Sunlight fell through crystal skylights, fracturing into a thousand prismatic shards that danced across the polished marble floor. Soren stood in the great induction hall beneath the Aetherion Spire, surrounded by dozens of new entrants yet somehow apart from them all.

The vast chamber echoed with hushed voices and nervous shuffling, each sound amplified by the vaulted ceiling that arched overhead like the ribs of some ancient beast.

He kept his breathing steady, his posture neutral, neither too rigid nor too relaxed. Just another face in the crowd, unremarkable despite the storm of calculation behind his eyes.

The shard lay cool against his chest, hidden beneath the plain tunic Lady Aveline's packet had provided. Its familiar weight anchored him as he observed the others.

They stood in loose clusters, tension disguised as pride. Nobles' children mostly, their expensive boots barely scuffed, their hands uncallused. They spoke too loudly, laughed too readily, eyes darting to see who noticed them.

"Third son of Lady Vareth," someone whispered nearby, nodding toward a slender youth with carefully arranged golden curls. "They say she bought his place with a donation to the eastern expansion."

Another voice answered, lower but still audible. "Not like Dorelle's heir, he's earned his position. Three tournament victories before his sixteenth name day."

Soren absorbed the information without reaction, cataloging names, connections, potential rivals. A dark-haired girl stood alone near the eastern wall, her robes cut in the distinctive style of the distant provinces. The others gave her a wider berth, their whispers following her movements.

"An Arcanist from the east. They say she called lightning during her testing."

No one whispered about Coren Vale. No one noticed the quiet figure with watchful eyes and steady hands. Exactly as intended.

'Every kingdom is a hierarchy, even of blades.' Valenna's voice flickered through his mind, cool and certain. 'Learn it before they make you.'

Soren remained still, absorbing patterns in the room around him. The way a heavyset boy's breathing quickened whenever an instructor passed. How a girl with braided hair kept touching the hilt of a ceremonial dagger at her waist, seeking reassurance from its presence.

The careful distance maintained between those of different social ranks, invisible boundaries everyone seemed to understand instinctively.

Fear hiding behind arrogance. Uncertainty masked by inherited confidence. Patterns as clear to him as the prismatic light painting the marble floor.

The massive doors at the chamber's far end swung open without warning. Conversation died mid-sentence, leaving a silence so complete that Soren could hear the soft hiss of the oil lamps burning in wall sconces.

Halric Dane, Swordmaster of the Blades, entered the hall.

He moved with the fluid economy of a predator, each step precisely placed despite his imposing bulk. Broad-shouldered and heavily muscled, his body told the story of decades spent mastering weapons of every description.

Scars marked his exposed forearms like a map of battles survived. His iron-gray hair was cropped close to his skull, emphasizing the severe angles of a face that might have been carved from the same stone as the hall itself.

But it was his eyes that commanded attention, pale blue, almost colorless, yet somehow burning with intensity as they swept across the gathered initiates. Those eyes missed nothing, judged everything, promised nothing.

When he spoke, his voice cut through the air like a blade through silk.

"You are not students yet," he said, the words echoing against marble. "You are possibilities."

He paced before them, hands clasped behind his back. His boots made no sound on the polished floor, a detail that registered in Soren's mind with immediate significance. A man that large, moving that quietly. Deliberate training.

"Some of you come with names meant to open doors," Dane continued, his gaze lingering briefly on the golden-haired son of Lady Vareth. "Others with skills meant to prove worth." This time his eyes found the tournament champion from House Dorelle. "All of you stand equal in this hall, until you prove otherwise."

He produced a rolled parchment from within his tunic, unfurling it with a practiced flick of his wrist. "We will see which of you are worth steel."

The Swordmaster began calling names, moving down the line of initiates with methodical precision. Each name brought a step forward, a moment of assessment, a curt instruction to move to one side of the hall or the other. Some designations drew murmurs of approval, others quiet hisses of disappointment.

Soren watched, memorizing the pattern. Those with formal training were being separated from those with raw potential. Experience from reputation. Substance from shadow.

"Coren Vale."

His borrowed name hung in the air. Soren stepped forward, keeping his movements fluid but unremarkable. Dane's colorless eyes found his, then dropped to the parchment.

"Recommendation by Lady Kareth."

A faint murmur rippled through the hall. Lady Aveline's name carried weight, even here. Soren felt the attention of the other initiates shift, reassessing him in light of this connection. The name meant more than he'd realized.

"Step forward," Dane ordered.

Soren obeyed, stopping at precisely the distance that acknowledged authority without showing fear. The Swordmaster studied him, expression unreadable as stone. Something in those pale eyes suggested he was seeing more than just another initiate.

"You've handled a weapon," Dane said. Not a question.

"Yes, sir." No embellishment, no explanation.

"Not training, killing."

The hall fell utterly silent. Soren felt the weight of dozens of stares pressing against his back, curiosity and wariness mingling in equal measure. The shard pulsed once against his chest, neither warning nor encouraging.

"Yes, sir," he answered simply.

Dane gave a single nod, the movement so economical it barely disturbed the air between them. "Honesty. Good. You'll need it." He gestured toward the right side of the hall. "Join the Blade candidates."

Soren moved to the indicated position, aware of the space that formed around him as the other candidates shifted subtly away.

Not fear, exactly, more a recalculation of where he fit within their mental hierarchies. The quiet, unremarkable figure with Lady Kareth's recommendation had suddenly become someone to watch.

When the sorting finished, Dane led them from the induction hall, through corridors of polished stone, and out into the blinding sunlight of an open courtyard. Racks of weapons gleamed along stone walls, swords of every length and design, spears, axes, weapons Soren couldn't immediately name. All maintained to perfection, their metal surfaces catching the light like mirrors.

"The Courtyard of Blades," Dane announced, his voice carrying across the open space. "Where possibility becomes certainty, or ends entirely."

He gestured toward the center of the courtyard, where a long, narrow platform stretched across a shallow reflecting pool. No wider than a man's shoulders, the wooden bridge extended for perhaps thirty paces, its surface worn smooth by years of use.

"Precision before power," Dane said. "Control before victory." His pale eyes swept across the gathered initiates. "Cross it without losing rhythm. Falter, and you fall. Hesitate, and you fail."

One by one, the candidates attempted the trial. Some approached with confidence that quickly evaporated as they felt the platform's subtle movements beneath their weight.

Others moved too cautiously, their fear betraying them mid-crossing. A few made it across through sheer determination, their movements graceless but effective.

The golden-haired son of Lady Vareth stepped onto the platform with theatrical flourish, arms extended like a performer. Three steps in, his ankle twisted. He recovered quickly, but his rhythm was broken, his confidence shattered. He completed the crossing red-faced and scowling.

House Dorelle's heir moved with the practiced grace of tournament training—precise, controlled, disciplined. He made the crossing look effortless, finishing with a formal bow that drew appreciative murmurs from onlookers.

When Soren's turn came, he approached the platform without hesitation. The wood felt solid beneath his feet despite its narrow width. He began walking, each step placed with deliberate care, his weight centered, his breathing steady.

The whispers started immediately.

"Too quiet," someone muttered.

"Look how he moves," another voice added. "Like he's done this before."

Halfway across, Dane's voice cut through the murmurs. "Vale."

Soren didn't break stride, didn't turn his head. He sensed rather than saw the object flying toward him, a practice sword, tossed without warning. His hand rose, catching the weapon one-handed without breaking rhythm. The weight settled naturally in his grip, an extension rather than a burden.

He continued walking, blade held level, steps unwavering. When he reached the platform's end, he stopped, stance perfect, sword extended at precisely the angle that balanced defense with readiness.

Dane's colorless eyes narrowed slightly, the only change in his impassive expression. "Adequate," he said, voice flat.

But Soren caught the undercurrent beneath the word, a faint note of respect, quickly suppressed. He lowered the practice sword, keeping his own expression equally neutral as he stepped from the platform.

The remaining candidates completed their attempts with varying degrees of success. When the final initiate had crossed, or fallen, in three unfortunate cases, Dane gathered them once more.

"Those who remain have earned provisional placement," he announced. "Nothing more. Tomorrow, you begin proving your worth." His gaze swept across them, lingering momentarily on Soren before moving on. "Dismissed."

As the group dispersed, Soren felt a presence at his shoulder. The tournament champion from House Dorelle stood there, his expression a careful mask of polite interest that didn't reach his eyes.

"Coren Vale," he said, testing the name as if tasting an unfamiliar wine. "I don't believe we've crossed paths before." His smile showed teeth without warmth. "I make it my business to know everyone worth knowing."

The implied question hung in the air between them. Soren met his gaze without flinching, offering nothing beyond a slight inclination of his head, acknowledgment without submission.

The young noble's smile tightened fractionally. "I look forward to seeing what skills earned Lady Kareth's recommendation," he said, the formal words carrying a subtle edge. "Until tomorrow."

He turned away, rejoining a group of initiates who clearly deferred to his authority. Their conversation resumed immediately, punctuated by glances in Soren's direction.

The shard pulsed once against Soren's chest, cool and certain. Valenna's voice drifted through his mind, thoughtful rather than warning.

'The first challenge is done,' she murmured. 'The real trial begins when they decide what you are.'

Soren watched the other initiates disperse across the courtyard, already forming the alliances and rivalries that would shape the days ahead. He remained apart, observing, calculating.

Coren Vale had earned his place among the Blades. Now Soren Thorne would have to prove he deserved to keep it.

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