He nods, and for a moment, his expression softens … that same unguarded look I’ve only seen when his walls come down. Then it’s gone. His face becomes unreadable again as he turns and walks toward the arena with the other leaders.
I rush to join the other advisors climbing stone steps that spiral up the arena’s exterior wall. The view from the deck makes me gasp.
The arena stretches below me like a dying solar system trapped within gladiator walls. The circular pit carved from ancient stone risesin steep tiers to where I grip the observation rail, but my eyes are drawn inexorably downward to the floor that blazes with the fury of a collapsed star. White-hot light pulses from the centre, so intense it hurts to look at, radiating outward in waves of plasma-bright heat that make the air dance and blur.
Floating platforms of black stone drift across the Furnace, scattered like coins. Between them move fragments of meteoric debris and gleaming chunks of star-metal, clouds of glittering dust catching the light like powdered diamonds. Each platform bobs and sways unpredictably.
The heat rising from below is suffocating even from this height. Spaced out across the various platforms, the leaders stand. Zevran looks small from this distance, but his posture radiates confidence and readiness.
I turn my attention to the crowd, roaring from the stands – thousands of voices blending into a single deafening wave. I scan the tiers and see citizens from every House packed into the ancient stone seats. Some wear their kingdom’s colours like armour, shouting encouragement to their leaders. Others sit in tense silence, hands clasped. In the highest tier, I spot dignitaries and nobles, their faces hidden behind ornate masks, leaning forward with the hungry interest of those who’ve never had to risk anything important in their entire lives. Scattered throughout, hooded figures in neutral grey sit – outer colonists with no House allegiance, here to witness who will rule them next.
Cardinal Benedict’s voice booms across the arena, amplified by the ancient acoustics.
“This Trial of Strength, known as The Furnace, tests the fundamental requirement of leadership: the ability to endure when others cannot.” His words carry the weight of ceremony, but also warning. “The arena you see below simulates the core temperature of a dying star. The platforms will move in unpredictable patterns, forcing competitors into proximity and conflict.”
I grip the rail tighter as he continues.
“There are no off-moon weapons provided, no allies permitted, no mercy given. Victory belongs to the last competitor standing.”
Around me, other advisors shift nervously. Some look excited by the spectacle about to unfold, while others appear as horrified as I feel.
Cardinal Maria steps forward. “Medical intervention will only be provided after elimination or victory. No assistance may be given during the trial itself.” Her eyes sweep the observation deck.
The brutal reality hits me: if Zevran is badly injured, I won’t be able to heal him until the trial ends. I’ll have to watch him suffer, possibly die, while being powerless to help.
Cardinal Marcus adds the final detail: “The trial begins when the platforms achieve full orbital velocity. It ends when only one competitor remains conscious and standing. There is no time limit.”
I look down at Zevran again, small against the hellscape below, and a voice echoes from hidden speakers, seeming to come from the arena itself: “Let the first trial begin. May the strongest lead, and the wisest survive.”
The platforms begin to move.
And deep in my chest, a sigil starts to glow.
The crowd roars from the stands – thousands of voices contributing to a deafening wave that makes the ancient stone vibrate beneath my feet.
I grip the observation rail as the platforms spread across the arena, each leader isolated on their own floating stone disc. The heat rises in waves I can see, distorting the air like looking through warped glass.
Zevran stands on a platform near the arena’s centre, his dark silhouette sharp against the glow. Even from this distance, I can see the careful way he tests his footing, assessing escape routes and defensive positions. The other leaders do the same: Lady Isolde moves with feline grace, testing her platform’s stability, her dark hair plastered to her head and neck. Lord Castor prowls the edges of his disk, his massive frame seeming to steam in the heat, face flushed crimson. Commander Kaelix stands steady, considering every option, their lighter build already showing signs of strain as they wipe their brow repeatedly.
“First trial is always about strength – last person standing,” murmurs a voice beside me.
I turn to see Commander Nael, stripped down to minimal layers despite being in the observation deck. His copper skin gleams with perspiration from the heat already radiating up from the arena floor.
“Commander Nael.” Relief floods through me at the familiar face. “I’m glad you’re here.”
He nods, his expression grim. “I trust you have been helpful to His Grace in preparing for this.” He gestures toward the arena below. “Each trial is coordinated by the Cardinals, and sometimes they decideto brief the Houses at the very last minute. Sometimes they even televise Conclave events for all the kingdoms to watch. This one…” He pauses, and I can see the concern in his eyes. “This one demands a live audience.”
An aide standing on my other side leans in to chat with the advisor from House Saturn, his insignia on his collar. “The weapons are standardized,” I overhear him say, voice low. “Same alloy, same weight. No House technology allowed, no stabilizers, no amplification devices.” He pauses, watching the platforms begin their slow rotation. “Violators are disqualified.”
I turn my attention back to the arena below as the stone islands slowly begin to move. At first, it’s subtle – a gentle rotation, a slight tilt. Then an orbit, picking up speed. The leaders adjust their stances, weapons appearing in hands as they realize this isn’t just about lasting the heat. The platforms are going to force them together.
The roar of the crowd folds into the roar of the fire below. The air tastes metallic, like blood and ash.
Lady Nerida’s robes cling to her frame, soaked through, and she moves in slow, deliberate motions as though fighting through water. Lord Evander has stripped off his outer layer entirely, revealing a lean, compact build that moves lightly despite the rivulets of sweat streaming down his face. Lady Tavia’s skin glows with moisture, her breathing visible even from this distance – controlled, measured, fighting for every breath of superheated air.
Zevran stands on his platform, great sword outlined with a blue force field, held low and ready. He’s positioned himself at the edge, where the platform’s rotation will bring him closer to the others. His shirt is already dark with sweat, clinging to the planes of his back … but his grip on the sword remains steady, his body used to holding his weapon in heat.
Lady Nerida raises her trident, her movements slower now, conserving energy against the oppressive heat. She begins to sway her body like a current, and I watch as she conjures small waves of water around her feet, the faint outline of a glowing sigil on her chest peeking out from beneath her robes. Lord Evander adjusts his grip on a compact mace, his chestnut and grey hair darkened with sweat andhanging limp. Lady Isolde crouches with twin daggers, waiting, her breathing rapid and shallow as she fights to stay low where the air is marginally cooler.
