Eight hours left.
I don't sleep.
I can't.
The weight of twenty tokens burns like iron in my pouch. Not just power—but pressure. Too many eyes now. Too many seekers. Too many broken paths converging on a single thought.
**Someone has twenty.**
**Someone is close.**
**Someone is hunting.**
I keep to the orchard's edge, where dead branches claw at the sky and moonlight leaks through broken canopies. The wind smells of cracked stone and frost. Below, the trial ground has gone still. Most have fled or buried themselves in shallow alliances.
But none of them last.
**Twenty-one through twenty-four** come from the twins Whisper mentioned.
They're not from Yarrow Hollow—that part was a lie—but they *are* hidden in the remains of a waystation between the orchards and the southern terraces. I find them kneeling in meditation, funneling qi into a shared talisman glowing faintly blue.
They don't see me until it's over.
A smoke burst. A suppression pulse. Two strikes. Four tokens.
**Twenty-four.**
**Twenty-five and twenty-six** belong to a girl named Tessa and her shadow-kin bodyguard.
They've carved a den beneath a ruined lotus pool near the eastern wall, sealed with faded water glyphs and layered traps. But the ring pulses in my palm—not warning, not fear—just quiet recognition.
I touch the glyphstone. Roots split. The seal breaks. Light floods the space.
They fight well. But they fall.
**Twenty-six.**
Five hours remain.
Mist curls low across the ridge near the shattered bell tower. The obelisks flicker more frequently now—marking the trial's final arc.
**Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, and twenty-nine** come from a five-man camp huddled atop the scrollkeeper's archive. The structure groans with unstable runes and lingering spiritual residue. Most avoid it.
I welcome the chaos.
I strike during their shift change. Not to kill—just to scatter.
I break their line. Break their rhythm.
I leave three bruised and breathless.
Two tokens fly into the dirt. One lands near my foot.
**Twenty-nine.**
One left.
I descend to the obsidian path, steps slow, senses wide. The sky is still dark, but dawn simmers beyond the trees. I feel a presence behind me.
Small. Careful. Tracking.
He's been on my trail for over an hour.
Neko.
Quick-footed, precise. He springs when he thinks he's found my blind spot.
I counter. The ring turns in my palm, deflecting his blade.
In two breaths, I've spun behind him, elbow against his spine, his token pouch in reach.
He pants. Doesn't resist.
"Why didn't you run?" I ask, my voice low.
He spits blood. "Because I don't want to be weak forever."
I study him—for a long moment.
Then I let him go.
"I'm not your enemy," I murmur.
He blinks.
Then flinches.
Because I already know—*we're not alone.*
A footstep. A shift behind the broken prayer wall.
Not Neko's ally.
A hunter.
The man steps out—tall, lean, ash-pale eyes glinting behind a lacquered mask. Midnight silk drapes across his shoulders like mourning cloth.
He's been tracking us both.
I don't move.
He speaks first. "You were supposed to take him. You always do."
His voice is high, almost delicate, but edged with quiet rage.
I say nothing.
He strikes.
Fast. Controlled. But brittle beneath the fury.
He falters on the third pass.
I break the pattern. Drive my palm to his chest. Crack his mask.
He crumples. His token bounces across the stone and lands against my boot.
**Thirty.**
Neko stares. "Who was that?"
I shake my head. "Someone who thought he knew how this ended."
I pick up the final token and walk into the rising light.
The first edge of dawn bleeds through the trees.
A shimmer appears midair.
Elder Elvare steps from it, robes stirring in the chilled wind.
She says nothing at first.
Then extends her hand.
I drop all thirty tokens into her palm.
They burn once—then vanish.
The terrace trembles.
The obelisks hum.
A distant gong sounds.
Elvare speaks only three words:
**"Elite. Step forward."**
And I do.
Not as a follower.
Not as a name to forget.
But as the storm that stills the water.
And from this moment on…
Stillwater will *remember* me.