The Trial That Never Came

(Instructor POV)

The chamber smelled of dust and old promises.

Few ever crossed its threshold—only those chosen by divine favor, and standing high enough within the kingdom to warrant such trust.

I sat alone, cross-legged before the ancient tablet—one of the last things in the world that still demanded truth from me. My fingers moved without thought, tracing the carved symbols again and again—worn into my memory until they might as well have been etched into my bones.

Refine the Divine Trace. Completed.

Master it under extreme pressure. Achieved, though the scars had yet to fully fade.

Trial of Will. Incomplete.

A test that would come without warning—unmistakable when it arrived.

I was still waiting.

Still unanswered.

I whispered the last part to the heavy air, and my own voice sounded hollow.

No trial. No sign. No divine hand reaching through the veil to test me.

Or maybe it had come—and I had been too blind, too arrogant to recognize it for what it was.

I rose stiffly, my robes whispering against the stone floor. Every step echoed. Every breath was a demand left unanswered.

As soon as I stepped into the main hall, noise struck me first—shouts, hurried footsteps, the unmistakable tension of something gone wrong.

Guards rushed past, the clatter of boots and armor shattering the sacred quiet.

And between them—a stretcher.

Ilkar.

Bloodied. Unconscious. Barely breathing.

I stepped into their path, raising a hand to block their way.

The guards stumbled to a stop, startled.

I met their wide, panicked eyes with a cold, cutting glare.

The fury was immediate—silent, razor-sharp.

"What happened?"

The words cracked out sharper than I intended, slicing the air between us.

The guards hesitated, glancing at each other, doubt flickering in their eyes. I narrowed my gaze, suspicion hardening my voice before I even spoke. The force of my stare pushed them to answer.

"There was a sparring match today... Instructor Ashren was overseeing," one of them muttered, barely meeting his eyes.

"It... it happened during his match with... Prince Ereshgal."

The name struck harder than a blow.

Ereshgal.

The Unchosen Prince.

What the hell was Ashren doing?

My fists tightened, blood roaring in my ears. My mouth stayed shut, but the anger burned through every inch of me..

The guards bowed clumsily and hurried on, carrying Ilkar—probably toward the Temple of Enki—to heal what should never have been broken in the first place.

I stood there, frozen in the corridor, as the storm built inside me.

How?

How could a boy without a god's mark—without blessing, without bond—lay low one of the chosen?

It wasn't just unnatural. It was sacrilege.

The palace seemed colder as I walked, its halls tightening around me like a noose. Every corridor felt too narrow, the torchlight weak and desperate. Flames sputtered against rough walls, throwing long, broken shadows that twisted with every step—shadows that felt less like illusions, and more like things waiting. Watching.

Somewhere in those shifting shapes, I heard it.

A voice.

Soft.

Close.

It brushed my ear like a whisper carried on smoke.

"Unchosen blood should not rule the blessed. If you wish to restore what the gods intended, come to the southern well at the third watch."

I spun, hand flying to the dagger hidden under my sleeve.

Nothing.

Only an empty corridor.

Flickering fire.

Stretching silence.

Nothing.

Only the echo of the words sinking into my core.

Cold sweat traced the line of my spine. My pulse hammered against my ribs—faster, louder—as if trying to drown out the thought blooming inside me.

A trap.

A hallucination.

Madness.

Or truth.

Because deep down, I knew.

I had known long before today.

The gods chose their champions for a reason.

Bloodlines were not tradition—they were law. Blessings were not gifts—they were necessities. And if the king himself had grown too blind, too weak, to recognize the sickness festering inside Uruk... then someone else would have to see it.

Someone who hadn't forgotten what was owed to the gods.

It would fall to those of us who still remembered.

Those who still listened.

I stood there in the dark, the weight of decision crushing down like a blade hanging just above the back of my neck.

The crown of Uruk belonged to the blessed.

Not to a mistake.

Not to him.

And if destiny needed a push…

I would not hesitate to be the hand that delivered it.