As the chill of the null cycle fades and the lights of the rising cycle brighten by increments, I stand. I wait for the others to eat before I’m able to take my fill. The air is charges with excitement; Oran struts through our gathered tribe with his sword in his hand and his chest thrust out before him. Lucil is more reserved, she leans on her spear and watches the Marked of the other tribes. I’ve known her for long enough that I see that her calmness is a facade; her hands cling tightly to her spear until they turn white at the knuckles.

  The mood is better among the Heightened; they are not in danger having no mark and no call to the trial themselves. Instead they mingle and enjoy the company of one another while the Marked ready themselves in whatever way they see fit. I spy more than a few boxing at shadows, striking with their weapons at phantoms in practice.

  I’m proven right when the final call comes and requests Marked for the trial, neither Oran or Lucil hesitate. The others haven’t noticed, they’re too excited by the prospect of a spectacle. I wonder if they remember how bloody these affairs can be. I force my jaw to unclench; Oran and Lucil will both test themselves, they might both be worthy and ascend, or they might fall in the attempt. If one does not return in failure to our tribe, we will struggle, we will likely perish without their strength.

  SECTOR ASCENSION. TRIAL IMMINENT. PRESENT THOSE WHO ARE WORTHY.

  The sky flashes again; it is a pulse of red as though a stone is dropped into a still pond of blood. The Heightened whoop. I find myself carried along with it, even my voice joins them after a moment and they do not push me aside. There are no monsters or traps in this segment that might hinder us except those that exist within the trial and those are the purview of the Marked.

  We swarm towards the centre of the circle until the ground groans and splits and vomits forth stone. Seating of white stone has risen to abut a broad ring of sand, a perfect circle within the greater circle. In the centre of the sand is an obelisk, black and smooth, and atop it sits a man.

  I gasp as I see the band upon his arm.

  “Lo, tribes.” His voice is grand, befitting one of the ascended. He hops down from the obelisk and I see that his stature does not match his position. He is middling: middle height, middle weight, and with an untidy mop of brown hair that covers half his face. His clothes set him apart. He wears a shirt with one sleeve rolled up to reveal his mark, his trousers are a material I don’t recognise and there is not a single hole or fray.

  I pluck at the tatters of my clothes; I’m last when we find or make new garments so my shirt is more hole than material and my trousers are barely better. It is a struggle when we are in the colder segments.

  The Banded moves as I blink. One moment he is near the obelisk a hundred yards distant and the next he is near enough to us that I can see the pores of his pale skin. I fall back, unable to control my reaction to his speed.

  “Lo, tribes.” He tries again and I frown, maybe it is his closeness but the grandeur that had been in his tone moments before is gone and here remains a man. “It is heartening to see so many of you and so many Marked. The architects have seen fit to allow me to oversee this trial. Of course, the architects will select as they see fit those who are worthy to strive for the sun. I am here to offer aid and comfort and to see the best of you proceed with ascension.”

  He claps and it is like the peal of thunder.

  “Please, Marked. Come forward. All others, retreat to the stands while the trial is conducted.”

  The members of the tribes whisper among themselves. I am left out of the whispering, but I hear them. A Banded? Are we blessed? What is a Banded to do that the architects cannot? How will he help us? Is he here to hurt us?”

  They worry but I do not; what is the use of my concern when the trials are none of mine? All I can hope for is that one of our Marked fails so that the fifth tribe is not left bereft. Perhaps that would spur them that one that remains to share the secret of advancement and encourage the Heightened onto that path with them. Hardship can be a catalyst, after all.

  The stands fill with our weaker members and the sandy floor holds our best. The Banded waits, frowns, then points into the crowd.

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  “You. Marked. Come to the trial.”

  Heads turn as the woman at whom he has pointed stands and gestures to themselves in confusion. “Me, Ascended?”

  “Yes, you. All Marked are to be tested. You must be in the trial. You too.” He points to others. A host of others, one from each of the tribes for each other tribe has held back a Marked for just the purpose I’d been afraid. They share looks. Who dares defy a Banded?

  The first woman addressed speaks up, her voice cracking. “We cannot leave our people unprotected, Ascended. Can the trial not be conducted with fewer?”

  “No. This is what is needed. The architects demand it and so do I. All of you. Down. Now.”

  The crowd ripples as the Marked stand and everyone speaks at once. No will dare talk to a Banded directly, and certainly not to gainsay their words, but as a whole we rumble. My voice joins too and for the second time today it is not frowned into silence.

  The Banded taps his foot and waits. I realise that no matter our muttering, we will obey. The Marked descend in groups and alone until they stand at the centre of the sand with the others. Nearly two hundred Marked when all Is told. A generation of those who might ascend all tested at once.

  I’ve seen trials before, they are not so rare for us. We had Marked before Oran and Lucil and they ascended or died. When I last watched a trial it was from the nest of a great bird, thankfully empty, as the Marked leaped from pillars of stone to knock stones into the abyss. We’d lost a few and more had Ascended. The time before had been cold; a wind and snow swept plateau as smooth as glass upon which the Marked had been chased by creatures three time sour size with claws and teeth to match. We’d lost more that time.

  In opening moments of this trial I see three Marked die.

  The floor erupts with spikes of obsidian and the sky that moments before was still and clear is filled with the shrieks of hunting birds. Two are impaled and another snatched into the air by long talons and rent in two by the strength of twinned beaks.

  The crowd about me is silent. This is worse than we’ve ever seen and we know it is different. The Banded has bounded to the edge of the sand and has seated himself in the front row with one leg over the other. He picks at his teeth with the tip of a knife.

  The Marked gather themselves; while the trials are lonely, they come from from tribes and huddle together for protection. I see Oran, his flaming sword and fiery body leaps out at me. He has stayed with Lucil, perhaps together they stand a chance against the creatures. I whoop as Lucil’s spear leaps into the air and into the heart of a bird. My voice is the only sound in the crowd. Oran kills the creature with a sweep of flaming steel and they turn together.

  I sway with vertigo as the ground shifts again and the the arena takes on a new form. Hexagons rise beneath each Marked faster than they can react until they float above the arena floor with nothing but thin dirt between them and a great fall. From the ceiling descend two dozen balls, glowing and silver.

  The Marked look between one another. It’s obvious what is asked of them.

  Lucil takes her spear back into her hand and staggers into a crouch as one of the birds flies towards her, only to be fended away by the tip with a ragged line across its feathers. It’s harder for the Marked to protect themselves atop the pillars; the birds dip and dive, taking chunks and knocking Marked from their perches. They land with sickening crunches on the hard packed ground and most do not move again.

  Lucil has found her footing again and her spear pierces the bird through its eye on its next dive. Oran is not as elegant in his combat; he hunkers down with his shoulders set and watches for the birds, at the last moment of the creature’s dive he flashes his flames brightly to blind its eyes and then drives his sword against the weight of it as it crashes down on him. He barely keeps his perch.

  He’s shocked, I think, as he clears the body of his conquest off his bloody sword, to see Lucil leaping from her pillar onto empty, higher pillars that lead towards the orbs. She uses her spear to vault from one to the other, distances that would have seen me tumble to the dirt below, but for a Marked they are but a stretch. He jumps too. He is heavier, less sure in his footing and he slams his foot into the dirt of each pillar with a thud.

  They will make it. They have to. Lucil is so close her hand hovers for a frozen moment beside an orb.

  Oran slips. Lucil tries to catch him with the butt of her spear but he is too far gone. He falls, screaming, rolling as he lands and bounds upright in a feat of agility of which I didn’t think him capable. Where others fell and crashed and died, Oran is upright with fury ripping from his throat in a wrenching cry.

  Lucil shakes her head and I cry out for them. Oran turns. He sees me and he yells but I’m too distant to hear. Lucil touches her orb and is engulfed in silver light. Two dozen of the Marked touch the orbs and are frozen in the air.

  The others fall. More die. The trial has ripped the heart from our tribes as our future lies broken or bent on the arena floor.

  The Banded rises with a clap. “The trial is short today, tribes. Tomorrow will be another for those who failed to ascend. You will return and you will try again. What an honour it is that the architects have given you this second chance.”

  I blink. This cannot be right. There is never a second trial, one at a time, perhaps over days. Each cohort being shrunk by attrition until only the most worthy ascend and never with the kind of toll of death that we’ve seen here. But never two trials. The architects would not be so cruel.

  The arena returns to flat, sandy dirt and our people hesitate for a moment. Then the moans of the injured grow loud and even the most reluctant of us rush to their aid. That is the will of the architects; we leave none behind.