Arrival

The carriage rolled to a gentle stop at the edge of the estate grounds, the rhythmic clatter of hooves giving way to the creak of settling wheels. Darron stirred, pulling himself upright as the driver dismounted with practiced ease and opened the door.

"End of the road," the driver muttered, not bothering to look at him. "Try not to embarrass yourself in there, eh?"

Darron shrugged, already used to this sort of treatment. His boots met the gravel path with a soft crunch, the scent of old stone and flowering hedges wafting through the air. The estate loomed ahead—an ancient, sprawling manor wrapped in ivy and tradition. Its towers clawed toward the sky, standing watch like silent sentinels over the generations that had passed beneath their gaze.

He took a deep breath. The air here was different. Sharper. Cleaner. Charged with the invisible weight of expectation.

Two guards in deep crimson cloaks flanked the gate, their halberds gleaming in the sun. As Darron approached, one of them stepped forward, eyeing him with mild surprise before recognition dawned.

"Darron Vornar," the guard said, not quite a question. He scanned a scroll and nodded. "You're expected. The others have already arrived."

Of course they had.

The gates opened with a groan, and Darron stepped through them, into the world he had been born into but never truly belonged to. The manicured grounds stretched out before him—fountains gurgled, flowers bloomed in disciplined rows, and a cobbled path led straight to the manor's great entrance. Everything was as he remembered it from years past, and yet, somehow, it all seemed colder.

He walked the path alone, passing servants in livery who barely spared him a glance. They had eyes for the important ones—his cousins, no doubt already inside, charming the elders, positioning themselves, preparing for the trials to come.

The double doors of the manor stood open, and from within came the murmur of voices—dozens of them—laughing, whispering, debating. Darron stepped into the foyer, his eyes adjusting to the dim interior. The stone walls were lined with portraits of ancestors, all of them bearing the distinctive mark of the Vornar line: a sigil in the shape of a flame-bound crown. Darron's eyes flicked to one near the back—a painting of his grandfather, stern and solemn, the man who had sent his mother away.

He moved deeper into the manor, weaving through the crowd. Nobles and relatives filled the vast hall, their robes fine, their expressions sharp. Polished laughter echoed off the marble floors. At the center of it all was the Grand Hall, where the trials would soon begin.

"Darron?"

The voice stopped him cold.

He turned to see a girl—no, not a girl anymore. A young woman stood before him, her eyes wide with disbelief. Tall and poised, she wore a violet tunic edged in gold, her dark curls swept back into a braid. Lira.

His cousin.

"Didn't expect to see you here," she said, stepping closer. "Figured you'd stay tucked away in the village."

Darron managed a small shrug. "I was invited."

"So was everyone with Vornar blood," she replied, folding her arms. "Doesn't mean they all show up."

He looked past her to the rest of the hall, where others like her were gathered—cousins, rivals, warriors in waiting. Lira followed his gaze and offered a smirk.

"Still not planning to compete, are you?"

"No," Darron said simply.

Lira tilted her head. "Good. It's not for the faint-hearted."

He didn't answer. He didn't need to. She walked off with a swish of her braid and a satisfied smile, disappearing into the swirl of wealth and power.

He found a seat near the wall, away from the central dais. The Gathering would begin soon. The trials. The announcements. The ceremony of choosing. He would be a witness, nothing more.

But deep in his chest, where he kept all the thoughts he dared not speak, something stirred.

A question.

A possibility.

And a single, quiet voice that whispered:

What if this year is different?