Chapter 8- Can I Go Home Now?
The city of Velrenmar had never been this loud.
Balconies were packed. Flags waved from the upper towers. Enchanted mirrors floated above the streets, showing moving images of the tournament arena. Shops stayed open past midnight, and the air shimmered with light and noise.
It was a strange sight — because Velrenmar's academy wasn't known for much.
Inside the halls of Velrenmar, the academy students had never seen anything like this. They were used to quiet corridors, half-empty practice fields, and bored instructors. But Now? Now, students from across the continent walked their halls like they owned the place.
Small. Quiet. Out of the way.
But this year, everything had changed.
The Faction Selection Tournament was being held here.
"This place? Barely has selection rates. Why here?"
"Probably neutral ground. Or cheap."
"Doesn't matter. The Factions don't care about such things"
People pointed up as moving pictures began to appear in the air. Magic cameras had been set up all over the city — and even farther. Through mirrors and projectors, the tournament would be broadcast to other cities.
Above it all, seven massive symbols spun slowly in the sky, each glowing with the color of a different faction: Stonehelm, Northcrest, Silverquill, Duskwatch, Ledgerhall, Brindlewyn, and Verdant Cross.
Even in the cold halls of Northcrest, stiff-suited elders watched the glowing screens in silence.
The chatter rose to a fever pitch, students and upperclassmen alike speculating, sizing each other up.
"Watch. A first-year from nowhere is gonna knock out someone from Kael'mair." (She laughed, but it was met with half-hearted groans.)
"Not a chance," someone muttered. "This isn't a drama show."
"But it is being broadcast," another teased, making the others snicker.
Outside, the breeze rustled through empty walkways, flags flapping in the wind. The bells of the north tower rang in the distance, adding to the weight of expectation.
The first trial was about to begin.
the crowd, thousands strong, had already gathered — a sea of eager eyes waiting for the spectacle. The factions would soon arrive, and their leaders would enter the arena.
The gates of the arena were silent, but the energy outside was electric. Flags flapped in the wind, bells rang from the northern tower, and the crowds gathered, growing restless. Everyone was waiting for the tournament to begin.
At the center of it all stood Headmaster Verrian on a raised stage of ancient stone. His silvered hair fluttered in the wind, his dignified robes fluttering as the hum of excitement swirled around him. He raised his hands, and the crowd fell silent.
"Ladies and Gentlemen... esteemed students, honored guests, welcome."
His voice echoed across the arena, steady and calm.
"Velrenmar has never seen a day like this. Though we are small, humble in comparison to the great citadels, today we are graced with an honor few will ever know. For the first time in history, the Faction Selection Tournament has come to us."
The crowd stirred, whispers spreading like wildfire.
"We stand on the edge of something momentous. This is not just a competition. It is a celebration of talent, will, and potential. A chance for the best to prove themselves worthy of the Seven Factions that shape this continent.
And today, you will witness history being made."
The crowd's energy surged.
The leaders were coming.
"The Seven Factions — Stonehelm, Brindlewyn, Duskwatch, Ledgerhall, Silverquill, Northcrest, and Verdant Cross — are the beating heart of our world. These Factions have shaped and shattered nations. They've built empires, brought down kings, and led the way for countless generations."
"Now, as the gates open, and the Faction Leaders step into the arena, let us show them the strength and spirit of Velrenmar." He lifted his arms, as though beckoning the winds themselves. "We may be a small city, but we are strong. And this moment — this moment is ours."
The crowd erupted in cheers, the sound like thunder rolling through the streets.
The Seven Factions Step Forward
The arena trembled — not with motion, but with expectation.
The sky above pulsed with the glowing emblems of the Seven Factions, each one casting its own hue over the colossal stone arena. The air was thick, like the pause between lightning and thunder.
And then...
The first light flared. Deep green.
A towering symbol burst into life above the eastern arch — a sword entwined by living vines. Verdant Cross.
The crowd roared.
From the ivy-draped gate stepped a man draped in emerald robes, silver embroidery trailing like roots across fabric. Pius Alaric. His presence alone silenced the chaos.
He didn't raise his hand. He didn't speak.
No announcement needed. Just his walk to the platform told everyone — Verdant Cross was watching.
But the wind shifted.
"Damn. He looks like a druid who taxes the wind."
"He hasn't aged in fifty years. What's he eating, bark stew and ambition?"
His features were sharp, his expression weathered and unwavering. He had the calm of a forest just before a storm — not stillness, but tension, waiting to snap.
A student whispered, "He hasn't missed a tournament in thirty years…"
Next to emerge was, Esera Saelth of Stonehelm. The crowd whispered as she walked toward the platform. Her armor, battered and scarred, glinted in the light. She was a woman forged from the very earth itself — powerful and commanding. Her gaze was sharp, and as she locked eyes with Pius, the air seemed to grow heavier, charged with unspoken rivalry.
"You think she's single?" whispered a Velrenmar alchemy student
"Bro—focus." said a Korrien boy, already mentally calculating the odds of making it into Ledgerhall himself.
Next — fire. Red and black.
A burning sun dipped behind a shattered ridge flared across the sky. Duskwatch.
Maedra Ruusk, crimson-haired and wild — dangerous, beautiful, untamed.
Somewhere in the crowd, someone whispered, "She once stopped a landslide with her bare hands."
No one knew if it was true.
But watching her walk across the stone floor, barefoot, eyes glowing with ember-bright certainty — they believed it.
A flicker of gold. A symbol of balance — ledger and quill.
Ledgerhall.
The cheers turned... nervous.
Out stepped a man in dark tailored robes with rose-gold lining, the very image of effortless control. Tousled pink hair fell just above cold, calculating crimson eyes.
Deyric Karr.
He gave a mock bow as he entered — subtle, slow, almost theatrical — then offered a smirk at the other faction heads.
"Did I miss anything important?" he murmured, voice soft and dripping with charm.
A few in the crowd chuckled. Many didn't.
A noblewoman in the upper gallery chuckled softly, sipping from a crystal glass.
"Ledgerhall doesn't choose champions. They invest in assets."
"I heard they once bought a candidate out of another faction's selection mid-tournament."
murmured someone near the merchants' stands.
"Bribe?"
"No. Acquisition."
Then — cold. A crescent moon over windswept snow. Northcrest.
No fanfare. No fire.
Just silence.
Kieran Duskvale emerged from a veil of mist conjured by the gate itself. His hair, icy-blue and windswept, flowed gently as if touched by an invisible breeze. His robes shimmered like starlight scattered across frost.
He didn't look at the crowd.
He looked up — toward the spinning moon above him — as if reading some celestial omen.
Silver streaks danced. Ink spiraled in air — Silverquill.
A storm of whispers cut through the crowd.
Orrik Valehand.
Out he came like a whisper given form — silver-teal hair perfectly set, black sclera eyes like two voids catching light. He moved as if each step had already been rehearsed, calculated to the millimeter.
He didn't look at the audience. He didn't need to.
Just being seen was enough.
A wide-eyed Velrenmar alchemy student squinted
"Why are his eyes like that?"
Then…
the wind shifted. The sky turned violet.
A crescent moon wrapped in a thorned vine pulsed into view.
Brindlewyn.
The crowd leaned forward.
And she appeared.
Mireth Qyln. New. Unproven. Unseen — until now.
Dark curls whipped in the wind as she stepped forward with slow, steady strides. Her eyes — vivid, wild, strangely focused — locked not onto the crowd, but onto the other leaders.
No speech. No greeting.
"Who the hell is that?"
"That's Brindlewyn's new leader?"
Just a presence.
But even the leaders turned to look.
The leaders stood in a wide arc beneath their glowing sigils — the apex of power on the continent, united in presence, divided in purpose.
The arena pulsed with silence, every pair of eyes watching.
Pius Alaric, Verdant Cross's ancient and unmoved figure, turned first to regard Mireth.
"So… Brindlewyn sends someone new."
His voice was smooth, unhurried — like tree roots twisting under the soil.
"You walk boldly, child. I hope you walk wisely."
Mireth Qyln met his gaze without flinching.
"Wisdom doesn't always come from age, Pius."
Esera Saelth of Stonehelm didn't smile. Her presence was steady, solid, like a shield planted in the earth.
"Brindlewyn has always roared before it strikes. We've seen what comes after."
Mireth's tone was calm. "Then perhaps you've only seen us after we've been caged."
Esera studied her. "We'll see if you're strong enough to break more than just tradition."
A silence hung in the air — stretched thin between challenge and curiosity.
Then, from the highest spire of Velrenmar, a deep horn echoed. Not triumphant. Not ceremonial. Just final.
It was time.
A voice — calm, enchanted, and ageless — rang out across the arena, carried by spellwork woven into the stones.
"Faction heads. Step back. Let the Selection begin."
One by one, the leaders turned — not in retreat, but in acknowledgment. Their judgments were no longer words. From here on, the arena would speak for them.
And beneath them, the gates began to open.
Let the trials begin.
The arena pulsed.
Not with magic. Not with wind.
But with intention.
A heartbeat passed after the horn faded. Then another.
The Faction Heads stood, unmoving. Silent. Watching.
High above, enchanted mirrors swirled into formation, displaying hundreds of angles — crowd shots, student faces, shifting gates. Magic screens hummed with layered enchantments. Every movement was being recorded. Every word captured.
This wasn't just a tournament.
It was a broadcast to the world.
On the highest platform, Pius Alaric exhaled quietly.
The ancient head of Verdant Cross didn't glance at anyone. But his words slipped out, low and precise, like vines curling around a stone.
"Another year begins. Another crop of hopefuls to water."
Esera Saelth crossed her arms, brown hair brushing the edge of her jaw as she looked toward the student chambers below.
"Let's see if any of them have roots… or if they're just weeds."
Deyric Karr chuckled, not even bothering to look at her.
"So poetic, Stonehelm. Maybe Ledgerhall should fund you a book deal."
"You'd overcharge me for the ink," Esera muttered dryly.
Across from them, Orrik Valehand didn't speak. He just smiled — too still, too cold — eyes like twin pinholes into the void.
The crowd couldn't hear them.
But they didn't need to.
The tension was visible. Palpable. Like lightning that hadn't decided where to strike.
And then…
A mechanical grind echoed from the arena floor. Gears. Runes. Stone.
A portion of the arena's center split open — not violently, but with the calm of something measured.
—————————————————————————————-
Waiting Chambers – Before the Trials Begin
The air inside the stone-walled waiting chambers buzzed with tension.
Students — from all corners of the continent — filled the room in clusters. Some stood alone, weapons slung over their shoulders. Others leaned against pillars or sat cross-legged on the floor, sharpening blades or adjusting their uniforms.
The emblems stitched onto their cloaks and collars made it clear: this wasn't just Velrenmar anymore.
Kael'mair's pale-blue coats stood out in pristine rows, quiet but proud.
Isthol's combatants, leather-strapped and scarred, looked like they'd come from a warzone, not a school.
Korrien's students, sleek and whisper-soft, lingered like shadows, always watching.
And then there were Velrenmar's own students, eyes wide, standing too straight or trying not to.
"Think they'll actually pick from Velrenmar this year?" someone muttered.
"Pft. When's the last time that happened?" another snorted, tightening the straps on his gloves.
"You never know," a third chimed in, nervously flicking through a deck of enchanted cards. "Rumor says Brindlewyn's desperate. They've got a new leader. Might gamble on someone unexpected."
A Kael'mair student scoffed, brushing dust off his sleeve.
"Unexpected doesn't mean unqualified. It means unprepared. Factions want strength, not stories."
An Isthol girl cracked her knuckles, grin sharp.
"Strength? Please. Half your students couldn't break a door if it wasn't unlocked."
Her Kael'mair counterpart raised an eyebrow. "And what does Isthol offer? Broken bones and loud entrances?"
"Louder than your grades," she shot back.
Laughter rippled across the room.
Near the edge, two Velrenmar upperclassmen whispered to each other, trying not to be overheard.
"I don't care who gets picked. I just want to make it past the first trial."
A girl beside him grinned, stretching her fingers with quiet confidence.
"You're aiming low. I'm aiming for Ledgerhall. Or Northcrest."
"Oh sure. Just walk up to Kieran Duskvale and ask nicely."
"Why not?" she winked. "If I'm lucky, he won't notice I nearly passed out from his aura."
One of the Korrien students — a quiet boy with silver-threaded sleeves — leaned close to his companion.
"She's the one, isn't she? The one from the cliffside village?"
"Mmh. I heard her resonance isn't high… but her control is something else."
They didn't say more. Korrien never did.
_____________________________________
41 Minutes Later
The arena screens flared to life.
A hush swept over the crowd — followed by rising murmurs, gasps, and outright disbelief.
"Wait—what?"
"Velrenmar? On the leaderboard?"
In the corner viewing towers, instructors leaned forward. Representatives from the factions exchanged glances. Even a few of the other academy students stopped in their tracks mid-recovery.
A glowing leaderboard shimmered above the arena in gold-scripted text, slowly flickering into focus, one name at a time.
From the Velrenmar stands, someone whispered, "Wait… is it glitching?"
"Nope," another voice said, flat and hollow. "That's real."
A beat.
"Wait—WAIT—IS THAT A VELRENMAR FIRST YEAR STUDENT?"
"Hold up—TWO?!"
"THREE?!?"
"FOUR?!?"
Chaos exploded in the viewing platforms.
"I—WHAT THE F—?!"
________________________________________________________
Faction Selection Trial One — Leaderboard
#1 — Lio Fen (Velrenmar) — 4.89 seconds
#2 — Arvek Sol (Kael'mair) — 7.42 seconds
#3 — Aren Lys (Velrenmar) — 9.78 seconds
#4 — Vena Dohl (Korrien) — 10.02 seconds
#5 — Jorik Rehn (Isthol) — 10.33 seconds
#6 — Rynn Elthis (Kael'mair) — 10.56 seconds
#7 — Erev Malst (Southvale Institute) — 11.01 seconds
#8 — Nerea Vaun (Velrenmar) — 11.39 seconds
#9 — Kelm Draik (Rixhaven Ward) — 11.50 seconds
#10 — Milo Rhask (Velrenmar) — 11.93 seconds
————————————————————————————-
Milo Rhask scratched his head, blinked up at the leaderboard… and muttered loud,
"...Okay but can I go home now?"