The infirmary smelled of bitter herbs and old blood.

Bright sat on a narrow cot, stripped to the waist, while a healer—an older woman with steady hands and sharper eyes—cleaned the cuts across his ribs and shoulders. The wounds weren't deep, but they were everywhere. Small nicks from deflected blades, bruises blooming purple-black where strikes had gotten through.

"You're lucky," the healer muttered, dabbing antiseptic that burned like fire. "Another inch to the left and this one would've punctured a lung."

Bright didn't answer. He was too busy watching Duncan across the room.

Duncan sat slumped on another cot, bandages wrapped around his ribs, leg propped up. The bite from the cave had reopened during the fight—not badly, but enough to bleed through the old dressing. A younger healer worked on him, muttering about "reckless initiates" and "ignoring medical advice."

Duncan caught Bright's eye and grinned weakly. "Worth it."

"Barely," Bright replied.

Mara sat nearby, holding an ice pack to the side of her head. The headbutt from the twin-axe fighter had left her with a concussion—mild, the healers said, but enough that she'd be dizzy for days.

She looked miserable.

"shouldn't have gone for the guy," she muttered.

"You were outnumbered," Baggen said from the corner, where he stood shirtless while a healer stitched the deep cut on his shoulder. He didn't even flinch as the needle went through. "Can't predict everything."

"Bright does," Mara said quietly.

Bright's jaw tightened. "I don't predict everything. I just… see patterns faster."

"Same thing," Adam said from where he sat cross-legged on the floor, notebook open, already reviewing the match. "You processed their formation change before any of us noticed. That's not luck. That's talent."

"It's also exhausting," Bright admitted. He pressed a hand to his temple, feeling the dull throb behind his eyes. Using his spatial sense that intensely—tracking six opponents simultaneously—had left him drained in ways physical exhaustion couldn't match.

Rolf walked in from the washroom, face freshly scrubbed, burns on his forearms bandaged. "Healers say we're cleared for light duty tomorrow. No matches for three days."

Duncan groaned. "Three days isn't enough."

"It's what we've got," Bright said.

The door opened.

Captain Atheon stepped inside.

The room went silent immediately.

Atheon's gaze swept over them—taking in the bandages, the bruises, the exhaustion carved into every face.

"Morgan," he said. "A word."

Bright stood, ignoring the protest from his ribs, and followed Atheon into the hallway.

-----

The corridor was empty, lit by flickering oil lamps that cast long shadows across stone walls.

Atheon stopped near a window overlooking the training yard below.

"You fought well," he said without preamble.

"Thank you, sir."

"But you're pushing too hard."

Bright blinked. "Sir?"

Atheon turned to face him fully. "Your squad is exhausted. The newly minted initiate's injuries are getting worse, not better. That fledgling girl has a concussion. Baggen's shoulder is compromised. And you—" He gestured at Bright's torso, where bruises and cuts painted a brutal map. "—you're running on fumes."

"We won," Bright said.

"This time," Atheon replied. "But the Trials are escalating. House Aurin is pushing for higher-stakes matches. Adept-led teams. Mixed-tier engagements."

Bright's stomach tightened. "You mean—"

"I mean you'll be facing opponents far beyond your current capabilities," Atheon interrupted. "Squads with resources you can't imagine. And if you keep burning through your strength like this, you won't survive the first minute."

Silence.

Bright stared out the window, watching distant figures run drills in the yard below.

"What do you suggest?" he asked quietly.

"Rest," Atheon said. "Use the three-day break to actually recover. Not train. Not drill. Rest."

"And after?"

Atheon's expression hardened. "After, you prepare for the hardest fight of your life. Because in six days, I'm leading my elite squad against Vaelith Crownhold's team. And whether you like it or not, that fight will set the tone for everything that follows."

Bright turned to face him. "What does that have to do with us?"

"Everything," Atheon replied. "If I win, it proves my regiment—the people I came with—aren't chumps. That strength and loyalty can overcome noble manipulation. If I lose…" He paused. "If I lose, Vaelith will consolidate power, and anyone not aligned with Crownhold will be pushed out. Slowly. Quietly. But completely."

Bright felt something cold settle in his chest.

"You're saying we're collateral damage."

"I'm saying you're caught in a game you didn't ask to play," Atheon corrected. "But you're playing it anyway. So play smart. Survive. Get stronger. And when the time comes—" He met Bright's gaze. "—choose your side carefully."

He turned and walked away, boots echoing on stone.

Bright stood alone in the corridor, staring at nothing.

-----

That night, Bright couldn't sleep.

He lay on his cot, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of Atheon's words pressing down on him.

Choose your side carefully.

That was a veiled threat—no doubt about it. Bright wasn't so hard-headed as to forget what it meant to be denied support at Grim Hollow.

Adept Atheon had taken his crew of seasoned veterans beneath the shelter of his power, fighting alongside them while the rest were left outside that shield—abandoned to damnation.

Still, Bright couldn't truly blame the man for it. He would have done the same in Atheon's place.

The threat hadn't even been deliberate—it was simply the consequence of power. And refusing to bend to the whims of the powerful was a one-way ticket to the Great One's abode.

But what sides were there?

Crownhold? The man radiated control and manipulation, a noble in character in the worst ways possible.

Kadesh? Rowan was loyal to his noble patrons, but those patrons saw the Trials as entertainment, not survival.

Atheon? The Fist of Men fought for his people, but he was still just one adept against two. And if he lost…

Bright exhaled slowly.

The door creaked open.

Duncan limped in, carrying two mugs of something hot that smelled faintly of herbs.

"Couldn't sleep either?" Duncan asked.

"No."

Duncan handed him a mug and sat heavily on the cot opposite. "Healers gave me tea. Said it would help with the pain."

Bright took a sip. It was bitter, earthy, but warm. "Does it?"

"Not really." Duncan grinned. "But it gives me something to do besides think."

They sat in silence for a while, sipping tea, listening to the distant sounds of the outpost settling into night.

Finally, Duncan spoke. "How're you holding up."

Bright considered lying. Offering false reassurance.

But Duncan deserved better.

"I don't know," Bright admitted. "We're getting stronger. But so is everyone else. And the gap between us and the top squads… it's not closing fast enough."

"So what do we do?"

Bright stared into his mug, watching steam curl upward.

"No drastic changes can be made at the moment." he said quietly. "We just have to train as hard as we can and exploit all the gaps that we are given."

"That's probably not going to be enough for long"

Bright met Duncan's gaze.

"Then we make it enough."

Duncan nodded slowly. "I can live with that."

They finished their tea in comfortable silence.

And when Duncan finally limped back to his own cot, Bright lay down again—still unable to sleep, but somehow feeling less alone.

-----

Two days passed in a blur of forced rest and restless energy.

The healers had been clear: no training. But that didn't stop Adam from filling notebooks with tactical analyses, or Mara from running through mental combat drills, or Rolf from muttering about "wasted time."

Bright spent most of the second day walking the outpost, observing.

He watched squads train in the yards—some disciplined and precise, others chaotic and aggressive. He studied the way different factions interacted: Crownhold's soldiers moving with cold efficiency, Kadesh's fighters rougher but loyal, Atheon's people exhausted but determined.

He saw the cracks forming.

The tension building.

The outpost wasn't just preparing for Trials.

It was preparing for war—small in scale, perhaps, but war all the same.

On the evening of the second day, as Bright walked past the mess hall, he overheard two soldiers talking in low voices.

"—heard Crownhold's bringing his best."

"The fist of men's team won't stand a chance."

"That's the point. This isn't about winning. It's about sending a message."

"What message?"

"That Crownhold owns this place. Always has. Always will."

Bright kept walking, but the words followed him.

*That Crownhold owns this place.*

Maybe he did.

But ownership wasn't the same as control.

And control could be broken.

-----

On the third day, as the mandatory rest period ended, Bright returned to the barracks to find an envelope waiting for him.

No seal. No markings.

Just a single sheet of paper inside.

It read:

"You've caught the attention of people who matter. That makes you valuable. It also makes you vulnerable. Be careful who you trust. Be careful who you fight for. And most importantly—be careful who you impress.

The game is bigger than you know.

Someone who sees the board clearly."

Bright read it twice.

Then he burned it in the nearest lamp flame, watching the paper curl and blacken.

Because whoever sent it was right.

The game was bigger than he knew.

But that didn't mean he couldn't learn to play.

-----

That evening, Bright gathered his squad in the common room.

They looked better—not healed, but functional. Duncan's limp had lessened. Mara's headache had faded. Baggen's shoulder moved stiffly but moved.

"Rest period's over," Bright said. "Tomorrow we start preparing for the next match."

"Do we know who we're fighting?" Adam asked.

"Not yet. But it doesn't matter. We train like we're facing the strongest squad in Vester."

Rolf groaned. "We just got done recovering."

"Then we'll recover while we train," Bright replied. "We don't have the luxury of waiting until we're perfect. We have to be ready now."

He looked at each of them in turn.

"In three days, Atheon fights Crownhold. That fight will change everything. And when it's over—whether Atheon wins or loses—we need to be strong enough to survive what comes next."

Duncan leaned forward. "You think it's going to get worse?"

"I know it is," Bright said quietly. "The Trials aren't just entertainment. They're a filter. A way to separate the strong from the weak, the useful from the expendable. And right now, we're still in the 'prove yourself or die' category."

Silence.

Then Mara spoke, voice steady. "So we prove ourselves."

"Exactly," Bright said.

Adam closed his notebook. "Then let's get to work."

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