The ruins loomed around them, massive stone remnants of a civilization long woven into the Loom and forgotten. Faint fate-threads still flickered in the cracks of broken pillars, remnants of old Weaving techniques that had lost their power over time.
Ren moved carefully, feeling the strange weight in the air. The deeper they traveled, the denser the magic became, like the land itself had once been alive.
He adjusted his grip, tracing a golden thread with his fingertips. The Loom's presence here wasn't resisting him—but it wasn't right either.
Kara walked beside him, her gaze sharp as she scanned the ruins. The silence stretched between them until she finally sighed.
"So, you gonna talk about it?"
Ren didn't look at her. "Talk about what?"
Kara scoffed. "You know exactly what."
He didn't answer.
She stepped in front of him, blocking his path. "You erased someone, Ren. That's not normal."
Ren exhaled through his nose and stepped around her. "We have bigger problems."
Kara hesitated, watching him carefully. "Fine. But this conversation isn't over."
Across the Trial Grounds, Varian Dusk stood with his arms crossed, watching as the latest rankings were updated in the sky above. The golden list shimmered, shifting names like ink spilling across a page.
And there it was.
Jorrik Tavren – 2nd Place.
Ren Vale – 3rd Place.
Varian's jaw clenched.
Jorrik wasn't surprising. He had always been a problem—talented, disciplined, but never strong enough to actually matter.
But Vale?
Vale was nothing.
He had entered the Trial as a nobody—just another background student meant to be weeded out early. There was no reason he should be standing anywhere near the top.
The golden threads around his fists curled tighter.
"Vale is just lucky," Varian muttered, his voice cold. "Let's see if that luck holds up."
He turned toward his closest follower. "Where is Tavren?"
The student hesitated before answering. "He's pushing through the lower-ranked students, eliminating them quickly. If this keeps up, he might overtake you in the rankings."
Varian exhaled slowly.
"Forget Vale. Tavren falls first."
Ren heard the fight before he saw it.
The unmistakable crash of Weaving techniques clashing, the rippling force of golden threads being pulled and woven into deadly shapes.
And then the ruins opened before them.
Jorrik Tavren stood in the center of it all, his golden fate-spears whirling around him in perfect synchronization, cutting through his opponents with ruthless efficiency.
Ren had seen Jorrik fight before. In sparring matches, in training halls.
But this was different.
He wasn't just winning.
He was dominating.
Every motion was precise, his Weaving forming solid constructs of pure fate energy that struck with the force of steel.
A flick of his wrist—a spear impaled an opponent's shoulder before vanishing into golden mist, reappearing instantly in his grip.
Another step forward—three more spears materialized in the air around him, shifting into an impenetrable ring of defense.
His opponents weren't weak.
He was just stronger.
Ren exhaled slowly.
Jorrik was second place because he deserved to be.
Ren didn't realize what had happened until the ground beneath him cracked.
A tremor shot through the ruins, and before he could react, the floor collapsed.
He twisted midair, catching himself against a jagged stone ledge. Kara landed beside him in a crouch, already moving.
The dust settled.
Jorrik turned sharply at the disturbance, eyes locking onto Ren.
His glare was immediate. "You again?"
Ren straightened, brushing dirt from his sleeve. "Not my fault you fight in the worst places."
Jorrik scoffed, already shifting back into stance.
"Stay out of my way."
Ren barely had time to register the warning before an attack came flying toward him.
Not from Jorrik.
From the other fighters still standing.
The battlefield was chaos—half-collapsed structures, broken stone bridges, shattered remnants of a once-great ruin.
And now?
Ren and Kara were in the middle of it.
Jorrik surged forward, fate-laced spears spiraling around him in a controlled storm.
Ren moved before he could think, adjusting his footing as an enemy closed in. His instincts flared, reading the threads of Weaving being pulled around him—just enough to anticipate the attack a second before it came.
A spear shot toward him—Ren spun, letting it pass within inches of his ribs.
A second strike came faster—he deflected it with a woven barrier, golden threads lashing out in a sharp counter.
Kara struck like a phantom, her daggers flickering in and out of sight as she darted through the fray.
Jorrik was a force of nature, moving like a war machine, his spears cutting through the battlefield in devastating arcs.
Ren didn't try to match him.
He moved where Jorrik wasn't, slipping into the spaces between attacks, striking only when necessary.
They weren't working together.
But they weren't getting in each other's way either.
The fight was nearing its end. The battlefield was littered with the fallen.
Jorrik stood tall, barely winded, his golden fate-spears hovering idly in the air.
Ren adjusted his stance, letting out a slow breath.
Kara nudged his arm. "You noticing this?"
Ren frowned. "Noticing what?"
Kara's gaze flicked past him. "We're being watched."
Ren turned.
At the edge of the ruins, standing where the battlefield had been empty just moments before, Varian Dusk watched.
He wasn't moving.
Not yet.
But his presence was like a storm waiting to break.
Golden threads curled around his fists, shifting like serpents made of light, slow, controlled. His expression was unreadable.
Then he smirked.
"Tavren first."
"Then you."
Ren exhaled.
Varian wasn't playing around anymore.
And this fight—this wasn't over.