The capital's coliseum rose like an open wound carved into stone.
It was not a beautiful building in the classical sense. It was enormous, functional, built to contain crowds. Its circular stands rose in concentric layers, like rings, surrounding a center covered in compacted sand and the scars of old battles.
Aren felt the weight of the place the moment he passed through one of the lower arches.
The murmur of thousands of voices filtered down from above, muffled by stone, like the distant roar of a massive beast. The air smelled of dust, metal, sweat… and incense.
A lot of incense.
The aspirants were guided through side corridors, kept apart from the crowd. They still could not see the stands, but they could feel them. Every step sounded different, knowing they would soon be watched.
"Don't look up," one of the instructors murmured as they advanced. "Not yet."
Everyone nodded.
Around him, the other aspirants remained silent. Some breathed deeply, others clenched their fists. No one spoke.
This was no longer training.
It was a public evaluation.
When they finally emerged at the edge of the arena, the world opened before them.
The coliseum was full.
Nobles dressed in colorful garments occupied the upper levels, escorted by personal guards and servants. Foreign delegations stood out by their banners and styles: lighter armor, exotic fabrics, symbols Aren did not fully recognize.
High-ranking clerics gathered in reserved sections, white, gold, green, black robes, each color representing a different church.
And in the main box, elevated and covered by a canopy of crimson and gold fabrics, sat the prince of the principality, flanked by advisers, paladins, emissaries, and high-ranking figures from the churches.
Aren felt an uncomfortable pressure in his chest.
The stage was larger than he had imagined.
Much larger.
As the aspirants were lined up, Aren lifted his gaze just a little… and froze.
Among the nobles, he recognized a familiar face.
He did not need to confirm anything else.
It was his father.
He wore his usual noble attire. He watched the arena with cold concentration, without even looking at Aren.
And that hurt more than open disapproval ever could have.
Aren lowered his gaze just as a roll of drums echoed through the coliseum.
The conversations slowly faded, until only ceremonial music remained.
"Attention," proclaimed a voice amplified by magic. "In honor of His Majesty, the Prince, and the distinguished representatives of the various churches, we hereby begin the Squire Selection Tournament."
The audience responded with restrained cheers.
Then, the sacred boxes took center stage.
Several ceremonial platforms advanced along the upper level of the coliseum. Upon them traveled figures that quickly captured the crowd's attention.
The candidates.
Each represented a different domain and church: life, knowledge, nature, war, tempest. Of varied races and origins, all wore ritual garments that separated them from the common world.
Aren lifted his gaze without truly paying attention.
The platforms of Alfaro and Zoren, representing the domains of light and the grave, joined into a single one.
That was when Lylia appeared.
She advanced slowly, escorted by paladins in intertwined white and black armor.
The attire she wore was different from the one used during her presentation. White and gold dominated, with solar and funerary symbols coexisting in a strange balance. The fabrics fell softly, leaving her arms, shoulders, and part of her abdomen exposed.
Aren could not help feeling anger.
Lylia held the posture she had been taught. Straight back, chin lifted, hands together.
But Aren knew her.
He saw the tension in her shoulders. The barely perceptible way she tried to cover herself a little more when she believed no one was watching directly. The shame she could not fully hide.
Then, as if the entire coliseum vanished, their gazes met.
It was not a grand gesture, nor were there exaggerated expressions.
Just like during the procession, it was a few seconds that only the two of them perceived.
They shared a brief smile before Aren lowered his gaze, trying not to let anyone notice his distraction.
Sir Kaelreth's words echoed in his mind.
'If I get distracted now, I won't be able to fulfill our promise, Lylia,' he thought, releasing a quiet sigh.
A few meters away, among the aspirants assigned to the side cordon, Aveline watched.
She was looking at Aren.
She had noticed the exact moment his posture changed. The slightest stiffness. The sudden pause in his breathing.
It bothered her, even if she could not fully understand why.
'It shouldn't matter to me, and yet…' she thought, clenching her teeth.
Just then, a minor clergy attendant approached discreetly and handed her a small envelope.
"Young lady. I was asked to deliver this to you."
Aveline took it carefully, without lowering her guard. The wax seal bore a symbol she recognized immediately. The symbol of Alfaro.
She opened it with one hand.
She read.
And something in her expression changed.
She did not fully smile. But the hardness in her gaze softened slightly.
She thought of the old church she called home. Of a tired but steadfast priest, and children laughing among broken benches.
'I wish you could see me now,' she thought, lifting her gaze to the sky. 'But I know that, from somewhere, you still are, father.'
She tucked the letter into her uniform.
"Focus," she told herself, adjusting her grip on her sword.
The drums sounded again.
"Let the tournament begin!" the voice proclaimed, echoing through the entire arena.
The coliseum erupted in applause.
Aren took a deep breath.
The moment of truth had arrived.
There was no turning back.
Above, Lylia closed her eyes for a second, offering a silent prayer.
Below, Aveline clenched her fist with resolve.
The tournament had officially begun.