The Price of Survival

The sky above the Star Academy shimmered with false constellations—projected lines of starlight twisting into unfamiliar shapes, glowing across the glassy dome that enclosed the inner arena. The ceremonial field was vast, a circular stage carved of black stone etched with sigils older than the Kingdom itself. Around its rim, tiered balconies housed onlookers in formal silks and armored mantles—House lords, emissaries from far nations, veiled figures who spoke no words, and towering constructs that had no need for speech.

The Ceremony of Stars had begun.

Orion stood with his cohort near the front, his heart steady but dull, like a sword that had forgotten how to ring. The faint glow of Selene barely flickered beneath his skin. A veil of quiet hung over his soul—eerie, familiar now. He missed her voice. Missed the clarity that used to come with it.

All around them, other cohorts waited in tense silence, lined in careful order—fourty groups, each four students strong. Every single one chosen by a star, trained by the Academy, and ready to prove their right to rise.

Orion caught glimpses of them from the corner of his eye—some solemn, others smirking, others practically vibrating with ambition. One of them would win this. Maybe many of them would die trying.

A low chime rang through the air, and the Headmaster stepped forward onto the obsidian dais at the center of the arena. He wore the Robes of Accord—ink-dark fabric woven with drifting motes of living starlight, his presence quiet and absolute. A subtle gravity followed him, like the weight of moons.

He spoke, and the sound traveled like a whisper through glass.

"The Star Trials are not tradition. They are not sport. They are necessity."

His gaze swept across the gathered students, pausing on no one and yet brushing against everyone.

"You believe your stars make you powerful. That they chose you, and that choice grants meaning. But stars are not gods. And you are not saved."

A hush gripped the arena.

"This is not a test of your gifts. This is a test of the soul beneath them."

A second bell rang—low, resonant, like the toll of something ancient and buried.

From the tiers above, a herald in pale armor unrolled a silver scroll.

"The First Trial begins today. All cohorts, report for descent."

The scroll shimmered, and a sigil flared beneath their feet. Orion felt the air pull taut. His cohort stepped forward together—Serah brushing ash from her sleeve, Iris tightening the thread-bound rings on her fingers, Azrael expressionless but tense beneath the shadows of his collar.

As they approached the glowing circle etched into the arena floor, Orion's eyes flicked up to the high balcony. A figure in deep green sat there—cloaked, hood drawn, faceless.

Watching.

He didn't know why, but his gut turned cold.

A whisper curled through the back of his thoughts. Not Selene. Not warmth. Something else.

"You're being hunted, moonborn."

He turned slightly, eyes meeting Azrael's.

Azrael gave the faintest nod.

"You feel it too, don't you?" he murmured. "Something's watching. Through us."

Before Orion could answer, the sigil pulsed. A great grinding sound groaned beneath their feet.

And then the platform fell.

The platform descended into darkness.

It wasn't slow, nor a freefall—more like being swallowed, drawn down through a tunnel carved in stone and starlight. Pale runes passed them by, etched into the walls in a spiral descent, flickering with an unseen pulse. The air grew colder, damper. Orion's ears rang faintly, like sound itself was being pressed inward.

They weren't alone.

To their right, another platform descended with Cohort Six—Serah glanced that way and rolled her eyes.

"Oh stars. That's Damaris' group," she muttered. "Hope you're ready to get stabbed in the back before the fighting starts."

Orion didn't answer. He was watching the runes. Some of them flickered when he looked at them—just for a second. Like they recognized him.

The platform slowed.

A great stone chamber opened up below. Pillars like broken starlight jutted from the floor and ceiling. Jagged terrain stretched outward in every direction—half-forged ruins, collapsed bridges, bone-dry riverbeds that glinted with dust. Glowing crystals hung overhead, suspended in the air like frozen stars.

There were no instructors. No watchers.

Only a voice.

"Welcome, contestants of the Star Trials."

The voice didn't come from a person. It came from the air itself, spoken in unison by dozens of unseen mouths—high, low, whispering, chanting.

"You now stand in the First Vein. This is your first descent."

A brief pause. The silence made Orion's spine stiffen.

"Trial One is simple. Reach the inner sanctum. Only ten cohorts may pass. The rest will be removed."

Serah's eyes narrowed. Iris's jaw clenched. Azrael didn't even blink.

Orion frowned. Removed?

"There is no time limit. But you are not alone."

The moment the words faded, the runes on the pillars flared—and something deep beneath the stone groaned.

Then the voice spoke one last time.

"Begin."

The light in the chamber shifted. Pathways extended outward from their platform—five corridors, spiraling off in different directions like a starburst.

"Pick fast," Serah said. "We're not the only ones moving."

Orion looked toward the middle path.

There was something about it—darker than the rest, but familiar. Cold. Not like Selene. Not like the warmth he'd felt lately either. This was different. Watching.

"Middle one," he said. "We take that."

"Seriously?" Iris asked, hesitating. "It's the worst-lit. Which means it's trapped."

"Exactly," Azrael said with a quiet nod. "The best path is rarely the safest."

They moved as one, sprinting across the stone into the shadows. Behind them, other groups shouted, spells flared, and one corridor exploded in a burst of sonic light.

The first trial had begun.

And something in the dark was already moving to meet them.

The corridor shimmered with veins of star-metal, glowing dimly underfoot. A whisper ran through the air—an old tension, ancient and blood-soaked.

They weren't alone.

Another cohort rounded the curve—four students clad in iron-edged uniforms, their brands glowing with hostile light. They moved like predators. No hesitation.

Orion stepped forward.

"We don't need to fight. Ten cohorts leave whole. There's still—"

"And thirty don't," the lead girl spat. Her brand pulsed like a fang. "We're not here to make friends."

Then they charged.

A sonic burst from Iris threw the lead attacker off-course. Orion moved in with Lunaris, deflecting a strike aimed at Iris's throat. Beside him, Serah lit up, cinders igniting as she hurled ash toward their flank.

One of the enemies lunged for Azrael.

He didn't hesitate.

With a flick of his hand, the space around him bent—Null Step—and in a heartbeat he was behind the enemy. His blade slid through flesh with practiced precision. No cry. Just a collapse.

The cohort froze. One of theirs, dead in seconds.

Serah stopped mid-blow. Iris faltered. Even Orion looked shaken.

"Azrael—" Serah began.

"They were going to kill us," Azrael said simply. "I've seen that look before. You don't wait to be proven right."

The enemy cohort snarled and surged again, rage overtaking caution. The corridor erupted.

Orion tried to pull punches. He cut but didn't aim to kill. Iris's attacks disrupted, never fully incapacitated. Serah hesitated—until one of them slashed her across the leg.

Then the ashstorm came.

A fiery fist crushed the attacker's ribs. He slammed into the wall—and didn't rise.

The battle ended in smoke and silence.

Two dead. Two retreating, wounded. One brand extinguished. One flickering.

Orion stood over the body, sword still humming faintly with moonlight. His hands shook.

Serah knelt, eyes wide and hollow.

"I didn't mean to—he was going to—"

"You did what you had to," Azrael said. "That's what this trial is. A purge."

"Then why does it feel like we failed something?" Iris whispered.

They didn't answer.

Behind them, two corpses. Ahead, only deeper corridors and the knowledge that they'd have to do it all again.

Orion looked down at the blood on Lunaris.

So this is what the stars made us for?

They moved in silence now.

No one spoke as they navigated the next stretch of the Vein. The corridor split and twisted, star-forged walls rising like bone. The fight lingered on their skin—blood not theirs, ash-smoke caught in the breath, the echo of dying eyes.

Serah limped slightly, leg bound in cinder-cloth. Iris hadn't used her voice once since. Orion's grip on Lunaris was tighter than necessary.

Only Azrael moved like nothing had changed.

Eventually, they reached a narrow stone outcropping that gave them cover. They stopped.

"We need rest," Orion said. "Even just for a moment."

Azrael gave him a look but didn't argue. Serah collapsed against the wall, exhaling through grit teeth.

"They looked our age," Iris murmured. "Maybe younger. Why would they—why would the Academy even let this happen?"

Azrael crouched nearby, cleaning his blade.

"Because the weak die. The strong don't hesitate. That's how it's always been—outside the Academy walls."

"You speak like you've done this before," Serah said quietly.

Azrael didn't answer for a moment.

"I have."

They looked at him. But he didn't explain further.

A distant scream rang out. Then silence. Then a thunderous boom—rock collapsing, maybe someone's spell going out of control. Maybe something worse.

"That wasn't far," Orion said, standing.

They moved again, this time with grim resolve. Less talk. More caution. Their shadows lengthened.

At the next junction, they found another cohort.

Or what was left of one.

Two bodies, slumped together. One had a melted brand, a ruin of flesh. The other looked untouched, like she just fell asleep—except her neck was twisted the wrong way.

Iris gagged. Serah looked away.

A symbol was carved into the wall beside them. A jagged star with a line through it.

Azrael stared at it.

"Marking kills."

"Like trophies?" Orion asked.

"Or a warning."

They kept moving.

Hours—or minutes—bled together. Every corridor felt colder. The Trials had begun with order, even grandeur. But now it felt like a hunt. The weak were being culled. Not just tested.

They passed more signs. More corpses. One group had turned on each other—brands burnt out in mutual betrayal.

Orion's mind buzzed.

This isn't a trial. It's a ritual.

When they finally reached the next gate, ten cohorts stood already gathered—wounded, wary, but alive.

And watching.

Among them was a boy with storm-grey eyes and lightning-threaded veins. His group was whole. Unbloodied. Unbothered.

He smiled as Orion approached.

"You made it," the boy said. "Was starting to wonder."

"And you are?" Orion asked.

The boy tapped the glowing sigil on the wall behind him—Cohort One.

"I'm Cyrus. I bear the star of tempest and my cohort is at the top of the board. Remember it."

The gate shimmered and began to open, revealing a new chamber—and with it, the second phase of the trial.

But before stepping in, Orion glanced back at his team.

They looked older. Harder. And yet—fractured.

No one came through that first gate unchanged.

The gate shimmered like heat mirage, bands of starlight unraveling in vertical coils until the stone parted with a hiss of pressure.

A cavern awaited beyond—wide, circular, and dimly lit by veins of starcrystal woven into the walls. The ceiling pulsed faintly, as if breathing. In the center stood a raised platform with four obelisks etched in runes, and suspended above them was a hovering ring of molten starmetal, rotating slowly.

Trialmaster Vaelen stood at its edge, cloaked in his star-forged mantle, the silver of his eyes glowing faintly beneath his hood.

"You've survived the first crossing," he said, voice echoing through the stone. "But survival is not enough. You are being shaped—forged—into something greater. Or something less."

More gates opened across the chamber as remaining cohorts arrived. In total, only ten full groups had made it through intact.

Vaelen gestured toward the obelisks.

"The second trial begins now. This is the Gauntlet of Concord. You will not face monsters. You will face yourselves."

Murmurs stirred.

"In the Gauntlet, your bonds will be tested. Each cohort will enter alone. Four trials. One for each of you. Fail together, or rise together."

"What happens if we fail?" someone called.

Vaelen smiled faintly.

"Then your journey ends here."

One by one, cohorts were called toward the obelisks. As the others were ushered into side chambers to await their turn, Cohort One remained in the center, unmoving.

Cyrus turned toward Orion's group as they passed.

"We'll be watching," he said. "Not everyone walks out of their own mind. Be careful, Moonborn."

Orion blinked.

"…What did you call me?"