Chapter 91: The Trial of Survival

  The embers of dawn had yet to kiss the sky when Arixa and Thalron stood before the Elder Seer once more. The beastfolk shaman’s presence was as unmoving as the ancient trees that surrounded them, his dark eyes filled with an ageless wisdom that made the air feel heavy with unseen weight. This was no longer about camaraderie, about the bond of warriors. This was something older—something primal.

  The Trial of Survival was not about strength or combat prowess; it was about endurance, patience, and the ability to adapt. There would be no weapons, no armor, no magic to rely on—only their instincts, their wits, and their will to persist.

  “The Wildlands,” the Elder Seer began, his voice deep and resonant, “do not reward the strong alone. They reward those who endure, those who respect the balance between predator and prey. Tonight, you will learn whether you are the hunter… or the hunted.”

  Arixa’s hands clenched into fists at her sides. She had spent her life fighting, enduring pain, pushing past limits. But this was different. This was not a battlefield—it was something far more dangerous.

  There were no rules. No allies. No mercy.

  The Elder led them deep into the wilderness, far beyond the safety of the tribe. The trees grew denser, their twisted roots forming a labyrinth that threatened to snare any who moved without care. The distant cries of unseen creatures echoed through the undergrowth, a reminder that they were not alone.

  "You must find your way back by dawn," the Elder Seer said. “But know this—you are not the only ones being tested.”

  With those final words, he vanished into the thick brush, his steps soundless, leaving them alone with the night.

  Arixa exhaled sharply. "Alright. We find high ground, get a view of the land, and move fast."

  Thalron shot her a glance, his golden-green eyes narrowing. "And run into every hidden danger along the way? No. We move smart, not fast."

  Arixa scowled but said nothing.

  They pressed forward, navigating through the dark wilderness. The Wildlands were not just untamed—they were alive. The paths that seemed open twisted into mazes, shifting in ways that defied logic. Thick fog rolled in without warning, swallowing the land in a damp, sightless void. The ground beneath their bare feet was cool and damp, littered with fallen leaves and gnarled roots that threatened to trip the unwary.

  Thalron, ever the tracker, moved with careful precision. He noted the wind direction, the faint disturbances in the underbrush, the way the silence ebbed and flowed as though the land itself breathed. Arixa, used to charging forward, struggled against the need to move.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  "You need to slow down," Thalron warned as she pushed through another thicket.

  "I don’t like waiting around while something hunts us," Arixa muttered.

  "Then don’t act like prey," he countered. "Stay aware. Think ahead."

  Her jaw clenched. She hated that he was right.

  They scavenged what they could—moss for insulation, sharp stones for crude weapons, strips of bark that could be woven into makeshift rope. Every action had to be deliberate. Waste was weakness.

  Then… the presence closed in.

  At first, it was subtle—the shift of the wind, the absence of the distant wildlife that had been singing moments before. Then, a whisper of movement, a rustling that did not belong to the night breeze.

  Something was out there.

  Thalron froze. His eyes flicked to Arixa. Don’t move.

  A shadow shifted—a blur of motion—and before Arixa could react, a net of woven vines snapped around her ankle. The ground vanished beneath her as she was yanked into the air.

  A snare trap. Rookie mistake.

  She snarled, twisting mid-air, trying to reach the bindings. The net was tight, expertly woven. She swung, trying to build momentum, but before she could free herself, a figure dropped from the trees—a masked beastfolk warrior.

  They didn’t attack.

  They were watching.

  Thalron acted fast. He drew his makeshift dagger and slashed the vine in a clean motion. Arixa crashed down—just in time to roll aside as another figure lunged from the darkness.

  Their movements were calculated, each strike aimed to disorient, to force a mistake. They were being tested.

  "They’re herding us," Thalron murmured.

  Arixa spat out a curse. "Then let’s turn the tables."

  They needed a strategy.

  They ran—not in fear, but with purpose. Thalron led them toward higher ground, scanning for anything they could use to their advantage.

  And then, they found it.

  An old, abandoned camp lay ahead, half-buried under layers of overgrowth. The remnants of a fire pit. The stone remains of a collapsed shelter. Carvings on the walls of a rockface.

  Arixa stopped cold.

  One of the carvings—a sigil matching the one engraved on her warhammer.

  Her breath caught in her throat.

  She didn’t recognize it, not entirely. But something in her blood did.

  Thalron’s eyes sharpened. He examined the surrounding symbols, his fingers trailing over a second mark—a different crest.

  He recognized it.

  "An exiled faction," he muttered.

  Arixa’s chest tightened. Her parents… They were part of something bigger.

  Before she could speak, the Wild Hunters closed in.

  They were surrounded.

  Arixa’s muscles coiled, her instincts screaming to fight.

  But Thalron grabbed her wrist. "Fighting is what they expect."

  She hesitated.

  "They’re testing survival," he whispered. "Not combat."

  She swallowed back her frustration. Instead of fighting, they used the terrain.

  They baited the hunters into their own traps—leading them into pitfalls, weaving through the ruins to create choke points, using the fog to vanish and reappear elsewhere.

  The hunters didn’t expect prey that fought back with strategy.

  By the time dawn began to break, the tables had turned.

  The Wild Hunters faltered. They stopped.

  One by one, they lowered their weapons.

  Arixa and Thalron had survived.

  The tallest of the hunters, a scarred beastfolk warrior, stepped forward and removed his mask. His piercing gaze locked onto Arixa.

  The silence stretched.

  Then, finally, he spoke.

  "You are her daughter."

  Arixa’s heart stopped.

  "You have her fire," he murmured, his voice heavy with something she couldn’t name. "But do you have her wisdom?"

  Her chest tightened. Her breath came short.

  She swallowed. "Who is she?"

  The elder did not answer.

  Not yet.

  Instead, he turned to Thalron. “You have both passed.”

  Arixa looked down at her hands, still shaking. The trial was over, but something deeper had begun.

  The elder stepped back, watching them both with an unreadable gaze.

  "One trial remains," he said.

  The Trial of Heart.