Much like the first trial, a box was carried forth and placed gently in front of Alric. This one was smaller—flat and square, carved from pale wood, marked with faint runes burned into its lid.
The old man who had presided over the first ritual stepped forward once more, hands steady, face composed. With quiet reverence, he opened the box.
Inside lay a single orb—smooth, green, and faintly luminescent. It pulsed subtly, as if it were breathing.
"Place your hand on the orb," the old man instructed, "and close your eyes."
Alric obeyed without a word, stepping forward and pressing his palm gently against the surface.
"Calm your mind," the old man said softly. "Feel. Do not force. Seek the warmth. Seek the resonance."
Alric closed his eyes and focused.
At first, there was nothing.
No sensation. No sound. Just the cold glass against his skin and the echo of his own breath. Time slowed. Seconds stretched like strands of silk.
But then—something stirred.
A faint warmth. Like a coal beneath snow.
It trickled through his palm, subtle at first, then stronger, like a heartbeat echoing from within the orb into his bones.
He knew this warmth.
He had felt it when the Mother Reverend placed her hand upon his head.
He had felt it again this morning, watching the sacred rite from the shadows.
And now—it was his.
The warmth grew, coiling through his hand, up his arm, not burning but awakening. His skin tingled, his breath stilled. The world fell away. There was only this strange, silent fire that asked for nothing—but was everything.
And just as it became overwhelming—
He opened his eyes.
The old man was watching him closely, and behind him, the Commander stood with arms crossed.
The priest turned to him. "The young man has resonance," he said. "He can wield divine magic."
The Commander nodded once. "I saw it as well."
He stepped forward, his voice calm but heavy with meaning.
"You may now choose," he said, meeting Alric's gaze. "You have the strength to become a mage, should you walk that path."
He paused.
"Or… you may train as a Mage-Knight—one who walks between the blade and the arcane, serving both the Goddess's flame and her unseen hand."
The hall went quiet again. Even the breath of those watching seemed held.
No one could choose for him.
Not the Commander. Not the Mother Reverend. Not even the Goddess.
The choice now was his.
Alric stood in silence, weighing the choice laid before him.
He had always found his comfort in combat—in the frontlines, in the clash of blades and the spray of dust. The rush of instinct and motion had been his home for as long as he could remember.
And now, with magic at his fingertips, he could choose a different path—a quieter one. He could remain in the back lines, untouched by blades and blood.
But something in him resisted the comfort.
"I will choose to be a Mage-Knight," he said.
His voice was calm, but resolute.
The Commander regarded him for a long moment.
"Good," he said finally, the faintest glint of approval in his dark eyes.
He stepped back slightly and gestured to the far side of the hall, where shadows clung thick between the high columns.
"Then only the final test remains," he announced.
"For this, you must choose the weapon you are most comfortable with. The one that will carry your will into battle."
He pointed to a long weapons rack that stood beneath a stone relief, half-hidden in gloom.
Without hesitation, Alric descended the raised platform and walked toward it.
Blades of all kinds rested against the rack—swords, axes, polearms, bows.
His eyes swept across them slowly. But even before he touched it, he knew the one he would choose.
The spear.
Its shaft was worn from past hands, its iron tip clean and functional—not ornate, but honest. He gripped it and felt the weight settle comfortably in his palm, as if it had been waiting for him.
He turned back.
The Commander watched him return and gave a single nod.
"Now, you are ready to be accepted as a trainee of the Holy Knights."
He let the silence hang for a heartbeat.
"Unless, of course... someone believes your worth still needs proving."
Alric's grip on the spear tightened.
He looked out over the gathered circle. His gaze swept past the curious, the indifferent, and the wary—until it stopped.
There.
The same man who had spoken earlier—the one who had looked at him with the smirk of a noble too polished for his age.
His arms were crossed. His stance relaxed. His eyes held a challenge that didn't need to be spoken.
Alric saw it coming.
"I wish to challenge the plainsman," the man said, stepping forward. "To test his eligibility."
He moved with the confidence of someone who had been trained since childhood. His voice echoed in the chamber.
"I am Castor," he said, "of the First Cohort. Sword Discipline."
He stepped into the ring and walked toward the center with the poise of a seasoned duelist.
Alric followed suit.
"Alric," he said simply, "a plainsman."
There was no need for more. He wasn't a knight yet. Not officially.
They met on the platform.
The Commander raised his hand and addressed both.
"This will be a single-round duel. It ends when one of you yields… or is knocked from the platform."
His gaze settled sternly on both men.
"Use of divine powers is strictly forbidden. This is a test of martial discipline, not favor."
Castor gave a small, mocking bow. "Understood, Commander."
Alric only nodded, planting the butt of his spear firmly to the ground.
The Commander raised his hand.
"Begin."