Rayon walked into the silence he'd trained his whole life to become. Moonlight bled through the high windows of the Assassin Wing, striping the slate floor in silver. A raven's carved head—etched into a gargoyle high above—seemed to glint not from moonlight, but memory, as if it had already witnessed what was yet to unfold. Below it, the corridor exhaled only stillness: the hiss of aetherlamps, the steady drip of condensation from cracked arches. Rayon Altiron moved like a question the stone never dared answer.
Tonight's drill bore a name only whispered in dread: the Mooncut Trial. Unscheduled. Unsanctioned. And possibly lethal. It existed outside the Academy's laws—tolerated, but never spoken of in open halls. Not to test skill. But to expose truth. Not to weed out the weak, but to reveal who would choose strength at any cost. Rumor said someone had died here last year—brought out before sunrise, throat stitched shut with silence.
Still, they came.
Rayon arrived alone, cloak drawn tight, face half-shadowed. The others filtered in after—Talia Rosen, shield already strapped, tension coiled in her spine; Bilden Craven, broad-shouldered and smiling like someone who welcomed injury as proof; Mirae Azora, darting eyes and still hands, her silence louder than the rest; and Vyne Lynx, posture regal, as if he hadn't come to fight, but to be watched doing so.
Cyrus Vilan waited in the center, moonlight casting his shadow in two directions. "No light," he said. "No warnings. No observers. Pair off. Draw lots. Thirty minutes. Some of you may die. Survive. Observe. Learn."
No one asked what was allowed.
One by one, they stepped to the chalice.
Vyne plucked a rapier—thin as a promise, sharp as scorn. "Speed and precision," he murmured. "Beauty in cruelty."
Bilden followed, flexing his fingers inside weighted gauntlets. "Let's make sparks."
Talia drew a short blade and heavy buckler. She said nothing, only tested the grip.
Mirae claimed twin daggers. "Dance in the dark," she whispered to herself, as if the blades answered.
Rayon came last. The lot revealed a curved karambit and a rope coil—assassin's tools. He tucked them away without expression, though something in his eyes narrowed.
"No mercy," Cyrus said. "No pity. No light."
Rayon stepped toward Talia. Her shoulders tensed, then eased, the way a drawn bow accepts its tension. They'd sparred before. This would not be sparring.
"Begin."
He moved first—low and fast. A whisper passed between shadows. Talia tracked him, shield angled, feet braced. He dove left—rolling behind a cracked column two meters away. The rope flicked forward, looping fast. He yanked. Talia's shield arm twisted, and her stance faltered.
She recovered instantly, pivoting with a slash that nearly caught his shoulder. He twisted aside, rope flashing again, but she struck it mid-air with her shield, snapping tension. Steel clanged. She followed up hard, trying to force him to disengage.
Rayon slid back, then forward. The karambit hissed through the air, grazing her armor—just enough. Not to kill. But to mark.
His breath caught—not from thrill, but from the cold familiarity of control. The same cold his father wore in silence, blade in hand, eye never flinching. The same quiet that trained obedience into the soft parts of memory.
"Calculated," Talia muttered, panting. "But cold."
He said nothing.
A gong sounded—mournful, low. First exchange ended.
Mirae and Bilden were already locked in a furious rhythm. Mirae flowed like water through stone gaps. Bilden was brute motion—direct, punishing. Mirae feinted once, deliberately, letting him strike past her ear. And for a moment, even she looked surprised by how fast she'd adapted.
Rayon turned toward Vyne.
"Assassin," Vyne said as he stepped into the moonlight. "The Mooncut Trial belongs to madmen."
Rayon's reply came like breath through steel. "Then call me madness."
"Or cowardice pretending to be discipline," Vyne said, just loud enough to sting.
Before Rayon could answer, Cyrus's voice cracked the silence. "Reassign."
Confusion rippled. Shoulders tensed. A few whispers. No one moved.
Vyne returned to the chalice, plucking the final two lots. The weapon remained his rapier. The partner: Rayon Altiron.
Vyne smiled. "Poetic."
"Or rigged," Rayon muttered.
They faced each other, shadows framing the circle of light.
"Darkness reveals," Vyne said, stepping forward. "But not all truth deserves to be seen."
Rayon struck first. Rope snapped toward Vyne's leg. Vyne spun, blade slashing air. The karambit followed in an arc too close to see. Steel clanged. Sparks flared. Vyne lunged, blade aiming for Rayon's ribs, but Rayon dropped low. The rope wrapped the hilt. He pulled. Vyne's balance slipped—barely.
A cloud passed. Shadows thickened. Vyne's eyes widened—more at the silence in Rayon's face than the pain in his ribs.
He stabbed.
Steel sliced into Rayon's forearm.
Pain flared—but so did memory. The sting echoed another—older—one. A hand gripped too tightly. A voice saying, "You only flinch if you're weak." The face of a man who trained him with silence, not teaching. Control, not care.
Rayon faltered.
Vyne saw it.
"You think control is strength?" Vyne snarled, thrusting again.
Rayon parried, twisted, ducked. Then struck. The karambit curved like thought, not weapon. It caught Vyne under the ribs. A line of breathless sound escaped him.
Rayon hovered, blade to throat.
One heartbeat passed. Then another.
He did not press.
"Survive," Rayon whispered.
Vyne sank to one knee. The rapier clattered.
A hush fell.
No more blades clashed. No more breath but Rayon's own.
The gong rang once more—final, heavy.
The students regrouped. Mirae stood with blood streaking her temple but eyes sharper than they'd ever been. She looked toward Rayon—just once. Bilden muttered, "Next time, we try with real knives," but the grin didn't return. Something had cracked inside him.
Cyrus descended the staircase slowly. His shadow stretched like a gate itself.
"Some met their limits," he said. "Others found none." He paced. "But one showed mastery beyond flesh and metal. Steel too sharp cuts its wielder."
He stopped before Rayon.
Talia's gaze found his—something fragile and weighted behind her eyes.
"Mastery," Cyrus said, "isn't strength. It's restraint. Darkness reveals—but sometimes, the edge cuts its master."
Rayon lowered his eyes. "I saw what needed to be seen."
When the hall emptied, he walked the Academy paths alone. Past silent walls. Past statues carved in glory and forgotten names. Fog clung low. The cold was familiar.
Talia waited by the Archive Tower.
"You bled Vyne," she said. "And hesitated only once."
Rayon said nothing.
She studied him. "I left a weakness open. During our exchange. I wanted to see how far you'd go."
He looked at her—surprised, perhaps, then unreadable.
"You didn't take it," she said. "Not because you spared me. Because you never looked."
"Hesitation," he said, "is for those who cling to pity."
"Be careful," she replied. "That you don't mistake numbness for control."
They entered the tower in silence. Scrolls covered the desk. His journal lay open. He wrote: wounds, angles, hesitation, blood.
Then paused.
Then added a single word: name. Not his own.
A raven landed on the sill. It cocked its head—not in curiosity, but judgment—then vanished into the ink of night, leaving only the scrape of talons against stone.
Rayon sat for a long time before closing the journal. Those who survived the Mooncut Trial weren't just remembered. They were used. And something deeper was watching now—beneath the Academy, beyond the glyphs.
The words echoed in his head. The hunter without a master… forgets who he is hunting.