The Trisolarium did not empty after the trials.
It quieted.
The arena was cleared, the sand smoothed, the fractures sealed as if nothing of consequence had happened there. But the candidates remained—those who still breathed, those who still waited. They were herded into long, vaulted antechambers carved beneath the arena, rooms of pale stone and high arches where sound carried too well and comfort did not exist.
No one spoke loudly.
Some leaned against walls, arms folded, eyes fixed on nothing. Others sat on the floor, backs pressed to cold stone, nursing bruises or broken pride. Medics moved through them in silence, efficient and impersonal, binding wounds only enough to keep bodies intact.
Midarion sat on a low bench near the far wall.
His left hand was wrapped thickly, immobilized. Pain pulsed beneath the bandages in a slow, steady rhythm, dulled but not gone. His head throbbed, and every breath reminded him of ribs that had taken too much punishment. He was exhausted in a way sleep wouldn't fix.
Reikika stood nearby, arms crossed, weight shifted slightly forward as if ready to move at the slightest provocation. Her gaze swept the room again and again, sharp and restless. She hadn't sat once.
Across the chamber, Rozelda leaned against a pillar, alone.
Her posture was relaxed, but her eyes were distant, unfocused. The bronze of her skin seemed muted here, less radiant under the chamber's pale light. A faint bandage wrapped her ribs. She did not look at anyone. No one approached her.
Lior sat with a group of candidates closer to the center. He was pale, his expression unreadable, jaw set tight. When his eyes flicked toward Midarion, they didn't linger.
Time stretched.
Minutes passed. Or hours. No one could tell.
Eventually, the low murmur of the room grew just enough to remind them they weren't alone. Whispers slipped between candidates, questions exchanged in hushed tones.
Midarion shifted, wincing slightly.
"How do they decide?" he asked suddenly.
The words came out rough, but clear enough.
Reikika glanced down at him. "Decide what?"
"Who gets picked," he said. "And where they go."
A few heads turned. The question had been hanging in the air since the trials ended, unspoken but heavy. Someone near the opposite bench snorted quietly.
"You really don't know?" a voice said.
Midarion looked over.
The speaker was an older candidate, maybe seventeen or eighteen, with close-cropped hair and a thin scar along his cheek. He looked tired, but alert. Not arrogant. Not kind either.
"I know they choose," Midarion said. "I don't know based on what."
The boy studied him for a moment, then shrugged. "Fair enough."
He leaned back against the wall, arms folding. "There are four regions in Astraelis. Always have been."
Reikika's attention sharpened.
"Four," she repeated.
"Each region is defended by a Captain," he continued. "Not symbolically. Literally. Their bastions are stationed there. Their forces. Their authority."
Reikika glanced at Midarion, then back to the speaker.
"The regions aren't equal," someone else muttered.
The boy nodded. "No. They're not."
He paused, choosing his words.
"Ignis is the heart," he said. "The largest region. The capital. The royal family resides there. That's why the strongest bastion is stationed in Ignis. And the strongest Captain."
A subtle shift rippled through the room.
Even those pretending not to listen stiffened.
"Kael Isander," someone whispered.
No one corrected them.
"He doesn't take many," the boy went on. "But when he does… you don't leave Ignis again. Not really."
Midarion felt something settle in his chest—not fear exactly, but gravity. A sense of weight pulling downward.
"So if you're chosen," Midarion said slowly, "you don't just… join a Captain."
The boy shook his head.
"You live in their region," he replied. "Train there. Serve there. That's your life now."
Reikika exhaled softly through her nose.
"That's not selection," she said. "That's relocation."
The boy almost smiled.
Midarion absorbed that in silence.
"So it's not about being the best," he said quietly.
The boy snorted again. "If it were, half the people in this room would already know their fate."
"There are others," he went on. "Three more regions, smaller. Still powerful. Each Captain has a different doctrine. Different expectations. Different… tolerances."
Midarion opened his mouth to ask more—
The doors opened.
Every conversation died instantly.
The herald entered, staff in hand. Behind him, shadows moved—silent figures positioned at the edges of the chamber. Not guards.
Observers.
"The deliberation has concluded," the herald said.
No flourish. No emotion.
"Candidates will be called individually."
A murmur stirred, quickly smothered.
"You will step forward when named," the herald continued. "Your fate will be announced. You will then exit through the door indicated. There will be no questions."
He struck the staff once against the stone.
The sound echoed longer than it should have.
"Remain silent."
Names began to be called.
Not in order.
Not by rank.
A girl who had dominated the second trial stepped forward first.
"Not chosen by any Captain."
Her face went white.
She nodded once, stiffly, and was guided toward a side passage without another word.
A boy who had failed early—barely scraped through the second trial—was called next.
"Chosen by Captain Adonis Lerock."
A sharp intake of breath rippled through the room.
The boy blinked, stunned, then stumbled forward as if afraid the words might be taken back.
Murmurs grew, uneasy now.
Patterns refused to form.
Strong candidates dismissed.
Broken ones claimed.
Silence pressed down heavier with every name.
Midarion's heart beat steadily—not fast, not slow. Just there.
He didn't know what he was hoping for.
He had lost his duel.
He had collapsed.
He had unleashed something wrong.
The name echoed before he could finish the thought.
"Midarion Ashborn. Step forward."
The room shifted.
Not loudly.
But unmistakably.
Eyes turned. Whispers sparked and died.
He lost, someone thought.
Why him?
Midarion stood.
His leg protested, his body lagging half a beat behind his will, but he moved anyway. He walked to the center of the chamber and stopped where indicated.
The herald didn't look at him.
"Chosen by Captain Aelyss Nala."
No explanation.
No emphasis.
Just a name.
Aelyss Nala.
The cold captain.
Midarion felt it then—not relief, not triumph—but the sensation of something closing around him, like a door locking from the outside.
He nodded once and stepped back.
The herald's staff struck again.
"Reikika Ashborn. Step forward."
Midarion's head snapped up.
Reikika didn't hesitate. She stood, calm, composed, though her eyes flicked to him for the briefest instant.
"Chosen by Captain Aelyss Nala."
A few murmurs escaped before they could be swallowed.
The same.
Together.
Reikika returned to Midarion's side. She didn't smile. Neither did he.
But their shoulders aligned, unconsciously.
A name followed.
"Lior Von Morgenstern."
A pause.
"Chosen by Captain Aelyss Nala."
That drew more reaction—quiet surprise, quickly buried.
Lior stepped forward, pale but composed, and joined them without comment.
Three.
The herald continued.
Several more names passed.
Some chosen.
More rejected.
Then—
"Rozelda Tali. Step forward."
The chamber felt suddenly smaller.
Rozelda walked to the center, posture unchanged, eyes forward.
"Chosen by Kael Isander."
That one landed differently.
Even without cheers, without voices raised, the weight of it pressed through the room.
Ignis.
The strongest bastion.
The strongest Captain.
Rozelda inclined her head once, then turned without looking back.
As she walked toward the door marked with the sigil of Ignis, Midarion watched her go.
She didn't slow.
She didn't falter.
Gold exile, indeed.
The process continued until the room thinned.
When it ended, only a handful remained.
The herald struck his staff one final time.
"The chosen will depart join their new family immediately. The unchosen will be escorted out of the Trisolarium."
No farewell.
No consolation.
The doors opened.
Movement began.
As Midarion, Reikika, and Lior were guided toward their exit, Midarion glanced once over his shoulder at the emptying chamber—the stone benches, the etched pillars, the space where futures had been decided without a single explanation.
Reikika leaned closer to him as they walked.
"So," she murmured. "the not-fun Captain."
Midarion exhaled.
"Yeah."
Ahead of them, the corridor stretched forward—unknown, silent, waiting.
Behind them, the trials were already fading into memory.
Not because they didn't matter.
But because something far heavier had replaced them.
This wasn't the end of the trials.
It was the beginning of belonging—to someone else.
And none of them knew yet what that would cost.