Elysian moved, shoving forward. He pushed through the crowd, but it was like wading against a tidal wave of bodies. The thralgar swallowed him whole, giants in the truest sense. Even the wilderman—the Durin-Dar—were solid walls of muscle, shorter than the average humans but still stronger than any city-born Northman.

  Elysian tried forcing his way through. He was the one who got shoved back. He could use his aura—augment his strength, carve a path—but in this chaos, that might make things worse. A troll’s heel nearly crushed his foot. He cursed, pivoting— And slammed into something unyielding—a living wall.

  “Sorry,” Elysian muttered automatically, turning—then exhaled in relief.

  ‘Brodhar.’

  The massive troll hadn’t even noticed him. Eyes forward, arms crossed, as immovable as a boulder.

  Elysian reached out, tapping his leg. No response. He hit harder. Still nothing. A real hit, then—aura-enhanced. Brodhar blinked, finally looking down. Elysian gestured. “Help me get to Kaerthlyn.” He pointed through the crowd, trusting the troll to understand. A slow nod. Then Brodhar bent, massive hands scooping Elysian up like a small rat. The crowd parted. Nobody got in Brodhar’s way.

  In mere moments, they reached the front. Elysian dropped down. “Thanks, big guy.” Brodhar grunted, stepping back as Elysian strode forward.

  Kaerthlyn sat at the rear of the thralgar group, eyes locked on the fight.

  Elysian pushed toward her, a disruption in the flow—a weed in a riverbed, jostling bodies, drawing irritation from those around him. It got her attention. She snapped something sharp in her own tongue—words he didn’t understand but that made the others step aside, clearing his path.

  Elysian reached her faster because of it. “What the hell happened?” he demanded as soon as he was beside her. “Why is Sybil fighting?”

  Kaerthlyn hesitated, then sighed. “It’s a competition. To enter the Draen’Volruk.”

  Elysian blinked. “There’s a competition to enter the trial?”

  “Of course.” She gave him a look, as if this should be obvious. “Only thirty are allowed in each year. How else would we decide?”

  ‘Yeah. That makes sense.’

  His gaze flicked to Sybil, locked in the fight. Jaw clenched, he turned back to her. “Why the hell is he in it?”

  Kaerthlyn sighed. “Long story. Short version? Insults were thrown. It escalated.”

  “Insults?” Elysian frowned. “How? He can’t even understand your language.” He shot her a sharp look. “Did you have a hand in this? Like you did with me—”

  “Hey. Don’t pin this one on me.” She exhaled, shaking her head. “Believe me or not, I had nothing to do with it. The one he’s fighting speaks your tongue. They didn’t need my help to come to blows.”

  ‘Sh*t. Of all times, why is that idiot acting out now?’

  Elysian exhaled slowly, the tension in the air thick enough to choke on. The thralgar spat first. “Why is a soft city-dweller in Kor’Morul? A blind pup chasing shadows.” His voice curled with disgust. “You don’t belong here. Go crawl back to your crumbling walls, rootless.”

  Sybil’s grin sharpened. “I’m soft?” He let out a low chuckle, rolling his shoulders. “I know your type. Always the same. Always need a gang to back you up. You fight like a drunk with one arm, asshole.”

  Laughter rippled through the crowd, thick with amusement and malice. The thralgar’s eyes darkened.

  “You’re all talk and no bite, rootless. I’ll make you choke on those words.” He sneered. “All your kind are cowards. Dishonorable wretches who hide behind their walls.”

  Sybil’s grin turned razor-edged. “And yet here I am, standing right in front of you while you yap like a cur too scared to bite.”

  The thralgar’s nostrils flared. “You think you can match me? You’re brittle bone and soft flesh. Your kind snaps under a real fight.”

  Sybil stepped forward, shoulders squared. “Try me, then.”

  The crowd roared at the challenge. The thralgar’s companions jeered, slamming fists against chests, calling for blood. Kaerthlyn muttered something under her breath. Elysian rubbed his temple, exhaling through his teeth.

  ‘Damn idiot’s going to get himself killed.’

  Elysian wanted to end the fight right away, but at the end, he hesitated. He realized that stopping this wouldn’t change what needed to happen.

  ‘One way or another, I have to enter the trial. So, a fight is really inevitable.’

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Elysian had no choice but to watch as the two opponents prepared to fight. He exhaled sharply. "Lyn, you said there are going to be thirty participants?"

  Kaerthlyn turned to him, expression odd.

  "What?" he asked.

  She arched a brow. "Did you just call me Lyn?"

  "So?"

  She shrugged, as if it didn’t matter, though her lips twitched.

  Elysian pushed on. "How many fights have already happened while I was gone?"

  ‘We need most of the slots on our side—not theirs.’

  Sure, the two clans were technically allies, but alliances were brittle things, and he wasn’t about to gamble on goodwill when his life—and Grimwatch’s—hung in the balance. No matter how close the clan’s relationship seemed now, that could change in an instant. The only way to secure his chances was to control the numbers.

  Kaerthlyn tapped her fingers against her thigh, thinking.

  "Twenty-three," a thralgar beside him answered instead.

  Elysian turned, surprised. The young thralgar immediately dipped his head in apology for speaking out of turn. "Twenty-three?" Elysian repeated, brows furrowing. "You sure about that?"

  The thralgar nodded. "Yeah. I'm sure. Not including the fight now."

  ‘There shouldn't be twenty-three fights already.’

  "I know I was gone for a while, but when I left earlier, the festival hadn’t even started yet." He exhaled, a sick feeling settling in his gut. "So unless—"

  "Yeah," Kaerthlyn sighed, gaze shifting back to the fight. "Most of the fights didn’t last long." She didn't need to say more.

  ‘Our side was decimated.’

  Elysian stilled. His mind whirled, calculations shifting, plans unraveling. He was supposed to secure his place in the trial, make sure his people had a chance. But if their numbers had been crushed—

  "Out of the twenty-three fights," Elysian asked finally, voice even, "how many did we win?" Because decimated could mean a lot of things. But he already had a sinking feeling he knew the answer.

  "Four," Kaerthlyn muttered, shoulders stiff, her gaze fixed on the ground as if the number itself was too shameful to meet his eyes. "They won nineteen fights. We won four."

  Elysian felt the breath leave his lungs.

  ‘Four against nineteen? That isn’t just decimation. It’s annihilation. What the hell happened?’

  His pulse pounded in his ears. "You’re kidding," Elysian said, louder than intended—a few heads turned. He dropped his voice, forcing control. "Tell me you're joking."

  Kaerthlyn shook her head. "I'm not." Her voice was hollow. Not angry. Not bitter. Just... resigned. "We only won four," she repeated. She sighed, but there was no frustration, no fire. Just acceptance. "Honestly? I expected as much."

  Elysian frowned. "What the hell do you mean?"

  Kaerthlyn hesitated, then exhaled. "The ones fighting today... they lost before. They lost from the previous selection. The ones who won their fights back then?" She gestured vaguely in the air. "They’re the ones in the trial now—the ones we lost."

  Elysian stared at her. "So our side is made up of failures." Her scowl was immediate. "What?" he asked, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Am I wrong?" She didn't answer. Because he wasn’t. He sighed, running a hand down his face. "Sh*t."

  ‘Clan Gulthram isn’t just winning. They’re demonstrating their superiority. The best of the best. The fighters who has already proven themselves. And his side? Scraps. If this is a numbers game, then they'd already lost.’

  Elysian’s gaze snapped back to the fight.

  Sybil was still moving, still standing, his sword flashing in quick, defensive arcs. He wasn’t just surviving—he was holding his own against a much bigger, more experienced opponent. A testament to his skill, to his sharp instincts. But it wasn’t enough.

  ‘Damn it all.’

  If this was the hand he’d been dealt, then he had no choice but to make it work. But how?

  ‘Thaldruna wanted Kaerthlyn to get the mark from the trial. Maybe… since Clan Draekthar and Clan Gulthram are allied, we can talk to them—convince them to let her take it?’

  “Lyn,” Elysian murmured, keeping his eyes on the fight. “You close with any of the Gulthram thralgar? You talked to one earlier when you diffused that scuffle…”

  “Thrynzak?” Kaerthlyn frowned, caught off guard. “We’re not close, but we respect each other. Why?”

  “Could you ask him to let you take the mark of the trial?” Elysian chuckled, as if it were a casual thought. “Since your clans are allies, and the trials are ours, it’s only appropriate…”

  “Are you crazy?” Kaerthlyn’s eyes narrowed, her tone sharp.

  ‘Yeah. Not an option.’

  Elysian could see it written all over her face.

  “If I ask that of Thrynzak, it would bring shame to Clan Draekthar,” Kaerthlyn said, her voice tight with restrained anger. “In the trial, all are equal. Anyone can take the mark, and the honor that comes with it. That is the essence of the trial—to prove who is worthy.”

  Elysian let out a long, drawn-out sigh. “Yeah, you’re right.” He had expected as much. And from the heat in her voice, the sharp edge to her words, he knew better than to push it. “Just throwing ideas out there. Don’t take everything I say too seriously.” His attention flicked back to Sybil.

  The fight remained in a tense stalemate. Sybil kept on the move, staying just out of reach, sword flicking out in quick, testing strikes. His opponent—a hulking thralgar with deep scars along his forearms—held his ground, blade moving in steady, brutal arcs, each one meant to cleave straight through bone.

  Sybil knew better than to meet him in a head-on clash. Instead, he circled, staying just outside the thralgar’s reach, forcing the larger fighter to turn, to adjust, to stay on his toes.

  ‘Smart. But not enough.’

  A straight fight between a human and a thralgar was never fair. Thralgar were built for battle—larger, stronger, their endurance far outstripping anything humanly possible. And worst of all? Their regeneration. A flesh wound for a human can be serious. For a thralgar, it was an inconvenience.

  Elysian’s jaw clenched.

  ‘Sybil need an edge. And right now, he don’t have one.’

  The thralgar struck—a vicious, downward slash aimed to split Sybil’s skull. The soldier twisted away at the last second, the blade slicing through the air just inches from his face. He lashed out in return, his sword flashing toward the thralgar’s ribs—fast, precise.

  But the thralgar was faster than he looked. He pivoted, knocking Sybil’s sword aside with sheer brute force, then followed up with a crushing elbow to the ribs. Sybil staggered back with a sharp gasp. The thralgar didn’t hesitate. He surged forward, blade carving a deadly arc through the air. Sybil barely brought his sword up in time, steel meeting steel with a clang that sent shudders up Elysian’s spine.

  Sybil’s feet skidded against the dirt. His arms trembled under the pressure. The thralgar grinned. He was playing with him.

  Elysian swore under his breath. This wasn’t a match of skill anymore. It was a test of endurance. And Sybil—no matter how sharp, no matter how quick—was fighting against the limits of his own body. The moment he slowed down, even for a second— It would be over.

  Elysian exhaled sharply, fists clenched.

  ‘Come on, Sybil. Be smarter than him. Find the gap. Find the opening. Because if you don’t? This fight is already lost.’

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