“Esteemed lords and ladies, scions of noble blood, and witnesses of the Barion Line!”

  The herald’s voice rang out across the arena — polished, thunderous, and far too pleased with itself. “By command of Lord Gregore Barion, Keeper of the Oathlands and Warden of the Western Vale, we gather this day to commence… THE GREAT BARION GAMES!”

  Trumpets blared, and the crowd stirred.

  “These games,” the herald continued, savouring every syllable, “stand as testament to the strength and grace of House Barion. Through trials of might, skill, wit, and honour, our three chosen champions shall prove themselves worthy to bear the stag-banner in the coming Game of Houses, four weeks hence — when all noble lines shall contend before crown and kin for glory and dominion!”

  Another flourish of trumpets followed, and Hope winced at the sound.

  Hasn’t he said the same thing like… five times already?

  The courtyard dazzled under the late morning sun. Banners of silver and blue snapped in the wind. Rows of nobles filled the viewing stands, a shimmer of silks and jewels, fanning themselves with the same effort they’d never waste on actual work. The marble dais glinted with gold trim, and the Barion crest — a rampant stag framed by a ring of thorns — hung above it like divine approval.

  Hope stood near the edge of the training ground, new armour polished to blinding perfection, shoulders stiff, helm tucked beneath one arm. The thing gleamed like it was trying to humiliate him.

  He tried to look composed, but every time the herald’s voice swelled into another pompous flourish, a muscle in his jaw twitched.

  I swear, this man could announce supper like it’s divine prophecy.

  The herald struck his staff against the marble. “Let the Trial of Might… COMMENCE!”

  One of the scholars — robed in heavy layers of brown and gold that swayed with every self-important step — moved forward.

  He raised his staff with the kind of pomp only nobles could mistake for grace. The ground rumbled. Dust lifted. A slab of stone tore free from the arena floor, twisting and grinding as it reshaped itself into a marble boulder larger than Hope himself. It hovered for a moment, casting a long shadow across the ring, before dropping with a deep thoom that echoed off the stands.

  The herald continued, voice rich with ceremony. “Each champion shall raise the stone high and hold it aloft without the use of Magika! This is a test of strength, endurance, and spirit! Let none yield before their limit — for this is not merely a trial of might, but of will! Let the esteemed lords present bear witness to whose resolve stands unshaken!”

  The crowd murmured in satisfaction, fans fluttering like curious birds.

  Hope rolled his shoulders, the steel plates whispering against one another. His stomach churned — part nerves, part irritation, and part certainty that half the nobility had gathered purely to watch them turn red trying. Somewhere up on the dais, Elira was almost certainly placing imaginary wagers on how quickly he’d drop the thing on his foot.

  “From House Draven, our first champion — Sir Cedric Draven!”

  The herald’s voice rang across the marble, met with that special kind of applause nobles gave when they weren’t sure if they cared or not. Cedric strutted forward like a parade horse, his armour glinting with enough silver trim to fund a small village. He bowed, slow and grand, clearly expecting the bards to start composing on the spot.

  Hope smirked. Here we go. Let’s see how ‘tough’ these noble scions really are.

  Cedric crouched, braced, and heaved — with all the grace of a man wrestling his own mortality. The boulder rose, grudgingly, wobbling like it had second thoughts about being part of this farce. His jaw clenched, neck veins stood out like ropes, and his knees quivered in protest.

  A few nobles leaned forward, morbidly entertained; others looked like they were waiting for the moment he’d pop like an overripe grape.

  By the time he got it overhead, his arms were trembling so hard Hope swore he could hear them. He lasted maybe three heartbeats before the boulder claimed victory, slamming back into the marble with a crash that rattled the stands.

  A murmur rippled through the crowd — polite, pitying, but with a definite undertone of disappointment that he hadn’t been crushed flat.

  Well, Hope thought, that was disappointing.

  “From House Kael — Sir Tolan the Swift!”

  Tolan stepped forward with the easy confidence of someone who actually trained for this sort of nonsense. No bow, no drama — just a grin and a quick roll of the wrists before gripping the stone.

  It rose fast, smooth as a dancer’s lift, his body steady, posture perfect. He held it firm, the sun glinting off his armour, and even had the nerve to smirk at the nobles watching. But as seconds stretched, his breath grew heavy, the strain creeping into his arms. With a sharp shout, he pushed through the burn, holding a few moments longer before lowering the boulder in a clean, controlled drop.

  The crowd erupted — real cheers this time, bright and loud. A few of the noble ladies fanned themselves with sudden interest, while some of the younger men clapped a little too stiffly for it to be sincere.

  Hope, however, watched with a sort of detached curiosity. This Tolan clearly had more than a handsome smile. His form was solid — not the flailing struggle of the poor chap who went first — every motion controlled, and practiced.

  But there was something else too — raw strength behind the polish. A gap in Physis, no doubt.

  Over ten thousand, maybe?

  Well… guess I’ll have to give it a go to find out.

  Then came the final call. The herald’s staff struck marble, echoing through the courtyard.

  “And now — from the High Line of Barion! Our last champion—”

  Trumpets blared.

  Oh joy, Hope thought. My turn to provide the comic relief.

  He stepped forward, sliding on the truly impractical, uncomfortable, and entirely unnecessary helmet. His armour gleamed beneath the midday sun, every step heavier than the last. The marble sphere waited before him like an accusation.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “Lord Hope Barion!” the herald finished, his voice swelling to an echo.

  He gave a polite little wave as he walked forward, then performed the customary bow toward his Lady Mother — who, as ever, made a valiant effort not to meet his eye — before heading to the large marble sphere.

  He pushed it lightly with his gauntlets and felt it respond nicely beneath his palms.

  He’d re-enchanted every bit of this ornamental armour himself — and always made sure to carry his spear in an equally ornamental sheath on his back — so at least there was no serious loss in stats.

  Now then… he had no practice in the utterly useless art of lifting a rock over his head to entertain nobles, but he could always copy from the ‘best’.

  He smirked, replaying Tolan’s form in his head, then mimicked it perfectly — setting the boulder over him with ease.

  Why is it so light, though?

  He let the seconds pass. There was strain, sure, but not much more than mild discomfort.

  After a while, it got awkward. Was he supposed to fake it?

  He knew his stats were extremely high for his Tier — more than 16,000 Physis — but still, he’d clearly overestimated Tolan. The young lad probably hadn’t even cracked 10,000 yet.

  Well, whatever. He counted the seconds in his head, then pulled a fake grimace, holding a bit longer than Tolan before dropping the thing with a theatrical sigh.

  He glanced at the crowd — a few nods, polite claps, and several ladies looking far too interested for comfort.

  Right. Time to get out of here.

  He straightened, bowed, and made his exit.

  The things I have to do…

  And he knew — this was only the start.

  After the trial, they were offered a short break — complete with lavish fruits, chilled water, and even a maid to massage their shoulders. Like… come on. Seriously? He could’ve slept using that boulder as a blanket!

  Alas… softness and grace. What a life.

  The herald raised his staff once more, voice ringing clear through the circular arena.

  “The Trial of Skill! Each champion shall test their aim and composure with bow and arrow. A single target shall take flight — and with each true strike, it shall soar higher, drift farther, and quicken its pace. The trial ends only when the arrow fails to find its mark. Let accuracy be your strength, and control your grace!”

  At his words, a dozen Tier 2 Wind Mages stepped forward in perfect unison. Their silver-grey robes rippled as they lifted their hands, and a sudden gust swept across the courtyard.

  A single circular target rose from the arena, spinning gently as it climbed into the air — etched with House Barion’s sigil, glowing faintly with embedded runes. It began to move in a wide orbit above the arena, slow at first, drifting lazily through the air.

  Around the stands, another line of Windbinders formed a secondary barrier, raising walls of compressed wind to shield the audience from any misfires. The nobles leaned forward eagerly, reassured by magic and spectacle both.

  Hope tilted his head. Well, this looked interesting.

  He’d heard of bows, but had never actually used one. And now, with his Ranged Combat and Sharpwatch skills pestering the back of his mind for some much-needed levels, this might just come in handy…

  If only he knew how to hold the damn thing.

  The first champion stepped forward — Cedric, face set in determined concentration. He took the bow, nocked an arrow, and drew with a grunt that echoed across the arena.

  He loosed.

  The arrow flew — and struck true.

  The target shuddered, then drifted farther back, rising higher, now circling faster.

  Cedric drew again, jaw tight. Another hit — barely.

  The next adjustment came swiftly; the target looked smaller now, farther still, wobbling slightly as the wind caught it. Cedric released — missed.

  The crowd clapped politely, though a few chuckled behind gloved hands

  Hmm… so that’s how it is.

  Hope imagined it — could almost feel it: the draw building tension, the wood holding it, and the string sending it flying in one clean motion. The elbow anchored, the wrist guided, the release followed the rhythm of air and pulse. Not so different from a Wind Blade, or the still moment before a spear thrust — gather, hold, release.

  Then came the second champion — Tolan. He moved with casual ease, confident as ever. One quick draw, one sharp release.

  Hit.

  The target darted higher, moving with a sharper curve.

  Second shot — hit again.

  Third — hit, just skimming the edge.

  Fourth — he steadied, drew, and loosed. The arrow split the air clean, landing dead-centre once more. The crowd gasped in genuine approval.

  Then came the fifth shot. The target had almost vanished into the blue, weaving unpredictably now as the Windbinders subtly shifted its path.

  Tolan exhaled, loosed — missed.

  A collective sigh rippled through the stands, followed by a wave of applause and approving nods. A few young nobles, however, clenched their fists just a little too tightly as their partners seemed far more interested in the charming Kael than the target.

  Hope raised a brow. This one was better. He could also feel a hint of Air Magika woven into the shots — though, if he were honest, it was clumsy work at best.

  The herald’s staff struck marble again, the sound cracking like thunder.

  “Lord Hope Barion!”

  Hope stepped forward, the sound of his boots against the marble loud in the sudden hush.

  An attendant handed him a bow — polished yew, silver-stringed, light yet firm. He turned it in his hands, studying the grain, the curve, the way it flexed when he drew the string back. Once. Twice. A third time, slower. Feeling the tension build and release, the wood’s resistance humming faintly beneath his fingers.

  Then came the arrow — smooth shaft, balanced weight, fine white fletching. He rolled it between his fingertips, testing its centre, feeling the faint drag of air along its surface. Then, with quiet focus, he channelled a thread of Air Magika through it, tracing how the shaft vibrated, how the fletching caught and steadied the flow.

  Every motion was calm — analytical, almost detached.

  The crowd shifted, whispers beginning to spread.

  High above, Elira leaned forward, eyes widening, a crease forming between her brows. Surely not… he couldn’t be— Her lips parted slightly, caught between disbelief and worry. He doesn’t… know how to use a bow?

  The doubt rippled outward like a spark caught in dry air, racing along the dais.

  The thought spread like wildfire along the dais. Gregore sensed it too. His jaw tightened ever so slightly, though his face remained composed. Damn it. He had never once thought to test the boy with a bow — or seen him touch one, for that matter. And now, before every noble eye in the Vale, his ‘heir’ was about to look like an utter fool.

  Julia’s gaze flicked toward him, questioning, uncertain.

  He gave a single, measured nod — calm, and collected. The perfect image of control.

  Inside, however, he was anything but.

  Down below, Hope stood motionless, bow in one hand, arrow in the other — silent, unreadable, and utterly focused.

  He exhaled slowly. The world narrowed.

  The chatter of the crowd, the creak of banners, even the wind itself seemed to fade away. The only sound that remained was the quiet thrum of the string beneath his fingers.

  He raised the bow, drawing the string back in one smooth pull… and released.

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