Elyan stood before the iron gates of the Atherys Conclave, his heart pounding in his chest. He couldn’t shake the sense of déjà vu, the overwhelming certainty that he’d already walked this path. He looked up at the fog-shrouded walls, and the serpent-and-eye insignia carved into the iron seemed to stare down at him, mocking him.

“Elyan Lysandris of House Lysandris,” came a familiar voice, sharp and cold.

He turned to find Master Saerin regarding him with that same unreadable expression, the same faint sneer of disdain. The scene was unfolding exactly as it had before. The realization struck Elyan like a physical blow: he had, indeed, been here before.

“You’re the last to arrive,” Saerin said, echoing words that felt burned into Elyan’s memory. “I was starting to think the infamous son of Lysandris was avoiding his own trials.”

Elyan’s gaze narrowed. There was no way this was real. It couldn’t be. He should’ve left this conversation behind, moved forward, but here he was, trapped in the exact same moment, as though the world itself had rewound.

“I…” he began, hesitating.

Saerin’s thin smile did not waver. “Cat got your tongue?”

“No,” Elyan said quickly, steadying himself. He forced a nonchalant tone. “I was delayed.”

Saerin raised an eyebrow but said nothing, stepping aside just as he had before. “Then you’ll find the others already waiting in the Hall of Mirrors. Don’t keep them waiting.”

With a curt nod, Elyan walked past him, his mind churning. He needed to figure out what was going on, and he needed to do it fast.

Inside the Conclave, Elyan noticed that every detail was exactly as it had been before: the flickering torchlight casting shifting shadows on the stone walls, the distant murmur of students’ voices, even the faint whiff of incense lingering in the corridors. But as he moved deeper into the fortress, a strange sense of unreality settled over him, like he was a ghost walking through memories instead of the present.

He found himself back at the door to the Hall of Mirrors, his own face staring back at him from the polished surface of the glass walls inside. Only this time, he hesitated. The trial in the Hall had shaken him before, and he couldn’t ignore the feeling that it held some key to this twisted repetition.

He stepped forward, crossing the threshold into the circular chamber. Once again, he was surrounded by reflections on every side, each version of himself staring back with the same tense expression. But he wasn’t here to test himself this time; he was here to confirm a theory.

“Elyan Lysandris,” his reflection intoned, just as before. “Tell me, are you here to prove yourself, or just to prove them wrong?”

Elyan clenched his fists, willing himself to stay calm. This time, he would control the conversation.

“What are you?” he demanded, cutting off his reflection’s taunting smirk. “Why am I back here, reliving the same day?”

The reflection tilted its head, an eerie echo of his own movements. “Is that what you believe?” it asked, a hint of mockery in its tone. “Or are you just afraid to face the truth?”

Elyan’s gaze hardened. “Stop playing games. Tell me what’s happening.”

The reflection’s smile widened, growing colder, more menacing. “You’re asking the wrong question, Lysandris. The real question is… what will you do with this chance?”

Before Elyan could respond, the light in the room dimmed, and his reflection faded, leaving him alone with only his confused, frustrated thoughts. The trial was over.

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But this time, Elyan didn’t leave the Hall of Mirrors with the same rattled feeling. Instead, he left with a grim determination. He was going to break this cycle, no matter what it took.

As he stepped back into the corridor, Elyan almost walked straight into Rehn Ivantis, who was loitering near the entrance with an anxious look on his face. Rehn’s eyes widened when he saw him.

“Elyan! I was waiting for you. Did… did you see it?” Rehn asked, tugging up his sleeve to reveal the red mark on his wrist, exactly as he had before.

Elyan’s stomach twisted. The mark was back, the same eerie brand he’d noticed on his own skin the first time through. This time, he didn’t bother to hide his frustration.

“Yes, Rehn. I saw it,” Elyan replied, trying to keep his tone steady. “Did you get any answers?”

Rehn glanced around nervously, as if fearing they were being overheard. “They say it’s a mark for something called the Gauntlet. Some kind of hidden trial that only a handful of students are chosen for. It’s supposed to be—”

“Deadly?” Elyan cut in, unable to hide his sarcasm. “If the Conclave is so invested in killing us, they could at least skip the theatrics.”

Rehn scowled, but his worry was clear. “This isn’t a joke, Lysandris. The Gauntlet is real. And it’s not just a test—it’s a rite of passage. You fail, and you disappear. You pass, and… well, no one really knows what happens then.”

Elyan stared at him, weighing his options. He could go through this conversation a hundred times, and Rehn’s words would never get him closer to the truth. He needed a different approach, a way to break through the scripted responses of this twisted cycle.

“Listen, Rehn,” he said, his voice low and urgent. “What if I told you I’m… repeating this day? That I’ve already been through this trial, talked to you in this exact spot, and heard the same words?”

Rehn blinked, clearly thrown off by the question. “Repeating the day? That’s… that’s impossible, Lysandris. Even you can’t twist time like that.”

Elyan let out a frustrated sigh, realizing it was useless to try explaining. But Rehn’s disbelief stirred something inside him—an idea he hadn’t considered before. Perhaps there was a way to use this loop, to test the boundaries of this prison. He was free to experiment, to try things he normally wouldn’t dare to, all without consequence. If the day would simply reset, he could push his limits, uncover the truth, and maybe—just maybe—find a way out.

That night, Elyan roamed the Conclave’s deserted halls alone, slipping down darkened corridors that had always seemed too intimidating before. His head spun with the weight of his discovery, his mind racing with plans.

But just as he was descending a narrow staircase toward the restricted catacombs, a familiar figure stepped out from the shadows—a tall, imposing man with piercing eyes and an air of authority that made every student shrink back in fear. Elyan’s blood ran cold.

It was Master Cailan Darynth, the Conclave’s chief overseer and a man renowned for his strict discipline and merciless trials. Cailan was one of the Conclave’s most formidable figures, a descendant of the old Darynth family, known for their mastery of forbidden magic and rumored to hold dangerous secrets that stretched back generations.

“Elyan Lysandris,” Cailan intoned, his voice deep and steady. “Out for a midnight stroll, are we?”

Elyan stiffened, forcing himself to meet Cailan’s gaze. “I… was curious about the trials, Master. I wanted to understand them better.”

Cailan’s eyes narrowed, studying him with unsettling intensity. “Curiosity is a dangerous trait here, boy. You would do well to mind your own boundaries, rather than venturing into places you do not belong.”

Elyan swallowed, carefully choosing his words. “I thought the trials were meant to push us to our limits, to test our knowledge and… ambition.”

Cailan’s mouth twitched into a faint smile, though it held no warmth. “Ambition is a powerful tool, Lysandris. But it is also a weapon that cuts both ways. Wield it carelessly, and you will be the one bleeding.”

Elyan held his gaze, refusing to let fear show. “And yet, the Conclave encourages ambition in all its students. Perhaps the Gauntlet is meant to see who can wield it without faltering.”

Cailan’s expression grew colder, his eyes glinting with something Elyan couldn’t quite place—approval, perhaps, or maybe suspicion. “You speak boldly, boy. Be careful that your words do not outpace your abilities.”

Without another word, Cailan turned and disappeared down the dark hallway, leaving Elyan alone with a renewed sense of purpose. He knew now that the Conclave wasn’t just watching him—they were testing him, pushing him to uncover secrets hidden in the very bones of this place.

As Elyan returned to his room, his mind spun with possibilities. He felt like he was on the verge of understanding something critical, something that could shatter the illusion of the Conclave’s authority. He clenched his fists, his resolve hardening. Tomorrow, when the day reset, he would push even further.

He would find a way out, no matter how many loops it took.

But as he drifted into a restless sleep, one last thought lingered in his mind, whispered like a warning from some unseen force.

Time itself is not your ally, Elyan. The deeper you go, the more it will cost you.