The first week after Eve's audience passed in a haze of anticipation and dread. I trained with my party, studied the journals, and waited for the other shoe to drop.
It dropped on a grey morning, in the form of a servant with an expressionless face and a sealed note.
Candidate White,
The training grounds. North Field. Dawn tomorrow. Come ready.
—A. Lionheart
Vance read over my shoulder and whistled. "Alan Lionheart wants to 'test your combat instincts.' That's either a huge honor or a death sentence."
"Probably both."
"Want me to come? Moral support? Body retrieval?"
I almost smiled. "I'll manage."
---
North Field at dawn was empty, mist rising from the grass like breath from a sleeping giant. Alan Lionheart stood at its center, arms crossed, watching me approach with those sharp, assessing eyes.
He was younger than I expected—maybe fifteen—but carried himself with the weight of someone who'd never doubted his place in the world. His clothes were simple but fine, his posture relaxed but ready.
"Roy White." His voice was neutral. "You're smaller than I imagined."
"I get that a lot."
A flicker of something—amusement?—crossed his face. "Eve said you were interesting. Light said you were important. I want to see for myself." He drew a practice sword from a rack nearby and tossed me one. I caught it, barely. "Show me what you can do."
"I'm not a fighter."
"Then show me why you're still alive."
He attacked.
There was no warning, no courtesy. One moment he was standing ten paces away, the next his blade was slicing toward my ribs. I threw myself sideways, rolled, came up gasping.
He didn't follow. Just watched, waiting.
"Good reflexes. Lucky or trained?"
"Trained." I circled, keeping distance. "Mostly by people trying to kill me."
"Even better." He came again, faster this time. I blocked, barely, the impact numbing my arm. He flowed into another strike, then another, each one testing a different angle, a different response. I dodged, blocked, stumbled, survived.
After a minute that felt like an hour, he stepped back.
"You're not a fighter. Your form is rough, your footwork passable at best." He tossed his sword aside. "But you're still standing. Most candidates would be on the ground by now." He studied me with those sharp eyes. "You read people. You anticipate. You use the terrain, the light, the little things. That's not training—that's instinct."
I said nothing.
"The question is: where did that instinct come from?" He stepped closer, and for the first time, I felt the weight of his presence—the dual cores, mana and aura, pressing against my senses like a physical force. "You're C-rank. Support class. Plant element. By all logic, you should be dead. But you're not. You're here, in front of me, having survived things that kill better fighters."
I met his gaze. "I pay attention."
"To what?"
"Everything."
He stared at me for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded.
"I don't understand you, Roy White. But I'll be watching." He turned and walked away. "Don't die before I figure you out."
---
Will Pendragon was next.
He didn't summon me to a training ground or a tower. He found me in the library, three days later, and sat across from me without invitation.
He was everything I expected—proud, handsome, with the easy confidence of someone born to power. Red-gold hair, eyes like embers, a presence that demanded attention.
"You're the plant mage."
"I'm Roy."
"I know your name." He leaned back, studying me like a curious specimen. "I watched your matches. The golem. The woods. You have... unusual abilities."
"Thank you."
"It wasn't a compliment." His voice hardened slightly. "Unusual is dangerous. Unusual attracts attention. Unusual gets people killed." He leaned forward. "My family has ruled for generations because we understand one thing: power is about control. Control of yourself, your resources, your enemies. You have no control. You improvise. You survive by luck and the kindness of ancient forests."
I said nothing.
"Luck runs out." He stood. "When it does, don't expect help from the Pendragon line. We don't waste resources on anomalies."
He left without another word.
I sat in the silence, his words echoing. They should have stung. They should have made me doubt.
Instead, I felt... relieved. Will had dismissed me. Written me off as a curiosity, not a threat.
Good. Let him underestimate.
---
Max Walton found me in the candidate mess hall, sliding onto the bench across from me with a tray of food and an expression of intense curiosity.
He was ordinary-looking—brown hair, brown eyes, unremarkable features—but his gaze was anything but. It was analytical, cataloging, like a scholar examining a newly discovered species.
"Roy White." He didn't ask, just stated. "I've been analyzing your trial performances. The data is fascinating."
"Data?"
"Every candidate leaves a trace. Movement patterns, skill usage, reaction times, decision trees. Yours are... anomalous." He pulled out a small notebook, already filled with cramped writing. "You don't fight like a mage or a warrior. You fight like a chess player who's read the opponent's strategy in advance."
My blood chilled. "I pay attention."
"More than attention. You anticipate. You know what's coming before it happens." His eyes narrowed. "The golem. You knew its weakness before anyone else. The woods. You knew how to ask for help. The collector. You knew he was coming."
"I didn't know—"
"The data doesn't lie." He closed his notebook. "I don't know how you do it. But I will find out." He stood, then paused. "For what it's worth, I'm not your enemy. I'm just... curious. In a world full of people who fight without thinking, someone who thinks before fighting is rare."
He walked away, leaving me with cold food and colder thoughts.
Max was dangerous. Not because of his power—but because of his mind. He'd keep watching, keep analyzing, keep digging. Eventually, he might find something I couldn't explain.
---
Light came to me that night, as I sat alone in the Observatory Tower, staring at the stars.
He didn't announce himself. One moment I was alone, the next he was beside me, his presence warm and calm.
"They're all different," he said quietly. "The Five. Alan tests. Will dismisses. Max analyzes. Eve watches." He glanced at me. "And I... I see."
"See what?"
"Potential. Not for power—you'll never match them there. But for something else." He looked at the stars. "The world needs more than fighters. It needs people who can hold things together when everything falls apart. People who can grow food in blasted earth, who can speak to ancient things, who can remind us what we're fighting for."
I thought of the journal, the woods, the golem's grateful spirit.
"Is that what I am?"
"That's what you're becoming." He stood. "The others will keep watching. Keep testing. Keep doubting. Let them. Your path isn't theirs." He looked down at me, and his eyes held that vast, calm depth. "The seal is weakening faster than we thought. The Necromancer moves sooner than the prophecy predicted. When the darkness comes, the Five will fight."
He paused.
"And you, Roy White, will be the reason any of us survive to see the dawn."
He left me alone with the stars and the weight of his words.
---