The Gala of Ascension was more than an opulent gathering—it was a carefully engineered stage, a microcosm of the Petrosyan Confederacy's brutal but structured power dynamics. But to the elders? It was nothing more than a performance, an entertaining game where young aristocrats fumbled, postured, and tried to outplay one another. Unlike what many commoners believed, the Gala of Ascension wasn't a singular event—it was divided into two distinct phases.
The first section of the gala was the public spectacle, the part that was broadcast across the Confederacy. This was where the noble houses paraded their heirs, introducing them to the Confederacy's population as potential future leaders. Each house had its moment to bask in the spotlight, with their scions stepping forward, clad in ceremonial attire that reflected their lineage. To the average citizen, it was a moment of grandeur—a display of prestige, tradition, and the next generation's potential.
But behind the scenes, the elders and the true power brokers viewed it with amusement. They had long since learned the difference between a well-rehearsed speech and genuine leadership. The young nobles, desperate to prove themselves, performed with calculated grace, exchanging words as if they were dueling with blades. Their subtle gestures, the careful intonations of their voices—every detail was scrutinized. But the elders knew this was just the warm-up. The real trial happened after the cameras turned away.
Once the formalities ended, the gala transitioned into its private phase, where the true nobility—the warlords, strategists, and heads of industry—began their own games. This was where alliances were struck without the pretense of public approval.
This was also when the noble heirs were truly tested. Their interactions here—away from the public eye—determined their standing among their peers. The youngest nobles, those who thought the gala was simply a social event, quickly learned that this was the first true battlefield.
Unlike the public showcase, where every move was orchestrated, this phase was ruthless in its sincerity. It wasn't about impressing an audience—it was about proving oneself to the real power players of the Confederacy.
Here, heirs weren't just making idle conversation. They were securing alliances that would define their futures. Some found themselves surrounded by newfound allies, while others, through a single misstep, saw entire doors close on them.
Orion felt a prickle of anticipation run up his spine as he saw the crowd shift toward the center. The tension was palpable, thicker now than it had ever been.
He couldn't help but glance at Ingrid, her face unusually tense. Her eyes flickered toward the source of the commotion. "Seems like another challenge," she murmured, her voice just above a whisper.
Orion raised an eyebrow, his mind already racing through possibilities. "Another duel?"
Ingrid nodded, her lips curling in what might have been a knowing smile. "I'd bet on it."
Sure enough, as they neared the growing crowd, Orion saw two figures standing in the middle of the hall, facing each other with a dangerous stillness.
Both were from House Petrosyan—scions of the very house that dominated the Confederacy's politics and military power. Darius and Chantelle Petrosyan. Both were known for their strategic minds and their brutal approach to anything that threatened their house's authority. It wasn't surprising they were the ones at the center of the unfolding conflict.
The challenge had already been issued, and the terms were simple: a duel. No weapons, no rules beyond the basic understanding that it had to remain honorable—or at least, in the eyes of those watching. To Orion, it seemed less like a duel and more like a show.
He knew the stakes, even if most of the children in the hall didn't. The Petrosyan family's dominance wasn't just political—it was personal, and it was a legacy. A challenge here was not just a fight; it was a statement, a display of power. Whoever won this duel would likely gain more influence in the coming years, especially as they prepared for the trials at the Royal Academy.
It was clear to him why this was happening. They wanted to erase the memory of what Ares had done and reassert dominance. By choosing each other as opponents, Darius and Chantelle made it abundantly clear: only a Petrosyan could ever be equal to a Petrosyan.
The crowd parted as Darius stepped forward, his posture tall and unyielding. His dark eyes locked onto his opponent, Chantelle, who stood just as resolute. There was no mistaking the tension between them.
The moment Darius and Chantelle began to circle each other, the crowd went silent, waiting for the inevitable clash. Orion's eyes narrowed, watching every subtle movement of their bodies.
Chantelle made the first move, a swift jab aimed at Darius's side. It was nothing more than a feint, but it was enough to throw him off balance. Darius reacted with equal speed, sidestepping and pushing her back with a sharp shove. The force of the movement sent Chantelle stumbling, but she quickly regained her footing, her eyes flashing.
"Come on, Darius," Chantelle taunted, her voice cold and biting. "Is that all you've got?"
Darius didn't respond with words. Instead, he lunged forward, grabbing her by the wrist. The crowd gasped, but Chantelle's smile only grew wider. Without warning, she threw her weight backward, flipping herself out of his grasp and landing gracefully on her feet. The duel was far from over, and the crowd could feel it.
Ingrid leaned closer to Orion, her voice barely audible. "Did you notice that?"
Orion frowned slightly, his mind running through the movement sequence. He turned to Ingrid, his expression serious. "Notice what?"
"Chantelle's stance—her lead foot was angled about ten degrees outward, just enough to feign instability," she replied. "If Darius had read it as a weakness and attacked, she would have pivoted into a centrifugal reversal."
What many outsiders failed to realize was that the Gala of Ascension wasn't just a celebration—it was the first test. It was designed to ease the young nobles into the true battlefield that awaited them: The First Trial.
The First Trial had two distinct sections, each meant to weed out the weak and expose the cunning.
This was the purest test of ability. Each participant was thrown into an isolated challenge, their skills and knowledge tested in ways they could never predict. These trials were designed to exploit their weaknesses. No two trials were the same—some forced contestants to rely on their intelligence, solving puzzles and uncovering hidden secrets, while others demanded sheer physical endurance.
What mattered wasn't just survival—it was how one adapted.
Many noble heirs walked into the trials believing their family name alone would protect them. Those were the ones who failed first.
If the trials tested the individual, this section tested the strategists. This Gala wasn't just about skill—it was about alliances, rivalries, and manipulation.
However, there was one unbreakable rule: No killing.
Killing an opponent wasn't just a violation—it was a sentence of exile. It wasn't out of morality; it was a matter of control. A noble who killed in the free-for-all proved only one thing: they lacked the restraint to rule.
That didn't mean the trial was without brutality. Participants could cripple, humiliate, and even permanently maim each other—so long as they didn't cross the one unspoken boundary.
While the noble heirs saw the gala as a critical moment, a chance to establish their standing, the elders saw it as a form of entertainment.