79

  The banners of Vergara—black hawk heads on white—hung heavy from every pillar inside the king’s chamber. The stone walls breathed cold air, hushed and reverent. At the center knelt Ana Dorsen, posture firm, gaze lowered.

  King Revion stood before her, arms folded behind his back. His presence filled the room like sharpened steel.

  “What is your impression of the druid boy?” His tone was calm, yet carrying a pressure that left no space for evasion.

  Ana lifted her eyes just enough to meet his.

  “He seems ordinary,” she answered without hesitation.

  “Ordinary…” Revion murmured, circling her slowly. “One day, you will cross paths with him. Remember this, Ana: even dragons can be killed.”

  He leaned closer—just enough for his whisper to chill the air.

  “If not for Phelix, we Vergarans would have been erased from existence.”

  Ana bowed deeper. “Yes, Father.”

  Revion turned toward the window, gaze distant. “Gods know where this druid walks now…”

  Ana stood, steps light and disciplined. Her hand reached for the door.

  “Ana,” King Revion called.

  She stopped.

  “…Take care during the Selection.”

  The weight of the worlds hidden within those words struck her more fiercely than armor or blade. Ana bowed once more and left the chamber.

  The hallway outside the chamber stretched long, lit by stained-glass windows that painted the stone floor in hues of blue and green. Maxine Faelwyn waited there—purple hair cascading to her shoulders, white cape fluttering as she leaned against the wall.

  “You took forever,” Maxine said, falling into step beside her. Her tone was playful, eyes sharp.

  “I answered what needed answering.”

  “That means he lectured again.”

  Ana didn’t respond, which meant yes.

  At the end of the hallway, two figures waited.

  Zylfar Velrain—tall, handsome, skin sun-kissed, jaw sharp, light scarf blowing dramatically for no reason at all.

  And beside him, like a boulder with legs—

  Dralon Virol—broad-bellied, smiling warmly, leather chestplate creaking as he waved.

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  “There you are!” Zylfar grinned, slinging an arm over Ana’s shoulder.

  He lasted two seconds before Ana’s elbow connected precisely with his ribs.

  He coughed, staggered, and Maxine patted his back as if consoling a dying man.

  “Let’s go,” Ana said.

  They walked out to the courtyard where the vast world of Vergara unfolded—mountain winds rolling across the stone walls, houses neat and lively below, markets buzzing faintly in the distance.

  Half a mile north stood the Gate, beside the cliff.

  And beneath the cliff—

  The Rectangular Hall, carved from ancient stone with towering pillars. A place where echoes lingered like old ghosts.

  Participants from every region gathered before the hall—four from each land.

  The first Ana recognized was Aelya Sundervine of Dore, standing arrogantly with her rapier resting against her hip. She tossed her hair aside as if the wind existed purely to make her look dramatic.

  Beside her were the two young knights from Mistral:

  Gareth Ostorod—yellow-haired, composed.

  Tristan Fileg—red-haired, impatient, sword tapping lightly against his thigh.

  A group from Marlin tramped loudly into the area, heavy boots echoing.

  But then—

  The delegation from Rose arrived.

  And the courtyard collectively forgot how to breathe.

  Caitlyn Sevetar—tall and slender, tunic loose but elegant, veil fluttering.

  Edana Aryon—braided golden-brown hair, cross necklace gleaming, long sword strapped to her back.

  Skye Mirgalen—a mage whose presence carried fragrance itself; thigh slit revealing a dagger as she walked like she owned the air.

  Fiore Mir—silent, dark-blue attire flowing, armor glinting, black eyes unreadable.

  Zylfar stared.

  Dralon’s jaw dropped.

  Maxine elbowed them both in the ribs. Hard.

  All participants soon gathered inside the Rectangular Hall. Pillars towered overhead, each decorated with the banners of all ten regions—Rose pink and gold, Marlin gray, Iris white and blue, Mistral silver, Glory gold sunburst, and so on.

  Voices died.

  The footsteps of the king echoed.

  King Revion Dorsen stepped before them, hawk emblem at his back. Silence pressed down like winter.

  He spoke.

  “I, Revion Dorsen of Vergara, welcome you to the sacred Selection.”

  The torches flared.

  Before the hall, beyond the pillars, the forest loomed—dark, ancient, breathing.

  “Before you stretches the Death Forest—a place no king commands, no map defines.”

  A murmur rippled among the participants.

  “Its trees whisper of those who never returned.

  Its shadows hunger for the unprepared.”

  Someone swallowed loudly.

  “Yet beyond that darkness stands the Sun Temple, oldest flame of our land.”

  Revion’s voice deepened.

  “There, the Will and Knowledge of the Phoenix waits… watching… judging.”

  Eyes sharpened. Hearts quickened.

  “Today, you do not walk for glory.

  You walk for Irin’s future.

  For the balance of our realms.

  For the hope that three among you will rise above fear… above doubt… above the forest itself.”

  A cold breeze swept through the pillars.

  “Carry your courage as your blade.

  Carry your wisdom as your shield.

  And should you survive its depths…”

  The king paused, breath steady—

  “…may the Phoenix find in you a spark worth keeping.”

  The hall held its breath.

  Then—

  BOOM.

  A deep drum sounded outside.

  Birds burst from the cliffside, spiraling into the sky.

  Another drum.

  Then another.

  The countdown for the Selection had begun.

  Lantern flames flickered.

  Participants exchanged looks—

  Fear.

  Excitement.

  Rivalry.

  Curiosity.

  Determination.

  Zylfar winked at Caitlyn. She ignored him completely.

  Dralon waved shyly at Skye. She didn’t notice; her perfume was too busy conquering the air.

  Aelya met Ana’s eyes across the hall.

  A silent promise.

  Gareth and Tristan rolled their shoulders, blades ready.

  Fiore’s black eyes swept over all of them—analyzing, memorizing, judging.

  Maxine tied her cape tighter, purple hair glowing in torchlight.

  Ana stood quietly near the front, hand resting lightly on her sword hilt.

  Her father’s words echoed in her mind like a command carved into stone.

  Even dragons can be killed.

  Remember that.

  The drums grew louder.

  The cliff winds roared in response.

  The Death Forest waited.

  The Selection had begun.