Lucien ran.

  The forest did not open for him.

  It closed.

  Branches lashed his face like whips. Roots rose from the ground as if sensing his steps, claws of wood and stone tearing at his feet. The fog thickened with every breath, clinging to his skin, crawling into his lungs with a damp, metallic chill.

  He had no sword.

  No armor.

  Bare feet. Thin sleep clothes.

  And shadow.

  Screams echoed through the trees.

  Not cries for help—those ended quickly.

  These were the sounds that came after.

  Steel rang somewhere to his left. Magic flared bright enough to stain the fog violet, gold, crimson. Then came silence so sudden it felt like the forest had swallowed sound itself.

  Lucien slowed.

  Too late.

  He felt them before he saw them.

  Five shapes at first.

  Then seven.

  Then more—emerging from the mist in a loose crescent, fear and desperation twisting them into something feral. Knights in broken armor. A noble with blood on his hands. A commoner clutching a cracked spear.

  They didn’t hesitate.

  “Fallen!” someone shouted—not as an insult, but a justification.

  Steel flashed.

  Lucien tore his shadow free.

  It surged forward like a living thing, tangling legs, dragging bodies off balance. Lucien moved with it, fists hardened by darkness slamming into ribs, throats, jaws. He felt bones crack. Heard breath leave lungs.

  But they kept coming.

  Too many.

  A blade sliced across his shoulder.

  Warmth spilled down his arm.

  Pain bloomed.

  And then—

  Everything stopped.

  The ground beneath them darkened.

  Blood rose from the earth as if summoned—thin at first, then thickening, stretching upward like serpents waking from sleep. It twisted, shaped itself, hardened into hands.

  Dozens of them.

  They wrapped around throats. Crushed wrists. Covered mouths mid-scream.

  Luna Sangrelle stepped from the fog.

  Her pale skin glowed faintly in the crimson light, ruby eyes calm as still water. She lifted one slender hand, fingers relaxed.

  “Dull,” she said softly.

  Her gaze flicked to Lucien—measuring.

  Then back to them.

  “Kill yourselves.”

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

  They did.

  Some clawed at their own throats until bone snapped. Others drove blades inward, eyes wide, mouths silent. Blood soaked into the forest floor, feeding something unseen.

  Lucien stared as bodies collapsed around him, lifeless before they fully hit the ground.

  “You didn’t have to—” he began, breath shaking.

  “Yes,” Luna interrupted, genuinely puzzled. “I did.”

  She turned toward him, studying him now like a curiosity rather than a target.

  “You were late. You missed the rules.”

  She gestured deeper into the forest.

  “The Sword of Truth ends the trial. Only one can claim it.”

  Lucien swallowed. “Why tell me?”

  A slow smile curved her lips—sharp, amused.

  “Because helping you will infuriate my mother.”

  She tossed him a weapon—short, chipped, still warm with someone else’s blood.

  “Use it wisely, Noctyrr.”

  They moved together after that.

  Not allies.

  Not enemies.

  Survivors.

  Elsewhere, the forest screamed.

  Athena Skjaldryn bled.

  Her breath came in sharp bursts as she ducked beneath a horned swing that split a tree in half. The beast was massive—plated hide, eyes too intelligent, too aware. Her blades struck again and again, sparks skidding uselessly across its skin.

  Valor Drakaryn roared in fury.

  Black lightning cracked from his hands, fire spiraling into the shape of snarling drakes that slammed into the creature’s flank. The beast barely staggered.

  “Three seconds!” Athena shouted, vision blurring as her foresight screamed warnings. “Left—now!”

  Valor hesitated.

  Pride warred with survival.

  Then he moved.

  Lightning and flame fused, twisting into a dragon of black fire that screamed as it collided with the beast. The impact flattened the ground, shockwaves ripping through the forest.

  The beast howled—then collapsed, its upper body burned away.

  Valor fell to one knee.

  Then flat.

  Athena stood over him, chest heaving, blood dripping from her blades.

  She could leave him.

  The trial allowed it.

  Her wings twitched.

  And then she cursed, hoisted him up, and spread her wings.

  “Don’t die,” she muttered. “Not yet.”

  Alicia Helior did not run.

  She walked.

  Monsters burst from the fog toward her—lesser things, twisted and fast—and she stopped, planting her feet.

  She raised her rapier.

  Light gathered.

  Not a flash—a concentration.

  The air bent.

  Stars formed above her, small and blinding, humming with lethal grace.

  Alicia exhaled.

  They fell.

  Each star pierced flesh cleanly, bodies dropping before screams could finish. When the last monster lunged, Alicia vanished in a streak of brilliance.

  She reappeared behind it.

  One thrust.

  Silence.

  The crowd watching from above roared.

  But King Noxus Helior did not look at his daughter.

  His gaze was fixed elsewhere.

  On shadow.

  Leon and Dialos fought back to back, breathing hard.

  Monsters hesitated when they saw Dialos—ancient fear whispering through their twisted minds.

  “We’re lost,” Leon gasped, wiping blood from his eyes.

  Dialos snarled, gripping his blade tighter. “Then we carve a path.”

  Lucien and Luna reached the clearing.

  The Sword of Truth stood embedded in stone, ancient and radiant, humming softly as if alive.

  Alicia emerged from the mist.

  Across from her, a white wolf limped forward—fur stained with blood, eyes bright with knowing.

  The ground trembled.

  The forest fell silent.

  Then it came.

  The beast.

  Larger than anything before it. Horns spiraled impossibly from its skull, claws like siege hooks carving trenches with each step. Its presence pressed against the air, suffocating.

  This was not chance.

  This was placed.

  Luna reached out—blood magic surging.

  Nothing.

  It slid off the creature like rain.

  Lucien felt the pull.

  The instinct.

  He could leave.

  Shadow-step past it. Claim the sword. Win.

  Mira’s voice whispered through his mind.

  Don’t let them make this a game.

  The beast lunged.

  Lucien stepped in front of Luna.

  Impact thundered through his bones.

  Shadow rooted him to the ground.

  He detached his shadow and sent it sprinting, drawing the beast’s attention.

  Then Lucien vanished.

  Reappeared behind it.

  And pulled.

  The beast screamed as shadow swallowed it whole.

  The clearing went silent.

  Lucien vanished with it.

  For the crowd above, only a heartbeat passed.

  Inside the shadow realm, time stretched.

  Lucien fought.

  Claws tore at him. Fangs shattered against shadow-hardened flesh. He bled. He screamed. He endured.

  The beast’s shadow writhed, thinning, unraveling as the abyss consumed it piece by piece—the same way Mira’s had faded.

  When Lucien returned—

  The Sword was gone.

  Alicia held it.

  The trial ended.

  Fifty remained.

  Forty-three lay dead.

  Seven had fled.

  “Forty-three deaths,” the announcer said brightly. “Seven withdrawals.”

  He laughed.

  “And our Fallen contestant finally arrives.”

  Lucien swayed, bloodied, breathing hard.

  Serena Noctyrr gripped the railing until stone cracked beneath her fingers.

  Avalon Drakaryn frowned.

  Astrid Skjaldryn went still.

  Solaria Sangrelle smiled.

  And Noxus Helior—

  For the first time in centuries—

  Looked afraid.