The tension was palpable as the next opponent was dragged forward. This time, it was an electrokinetic druid, his tall, wiry frame crackling faintly with electricity even under the passive suppression of Ingrid's aura. His eyes gleamed with sharp intelligence, a dangerous contrast to the brawn of the last opponent. He smirked when he saw Ragnar, clearly not underestimating the young wendigo. He did just watch the young man kill several soldiers before him. Still he had years of experience as an electrokinetic mage and he was against a child.

Ragnar stood firm, his chest still bandaged from the prior fight. He didn’t show hesitation, though Ingrid could see his shoulders tense as he assessed the druid. When fighting someone of the same discipline often the person with the most experience came out on top. They simply had longer to come to know their discipline and to grow more aware of the nuances of their magic. On top of that Ragnar was already injured and would not be given any potions as part of his trial.

“Don’t worry child, I will make this quick.” The druid’s voice was taunting, his confidence evident. “I will have some mercy unlike the savages of the Salstar house.”

Ragnar didn’t respond. His grip on his staff tightened, his gaze locked on the druid. Ingrid released her anti-magic aura, and the battlefield buzzed as both combatants’ power came to life. Ragnar’s red energy clashed with the green lightning of the druid.

When it came to magic, especially the elemental magic disciplines the element created was not a true element but instead a magical construct. A fire magic caster could create real fire but in doing so they did not have the same control over it. At the same time if other pyrokinetics more powerful than them came along they could take control of it.

Instead a mage’s mana directly became the element. Doing so gave the caster total control as if it were an extension of themselves. More importantly, others couldn’t take control of it. The difference was the mana cost. It was significantly more mana to maintain constructs. Ingrid taught her son this lesson long ago and would have to trust he would not do anything to give the druid mage the advantage.

The druid didn’t wait. He raised his hand, calling down a forked lightning strike that tore across the field. Ragnar barely managed to leap aside, rolling to his feet as the strike left the ground scorched and smoking.

Emerald green electricity danced along the druid’s arms as he advanced, sending out arcs of power that forced Ragnar to keep moving. Ragnar countered with bolts of his own, but the druid easily deflected them, his mastery over electricity apparent.

“You’re out of your depth, boy,” the druid said, his voice mocking.

Another surge of electricity crackled toward Ragnar, who deflected it with a hastily conjured plasma barrier. Ragnar’s sharp eyes darted around the battlefield, taking in every detail. He was outmatched in raw skill, but his mind worked quickly. Reaching into a pouch on his side, he pulled out several metal rods he had prepared earlier. He said a spell and the rods began to vibrate as coiled wire wrapped each one.

He held out his hand and the rods scattered across the field. The druid dodge one of them easily as he moved to get closer to Ragnar who was maintaining his distance.

The druid paused, his brow furrowing. “What are you doing? Playing at some kind of childish game?”

Ragnar didn’t answer. Instead, he kept moving, positioning himself strategically and throwing more rods as the fight continued. The druid’s irritation grew, his attacks becoming more aggressive, but Ragnar’s movements remained deliberate, each dodge leading him closer to his goal.

Ingrid could barely believe how foolish the druid was being. Obviously Ragnar was preparing something but the druid was too blinded by anger. The druid finally realized something was amiss when the air between the scattered rods began to hum with energy. Ragnar had created a makeshift grid, the rods conducting electricity and forming a network of currents that hummed ominously.

“What is this?” the druid demanded.

Ragnar smirked for the first time in the fight. Without warning, he launched himself into the grid while ducking under a green bolt. The currents surged, propelling him forward with incredible speed. The druid barely had time to react as Ragnar shot past him, his staff glowing with a searing plasma spearhead at its tip.

Before the druid could fully turn, Ragnar was behind him. With a cry of effort, Ragnar drove the plasma-coated end of his staff into the druid’s back, the heat piercing through his body and out the other side. The druid let out a strangled cry.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

The plasma was so intense that the body ignited, flames consuming the druid even as Ragnar yanked his staff free and stepped back. The smell of burnt flesh filled the air as the body crumpled, leaving nothing but smoldering ashes behind. Ragnar stood over the remains, chest heaving, his face pale but resolute.

Ingrid’s breath caught as she watched her son. The battle had been grueling, yet Ragnar had fought with a cunning and precision that reminded her of herself at his age—only he was already far beyond her capabilities at that time. Her thoughts swirled as she stared at him, pride mingling with a mother’s fear. She knew he had just proven himself worthy in ways few could deny, yet the sight of his bloodied form, standing amidst the remains of a brutal battle, made her heart ache.

Ulfar stepped forward, his voice cold. “Ragnar. You are Salstar, stand straight.”

“Yes, Lord Father,” Ragnar turned, his stance steady despite his visible exhaustion.

Ingrid approached, her eyes scanning him for injuries. “You’re far more skilled than I was at your age.”

He looked up at her, a faint smile on his face. “I learned from the best, Mother.”

Her heart swelled at his words, but the battlefield was no place for sentimentality. The tension was thick as Ulfar turned to the remaining prisoners, his commanding presence cowing even the most defiant among them.

“Bring out the next two,” he ordered, his voice cold and unyielding.

A ripple of unease passed through the knights and the remaining druids. Two? Ingrid’s gaze flicked to Ragnar, who was already weary and battered. Her lips parted to protest, but she caught herself. She knew better than to question her husband directly in front of the troops. Instead, she offered a measured suggestion hoping he would not take offence.

“Lord Husband,” she began, her tone calm but edged with concern. “Perhaps a short respite to allow him to recover? His body may falter if pushed too far.”

Ulfar's eyes turned to her with a gaze that made her recoil. “The battlefield offers no respite. If Ragnar is to be my heir, he must learn to endure. Prepare him.”

Ingrid inclined her head. “As you will, Lord Husband.”

Ragnar, overhearing the exchange, hesitated. His eyes darted between his parents, uncertainty flickering in his gaze. He turned to her but then, with a deep breath, he straightened, puffing out his chest and looked to his father.

“I’ll make you proud, Lord Father.” Ragnar said.

Ulfar nodded, his expression unreadable. “Good.”

The next pair of druids were brought forward. One a stocky man wielding a mace, the other a lithe woman with daggers and shadow magic. They were unshackled and armed and Ingrid hesitated for a second before releasing her mana suppression on them.

***

Six grueling rounds, twelve dead druids later, Ragnar stood in the center of the battlefield. His body bore the evidence of each hard-fought battle: cuts and bruises marred his flesh, blood stained his armor, and his staff hung loosely in his trembling hand. His mana was spent, his movements sluggish, but his spirit remained unbroken. He stood straight despite his trembling legs. He refused to let his father see him fall to his knees. He refused to let the knights see a Salstar succumb to defeat no matter how small. Ingrid watched her son as any proud wendigo mother. He was truly a testament to the resilience of their lineage.

The knights, silent witnesses to his trial, raised their weapons in a salute. The gesture was one of profound respect, acknowledging not only Ragnar's triumph but the indomitable will he had displayed. They all together chanted his name ‘Heir Ragnar Salstar’ they called loud enough to wake the spirits.

Ulfar stepped forward, his towering presence commanding the field and everyone went silent. He regarded his son with a rare glint of approval before turning to Ingrid.

“Take him. Tend to his wounds. He has earned his rest.” Ulfar said.

Ingrid immediately moved to her son, her hands steady as she steadied him.She would not carry him he had to stand on his own. Despite her pride in his achievements, her touch was gentle, her voice soft.

“You’ve done well, my son.” Ingrid said.

Ragnar looked to Ulfar as he walked away. “Did I make him proud, Mother?”

“You did,” she replied, her voice firm. “And you’ve made me proud as well.”

Ulfar’s voice cut through the moment. “He will join you in all future battles against the druids. His training will continue on the field.”

Ingrid glanced up, nodding her agreement. “As you command, Lord Husband.”

With a snap of her fingers, the healers stepped forward, their magic enveloping Ragnar in a warm glow as they began their work. Ulfar didn’t linger; his orders given, he continued to walk away without further word, his crimson dragon Thrand waiting in the distance.

As Ingrid watched him leave, a mixture of emotions swirled within her. She was proud of her son, his potential shining even brighter than she had anticipated. More than that she felt a renewed respect for her husband’s methods. His unyielding harshness was born of necessity, a forge to shape Ragnar into a being worthy of their lineage. To Ingrid, power was the highest virtue, and Ulfar embodied it fully. His strength, his resolve, it was everything she admired and now, she saw the same potential in Ragnar.