Lucien woke choking on a name.
“Mira—”
His eyes snapped open.
Stone ceiling. Cold air. The faint hum of the trial city beyond his window.
His chest burned.
For a moment, he could still feel her weight against him—the echo of warmth where shadow had once held them together. Her voice lingered in the back of his mind—not words, just presence.
Then it faded.
Lucien sat up sharply.
The bells.
They were already ringing.
His heart dropped.
He was late.
Lucien didn’t bother with boots.
He vanished into shadow, slipping through walls and streets and breathless space, reappearing rooftops ahead, then alleys, then nothing at all as the shadow realm swallowed him whole. He ran where time did not exist and emerged where it mattered.
The coliseum loomed.
Too close.
Too loud.
He reappeared at the arena gates as the crowd roared—not in welcome, but amusement.
“Well,” boomed the announcer’s voice, magically amplified and sharp with delight, “it seems one of our contestants needed extra beauty sleep.”
Laughter rippled through the stands.
Lucien stepped onto the sand, cloak fluttering as the light swallowed him.
A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
“Ah—there he is!” the announcer continued. “Lucien Noctyrr. The Fallen arrive fashionably late, as always.”
More laughter.
Lucien didn’t react.
He joined the others—one hundred contestants spread across the arena floor.
Alicia Helior had been waving.
She stopped when she saw Luna Sangrelle already smiling in Lucien’s direction, eyes half-lidded, fingers brushing her lips as if she’d tasted something sweet.
Leon snorted quietly beside him.
Dialos grinned, sharp and feral.
Valor Drakaryn clicked his tongue. “Of course.”
Athena Skjaldryn didn’t look at him at all. Her focus remained forward, spine straight, wings folded, breath measured like a blade before a strike.
Lucien exhaled slowly.
That’s when he saw her.
At the edge of the formation stood a girl he didn’t recognize—slender, calm, dressed in pale greens and whites. Her hair shimmered faintly like moonlight through leaves.
Her eyes—
Lucien stilled.
Too familiar.
Not fear. Not shock.
Recognition.
She glanced at him once, expression unreadable, then looked away.
The announcer raised his hands dramatically.
“Before we begin,” he declared, “by gracious decree of the Celestial King himself, all faction leaders present today shall be acknowledged.”
Murmurs spread instantly.
Serena Noctyrr stepped forward when her name was called.
Lucien’s breath caught.
Some booed. Others whispered. A few even clapped—hesitant, unsure.
“See?” someone shouted. “Even the Fallen get mercy.”
“How kind of the Celestials,” another sneered.
Lucien didn’t hear them.
He only saw his mother.
She stood tall despite the years, shadows curling gently at her feet, violet eyes finding his across the arena.
She smiled.
Not pride.
Not command.
Just reassurance.
Be strong.
Like I was.
Lucien swallowed and nodded.
High above, Noxus Helior watched in silence.
The announcer’s voice rang out again.
“Contestants! The trials are chosen by no hand but destiny itself. Not kings. Not queens. Not gods you can pray to.”
The arena trembled.
“The God of Destiny alone decides what you will face.”
The sky above the coliseum warped—light folding inward as a massive projection formed, runes spinning in ancient patterns.
“The trials will test strength, wisdom, leadership, and power.”
The crowd leaned forward.
“The final trial,” the announcer smiled thinly, “will test what remains.”
Lucien’s vision blurred.
The sand beneath his feet vanished.
Darkness rushed in like a tide.
He felt no fall.
No impact.
When light returned, it was filtered through fog and towering branches.
Lucien stood alone.
Trees rose so high they pierced the clouds, their trunks older than memory. Mist rolled thick across the forest floor. Somewhere in the distance, steel rang against steel.
A scream echoed.
Then another.
Lucien tightened his grip.
The first trial had begun.
And the forest was already hungry.
