DRAGONRITE—THE TRIAL OF COMBAT PART 3.

The first battle set the stage on fire.

The crowd was on their feet, hyped, buzzing, waiting for the next group to enter the blood-soaked arena.

As the first group returned to the waiting room—victorious, bruised, and breathing hard—cheers and praise filled the air. Candidates high-fived them, patted shoulders, called their names with pride.

Johnquis winced as he sat. Gravier stepped over, grabbing his hand.

"You pushed your elven magic too far again."

"I'll be fine," Johnquis said, forcing a smile. "Saving lives matters more."

"But—"

"No 'but.' Focus on your fight, and don't expect me to bail you out."

He grinned. "Go sit down and watch me cut a Twisted in half."

As the next group lined up, tension settled over the room. Weapons were chosen, armor strapped tight.

Gravier walked past a rack, but James shoulder-checked him, knocking him to the ground.

"Watch it, Son of Sin," James sneered. "You shaking already?"

Gravier didn't reply. He stood, grabbed a massive greatsword off the rack, and rested it across his shoulder like it weighed nothing.

James blinked.

In the line, a noble boy leaned toward Eira.

"Princess, stay close. I'll protect you."

Eira slapped him on the back. "Straighten your spine before saying that. I can handle myself, Lord Eligant."

Nearby, Hank from House Crimsonscales laughed. "Let's give them a show, yeah?"

Then came the booming voice of Head Councillor Arté:

"Now entering the ring: Princess Eira of royal blood. Gravier—son of the King's brother. Killian of House Asulfang. Eligant of Goldenwings. Hank of Crimsonscales…"

One by one, they stepped into the arena.

The stench of blood hit them first.

The ground was muddy, soaked with the gore of the first fight.

"The smell stings," Eligant winced, holding his sleeve over his nose.

"Get used to it," Killian said, checking the edge of his Halberd. "This'll be our daily perfume once we become Dragonborn."

"Ugh. I never wanted to be a Dragonborn," Eligant muttered.

"You don't get to say that," James snapped. "This is our duty—we protect the kingdom."

"Blah blah blah," Eligant rolled his eyes.

"You little—!"

"Boys, shut your mouths," Eira cut in sharply. "It's coming."

The iron gate groaned open.

From the dark beyond, bare feet stepped into the light.

A little girl.

She moved slowly, her tiny feet slipping in the bloodied mud. She was crying—loud, broken sobs that echoed through the arena.

"What the…?"

"Why is there a child?!"

"Is this a mistake?"

"Help me!" the girl sobbed. "Please… help…"

Hank stepped forward, concern on his face.

"Hey, are you lost? Are you—"

She looked up.

Her eyes were hollow. Dead.

And then she twisted her head violently to the side—crack.

"HANK, LOOK OUT!" Eira screamed.

But it was too late.

A fountain of blood exploded from Hank's body.

The child contorted violently—bones cracking, flesh splitting. Her body twisted into a nightmarish form, limbs growing grotesquely long. A Twisted.

"This is what you get when you don't read," Eligant muttered. "Dumbass egghead."

Gravier charged.

His greatsword dragged through the mud, then whipped upward in a clean strike—but the Twisted dodged, snapping its claw toward him. Gravier weaved back, countered again.

Fast. Precise. Furious.

The spectators reacted in a surge of excitement.

Eira took the chance to drag Hank to safety. Eligant rushed over to help, and together they propped him up against the wall. Killian rushed in to assist Gravier.

Hank gasped, blood oozing from his stomach.

"Ha… got me good, huh?" he choked.

"You're pretty tough," Eira grunted, pressing a cloth against the bleeding. "Don't expect healing flames from me—just hold on."

"Heh… thank you."

Eligant shout to the dragonborn nearby at the top. 

"Hey, you! Get him out of here and heal him!"

The dragonborn do not respond.

"All of you deaf? He's bleeding out!" Eligant roared.

Eira didn't even look up. "Don't waste your breath. They won't respond. This is our trial. Intervention is forbidden."

Eligant clenched his jaw, fists shaking with frustration.

"I—I know, but… damn it!"

Their exchange was cut short.

A sudden, sharp gasp rolled through the crowd,

A brutal slash—Killian was flung across the field by a clawed kick, coughing blood as he hit the ground.

Gravier locked blades with the creature, its twisted face inches from his own. He held back its gnashing teeth with the flat of his greatsword, muscles straining.

Then—a flash of memory.

He was younger. Smaller. A piece of wood gripped in trembling hands.

Another Twisted. Same fangs. Same hunger.

The only thing between him and those jaws was that splintering stick.

But his arms were too weak. The wood cracked.

And he remembered the fear.

The rage ignited.

A surge of power rushed through his limbs, and with a roar, Gravier ripped the jaw off the creature's face.

"ARGHHH!"

The Twisted reeled back, shrieking.

The crowd watched in silence, then a quiet murmur spread: "Wow... he's actually pretty strong, isn't he?"

One voice, sounding cynical, cut through the crowd. "It's just luck. That Twisted hasn't eaten in hundreds of years. It's weak."

James clicked his tongue as he saw the crowd's reaction with annoyance. "Idiots," he muttered quietly.

Eira quickly assisted, stabbing over and over, her spear a blur. But when she aimed for the chest, the spear stuck. It wouldn't pierce deeper.

"Damn, it's bracing its core!" she hissed, releasing the shaft and dodging a counter.

Gravier followed up with a crushing blow to its legs. The beast dropped to its knees.

The arena gasped—awed by their teamwork.

From his seat, Arté watched intently.

"Good teamwork," he murmured. "They learned from the first group…"

Eira reclaimed her spear and drove it through the Twisted's other leg, pinning it to the ground.

Killian came back, limping, and cut off an arm.

Gravier severed the other.

"They don't need us," Eligant smirked. "They're beasts!"

But then—a blur. One of the candidates rushed forward, uncalled.

"Ha? Wait, what—?" Eligant turned, confused.

"NOW!" Eira shouted.

"FINISH IT!"Killian yelled.

Gravier raised his greatsword, muscles tense, preparing to deliver the final blow—

—but the reckless candidate got there first. 

James of House Silverspine.

"YOU'RE DEAD IN MY HANDS, YOU MONSTER!!!" he shouted, rushing in.

He swung—desperate.

The blade clanged off the Twisted's skull, barely scratching it.

Too weak. Too slow.

"What?"

The creature's eye lit up with wild fury.

Its jaw cracked open, unnaturally wide.

Then, in one quick, brutal lunge—

CRUNCH.

James's scream never even left his throat.

His body dropped to the ground, headless.

Blood fountained.

For a breathless second, the arena went silent.

Then came the screams.

The Twisted convulsed, its flesh pulsing as it fed.

James's blood poured into its veins—reviving it, empowering it.

Limbs regrew. Bone snapped into place.

Its roar shattered the silence.

Eira, Hunter, and Gravier froze, the weight of the moment crashing down on them.

"No…" Eira whispered, her voice a mix of disbelief and horror.

In a single, furious motion, the Twisted struck.

"BRACE YOURSELVES—" Eira's shout was cut short.

With a sickening crack, it punched Eira in the gut, sending her hurtling across the field.

Hunter and Gravier were slammed into the ground with equal force.

The crowd screamed.

A single reckless move shattered their coordination. In an instant, a life was lost.

In the waiting room, Jack and Kai watched in frozen horror as the Twisted devoured their brother's head.

Jack screamed—

A raw, broken sound that tore from his throat as tears streamed down his face.

His body shook violently, fists clenched in helpless grief.

Kai couldn't breathe. His chest heaved.

He staggered back, dropped to his knees—

—and vomited.

The first group of candidates stood in silence.

Some covered their mouths. Others looked away.

No one spoke. No one moved.

But Johnquis wanted to help; his fist clenched.