The Red Trial
The first man spat in Darin's bootwater.The second stole his flint and left a tooth behind in its place.The third didn't speak—he just watched, from across the fireline, every night.
And when the fourth stepped forward to name him, he used the old phrase.
"I call red against the field-born."
Everything stopped. The pot boiled over. No one stirred it.
Darin didn't move.
He just looked at the man. Thick-necked, shaved to the scalp, scars on both hands where sword calluses had burst and healed. His name was Yarik, second spear under a forgotten minor banner. Noble enough to spit sideways.
"The challenge is formal," Yarik said. His voice was too even. "Witnessed by three. As per camp law."
Darin scanned the edge of the firepit.
Three nods. One was a boy barely shaving. One was a mule-tender. The third was Raive.
Darin met Raive's eyes. Nothing there. Not support. Not betrayal.
Only: This is how it begins.
The Trial System
A "Red Trial" was a camp duel—not for execution, but for memory rights. When a soldier's influence outpaced his rank, another could invoke the Red to demand he prove his worth. The loser did not die—but everything he earned was considered undone.
Wounded pride. Shamed followers. Removed from honor lists.Invisible death.
"You're naming trial law?" Darin asked, voice low, calm.
"Field-borns don't rise without blood," Yarik said. "Not in this line."
Darin's men stiffened.
Not at the insult—at the law. The trial was real.
Harl opened his mouth, then closed it.
Dren stepped back—not in retreat, but to let space form. Ritual space.
This would not be a brawl.
This would be a trial of worth.
The Red Trial had rules:
Witnesses must be present.
No armor. No helms.
Only blade and stance.
First blood to the face ends the fight.
The loser cannot speak in council for seven days.
Darin stripped off his overshirt. His boots stayed on. The campfire crackled; the kettle hissed.
Raive stepped forward.
"Blades?"
Darin unhooked his short-iron. It was plain, chipped, oiled. A worker's blade.
Yarik drew a gleaming edge. His scabbard bore the mark of a petty house—an old one.
"Trial terms are sworn. Witnesses counted. Circle formed."
Raive raised his hand.
"Begin."
They didn't rush.
This wasn't war—it was memory. You don't stab memory in haste. You cut carefully, so it bleeds the way you want it remembered.
Yarik advanced first. Wide step, blade forward, noble form. Clean technique. Darin didn't mirror it. He shifted sideways, boot grinding in the ash.
A feint came fast. Low to knee, high to shoulder.
Darin turned into it.
Pain. A nick along the ribs. He didn't show it.
He closed distance—too close for blade length.
Elbow met forearm. Yarik's swing collapsed. The blades clashed, locked. Breaths hot.
Darin said nothing.
He just headbutted Yarik square across the brow.
Not enough to break. Just enough to stun.
Then came the strike.
Flat edge—sharp enough—slashed across Yarik's cheekbone.
Blood spilled. Bright. Public.
The fire caught it.
The trial ended.
Silence.
Then Raive, cool as frost:
"Trial ends. Blood drawn. Field-born holds."
Yarik staggered. No groan. Just pride, leaking from his face.
He turned to walk—but protocol held.
He bowed, once. Low. Ritual. Sharp.
Then left.
Darin didn't bow back.
He just stared into the fire, letting the blood on his blade dry there, smoke curling from the edge.
Later, Harl spoke.
"You could've taken his ear."
"I didn't want his ear," Darin said.
"What did you want?"
Darin watched the blade.
"Just the memory."