When the preliminaries ended, the mood in the stands changed. People leaned toward one another, voices breaking out in sharp fragments as attention shifted to what was coming next.

  “…the barracks kids are next…”

  “Not just them. There’s gonna be exhibition matches. Some of the top squires…”

  “…might even be a joust.”

  Interest sharpened. Spectators rose and flowed up through the tiers in loose streams, voices trailing behind them as they headed for the barracks grounds.

  Part of me wanted to follow. I wanted to see the barracks kids fight, to measure what they were capable of. The thought of the squires clashing steel in a formal bout pulled at me.

  But I had something else waiting.

  With most of them drawn toward the barracks, I could slip back to the cottage without drawing attention.

  Or so I thought.

  A handful broke away and angled toward me instead. Curious faces. Eager eyes. Questions came before they were even close.

  “What blessing are you using, Butcher?”

  “Was that purple stuff a rune item?”

  “Where’d you get that dagger?”

  I lifted a hand in a short wave. “Sorry. I’ve got to run. Thanks for the support.” I kept my tone even and stepped past them.

  They stayed with me.

  Bootsteps crowded in at my sides as more questions followed.

  “Just one thing—”

  “Was it really—”

  I veered toward a cluster of assistants hauling crates from the lower tiers. They moved in a tight formation, shoulders squared, arms full. I slipped between them without breaking stride, forcing the others to hesitate or risk colliding.

  “Careful,” one of the assistants muttered as I passed.

  “Apologies,” I said, already through.

  The crowd behind me stalled. There wasn’t enough space to force their way after me without turning it into a scene.

  An idea surfaced.

  I turned just enough to call back, “Sorry. I need to check on the injured.”

  Concern flickered across a few faces. That was enough.

  I jogged toward the medical tent and kept moving until I reached the far side. Instead of stepping inside, I cut around the back, where the canvas cast a long band of shade and the foot traffic thinned to nothing.

  Once I was clear of sight, I drew a breath and triggered the vanishing rune.

  A grin tugged at my mouth. Useful did not even begin to cover it.

  I slipped away from the amphitheatre at a brisk pace, weaving past my new fans and through the outer streets as the noise of the arena faded behind me.

  That was when I heard it.

  “…the one who dropped five of them.”

  “They’re calling him the Butcher.”

  My stomach tightened.

  The story had already spread. Of course it had. Thousands had watched. All it took was a few loud voices and the rest would carry it the rest of the way.

  I kept moving, invisible, shoulders angled as I slipped past knots of people and sidestepped carts and guards without drawing a second glance.

  Then I saw it.

  A flash of red hair through the crowd.

  The girl.

  I found myself trailing her without meaning to.

  She moved through the crowd with the same cold efficiency as she cut through the aspirants.

  I kept my distance and watched.

  She never drew her sword during the match, but I had already seen it up close. I knew what kind of blade it was. And I had a strong suspicion where it had come from.

  Where was someone like that going after a run like today?

  She glanced over her shoulder more than once. Not nervous. A habit. Checking angles. Checking faces.

  Then she slipped through a dusty, narrow door set between two older buildings, the kind most people would pass without a second look. The door shut behind her with a dull thud.

  I slowed.

  I wanted to follow, but a door swinging open on its own would draw far more attention than I wanted. Invisible or not, that sort of thing stuck in people’s memories.

  That was far enough.

  I turned to leave.

  I was about to slip away when another figure emerged through the shifting crowd. She moved purposefully, though she wore a plain cloak meant to blend in. But I caught a glimpse of her face, and recognition hit me like a knife to the gut. It was the woman who had attacked me the first time I entered the city. Without hesitation, she followed the red-haired girl into the narrow door.

  My pulse quickened.

  A passerby nearly walked straight into me. I stepped aside at the last second, jaw tightening as the pieces fell into place.

  I exhaled slowly.

  Then I changed direction.

  Against my better judgement, I was following.

  I reached the door, pulled it open, and slipped inside.

  A cramped storage room greeted me. Crates stacked along the walls. Old shelves sagging under dust. The air smelled stale and undisturbed.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  I shut the door quietly behind me and scanned the space. No voices. No footsteps. No second exit in plain sight.

  A hidden entrance.

  I ran my hand along the walls, pressed against the shelving, checked the seams in the floor and corners where a latch might sit. Dust coated my fingers. Nothing shifted. Nothing clicked.

  Minutes passed.

  Still nothing.

  A low hum came from Lumi.

  I exhaled through my nose and let my hand drop.

  “Yeah. This is a waste of time,” I spoke in my mind.

  Whoever used that door knew what they were doing. No obvious mechanism. No careless traces left behind.

  I left the room and stepped back into the street, still invisible, moving unnoticed through the crowd. No one spared a glance. When I reached the outer gate, the guard post was quiet, the soldiers distracted, chatting among themselves.

  I slipped past without a hitch. From there, I took the road toward the cottage. A little over an hour later, I reached the familiar path. Sweat clung lightly to my skin, but my breath was steady.

  The cottage came into view. Quiet. Still.

  I stepped inside and released the vanishing rune.

  “Doyle?” I called.

  Silence answered me.

  I frowned slightly.

  Still?

  I headed downstairs, my steps slowing as the runes along the walls began to glow.

  They responded as I passed.

  Not in the wild flare I had seen with Amelia, when the stones lit up like a star-filled sky. Not like Rob either, where the light had flickered and shifted as if unsure how to settle.

  For the first time the glow stayed even. Steady.

  Balanced.

  Lumi gave a quiet hum at my hip as the training room door turned and I felt the old air greet me.

  The Roman door stood ahead, pale against the stone, its carved figures catching the light.

  Doyle stood there with a bucket at his feet and a rag in hand, working the stone with slow, careful motions.

  He looked like he had been there for some time.

  “Doyle?”

  He paused, set the rag aside, and turned toward me with a small, knowing smile.

  “Welcome home, young master.”

  He stepped aside.

  The first time I had stood here in the training room, he told me he did not know what the door was. Said it had not opened in his time.

  In that moment, I did not know what to believe.

  “I believe you are ready.” He bowed his head once.

  I held his gaze, then nodded.

  Lumi slid free with a low hum. I stepped up to the door, letting my gaze travel over the Roman carvings cut into the wall that framed it.

  The details stood sharper now that the dust and dirt was gone.

  Figures layered over one another. Warriors. Cloaked forms. Symbols carved deep into the stone as if meant to endure longer than memory itself.

  Then something caught my eye.

  Something I had not noticed before.

  Near the centre of the carving stood a tall figure. The folds of a toga hung from his frame, the colour long faded. But it was not the garment that held my attention.

  It was his face.

  He had two.

  “Before you open it,” Doyle said quietly.

  I glanced back.

  “Your ring. And the rune pouch.”

  My hand hovered near my belt. “Why?”

  “They will not serve you beyond that threshold.”

  The words settled between us.

  I drew the ring from my finger and loosened the pouch from my side. The weight of both felt familiar in my palm.

  I stepped back and placed them into Doyle’s waiting hands.

  He bowed his head once and closed his fingers around them.

  I paused for a breath, then raised Lumi and guided its tip toward the keyhole. The metal slid in, exact and sure.

  Lumi gave a low hum as I turned the blade.

  From deep within, something shifted. Stone scraped against stone. A crack echoed through the chamber as the door shuddered and then swung inward.

  I withdrew the blade and stepped through.

  The shift hit immediately. That same ripple I had felt at the gates. My chest tightened. The world seemed to lift me up and place me somewhere else entirely.

  Lumi hummed quietly at my side. But something felt off. There was no familiar tingle along my arm, no subtle strength filling my muscles. The quiet support I’d come to rely on was absent.

  I frowned. Raising the blade, I tilted it toward the faint light from behind me.

  The steel was pristine… too pristine.

  The runes were gone.

  Not dimmed. Not faint. Simply gone.

  My grip tightened. I stepped back into the training hall and extended the blade across the threshold. The moment the steel entered, the runes flared back to life. Strength flowed into my limbs. The world snapped into focus.

  I drew it back into the chamber. The light faded. The runes vanished as if they had never been there.

  Lumi let out a low, uneasy hum.

  I slid the blade into its scabbard. This time, it would not carry me.

  “Those runes are tied to the elemental forces of the spirit realm,” Doyle said from the doorway, eyes lingering on the blade. “You’ll have to succeed without them.”

  I met his gaze. “You’re not coming?”

  He shook his head. “This isn’t my journey. I guard the door. You hold the key.”

  I turned back to the chamber. The floor stretched ahead, smooth and vanishing into shadow.

  “Young master,” Doyle’s voice was soft.

  I turned. He extended a torch toward me.

  “Take this.”

  I accepted it, warmth settling into my palm. I stepped through the doorway and paused.

  He met my eyes, calm and resolute.

  “You passed the first test. You will pass whatever waits here too.”

  I searched his face. It held steady. No hesitation. No doubt.

  I gave a small nod and faced the vast chamber.

  “Good luck, aspirant,” he said.

  I took a few steps forward. Behind me, the door rumbled shut, its weight echoing across the distant walls. The faint light from the training room vanished.

  Silence settled. I glanced down. The floor stretched out in a flawless plane, almost unnaturally perfect. I dragged my boot across it and lowered the torch. Dust scraped aside in a thin line, revealing pure white marble beneath.

  “Woah,” I murmured.

  The stone caught the torchlight. It looked expensive, ancient, untouched. Only a thin film of dust lay on top, undisturbed for decades, maybe longer.

  No footprints. No sign of anyone passing through.

  This was not a place people came.

  I walked further into the chamber, scanning the walls, the columns, and the empty marble expanses, searching for any mark that could explain this place.

  Lumi hummed softly at my side.

  I glanced at the blade.

  “Do you know where we are?” I asked.

  Lumi gave no reply. Instead, a faint flicker stirred at the edge of my mind.

  Not an answer.

  Images.

  Fragments of something older. Vast halls. White stone. Movement across long corridors that felt both familiar and distant. The sense of purpose clung to them, but the details refused to settle.

  I reached for it, but the memory slipped just out of reach, like a name I should have known but could not quite grasp.

  I kept walking.

  The corridor stretched on until the emptiness finally broke.

  Ahead, the marble gave way to a vast round inner wall set into the hall itself, as if it had been carved as a focal point.

  An archway over green double doors stood at its centre.

  Above it, etched deep into the stone and worn smooth by time, were two lines of text.

  DOMVS · TRANSITVS

  I slowed, staring up at the letters. The carving remained sharp despite its age, the grooves darkened by centuries of still air.

  I frowned, the words unfamiliar.

  I stepped up to the arch.

  Two towering doors stood beneath the inscription; their surfaces washed in a deep green that caught the torchlight in muted glints.

  At the centre of each door hung a thick bronze ring. No ornament. No carving. Just weight.

  I wrapped my fingers around one and pulled.

  The hinges groaned as the door gave way.

  Moonlight poured down from above. It struck white stone and scattered across the chamber, bright and clean.

  No dust lingered here. No cracks. No wear. The marble looked untouched, as if time had chosen to pass this place by.

  Recognition hit me a heartbeat later.

  Not from sight. From memory. Red daggers, shouting voices.

  A slaughter.

  This was where the immortal had stood trial.

  The chamber opened into a perfect circle. Tiered marble steps climbed outward in smooth, measured arcs. At the centre stood a statue nearly eight feet tall, carved from pale stone and fitted with sculpted bronze armour that caught the light.

  Across its shoulder, letters were cut deep into the marble.

  MCXI.

  I stared at them. The number stirred something. I had seen it before. I tried to place it, but the memory slipped away.

  My attention shifted to its hands.

  The statue held its arms straight out, as if offering judgment. Stone fingers gripped a sword in one hand and a shield in the other. Each bore an inscription, the lines worn by centuries yet still clean enough to read if I stepped closer.

  I recognised them. I had seen drawings in the books.

  The blade was a spatha. Long. Straight. Built for reach.

  The words along the grip caught my eye.

  MARTI INVICTO

  I closed my hand around the hilt.

  Warmth ran up my arm.

  Not heat. Not magic. Something steadier. My shoulders settled. My grip felt sure, as if the weapon already knew the weight of my hand. The air around me seemed lighter. I rolled the blade once and the balance felt perfect. Unyielding.

  I looked to the shield.

  Round. Bronze-edged. Elder wood beneath its facing. A Roman clipeus. The inside bore its own inscription.

  MINERVAE SACRVM

  I slid my arm through the straps and lifted it.

  The weight grounded me. My breath deepened. The tightness in my chest eased. The marble hall no longer felt vast. It felt measurable. My stance shifted without thought, shield angled, body steady behind it.

  I faced the statue.

  “So,” I said, voice level, “I guess this is the second test.”

  The statue opened its eyes.