The gates of Ignis did not simply stand before them.
They loomed.
Two colossal slabs of obsidian veined with gold rose from the white stone road like the jaws of a slumbering god, their surfaces carved with constellations so intricate they seemed to bend the light around them. Each sigil pulsed faintly beneath the noonday sun—not glowing, but breathing—while the air trembled with a pressure deeper than heat or wind.
Kosmo.
Dense. Regulated. Old.
It pressed against Midarion's skin like deep water, heavy and deliberate. Filandra stirred faintly in the back of his mind, alert but restrained, as if even she understood the need for silence here.
Before the gates stretched a vast forecourt of blinding white stone, wide enough to swallow a city square. And filling it—
Ranks.
Endless ranks.
Hundreds upon hundreds of soldiers stood in disciplined formation, their armor lacquered red like banked embers. Sun-crested helms caught the light. Halberds rested against shoulders in flawless symmetry. Banners rippled overhead—midnight blue trimmed with gold—casting long, angular shadows across the ground.
This was not a checkpoint.
It was a warning, shaped from stone and steel.
Midarion reined his horse to a halt. The black steed snorted, stamping once, vapor curling from its nostrils. Reikika's white mare tossed her head, unsettled by the weight of the place. Behind them, the road they had traveled dissolved into memory—the Lawless Lands shrinking into pale distance. Ahead lay Ignis, heart of Astraelis, a city closer to order than mercy.
For a long moment, no one moved.
Then the formations shifted.
Boots struck stone in perfect unison. A corridor opened through the sea of red armor—precise, wordless—until two figures stepped forward.
Their armor bore the marks of long service. One was older, his beard grey, his mouth permanently set into disdain. The other stood half a step behind, younger, silent, watchful.
The older guard lifted a gauntleted hand.
"Halt."
His voice was controlled, practiced—polite in tone, not in spirit. His gaze moved quickly over them: travel-worn cloaks, dust-caked boots, bodies shaped by endurance rather than comfort. When his eyes reached Midarion's hair—deep blue, unmistakable—something sharpened.
"State your names," he said. "Your place of origin. And your business at the gates of Ignis."
"Midarion," he answered evenly. "This is Reikika. We seek entry."
Reikika straightened. "We come from Arechi, in the Lawless Lands."
The name did not echo.
It soured.
The guard's expression twisted. "Arechi," he repeated, as if tasting grit. "That pit."
A short, humorless laugh escaped him. "Thieves. Slavers. You ride far to bring filth to my gates."
"We only seek passage," Midarion said.
The halberd moved—smooth, practiced—until its blade crossed the space before them. Not touching. Close enough.
"You think Ignis opens itself to refuse?" the guard said coldly. "You think the capital welcomes whatever crawls out of the wastelands?"
Reikika's hand drifted toward her blade.
Midarion stopped her with a glance.
"We came for the Sentinel Trials," he said.
For a heartbeat, the world held still.
Then the guard laughed.
Not loud. Not warm. A harsh sound that scraped against marble and stone.
"The Trials?" he repeated. "From Arechi?"
He shook his head. "Ambitious. Delusional."
"We didn't say we came from slums," Midarion replied.
The laughter died.
"No," the guard said, stepping closer, lowering his voice as though naming a disease. "You come from worse."
He leaned in. "People from Arechi don't walk into Astraelis. Not unless they're dragged in chains. There's nothing there but beasts pretending to be human."
Reikika flinched.
Heat surged behind Midarion's eyes. Filandra's voice wrapped around his thoughts, cool and firm.
Not here.
He forced his breath steady.
"Are we allowed to register," he asked, "or not?"
The guard straightened. "No."
Reikika swallowed. "But the Trials are—"
"No," he snapped. "I will not have the capital polluted."
The word landed heavier than a blow.
Silence thickened. The ranks of soldiers did not move, but their attention sharpened, waiting.
Then another voice cut through the tension.
"That will be enough, Lorven."
The younger guard stepped forward.
He removed his helmet as he did, revealing dark hair pulled back neatly, his expression controlled but edged with irritation. His armor was immaculate, untouched by time.
"I was handling this," Lorven snapped.
"Poorly," the younger man replied calmly. "With all due respect."
He turned to Midarion and Reikika. "I am Krueger. Gate Captain, Third Division."
Lorven scoffed. "They aren't even from Astraelis."
"Which is precisely why this conversation should have started differently," Krueger said.
He faced the travelers fully. "Understand this. The Sentinel Trials are not open to the world."
Midarion frowned slightly.
"In Astraelis," Krueger continued, "those with aptitude are identified early. They are trained—academies, sanctums, Kosmo disciplines. The Trials exist to select the best among them."
Reikika's chest tightened.
"Outsiders are not permitted," Krueger said. "Unless they are recommended."
Midarion blinked. "Recommended?"
Krueger nodded. "By an authority recognized as supreme."
He paused. "Do you possess an invitation letter?"
Reikika froze.
Then her eyes widened.
"Oh."
She reached into her satchel, fingers fumbling past folded cloth and dried herbs, and withdrew a simple envelope. Plain. White. No seal. No crest. Only black ink, clean and deliberate.
Midarion stared. "We do?"
Reikika didn't answer. She handed it over.
Krueger opened the letter and read in silence.
His expression shifted—not to fear, not to awe—but to caution.
He folded the letter once and returned it without comment.
"This recommendation is valid," he said. "And exceedingly rare."
Lorven stiffened. "From who?"
Krueger's gaze flicked to him—sharp, final. "That is not your concern."
He gestured toward a pedestal beside the gates. A crystalline sphere rested upon it, black and gold swirling like distant stars caught in glass.
"The Kosmo-Sphere will verify your identities," Krueger said. "Place your hand upon it."
"What does it do?" Midarion asked.
"It determines whether you have entered Astraelis before," Krueger replied. "And whether your Kosmo carries criminal or corrupted markers."
"And if it doesn't approve us?" Reikika asked quietly.
Krueger met her eyes. "Then you do not leave this forecourt."
Midarion stepped forward.
The sphere was cold beneath his palm.
It pulsed once.
Then burst into brilliant white.
Krueger stiffened. "You've been in Astraelis before."
Midarion frowned. "I don't remember."
"That is not uncommon," Krueger said carefully. "Some visits are… adjusted."
Reikika stepped forward next. White light followed.
Krueger exhaled. "Brief visit. Years ago. With your parents."
"That sounds right," she murmured.
Krueger stepped aside and signaled.
Stone groaned.
Light spilled through.
"You have two days," he said. "Registration closes at sunrise."
"Registration for what?" Midarion asked.
Krueger looked at him. "The Trisolarium."
Reikika frowned. "What's that?"
Krueger paused, then answered.
"The greatest arena in Astraelis," he said. "Where futures are decided."
The gates opened fully.
"Welcome to Astraelis. And… good luck."
And Ignis swallowed them whole.