🔹Act 3🔹

▪️ Kaelis' Pov▪️

I could not sleep all through the night I had spent here— I had spent it staring at the empty walls that surrounded me.

I was moved into a chamber that was bare— the walls were cold and damp. A cot stood in the corner and the mattress had a hole in the middle.

The blanket was rough and itchy against my skin and a small hole— wouldn’t be caught dead calling it a window. It wasn’t for ventilation… that was for sure.

The room had no table or chair or anything that would have served as comfort.

This was what they called a room for me but it felt not so different from the prison I had woken up in.

I sucked my teeth when the thought of the king saying this was how they treated their guest rushed into me.

“Guest, my ass,” I murmured, barely audible.

I pressed my hand against my chest, trying to calm the wild thudding of my heart. I told myself to breathe slow, to stay calm, but it did not help as my body got tensed and restless, my hands shaking when I brought them together.

At sunrise, a noise broke the silence as the clashing of metal against metal, sharp enough to make me flinch. I turned my head just in time to see a tray shoved through the gap at the bottom of the door. The food clattered as it scraped across the s floor. The sound echoed in the bare chamber, louder than it should have been.

“Eat, Ashfang spy,” a guard spat, his voice thick with disgust. He made the word spy sound like filth, like it was something rotten in his mouth.

The door slammed shut again with a force that made the walls to quake and the lock scraped into place. The footsteps faded, leaving me alone again with the tray of food and the silence.

The smell of the food overwhelmed my senses— salty and sour. My hands shook when I reached for it, I wanted to throw it back at the door, scream that I wasn’t who they thought I was but the hunger clawing inside me won.

I pulled the tray closer, eating with slow bites, each swallow burning down my throat.

I had been called Ashfang… the word sounded familiar but I still couldn’t place it.

Was it a place?

Was it mine?

The questions circled my thoughts until my head hurt.

When dawn came, I had not closed my eyes once.

The door slammed open. Two soldiers stepped inside, silver chains hanging at their belts. Their eyes gleamed with open hate.

“On your feet,” one barked.

I rose, legs stiff and my body aching. They flanked me and marched me like a cow to the slaughter through narrow halls until the air grew heavier. I could already hear voices ahead, low growls of anticipation.

At the center of the hall, a circle had been drawn with silver dust. Its edges glimmered in the light.

The man on the throne sat waiting, his golden gaze fixed on me from the moment I entered. He didn’t waste time with questions as his voice rolled through the hall, calm but sharp.

“You stand here not to speak,” he said, “but to prove. Words are nothing and the truth is what matters.”

I swallowed hard, my throat dry. My stomach twisted with the fear and anticipation curling inside me like a living thing.

He gestured, and the silver dust flared in the light. “This is the Trial of Truth. Only one who is sincere will leave this circle alive. Those who lie… will die. Choose your actions wisely, Kaelis Dreadmoor. The people of Silvermaw will watch and they will cheer your fall if you fail. They will honor your strength if you survive.”

A voice in the crowd hissed, sharp, cruel: “Burn the spy! Burn her alive!”

My throat tightened as the sound swallowed me. I felt small, trapped, their hatred pressing in from every side.

The man on the throne raised his hand and the chamber fell silent, his eyes stayed locked on me.

“If you are sincere, you will survive,” he said. “If not, your body will break before us. Either way, the truth will be known.”

The hall erupted in cheers. I could taste their desire for my death in the air.

I wanted to speak. To tell him again I didn’t remember, that I wasn’t lying but his gaze told me it no longer mattered— the time for words was gone.

From the far side of the circle, a heavy figure was dragged into the middle. Another prisoner. Broad, tall, muscles tensed like coiled steel. He sneered, showing teeth white against his scarred face.

My stomach flipped.

The king stepped back, his hands folding behind his back. “Begin.”

The guards shoved me forward into the center of the arena. My legs trembled, my arms ached, my breathing came in shallow gasps. Sweat dripped down my skin despite the cold as I I lifted my fists instinctively, feeling the familiar weight of my body against gravity, the instinct to defend myself rising.

The man lifted his sword and advanced. The first strike came fast, slicing through the air where I had been standing a few seconds before. I twisted, narrowly avoiding it, and causing me to stumble, catching myself just in time.

He swung again, slower this time, calculating. I blocked instinctively, pushing with all my strength. The force knocked me back two steps.

“You are fast,” he growled, wiping blood from his mouth. “But not fast enough.”

My chest burned, ribs screaming, but I rolled forward, using momentum to pivot behind him.

My mind flared with surprise… I… I knew where to move before he struck. How? My thoughts were blank, but my body moved like it remembered every battle I had never consciously learned.

He turned, raised his sword, and struck again. I ducked, my knees scraping the floor, twisting low to strike at his legs. He staggered slightly, but he was fast way too fast.

Pain exploded in my shoulder as he backhanded me. I stumbled backward, tasting blood. My vision blurred, sweat and blood dripping into my eyes. I wanted to scream, to give up, to collapse—but something inside me refused.

I ducked another strike, moved and grabbed the hilt of his sword as it passed, twisting with all my strength. He roared behind his helm, and for a moment, his balance faltered. I drove him back, forcing him to step aside.

“How am I doing this?” My chest heaved, each breath burning.

Another swing. I ducked low, and struck. His sword clanged against the stone, sparks flying. My muscles screamed, my body trembling, but I kept moving, dodging, striking, pushing him to his limits.

The crowd roared. Some cheered, some jeered, others whispered among themselves. I didn’t hear them— all I could hear was the pounding of my heart and the sound of my own breaths ripping through my chest.

I twisted again, narrowly avoiding a blow to my head. Pain flared down my side as he kicked, sending me stumbling.

My knees bled and my vision blurred— I gasped, tasting blood in my mouth.

I pushed forward, kicked, twisted and rolled again. Each strike I made, each block, each dodge was precise, instinctive. My mind raced, heart hammering, chest heaving, and yet part of me was calm.

My body knew.

My body moved before I thought about it.

His armor left a gap at the side— finally an opening. I struck, knocking him to the ground.

He hit hard, the breath forced from his lungs, but I did not bring my blade down to finish him. My chest heaved, sweat and blood dripping from my hair and arms. I looked down at him as he struggled beneath me, eyes wide, breathing hard.

I stepped back, shaking and exhausted. My muscles screamed, every joint aching, but I had held back. I would not be the killer they expected.

The crowd gasped, murmuring in disbelief. Shock rippled through the hall; the murmurs became whispers of awe and anger.

The man stepped forward from the throne, his expression unreadable, cold and calculating.

“You survived,” he said finally. His voice echoed in the hall, carrying weight. “Few do. That makes you… dangerous.”

I staggered slightly, knees trembling, and my eyes found the hooded figure again. His gaze met mine across the hall. Lips moving silently. One word formed in my mind, striking deep:

Mate.