THE LAST DAY
The damp fog clung to Elyan’s skin as he strode up the narrow, winding path to the towering gates of the Atherys Conclave. The Conclave itself was an imposing fortress set against the gray cliffs, an ancient, twisted labyrinth of stone halls and tall, arched windows that always seemed dark from the outside. Generations of students had walked this same path, each hoping to master the arcane, each leaving a part of themselves within the walls. To Elyan, this place had always been more cage than sanctuary, its cold walls pressing in like an iron vise.
As he reached the gates, a faint flicker of movement caught his eye. He looked up to see the Conclave’s insignia—an intricate design of a serpent wrapped around a single, watchful eye—etched into the iron doors. It seemed to glint knowingly in the mist, as though aware of his every secret.
“Elyan Lysandris of House Lysandris,” came a voice from the shadows. Elyan stiffened, turning toward the figure who’d appeared by the gate: an old, robed man with a face that looked carved from stone. Master Saerin, head of studies and a figure of quiet menace in the Conclave.
“You’re the last to arrive,” Saerin continued, his voice low, scrutinizing. “I was starting to think the infamous son of Lysandris was avoiding his own trials.”
Elyan met the old man’s gaze coolly, feeling the weight of his lineage—a name that carried both prestige and shame in equal measure. The Lysandris family was ancient, one of the oldest lineages tied to the arcane arts, but Elyan’s branch was a fractured one, and his father had rarely spoken of it. The Conclave, however, never missed an opportunity to remind him of it.
“I was delayed,” Elyan replied, keeping his tone even. “But I’m here now.”
Master Saerin tilted his head, regarding him for a moment before stepping aside. “Then you’ll find the others already waiting in the Hall of Mirrors. Don’t keep them any longer.”
Elyan brushed past him, not wanting to give Saerin the satisfaction of a reply. As he entered, the heavy iron doors creaked shut behind him, sealing him in. The sound reverberated through the empty stone halls, and he felt an uninvited chill slide down his spine.
The Hall of Mirrors awaited him.
The Conclave’s hallways were a maze of faded tapestries and rough stone. The air was thick with the scent of age-old dust and flickering candle wax, an odor that had permeated the stones for centuries. Elyan’s footsteps echoed as he moved deeper into the fortress, passing rooms where legends had been born and others where students had met less fortunate fates. This place was a crucible, a testing ground that cared nothing for bloodlines or ambition—it stripped away facades until all that remained was raw will.
He turned a corner and spotted the door to the Hall of Mirrors. The door itself was unassuming, just dark wood with an iron handle, but the stories surrounding the room had always kept Elyan wary. The hall was reserved for only the most demanding trials, ones that tested the mind as much as the magic within.
He pushed the door open, and his reflection greeted him.
The Hall of Mirrors was a wide, circular chamber with every wall lined in glass so polished it reflected every detail with sharp precision. Elyan could see himself from every angle, a thousand versions of himself staring back. There he was: tall, lean, with a face hardened from years of being on guard. His hair was dark, tousled in the way that marked long days of study and restless nights. Beneath his gaze, hints of both his father’s stoicism and his own suppressed anger shone through.
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“Elyan Lysandris,” said a voice from the center of the room.
Elyan’s head snapped around. His reflection was still, yet the voice… it had come from his own likeness, and somehow, it held a tone that felt different—colder, challenging.
The reflection smirked. “Tell me, are you truly here to prove yourself? Or just to prove them wrong?”
Elyan’s hands clenched into fists. “You’re just an illusion, a spell designed to test me. I don’t have to answer to you.”
“Oh, but you do,” the reflection murmured, tilting its head. “You’re here to pass the trials, but tell me this, Lysandris: What are you willing to sacrifice? Your family name? Your pride? Or are you planning to simply coast by, as you always have?”
Elyan felt his face heat with anger, but he kept his voice steady. “I don’t need to justify myself to a mirror.”
The reflection laughed, a hollow, mocking sound. “Denial. Very well. But you’ll find that truth is less forgiving than a mirror. And it waits for you, just outside this room.”
The reflection’s gaze burned into him for a moment longer, then the light dimmed, leaving only his usual, unremarkable reflection staring back. Elyan felt a strange, heavy sense of finality settle over him, as if some unseen line had been crossed.
But as he stepped back out of the Hall, his mind drifted. He could still feel the reflection’s words echoing inside him, winding through his thoughts like a whisper he couldn’t shake.
In the dim light of his dormitory, Elyan rubbed at his wrist, noticing a faint mark—a tiny, almost imperceptible red streak that hadn’t been there before. His skin tingled, a pulsing ache that felt too real to be from any trial magic.
A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. He opened it to find Rehn Ivantis, a fellow student and one of the few people at the Conclave who didn’t annoy him.
Rehn, wiry and serious, always seemed on edge, and tonight was no different. “Did you see it?” he asked in a low voice, glancing over his shoulder as if the walls themselves were listening.
“See what?” Elyan replied, keeping his tone dismissive.
Rehn tugged up his sleeve, revealing a similar red mark on his wrist. “They’re marking us, Elyan. I’m not sure what it’s for, but… I’ve heard rumors.”
Elyan raised an eyebrow, feigning indifference even as his mind raced. “Rumors. You believe every word that passes through these halls, Rehn.”
Rehn leaned closer, his voice a tense whisper. “They say the Conclave is preparing us for something… something we might not survive.”
Elyan scoffed, but he couldn’t completely ignore the weight in Rehn’s voice. This place had its secrets, and some of them were rumored to be buried deep in the old catacombs, areas forbidden to students. Elyan had heard the legends—a vast network of passages where students had vanished without a trace.
“You should worry less about rumors and more about surviving tomorrow’s trials,” Elyan said, but the words felt hollow, even to himself.
Rehn’s eyes narrowed, catching the hint of doubt. “I hope your arrogance keeps you warm when the Conclave throws you to the wolves.” Without another word, he turned and disappeared down the hall, leaving Elyan alone with the lingering unease clawing at his chest.
That night, Elyan lay awake, staring up at the ceiling. The mark on his wrist continued to throb, each pulse filling him with a sense of dread he hadn’t felt before. What was the Conclave planning? And why did he feel like he was being watched… not by the instructors, but by something older, buried within the walls themselves?
He closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe, to calm his mind. But the moment he began to drift off, a faint voice echoed in his thoughts, as clear as if it were right beside him.
“Are you ready to start again, Elyan?”
His eyes snapped open, heart pounding. The room was dark, silent, unchanged… but something was wrong. Very wrong.
Before he could fully process it, his vision blurred, and the world around him seemed to twist and collapse, pulling him into a darkness that felt both endless and suffocating.
When he opened his eyes, he was standing outside the gates of the Atherys Conclave, fog curling around him as if the world itself had rewound. Students bustled past, chattering excitedly about the trials to come.
He’d gone back. Back to the beginning.
The iron gates loomed ahead, and the insignia of the serpent and the eye seemed to glint knowingly once more. A chill crept over him, colder than anything he’d felt before.
The last day had begun again.