Synthra sat with her hands clutched on her thighs, gripping the thick fabric of her cloak, and her gaze transfixed on the projection screen.

  When the signal had gone dead, dread had filled her.

  She had initially defied the feeling, of course, due in no small part to her continued refusal to accept that she actually held any real affection for the Terran that had disgraced her in the Trial. Her mother be damned, she wasn’t so soft and tender as to be drawn in by some vagrant knight, no matter how proficient or prodigious he was in battle. The draconic part of he revelled in power, naturally, but she was still Haelfenn.

  Her unique lineage only made her more exacting when looking at a partner, male or female.

  Still, there was a certain measure of worry. Not for him of course, but for the future of the Guild. That was the only reason. The only reason. She reaffirmed that in her mind stoically, even while her heart thundered in her breast and her elongated canines nearly punched through her full lower lip in worry.

  “Come on…” she mumbled to herself quietly, while she listened to the crowd around her murmuring in concerned agreement. The announcer hadn’t called the match, and in fact, the woman—the Terran term for females was part of her vernacular now—giving them the play-by-play had herself gone abruptly quiet.

  Synthra turned her gaze toward Ceruviel, and saw her Aunt staring intently down at the hole in the arena without flinching. With her enhanced eyesight, Synthra could tell that the Dusk-Lord was not perturbed, and that alone offered her some measure of patience. If Achilles—no, Leonidas, she mentally corrected again—had fallen to the Hydra then surely Ceruviel would have reacted.

  She did not seem to be alone in that assessment, and more than a few mentions of “Dusk-Lord” and “not phased” flickered through her awareness. Some of the terms were more disparaging, like “cold-hearted knife-eared bitch”, but she ignored those easily. The fear, anxiety, and collective resentment of the Terran natives interspersed within the crowd was more than understandable. She had chosen to sit with them where they had gathered en mass in one section of the stands, and their dread was reasonable.

  Leonidas Achilles was the first sign of a true Champion of Earth, as they called ‘Terra’, since the integration. It was no surprise they wanted him to succeed. It was a thing of tribalism and vain hope, one born of a people that had been subverted from absolute rulers of their world to tolerated refugees. The pride, the temerity, the tenacity, and the singular unity of the Terran people was something Synthra admired. It hearkened to her own self in a way no Haelfenn would ever understand.

  Humans, for all their flaws, treated her like any other person. They treated her based on her actions, merits, and achievements. The Terran staff of the Guild did not see her as prime breeding stock, as so many ambitious Haelfenn did—eager as they were for her draconic gifts in their lineage. The people of Earth saw her as Synthra, and for that she was immeasurably grateful.

  A flicker of motion on the projected screens caught Synthra’s attention, and she snapped her eyes back to the broadcast.

  Her traitorous heart swelled within her chest and she felt herself grin savagely at the sight of Leonidas not only alive but looking quite hale within a shield of energy.

  “ACHILLES LIVES! ACHILLES LIVES! ACHILLES IS ALIIIIIIIVE!”

  I thought I saw him die, and what is that power? I thought his Affinity was Psi.

  The errant thought drifted through her mind and vanished as quickly as it came, overruled by what happened in the next instant. Leonidas dispelled the shield, throwing the bubble of vicious crimson power away from him like he were swatting a fly. A second later the Terran exploded forward, and Synthra joined the crowd in a roar of approval when the Black Knight charged his foe once more.

  Her voice, unbeknownst to her, was among the loudest.

  * * * * *

  “{Heavenly Tribulation?}” Aylar asked when she joined Ceruviel at the balcony, and looked between her and the pillar of incandescent power ascending above them. Confusion and panic were rampant among the crowd, and the Princess wasn’t entirely sure she had the ability to suppress it.

  “{I knew he was a monster,}” Ceruviel said in response, while her lavender eyes narrowed upon the beam of light. “{I did not realize to what extent. What do you know of tribulation, Princess?}”

  “{Only that it is a trial imposed by the System, to test the mettle of the mighty. The truth around it is largely misunderstood and is sourced from unreliable—}”

  “{Tribulation is judgement,}” Ceruviel cut in firmly.

  Aylar’s perception tingled and she glanced around her with awareness, noting that more than a few people had edged closer upon seeing her questioning the Dusk-Lord. Nobles, Soldiers, Merchants, and every other worthy that had been able to find their way to the Royal Box were now looking to the Dusk-Lord—to the one beacon of absolute safety they could rely on.

  Like Aylar, they looked to her for answers.

  “{Judgement?}” Aylar questioned while now acutely aware of the crowd.

  “{‘To they that seek the Mastery of Heaven, Judgement shall be delivered, and unto them is the task to forfend or fall. Such is the price of aspiring to the path of the Transcendant.’ That is the truth of Tribulation, Princess: it is a System-enforced phenomenon that demands proof of worthiness. It only happens during Tempering, when an individual defies the constraints of the System to aspire to power far beyond normal acquisition.}”

  “{He is Tempering? Now?}” Aylar asked in shock.

  “{No, he is not doing anything,}” Ceruviel answered with a mix between grim understanding and, unless Aylar was mistaken, fierce approval. “{Achilles has invoked the aspiration to transcendence. For the first time in recorded history, a Novice has dared to defy the constraints of the System. Do you not understand what this means, Princess? Do none of you understand?}”

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  The last was addressed to the crowd and Aylar turned to see shocked and confused expressions among them all. It wasn’t until Earl Brightblade stepped forward and spoke that anyone offered insight.

  “{Your Grace, are you implying that your Squire has Divine Lineage?}”

  A ripple of shock ran through the assembled, none moreso than the Terran Merchants. They, Aylar saw, reacted most viscerally: with looks mixed between surprise, disbelief, and just as she had been told in her Council; with hope.

  “{I do not know the answer to that question, Brightblade,}” Ceruviel answered with an echo of rare and genuine respect for the Knight. “{I can only tell you that he is no ordinary Terran. I have mentored him for a week, and in that time I have seen him perform feats that defy everything I know a Novice to be capable of.}”

  “{And you did not think to inform the Council of—?}”

  “{Which Council should I have informed, Brightblade?}” Ceruviel cut in coldly. “{The traditional and arguably legitimate one under the male heir, or the non-traditional and more preferable one under the eldest daughter?}”

  A wave of stunned silence met her question, and the Dusk-Lord snorted.

  “{What I do is nobody’s business but my own. Do not mistake my fondness for the Princess as being under your heels. Uriel and I may bow to the throne, but nobody has yet claimed the right to sit upon it. Do not forget, it is the Dawn-Lord and I that are charged with the Stewardship of this colony until a rightful monarch appears.}”

  That sent a stark silence through the crowd, and Aylar resisted the urge to rub the bridge of her nose in frustration. Pushing Ceruviel Latherian on anything relating to politics was like igniting a fireball in a room filled with unstable mana. It was a miracle she hadn’t said worse. What was even more discomforting was that the Duchess was also one hundred percent correct.

  Aylar knew that she and Braedon were not figures of legitimate authority yet, not until one of them passed the Rite of Ascension. The Dawn-Lord and Dusk-Lord were appointed by her Father, and until such time as the Monarch of the new colony was selected, that mandate superseded the authority of mere potentiates. The Moonlight Duchess and Sunrise Duke were the two true rulers of Dawnhaven—they simply permitted her and Braedon to stretch their political legs in preparation for what came next.

  Aylar opened her mouth to speak and potentially soothe the ire of the mercurial Archon, when a deafening rumble of thunder crackled across the sky. Her eyes, like those of all present, snapped to the heavens and she felt her blood run cold.

  Boiling, blistering, boundless veins of scarlet energy rippled and stirred within the confines of the midnight clouds—arcing across the localized weather event in terrifying displays of force. It was like something out of a novel, seeing the way that the System’s power manifested itself with such terrible destructive beauty. She shivered despite herself, and felt her arms fold with instinctive defense under her breasts.

  A strike from any single one of those forks of devastation would probably kill even a Second Tier Cultivator.

  “{It is beginning,}” Ceruviel said in a voice that tense with expectation, then lowered her gaze toward the hole in which the Hydra had lurked, prior to Achilles detonating it. That had been a shock for everyone, Aylar included.

  All eyes lowered to follow the Dusk-Lord’s gaze.

  From the hole in the arena, Achilles was rising.

  The black-armored knight was born aloft on invisible currents, buoyed by the raw power of the System and elevated through the opening like what the Terrans called a messianic figure. His head was back, his lips were parted, and crackles of scarlet lightning—not unlike those writ large in the clouds above—snapped and danced around his person.

  His helmet was gone, and though he held his blade in hand, it was gripped like he were unaware of it. Aylar’s eyes widened, she glanced warily up at the clouds, and then her gaze swept the crowd. What had initially been the early stages of panic had stilled completely. Shouting voices had fallen silent, as if by unspoken unanimous agreement. Every species of citizen within Dawnhaven looked on with silent wonder, fear, curiosity, wariness, and even hope as the Terran Squire was borne on invisible wings.

  The sky above thundered once more and Aylar reached out instinctively to grip Ceruviel’s arm. For a wonder, the Dusk-Lord only reached over to settle her armored hand upon Aylar’s fingers and squeezed gently.

  “{Do not look away,}” she advised in a low voice, for Aylar’s ears alone. “{No matter what, Aylar, do not look away.}”

  As if on cue, the clouds above rumbled once more, and rain fell from their depths—marking the arena in a deluge of mist and liquid.

  A snarling boom of thunder rocked the sky above and shook the very walls of the arena with its force. Aylar remembered the Dusk-Lord’s orders and her other hand rose to settle on Ceruviel’s.

  The first lightning bolt fell, exploded against the barriers shielding the audience.

  The Heavens wept and sundered in fury.

  The world shook with the System’s power.

  Aylar did not look away.

  * * * * *

  Uriel Aventus stood on the balcony of his office, attired in his gold-edged warplate, and looked out at the Arena of Dawnhaven. The boiling clouds, pillar of light, and localized storm captured his attention—but he said nothing despite the nervous energy of the Dawnguard Officers standing to his rear.

  “{We do not know much, Dawn-Lord, but we think it has something to do with—}”

  “{Ceruviel’s Squire,}” he answered simply, his voice a low baritone that silenced further speech other than a small wave of affirmations. Uriel’s eyes, so often compared to two golden suns, narrowed faintly in consideration while he observed the building cacophany. He knew what was happening, more than anyone else barring perhaps his contemporary. Ceruviel had personal experience with Tribulation—so did he.

  “{Lock down the city,}” he instructed with a calm voice he knew they needed, “{and seal the gates. Call up the Duskguard reserves and march them to secure the walls until 1800 hours—}” he had come to quite enjoy this ‘military’ time the Terrans used “{—when the Dusk-Lord takes the watch. In the interim, marshal the Royal Guard and tell them I want them to meet me at the Arena.}”

  “{My lord, to what end?}” asked one of his officers.

  “{Ceruviel has unleashed something on Dawnhaven, and while I will not directly intercede with her eccentric proclivities usually, this concerns the well-being of the colony at large,}” Uriel explained without ire. It was good for officers to ask questions. That was how they learned.

  “{Do you intend on confronting her, my lord?}” one of his Lance-Masters asked worriedly. It made sense that she was worried. Uriel knew the power of an Archon, and while he was quite certain he was Ceruviel’s martial equal—or even her superior in the arts of outright combat—in the field, her Affinity gave her an edge even he knew had to be respected.

  An Archon was never more dangerous than in a duel.

  “{I intend on offering her my aid and my counsel,}” Uriel said instead of denying the young Haelfenn’s inquiry. “{Whether or not that results in amicable conclusion or a confrontation depends on our noble Dusk-Lord.}”

  In his heart, Uriel knew Ceruviel loved Dawnhaven as much as he did, and wanted what was best for the city. He also knew she had only the best intentions for what she did, and that she worked tirelessly toward the idea of a more seamless integration of the native Terrans within their burgeoning Kingdom.

  Despite knowing these things, however, there remained a greater consideration.

  Their charge, per the will of His Majesty the King, was Dawnhaven’s safety.

  Uriel Aventus felt his Core ignite, and his golden gaze narrowed upon the signs of Heavenly Tribulation. Ceruviel’s Squire might be a pathway of possibility for their future, or a portent of their doom. He did not know which the man was, but one thing was absolutely and irrevocably certain within the Dawn-Lord’s mind.

  His first duty was to Dawnhaven and its people.

  Any threat to that had to be eliminated.

  And if Ceruviel’s Squire proved to be a threat, his duty was clear.

  Even if he had to go through Ceruviel herself to see it fulfilled.

  awful, and writing is a drag. As an added treat, I added some concept art above.

  Just so you know, my other stories did not affect this. Those are mostly pre-written already. Cataclysm and Reclaimer are the ones I'm actively writing from scratch.

  please follow Eternus Online, I could use the help!