The air above Caedros buzzed with the sound of a thousand turbines, ancient and enchanted, keeping the city suspended above the clouds. Gleaming towers of white stone and steel twisted upward, adorned with pennants bearing the symbols of Valmyra's eight nations. Skyships docked along massive platforms shaped like lion's paws, their hulls etched with runes and war-scarred banners. Below, the continent watched. Above, history waited to be written.
Andrew stood on the edge of the arrival tier, wind catching his dark cloak. From this height, even mountains looked small.
He hated heights.
Still, he stood unmoving, jaw clenched, hand resting on the hilt of his father's sword—his only companion since the day he'd left Drosia. Around him, champions disembarked, each more dramatic than the last. Fire-trailers, lightning dancers, shape-shifters, telekinetics—all cloaked in arrogance and power.
And then there was Andrew. No fanfare. No banners.
Just a blade and a silence that unsettled even the loudest of them.
A deep, mechanical voice broke the quiet.
"Champions of the Virelion Trials," it boomed from floating crystal pillars surrounding the dock. "Welcome to Caedros. You are now under the watch of the Concord of Rule. You will be housed, fed, and tested. In three days, the first round begins. Until then, no conflict. No powers. No exceptions."
Andrew barely noticed. His focus was on the crowd of other competitors now gathering around the grand plaza.
He spotted a tall woman in silver armor, her hair braided with blue flame—Kaelira, the Pyreward of Vellvire, rumored to be able to melt stone with her bare hands. Near her, a man floated a few inches above the ground, arms folded, eyes glowing with stored lightning—Serin of Daeval, second son of their Archduke, called The Storm-Blooded Prince.
And further back, cloaked in black robes, a masked figure watched everyone. Andrew held their gaze for a moment. No words. No nod.
Just tension.
"Are you lost, lowborn?" a voice sneered beside him.
Andrew turned slowly. A boy—no, a teenager, barely older than sixteen, with golden armor and a smug grin. House colors of Astrenia, the wealthiest nation in Valmyra. Probably born with a sword forged from starsteel and ego.
Andrew looked him over once. "You talk loud for someone who hasn't drawn breath in a real fight."
The boy scoffed and stepped closer—until Kaelira passed between them, her heat brushing both their skin.
"Three days," she said without turning her head. "Save the blood for the arena."
Andrew didn't blink. He just stepped forward, walking past them all, heading toward the housing complex.
Let them whisper. Let them laugh.
He wasn't here for applause or politics.
He was here for the one thing no one thought a poor swordsman from Selvarath could ever have.
Victory.