Chapter 96: The Warrior's Trial
POV: Adam
The training grounds sprawled across Kaer Trolde's eastern courtyard, a space where generations of Skellige warriors had honed their skills for battle and glory.
Morning sun cast long shadows across packed earth marked by countless sparring sessions. Weapons racks lined the walls—swords, axes, spears, all well-used and well-maintained. The fortress's entire population seemed to have gathered around the yard's perimeter, warriors and civilians alike pressing close for the best view of the mainlander's humiliation.
Because that's what they expected. I could see it in their faces—anticipation of failure, eagerness to watch the outsider prove himself unworthy of their protection.
Crach stood on a raised platform overlooking the grounds, his clan leaders arranged beside him. When he spoke, his voice carried across the murmuring crowd with practiced authority.
"The first trial tests combat skill without supernatural advantage. Three opponents, faced in succession, no rest between. Yield means defeat. Unconsciousness means defeat. Death..." He paused meaningfully. "Death is unlikely but possible. Skellige does not coddle those who seek its protection."
"Understood."
"You may not use your elemental abilities under any circumstances. This trial measures the warrior beneath the magic—your courage, your skill, your determination. Do you accept these terms?"
"I accept."
A practice sword was thrust into my hands—blunted steel that would bruise and break bones but hopefully not kill. Across the yard, three Skellige warriors stepped forward from the crowd, each sizing me up with the casual confidence of people who'd spent their lives training for exactly this.
The first was young—barely older than me, muscles corded from years of work, tattoos marking achievements I couldn't read. He moved with the eager energy of someone trying to prove himself.
The second was a woman—a shieldmaiden in her prime, scarred and calm, watching me with assessment that spoke of experience fighting all kinds of opponents.
The third was a giant. Crach's champion, I learned later. Level 38 according to instincts I couldn't quite explain, veteran of more battles than I'd had meals.
"First challenger," Crach announced. "Begin."
The young warrior attacked immediately.
—Scene Break—
POV: Ciri
She watched from the crowd's edge, every muscle tense as Adam engaged his first opponent.
Without his elements, he moved differently. Slower, more cautious, relying on footwork and positioning rather than the overwhelming force she'd seen him deploy against sirens and mages. The Skellige warrior pressed aggressively, each strike testing defenses that Adam barely maintained.
"He's struggling." Lambert's observation came flat, analytical. "Too used to having backup options. Take those away, and he's just a kid with six months of training."
"He's more than that." But Ciri's voice lacked conviction. Adam took a hit to his ribs, stumbled, barely recovered before the next blow landed.
"Maybe. But right now, he's fighting like someone who doesn't trust his own skill." Lambert crossed his arms. "Needs to stop thinking about what he can't do and start focusing on what he can."
The fight continued. Adam adapted slowly—his movements becoming more economical, less flashy, grounded in the fundamentals Geralt had drilled into him during winter's long training sessions. He still took hits, still showed damage, but he stopped giving ground.
The young warrior's aggression became liability. He overextended, committed too fully to an attack that Adam sidestepped. The counter was clean—a strike to the knee that buckled his opponent, followed by a shoulder check that sent him sprawling.
The crowd's reaction surprised Ciri. Not jeering or disappointment, but genuine appreciation for a well-executed maneuver.
"First bout to the mainlander!" Crach's announcement carried over the cheering.
"One down." Geralt had appeared at her side. "Two to go. And he's already injured."
—Scene Break—
POV: Adam
The shieldmaiden was nothing like the young warrior.
Where he'd been eager and aggressive, she was patient and precise. Every attack I threw, she deflected or avoided. Every opening I thought I saw, she'd already closed. She read my patterns, adapted to my timing, and systematically dismantled my offense.
[ Combat Assessment: Outclassed ]
[ Enemy Level: 35 ]
[ Advantage: Experience, technique, composure ]
My ribs screamed from the first fight. Sweat stung my eyes. The sword felt heavy in hands that had grown accustomed to channeling elements rather than swinging steel.
She disarmed me on the third exchange. My blade spun away, and her follow-through caught my shoulder with force that numbed the entire arm.
"Yield?"
I retrieved my sword with my off hand. "No."
The fight resumed. It went worse. She targeted my injured shoulder, exploited my weakened grip, drove me across the training ground with combinations I couldn't block. When she finally put me on my back with a strike to the legs, I barely managed to roll away before her sword descended where my head had been.
"Yield."
The word wasn't a question this time.
I looked up at her—scarred face, calm eyes, no malice in her expression. Just professional assessment of an opponent who'd been thoroughly beaten.
"Yes. I yield."
The crowd's reaction mixed disappointment and respect in equal measure. I'd lost, but I hadn't quit when quitting would have been easier. In Skellige, that apparently mattered.
"Second bout to Yrsa of Clan Tuirseach!" Crach's announcement. "Third and final challenger approaches!"
The giant stepped forward.
—Scene Break—
POV: Lambert
The witcher winced watching Adam struggle to his feet.
"He shouldn't fight. He's barely standing."
"He has to." Geralt's voice held no pleasure in the observation. "Withdrawal means failure. Failure means expulsion."
"Better expelled than dead."
"Skellige trials rarely kill—they test. If he pushes through, shows courage despite inevitable defeat, the clans will respect him more than if he'd won easily."
Lambert watched the kid—because Adam was still a kid, despite everything—face an opponent who outweighed him by fifty pounds and outmatched him by decades of experience. The champion's name was Thorvald, Crach's personal guard and perhaps the finest pure warrior in the islands.
"He's offering mercy." Lambert noted the champion's body language. "Giving the kid a chance to withdraw with honor."
"Adam won't take it."
"No. He won't." Lambert didn't know whether to admire the stubbornness or curse it. "Guess we'll see how much punishment he can absorb."
—Scene Break—
POV: Adam
Thorvald's first strike nearly ended everything.
The champion moved with speed that his size shouldn't have allowed, blade whistling toward my head before I'd finished raising my guard. I blocked—barely—and the impact traveled through my arms into my bones, rattling thoughts loose in my skull.
"You could yield now." His voice was surprisingly gentle. "No shame in knowing your limits."
"Haven't found them yet."
He smiled. Not mockery—appreciation. "Then let's search together."
The beating that followed would live in my memory forever.
Thorvald didn't toy with me—that would have been disrespectful. He simply overwhelmed me through superior skill applied relentlessly. Every technique Geralt had taught me, Thorvald countered. Every trick I'd developed, he anticipated. He hit me in the ribs, the legs, the arms, the back. He knocked me down four times, and four times I got up.
The fifth time, I couldn't.
My body simply refused to cooperate. I lay on packed earth, tasting blood, watching the sky spin above me, and understood with perfect clarity that I was done.
Thorvald stood over me. His sword rested against my throat—not pressing, just present.
"Yield?"
"I..." The word wouldn't come. Everything hurt. Everything was broken. But somewhere beneath the pain, something stubborn refused to surrender.
I tackled his legs.
The champion went down more from surprise than force. We grappled—an absurd mismatch, his strength against my desperation—but for three beautiful seconds, I was still fighting.
Then he had me pinned, arm locked behind my back at an angle that threatened dislocation.
"YIELD."
"...yes."
The pressure released. Thorvald helped me up, and his hand on my shoulder felt like approval rather than condescension.
"You're not Skellige, boy." His voice carried to the silent crowd. "But you fight like one of us."
The cheering that erupted surprised everyone—including, I think, Thorvald himself.
[ Combat Complete: Lost but Respected ]
[ XP Gained: 450 ]
[ LEVEL UP! 39 → 40 ]
[ Fire Element Prerequisites: MET ]
[ Notification: Fire Element will unlock following rest and recovery ]
Crach's voice cut through the celebration. "First trial verdict: Failed in victory, succeeded in honor. Two trials remain—prove yourself worthy."
I barely heard him. The world had gone gray around the edges, and Ciri's face swimming into view was the last thing I saw before consciousness fled.
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