“Should you fail to locate and encase the creature in your glass orb, you fail the trial, and you fail yourself.” Mordred dramatically paused to look each knight in the eyes. Then he continued, “The trials will be unforgiving, but that is their purpose. Embrace the challenge. Let your partners guide you as you guide them.”
As the knights collected their respective spheres, quiet gripped the air. It seemed everyone in the stands held their breath as they waited to see what would happen next. I found my attention drawn to each knight as they studied the empty glass orbs before them.
A faint breeze whispered through the courtyard, carrying with it the scent of roses from the eastern gardens and the metallic tang of magic beginning to stir. The air itself seemed to thicken with anticipation as Mordred advised those assembled to begin creating their beasts.
Each of the knights focused intently on their mist-filled orbs, and the spheres pulsed, swirling with vapor that responded to their wielders' concentration. One by one, the knights began to siphon their magic into the clear vessels. Soon, the mist gave way to shapes—shadowy outlines that writhed and twisted within the glass prisons. The transformation was mesmerizing and unsettling—watching formless vapor coalesce into distinct silhouettes. Some of the creations inside the orbs took on clearly humanoid forms, while others assumed more bestial configurations.
Soon the shapes became creatures—fully realized manifestations of each knight's magical essence. These imprisoned beings pressed against their spherical boundaries, eager for release as the courtiers gasped and whispered, pointing at those beasts they found the most captivating, the most awe-inspiring.
When the creatures had all been created, Mordred instructed each knight to explain what lurked within his glass sphere. The first to walk forward was Agravaine, who displayed his sphere confidently, even smugly.
"Born from my wind magic, this is an Invisible Stalker," Agravaine announced.
Within the crystalline confines, the Invisible Stalker swirled like a miniature cyclone, a vortex of whirling air and elusive shadows. Its outline twisted and shifted, resembling a predatory wraith cloaked in translucence. Though its body appeared intangible and ephemeral, the Stalker radiated menace—its form suggesting a hunter poised to strike.
"It's an air elemental," Agravaine continued. "Unseen, unheard—the perfect pursuer. When unleashed, it displaces light, confounding its quarry. It can render itself invisible, or it can take the shape of its prey, much like a doppelganger."
The crowd clapped loudly, clearly delighted with the Invisible Stalker. Next, Galahad stepped forth, his every movement deliberate. He held his sphere up to the audience, and it glimmered with radiance—the bright glow of pure light captured within the glass.
“In this trial, I command a Solar,” Galahad announced. “A being forged of light—a warrior of the heavens.”
As I watched, the Solar's form came into focus, its silhouette luminous and proud. Its wings were vast, feathered structures of radiant light, stretching across the confines of the sphere with a majesty that spoke of divine origins. Golden filaments wove through feathers of pure luminescence, creating a sublime vision of power—an embodiment of virtue and purity, much like Galahad himself.
Gareth stepped forward next, his movements confident as he raised his sphere toward the expectant crowd. Within theorb appeared the reflection of flames flickering and writhing like trapped lightning.
"This is a fire elemental," Gareth declared, his voice carrying across the courtyard. He held the sphere steady, allowing the assembled nobles and courtiers to witness the magnificent terror contained within. "Born from the heart of flame itself, it knows neither mercy nor restraint—only the endless hunger to consume."
The incandescent figure within pulsed with living fire, its form constantly shifting between recognizable shapes and pure elemental essence. One moment it resembled a humanoid warrior wreathed in flame; the next, it collapsed into roiling tongues of fire that licked against the inner walls of its crystal prison.
Beside him, Gawain offered his sphere to the gaping audience. Within it, the shape of an ankheg—a formidable insect of rock and soil—solidified under his watchful gaze. "This ankheg is born of earth magic, and when it is released from the glass, it will grow to be twenty times this size," Gawain announced, holding up his glass so all could see. Coiling within its confines, the insect appeared ready to strike.
The rest of the knights stepped forward, one after the other, to display their atrocities. There was a flesh golem from Tristan and a frost giant from Lioran, a devil dog from Sir Rowan, and a Forest Blight from Sir Brannoc, which was a creature that, like a parasite, attached itself to other creatures and poisoned them with its own corruption. Inside Brannoc's glass orb appeared a twisted stag with fungus growing from its antlers; then it morphed into a wolf whose skin was splitting, leaking black sap. The wolf soon became a humanoid figure made of roots and rot, which turned into a tree that uprooted itself to hunt, leaking spores. Of all the creations thus far, the Blight intimidated me the most.
Next was a Vulnerary Shade from Kay, which was a humanoid shade that could absorb flesh, and a Bloodroot Stalker from Sir Aldric. The Bloodroot Stalker was a nightmare given form—a creature that blurred the line between plant and predator in the most disturbing way imaginable. Within Aldric's sphere, it coiled and stretched, its silhouette both humanoid and beast, elongated and wrong, as though invisible roots had pulled it into an unnatural configuration.
"The Bloodroot Stalker hunts by sensing blood," Aldric explained, his voice carrying pride and warning in equal measure. "Even the faintest heartbeat draws it from miles away. It prefers the wounded, the weak—anyone who bleeds."
The list went on, each creature more impressive than the last.
Finally, all the creatures were introduced and displayed in their glass prisons. The orbs gleamed like captured stars in the afternoon sun, each one pulsing with the malevolent energy of the beast trapped within. I watched as numerous squires stepped forward to receive their deadly cargo.
Each squire handled his assigned sphere with the reverence due a holy relic, though what they carried was anything but sacred. Each squire had been given a linen bag in which he placed his orb. Meanwhile, the guards who would relay these terrible items to the Whispering Wilds mounted their steeds. Once mounted, the squires approached the guards, handing them the bags housing the glass orbs. The guards accepted their burdens and then set off for Thornhallow Forest, which would lead them to the Wilds.
As Mordred explained to the fascinated audience—when the guards reached the precise boundary where Thornhallow gave way to the untamed and haunted wilderness of the Whispering Wilds, they would hurl the orbs deep into the shadowy depths of the forest. The spheres would then shatter against tree trunksor the forest floor, releasing the creatures, which would then grow to their full, terrifying size, awaiting the knights to capture them, if they were able. If the knights failed to capture or destroy the creatures during the Hunt Trial, the beasts would remain within the Wilds, adding to the already considerable dangers that lurked there.
"Are we safe here if these creatures are loosed within the Wilds?" Lord Absanthe called out to Mordred.
"Yes," Mordred answered. "For the creatures are magically bound to the Wilds. They cannot leave them."
It was perhaps another twenty minutes or so before the guards returned, sans their terrifying cargo. The captain of the guard nodded toward Mordred, who then turned to face the assembled knights. This trial would push them in ways none of the others had. Each pair alone in the haunted forest, their magic strained to its breaking point, their instincts laid bare.
I stood, and the murmurs in the clearing and the stands fell to silence.
“The Hunt demands more than strength or magical prowess,” I called, my voice ringing clear. “It demands instinct, adaptation, and, above all—cooperation.”
Mordred stepped forward, facing the stands. “This is not a competition of brute force. It is a measure ofharmonybetween hunters.”
The knights shifted subtly—calculating partnerships, exchanging glances. Some looked eager; others looked wary.
