard to look like a man.
Below them, the High Chamberlain stepped forward and raised a crystal orb, amplifying his voice across the arena.
"Let all present bear witness!" he called. "The Trials of Blood begin now—by order of the crown, and for the glory of Vireon!"
A thunderous cheer erupted.
"Let the first match commence!"
The First Duel: House Lenmar vs. House Ivane
The combatants entered: Lord Atheon Lenmar, broad and brutal, wielding a hammer nearly the size of a door, versus Lady Kirel Ivane, thin, fast, and sharp-eyed with twin daggers glinting in her hands.
Caelan watched without blinking.
Kirel ducked. Atheon roared. Steel met steel. Dust exploded beneath their feet.
It wasn't just a duel—it was inheritance. Whoever won would control the copper-rich mines of Maredeth Valley. The crown watched not for style, but for blood.
Kirel won with a throat cut.
No applause—just silence. Then cheers. Then bets placed for the next match.
Three more duels followed.
One ended in dismemberment. One in mercy. One in shame.
But it was the fifth match that drew Caelan's attention.
Because his name was called.
Not for combat. Not for challenge.
But for claim.
"Lord Rael Aurelian," the announcer boomed, "has filed a claim under the Restoration Clause—demanding review and defense of House Aurelian's former holdings, annexed twenty years ago by House Fenlaeth following the supposed extinction of his line."
A hush spread across the crowd.
Then the second name followed:
"Lady Verria Fenlaeth, current holder of said lands, accepts the challenge."
Caelan stepped forward into the center of the obsidian arena as murmurs surged from every corner of the amphitheater.
His opponent followed: Verria Fenlaeth, tall, statuesque, wearing ceremonial battle robes over hardened leather, and eyes like flint. She carried a whip—coiled and waiting like a snake—and her smile was all teeth.
"You've got gall, Aurelian," she said under her breath as they met. "Rising from ash to throw dirt at my house?"
"I'm not throwing dirt," Caelan replied smoothly. "I'm reclaiming what's mine."
"Even if you win, you'll bleed for it."
Caelan gave a small, serene nod. "Then I'll make it worthwhile."
The duel did not require violence—it required evidence, or spectacle.
Caelan brought both.
As the court magistrates called for his statement, he unrolled a charter—a tattered original signed by King Valen himself, legitimizing his family's claim to the Aurelian mines.
The crowd gasped.
Verria countered by citing legal seizure through abandonment and wartime redistribution.
Then Caelan presented his second weapon: a copy of the military transfer orders from the Ironblood Revolt, showing House Fenlaeth's involvement in "protecting" the lands they later claimed—lands which had never seen a single battle, suggesting the "protection" was nothing more than occupation.
The crowd roared.
Verria's face twisted.
And when the magistrates asked if he had further proof, Caelan took a slow, deliberate step forward.
He unfastened a leather pouch and produced a small steel disk, engraved with the royal crest and sealed with wax.
A royal writ—sealed before King Valen's death—reserving the Aurelian lands in perpetuity to "any living descendant of House Aurelian, should one return."
That was the final stroke.
The magistrates convened.
Moments passed.
Then came the judgment.
"By royal writ and witnessed legacy," the high magistrate declared, "House Aurelian's claim is hereby restored."
The amphitheater erupted.
Not just in applause—but in alarm. Because a dead house had risen, and every noble watching now realized the rumors were true.
The ghost had returned—and he had teeth.
In the royal balcony, Prince Theron stood.
"What the hell is this?" he asked sharply.
Elaria didn't answer. She was watching Caelan—her expression unreadable, her fingers curled around her goblet like a vice.
"He's not a ghost," she whispered. "He's a storm."
By midday, chaos had taken root in the noble quarter.
Caelan returned to his estate flanked by whispers. Guards watched him. Messengers followed. His name began appearing in notes, in whispers, in ciphered letters passed between courtiers and faction leaders.
Lys Verenne was already waiting for him in his solar, reclining with a glass of citrus wine.
"Well," she said, grinning as he entered. "That was a bold move."
"It needed to be done."
"You didn't just win land. You declared war. House Fenlaeth will demand satisfaction, and the queen won't let a resurgent noble go unchallenged. She'll test your foundation. See if you crumble."
Caelan pulled off his gloves and poured himself a drink. "Then we show her I don't crack."
Lys raised an eyebrow. "You're making enemies faster than most nobles make alliances."
"I don't need most of them."
"You will. The Duel of Claims is only the first stage. The next round is direct combat. You'll need a champion—or you'll be forced to enter the field yourself."
Caelan paused.
"Then I'll find one."
Lys studied him for a long moment. "You're planning something else, aren't you?"
"I'm always planning something."
That night, the duel grounds were empty.
Only torchlight remained, flickering against the obsidian sand. Caelan stood beneath the western arches, alone—until the sound of metal boots approached.
A figure stepped into the arena.
Clad in full dark armor, face hidden beneath a mirrored helm. Their sword was curved, elegant, and not Vireon-forged. They moved like a predator.
Caelan didn't draw his weapon.
"You've watched me," he said.
The armored figure said nothing.
"You were in the audience," Caelan continued. "Section twelve. Second row. You leaned forward when I revealed the royal writ."
Still silence.
"I don't know who you are. But I suspect you know me."
The figure slowly reached up—and unfastened the helm.
The face beneath was young. Unmarked.
But the eyes—
Caelan froze.
Because the eyes were his.
Not by blood—but by memory.
"Your name," Caelan said quietly.
The youth bowed.
"Siran," he said. "Of House Vireon. Bastard-born, unclaimed. Raised outside the court."
Caelan's heart skipped a beat.
"You're…"
"My father was King Valen," Siran said. "He never acknowledged me. But I have his blood. And I've waited ten years to meet the only man who ever should have been king."
Caelan stepped forward. "Why reveal yourself now?"
"Because the queen will come for you. And when she does, you'll need someone willing to die on your command."
"Why would you follow me?"
Siran's voice was steady. "Because you're not just the rightful heir. You're the only one willing to destroy what's broken. And I'd rather die in a fire that changes the world than live in a palace that forgets my name."
By the morning of the second day of the Trials, Caelan's name sat atop every court ledger.
Whispers turned to rumors. Rumors turned to calls for allegiance.
And from the far side of the noble city, a sealed letter arrived—bearing the sigil of House Aureline, one of the most ancient bloodlines of Vireon, long thought to be neutral in all conflicts.
Caelan opened it slowly.
Lord Aurelian,You have drawn the eyes of those who once slept. If your aim is true, and your cause just, meet us beneath the Forgotten Library at moonrise. Bring no guard.—The Cinderhand
Caelan closed the letter.
Outside, the Trials continued.
But now, the war beneath the surface had begun in earnest.