The number of waiting warrior-trainees in the preparation rooms slowly dwindled as the sun headed towards its highest point. With every pair that was sent out to face their trial, Aramir's nerves peaked. His hands jittered, his heart rate rose, and there was an inexplicable sheen of sweat collecting across his skin.

As the number in the waiting pens dropped to single digits, Aramir began to fidget. Seated on his wooden stool, he rested his elbows on his knees and placed his chin on his clasped fists, right leg bouncing uncontrollably as he tried to calm himself down.

'Nervous, Aramir?'

A shadow fell across him and he looked up into the concerned, sun-kissed face of a lithe young woman with cornsilk hair and bright goldenrod eyes.

'Are you saying that you're not, Runa?' he asked, with a poor attempt at a grin.

Runa laughed. 'For myself? No. But for you?' She bent at the waist until they were eye to eye. 'Absolutely,' she whispered and pressed her lips to his. She hesitated as she pulled away. 'My bout is next so I came over to tell you not to die. I'm sure there are other girls who feel the same way, but I wanted to tell you myself that I'd hate for that night during the last Feast to be our last.'

Aramir raised an eyebrow, a proper smile spreading on his lips at her words. 'I got an earful for coming home so late after that, you know.'

Runa smirked and flashed him a wink. 'Well, that's your own fault, now, isn't it? You know what your father is like.' She cupped his cheek with her palm and kissed him again. 'Kill that Fal'mor, Aramir.'

'Yes, ma'am. Good luck with your bout.'

She nodded, apparently satisfied, straightened up and walked away. Aramir watched as she stopped by the weapons rack and selected a javelin and small shield, feeling strangely calmer than before. Even his fidgeting had stopped. He chuckled and shook his head. Runa had always known how to calm him down, even when they were children.

Head no longer wrought with paranoia and fear, he remembered the words that his father made Eli repeat every day before their meditation session: 'A mind that is not clear is prone to panic in battle.'

More like prone to panic before, he thought.

Meditation had never been mandatory for Aramir like it had been for Eli, but in this moment, he could appreciate why his father made the girl practise it. Nerves meant doubt. Doubt meant hesitation – and when standing in face of a Fal'mor, hesitation surely meant death.

The golden portcullis opened and he watched as Runa disappeared into the sunlight, the distant roar of the cheering crowd resounding throughout the room in her wake. Only six other warrior-trainees remained.

Placing his hands on his knees, Aramir began to meditate.

He'd made a promise to Eliah, to his father, and now to Runa. It was one he was determined to keep. He would emerge from the Rite alive.

─ ☼ ─

The final two warrior-trainees finished their Trial and exited the pit, the winner dragging his opponent's unconscious body through the hot bloodied sand. The tension in the arena seemed to increase tenfold – or perhaps it was just the effect of the haze being generated by the midday sun.

The bowl-shaped arena captured the heat like a hearth. The entire Clan was hot, sweaty, and – after watching a score of warrior-trainees engage in deathless sparring matches – thirsty for blood.

Eliah shifted restlessly. Seras, the Sun God, may have been their creator, but all his light seemed to be doing was add to the already oppressive atmosphere. If this was how uncomfortable she felt up in the spectator rings, she could only imagine how overwhelming the aura would be down in the pit.

The arena went silent as Tyrant Einar stepped forward once more. In spite of themselves, Regis and Eliah both leaned forward. This was the part they'd been waiting for.

'Seren,' he bellowed. 'Let us congratulate our young on their demonstrations of prowess, for all have proven themselves worthy of being Swords and Shields of Seras! But the most anticipated battle awaits. Aramir, grandson of the Tyrant Thearris – '

Regis's brow creased.

' – and the most promising of all warrior-trainees to enter the Arena today has sought the honour of under-going the Rite. Should he win against the dreaded Fal'mor, he shall join the ranks of the Titans and join us in defending the Kyren, as our great ancestor, Taiten – '

Eliah pulled a face.

' – once did before us. On this day, we honour his memory!' Einar paused dramatically. 'All that is eternal is might!'

'All that is eternal is might!'

Unsheathing his sword, Einar pointed it towards the portcullis. 'Let the Rite begin!'

Right on cue, Aramir emerged, blue warpaint shimmering across his bare arms and back as he stepped out into the light. He had a round shield strapped to his left arm and a spear in his right, both made of metal alloys that had a distinctive blue sheen. At his waist was a relic from the Godswar – a shortsword made from pure aeonite, said to have belonged to one of the Seren who had served under Taiten himself.

'May it taste the blood of a Fal'mor once more,' the quartermaster had said.

The quartermaster had also offered him a set of ceremonial gold armour, much like that which was worn by initiated Titans, but the youth had chosen to forego it. In the face of a Fal'mor and its acidic blackblood, armour would do little but restrict his movement. Taiten was said to have fought armies of Fal'mor wearing little but a loincloth during the times of the Godswar – Aramir saw no reason why he couldn't do the same.

The Clan approved of his decision. With the true Blessing of Aeon painted onto his bronzed skin, the young man looked like the statue of Taiten incarnate. A thunderous roar of approval erupted from the spectator rings. Fists were raised. Chests were beaten. Girls and young women hollered with glee. Cheers, applause and the stomp of thousands of feet reverberated across the pit.

He almost forgot to breathe.

Counting silently to keep his focus, Aramir saw Einar walking towards him. The youth inclined his head in respect.

Einar nodded to him as he straightened. 'Good luck, son. Make your grandfather proud.'

'Yessir.'

The Tyrant left and the portcullis descended, leaving Aramir alone in the pit with no way out. Steeling himself, the young man headed for the heart of the arena, turning his head as he scanned the crowd. He spotted Regis and Eliah standing opposite from where he'd entered, leaning against the railing at the very edge of the pit, inside of the half-dozen stone-walled semi-circles that were usually reserved for menials.

The look on his father's face was strained and he was muttering something under his breath – a prayer to the Goddess Aeon to grant his son her blessing. Eliah, on the other hand, had pursed her lips, thumbs tapping rhythmically across the pads of her other fingers like they did when she was meditating to help her keep calm. Unlike Regis, she wasn't particularly devout. She simply muttered "don't die" like a mantra under her breath.

As Aramir reached the centre of the pit, Hal placed his hands on Regis and Eliah's shoulders. 'I'm going to need you to step back for a moment,' he said.

Wary, they obeyed, moving to stand at the rear of the enclosing stone wall instead.

Lifting his head, the menial closed his eyes. The air around him crackled. Palms facing upwards, he spread his hands. 'Set the wards,' he whispered.

Eliah's temples throbbed, the words seeming to pierce through her head rather than travelling through her ears. She pressed her knuckles to her forehead, face screwing up as the sensation radiated all the way to the back of her skull. Regis frowned as he watched her, apparently unaffected. But the menials in the five other magic-enclosed half-circles spread around the pit reacted similarly to the girl, flinching or doubling over in pain as Hal's words reached them.

Nevertheless, they set to work.

Spreading themselves out evenly within their groups, each menial lowered themselves onto one knee and placed their palms onto the second ring of the runes in their circle. Alone in his circle, Hal did the same, the two bony nubs beside his spine seeming to protrude even more than normal as he knelt and curved his spine.

'On my word,' mind-spoke Hal. 'Three, two, one... set.'

With a flicker of silver from Hal's fingertips, the aeonite in the ground came to life. A blinding pillar of white light shot skyward from each of the six rune circles, drawing in streams of aeonite dust from the atmosphere as they joined together to form a cage-like dome above the pit. Coils of white and blue spread from the arcs like vines, twisting and swirling until all six arc segments were covered in matching series of circles and runes. The ward flashed twice as it was completed, and faded until it was translucent.

Mesmerised, Eliah reached out to touch it. The runes in the barrier flashed blue where her fingers met them, locking her in place and sending a jolt down her arm. The aeonite embedded in her skin burned white-hot.

As the girl yelled in panic, Regis quickly yanked her back.

He bopped her lightly on the head. 'That was foolish. You know better than to meddle with magic.'

Eliah winced and rubbed her smarting fingers. Eying Hal, she wondered what the last rune circle was for.

The silver-haired menial was sweating. Whether it was from the heat, magical exertion or nerves, it was hard to tell, but he seemed to steel himself as he stepped forward to where the third, innermost ring of runes awaited.

'Set to open the cage,' he mind-whispered. Silver light flickered beneath his fingertips as he concentrated. 'In three... two... one...'

The last circle of aeonite flickered to life.

Down in the pit, a sliver of iridescent light, two or three times Aramir's height, sliced through the air in front of him. Spear at the ready, he raised his shield – and took a quick step back as the light morphed and bulged, black liquid seeping through its centre like a putrid wine bursting from a damaged waterskin. The ground beneath it melted away with a sizzle.

Fingerlike tendrils, oozing black, forced their way through the dimensional rip and tore it wide open. With a sickening slurp, the Fal'mor forced its way through the gate and let out a blood-curdling screech.

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All content and illustrations ©Jax L. P. (@JaxCreation) on 𝑾𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒑𝒂𝒅. All rights reserved. Please contact the author if you are reading this on another site or under a different account name.