Faction Trials

The week bled by in silence sharpened like a blade.

The Dominion Institute didn't rest. It waited. It watched. It stalked.

Whispers oozed through its stone halls like venom. Murmurs of the Slave Princess, the Blood Trials, the fire that danced like wrath given shape. Of how Nyra Vale turned the battlefield into a graveyard.

Now the air was thick—tense like a coiled serpent. Something was about to snap.

The Assembly Hall loomed like a mausoleum. Pillars stretched to the heavens, lined with the flickering banners of power—Vortexa, Luxreign, Dreadmoor, Nyxborne, and Verityn—each pulsing with slow, malicious energy.

The first-years shuffled in. Some tried to look fearless. Most failed.

Nyra stood near the back, cuffs heavy at her wrists, chains coiled tight like steel serpents. The ones on her ankles were fully retracted, silent, but those around her calves still clinked softly with every shift. Her silver eyes swept the hall, reading it like a battlefield.

"They're looking at you like you're about to devour them," Riven muttered, a smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth.

"Let them wonder," Nyra said flatly.

"Let them run," Nyx purred, stretching beside her. "Fear's the appetizer."

"Don't start," Seraph warned, brushing imaginary dust off her sleeve.

Voss stood like a statue—broad shoulders tense, jaw locked, eyes unreadable.

The hall fell silent as the senior instructor strode forward. Voice like cracking bone.

"Step forward if you accept your faction offer. If not… stay where you are. We'll know what you are by your silence."

The command dropped like a guillotine.

A beat.

Then students moved.

Like prey forced to choose their slaughterhouse.

The nobles led the charge—smug, polished, too perfect. A girl with glassy eyes and a stitched-on smile strode to Luxreign. A boy with ash-dusted skin and a serrated grin went to Dreadmoor.

A few tried to swagger.

Most stumbled.

Then Princess Celeste appeared—ice carved into a girl's shape, walking with slow, deliberate elegance. Silk robes glittered like sharpened frost. Her gaze didn't flicker. She stepped into the light of Luxreign like she owned it.

"Shocking," Nyx muttered dryly.

"She looks like a walking icicle," Riven said. "Bet she bleeds glitter."

"She bleeds," Nyra said darkly. "That's enough."

Voss moved next—calm, ruthless, silent. He didn't look at anyone. Just walked straight to Vortexa like he'd been forged for it.

Seraph followed, steps like wind on water. When she passed into the shadows of Nyxborne, the light seemed to flee with her.

Then Riven.

He twirled a blade in one hand, winked at no one in particular, and headed to Dreadmoor with a wolf's grin.

And then—

"Nyra Vale," the instructor growled. "Offered position in Vortexa. Do you accept?"

The room stilled.

Nyra's expression didn't change.

"No."

The word dropped like a war drum.

Murmurs exploded.

"She said no?"

"Is she serious?"

"She really just—"

"I don't join cages," Nyra said, loud enough for them all. "Even if they're wrapped in gold and glory."

Gasps. Glares. Even a few admiring smirks from the darker corners.

"Bold," Nyx whispered.

"Stupid," Seraph murmured from the shadows.

"Both," Riven added with a grin.

Voss? He didn't move. But his fingers twitched. Just once.

Nyra didn't flinch.

"Very well," the instructor said with a cruel smile. "Then you stand alone."

She already had.

The line was drawn.

One by one, the chosen were taken. The doors to the faction trials opened like iron jaws, swallowing the first-years whole.

Nyra remained rooted.

Watching.

She saw Voss vanish into the Vortexa chamber—cold and precise like a storm given legs.

She watched Seraph dissolve into the shadows of Nyxborne like smoke.

Riven strolled into Dreadmoor like he belonged there.

And Celeste—oh, Celeste didn't walk, she glided. Into Luxreign, of course, wrapped in her delusions of destiny.

They disappeared one by one.

And Nyra stood alone.

Eyes slammed into her from every direction. Awe. Fear. Disgust. Respect.

"She really turned it down…"

"She's either suicidal or—"

"—the strongest one here."

Her chains rattled faintly as she shifted her weight.

And then she smiled.

A slow, venomous curl of her lips.

They thought she needed a faction.

They were wrong.

The real game was just beginning.

The gates closed behind them.

A hiss of iron and magic, like the fangs of some ancient beast snapping shut.

Nyra didn't move. She stood in the echoing corridor of the Assembly Hall, chains swaying gently from her wrists, watching as the last flicker of Voss's cloak vanished into the yawning mouth of Vortexa's trial chamber.

Then came the silence.

And in it, her thoughts clawed forward.

Why do I feel like I just lost something?

She shook it off. Her jaw clenched. She was not made for regrets.

But her eyes lingered longer than they should have.

All around her, the first years sat in a massive observation chamber. The walls were imbued with illusion glass—transparent and magical, displaying every faction's trials in real time like scenes from an executioner's stage.

Some students leaned forward eagerly. Others sat frozen, pale, clenching the edges of their seats.

Nyra didn't move. But her pulse beat with quiet thunder.

VORTEXA

The storm did not begin slowly.

Voss stepped into the trial chamber—and the air shattered.

Hurricane-force winds exploded from all sides, blades of compressed air slicing through the space. The chamber twisted around him in chaos—walls folding inward, platforms collapsing and reassembling midair.

From the illusion glass, Nyra narrowed her eyes. Riven muttered, "That bastard's already bleeding."

He was. Thin lines opened across Voss's face and arms, where the storm's edge kissed skin.

"You wish to command gravity," the chamber's voice howled, metallic and ancient. "Then survive in a world where none exists."

The gravity vanished.

Voss was thrown skyward, slamming into floating debris. A spike of stone tore through his shoulder—blood arcing like a crimson comet. He didn't scream.

He twisted, using the momentum to anchor himself, snapping his body around the pillar and yanking the spike throughhis shoulder with a brutal roar.

Nyra winced.

He's still going, she thought. How the hell is he still—

Then came the finale.

Hundreds of metal discs erupted from the floor, orbiting like a death swarm. Voss floated in the center, breathing hard, blood dripping in trails behind him.

His eyes sharpened.

He pulled.

Gravity crushed down on the blades—and redirected them.

Like a black hole collapsing inward, every disc curved toward the center, slamming into each other with bone-shaking force. Sparks flew. Shards screamed.

When it ended, Voss landed on one knee, panting.

The chamber pulsed once, then fell still.

Nyra's breath caught as Voss raised his head and gave the storm a crooked, blood-soaked smirk.

NYXBORNE

Seraph's trial began in pitch black.

From the start, Nyra's gut twisted.

She saw Seraph step into a void so absolute, even her light couldn't breathe.

Then came the screaming.

Seraph's own voice—fragmented memories, twisted versions of her past. Children's cries. A lullaby turned to a dirge. Her own face in the mirror, warped by doubt and despair.

The darkness formed tendrils, slithering across her skin, whispering lies in a thousand tones.

Nyra's fists clenched. "This is fucking wrong."

Then Nyx appeared.

But not summoned.

Not controlled.

She stepped into existence, clawed fingers trailing through the void like it belonged to her.

"You think you can torture us?" Nyx snarled. "You're dancing in my fucking playground."

The illusions attacked.

A thousand versions of death. Corpses of Seraph's past victims. Ghosts of innocents she failed to save.

Moonfire exploded.

Nyx moved like a mad goddess—wild and beautiful and terrifying. She carved through nightmares with flame that screamed, shadows twisting into blades that wept blood.

One of the illusions caught her arm, raking deep. Blood ran silver.

She didn't flinch. She laughed.

Nyra saw Seraph resurface just before the end, reclaiming control in a flare of pale moonlight. The two stood together—reflections of the same storm—and burned the entire chamber to ash.

When the shadows fled, only they remained.

Whole. Bleeding. Smiling.

DREADMOOR

Riven's trial began with a scream.

Not his.

The chamber was a crucible of moving walls, rotating blades, and floors that bled poison gas every few seconds. Massive iron beasts rose from the ground—spiked golems covered in rusted chains and dripping toxin.

One of them slammed a fist into Riven's ribs.

The crack echoed through the illusion glass. Students flinched. Nyra jolted upright.

He staggered.

Spat blood.

Then smiled.

"Oh, you motherless shits picked the wrong noble to gut today."

He vanished.

Shadow split, and suddenly there were six of him—each a blur of venom and steel. His daggers flashed, carving through tendon and gear. One of the constructs exploded as his Kiss of Collapse hit its spine.

But they kept coming.

One managed to pin him—driving a barbed hook into his shoulder and yanking him off his feet.

Nyra saw the blood. A student beside her gagged.

But Riven didn't scream.

He bit the golem's throat.

The poison burst from his mouth—black, lethal. The construct seized and convulsed. Then collapsed.

By the end, Riven stood in a puddle of oil, blood, and smoke.

His face was pale. His mouth slick with crimson.

He raised a dagger toward the ceiling.

"Next time," he wheezed, "send something dangerous."

LUXREIGN

The chamber was polished gold. Mirrors lined every surface. Illusions shimmered with beauty, elegance, perfection.

Celeste stood untouched in the center, every inch a noble queen.

Until the room turned against her.

Reflections became distorted. Each one whispered a flaw.

Too weak. Too soft. Forgotten. Replaceable.

They spat accusations. They screamed her secrets.

And then they attacked.

Dozens of versions of herself swarmed. Claws instead of hands. Fangs instead of lips.

Celeste didn't flinch.

She carved through them with a rapier made of ice and pride. Blood ran gold down her arm. Her hair unraveled, face scratched, but her eyes—ice-blue and deadly—never blinked.

She stood on a pile of broken mirrors, breathing hard, body trembling.

"There is only one me."

Nyra stared at the screen.

Even porcelain dolls bleed.

Around her, the other students whispered.

"Why didn't she go in?"

"Is she scared?"

"She's stronger than all of them…"

"She doesn't need a faction."

Nyra ignored them.

Her gaze never left the glass.

She watched her friends—bloody, battered, victorious.

Her heart thundered.

But still, she stood alone.

Chains swaying gently at her side.

The silence after the trials wasn't peaceful—it was heavy, clawing, steeped in sweat, blood, and the metallic tang of fear. The initiates who returned bore the scars of their choices, some limping, others holding back the screams stitched into their throats. The Assembly Hall reeked of burnt magic, dried blood, and something worse: dread.

Yet Nyra Vale stood untouched.

Her chains didn't jangle—they sang. A soft, metallic echo that trailed behind each step like a whispered threat. No faction sigil marked her shoulder. No colors draped across her back. She was unclaimed, unchained… and utterly unforgettable.

Students stared. Whispers slithered between teeth like venom.

"Everyone joined a faction… except her."

"She turned down Vortexa? Is she suicidal?"

"I think she just doesn't care."

"She's going to get herself killed."

"Or kill all of us."

Nyra didn't flinch. She leaned against a pillar, arms crossed, eyes like molten silver locked on the projection boards as the last trial concluded. She could feel them—Seraph's sharp grace, Nyx's bloodlust bursting through, Riven's venom-drenched precision, Voss's surgical savagery, and even Celeste's controlled arrogance. They bled for their factions.

She bled for no one.

From above, Headmaster Xypher Rhaegis stepped into view, the crowd falling silent as his presence cut through the air like a blade.

"You've survived."

His voice was devoid of celebration. Even that word—survived—felt like an insult.

"For now."

He paced slowly, boots echoing like distant drums of war. "Those of you who succeeded will return to your dorms with your pride—and your wounds. Those of you who failed will be remembered for how long you screamed before the medics dragged you out."

He stopped dead center. "Tomorrow, the games end. The Institute begins."

No one clapped. No one breathed.

Mistress Sylva emerged from the shadows behind him, silent as a whispering death sentence. Master Kael stood like a stone monument to violence. Grand Magister Orin grinned too widely.

"Dismissed," Xypher said.

The students moved like sleepwalkers, dazed from the carnage they had just witnessed.

As the crowd trickled out, Nyra didn't move.

She watched the flickering screens above one last time, her expression unreadable.

A sudden shadow at her side. Voss.

"You should've joined Vortexa."

She didn't look at him. "You should've joined no one."

He smirked. "You'll be alone."

Nyra turned her head slowly, silver eyes catching the low torchlight like a storm brewing. "I was born alone. The rest of this is just repetition."

Voss looked at her for a long moment. Something unreadable behind that cold mask of his.

"Stubborn," he murmured.

"Free," she corrected.

Behind them, Seraph and Riven joined up, bruised but still standing. Riven held a soaked cloth to his jaw, blood trickling down his collar.

"That was a bloodbath," he muttered. "Still not as bad as Mistress Sylva's poetry class."

"Don't joke," Seraph said quietly. "She'll hear you."

"Let her. I already look like I lost a bet with a bear."

Nyx's laughter laced through Seraph's voice, sharp and wild. "You do smell like fear and embarrassment."

Nyra turned and began walking toward the dormitory wing, her chains singing again. Behind her, the others followed.

Students parted when they saw them—either in fear or in reverence. Their names were already shifting into legend, whispered like prayers or curses.

"Is it true she didn't take a faction?"

"She's gonna get crushed."

"Or she'll crush everyone else."

From the edge of the crowd, Princess Celeste stood with her Luxblade faction peers, eyes narrowing. A soft, icy smirk tugged at her lips as she watched Nyra vanish into the dark.

"She'll fall," she whispered. "Eventually."

But even she didn't sound convinced.

"Princess," one of her followers murmured, a sharp-cheeked noble girl with gold-threaded braids, "do you think she's… dangerous?"

Celeste didn't answer immediately. Her gaze lingered on the shadowy corridor Nyra had disappeared into.

"She's unpredictable," Celeste said coolly. "Unrefined. That makes her dangerous—but it also makes her stupid."

The others chuckled lightly, but unease twisted behind their eyes.

"She defies the system," another boy whispered. "Even the instructors watch her now."

Celeste's jaw tightened. "Let them. All fire burns brightest before it consumes itself."

Still, when she turned away from the conversation, her smile had cracked.

And deep down, in a place she didn't speak of, she hated that she couldn't stop watching Nyra.

The sun was just beginning its descent when the training yard was cleared again, the last slivers of light catching the bloodstained scuffs on the stone. A low hum of tension buzzed between students lingering on the sidelines, breath caught in their throats, eyes pinned on the next showdown.

Nyx and Riven circled each other in the center of the arena. Sweat dripped down their necks, blades glinting with mock-friendly malice. The playful grin on Riven's face never quite reached his eyes, which tracked Nyx with the calculated precision of a predator. She was already stretching her limbs lazily, like a cat playing with her food.

"Gonna take it easy on me, little shadow?" Riven teased, spinning his dagger between his fingers. "Or are you too scared to scuff up your war paint?"

Nyx's smile could cut glass. "Please. I only hold back when I'm bored. And you, dagger boy, are at least mildly amusing."

Their bodies collided with a flurry of movement. Riven lunged low, sweeping her legs. Nyx flipped over him, twisted mid-air, and cracked her heel against his shoulder. He staggered, rolled with it, and came up grinning.

She was dancing, her Moonfire lacing faintly beneath her boots, trailing silver light with every graceful dodge. He was all angles—calculated chaos, blades like serpents seeking skin. The two of them moved like a symphony in dissonance—clashing, slashing, evading.

He finally caught her with a feint—his left blade nicking her thigh.

"Got you," he grinned.

She snarled and tackled him to the ground with a burst of illusion smoke, pinning his wrists above his head.

"You wish, dagger boy." Her voice purred in his ear. "But if this were a real fight? You'd already be begging for mercy."

"I'd be begging for something," he murmured.

She smirked, let him go, and stood up with a flourish, flipping her hair back. "Save your kinks for someone who cares."

"Is that a challenge?"

Nyx turned away, waving her hand dismissively. "You couldn't handle the nightmare."

From the sideline, Nyra crossed her arms with a raised brow. "You two done dry humping in public, or should we get you a room?"

Riven laughed breathlessly. "Jealous?"

"Of what? Your bruised ego or her lack of shame?" Nyra's voice dripped with sarcasm.

Nyx's silver gaze snapped to Nyra. "Don't tempt me to make you eat dirt, Hellcat."

Before Nyra could respond, Voss stepped forward.

"I'll spar her," he said calmly, voice like thunder tucked in velvet.

A few students muttered, backing away.

Nyx grinned with sharp teeth. "Finally. Thought you were gonna play wallflower forever."

Nyra narrowed her eyes as she took a step back, letting the change happen. The calm cool of Seraph's posture shifted, replaced by the fluid unpredictability of Nyx.

Voss met her in the ring, shirtless again, his body lined with old scars and fresh bruises. The moment crackled.

"Still angry I don't let you call me Ruin?" he asked.

Nyx's eyes gleamed. "Nah. I just like pushing your buttons." She twirled her blade in one hand. "But I am gonna enjoy knocking that smug look off your face."

They clashed.

Flesh hit flesh. Blade met blade. Moonfire hissed against gravity pulses. Her illusions tried to catch him off guard, but he moved like a ghost—always a second ahead, always just out of reach.

He pinned her briefly with a gravity surge—she vanished into shadow. She reappeared behind him, slashing upward. He twisted midair and kicked her in the ribs, sending her skidding across the dirt.

She rose laughing, blood in her mouth, and wiped it away with the back of her hand. "Gods, I like you."

"You're insane," Voss muttered, catching his breath.

"You're not the first to say that."

The duel lasted longer than anyone expected. It was raw. It was brutal. Their bodies moved like predators—Voss all silence and precision, Nyx a storm of chaos and jagged brilliance.

When they finally stopped, both panting, bruised, bloodied—Nyx tilted her head back and laughed into the sky.

Voss, still catching his breath, offered her a hand.

"Nice moves, Scourge."

Nyx took it, but instead of thanking him, she leaned close and whispered, "Only Nyra gets to call you Ruin. But I like watching you twitch when I do."

Voss smirked tightly. "You're a menace."

"Damn right."

From the sidelines, Riven clapped mockingly. "Get a room. Or at least break a bone next time so we know it's real."

Nyra rolled her eyes, but her gaze lingered on Voss, still shirtless, still breathing heavily, muscles twitching beneath his skin. Her jaw clenched. Something hot bloomed in her chest, unfamiliar and unwanted.

And she hated that it had a name.

The sparring yard was alive with a vicious energy, students circling, blades clashing, magic flaring in sharp bursts. At its center, the storm raged between Nyx and Voss.

No playful tension. No softness. Just two monsters baring fangs.

Nyx crouched low, her dual scythes spinning in lazy, lethal arcs at her sides. Her lips were curled in a jagged smirk, blood drying on her knuckles. The white in her violet eyes had all but vanished.

"Come on, Voss," she cooed with venom. "Afraid I'll make you bleed in front of your Hellcat?"

Voss's jaw tightened. The corner of his mouth twitched—not into a smile, but a warning.

"Say that name again," he said coldly, voice low as thunder, "and I won't hold back."

Nyx grinned wider, tilting her head with mock innocence. "Oh, Ruin. You say that like I want you to."

In the blink of an eye, Voss launched forward. His dagger came in low, aimed for her ribs, but Nyx twisted like a serpent, her scythe flashing upward to deflect. Metal rang like shrieking banshees. Sparks burst from the clash.

She pivoted with her heel, ducked under his next blow, and carved a crescent of Moonfire toward his chest. Voss backflipped with inhuman grace, landing light as a shadow.

They circled.

Nyx charged next. Fast. Unhinged. Her scythes spun like limbs of a reaper. Each strike was meant to maim. To cut deep and fast. Her movements were chaos made flesh, a whirlwind of pain that bled glee with every motion.

But Voss—Voss was precision.

His body flowed with sharp efficiency. A blur. A ghost. He moved not just to dodge, but to manipulate the field around him. With a flick of his wrist, gravity bent sideways—pulling Nyx off balance. She staggered but recovered mid-flip, landing on her palms and kicking out like a spider. Voss ducked just in time.

Their weapons screamed as they met again.

Nyx let out a laugh—savage, giddy. "You're quicker than last time. Getting desperate?"

Voss said nothing.

He surged forward, his dagger glowing with a dull, crushing pressure. It cracked the stone beneath them as it missed her face by inches.

Nyx retaliated with an upward slice—Moonfire erupting in a spiral. Voss slid underneath, rolled to her side, and kicked her scythe-arm with bone-snapping force. The impact sent her staggering.

She recovered, gritting her teeth. Blood trickled from her mouth.

"That all you got?"

Voss's answer was brutal.

He spun, low and fast, ducking under her next strike and slamming a pressure-laced palm into her abdomen. The force lifted her off her feet—she crashed into the dirt, coughing blood.

But she laughed.

She always laughed.

She was on her feet in a heartbeat. Faster than she should've been.

This time, she charged in close—too close. Their bodies collided. Blades scraped. Breath hot between them.

"Thought you said you wouldn't hold back, Ghost," she hissed.

"I'm not."

Then came the finisher.

Voss ducked low, feinted left, and then used the Graviton Veil. The field bent beneath Nyx's feet. She stumbled—just a second.

It was enough.

He appeared behind her.

"Fatal mistake," he whispered.

And slammed his dagger into the ground—gravity rupturing the terrain beneath her. Nyx was crushed into the stone, a crater cracking outward. Her body twitched once, then went still.

Dust settled.

Students stared, wide-eyed. Some horrified. Some silently cheering.

Nyx groaned, half-buried, laughing weakly. "Okay... okay. You win this round."

Voss looked down, breathing hard. "Don't call me Ruin again."

She just grinned

through the blood. "No promises, sweetheart."

He walked away, silent.

And from the sidelines, Nyra watched, arms crossed, face unreadable.

Her eyes followed him as he left, that same damn ache curling deep in her chest.