Trials of Redemption

The training grounds had been stripped bare.

What once served as a place of daily practice, scarred stone, scattered dummies, cracked pillars from careless strikes had been cleared with deliberate precision. The floor was swept clean, the fractured stone replaced where necessary, leaving behind a wide, open arena of pale flagstones that reflected the morning light. At opposite ends of the grounds, two long tables had been set, each lined with weapons laid out in careful order: spears, swords, shields, blades. Everything about the arrangement spoke of formality rather than training as this was not a lesson, but a judgment.

Above the arena, the second-floor balconies gradually filled.

Knights in polished armor leaned against the railings, arms crossed, eyes sharp with interest. Healers stood nearby in muted robes. Even maids and servants clustered together in quiet groups, drawn by curiosity more than duty. The enchanters and blacksmiths were discussing the condition of the weapons for today’s trial. It had been a long time since the Valemont family had held a trial of redemption, long enough that most only knew of it through stories.

Three seats had been placed at the center of the upper gallery, elevated slightly above the rest. They remained empty. The absence itself drew attention.

Below, voices overlapped as the grounds slowly filled with sound.

“Hey, who do you think is going to win?”

A snort answered immediately. “Isn’t it obvious? Henry. This isn’t even a match. I don’t know what that idiot is thinking.”

“I heard the young master’s been training nonstop.”

“Training?” another scoffed. “He’s still unawakened. A month doesn’t change that.”

“When was the last time there was a trial like this?”

“No idea. My father said he was a kid back then.”

“Isn’t the Trials supposed to be multiple different challenges?”
 

“Usually, but it appears young master Kain decided to change it to a 1 on 1 duel with Henry”

The murmurs spread like ripples across water with speculation layered with certainty, curiosity tinged with disdain. For most, the outcome had already been decided. This was not a contest, but a formality meant to confirm what everyone already believed.

Yet even so, they watched because something about the sheer audacity of it with a disgraced noble standing before a mid-level adept. This was something impossible to ignore.

As the hour approached, the noise softened into a restless hum. Eyes turned toward the entrances leading into the arena, anticipation tightening the air. Somewhere beyond the stone walls, bells rang faintly, marking the passage of time.
 

The echoes of the crowd’s chatter died abruptly as the sound of footsteps echoed through the training grounds.

They were measured, heavy, unhurried.

No announcement followed, no herald cried out a name as none was needed. The weight carried in those steps alone pressed down on the air, and instinctively, every voice fell silent. Conversations halted mid-sentence, breaths caught, and even the knights straightened where they stood.

Duke Gerald Valemont emerged first.

He moved with the quiet confidence of a man who had survived countless battlefields, his broad frame wrapped in formal attire that did little to hide the power beneath. His gray hair was slicked back neatly, a sharp contrast to the scar that cut across his right cheek. His piercing purple eyes swept over the arena without emotion, yet their presence alone radiated authority. This was not merely the head of a noble house, but a Grandmaster whose aura had once held monsters at bay through sheer will.

At his side walked Sven.

The head butler’s posture was relaxed, almost gentle, yet those who knew him recognized the restrained strength beneath the calm exterior. His amber eyes were observant behind thin-framed glasses, taking in every detail of the arena with the quiet awareness of a former vice commander. Though he carried no weapon, his presence was no less formidable as an old blade sheathed, but never dulled.

Behind them came Eira.

She wore comfortable but fitted clothing rather than ceremonial dress, practical and fitted, the fabric moving easily with her steps. Her long black hair was tied back, exposing her composed expression and heterochromatic eyes, one cool gray, the other a faint crimson that seemed to catch the light. She walked with the confidence of a warrior who had already proven herself, her aura tightly controlled yet unmistakably present. Even among seasoned knights, she drew attention effortlessly, not through display, but through quiet competence and beauty.

Sophia followed.

The contrast was immediate.

She was dressed in elegant formal wear befitting an imperial princess, the pale blues and whites of her attire complementing her long blonde hair, which fell neatly down her back. Her blue eyes were sharp and unreadable, her expression regal and distant. She moved with practiced grace, each step deliberate, accompanied by two royal guards whose presence underscored her status. Where Eira’s presence spoke of battle, Sophia’s spoke of authority, measured, unyielding, and absolute.

Together, they ascended to the central balcony.

As they took their seats, the silence deepened further, becoming almost suffocating. Gerald settled into his chair, his hands resting calmly atop the armrests and for a brief moment, the pressure intensified. It felt as though the air itself had thickened, lungs straining against an unseen weight.

Then subtly, it lifted.

A collective exhale rippled through the arena as if the crowd had been holding its breath without realizing it. Knights shifted, servants swallowed, and whispers dared not return.

The trial had not yet begun.

But with Duke Gerald Valemont seated, judgment itself had arrived. And whether it ended in exile, humiliation, or something no one had accounted for, Valemont Keep would remember this day.

----
 

Minutes passed before Duke Gerald Valemont rose from his seat.

The simple motion was enough to draw every eye in the arena upward, the lingering discussions dissolving instantly into silence. He stood tall, hands resting lightly against the railing before him, his gaze sweeping over the gathered crowd without warmth or hesitation. This was not a speech meant to inspire, nor one meant to placate. It was an announcement of judgment.

“We are gathered here today,” Gerald said, his voice carrying effortlessly across the training grounds, “to witness the Trial of Redemption for Kain Valemont.”

No embellishment followed. No explanation was offered. The words themselves were sufficient.

With a slight gesture of his hand, Gerald signaled toward the edge of the arena.

From the shadows stepped Knight Captain Roderick.

The man was tall, broad-shouldered and imposing, his presence commanding even without the rank insignia that marked his authority. His gray hair was cut short, practical, and streaked with white earned rather than aged. An eyepatch covered his left eye, the result of a battle long past, though the scarred edge beneath it hinted at violence that had once been far worse. Those who knew Roderick understood that the eye had been lost not through carelessness, but through standing his ground when retreat would have been easier.

Roderick inclined his head once toward Gerald, then turned to face the arena.

“In accordance with Valemont law,” he announced, voice steady and clear, “the first combatant will now enter.”

He raised his hand.

“Henry Felward.”

The response was immediate as cheers erupted from the crowd, swelling in volume as Henry emerged from the far entrance. Knights called out his name openly, servants whispered excitedly, and even a few healers exchanged knowing looks. As Henry looked around scanning the audience.

“Henry!!!”
 

“Destroy that trash---”
 

“He looks so good, I think he look my way”
 

“I heard he is the Rising Star of the Valemont Knights”

“Of course, he has been through multiple battles and even fought alongside Eira Valemont, the Northern Flower herself”

The title followed him like an echo, the rising star of Valemont, and Henry drank it in effortlessly. Especially the discussions about him and Eira. Internally, satisfaction bloomed but outwardly, he merely smiled.

Henry wore the standard armor of the Valemont Knights, polished to a mirror sheen. The steel plates gleamed beneath the sun, unmarred by neglect, while a blue cape draped neatly from his shoulders, shifting softly with each step. He moved with practiced confidence, posture straight, stride measured as someone accustomed to being watched.

He walked to the center of the arena as the noise gradually faded. Roderick raised his hand once more, and the crowd obeyed, falling into silence.

Henry stopped, turned slightly toward the balcony, and clenched his right fist, bringing it across his chest in the formal salute of the Valemont Knights.

Roderick nodded once in acknowledgment.

Henry lowered his arm and stepped back, settling into position with ease. His gaze flicked briefly toward the opposite entrance, not searching, not concerned, but waiting. He was confident, certain, and as far as he was concerned, the trial had already been decided.

The only question left was how long it would take.
 

Roderick did not linger.

With the crowd already settled and Henry standing at ease in the arena’s center, he turned and raised his voice once more.

“The challenger of the Trial of Redemption,” he announced evenly, “Kain Valemont.”

The words echoed across the training grounds, but nothing happened.

Seconds passed, then more. Eyes shifted toward the entrance reserved for the challenger. The door remained closed, unmoving, as the silence stretched thin. A minute slipped by, and with it came whispers.

“Did he run?”

“Figures...trash will always be trash.”

“If he couldn’t even show up, why announce the trial at all?”

“Henry must’ve scared him out of his wits.”
 

“Pathetic...probably halfway out the Keep already”

“Damn, I bet money on him.”

Soft laughter rippled through the crowd, not loud enough to be openly disrespectful, but sharp enough to cut. A few knights shook their heads, already convinced they were witnessing the expected conclusion.

Above them, Eira’s fingers tightened against the armrest of her seat. She had not realized she was holding her breath until her chest began to ache, but Sophia noticed immediately.

“He’ll come,” she said calmly, her voice low but firm.

Eira turned to her, startled, then let out a slow breath. She nodded once, embarrassed by her own reaction. Sophia’s gaze never left the arena.

Gerald glanced briefly in Eira’s direction before returning his attention to the closed door below. His expression remained unreadable.

Another minute passed.

Roderick inhaled and stepped forward.

“If Young Master Kain does not appear within the next three minutes,” he began, “he will forfeit his right to the trial, and Henry Felward will be named vic—”

Footsteps echoed, steady, unhurried before it reach the door. The words died in Roderick’s throat as the heavy doors swung open. A hush fell so sudden it felt as though the air itself had frozen.

White hair caught the light first, followed by lavender eyes that reflected neither panic nor hesitation. Kain Valemont stepped through the doorway and into the arena.

He wore no armor, but instead, a light white tunic rested loosely against his frame, its collar open at the chest, revealing the toned lines beneath. Brown trousers and worn boots completed the simple attire, unadorned, practical, and utterly out of place in a formal duel meant to determine fate. And yet, as he walked forward, the crowd could not deny what their eyes told them.

He had changed. The loose sleeves of his tunic shifted with each step, exposing forearms honed by relentless training, muscle defined not by excess bulk but by discipline and repetition. The fabric moved with him rather than against him, and when the northern wind swept across the arena, it stirred his hair and tugged lightly at his clothes, framing an elegant, striking face that drew more attention than he seemed to notice.

Whispers stilled.

Some women in the crowd watched openly now, eyes lingering despite themselves. No matter what he had been, no matter the rumors, the disgrace, the name he had earned. None could deny that Kain Valemont was handsome. Almost unfairly so. Handsome enough that fleeting thoughts of forgiveness surfaced unbidden, only to be pushed away just as quickly.

Kain walked to the center of the arena and stopped. He did not look to the crowd nor at Henry first. Instead, he raised his gaze to the balcony above, meeting the eyes of Duke Gerald Valemont without flinching. His posture was straight, his expression calm.

The crowd waited and for the first time since the trial had been announced, uncertainty crept into a place where certainty had ruled only moments before.