The mountains did not welcome weakness.
Winds screamed through the jagged cliffs of Drakestone Ridge, a sacred place where the old Spartheon tribes once forged their warriors in silence, fire, and stone. No monuments remained. Just the cracked bones of trial pits, and the echoes of bloodied sons who once earned the right to call themselves steelborn.
Now, it was Throy's forge.
He stood at the center of a sunken basin carved into the rock by hand, flanked by torchlight and the broken breath of fifty hopefuls. Most were barely men. Some were farmers' sons. Others were former thieves or slaves freed by the fall of Ironmoor. Their faces were drawn, hungry, skeptical.
But they were here. That was enough.
Throy stepped forward, his short black cloak billowing behind him. His voice was calm. Firm.
"You stand where the Spartheon were tempered. Where they crawled on broken feet and came out wielding the storm."
A few raised eyebrows. Others tightened their grip on makeshift spears or dull blades. One even smirked.
"This is not a camp. It is a crucible. You will not be trained. You will be tested."
He let the silence stretch.
"Some of you will break. Some will bleed. And a few—just a few—will rise."
No applause. No cries of loyalty.
Just silence… and tension.
"Welcome to the Ember Trials."
Day One: The Gauntlet
It started with a run.
Not a normal run—no. This was through a twisted stretch of terrain known as the "Rattleback," filled with loose gravel, rolling logs, trenches filled with water, and blunt-spear ambushes from hidden Spartheon guards.
The first to fall was a tall youth named Boran. He slipped on the third stretch and cracked his chin on a rock. Blood flowed. But he got up. Dragged himself forward.
Throy watched from a high perch beside Elarin, his arms crossed.
"He's not strong," she said.
"He got up," Throy replied.
"He'll die in a real fight."
"Then let him die trying to be more than he was."
By sundown, nineteen had fallen out. A few with broken ribs. One with a twisted ankle. All sent back to the lower camp without a word.
No second chances.
Day Two: The Stillness of Iron
The remaining recruits were forced to sit cross-legged, bare-skinned in the mountain wind, for six hours straight. No speaking. No fire. No movement.
Any twitch, whisper, or shift would mean disqualification.
The cold bit into them like hungry wolves. Some wept. Some grit their teeth until they bled. But only one recruit smiled.
His name was Myrin—short, wiry, with a face too sharp for a boy and too young for a soldier. He didn't fidget once.
When it ended at dawn, Throy approached him.
"You enjoyed that?"
Myrin shrugged. "At least the wind doesn't lie."
"You'll go far."
Day Three: The Brand
This was the first real trial of pain.
Each recruit had to step forward and press their shoulder to the Ember Sigil—an iron ring left in the coals, heated until it glowed like the sun's eye.
No one was forced. They could refuse.
Seven did.
They were given food, water, and safe passage back to the lowlands.
The rest stepped forward without hesitation.
Sorn, the one-eyed giant, didn't even blink when his skin hissed under the brand. Myrin fainted halfway through, but clung to consciousness long enough to stand again and walk away with his dignity.
Throy burned himself last.
He didn't flinch either.
The pain was just another step on the path.
[System Update – Ember Tier Mark Achieved: +1 Squad Unity]
Squad Bond Strength: +10%
Passive Perk Gained: "Marked by Purpose" – Squad members receive morale resistance during fear checks.
Throy blinked.
The System had spoken again—quiet, buried behind the pain and smoke—but clearer this time.
It was evolving as they did.
Nightfall Conversations
Around the evening fire, the recruits broke silence for the first time since the trials began. Food was meager—roots, stale flatbread, and cold broth—but spirits were flickering higher now.
Sorn sat alone, sharpening a stick to a lethal point.
Myrin talked to everyone.
Elarin moved among the shadows, silently observing, noting who laughed too loud, who watched others when they thought no one noticed.
Throy sat beside her.
"You still think they're weak?"
"Some are. But… a few are burning," she admitted. "Like flint in the wind. You keep feeding them, Throy, and they'll turn into a storm."
He smiled faintly.
"That's the plan."
Day Four: The Fracture Test
Throy stood before the group again.
"Today you'll be divided into fives. One squad in each group is a traitor."
They blinked in confusion.
"One group has orders to sabotage the others. I won't tell you who."
Gasps. Murmurs. Eyes darting left and right.
"If you lose your banner, you fail. If your squad is shattered, you fail. If you fall to infighting, you all fail."
He tossed each squad a small crimson flag and sent them into the canyon trails.
And then they watched.
Some cracked within an hour—turning on each other in a flurry of paranoia. Others tried diplomacy and were betrayed anyway.
Only two squads returned with their banners.
One was Myrin's squad.
The other was Sorn's. His hands were bruised, and his face bloodied.
But his banner? Untouched.
That night, the stars were particularly sharp in the cold sky. Throy sat near the cliffs' edge, boots planted, hands resting on his knees.
His body ached. His soul burned.
[System Update – Ember Trials 67% Complete]
Squad Cohesion: Strengthening
Moral Alignment: Balanced
Title Progression: "First Flame" – In Progress (14/20)
Squad Commander Trait Progress: "Steel Will" (Locked, 85%)
The System didn't just measure his strength.
It measured everything.
How he led. How they grew. What choices he made.
And with each decision, it shaped him further down a path that could either burn the world to cinders… or light it anew.
Closing Scene: A Name Earned
On the dawn of the sixth day, Throy gathered the remaining recruits—now whittled down to twenty-one.
"You are not yet Spartheon. But you are more than men."
He turned to the symbol etched into the rock wall behind him—the faded mark of the First Ironborn.
"You will carry a new name."
He lifted a hand, and Elarin unfurled a banner: black, with a flaming spear crossing a cracked mountain.
"You are the Stormfangs now. Our first spear. Our vanguard."
Silence.
Then, one by one, they stood taller.
Sorn nodded.
Myrin grinned.
And in that moment, Throy didn't just see recruits.
He saw the foundation of something greater.
Something that would last.
And somewhere far away, beyond mountains and smoke, another figure watched the wind shift… knowing that Throy was rising. But not knowing how close their paths truly were.