Valen stands with a group of people, his red eyes scanning the gathered participants.
At sixteen, he has grown taller, his frame lean with defined muscle from years of training.
Dressed in his usual black formalwear, he stands apart from the others—not in rank, but in presence. Unlike most around him, he wears no armor, no reinforced gear. A large two-handed sword rests on his back, its weight familiar.
The group stands just outside the city, positioned near the towering walls that mark its border.
The forest stretches beyond them, dark and endless, its treetops swaying in the wind.
The air is anything but quiet. Voices overlap, conversations filling the space as the group waits.
Some talk in low murmurs, others laugh or gesture animatedly, their words blending into the steady hum of activity. Even those in charge, sitting ahead on rocks or logs, are engaged in discussion, their tones relaxed despite the looming task ahead.
Dozens stand in formation, adjusting their gear or speaking with others. Among them, uniforms vary—robes, leather, and metal plating.
Some wear the disciplined blue and black of the Order, the half-sun emblazoned over their chests, while others stand in simpler attire, their colors muted, their presence less rigid.
The contrast is clear, yet they all share the same space, the same purpose.
Valen stands near the front of the formation, silent amidst the noise. His red eyes flick over the gathered participants, taking in their movements, their postures. Some stand at ease, chatting with their neighbors, while others sit, adjusting their gear or quietly preparing themselves.
He waits, alone in the crowd.
Soon, movement stirs at the edge of the gathering. Three figures approach, all clad in the same black formal wear—Miriel, Cassian, and another man. A smaller girl walks alongside them, her steps light but unhurried.
Lenna.
Valen immediately recognizes the man. Athos.
Bald, broad-shouldered, built like a war machine. His near-white eyes scan the gathering, unimpressed. A single chainless Morningstar rests at his waist.
Despite his presence, there is no wasted movement—he walks with the quiet confidence of someone who knows his own strength and never needs to prove it.
Beside him, Lenna walks with a long, thin sword that hangs at her waist.
Then her gaze sweeps the crowd, and the moment she spots Valen, something changes.
Her posture straightens just slightly, her eyes sharpening with recognition. A small smile tugs at the corner of her lips as she lifts a hand in a casual wave, her energy picking up for the first time.
Valen lifts a hand slightly, offering Lenna a small, polite wave, his expression unchanged.
She picks up her pace until she reaches Valen's side. Slowing slightly, she leans in just enough to whisper, "Hi, Valen."
Valen turns his head toward her, his red eyes briefly scanning her outfit—the same black formal wear as his own. His gaze lingers on it for a moment before he speaks. "Lenna." He says as a greeting. "Does this mean you're actually joining the Paladins?"
She nods, her fingers brushing against the hilt of her sword. "Dad and Mom were… convincing."
As she speaks, her other hand moves to the collar of her shirt, tugging at it slightly, as if the fabric sits too tight around her neck—or as if something beneath it bothers her. The motion is small, almost absentminded.
Her mouth presses into a thin line, her shoulders shifting as if the weight of her words is still settling on her.
Valen exhales, his gaze shifting toward Athos. His eyes narrow, sharp with the weight of understanding. He studies the man, the same way he had just looked at Lenna, but this time, there's no curiosity—just certainty.
Athos meets his stare for a second, then without a word, Athos looks away, uninterested. Valen doesn't. His chest tightens, the truth settling heavy inside him.
Before Valen can dwell on it further, the three ahead come to a stop.
Miriel steps forward.
"Listen up!" Her voice cuts through the chatter, firm, commanding.
The reaction is immediate. Conversations die, bodies straighten, those sitting rise to their feet. The entire group shifts into silent attention, eyes locked on her.
"Today is your final test!" she announces, her sharp eyes sweeping over the gathered trainees. "We will be monitoring your progress from a distance, but your success—and your survival—rests on you. Your groups have been predetermined, and each leader will receive instructions for their hunt."
She pauses, letting the weight of her words settle before continuing.
"A word of warning! This test is dangerous. Mistakes can cost you. We will intervene if necessary, but we can't be everywhere at once. If you misstep, you may not have to worry about regretting it later."
The cold reality in her tone lingers in the air, unsoftened. No reassurance follows—only expectation.
Then—Cassian steps forward, his stance relaxed but his voice carrying the same weight as Miriel's.
"Step toward Athos when you hear your name!"
Without hesitation, he begins listing names, his tone brisk.
One by one, trainees step forward, moving toward Athos. The man stands firm, his near-white eyes scanning each person as they approach.
As each group gathers, he waits until the last member steps forward. He hands the leader their instructions, pausing just long enough to ensure they take it before dismissing them with a single motion.
No further words are needed—those who receive their orders know what comes next.
Cassian continues calling names.
"Valen. Lenna. Vanessa. Silas."
Valen steps forward, feeling the weight of the name after his own more than his own selection.
Athos barely glances at him as he hands over the parchment, but just as Valen grips the paper, the man speaks. His voice is low, firm, carrying no expectation—only inevitability.
"The Church expects great things from you both. Prove I didn't waste my time on her."
Valen's fingers tighten slightly around the paper. Athos doesn't wait for a response, doesn't care if there is one. His gaze has already moved on.
Lenna stands beside him, quiet, rigid. Her gaze shifts slightly—first to the side, then down to the ground. If she heard, she doesn't react.
Valen turns without a word and walks toward the edge of the gathering. "Let's get away from everyone to discuss the hunt," he says over his shoulder.
Lenna keeps pace but stays quiet, her gaze still lowered.
The others follow.
Vanessa moves with a restless energy, her steps quick, eager. Her black eyes gleam with anticipation, her wild expression sharpening as she scans the area, expectant of combat.
Her hair is gathered in a low ponytail at the nape of her neck. Her lightly darkened skin contrasting against the lighter fabric of her shirt.
She wears a simple cloth shirt beneath a worn leather vest, offering little real protection. Her arms remain bare, muscles defined and honed through training.
A few pouches hang from her waist, secured tightly. Her only real weapon—a dagger—rests at her side. Sturdy leather boots complete her attire, well-worn but reliable, built for movement over armor.
Silas walks with the opposite energy—relaxed, almost too at ease. A grin tugs at his lips, his movements light, as if he's just happy to be here. His dark eyes flick between the others, amused, unbothered.
His brown hair is slightly unkempt, falling just past his ears, tousled as if he hadn't bothered to fix it. His attire reflects the same carelessness—a loose-fitting shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a vest that looks more decorative than practical, and pants tucked haphazardly into scuffed boots.
Unlike the others, he carries no visible weapon, as if the thought of needing one hasn't quite crossed his mind.
As they enter the forest, Valen unfolds the paper and reads it without stopping.
"So? What is it?" Vanessa asks, leaning over his shoulder, trying to take a peek.
He closes the paper. "Selil, about half a day's walk north of here."
Vanessa doesn't lose her energy. "That's it? Is it at least a challenge? Twenty of them? Thirty?"
Valen shakes his head. "The hunt only specifies 'Clear the Selil camp' with the location."
She exhales, pulling her hands behind her head, resting them there. "Well, I just hope it's not boring. I wouldn't mind taking them on myself if y'all don't feel like it."
Silas grins, throwing up his hands. "Alright, alright! You've twisted my arm. My Selil are all yours, Nass!"
Vanessa lets out a hearty laugh. "That's the spirit, Silas!"
Valen turns toward Lenna, the chatter fading into the background. His voice is quieter when he speaks. "Are you sure about this? What happened to making cakes?"
Lenna flinches, her fingers tightening at her sides. Her answer comes a beat too late, hesitant. "It... didn't work out." She avoids his eyes.
Lenna suddenly turns toward him, a forced smile stretching across her face. "I can do this. Don't worry too much about it."
Valen exhales, nodding, but the hesitation lingers in his gaze. He doesn't press her further. Instead, he straightens and raises his voice.
"We're picking up the pace! I don't want to spend the entire morning walking. Let's go!"
The other two snap out of their discussion.
Vanessa immediately slams her fist into her palm, eyes alight with wild excitement. "Let's fucking GO!" she shouts, practically vibrating with energy. Her steps quicken, her entire body itching to move faster, to reach the fight.
Silas, ever the contrast, claps his hands together with an easy grin. " Let's skedaddle, then!"
The group surges forward, the weight of hesitation and uncertainty left behind as the hunt begins.