The gates of the Nightward Fold slammed behind Elyra, and in that iron scream she heard everything — the death of mercy, the burial of hope.
The trees ahead were not trees anymore, not really.Just crooked bones clawing at a frozen, ash-choked sky.
The cold was a creature here — not just a temperature, but a gnawing thing that slithered into your lungs and set up shop in your marrow.
The camp looked as if it had been vomited up by the woods — tents stitched from rotting leathers, smoke coiling from pitiful fires, figures moving like ghosts behind the thin skins.
Eyes, feral and shining, followed her every step.
The scent of blood was baked into the ground here. Old. Fresh. Layer upon layer.
Kael walked ahead, and Elyra matched his stride, even though every step felt like it sank deeper into the mouth of some starving beast.
At the center: Commander Therin.
When he looked at her, it wasn't as a man looks at another human being.It was how a butcher examines meat — weighing how much it would fetch once bled and gutted.
"You'll do," Therin said, and the Trial by Frost was called.
The ring formed.
The first opponent, the woman in the cracked porcelain mask, slid into view.No formal bow, no words.Only death on two legs.
The knives she held were so sharp the air seemed to peel away from them.
The fight began like a gunshot.
The woman lunged — not hesitating, not testing — attacking to kill.
The first knife whistled past Elyra's left eye, close enough that the rush of its passing sliced her braid loose.Hair spilled over her shoulders as she ducked and twisted away.
The second knife came low, aimed for her belly.
Elyra dropped into a slide, knees burning against the rough ice, barely clearing the strike.
No time to breathe.
The masked woman pivoted sharply, the broken mask catching the torchlight — that frozen, painted smile turning monstrous in motion.
Another slash, aimed at Elyra's exposed neck.
She blocked it — barely.
The shock of the parry reverberated through her entire arm, numbing her fingers.
The woman came again, knives a blur.Cut after cut, nick after nick.
Elyra's arms and ribs flared with new wounds — shallow but many — painting her tunic darker with every passing second.
Her breathing grew ragged.
You're slower. Bleed faster.
Elyra faked a stumble.
The woman, thinking the end was near, lunged to gut her.
Elyra's trap snapped shut.
She whipped her dagger up, scoring the woman's mask with a shriek of shattering ceramic.
The woman hesitated — one half of the mask hanging by a thread, revealing a face twisted with fury.
That single blink of shock was all Elyra needed.
She slammed her boot into the woman's knee, buckling it backward with a sickening pop.
The masked woman screamed and fell.
Elyra was on her in a heartbeat, blade pressed to the thudding pulse in the woman's exposed throat.
Therin barked an order. The woman yielded.
But the crowd didn't cheer yet.
Because they knew it wasn't over.
The second opponent — the brute with the maul — entered the ring.
He grinned, the gaps in his teeth black with rot, and dragged the maul like a goddamn executioner's axe.
His first swing wasn't a test — it was a killing blow.He roared as he spun, the maul slicing a hurricane through the air.
Elyra dropped to the ground so hard the ice cracked beneath her.
The maul passed over her head with a noise like thunder.
She rolled — narrowly avoiding the follow-up slam that shook the very earth.
The brute laughed, a sound like stones grinding together.
He lumbered after her, swinging in wide, brutal arcs.
Elyra couldn't match his power.Instead, she stayed light on her feet, kept the distance tight enough to be annoying, far enough to be alive.
Every dodge cost her.Energy drained like a leaking wound.
When the brute swung wide and stumbled a fraction off-balance, Elyra pounced.
She slashed across the back of his knee — tendons popping with a wet snap.
The brute howled, dropping to one knee.
Without hesitation, Elyra jammed her dagger into the meat of his neck — quick, efficient, brutal.
The brute's eyes rolled back, and he collapsed with a shudder.
Still standing. Barely.
Then the third — the girl with the spear — stepped into the ring.
Unlike the others, she didn't rush.
She circled Elyra like a wolf scenting blood, her spear tip weaving lazy patterns in the air.
They clashed —a dance of death where one misstep meant a throat torn open.
The girl's first thrust was a lightning bolt aimed for Elyra's heart.
Elyra twisted sideways, feeling the spearhead graze her ribs hard enough to tear flesh.
Pain burst hot and sharp along her side, but she ignored it.
Focused.
The spear sang through the air again — a blurring storm of jabs and sweeps that pushed Elyra back, back, until her heels kissed the edge of the ring.
Elyra feinted left.
The girl lunged right — exactly what Elyra wanted.
She sidestepped into the thrust, grabbing the spear's shaft with both hands.
It wrenched her wounded side, but she gritted her teeth through the scream that tried to rip loose.
She yanked.
Hard.
The girl staggered forward, off-balance for a split-second too long.
Elyra smashed the butt of the spear across her face.
The girl's nose crumpled with a sickening crunch.
Blood sprayed.
The girl dropped, limp.
Silence fell.
Elyra stood in the center of the ring, gasping, every breath burning in her chest, blood leaking from a dozen places.
But she stood.
Therin approached.
Kael watched.
The crowd watched.
And somewhere deep inside her battered chest, Elyra smiled.
Let them come.
She would bleed the world dry before she fell.