House of Blood

The trail through Sector B narrowed as it climbed the rocky incline toward the northern ridge.

Giant ferns gave way to artificial pine trees, their branches shedding dry, brown needles across the stone path. The air grew cooler with elevation, carrying the sharp scent of pine sap and the metallic tang of iron dust from the automated environmental regulators concealed among the glass rafters overhead.

Cell One maintained a steady pace.

Castor led the formation, his war-mattock balanced across his shoulders. Casper guarded the right flank, his eyes searching the thickets for tripwires, concealed mechanisms, or sensor snares. Lyra walked near the center, her focus staff emitting rhythmic pulses of blue mana that illuminated the ground several yards ahead.

Solene followed behind Castor, one hand resting near the hilt of her narrow rapier. Her blue eyes remained fixed on the rocky cliff rising steeply to their left.

Valen brought up the rear.

His dark wool coat was buttoned to the collar, and the thick black linen blindfold concealed his upper face. Beneath his left sleeve, the dark-mithril suppressor guard rested against his forearm, producing a faint, continuous mechanical hum.

His leather equipment binder remained tucked beneath his arm.

”Checkpoint Seven is located fifty yards beyond the ridge summit,” Solene announced without breaking stride. ”The map indicates an open stone pavilion surrounded by defensive trenches.”

”The trenches were excavated by the trial committee three days ago,” Valen replied. ”They are four feet deep and filled with non-toxic blue marking paint designed to stain cadet uniforms upon contact.”

Casper glanced over his shoulder.

”Paint traps? The committee is getting creative this semester.”

”Contact with the marking paint registers an immediate disqualification on the proctor’s central scoreboard,” Lyra explained. ”We need to avoid the trench perimeters.”

”The approach has a single safe crossing consisting of three wooden planks,” Valen continued. ”They rest on stone brackets along the western bank. However, the right bracket has shifted approximately two millimeters.”

Solene slowed.

”Structural displacement? Was it sabotaged?”

”No. The displacement was caused by a heavy unit crossing the bridge approximately twenty minutes ago. The load shifted the right bracket away from its concrete anchor. If someone steps on the right side of the planks, the wood will pivot downward into the paint trench.”

Castor stopped at the summit.

”Can we cross safely?”

”Step exclusively along the left wooden stringer. The left bracket remains anchored in solid bedrock.”

Castor grunted.

”Simple enough.”

They reached the summit.

Below them stood the open stone pavilion of Checkpoint Seven. A red-and-gold faction banner fluttered from a ten-foot iron pole in the center of the courtyard. A four-foot-wide trench surrounded the pavilion, filled with bright blue liquid paint that reflected the pale light filtering through the greenhouse dome.

On the western side, three wooden planks formed a narrow bridge across the hazardous perimeter.

Castor crossed first.

He placed his heavy boots precisely along the left stringer, distributing his weight with surprising care. The planks creaked beneath him, but the anchored bracket held. He stepped onto the stone courtyard without incident.

Casper followed, matching Castor’s foot placement. Lyra came next, then Solene.

Valen crossed last.

His scuffed leather boots landed on the outer edge of the left plank. The wood flexed beneath his weight, shifting by barely a millimeter before settling against the bracket.

He stepped onto the stone tiles and adjusted the leather binder beneath his arm.

”Pavilion secure,” Castor reported, resting his war-mattock against the stone wall.

Solene opened her mouth to issue the command to raise their banner.

A sharp mechanical whistle cut through the air behind them.

Four smoke spheres shot from the upper branches of the artificial pines.

They landed in a tight square around the center of the pavilion.

FZZZZT.

BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

The spheres detonated simultaneously.

Thick, purple-tinted smoke erupted across the courtyard, swallowing the pavilion in seconds. The cloud carried the acrid smell of sulfur and dried herbs, followed by a sharp chemical sting that irritated the eyes and throat.

Visibility dropped to almost nothing.

”Alchemical smoke dispersal!” Lyra coughed, raising her focus staff. Blue mana expanded around her face, clearing a small pocket of breathable air. ”Pepper extract! It’s designed to induce coughing!”

”Hold your positions!” Solene commanded.

Her rapier slid several inches from its scabbard.

”Stay on the stone tiles. The paint trench surrounds the perimeter. Anyone who loses their footing is out.”

Boots pounded against the flagstones from the eastern side of the pavilion.

”Alchemical Scholar Cell!” Casper shouted, bringing his twin arming swords into a defensive cross guard. ”They’re using the smoke to blind us before forcing us into the trench!”

Three figures emerged from the haze.

They wore the dark-grey tunics and leather goggles associated with the Alchemical Scholar faction. Each carried a long wooden pole fitted with a padded crossbar, the sort of equipment designed to knock opponents off balance without causing serious injury.

Their formation was deliberate.

One approached Solene from the front. Another moved toward Castor, while the third slipped around the others and headed directly for Valen.

The lead attacker lunged at Solene.

His padded crossbar drove toward her chest, intended to force her backward into the blue paint.

Solene moved before the pole reached her.

She lowered her center of gravity, pivoted to the left, and struck the wooden crossbar with the flat of her rapier. The impact redirected the pole past her shoulder.

Her boot followed a moment later, striking the cadet’s knee.

He stumbled sideways and crashed onto the stone tiles.

Castor met the second attacker head-on.

Rather than swing his war-mattock in the confined space, he caught the incoming pole with his bare left hand. His fingers closed around the wood.

The cadet tried to pull away.

Castor simply tore the pole from his grip.

The attacker stared at his empty hands.

Castor shoved him backward with his free hand, sending him sprawling across the flagstones.

The third cadet had already bypassed Casper.

He charged through the swirling smoke toward Valen.

”Blind clerk!” he shouted. ”Fall into the paint!”

The padded crossbar thrust toward Valen’s midsection.

Valen did not move his feet.

His right hand rose at the last possible moment. Gloved fingers closed around the wooden shaft, stopping its forward motion with a sudden, absolute halt.

The cadet’s arms jerked from the abrupt resistance.

He pulled backward with both hands.

The pole refused to move.

For a moment, the two remained locked in place, one straining with all his strength, the other standing motionless beneath a black linen blindfold.

Then Valen stepped forward.

He drew the pole toward himself with a short, controlled pull.

The cadet’s balance broke. His upper body lurched forward, his boots scraping against the stone.

Valen released the shaft.

His leather equipment binder swung up and struck the side of the cadet’s helmet.

CLANG.

The blow was sharp and economical.

The cadet’s eyes rolled backward. His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the flagstones without another sound.

Valen caught his binder before it slipped from his grasp.

He adjusted its strap beneath his arm.

The entire exchange had taken less than three seconds.

As the smoke began to thin, the remaining alchemical cadets turned toward their unconscious teammate.

Then they looked at Valen.

He stood exactly where he had been, apparently more concerned with the alignment of his equipment binder than the fight he had just ended.

Casper let out a low whistle.

”Remind me never to borrow that binder.”

”It is an administrative tool,” Valen replied.

”Apparently a lethal one.”

”His helmet absorbed most of the impact.”

”That isn’t reassuring.”

”Cell One secures Checkpoint Seven,” Solene announced.

A proctor drone descended from the rafters, its lens rotating as it recorded the defeated attackers and scanned the pavilion for unauthorized interference.

The remaining alchemical cadets lowered their poles.

One raised his hand in surrender.

The other followed.

Within moments, the automated ventilation system activated. Powerful air currents pulled the purple smoke toward the grates beneath the glass rafters, restoring visibility across the courtyard.

Lyra lowered her focus staff and took a careful breath.

”The pepper extract is dissipating. No injuries among our cell.”

”Good,” Solene said. ”Secure the checkpoint.”

While Castor and Casper watched the surrendered cadets, Solene approached the iron pole and pulled the halyard rope. Their red-and-gold faction banner rose steadily, snapping open in the artificial breeze.

Valen stood near the pavilion entrance.

”The attack was timed to coincide with our arrival,” he observed. ”Their deployment indicates advance knowledge of our route.”

Solene turned toward him.

”Someone gave them our coordinates?”

”The probability is ninety-eight percent.”

”Who has access to the inter-cell tracking manifests?”

”Administrative proctors and senior security personnel. The manifests contain projected routes, checkpoint assignments, and scheduled movements.”

Solene’s expression hardened.

”Gareth Vance.”

”Possible,” Valen replied. ”However, attributing the operation to a single individual before reviewing the records would be premature.”

Casper sheathed his twin swords.

”You think someone is using the student factions to keep us occupied?”

”That is consistent with the available evidence.”

Valen adjusted the binder beneath his arm.

”If the attacks are coordinated, their purpose may extend beyond preventing us from securing the checkpoints. Repeated engagements consume time, expose our formation, and encourage us to focus on the immediate competition rather than the larger security situation.”

Solene’s fingers tightened around the halyard rope.

”And the subterranean extraction networks?”

”Remain a concern until proven otherwise.”

For a moment, the princess said nothing.

Then she turned toward the northern trail.

”One checkpoint remains. We secure it before sunset, and afterward, we determine who has been manipulating the trial manifests.”

Casper grinned.

”Finally. Something straightforward.”

Valen tilted his head slightly.

”Your definition of straightforward appears unusually flexible.”

”That’s because you’ve never seen me lose a straightforward argument.”

”I have seen you lose three.”

”Those were administrative disputes.”

”They involved the same administrative regulations you just called straightforward.”

Castor laughed, the sound carrying through the pavilion.

Solene shook her head, though the tension in her shoulders eased slightly.

”Enough. Castor, take point. We move.”

---

An hour later, Cell One reached the lower valley of Sector B.

The terrain opened into a broad artificial basin dominated by a wide pond. Smooth gravel paths followed the shoreline, while carefully manicured willow trees drooped over the water. Beyond the pond, the glass walls of the greenhouse rose toward the distant rafters, their reinforced frames disappearing into the pale light overhead.

At the center of the pond stood a small stone island.

A red-and-gold banner fluttered from an iron mast at its center.

Checkpoint Nine.

A single wooden footbridge connected the mainland to the island.

Four members of the Noble faction’s elite combat cell stood at its entrance.

Their polished silver breastplates reflected the light. Crimson capes hung from their shoulders, and heavy broadswords rested across their backs or lay balanced in their hands.

Their leader stepped forward.

He was tall, with swept-back blond hair and the practiced expression of someone accustomed to having his decisions accepted without argument.

”Cell One,” he said smoothly. ”You’ve reached the final checkpoint. An impressive display for a squad dragging an unregistered, blindfolded clerk through the greenery.”

Solene stopped ten feet from the bridge.

Her blue eyes settled on him.

”Julian. Step aside. The checkpoint is contested under the trial regulations.”

Julian laughed softly.

”Contested? We do not contest checkpoints, Princess. We enforce faction hierarchy.”

The three cadets behind him drew their broadswords in unison.

The metallic scrape carried across the quiet pond.

”You will surrender your staging slate and forfeit the final banner,” Julian continued. ”Otherwise, we will remove you from the sector by force.”

Castor shifted his war-mattock from his shoulder to his hands.

”Try it.”

”Castor,” Solene warned.

He stopped, though his grip remained tight around the weapon’s haft.

Before Solene could issue another command, Valen raised his left hand.

Castor glanced at him.

Valen made a small downward motion.

Wait.

Then he stepped past Solene and walked toward the bridge.

His scuffed leather boots crunched against the gravel.

Julian’s expression changed from amusement to irritation.

”What does the blind clerk want? Do you intend to surrender on behalf of your cell, Scribe?”

Valen stopped three feet away.

He carried no visible weapon. His black linen blindfold remained firmly in place, and his expression gave nothing away.

”Your cell departed the northern staging pavilion at twelve-forty,” he said.

Julian frowned.

”What?”

”Your recorded march rate is approximately two miles per hour. Each member of your formation carries an additional forty pounds of steel plating beyond the standard trial equipment allowance.”

Julian’s smile faltered.

”Where are you going with this?”

”The bridge was constructed during the academy’s original expansion forty years ago. Its timber supports have not been replaced. Based on the visible deformation of the central beam and the sag in the suspension ropes, its current safe load is approximately one thousand pounds under static conditions.”

Casper leaned toward Lyra.

”He’s auditing the bridge.”

Lyra whispered back, ”I think he’s auditing the people standing on it.”

Julian tightened his grip on his broadsword.

”Enough of your administrative nonsense. Cut him down!”

None of his teammates moved immediately.

They were watching Valen now.

”Four cadets at approximately two hundred pounds each, including their ordinary equipment,” Valen continued. ”An additional forty pounds of armor per cadet raises the combined static load to nine hundred and sixty pounds.”

He took a small step forward.

”That leaves forty pounds of nominal capacity. Insufficient for a simultaneous charge, particularly when the load is concentrated on the center span.”

Julian’s face darkened.

”You’re bluffing.”

”That is possible.”

Valen raised his right foot.

”And yet, the structural weakness remains.”

He brought his heel down firmly against the gravel.

CRACK.

A sharp vibration travelled through the ground.

The sound was followed by a deeper groan from the bridge.

One of the central timber supports split along an existing fracture. The suspension ropes snapped taut, then broke in rapid succession as the weakened structure twisted beneath its own weight.

The bridge buckled.

For one brief instant, Julian and his three teammates stood frozen as the wooden planks dropped beneath them.

Then the entire crossing collapsed into the shallow pond.

SPLASH!

All four cadets plunged into the water.

Their heavy armor dragged them into the muddy shallows, where they flailed against submerged timber and thick pond reeds. One surfaced coughing, his crimson cape plastered across his face. Another tried to stand, only to slip on the muddy bottom and fall backward with an indignant shout.

Casper burst out laughing.

”The bridge! He broke the bridge with one footstep!”

”Not the entire bridge,” Lyra corrected, though a smile tugged at her mouth. ”The vibration probably aggravated an existing fracture in the central support. The load and the rope tension finished the collapse.”

She paused.

”Still, the timing was absurdly precise.”

Castor stared at Valen.

”You could have warned us you were going to do that.”

”You were not standing on the bridge.”

”That isn’t the point.”

”It is the most relevant point.”

Solene said nothing.

She watched Valen carefully.

She had seen him calculate bridge tolerances in archival offices, identify weaknesses in defensive formations, and anticipate the movements of opponents before they acted. His explanations were always calm, precise, and irritatingly reasonable.

But this was different.

He had identified a structural weakness, assessed the weight of four armored cadets, and delivered a precisely controlled impact that turned their own equipment into a liability.

The force involved should not have been possible from an ordinary stomp.

Yet Valen stood on the gravel as though he had merely closed a ledger.

Julian finally dragged himself toward the shore.

Mud coated his silver breastplate. Green algae clung to his crimson cape, and water streamed from his blond hair.

He pointed a shaking finger at Valen.

”You destroyed imperial academy property! I’ll have you expelled before sunset!”

Valen adjusted the strap of his equipment binder.

”Property damage incurred during an active trial is reviewed by the administrative office after the competition concludes.”

”You—”

”Your cell has also lost the ability to reach the checkpoint without external assistance.”

Julian’s mouth opened.

Valen tilted his head toward the pond.

”Given the circumstances, I recommend requesting retrieval assistance rather than attempting to cross the remaining distance in full armor.”

A mechanical buzz sounded overhead.

The proctor drone descended from the greenhouse rafters, its lens sweeping across the collapsed bridge and the four dripping cadets.

A red indicator flashed.

”Cell Four disqualified. Checkpoint Nine secured by Cell One.”

Julian stared at the drone.

”Disqualified? We haven’t even surrendered!”

”The trial committee has classified your cell as unable to complete the objective within the permitted conditions,” Valen replied. ”The decision can be appealed through the official review process.”

Casper wiped tears of laughter from the corners of his eyes.

”Please tell me you’re going to help him file the appeal.”

”I can provide the appropriate forms.”

”You’re a monster.”

”That description has no administrative standing.”

Solene finally moved.

She stepped past Julian, crossed the remaining stones near the water’s edge, and boarded the stone island using the narrow maintenance walkway built alongside the bridge supports. The structure remained intact, though its outer rail had been splintered by the falling timbers.

She reached the iron mast and pulled the halyard rope.

The final red-and-gold banner climbed toward the top.

The cloth unfurled against the pale dome, its colors bright against the artificial sky.

A moment later, the signal flare launched from the mast.

It rose above the island and burst into a brilliant shower of red sparks.

The Sector B First-Year Faction Trials had officially concluded.

The proctor drones throughout the valley sounded their completion chimes. Across the artificial forest, distant horns answered, announcing the end of the competition and the transition to the final scoring phase.

Castor rested his war-mattock against his shoulder.

”Three checkpoints secured. No one from our cell disqualified. No serious injuries.”

”An acceptable result,” Valen said.

Casper looked at him incredulously.

”Acceptable? We won.”

”We completed the assigned objectives within the expected time frame.”

”That is what winning means.”