The hush of early morning clung to the theater, a stark contrast to the streets beyond its towering doors. The air smelled of dust and cooling lantern oil, the last remnants of the previous night's revelry. Somewhere in the rafters, a stagehand coughed before shifting into more sleep, but within the grand hall itself, silence ruled.

Razalea sat in the dressing chamber, staring into the polished metal of her mirror, though her own face was barely recognizable. The kohl-lined eyes, the painted lips, the shimmering dust across her cheeks—remnants of Raze, the star—were almost gone, wiped away in slow, methodical strokes. Only in the dim light of morning did her own reflection feel like a stranger. A faint knock at the door. She exhaled. "Come in."

Ridian pushed the door open with an amused smirk, arms crossed over his chest. Even in the poor lighting, his green eyes caught the glow of the dying lanterns. "Thought you'd still be sleeping," he said, glancing at the half-packed travel chest beside her. "Planning an escape?"

She rolled her eyes and kept scrubbing the last of the stage paint from her face. "Not all of us lounge around past sunrise, Greeves."

"Some of us don't have to. We let our stars do the hard work." He leaned against the vanity table, brushing his fingers across a silver hairpin resting there. His reflection met hers in the mirror, sharp-eyed and curious. "You heard the commotion outside?"

Razalea stiffened. She had, though only faintly. At first, she'd ignored it, dismissing it as another street brawl or some unfortunate merchant being chased down for his debts. But it hadn't stopped. Instead of answering, she stood, wrapping a dark cloak around her shoulders and securing it at her throat. The disguise was second nature—nothing extravagant, nothing memorable. The kind of face no one would look at twice.

Ridian sighed, already knowing what that meant. "You're going, aren't you?" "Just to see," she replied.

"And if it's dangerous?"

"Then I'll stay out of it."

Ridian didn't look convinced, but he didn't stop her either. He never did.

The city beyond the theater was already awake, but the normal flow of merchants and passersby had been disrupted. People stood in clusters, heads tilted toward the eastern road, their voices lowered to murmurs.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Razalea slipped between them, invisible yet all-seeing, listening.

"Did you hear?" someone whispered near a stall. "The trial starts soon. Some say the first duel will be the bloodiest in years." A young woman scoffed. "Not if Lord Merivale's son enters. He's a prodigy—they say he's already bonded to a wyvern." "He's not the one I'd be worried about," an older man muttered.

"It's the others. The desperate ones. The ones who need to win." The trials.

A chill licked up Razalea's spine, but she forced herself to walk on, feigning disinterest. The academy's entrance exams weren't a secret, nor was their reputation. They didn't just test magic or strength—they tested survival. People had died in previous years, and yet the kingdom still gathered like hungry wolves to watch.

Another voice cut through the murmurs, hoarse and urgent. "You think the peace will hold if they let more in?"

Razalea paused. She turned her head just slightly, enough to see the speaker—a man hunched against a cart, voice lowered to his companion. His coat bore an unfamiliar crest, half-concealed by travel dust. "The peace is barely a decade old," his companion replied, tone wary. "The academy is a weapon. It always has been."They moved away before she could catch the rest, their words sticking to her ribs like a warning. She turned her gaze to the east. In the farthest distance, beyond the clustered rooftops, the academy loomed.

Its banners, woven with sigils and magic, fluttered in the morning wind, and even from this distance, she could swear she could smell them. Cold. Strange. Unnatural. She clenched her jaw and turned away.

By the time she returned to the theater, Hyrus von Veerd was waiting. The renowned theater master stood by the stage, arms clasped behind his back, surveying the empty hall. Even in his fifties, he radiated the air of a man who knew everything before it was spoken. "You went out," he said, not looking at her. Razalea hesitated. It wasn't a question.

"I heard the noise," she admitted. "Thought I'd see for myself." Hyrus finally turned, his sharp, dark eyes sweeping over her with amusement. "And? What did our star learn?" She didn't answer immediately. She chose her words carefully. "The kingdom is restless," she finally said. "The trials stir more than just students. The merchants, the travelers—they all came because of it. They're spending freely, eager for distraction."

A slow smile crept onto Hyrus's lips. "And you thought this the perfect time for a performance?" Razalea met his gaze. "I know it is."

For a moment, he simply studied her. Then, he laughed—a rich, knowing sound. "That's why I like you, Raze," he mused, shaking his head. "Not just a performer, but a schemer."She said nothing, only watching as he turned away, already considering the next move in their game of profit and illusion.

"Good," he said. "Then let's make sure our audience leaves starving for more."