For a moment, no one moved. The Aspirants stood in tense silence, each one measuring the others with wary eyes. Then, in an instant, the tension broke. The Aspirants surged forward, sprinting into the snow-covered plain, and racing toward the fortress ruins. Groups began to form quickly, some out of necessity, others out of pre-existing bonds forged in training.
One group, led by an Aspirant named Cyrion, moved swiftly to the east, keeping low as they approached the ruins from a flank. His group had trained together, and he had earned their respect through his ruthless leadership. Another group, led by Vaelin, sprinted toward the western approach, eager to claim their prize. Others splintered off, moving in twos or threes, seeking stealth over strength.
The howling wind swallowed their footsteps, but soon, the first sounds of battle echoed across the plains. The crack of lasfire erupted as drones engaged one of the groups. Sparks flew as the Aspirants fought back, their combat knives and improvised weapons flashing in the darkness. In the distance, a group of servitors lumbered into view, their eyes glowing red as they began their slow, relentless advance.
The cold favored no one, The snow on tarrath care nun for man and even less so for children. Cassius felt the miserable chill and squeezed the hilt of the blade in his hand, He was squared off against another and his advantage was failing him quickly. “You’re the boy the rumors have been about aren’t you” The boy across from him questioned.
“What rumors” Cassius shot back and while observing the room, Time was running out and he knew he didn’t have time to sit and talk. The boy peered over the tip of his danger at the skinny twig of a boy that must have been a year younger than him.
“Ti Tash” The sound of broken glass and a shattered window behind him robbed him of his attention so he spun to look, That was all he needed Cassius was already low and moving quickly and lightly he was already on the boy's neck with a hand over the youth’s mouth.
His grandfather's words came to him then “Once you’ve taken action stay the course and commit be that with words or at the tip of a blade”. Hesitation afforded him nothing so the boy felt the kiss and sweet embrace of his blade.
The body fell and whatever was coming heard the thud. In a matter of two seconds a steel foot grace the entrance way, The whine of the bolter strapped to its arm began to bark.
Flashes and bolts ripped through the room like a hot knife through butter, Cassius caught a grazing wound as he scrambled to the left of the room and leaped out the window. In his panic, he cared not what was awaiting him on the other side.
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“Lord Master, The aspirants have begun they’re trail at the proving ground Alpha, Beta, and Gamma trail should be starting in the next hours” Nix glanced over to his serf and nodded.
With a wave of his wrist, the cameras came to life and all three proving grounds flickered on. “Send for Captain Gaven and Tytus”
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Cassius flung himself to the right, his body moving with the fluid grace of a warrior honed through years of relentless training. The ancient stone walls of the ruined fortress loomed high on either side of the narrow alley, casting long, jagged shadows in the cold light of Bitter Hold’s rising moon and the black sun off in the distance. His heart pounded in his chest, but his mind was calm—focused. He had been raised with a sword in his hand, and that training, that discipline, had kept him alive so far. The final trial was far from over, and survival was still uncertain.
Behind him, he heard the thundering impact of the servitor hitting the ground, its heavy, augmented limbs clawing into the frozen dirt as it pulled itself after him with a relentless, mechanical determination. The servitors, brought as the laboring force of the marines, had been ordered by Cardinal Phoenixes to patrol these ruins, hunting the Aspirants. Their artificial minds knew no fear, no hesitation, only the orders imprinted into their cold, mechanical brains—eliminate the weak.
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Cassius darted down the alley, his boots slipping slightly as his blood slid into them. His breath came in controlled bursts, each one calculated to maintain his stamina, but the servitor was faster than it looked. He heard the grinding of metal on stone as the machine dragged its bulk around the corner, its red eyes glowing with an unnatural light. He could almost feel its cold, emotionless gaze locking onto him, calculating, adjusting for the kill.
Without looking back, he dove forward into a ruined archway, rolling to his feet just as a burst of lasfire from the servitor's built-in weaponry shattered the stones where he had been standing. Dust and debris filled the air, but Cassius moved like a shadow through the crumbling ruins. The echoes of combat and the distant roar of the other Aspirant's battles filled the air, but here, in this dark, narrow passage, it was just him and the servitor.
His blade was strapped to his back, its familiar weight both comforting and deadly. He could feel the cold, leather-wrapped hilt pressing against his shoulder, but now wasn’t the time to draw it. Not yet. He needed to outmaneuver the servitor, to strike when it was vulnerable.
The voice of his grandfather echoed in his mind, the old knight’s words whispered to him in the long, cold winters of their family’s hovel: “A knight's strength is not in his sword alone, Cassius. It is in his mind. A blade is but a tool. It is the man who wields it that determines its worth.”
He had never forgotten those words. His grandfather, a knight of Bitterhold who had survived the Red Purge, had taught him the way of the blade, but never spoken of the past—the horrors he had witnessed when the Cardinal Phoenixes descended. Cassius had always known his grandfather’s legacy was tied to that time, but the old knight had never told him where or when his leg had been severed in battle. He had only said that some wounds, even those that heal, are too deep to speak of.
Cassius narrowed his eyes, scanning the alley ahead. His breath misted in the air as he slowed his pace. He could hear the servitor behind him, its mechanical legs grinding against the stone, its lascannon humming with deadly energy. He didn’t have much time.
Then he saw it—a gap in the rubble, just wide enough for him to slip through. Beyond it, a collapsed section of the fortress wall led up to a vantage point. If he could make it there, he’d have the high ground. He could strike.
Cassius bolted for the gap, hearing the servitor’s clanking limbs closing in behind him. Just as he reached the narrow opening, a burst of lasfire seared the air above his head, and he felt the heat wash over him. He didn’t stop. He threw himself through the gap, rolling across the ground and coming up in one fluid motion. The servitor roared, its mechanical voice crackling with distorted binary as it pulled its bulk toward him, trying to follow.
Cassius didn’t hesitate. He scrambled up the crumbling stone, his hands gripping the frozen rocks as he climbed. The servitor's heavy frame wouldn’t fit through the gap, but it was trying to follow him around the ruined wall. He could hear its metal limbs scraping against the stone as it searched for a way to get at him.
Finally, he reached the top of the rubble, crouching low behind a jagged piece of the broken fortress wall. The servitor was below him now, moving along the alley, its lascannon still sweeping the area, its mechanical brain searching for its prey.
Cassius drew his blade. The sound of metal sliding against leather was soft, almost a whisper in the cold night air. His hand gripped the hilt tightly, and for a moment, he closed his eyes. His mind was clear. His heartbeat slowed.
His grandfather’s voice came to him once more, calm and steady: “A knight strikes when the enemy is blind to his presence. In that moment, the battle is won.”
Cassius waited, every muscle in his body coiled like a spring, ready to explode into motion. Below, the servitor clanked forward, its back exposed to him as it continued its mindless search.
He leapt.
Time seemed to slow as he descended, his sword gleaming in the pale moonlight. The servitor’s head snapped up at the last moment, its red eyes glowing with recognition, but it was too late. Cassius brought the blade down in a powerful arc, the edge of the sword striking the servitor’s vulnerable joint where metal met flesh. Sparks flew, and there was a terrible screech of metal grinding against metal as the blade bit deep.
The servitor staggered, its lascannon firing wildly into the sky, but Cassius didn’t let up. He drove the blade deeper, twisting the hilt with all his strength. With a final, wrenching motion, he severed the servitor’s limb from its body. The machine collapsed, its mechanical limbs twitching in the snow as it died.
Breathing heavily, Cassius stood over the fallen servitor, his sword dripping with oil and blood. He wiped the blade clean on the snow, his mind already turning to the next challenge. This trial was far from over, and more enemies awaited. But in that moment, Cassius knew one thing with certainty.
He wasn’t ready but he’d be damn if he died in the snow under the heel of bots.