The chirping of birds broke the quiet of the room, their song filtering through the open windows and mingling with the dim morning light that stretched across the creaking floorboards. For a moment, the warmth on my face felt real with a touch I hadn't felt for long. Valeria. My chest tightened, but as I turned my head, I was greeted only by the emptiness of the room. She wasn’t here. She never was.
Rowan’s bed sat abandoned, the sheets a tangled mess. His suitcase was nowhere to be seen. No doubt he was downstairs, already halfway through his breakfast and chatting up whoever might listen. I lingered on the memory of the same dream of endless battle filled with blood, and gold. And yet, no new visions had come in weeks, as though the well of memories had dried up, leaving only silence.
I stretched, the stiffness of travel still lingering in my joints, and swung my legs over the side of the bed. My fingers brushed the amulet around my neck. A memory of her.
“Valeria,” I whispered, gripping the cool metal as if the name itself could summon her. “Where are you?”
With a sigh, I pushed myself to my feet. The room was silent except for the occasional groan of the floor beneath me. My suitcase lay neatly packed in the corner, and I rummaged through it for a fresh tunic and pants. The half-sleeved tunic left too much of my arms exposed, so I grabbed the wrappings and wound them tightly around my forearms. The black veins beneath my skin, those cursed remnants, stayed hidden. Better that way.
By the time I came downstairs, the common room was alive with the low hum of conversation. The scents of honeyed bread and spiced tea greeted me, blending with the earthy musk of the inn’s wooden beams. Rowan sat at a table near the corner, leaning back in his chair with that familiar grin of his.
Across from him sat Alina, fair and elegant in a way that stood out sharply against the weathered stone and wood around us. With a white off-the-shoulder blouse with voluminous sleeves, a corset-like top with laces, and high-waisted, dark leather pants.
Sylvie was sitting beside her with her usual attire of green grown, nibbling delicately at a piece of bread like some forest creature. She glanced up briefly as I entered, her green eyes unreadable, then returned to her quiet eating.
Two suitcases rested beside the table; Rowan’s battered brown leather one, scuffed and worn, and another far more luxurious and smaller. Black leather, polished to a gleam, its corners reinforced with silver studs. It looked out of place here.
I dropped my suitcase beside the others with a thud that turned heads, then placed my sword on the table. The heavy scabbard thumped against the wood, earning a disapproving glance from Alina.
“You’re finally up,” Rowan teased, leaning forward with a mock look of concern. “I thought you were cowering from the entrance exam. Dreaming of excuses, perhaps?”
“Keep talking,” I muttered, grabbing a slice of bread. “We’ll see who’s cowering by the day’s end.” I clapped a hand on his shoulder for emphasis.
Alina leaned forward, her hazel eyes tracing the hilt of my sword, where the dragon-headed pommel glinted faintly in the morning light. Her fingers hovered over it, not quite touching. “That’s a fine blade. Not like the cheap iron you see in most towns. Where did you come by it?”
“Forged from my father’s blade.” I tore a piece of bread with my teeth, chewing as I spoke. “It’s different, yes. Mother used to say, ‘Wand is just a tool, a vessel to cast spells. But the true magic lies within.’”
Alina smirked faintly, her head tilting in thought. “Wise words. But I suspect she also taught you not to swing a sword in a room full of scholars.”
Rowan chuckled, cutting in. “He swings it fine enough. Haven’t seen him cut anyone in half yet, but the day’s still young.”
Alina turned to Sylvie, who was focused intently on her bread. Her small hands gripped it like it might escape her, but her sharp green eyes flicked up as Alina spoke. “What do you think, Sylvie? Ever seen someone wield a sword and magic at the same time?”
Sylvie swallowed her bite, her tone cool and measured. “It’s rare, but not impossible. There are those who cast without wands. The rules are different for them. The magic is raw, untamed. But for my kind, magic comes as easily as breathing.”
Her words hung in the air, and Rowan leaned closer, whispering to me. “Think she’s showing off, or is she just that powerful?”
“Both,” I muttered under my breath, tearing off another bite of bread.
Rowan turned to Sylvie, grinning. “Well, if magic is second nature, why don’t you teach Einar here? He could use a little grace.”
Sylvie’s wings fluttered faintly, catching the light. “Teaching humans is a tedious business,” she replied, her tone as sharp as the edge of a blade. “Most of you lack the patience. And my essence is different from your kind.”
Rowan opened his mouth to retort, but I raised a hand, cutting him off. “Save your words. We’ve got enough to worry about today.”
He snorted, though his grin didn’t falter. “Fair enough. But if you’re still nervous, don’t worry. I’ll make sure one of us gets through.”
“I’m sure you are talking about me,” I said, shaking my head.
Alina leaned closer to the table, her fingers tracing the edge of her polished suitcase. “The entrance exam is no joke,” she said. “Two phases. The written part will test your theoretical knowledge—basic runes, alchemy, the principles of casting. The practical, though… that’s where it gets interesting. Professors will assess your problem-solving and your instincts. Sometimes they throw in puzzles, sometimes alchemy formulas, and sometimes…” She hesitated, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “...they test your creativity. It all depends on their mood.”
Rowan groaned, slumping back in his chair. “Potion creation and puzzles? Will my good looks work in my favour?”
Alina arched a brow. “You’d need good looks for that to work.”
Sylvie let out a faint chuckle, though her face betrayed no amusement.
By the time we finished breakfast, the excitement bubbling in the room was almost enough to drown out the lingering tension. I grabbed my sword and strapped it to my side, the weight familiar and reassuring. Rowan slung his coat over his shoulder, and Alina grabbed her sleek black suitcase.
“Good luck," Sylvie said, her voice soft yet distinct.
————————————
The bridge stood before us, its massive stone arches stretching over the murky waters like the spine of a great beast. The morning sun on the east barely penetrated the lingering fog over the waters and the bridge, leaving them shrouded in a pale, ethereal haze. Ahead, clusters of students, most our age or slightly older, trudged toward the island. Their voices were a low murmur carried on the breeze, blending with the distant calls of gulls circling above the harbour.
Rowan walked beside me, his brown coat swinging slightly with each step, his pace as unhurried as his usual grin. “Do you think we’ll get to see the headmaster?” His voice carried a note of curiosity, but not much hope.
Alina, a few steps ahead of us, snorted softly, the sound as sharp and dismissive as her footsteps on the stone bridge. “There’s a chance,” she said, her tone cool and certain, “but only for those who pass the entrance. The headmaster doesn’t waste time on entrance exams.”
Rowan shrugged, unfazed. “What if I charm him? Give him one of my winning smiles?”
Alina didn’t turn around but tossed her words over her shoulder like daggers. “Don’t even try that on the first day. You will scare most of the students.”
I smirked faintly, tightening the strap of the sword at my side. “She’s not wrong there.”
Rowan groaned dramatically, running a hand through his messy brown hair. “You two are relentless. One day, I’ll show you. The headmaster himself will laugh at my jokes.”
“Just do well in both of the tests, and you’ll get better class allocations. Unless you’re aiming to clean cauldrons most of the time in the college.”
“Noted,” Rowan muttered, though his usual grin flickered back. “I’ll leave the practical to the goddess, it’s time for my wish to come true.”
I glanced at him, crimson eyes narrowing slightly. “Keep talking, and even she might leave you behind.”
He chuckled nervously but quickened his pace.
The path shifted from stone to dirt as we reached the island’s edge, the dense woods ahead casting long shadows over the road. Trees with wide, waxy leaves towered on either side, their branches heavy with dew. The air was thick with the scent of morning damp and wildflowers—cosmos with their purple petals lined the road, and the faint, sweet perfume of jasmine drifted on the breeze, though the source of it was nowhere to be seen.
The three of us walked in relative silence for a time, the sounds of our footsteps muffled by the damp earth. As the trees began to thin, the view ahead opened onto a vast plain. There, framed against the horizon, stood the massive college.
The sight was enough to silence even Rowan.
The college was a fortress in every sense of the word. Its towering structure stretched far across the plains. Four spires clawed at the sky, each one crowned with banners bearing the burning phoenix, Zenith’s sigil. At the heart of the fortress, a main building stood, its towering building goes through the cloud, like House of Shadows in Thresha. Beyond the iron gates, the sprawling grounds stretched into the distance, dotted with students and faculty moving like ants in a hive.
Rowan let out a low whistle. “That... is a lot bigger up close.”
Alina’s lips curved faintly, though she didn’t look at him. “And more intimidating. This isn’t some common school, Rowan. Zenith has produced some of the greatest minds in the magical world and even some of its deadliest.”
Ahead of us, a group of students was gathering near a raised platform to the left of the gates. On the platform stood a man in his late forties, his long black coat trimmed with grey at the collar and edges. His dark hair was tied back, and though he was speaking quietly with two others—students, judging by their black uniforms and blue-edged cloaks—there was an air of authority about him that made the crowd keep its distance.
“That’s Professor Reynard Thornveil,” Alina said, her tone low. “He’s been here over a decade.”
Rowan tilted his head. “He doesn’t look like much.”
“Then you’re blind,” Alina retorted. “Look at how he carries himself. That’s not just any sorcerer; that’s a man who’s fought battles with their life on the line.”
To the right of the platform, a long table had been set up where other students were handing over papers to professors in grey robes. Alina nudged me, nodding toward the table. “You’ll need to submit your letters there. That’s the first step.”
I opened my suitcase, pulling out the two letters tucked within. One was the certification of eligibility, while the other was a letter from Lord Thorvald, his heavy-handed seal pressing into the parchment.
Rowan clapped me on the back. “Go on. We’ll wait here.”
I gave a short nod and walked toward the table. The queue was short, and soon enough I was face-to-face with a senior student, his black uniform and polished boots a stark contrast to the ragged leather and cloth worn by every student.
“Late submission?” His voice was flat.
“Yes.” I handed over the letters.
He took them without a word, his eyes scanning the certification before passing the letter to the professor beside him. The professor, an older man with a greying beard and a monocle perched on his nose, read the Lord’s letter with careful scrutiny. His expression didn’t shift, but when he finished, he nodded once and placed the seal of approval on my certification.
The student handed it back to me, his tone clipped. “That will be all. Go stand with the others. The exam will begin shortly.”
I returned to Rowan and Alina, my steps lighter than before. Excitement and tension swirled in my chest, the sense of progress pushing me forward. Surrounding us, nearly a hundred other applicants gathered in clusters, their faces displaying a mix of nerves and determination. Most were like us: latecomers, stragglers, or those hoping to give one chance.
The murmurs of the crowd fell silent as Professor Thornveil stepped to the edge of the platform. His presence alone demanded attention, his voice cutting through the quiet with ease.
“Welcome, applicants, to the most prestigious and rigorous exam in the land of Ihera,” he began, his tone even but firm. “I am Reynard Thornveil. Many of you know me as a professor of defence arts against various forms of magic. You stand here today because you believe you are worthy of wielding magic. But let me be clear: that is for us to decide.”
A faint murmur rippled through the crowd, quickly silenced by the weight of his gaze.
“There will be two phases to this exam,” Professor continued. “Written and practical. You will be tested on your knowledge, your skill, and your character. Do not falter. And above all…” His voice hardened, each word striking like a hammer. “Do not cheat. Anyone caught will face consequences. Severe ones.”
Rowan shifted beside me, muttering under his breath. “I’d rather not find out what he means by that.”
“Then don’t even try to look at other’s paper,” I replied dryly.
Professor gestured to the seniors standing nearby. “Third-years, take the applicants to the allocated classrooms. They will hand over their belongings before the written exam begins. Any questions?”
No one spoke. The tension in the air was almost tangible.
“Good,” Professor said. “Now. Move!”
----------------------------------------
Gates loomed behind us as we entered the inner grounds of the college, their iron frames creaking faintly as they swung shut. The air here carried a distinct weight, thick with the scent of damp soil, fresh-cut grass and a faint smell of herbs lingering in the atmosphere. A fountain greeted us at the center of the courtyard, its waters dancing around a massive stone statue of hooded men holding wand in hand. The detail was mesmerizing, each hair of his beard carved with such precision that it seemed the stone itself might cast a spell at any moment.
The courtyard was alive with activity. Uniformed students moved purposefully along cobblestone paths that cut through fields of meticulously kept grass. Some wore black with blue trims, others bore accents of gold or green. It was clear that the colors denoted something—rank, perhaps, or specialization. A group of senior students passed by, their black hooded cloaks billowing in the breeze, heads held high with practiced indifference. The aura they carried was tangible: they belonged here. We were the intruders.
The main building loomed ahead, an architectural marvel that seemed to defy the constraints of time. Tall, arched windows lined its weathered stone walls, reflecting the morning light. But we veered left, following a path that wound along the outer walls toward a separate building, smaller but still imposing. It was an older structure, its exterior worn by centuries of wind and rain, yet its aura remained unyielding.
At the entrance, a cluster of seniors stood, stern and efficient, directing applicants and taking belongings. Tables had been set up along the wall, where suitcases and weapons were neatly arranged, each marked with slips of parchment bearing names scrawled in wet ink.
We stepped forward, Rowan grinning at the seniors as he handed over his battered suitcase. “Rowan Blackthorn,” he said, his voice casual as though he were introducing himself at a tavern rather than a centuries-old institution.
They handed him a slip of parchment, freshly inked, and placed his bag alongside others. Alina followed, her polished black suitcase looking far more at home here. She gave her name coolly and without flourish, receiving her slip with a nod of thanks.
I stepped up next, my sword catching a senior’s eye as I set it on the table alongside my suitcase. The dragon-headed pommel gleamed faintly in the light, the polished iron almost daring anyone to touch it.
“Einar Emberheart,” I said, my tone clipped. The senior raised an eyebrow at my name but said nothing, scribbling it quickly on the slip before sliding it onto my suitcase and sword. Both were carried away and stacked with the others.
The next step was a thorough check. One of the seniors stepped forward, wand in hand, and began tracing it along my body. A faint glow trailed behind the wand’s tip, pulsing with an energy I could feel prickling against my skin. It passed over my arms, chest, and legs before the senior gave a curt nod of approval. I stepped forward, following Rowan and Alina into the building.
The classroom smelled of ink, aged wood, and faint traces of fish oil from the lamps burning along the walls. The windows on either side of the room let in pale light that danced across the rows of long benches and tables. Everything about the room carried the weight of history—the worn floorboards, the black slate board at the front, the grooves in the desks from generations of students.
“This place is massive,” Rowan muttered, his brown eyes wide as he took it all in. He turned to Alina with a grin. “Come on, sit beside us. We’ll make it a party.”
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
“No chance,” Alina replied, her tone sharp but playful. “I’m not risking getting caught up in whatever scheme you two cook up.” She strode forward and took a seat a row ahead, her posture straight and poised.
Rowan and I dropped onto a bench near the back, the wood creaking faintly beneath us. The desk was large enough for two, and a pair of quills with ink pots sat neatly at each station. Alina glanced back once before settling in beside a black-haired girl who barely acknowledged her presence.
The faint buzz of chatter died instantly when the professor entered. She walked with purpose, her black robe swaying as she moved to the desk at the front of the room. She couldn’t have been older than her late thirties, though the sharpness in her black eyes suggested she’d seen enough to make up for her relative youth. Her hair was dark with faint streaks of purple at the tips, a subtle touch that somehow made her presence more commanding.
She scanned the room, her gaze settling on each of us for a brief moment before she spoke. “Good morning, applicants. I am Professor Marwen Stellaris, and I will be overseeing your written exam today.” Her voice was smooth yet carried an edge that demanded attention.
“Before we begin, ensure you’ve handed over all your belongings,” she continued, her dark eyes narrowing. “If anyone is caught cheating, you will regret it. Do not test me.”
The room fell into a tense silence. Even Rowan, usually so quick to make light of a situation, sat perfectly still.
“Very well,” Professor Stellaris said, her tone shifting to something almost pleasant. “The written exam will consist of twenty-five questions, offering a total of fifty points. The minimum passing grade is thirty-five points, which will grant you an E. Anything higher will improve your allocation in classes. If you fail to meet the threshold, you will have the opportunity to earn points in the second round. But let me be clear—those who score poorly here will face an uphill battle.”
With a flick of her wand, stacks of parchment floated into the air, gliding gracefully toward each row. The papers landed neatly on the front desks, and she gestured for them to be passed back.
I took the sheet and handed the rest behind me, the coarse texture of the parchment rough beneath my fingers. The exam packet was thicker than I’d expected, six pages bound loosely at the top. I glanced at Rowan, who held his copy like it might bite him. He gave me a nervous laugh.
“You have one hour,” Professor Stellaris announced. “Answer what you know. Do not linger on questions that stump you. Begin.”
The first question stared back at me: ‘What is ‘exhaustion’ in the context of magic? Describe two methods of recovering essence quickly.’
My thoughts drifted to my mother, how she collapsed after using magic to unseal my essence. Exhaustion. I wrote quickly, the quill scratching against the parchment as the words poured out.
Each section challenged a different part of me. ‘Draw the correct rune pattern for ‘Sol.’’ Simple enough—I had memorized it from the carvings on my mother’s wand. Name two ingredients for brewing a healing potion. Blisterwort and white mushrooms. Easy.
Then came harder ones. ‘If a potion turns green during brewing, what does it signify?’ I stared at the question for a moment too long, willing the answer to surface. Nothing came. I cursed under my breath and moved on, unwilling to waste more time.
Moving on to the history section. ‘What was the Great War of the Second Age?’ I wrote quickly, recounting the war fought between the dark forces and the kingdoms of Ihera. It had ended the shortest era in recorded history, the so-called ‘Old Era’ or ‘Dark Age,’ and marked the beginning of the Third Age, the one we live in now.
The hardest was ‘Who were the major houses of the First Council?’ My quill hesitated before scratching down: House Leonhart, House Vincent, House Bloodrose, House Evergreen, House Ork’thul, and House Blackthorn. The coalition of humans, elves, dwarves, and orcs formed after the Dark Forces' first invasion. But the alliance had crumbled under the weight of its differences. A cautionary tale, if ever there was one.
The rest of the exam blended a mix of knowledge and moral tests. ‘What beast is commonly used to obtain "Ice Tears"?’ I wrote down ‘frosthawks,’ though I wasn’t entirely certain. ‘Describe one weakness of cave bears.’ Their sensitivity to light and fire came to mind immediately.
Then the ethical dilemmas: ‘Would you focus on destruction magic or restoration magic? Why?’ and ‘A monster threatens your village. Do you fight it yourself, seek help, or evacuate? Explain.’ The questions demanded not just logic but a glimpse into who I was. I answered honestly: destruction magic matched my nature, and battle in the village had taught to only fight, when there’s a proper plan.
Quills scratched against parchment, and the occasional nervous cough echoed through the silent classroom. My hand cramped as I scrawled the last of my answers, my eyes flicking over the page to check for mistakes.
“Time’s up,” Professor Stellaris said, her voice cutting through the stillness like a blade.
Around the room, quills dropped onto desks. Rowan sighed audibly beside me, slumping back in his chair as though he’d survived a battlefield. I glanced over to Alina, who sat with her quill poised neatly on the desk, her expression calm and confident. She caught my eye and allowed herself a faint, knowing smirk.
Professor Stellaris waved her wand, and the test papers flew from the desks, stacking themselves neatly into a pile on her desk. “You may leave the classroom,” she announced. “Your seniors will be waiting outside. They will lead you to your next destination. Good luck.”
Rowan exhaled beside me, his relief palpable. “Well,” he muttered, “that wasn’t so bad. Probably passed, I think.”
“Hopefully,” I replied, setting my quill down.
Alina joined us as we filed out of the room, her expression confident but not smug. “That wasn’t hard. I’m aiming for an A,” she said casually, though there was a glint of pride in her hazel eyes.
“Of course you are,” Rowan muttered, shaking his head with a smile. “The rest of us mere mortals will have to settle for scraping by.”
“Speak for yourself,” I added dryly, though I kept my thoughts guarded. The test had been manageable, but I couldn’t shake the nagging doubt. They weren’t just testing knowledge, but they were studying us. Our nature. Our choices. What we might become in the future.
Outside, the seniors were waiting, their expressions as unreadable as ever. The courtyard buzzed with nervous energy as students filed out of their classrooms, and I could feel the anticipation building for whatever came next. Rowan, ever the optimist, clapped me on the shoulder.
“Onward to the next trial,” he said, his grin never wavering.
Alina smirked faintly, her gaze sweeping over the courtyard. “You’re far too cheerful for someone who just went through one of the hardest tests of his life.”
“Cheerful’s what keeps me sane,” Rowan quipped.
I remained silent, my eyes fixed on the spires of the main building on the right. The written test was already behind us, but the real challenges were still ahead. Whatever those professors had in store next, I wasn’t planning on failing.
----------------------------------------
We were guided toward the gathering hall, located to the far left of the main building. The walk was a slow procession, our group funnelled down a wide corridor, where the faint whispers of students ahead echoed like ghostly reminders of the tests to come. When we arrived, the gathering hall itself was more intimate compared to the grandiose main hall, though no less imposing.
A group of seniors stood at the front of the room. One of them, a female student with short brown hair and a commanding air, held a sheet of paper in her hands. The list of names written on it.
She stepped forward, her voice cutting through the hushed murmurs like a blade. “Aaranoc Leapis. Get inside.”
A man pushed his way through the group, older than most of us, his tanned skin and weathered face marking him as someone who had lived a harder life than many here. He strode toward the door without hesitation, his shoulders squared. The door closed behind him, and the room settled into an uneasy quiet, the only sound the soft scratching of quills as the seniors took notes.
Minutes passed before his shadow appeared in the far doorway, exiting the room. Ten minutes, I guessed. Maybe more.
The names were called, one after another. Each applicant disappeared into the room, swallowed by its silence. Time seemed to crawl and yet blur at the same time. My heartbeat quickened with every step forward, my fingers curling and uncurling at my sides in an attempt to keep calm.
Alina’s name came next.
She turned to Rowan and me, her expression calm but focused. “Wish me luck,” she said, though the faint smile on her lips made it clear she didn’t need it.
Rowan grinned, clapping her on the shoulder. “You don’t need it, but good luck anyway.”
I nodded, offering a small, silent gesture of support. She disappeared through the door, and the wait resumed.
An hour or two has passed before my name was finally called.
“Einar Emberheart,” the female senior announced, her tone sharp and formal.
My body jolted as though struck by lightning, but I quickly steadied myself. “Yes,” I replied, stepping forward. The crowd parted around me as I approached the door.
The room was vast, its high ceilings and long windows framing the light in soft streaks that cut through the faint haze of burning candles. Shadows danced across the polished stone floors, shifting as the chandelier above swayed slightly in the draft. The scent of old wood and parchment mingled with the faint tang of herbs.
My boots scuffed the floor as I stepped into the room, feeling the weight of a dozen pairs of eyes on me. To the side, senior students lounged on the benches, their expressions varied—some curious, others indifferent, a few sharp and unreadable. Their uniforms, trimmed with blue, set them apart, as did their postures—effortless confidence tinged with superiority.
Three of them caught my attention immediately with different red shades then the others: a silver-haired elven girl with golden eyes that seemed to cut straight through me, a black-haired girl with amethyst eyes as cold as frost, and a blonde boy whose emerald gaze carried a smugness that only noble blood could breed. They sat together like wolves guarding their den, their stares heavy with judgment.
At the center of the room, a single chair waited, its dark wood polished to a faint sheen, flanked by a narrow table. A quill, inkpot, parchment, and a wand rested on the tabletop, meticulously arranged as though they’d been placed there for someone far more important than me. Above it all, on the raised dais, sat the five professors, their expressions a study in contrasts.
The woman in the left spoke first, her voice sharp but steady, like a blade being drawn from its sheath. She was older, her grey robes loose but elegant, her presence one of quiet authority. “Mister Emberheart,” she said, glancing briefly at the parchment in her hands before locking her gaze on me. “I am Professor Varon. Each five of us will present you with a task or question. Your responses and explanation will determine your score. A maximum of ten points can be earned from each of us, based on the quality of your answers.” She leaned forward slightly, her grey eyes unflinching. “Do you have any questions?”
I straightened in my seat, clasping my hands together to keep them still. “None, Professor.”
“Good,” she said with a curt nod. “We’ll begin with alchemy. That is my field of expertise.” She gestured to a senior sitting to the right, who rose and carried three small vials to my table.
The vials were unlabelled, their contents nearly identical—three amber liquids, smooth and viscous, glinting faintly under the light. The senior placed them before me without a word before stepping back.
The professor continued, her tone precise. “The task is simple. Before you are three potions. One heals burns, one cures small scratches, and one alleviates cold symptoms. They share a common ingredient but function differently. Your job is to identify the potion that heals burns. You may touch, smell, and taste them if necessary. You have two minutes. Begin.”
I leaned forward, studying the vials carefully. Identical at first glance, but that meant nothing. The brewing process often altered texture, consistency, even scent. I picked up the first vial, uncorked it, and tipped a drop onto my fingertip. The liquid was thin, slipping from my skin almost immediately. A sharp, pungent smell hit my nose—Mountain Ginseng, paired with the unmistakable undertone of Blisterwort. A combination known for treating colds.
Setting it down, I moved to the second vial. This one was thicker, clinging to my finger like syrup. The scent was softer, almost floral—Blue Lily, a plant with mild restorative properties, mingled with Blisterwort again. I frowned. This one seemed more promising, but it didn’t quite match what I knew of burn remedies.
The third vial was thicker still, almost gooey, with a faint golden sheen. I dipped my finger into it, rolling it between my fingers. The smell was sweeter—Tea Leaves and Honey, both known for soothing burns. Combined with the base of Blisterwort, it made sense. I set the vial to the side, confident in my choice.
The professor’s voice cut through my thoughts. “Have you made your decision?”
“Yes,” I said, nodding. A senior approached, and I handed him the vial. He carried it to the professor, who examined it briefly, her expression unreadable.
“And your reasoning?” she asked, her tone calm but expectant.
“The smell,” I began, meeting her gaze. “The combination of Tea Leaves and Honey is commonly used to treat burns, both for their soothing properties and their ability to reduce inflammation. The consistency also stood out—thicker than the others, which suggests it’s meant for topical application rather than ingestion. The other two potions, while effective for other ailments, didn’t match the criteria. The first smelled of Mountain Ginseng, used for colds, while the second lacked the necessary viscosity for a burn remedy.”
She watched me carefully, her grey eyes narrowing slightly as though weighing my words. Finally, she gave a single nod. “Very well. Professor Selvar, the next task is yours.”
The man sitting at the far right corner grinned as he leaned forward, his dark brown eyes gleaming with mischief. He was younger than the others, perhaps in his early thirties, with an easygoing demeanour that put me instantly on edge. “Good morning, Mister Emberheart,” he said, his tone light. “Let’s see how sharp your instincts are, shall we? Please step forward.”
I stood and crossed the room, my boots clicking against the stone as I approached his table. Three apples rested in front of him that were not present before like he summoned them, arranged neatly in a row. They were flawless—smooth red skins, faintly glistening as though freshly polished.
“Your task is simple: identify the real apple. The other two are illusions. You have one minute. You may observe, but you cannot touch. Begin.”
The corner of the room was dimmer than the rest, the light from the chandelier barely reaching the table and even the lamp was not lit. I narrowed my eyes, shifting my position to examine the apples from different angles. At first, they were indistinguishable, each casting faint shadows on the table.
I moved to the side, watching carefully as the shadows shifted. That was when I noticed a flicker. The shadows of the two apples on the left wavered, unnatural in the low light. The apple on the right, however, remained steady, its shadow sharp and consistent.
I stepped back, pointing to the apple on the right. “This one, Professor.”
Professor Selvar tilted his head, his grin never faltering. “Oh? And why do you believe that’s the real one?”
“The shadow,” I replied confidently. “The illusions were crafted well, but their shadows didn’t hold under scrutiny. When I changed angles, the shadows of the other two apples wavered. The real one remained constant.”
He leaned forward, his grin softening into something more thoughtful. “Anything else you noticed?”
I hesitated, scanning the apples again, but nothing else stood out. “No, Professor.”
Professor Selvar sighed softly, leaning back in his chair. “Very well. You can get back to your seat. Professor Faeheart, he’s all yours.”
As I sat, Professor Faeheart adjusted her loose black and white robes and leaned forward slightly. Her brown hair was tied into a loose braid, and her warm brown eyes studied me with an air of gentle curiosity. Despite her kind demeanor, her gaze carried the same weight as the others.
“I will be asking you a very simple question, Mister Emberheart," she said in a calm, deliberate tone. "How would you treat your companion’s wounds caused by a sword if you lacked a stitching kit or proper bandages? You cannot use high-tier spells, and you are alone in a camp.”
Simple, she had said. But the question was anything but simple. My chest tightened as I tried to recall anything practical I had heard from the villagers or from Loth’s traveling tales. I had never treated sword wounds firsthand. Loth had once told me about how he treated someone after a skirmish with bandits, using only a heated blade and cloth wraps dipped in warm water. It was crude, at best, but it had kept the person alive long enough to reach proper help.
I cleared my throat, my voice steady despite the pressure. “With limited resources, I would burn the wound to stop the bleeding. I’d then use cloth dipped in warm water as a makeshift bandage to cover it and prevent further infection. That would buy time until I could get them to someone more skilled, like a doctor or someone with proper tools.”
Professor Faeheart smiled faintly, her expression more amused than critical. “That would work for a time, Mister Emberheart,” she said, her tone almost playful. “Though you might find your patient developing an infection from the burning. Still, it’s a practical answer given your limited options.” She paused and glanced to her side. "That will be all from me. Professor Bloodrose—"
Before she could finish, the professor sitting at the center raised a hand. His presence immediately silenced the air, his voice carrying the kind of calm authority that turned heads. “If I may, Professor Bloodrose?”
The professor on his side nodded, leaning back in his chair.
The man turned his gaze to me, and I felt it settle over me like a heavy cloak. His silver-blue robes caught the faint light from the chandeliers above, his long white hair tied back neatly, his pointed ears marking him as elven. His very presence demanded respect, and I straightened instinctively in my seat.
“Good morning, Einar Emberheart,” he said, his voice warm yet probing. “I am Syrus D’Athrin, headmaster of this prestigious college. I have been listening carefully to your answers. Many of them have been... interesting. While not all were entirely correct, your confidence is worth noting. However, I would like to ask you something far more important.”
He leaned forward slightly, his eyes piercing. “Why do you want to learn magic? What does it truly mean to you?”
The question hit me harder than I expected, like a stone hurled straight to the chest. Why? That was a question I’d asked myself so many times over the trip. Before everything, the answer had been clear: I wanted to protect them. But now, with no family beside me, no home, and even the magic inside me threatening to devour me whole, the answer was different. It wasn’t about honour, glory, or ambition. It was about survival.
I hesitated, lowering my gaze to the table in front of me. “Learning magic,” I began, my voice quiet but steady, “is the only option left for me. What does it mean to me?” I paused, my fingers gripping the edge of the chair as I lifted my eyes to meet his. “It means salvation. Nothing more, nothing less.”
The room fell silent for moments before it was broken by the Professor Bloodrose, who cleared his throat. He was a tall man with raven-black hair tied back neatly, his sharp features framed by a deep black robe with crimson shades.
“Good morning, Mister Emberheart,” he said plainly, his tone carrying none of the warmth of the headmaster’s. “For your final task, I would like you to perform a basic flame spell using the wand on your table.”
I stared at the wand lying on the table as though it were a coiled viper. It was simple and black, its surface smooth and unadorned. I swallowed hard before speaking, my voice low. “I’ve never cast a spell before, Professor.”
Professor Bloodrose raised an eyebrow, his expression unmoving. “You’ve read about the basics, I assume? You must have come across flame spells in your studies. Surely you can attempt it, even if you’ve never cast one before.”
“I...” My words faltered. I could feel the weight of everyone’s eyes; the professors, the seniors, even the headmaster. “I’ll try,” I said finally, my voice firmer than I felt.
I stood, my legs stiff as I reached for the wand. Its surface was warm to the touch, but as I gripped it, it felt wrong. Slippery, like it was fighting to escape my hold. I clenched it tightly, too tightly, feeling the tension run through my fingers.
Taking a deep breath, I began the pattern read from the book; start with long downward, left, back to center, then downward again. My movements were deliberate, careful. The wand absorbed a faint flicker of my essence as I traced the motions, and I spoke the incantation clearly: “Yolstra.”
Nothing happened.
The silence in the room deepened, broken only by the faint creak of wood as I shifted uncomfortably. The spell had failed. No flicker of flame, not even a spark, nothing but the quiet rustle of my cloak hiding the faint sound of wood cracking.
The chuckle came from the side audience. I turned slightly and saw individuals. One girl lips curled into a faint smirk as she leaned toward her companions, whispering something that made the blonde boy beside her grin.
Professor Bloodrose let out a sigh, one that was heavy with disappointment. “That will be all,” he said, his tone clipped. “You may leave the room through the back door. Thank you.”
I placed the wand back on the table without even look back at it, the weight of embarrassment clawing at my chest. I didn’t dare look at the professors as I turned and walked toward the exit. My footsteps echoed in the quiet hall, the door creaking as I pushed it open and stepped outside.
The air was fresh, carrying the faint scent of grass and the distant hum of voices from other applicants milling about the front yard. I exhaled slowly, the tension in my chest easing slightly, though the weight of what had just happened lingered.
I didn’t know what my performance meant—if I had failed, if I had passed, or if I was somewhere in the middle. But as I stood there, watching the spires of the college rise against the sky, like a cliff in front, unaware of what truly even happened inside the hall.