A soldier emerged from one of the side passages, carrying a wooden box the size of a small crate. He moved with care, stepping up onto the central platform and placing it on a wide wooden table positioned at the heart of the raised stone circle.
All eyes turned to it.
The Commander led the procession forward, his steps steady, and Alric followed close behind. The other knights came after, forming a respectful semi-circle around the platform. When they ascended the two stone steps, the Commander paused before the box and bowed his head with reverence.
Then, slowly, he opened the lid.
Alric stepped forward enough to see over the edge—and what he saw surprised him.
Inside rested a large green cauldron, smooth and round, heavy-looking, with runic symbols etched around its lip. It remained where it sat in the box, unmoved, as though it were too sacred—or too dangerous—to be touched directly.
From the far archway, an old man in ceremonial grey robes entered, the same one who had accompanied the soldier. He took his place on the opposite side of the cauldron, eyes half-lidded, face calm and weathered.
He lifted his hands above the cauldron and began to speak.
His voice was low, melodic, in a language Alric did not understand—perhaps an ancient dialect of the Order. As the old man's voice deepened, his hands moved slowly in the air above the vessel.
Then the flame appeared.
It sparked from within the cauldron like a breath catching fire, rising gently until it became a steady blaze. The fire glowed an eerie, vibrant green—unnatural in color and perfectly still, despite its height. It rose higher, reaching nearly to the chest of a standing man, but gave off no heat. It was quiet. Controlled. Alive.
Alric stared, transfixed.
The Commander turned to him and extended a small ceremonial knife—its blade polished, its hilt engraved with the mark of the Goddess.
Alric hesitated for only a moment before taking it.
"You must offer your blood to the flame," said the old man across the cauldron, his eyes now open and watching.
Alric nodded.
He stepped forward and held his hand above the flame. Despite its size and color, it didn't burn him. It didn't even feel warm. It was like holding his hand above a memory—familiar, but intangible.
He raised the knife and, with a practiced grip, sliced cleanly across his left palm. The pain was brief, sharp.
Blood welled from the cut, sliding down his fingers in quick rivulets.
He let it fall.
The drops struck the surface of the green flame and vanished into it without sound or smoke. The fire rippled gently, almost as if it had taken a breath.
Everyone leaned in.
Knights, scribes, and instructors stood motionless, eyes fixed on the cauldron, waiting to see what the young plainsman would summon from within the divine fire.
Would it accept him?
Would it speak?
Or would it remain still—silent and cold?
Just as murmurs of disappointment began to stir among the gathered knights—just as the green flame seemed content to flicker with serene indifference—
"Look… what's that?" someone whispered.
All eyes turned to the cauldron.
Within the calm green flame, a wisp of red had appeared—faint at first, like a thread of dye swirling in water. It curled upward through the emerald light, delicate and slow, dancing like a snake in still air.
A second followed.
Then a third.
The hush deepened. Even the wind beyond the stained glass windows seemed to still.
"How could that be?" someone muttered from the outer ring of onlookers, their voice tight with disbelief.
The red continued to grow, no longer wisps now but veins—bleeding upward into the green fire. The once-placid blaze began to churn. It twisted with sudden life, as if something deep inside had awakened.
Then the flame surged.
It rose higher, fatter, louder. The wind that followed burst outward from the cauldron in a spiraling rush, stirring robes and cloaks and banners overhead. It howled—not with sound alone, but with something deeper. A wild, primal note, like the cry of wolves in a winter storm.
The cauldron shook on its base. The flame roared.
Alric stood still, his cut hand now closed into a fist at his side. He didn't move, even as the green and red fire lashed above him like a living thing.
And then—just as quickly as it had come—it passed.
The red faded, dissolving like embers into mist. The wind slowed. The flame settled.
The green fire dimmed gently, drawing downward until it was little more than a flicker—and then it vanished entirely, leaving only faint warmth in the cauldron's belly.
Silence hung in the hall like a held breath.
Everyone stood frozen.
The old man beside the cauldron stared into the now-empty vessel, his lips parted, hands trembling slightly.
The Commander said nothing at first. His eyes were fixed on Alric.
He stepped forward slowly, placing a hand over the hilt of his ceremonial sword—not in threat, but in solemn acknowledgment.
He looked to the others.
"The Goddess has answered."
"You are to be selected into the third cohort," the Commander said, his voice echoing across the stone hall.
He paused, eyes settling on Alric more intently now, as though seeing him—truly seeing him—for the first time.
"Holy Knights are divided into four cohorts," he explained, his tone shifting slightly as if realizing that Alric, a plainsman, might not know the structure intimately.
"The First Cohort are the Flame Knights. Their divine flame burns white. Warriors of purification and righteous fury."
"The Second Cohort are the Aura Knights. Their flame burns dark green. Guardians of balance, defenders of life and death alike."
He gestured subtly toward the now-quiet cauldron.
"The Third Cohort are the Blood Knights," he said, the words slower, heavier. "Their flame forms red."
As he spoke, the old priest gently closed the lid of the wooden crate, the lingering scent of divine smoke still faint in the air. A soldier stepped forward and lifted the box once more, carrying it away with careful steps, as if it still contained a living thing.
The Commander turned away and walked back toward the seat set into the stone wall—an elevated chair more throne than bench. He sat once again, folding his arms.
"You are to be enrolled," he said, his voice firm, "as a Blood Knight trainee."
The murmurs around the hall grew quieter, but didn't vanish. Alric could feel it—the way their eyes pressed into him, weighing him, measuring him.
He stood alone now on the raised platform, the divine flame extinguished, the ceremony's first chapter closed.
Then the Commander's voice broke through once more.
"The second test now begins," he said. "This one will determine your role within the cohort. Each cohort is divided into two paths: Knight or Mage."
He gestured toward the hall.
"You will be tested to see which of the two the Goddess has shaped you to become."
As the words settled in the air, the others around the hall began to move again—descending the stone platform and forming a wide circle around it, like silent judges preparing to witness the next phase of judgment.
Alric remained where he stood, the faint sting of the blade still fresh on his palm, the memory of the red flame burned into his thoughts.
The second test awaited.