Chapter 18- THE LIVING LABYRINTH OF SYTHRAEL
Coliseum of Velrenmar — Three Days Later
They came back.
From mountain forts, busy towns by the sea, far-off deserts, and floating islands in the clouds. Didn't matter where. If you could get here, you did—by wagon, by airship, by roads glowing with magic.
The crowds were back too—louder, bigger, wanting more than ever.
The Coliseum of Velrenmar felt alive. It breathed with all the noise and excitement. Huge banners snapped overhead, magic lights flashing in the sky like lightning. The arena's magic walls, fixed up after last time, now glowed with a strange silver—like the ground itself knew something darker was coming.
Vendors yelled over magic stones. Gamblers changed their bets every minute. Fancy folks whispered into shiny cups. Even the important leaders—sitting under close watch—wore masks. Not just to show off, but because they were nervous.
Because everything was different now.
The first challenge was rough. A few hundred got through. Dozens quit.
Still, even more showed up.
A new list went up that morning—names from small schools, wild places, and groups with no alliances. Some hoped the second challenge would be easier for them. Others… came for reasons of their own.
"Think Velrenmar's gonna do it again?"
The voice came from a Kael'mair student, his sapphire-trimmed cloak draped casually over one shoulder. Arvek Sol — still holding the record for second fastest mirror defeat — leaned against the stone railing, eyes scanning the arena.
"Do what again?" asked Rynn Elthis beside him, arms folded, face unreadable.
"Surprise everyone. You saw the leaderboard after the first trial. They weren't just 'holding their own.' They were ranking."
Rynn didn't answer. Her eyes flicked toward the east viewing tier, where the banners of Velrenmar Academy rippled in slow wind.
Lower Chambers – Participant Entry
Batches of participants began to gather in the deep stone underhalls of the Coliseum — where magical sigils pulsed on the walls and healers stood ready at the exits. The second trial was different. Not just in difficulty — but in danger.
The announcers hadn't even explained the rules yet.
Groups whispered.
Some stared at the hovering crystals above the entry gate — watching the updated registry.
Others checked how many had withdrawn since the last trial.
"Almost fifty gone," muttered a boy from Dremathi Forgehold, flicking through his slate. "."
"As in vanished. No scry. No return portal. Just gone. They probably quit because they realised they can't do anything in second trial.".
"But check this," the Forgehold student said, pointing.
New names were glowing on the registry — late additions.
"More People have also joined, if some have left."
"If they wanted to join why did they even skip the first trial?"
Outside the upper terraces of the central campus, hundreds of students and spectators crowded near the glass scry-screens that replayed highlights of the first trial. Some laughed. Some argued. Some pointed at their favorites on the floating leaderboard.
Then the murmurs shifted.
Not louder — sharper. Like the air had just changed temperature.
Someone whispered.
"They're here."
A figure strode into view first — tall, wrapped in dusk-black robes lined with thread-thin steel. Hair tied in a tight crown braid, boots silent, eyes sharp enough to split a thought in half.
Velka Sahrin.
A student of the Dar'mora. A name spoken in analyst circles like a storm waiting offshore.
She didn't look around.
Didn't need to.
The crowd moved around her, unconsciously shifting like water around stone.
Close behind, a second figure walked with a different kind of presence — cocky, angular, confident like a knife twirled between fingers. Shirt open to the wind, blood-red rings on both thumbs.
Vexan.
His affinity was known as Hemomancer. Duellist. Smile like a predator who already knows the outcome.
His eyes swept the gathered crowd like a performer examining his audience.
"Well, well," he said lazily. "And here I thought the opening acts were over."
Velka glanced sideways. "Don't bait them into fighting you yet."
"Yet," Vexan repeated with a grin. "How generous of you."
A small ripple of whispers followed them. Students from other academies leaned in. A few stepped away. One bold Kael'mair girl asked in a hush:
"Is that really them?"
Someone else murmured:
"Yeah. They missed the mirror trial. The reason was provided that they were not interested."
A new voice chimed in from behind the crowd — low, gruff, amused.
"That's a shame."
They turned.
Berrik Drayle leaned against the base of a pillar, arms folded across his wide chest. His academy colors were faded by choice — browns, greys, and fractured rune-plates along his vambraces. His grin was sharp, but not cruel.
"Would've loved to see them break their pretty reflections."
Vexan raised an eyebrow. "And you are?"
"Berrik Drayle. Higón academy. The one who beat his mirror senseless for ten minutes without ending the match."
Velka blinked. "...Why?"
Berrik shrugged. "It was fun."
Vexan smiled. "I like him."
More murmurs now. Questions.
"If they'd been in the first trial…"
"Velrenmar wouldn't be on the board."
Someone added with a sneer,
"Can't be a prodigy if the other gods didn't show up to play."
Another said,
"Maybe Velrenmar knew and rigged their placements early."
"No faction would let them. That's suicide."
"Still. The rankings look... temporary now."
And above them, beyond the murmurs, the final names floated silently in the crystal light.
Lio Fen — Rank 1
Milo Rhask — Rank 10
Nerea Vaun — Rank 8
Aren Lys — Rank 3
The courtyard outside the Trial Annex had become a stage.
Hundreds gathered beneath the transparent skylights, the enchanted banners rippling overhead. Students from every major academy milled about, many in the regalia of their homeland schools. Some wore glimmersteel-lined uniforms. Others sported custom-runed coats, or enchanted pauldrons. Even the casual outfits were battle-coded — flexible leather, arm-wrapped glyphs, embedded mana links. Style met readiness.
Because the second trial didn't just test strength.
It tested presence.
Every academy had brought out its best now.
And they looked the part.
A group from Tyressal Obsidian School stood near the main staircase, runes glowing faintly on their collars. Behind them, three sorcerers from the Dawnward Conservatory arrived, all marked with glowing suns on their forearms — light-touched and silent. Kael'mair's frontliners stood tall in violet storm-etched cloaks, surrounding a girl with silver tattoos wrapped like chain-links down her neck.
Irissa Kael.
The Battle Crown.
She stood quietly, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded — like she was still dreaming of the fight.
Then—
The air shifted.
Someone turned.
"…That's him."
The whisper spread like cracked lightning.
Lio Fen — Velrenmar's golden name — had stepped into the courtyard.
No fanfare. No trumpets. No elemental aura pulsing around his boots.
Just Lio, walking with casual poise. His expression unreadable, hair still slightly tousled from wind. He wore the standard Velrenmar jacket over a light combat vest — simple, efficient.
But every gaze turned as he passed.
Kael'mair's eyes narrowed.
Tyressal's ranks stilled.
The foreign academies? All watching.
Because this was the boy who'd taken first in the mirror trial.
And beside him—
"Oh come on," someone muttered.
Milo Rhask strolled next to Lio like they were headed to a beach party.
Bright yellow shirt.
Loose shorts that looked like they'd seen better vacations.
Flip-flop sandals that smacked lightly with every step.
He waved at a few confused spectators with a grin so casual it felt insulting.
"Is he serious?" someone whispered. "This is the second trial, right? Not an ice cream run?"
"Do Velrenmar students not believe in armor?"
"Maybe he enchanted the shirt," someone said. "With what, sunburn resistance?"
But then the third figure came into view.
And the courtyard stilled.
He wasn't famous.
He wasn't recognized.
He wasn't wearing battle robes or glowing rings.
He limped.
Just slightly — enough to notice, not enough to pity.
Wrapped in a faded black cloak to hide his bandages, pale hair,
and his face, partially lit by overhead glyphlight, revealed a faint shimmer in one eye,
It was like silver.
A silver so pale it shimmered like starlight caught in crystal. Refined, cold, beautiful in a way that didn't ask for attention — it just demanded it without trying.
Someone whispered.
"Who the hell is that?"
"Another Velrenmar student?"
"He didn't take the first trial, did he?"
"So why's he here now?"
"Wait—his eye. Is that enchanted?"
"No. That's natural."
"That's illegal."
"Shut up. He's kind of—hot?"
"Hot? He looks like he crawled out of a fire."
"Yeah. A very pretty fire."
Berrik grunted. "Looks like someone who shouldn't be walking, let alone fighting."
"Must've taken a wrong turn on the way to the infirmary."
Lio said nothing, walking beside him as if the attention didn't matter.
Milo sipped something from a straw, completely unfazed by the scrutiny.
And Seren…
He didn't flinch.
As murmurs stirred around Seren's arrival, a new voice cut through the tension.
Low. Arrogant. Drawling just enough to be heard by everyone nearby.
"Well, well. Look who clawed his way out of the dirt."
Heads turned again — this time toward the southern arch, where a tall boy leaned against one of the carved columns, arms folded, a smirk curling like a bad memory.
Callen Drosh.
Formerly of Velrenmar Academy. He didn't participate in first trial either.
Now representing Isthol, the war-honed academy known for its brutal advancement trials and violent internal hierarchies. He got a chance to join it and he didn't hesitate.
He was Sharp.
Mocking.
Predatory.
Several Velrenmar students tensed instantly, after all he was quite a well known person in Velranmar aswell.
Aren Lys had been standing near one of the side platforms, quietly observing the field. His gaze turned sharp the second he heard that voice.
His jaw tightened.
"…Great," he muttered. "He's back."
Callen straightened, strolling lazily into the crowd — his steps slow, deliberate, drawing attention like oil on fire.
"Didn't expect to see you again, Vael."
His gaze dropped to Seren's bandaged side, then traced slowly upward to the cracked lens and bruised jaw.
"Though I gotta say, I like you better when you knew your place."
Seren didn't answer.
Didn't even turn.
Lio took a step forward, expression unreadable — but Calen didn't even glance at him.
He was locked on Seren. Like a vulture circling a half-healed wound.
Seren still hadn't looked at him.
Hadn't responded.
Like Callen's existence… didn't matter.
And that made it worse.
Callen's voice dropped lower, just loud enough for those nearby to hear:
"I'll be looking forward to the second trial, Vael. Let's see if you still crawl when no one's around to drag you out of a ditch."
Aren stepped forward now, cutting through the crowd.
He didn't smile.
Didn't glare either.
Just looked at Calen with a slow, bitter calm.
"You ever grow out of being a bastard?"
Calen didn't flinch. "You still hanging around people who can't carry their own weight?"
"Better than hanging with people who confuse fear for respect."
The silence after that was sharp enough to cut through the crowd.
Then Calen laughed.
Low. Mean. Dismissive.
He turned without another word and disappeared into the waiting corridors for Isthol.
They said the Second Trial was always different.
Not in rules.
In silence.
In the way people stopped talking when the wind shifted.
In the way even the birds didn't circle above the arena today.
The Grandwatch Colosseum — designed for open duels, trials, and ceremonial combat — had been reshaped. Not by stone or spell, but by atmosphere.
Because everyone knew this one was different.
The mirror trials? That was spectacle.
This?
This was survival.
The crowd stirred. Noise built.
And then…
It dropped.
A chill swept through the stands.
Because one by one — from seven different arches behind veiled curtains of glyphlight — the Faction Heads began to arrive.
Not just figureheads.
Symbols.
Pius Alaric of the Verdant Cross was first.
Draped in living robes of moss and silverleaf, his presence was less walked and more grown — vines curled in his wake, and a slight breeze followed him despite the closed air. He offered no words, only a nod to the other seats as he took his place upon the seat carved from living rootstone.
He was smiling. And that made people nervous.
Esera Saelth of Stonehelm followed.
She strode without guard or herald, clad in dusk-plated armor layered with cloth of iron-red. Her gaze scanned the arena with the cold precision of a war tactician calculating outcomes.
Maedra Ruusk, leader of Duskwatch, walked, her eyes were on all students below with a calculating gaze.
She was a storm in motion — deep crimson leathers laced with obsidian bone, tribal marks faintly glowing beneath her skin. Her head tilted, smile crooked, as she reached her seat like a predator entering territory she already claimed.
And seated just behind her — two steps lower — was her second-in-command, Vice Leader Yorra Dren, a hulking man with one arm replaced entirely by carved volcanic stone etched with glowing runes.
Together, they looked less like rulers and more like waking weapons that had learned to talk.
Deyric Karr of Ledgerhall arrived next — late, as always.
But not alone.
The man was elegance incarnate — blood-red robes, skin pale as quartz, hair styled like it had been sculpted by a perfectionist wind.
Trailing beside him, however, was Vice leader Maren Ilst, known across the continent for her surgical mind and sharper tongue. If Deyric was the stage's charm, Maren was the blade beneath the curtain.
She said nothing. But the glare she gave Maedra across the chamber nearly burned a hole in the arena wall.
Kieran Duskvale of Northcrest didn't enter.
He was already seated.
No one saw him arrive. But there he was — cloaked in blues and silvers, hands steepled, green-teal eyes like still ice.
Watching.
Calculating.
Waiting.
Silverquill was the next to arrive — but their leader did not appear.
Instead, Aureth Vallier, Vice leader, stepped forward, his presence as quiet as the hush that followed him.
He didn't need grandeur.
His gaze did the talking.
Every faction representative seated below him shifted slightly when he passed. Some out of deference.
Some out of fear.
Then, last — Mireth Qyln, of Brindlewyn.
She descended the golden stair like a ghost half-born of starlight and secrets. Her robes shimmered in green-gold inkflow patterns. Her greenish eyes didn't blink, didn't flinch.
No guards.
No second.
Only presence.
When she sat, even Deyric glanced over.
But those weren't the only ones in attendance.
Far above, in the Observation Spire, veiled behind veinglass tinted with layered wards, sat a different class of guest.
Foreign rulers.
Weaponmasters.
Heirs of unfriendly nations.
Magister-hunters.
They watched.
And they waited.
Because unlike the first trial — flashy, dramatic, filled with mirror duels and clever footwork — the Second Trialwasn't about showmanship.
It was about instinct.
Endurance.
And most importantly — revelation.
A silence lingered.
Too long.
Too deliberate.
And then — a shimmer above the arena.
A sigil ignited midair, crackling gold and blue.
And in the next breath—
"LADIES! GENTLEMAGES! UNDETERMINED ENCHANTMENTS!"
The crowd exploded with cheers.
Above the arena, on a floating disk of pale steel and light, the announcer finally appeared — arms raised, scarf fluttering in the wind, voice booming through a network of audio crystals.
"Welcome back to the Velrenmar Coliseum! Did you miss me?"
They didn't answer. Not because they didn't want to —
But because they were too loud to answer.
He grinned, pushing tinted goggles onto his forehead and gesturing with wide, exaggerated flair.
"You've seen the mirror duels. You've watched them fight themselves. But now… it's time to fight what they can't see."
The banners above shifted.
Glowing letters burned through the haze:
Trial Two – THE LIVING LABYRINTH OF SYTHRAEL
The crowd gasped.
Even some of the faction leaders leaned forward.
The crowd's roar rose again — not in response to a student, but to the arena itself.
Because this wasn't in Velrenmar anymore.
Not truly.
Through the veil of shimmering portal gates — projected above the main stadium — all could now see the Verdant Labyrinth of Eltherra.
One of the Seven Ancient Wonders, carved not by hand, but by myth.
A maze grown from stone, vine, and time itself — vast enough to lose cities within it, and layered with enchantments no scholar had ever fully mapped.
Long ago, it had swallowed armies.
Now?
It would swallow students.
The maze lay nestled on the shared border of Velrenmar and Kareth, visible through cloud-hung cliffs, roots breaking ancient stone bridges, and a single shining spire rising like a needle in the distance.
And above all this, on a floating disc of enchanted steel—
The announcer reappeared, scarf flaring, eyes lit with glee.
"Lords and legends — I present to you the true crucible of this year's tournament."
He raised a hand.
The portal rippled.
And the crowd saw it clearly now,
THE LIVING LABYRINTH OF SYTHRAEL
He turned dramatically, cloak spiraling behind him.
"This is no schoolyard trial. No mirror match playground."
"You are looking at one of the last standing ruins of the age before factions, before maps, said to be from time of gods!"
Gasps. Applause. Whispers among dignitaries.
The camera panned toward the distant ridgeline — where multiple teleportation gates had been constructed just outside the maze's edge.
"Each path is randomized. Each layout changes… the moment you step in."
His tone dipped.
"You don't just get lost here. You forget where you meant to go."
A hush.
And then, louder:
"You may request emergency extraction via the bracelet provided — a bracelet of recall."
"But make no mistake… once triggered, you are out. No second chances."
The runes flared above the stage again.
The list of names began to shimmer into columns.
And below that… the gate started pulsing.
Once.
Twice.
Then—
Opened.
The Trial had begun.