The boy’s breath misted the icy air before him.

But he couldn’t see.

The faint fog brushed his tongue.

But he couldn’t taste.

A shadowy hand passed through his chest.

But he could no longer feel.

He could only hear. He no longer wanted to hear. He wanted to rip his ears off, to shrivel into a ball, to forget everything.

“Obey.”

“You must obey.”

“Press it— press it.”

He didn’t think. He just moved. There was it again— that scream.

And again. The cacophony of those terrible, shriveled voices.

“Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey.”

For how much longer was he meant to endure? Why was he suffering if he was doing the right thing? Was he meant to lose his sanity here?

He crumpled to the ground, a pathetic shell of what he once was. This was enough. He would die here now, happily if that was his fate.

Then— he felt something. He hadn’t felt anything for hours, but now warm arms wrapped around his chest, and he sensed a warm embrace from behind.

“It’s been difficult, hasn’t it?” A sweet voice, like a melody passed through his ears and echoed in his brain. It dispelled everything dark within his head and soul. You must trust those you want to protect. And you must build their trust in you. That is the only way you will become reborn.

With those words, the world disappeared. The boy could see again. But he felt nothing except emptiness.

----------------------------------------

The first person Sorn saw when he climbed out of his tube was a familiar Marauder who frequented the Mess.

“Welcome Sorn,” he said immediately as he dropped into the room. “Your goal is to make it towards the throne. The first five who do so are given the status of the Tournament winners. I wish you the best of luck.”

Sorn looked back at the Marauder. He was smaller in frame and quieter than most, but even still he carried the energy of a warrior. “Is this also part of Oden and Bjorn’s plan?”

The Marauder responded with nothing. He no longer had any purpose of staying in the room— so he walked out.

Sorn assumed he was somewhere within the Palace’s interior. If so, it was far less grand than he had expected. From the outside, it was a beautiful structure worthy of marveling at. But the interior had no splendor. There were only frostbitten walls that were dulling with age, and there was a musty smell in the air. Unlike the Goblet, it was clear that no one bothered to take care of the Palace.

Still, the state of the Palace was the least of Sorn’s concerns. A more immediate problem had presented itself—he had no idea as to where he should go.

The corridors were like a maze, perhaps it was even worse than the one in the Second Trial. For the first time, Sorn understood why the Royal Guard was so few in number. The Palace itself was its own defense. Any intruder who made it past the gates would likely never find what they were looking for in this strange labyrinth.

He walked aimlessly for a bit. Eventually, as the first thoughts of giving up surfaced in the crevices of his mind, a pattern began to stand out. Ice statues carrying axes would appear every now and then. Their presences were subtle at first, they had been easy to dismiss as mere decoration.

Sorn immediately realized his mistake. He had passed the statues as if they had no significance, but he should’ve paid more attention to the fact that statues in the Royal Palace were all carrying the Marauder’s signature weapon. As he inspected them more, he noticed that each blade pointed in a direction.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Sorn turned, following the path the nearest statue suggested. Left. Then right. Another turn. It was subtle, but there was definitely a path. Just as he was getting into a rhythm, he was distracted by the whistle of something heavy slicing through the air.

Sorn leapt aside, just as the weapon crashed into the floor where he had stood moments before. The impact sent a dull echo rippling through the halls, with shards of ice scattering across the ground. He turned to see an axe, presumably torn from one of the statues.

Someone else was here, and they had been removing the axes as they went.

“Looks like I finally found you,” a familiar voice called out.

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Neville was shaking uncontrollably. How could he not after seeing what was before him?

Sitting innocently was the last person he wanted to meet in a place like this. Raven of the Spears, lounged comfortably. In her lap, she cradled Flem, stroking his hair like she was a mother comforting her child.

The reality was far more sickening.

Flem’s body lay several meters away, sprawled in a growing pool of blood. His head was no longer attached to his shoulders. Instead, it rested in Raven’s lap, its face frozen in a final scream, as many needles of ice sprouted out from all around it. It was a head made into a spiky ornament.

Raven licked her lips with delight as she traced a finger along the jagged wounds. “It’s been a while since I’ve been able to turn people into toys,” she said giddily.

Most would have thrown up right then and there. Even hardened warriors, who had long become accustomed to death and blood, perhaps wouldn’t be able to handle such a needlessly gorey sight. Neville, however, was different.

He steadied his breathing as he met Raven’s eye.

“I’ve seen worse.” He told himself that over and over. He was the best healer this world had to offer. His hands had pieced together broken bodies, had stitched flesh where no flesh should remain. There were things lurking in his memory that would haunt anyone for the rest of their lives.

Then, Raven tossed him the head, and he caught it with some distaste.

“Follow me, dancing boy. You can be my assistant for my hunt.”

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Oden had been sprinting for a while. The journey had taken much longer than he had anticipated, but now, he was finally here.

The Throne room.

He had expected to be the first here, so he was quite surprised to see Crystal. She was calmly sitting down right in front of the throne. Beneath her was Jester. It had appeared as though she had beaten him and was now sitting on his unconscious body, which impressed Oden even more. Jester was quite capable, but Crystal seemed to be unharmed— apart from a small scratch on her shoulder.

“It’s not very nice to sit on people,” Oden pointed out.

“Well, he shouldn’t have attacked me while I was distracted,” Crystal replied pompously, folding her arms in front of her chest. She then eyed Oden suspiciously. “How’s the plan looking?”

“Well, the two of us are much earlier than I expected. Is Jester the only one you’ve seen?” Crystal nodded in response. “Okay, then that leaves ten people unaccounted for.”

Oden walked towards the throne and pushed it aside. Sure enough, there was a hole beneath. He had expected the underground to be pitch black, but a bright, pink light emitted from what looked like underground gems. He looked back towards Crystal. “We wait an hour. If they don’t make it here by that time, we go without them. Sounds good?”

"Okay," Crystal said, sealing the idea.

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Keilan stood upon a raised wall, looking down at Sorn. He was a few meters in the air, and had just come out of a particularly long corridor. And by some lucky coincidence— he had run into his target. He jumped down, landing softly on the frozen floor. Green wisps were immediately around Sorn, causing Keilan’s guard to go up. He had to be particularly careful for those strange explosions he emitted.

Sorn bit his lip as he faced his adversary. He didn’t like Keilan at all. In fact, he found him insufferable. But he was his ally’s brother, and someone who was supposedly harboring good intentions. Ideally, he’d like to convince him, but it seemed beyond the realm of possibility.

However, he could always try.

“Why do you always insist on making yourself a victim?” Sorn began.

“Huh?” Keilan replied blankly.

“You’re a Royal that bows down to the Spears, despite them manipulating you. But listen, Keilan, there’s secrets—”

“I know everything,” Keilan said abruptly, cutting Sorn off. “I know about the book, and what you’re trying to do in the Throne room. I’ve known many things for a long while. I’m not as slow as my sister likes to believe I am.”

Sorn was dumbfounded. “Then why—?”

“Let’s say I decide to trust you,” Keilan said. “Worst case scenario, I follow your simple-minded plan, and we escape successfully. But then it turns out the Sacrifice did hold some truth and the island falls, killing everyone. Then let’s also say, you’re right. The Sacrifice is completely made up for whatever reason. Now, by rebelling, we have incurred Varian’s wrath. Above that, my father, who is likely compliant in the scheme will also make an enemy out of us. So no Sorn, I do not wish to fall prey to the wishful thinking of my silly younger sister and a brainless outsider that knows nothing of our world. You symbolize the loss of everything I cherish. I do not desire to kill you simply because I’ve been ordered to. You will die because it’s what I want to happen.”

Sorn realized then that he had failed terribly. By having Keilan rationalize his thoughts allowed, Sorn had inadvertently fed the Royal’s desire to see Sorn dead.

“You said you know our plan, right?” Sorn was playing his last card. “How do you expect to stop your sister while dealing with me?”

Keilan did not hesitate as he answered. “I do not need those axes to guide me. I was raised here. I know every secret, every passage, every hidden path this place has to offer.”

And that was the end of the battle of words.

Keilan moved first, a spear forming in his grip. There was no wasted movement, as he threw it, his ability better than most Spears Sorn had seen. This was not just imitation— this was mastery.

Sorn weaved to his right, narrowly avoiding the projectile. Keilan shifted as if he had already expected the dodge. In his hand now was a sword, he was closing in, his footwork far more fluid than the average Ice Elemental.

A sword, but with the movements of a Dancing Blade?

Sorn stepped back, ready to reposition, but the air beside him shifted. A figure shot out from the side, right towards Keilan.

The boy turned, raising his sword just in time to meet the strike. However, the force of it sent him flying to the left. The ambusher landed in a crouch, his blue hair falling over his face before settling. Then he straightened, tilting his head up, meeting Keilan’s glare with an unbothered gaze.

“What is the meaning of this, Kaen?” Keilan’s voice held no surprise, only irritation.

Kaen stepped forward, stopping beside Sorn. “Sorry, suicide boy,” he said. “How about you tell me what’s wrong with helping an ally?”