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Ketal stepped through the door and let it fall shut behind him. The sound was soft, a clean click that seemed to tuck the world outside away.
Out in the outer court, Cretein watched the door for a moment longer, then turned and approached the first man who had gone in and come back with empty hands. The challenger sat on a bench with his shoulders slumped, the fight gone out of his posture. Cretein kept his tone even.
“May I ask what the trial was this time?” he asked the man.
The man blinked as if the question itself were a surprise. “Am I allowed to say?”
“I am Cretein, Commander of the Holy Knights of Elia, God of the Sword,” Cretein said, offering a brief nod that was almost a bow. “We need to understand the trial’s content. I will not attempt it myself, nor will I disclose it to the general crowd. This is so we can prepare in case something goes wrong.”
Too often, people who could not accept failure tried to force the sword free and caused trouble before the followers could calm them. The church had learned to ask.
The man nodded and rubbed a hand over his face.
“There was nothing to it,” he said at last. “A big hall, bright as a field of white stone, and the Holy Sword stuck in the floor at the center. That was all.”
There were no restraints—no obstacles.
“Nothing at all,” the man said. “I tried everything I could think of. Grip, stance, breathing, a prayer someone taught me once, even a little...
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