The gate began to move.

  Not quickly. Not with steam or fire.

  It moved like something reluctant — like stone grinding against stone, the sound of an ancient mechanism remembering how to breathe. The groan echoed through the arena and pulled silence into its wake.

  Lusei stood still in the pit, unarmed and unlit.

  No magic flared. No mark ignited.

  He didn’t need power yet.

  He watched.

  Waited.

  From the shadows beyond the gate, something moved.

  At first, it wasn’t clear if it had form — the dark bent strangely, like liquid caught between reflections. Then came shape. A figure emerged slowly, dragging darkness behind it like a shroud.

  It didn’t walk. It glided.

  Wrapped in decaying black robes that clung to no wind, it looked vaguely human at a distance — arms, legs, posture. But up close, everything was wrong. The limbs were too long. The joints bent subtly backward. The head was too smooth.

  It had no face.

  Then it turned — and a mouth formed where there wasn’t one before.

  It smiled without emotion.

  And then it breathed.

  Slow. Wet. Labored.

  Like something learning how.

  From above, the crowd shifted.

  “That’s not normal,” someone muttered.

  “I’ve seen bonehounds. Flame-touched. Even a frost cyclops. But not… that.”

  Ketta leaned forward, hands braced on the railing.

  She said nothing for a long moment.

  Then, grim and certain:

  “That wasn’t summoned from the cells.”

  Rodan’s gaze sharpened. He didn’t lean back. He just narrowed his eyes.

  “That’s not one of ours,” Ketta said, voice low.

  In the pit, Lusei stayed calm.

  His heartbeat was steady. His feet dug in. His hands were loose.

  He hadn’t called on anything yet. The Moonbrand mark on his arm was silent — no glow, no hum. It was just skin. Just a seal.

  The way it should be.

  Until it wasn’t.

  The figure’s eyes opened. Or rather, something silver and reflective filled the space where eyes should be.

  It looked straight at Lusei.

  And for a flicker — just a breath — he thought he saw Celeste in its gaze.

  Not her face, not exactly. Just her outline. Her crown. Her sadness.

  Then it was gone.

  The creature floated forward, slow and patient.

  Rodan, watching, said nothing.

  But his grip on the railing tightened.

  Lusei shifted his weight slightly, dropping one foot back, hands curling in.

  Still no power. Still no magic.

  Just him.

  “Alright,” he said quietly. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  The Wight’s robes dragged across the stone without touching it.

  The torches dimmed.

  And the trial began.

  The Wight did not strike.

  It didn’t charge or scream or lunge.

  It simply stood there, ten feet from Lusei — robes dragging soundlessly, arms down at its sides, silver eyes glowing with dim reflection. The kind of stillness that isn’t peace… but calculation.

  Then it spoke.

  But not in its own voice.

  “Lusei.”

  He froze.

  That voice—

  No, it couldn’t be—

  “You shouldn’t have left me.”

  Soft. Familiar.

  Celeste.

  Not exactly. But close. Just distorted enough to raise the hairs on his arms.

  The Wight’s mouth moved, but the sound didn’t match the motion. It echoed, as if spoken both inside and outside his ears.

  “You were mine. You were meant to stay.”

  Lusei's fists clenched. “You’re not her.”

  “And yet you listened to me… when no one else did.”

  The arena around him shifted. Not visually — not yet. But the feel of the stone changed. The air grew thick, heavy, like water pressing inward.

  Then the walls began to ripple.

  Just faintly — but enough to notice. Like the Gauntlet itself was bleeding into memory.

  The torchlight bent. The sound of the crowd above faded.

  And suddenly—

  He was standing in the kitchen of his old apartment back on Earth.

  The overhead light flickered.

  Rain tapped against the windowpane.

  A cracked mug sat on the counter.

  The calendar on the wall still read August 14 — the day everything changed.

  He blinked. Shook his head.

  No.

  His boots were still on stone. He could feel them.

  But his eyes were lying to him.

  The Wight stood in the corner of the “kitchen” now, half-shrouded by a coat rack, its silver eyes blinking out from behind memories.

  “You keep saying you want answers,” it said in Celeste’s voice. “But what if you’ve already seen the truth — and ran from it?”

  Lusei exhaled slowly, grounding himself. “You’re trying to break me.”

  The lightbulb above him buzzed, then popped.

  The vision flickered — and shifted again.

  Now he stood in the Sylari village, back in the forest. Smoke rose in the distance. Screams echoed.

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  He saw a young child running, tripping, crying — a boy he didn’t recognize.

  Rodan’s voice called out in the distance — distorted, panicked.

  “Where were you, Lusei? You could’ve stopped this.”

  “No,” Lusei muttered, shaking his head. “That didn’t happen. This isn’t real.”

  The child turned and stared at him — but the face was his own.

  Young. Terrified. Covered in ash.

  “You left us.”

  The Wight stood behind the child now, tall and looming, its robes blending into the smoke.

  Lusei’s breathing picked up. His fingers twitched.

  The Moonbrand on his arm stirred — faintly.

  Still dim. Still dormant. But aware.

  The illusions were pulling at something beneath his control.

  From the false sky above, a thunderclap boomed — not natural. Mocking.

  Lusei took one step back.

  The world snapped again.

  Now he was on his back in a hospital bed. Earth, again.

  Machines beeped around him. A voice was speaking — some nurse? He couldn’t move his legs. Couldn’t speak.

  The Wight stood over him in a white coat. Its mask had changed — now blank, human-shaped, wearing his own face.

  “If this is the real world, what does that make everything else?”

  Lusei’s jaw tightened.

  “Enough.”

  He closed his eyes.

  Grounded his breath. Counted it:

  In for four. Hold. Out for four.

  When he opened them again, the false world began to fracture — cracks running through the walls, the floor, the illusion.

  The kitchen. The hospital. The village.

  All gone.

  Just the Gauntlet now.

  Just stone, and firelight, and shadow.

  The Wight moved.

  Fast.

  It dropped its ghostlike stillness and lunged in a blur of robes and clawed shadow, crossing the pit in less than a breath. Its arms tore into long tendrils, slicing in brutal, irregular arcs.

  Lusei ducked the first strike — instinct more than sight — and rolled left as the second passed over his shoulder.

  The third came from above.

  He braced and caught the blow across his forearm — pain shot down his bones, but he held steady.

  No words from the Wight now. No illusions. No voices.

  Just violence.

  Lusei gritted his teeth and stepped back, circling — his boots skidding slightly across the dust-lined stone. The Wight circled with him, its movement twitchy now, unpredictable.

  The illusions had failed.

  Now it was hunting.

  It slashed again, too wide.

  Lusei dropped low, and with a sharp flick of his wrist, summoned a shard of moonlight — a short arc, faint as mist but edged like glass. It snapped into his palm with a sound like silver chimes.

  He didn’t leap at the creature.

  He tested it.

  A quick feint — a jab toward the Wight’s left.

  The creature recoiled, robes snapping defensively.

  Lusei watched. Learned.

  It didn’t block. It avoided. Too used to fear-based fighting.

  It was fast. But not precise.

  Another exchange — two steps forward, a low swipe from the Wight. Lusei pivoted on his heel and parried with the crescent blade, sparks of white flaring from the impact. The Moonbrand under his sleeve pulsed once — a quiet echo beneath the skin.

  Still dormant.

  Still under control.

  But not passive.

  He slid past the Wight’s guard and struck once across its hip. A hiss — like fabric burning — rose as his blade tore through something real.

  The Wight stumbled.

  Its shoulder twitched unnaturally.

  It screeched — not in fear, not in pain.

  In frustration.

  And it lashed out wildly, dark tendrils flailing, a backhanded sweep of raw energy exploding from its arms. Lusei caught a glancing blow and staggered, backpedaling hard.

  He landed on one knee, blood beading on his lip.

  Above, someone exhaled sharply. A murmur rolled through the upper gallery.

  Rodan leaned forward, silent but focused.

  Lusei pressed his hand to the floor.

  Steadied his breath.

  He could feel the Moonbrand under his skin again — warm, not burning. The edge of something deeper waiting to rise.

  Not yet.

  This wasn’t a monster that needed power.

  This was a monster that needed to be outplayed.

  He looked up. His eyes sharpened.

  And the Wight, for the first time, paused.

  Like it knew it had just made a mistake.

  The Wight shifted forward again — fast, slashing low.

  Lusei wasn’t there.

  Flash.

  He reappeared five feet to the left — just a shimmer of pale light and motion.

  Echo Step.

  The Wight twisted, its robes reacting a fraction slower than its body. Lusei was already in motion, his crescent blade forming again with a flick of the wrist — white energy, curved and silent, humming like a breath drawn in before a clean strike.

  He didn’t rush.

  He stepped in.

  The blade carved across the Wight’s midsection — not deep, not fatal, but real. Real enough to make the creature stagger backward, its robes fraying, flickering like torn smoke.

  The crowd above leaned in.

  Someone whispered, “That was magic.”

  “No,” another muttered. “That was control.”

  The Wight screeched again and lunged.

  Lusei didn’t flinch.

  He dipped under the blow, twisted his torso, and tapped the Wight’s arm with two fingers — and vanished again.

  Echo Step. Behind.

  Another slash. Another burn.

  This time across the shoulder.

  The Wight shrieked — a shiver of dissonant sound, like glass scraping bone.

  It retaliated with a wide sweep of shadow, but its strike overcommitted. The cloth pulled too far. The energy burst was just a heartbeat slow.

  Lusei had already moved.

  Each step now was deliberate.

  Each strike was light, but true.

  He didn’t waste energy. He didn’t try to overpower.

  He dismantled.

  The Moonbrand on his arm pulsed faintly with every movement — not glowing bright, just marking flow. Rhythm. Harmony.

  One slash. Fade.

  Two taps. Step back.

  Side cut. Backflip. Land in stance.

  Like a dance no one else knew the music to.

  And the Wight?

  It was unraveling.

  Its strikes came faster, but wilder. Desperate. It moved like a mirror trying to mimic broken glass — repeating patterns it no longer understood.

  It struck left — missed.

  It raised both arms and tried to blast him again—

  Lusei flicked his hand midair and threw a shard of moonlight — not a blade, but a spike of raw precision.

  It struck the Wight’s shoulder joint — and the blast misfired.

  BOOM — the dark magic exploded off-center, harmless.

  Gasps above. One older Veylan actually clapped once under their breath.

  Rodan stood with arms crossed, unmoving — but the faintest smile tugged at his mouth.

  Ketta whispered, almost too softly to hear:

  “He’s reading it like a book.”

  Down below, Lusei drew another arc into his palm — a longer one this time.

  Not for slicing.

  For ending.

  The Wight’s body crackled with strain, its mask-like face beginning to warp, losing symmetry.

  Lusei stepped forward.

  Calm. Clear.

  “You’re not her,” he said evenly. “You never were.”

  And with that, he raised the arc.

  And moved.

  The Wight twitched.

  Its body flickered like a broken flame — robes trailing, mask cracking.

  It took a step back.

  Then another.

  And then—one last gambit.

  Its arms flared outward, shadow lashing from its sleeves in a sudden, blinding arc.

  And the world shivered.

  Not the stone. Not the air.

  Lusei’s vision.

  The light dimmed. The arena blurred. He blinked—

  And saw her.

  Celeste.

  Standing at the edge of the pit, eyes soft, hands open.

  She didn’t speak. She didn’t move.

  Just watched him.

  The mask on the Wight’s face rippled — now half her mouth, half her cheek, one eye formed and blinking with a tear.

  “You said you’d find me,” it whispered in her voice.

  “You said you’d never forget.”

  Lusei’s breath hitched.

  Not from pain.

  Not from confusion.

  From choice.

  He closed his eyes.

  Held the arc of moonlight steady in both hands.

  And breathed.

  When his eyes opened again, she was gone.

  Only the Wight remained — cracked, cornered, empty.

  Lusei stepped forward. His boots landed quietly on the stone.

  No hesitation.

  No fury.

  “You’re not her,” he said again, steady as stone.

  “You’re just a shadow trying to wear a name.”

  The Wight raised one claw—slow, shaking.

  He didn’t let it finish.

  The arc came down in a single, clean motion.

  Light carved through shadow like dawn splitting fog.

  There was no scream.

  Only silence.

  The Wight’s form cracked, then collapsed inward — robes folding like petals, mask crumbling like chalk. A shimmer of light passed through the space it left behind.

  And then it was gone.

  The arena was still.

  Lusei stood alone in the center, arm lowered, breathing soft.

  Above, the crowd didn’t cheer.

  They watched.

  Not with shock.

  With respect.

  Rodan exhaled, then nodded once. Ketta stood at the railing, her expression unreadable — but her hands were no longer at her sides. They were clasped behind her back, like someone watching the end of something important.

  She raised her voice:

  “Trial complete. Candidate Lusei — passed.”

  A few claps followed. Quiet, firm. No roar. Just acknowledgment.

  Lusei looked down at his hand — the last shimmer of the moonlight arc fading from his grip.

  He didn’t smile.

  He just let out a breath… and walked toward the exit.

  As he passed the spot where the Wight had vanished, the air felt lighter.

  Not because the danger was gone.

  Because he had faced it — and remained himself.

  The trial pit was empty now.

  Lusei and Rodan stood at the edge of it, both bloodied in different ways, but upright.

  Ketta approached them across the stone floor, boots striking lightly against the arena tiles. She stopped a pace away, arms crossed, posture relaxed — but her gaze sharp.

  “Congratulations,” she said, her tone matter-of-fact. “You both passed clean. No fouls. No disqualifying interference. Quartermaster wants to see you immediately for your crests.”

  Rodan gave a low grunt of satisfaction. “Thought there’d be more yelling.”

  Ketta smirked. “Don’t worry. He yells in his sleep.”

  Behind them, the gallery was still half-filled. A few Veylans leaned over the railings, already tossing coin purses back and forth. Others were watching Lusei and Rodan closely — eyes scanning, appraising, calculating.

  “Hey—Durnathi,” someone called out. “You looking for a crew? I need someone who hits like that.”

  Another voice: “You too, shadow boy. Come find me after your badge is stamped.”

  Rodan chuckled under his breath. “Friendly lot.”

  Lusei gave a short nod to one of the speakers — polite, but noncommittal.

  They weren’t here to impress.

  They were here to move forward.

  Ketta turned on her heel, already walking. “Let’s go. The Quartermaster doesn’t like to wait.”

  They followed her without hesitation.

  “You’ll be officially entered into the Order’s ranks once your crests are bound,” she continued as they ascended the stone ramp. “After that, you’ll be eligible for contracts, training partners… and yes, recruiters.”

  Rodan raised an eyebrow. “We supposed to pick a side already?”

  Ketta glanced back. “You don’t have to pick anything yet. But the strong get noticed. And you two just rang a pretty loud bell.”

  Lusei didn’t answer. He just walked — steady, eyes forward, the weight of what he’d done still settling somewhere in his chest.

  As they passed beneath a sigil-etched archway, the lights ahead grew brighter — golden, uniform, cast through thin glass panes. The doors at the end were marked with deep, engraved glyphs.

  Rodan rolled his shoulders once.

  “Ready?”

  Lusei glanced at him. A small smile touched his lips.

  “Yeah.”

  Ketta pushed open the doors.

  And the two stepped into their next name.