The training grounds were quiet after dusk. Most champions had retreated to their quarters, nursing bruises and sharpening blades. But Kaelen remained, his sword was buried in the sand as his eyes fixed on the horizon where the moon was rising.
Daryn approached slowly, his steps cautious. He'd learned not to interrupt Kaelen whenever he was brooding. But tonight felt different.
"You're not sleeping," Daryn said.
Kaelen didn't look at him. "Sleep is for the dead. Or the lucky."
Daryn sat beside him, the silence stretching between them like a drawn bowstring.
"I saw her," Daryn said. "Selene. She spoke to me."
Kaelen's jaw tightened. "And?"
"She said I was hers. That I'd been reborn and that I had to win the Trial to save my sister."
Kaelen finally turned. His eyes were dark, unreadable. "Then you're already deeper in than most."
Daryn hesitated. "You don't believe in the gods, do you?"
Kaelen snorted. "I believe they exist. I've seen their wrath. Their games. Their hunger. But I don't worship them."
He pulled his sword from the sand and began cleaning it with slow, deliberate strokes.
"Do you know why I was chosen?" he said cleaning his sword
"I was chosen by Ares after my village was burned. Not because I prayed. Not because I was brave. I was chosen just because I survived."
Maybe because of his recent training or perhaps his connection to Selene was now clear for him to notice but Daryn could now sense people's emotions easier as he studied them.
"You lost someone."
Kaelen's hand paused. "Her name was Elira. My partner in the last Trial. She was chosen by Athena. Smart. Fierce. Too good for this place."
"What happened?"
Kaelen's voice dropped. "She trusted the wrong champion. One of Poseidon's. He betrayed her mid-trial. Left her to die in the storm arena."
Daryn felt the weight of the words. "I'm sorry."
Kaelen looked at him, and for the first time, his eyes softened. "Don't be. Just learn. Trust is a blade. We must learn to use it carefully."
They sat in silence again, as the moon climbed higher.
"You're different. You still fight like someone who still believes in something."
"I believe in Seris," Daryn said. "And I believe I'm not done yet."
"Who is that?" Kaelen scoffed
"My little sister.....what my memories tell me of her that is;"
"So what happened?"
Daryn sighed. "All I have are bits and fragments of my memories of her....but I am sure that I have a sister. I just don't know how we got separated.
"But, I believe I will find her one day."
The warrior observed Daryn for a while before finally nodding.
"Then I'll train you until you're ready. Not for the gods. Not for Selene. For you."
Kaelen stood up, slung his sword over his shoulder, and walked away.
And for the first time, Daryn saw the man behind the warrior—not just a champion, but a survivor. A blade still sharp enough to protect.
____
Kaelen was born in the borderlands—where the gods rarely walked and mortals learned to survive without miracles. His village, Vireth Hollow, was a small but proud village. Farmers, smiths, and warriors lived side by side, bound by blood and grit. Kaelen's father was a blacksmith and his mother taught him how to read the stars.
He was only seventeen when all he had ever known came crashing down.
The war between Ares and Poseidon had spilled into the mortal realm. Not with armies, but with storms and fire. It was a divine dispute over territory—one temple too many, one offering too few.
And Vireth Hollow, a small village at the far edges was caught in the middle of this divine conflict.
Kaelen fought. Not with magic. Not with prophecy. With a rusted blade and a fury born of loss as he watched his father fall beneath a collapsing forge. He had to carry his mother's body from the wreckage of their home and bury both of his parents beneath the scorched Oak tree he played under when he was at the front of their home.
Then he stood alone in the ashes of what was left of the world he had once known; no magic, no strength, no prayer, no prophecy, no technique and strategy could have prevented him from losing all that was dear to him on that day the sky turned red.
That night, while he sat staring at what was left of his father's forge, Ares came. Not as a god of glory, but as a shadow in the flame.
"You fought," the god said.
"You bled,"
"You did not kneel"
"And you did not beg."
Fire crackled in his wake as the god approached the young man. "Still you refuse to yield. Even in my presence."
At Ares proximity, Kaelen could feel his firey divine power pouring from his body. It was focused and filled with intent. But still, he refused to kneel while the god continued to assess him. Like a smith looks over metal—measuring its temper, testing its readiness to hold an edge.
"I did not fight for you." were the only words that came from Kaelen's lips.
Hearing this, the god smiled. "You fought like me. That's enough."
The god touched Kaelen's chest and a mark burned into his skin—a crimson spiral, pulsing with divine heat. Marking him for the rest of his life.
"You are mine now," Ares said. "My blade forged in grief."