Chapter 196: The Crown Trial (2)

Ashmoor had turned the approach to the Arena into a market.

Food stalls occupied every open stretch beneath the buildings. Merchants displayed discounted potion bundles, commemorative badges, and equipment that apparently became better value when purchased before a famous event.

Above the street, projections showed previous Trials. A swordswoman knocked an opponent from a platform, a shield bearer endured a burst of lightning, and two men struggled over a small object while the crowd beneath the display argued about whether the first had cheated.

Astrid leaned toward the carriage window., her green eyes following the crowds gathering beneath the projections. “I didn’t expect this many people so early. The opening ceremony isn’t supposed to begin for another hour.”

“People love arriving early when there’s a chance someone else might embarrass themselves. They need good seats for that sort of thing.”

Astrid gave her an amused glance. “You make it sound as though the entire city came here hoping somebody would fall over.”

Misha watched a group of spectators. “Someone could perform the most impressive sword technique in history, and half the audience would still remember the poor bastard who tripped during the entrance.”

Astrid laugh, though the sound was brief. Her attention soon returned to the enormous projection hovering above the venue.

“I watched some lf the matches when I was younger.”

Misha glanced at her. “You followed the Trial?”

“Not closely. My mother thought it was useful to study different fighting styles, but she didn’t particularly enjoy the parts where everyone started arguing about rankings. She said the people who shouted the loudest usually understood the least.”

Misha considered that. She liked Elara a little more when Astrid mentioned her this way.

“Did she ever compete?”

Astrid shook her head. “No. She said there were easier ways to make people underestimate her.”

“That sounds even more reasonable.”

Astrid’s smile lingered for a moment before her attention returned to the passing streets. Her hands rested together in her lap, fingers loosely interlaced, but Misha noticed how often her thumb rubbed across one knuckle.

The girl was nervous.

Astrid had spent the last few days preparing with the grim concentration of somebody who had given a practical shape to longing. She had probably thought of the necklace more than anyone else.

The necklace was waiting in the prize collection. That thought had followed both of them into the carriage, though neither had invited it into the conversation.

Traffic slowed near the concourse. Pedestrians moved between carriages while city attendants tried to keep a narrow lane open for registered contenders.

Their carriage was stopped twice. At the second barrier, the driver presented the Faust household seal, and the guard waved them through without opening the door.

A seal had accomplished more in three seconds than her registration forms probably would have managed in ten minutes. Misha understood that well enough now.

The Tower had allowed people to improve their bodies and summon impossible forces, yet some of the most effective abilities still belonged to stamps, signatures, and the right family name.

They passed a gathering beneath a white banner. People in matching coats handed out cups of water and tied ribbons around the wrists of spectators.

Farther along, guild representatives occupied raised booths facing the street. Names and recruitment requirements displayed on enormous floating panels with small printed notices for those who wanted to take the promises home.

Misha looked away before she could begin comparing them with the letters waiting at the residence. There was nothing foolish about wanting those things. She had needed every one of them at some point. Caleb had already spoiled her with enough rewards and she knew that wasn’t the end of it.

The Arena appeared beyond the next bend, its broad outer walls rising above a sea of heads. Transit platforms had been redirected toward temporary stations, and the towers around it carried enormous floating emblems shaped like a crown.

The carriage stopped at the contenders’ entrance.

Astrid stepped down first, then followed by Misha.

Near the barrier, two attendants were arguing over a ledger. One pointed toward a queue, the other pointed toward a doorway with nobody entering it. A third attendant solved the dispute by moving the sign. The queue immediately began flowing toward the previously empty door.

Inside, the air was cooler. The noise from outside softened beneath a high ceiling, though the contender hall supplied plenty of its own.

Ninety-six people had been accepted into the opening round. Misha had read the number several times, but seeing so many competitors gathered made it feel larger.

Some were young enough that she wondered who had signed their forms. Others carried scars, old injuries, or the weary patience of people who had already spent too much of their lives fighting.

Guild members stood in loose groups, their coats and badges making them easy to recognize. Independent entrants occupied the spaces left between them, watching the counters and occasionally checking one another with expressions ranging from curiosity to open resentment.

Several people looked toward Misha when she entered. More followed once they noticed her mask, and she ignored them.

An attendant examined their registration copies. Once done, they were directed toward a waiting area near the arena tunnel.

Misha took one of the remaining seats. Around her, conversations rose and fell in fragments.

The first procession group was called.

Doors opened at the end of the tunnel, and the distant roar of the audience surged into the hall with enough force that several contenders straightened instinctively. Some adjusted their coats, while others checked their hair.

Thousands of people were waiting outside. Thousands

「Fear and panic suppressed.」

Astrid rose when their procession group was called. Misha followed. They moved into the tunnel, where the walls carried plaques listing previous winners. Some names appeared more than once. Others had a small symbol of a flame beside them that Misha did not recognize.

Astrid noticed her looking. “Those are memorial marks.”

Misha’s steps slowed. “They died during the Trials?”

“Afterward. While climbing.”

She looked at the names again. The organizers had kept the winners on the wall and recorded the rest in smaller symbols.

That was probably respectful. It still made her uncomfortable.

She resumed walking. The sunlight grew brighter, and the Stadium opened around them, enormous and bright, with tiered stands crowded nearly to the top. Music carried from somewhere above the entrance, and a projected list of contenders followed the procession across the sand.

Astrid walked beside her, posture composed despite the tension visible in her shoulders. Her gaze moved briefly across the stands before returning to the procession ahead, and Misha envied how naturally she seemed to carry herself.

Then the projection changed. A name appeared above the Arena.

| GRAVEKEEPER | INDEPENDENT |

The crowd grew louder.

Misha heard her Tower Name shouted from somewhere in the lower stands, followed by several voices calling from different directions.

She kept walking, maintaining a calm facade despite the nervous sweat gathering in her palms. Thousands were watching. She resisted the urge to look around, keeping her gaze forward while she tried to remember how ordinary walking worked.

‘Just keep walking, Misha. They’re just monkeys. Ordinary, harmless monkeys. Think of them as monkeys. A very large gathering of monkeys.’

Unfortunately, her feet seemed determined to make a fool out of her.

The trouble began with a shallow ridge in the Stadium floor. It was barely noticeable, a narrow change in the stone where the tunnel’s polished surface met the sand-covered procession path. Misha had been too busy pretending she was not aware of the audience to pay attention to something as embarrassingly mundane as the ground beneath her boots.

For one horrifying second, Misha pitched forward, her arms moving instinctively to regain her balance. She managed to stop herself before her knees hit the ground, but the sudden movement had been far too obvious.

‘OH SHIT.’

Her heart nearly climbed into her throat. She could already imagine the projecting replaying the moment.

Gravekeeper, independent contender, survivor of multiple Floors, defeated by uneven flooring.

Absolutely not. She refused.

Without allowing herself another second to panic, she straightened one leg, swept her cloak dramatically over her shoulder, and struck a pose with one hand resting on her hip.

‘There. Perfectly intentional.’

She held the position for a few seconds, staring confidently toward the distant stands as though she had planned the entire thing.

For one terrible moment, the audience seemed uncertain how to react.

Then someone cheered, and another voice joined. Within seconds, the noise swelled into a fresh wave of applause.

“Gravekeeper!!”

“Gravekeeper!”

Misha nearly died on the spot. Not literally.

‘Yes. That’s right. Admire the pose. Nothing happened.’

Her cheeks were burning beneath the mask.

Thank goodness she was wearing one.

After what she considered a respectable amount of time, Misha lowered her hand and resumed walking with as much dignity as she could salvage.