Elyan’s eyes snapped open, and he found himself once again standing before the iron gates of the Atherys Conclave. The morning fog swirled around him, heavy and cold. He clenched his fists, his mind racing to process the impossibility of it all—this was the third time he had been here, in this same spot, listening to the distant murmur of students and watching the Conclave’s imposing towers loom in the mist.

And once again, he knew exactly what was about to happen next.

“Elyan Lysandris of House Lysandris,” Master Saerin’s voice cut through the silence. Elyan turned to face the Conclave’s head of studies, whose expression was as piercing as ever, though today Elyan caught a flicker of something new in his own reaction—a strange satisfaction in knowing what came next.

“You’re the last to arrive,” Saerin continued, sounding almost amused.

This time, Elyan didn’t bother to pretend surprise. Instead, he let a faint smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “Wouldn’t want to start the trials without the infamous son of Lysandris, would we?”

Saerin’s eyebrows shot up, and he paused, studying Elyan with suspicion. “You seem… different today.”

Elyan shrugged, keeping his tone casual. “Just eager to make my mark.” He stepped past Saerin and didn’t look back, a thrill of confidence sparking in his chest. He was no longer a passive observer in this loop; he was beginning to understand how he could manipulate it.

As he made his way through the Conclave’s ancient corridors, a plan began to form in his mind. If the day would only reset, then he had an opportunity—one he could use to test the boundaries, experiment, and push deeper into the Conclave’s secrets. Today, he would use the time loop to his advantage.

Back in the Hall of Mirrors, Elyan once again faced his reflection. But this time, he didn’t hesitate. As he entered the chamber, he met his own gaze head-on, his jaw set in defiance.

“Tell me, are you here to prove yourself, or just to prove them wrong?” the reflection began, its voice echoing eerily around the chamber.

Elyan smirked, crossing his arms. “Let’s skip the usual questions, shall we? I’m here to get answers.”

The reflection tilted its head, a spark of curiosity flickering in its eyes. “And what makes you think you deserve them?”

“Deserve?” Elyan repeated with a scoff. “You’re a reflection. A puppet in a magical mirror. I don’t need your permission.”

The reflection’s expression darkened, its lips twisting into a mocking smile. “Ah, so confident today, Lysandris. But confidence alone will not protect you.”

“Then let’s talk about protection,” Elyan replied, stepping closer, his gaze unflinching. “Why am I reliving this day? What does the Conclave want from me?”

The reflection laughed, a cold, hollow sound. “That, Elyan, is a question you will have to answer for yourself. But be warned—the truth will cost you more than you’re willing to pay.”

The light in the room dimmed, and Elyan’s reflection faded away, leaving him alone once again. He felt a surge of frustration, but he forced it down, focusing on the next part of his plan. He needed allies—people who could provide information, willingly or otherwise. And he knew exactly where to start.

As Elyan exited the Hall of Mirrors, he headed straight for the dormitory wing, where he knew he would find Rehn Ivantis. He located Rehn’s door and knocked, waiting until the wiry, anxious student appeared. Rehn’s eyes widened at the sight of him, as if he hadn’t expected to see Elyan so soon.

“Lysandris,” Rehn greeted him, glancing over his shoulder. “Didn’t expect you’d come knocking. What’s going on?”

“Rehn, I have a few questions,” Elyan said, stepping forward so Rehn had no choice but to let him in. “Close the door.”

Rehn looked wary but complied, shutting the door behind them. He turned to face Elyan, his brow furrowed. “What’s this about?”

Elyan wasted no time. “The mark on your wrist—the red one. You told me yesterday it was linked to something called the Gauntlet, a secret trial. I want to know everything you know about it.”

Rehn’s face went pale. “Why are you asking about that? We’re not supposed to—”

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

“Spare me the warnings,” Elyan interrupted, keeping his voice low but firm. “If the Conclave has marked us for something dangerous, then I intend to survive it. So tell me, Rehn, what exactly do you know?”

Rehn hesitated, but Elyan’s unrelenting stare seemed to wear him down. Finally, he sighed, glancing around as though the walls might be listening.

“Fine,” Rehn muttered, lowering his voice. “The Gauntlet is… it’s an old tradition. Only a handful of students get chosen each year, and they say it’s meant to test our loyalty to the Conclave. The ones who survive it are granted privileges—access to forbidden knowledge, and hidden areas of the Conclave. But the ones who fail…”

He trailed off, looking troubled. Elyan leaned in, pressing him. “What happens to the ones who fail?”

Rehn shook his head. “They disappear. No one ever sees them again.”

Elyan felt a chill settle over him, but he forced himself to stay focused. “And you think this mark means we’ve been chosen?”

“I don’t think it—I know it,” Rehn replied, clutching his wrist. “The mark binds us to the Gauntlet. It’s a contract. Breaking it is… impossible.”

Elyan studied Rehn, noting the fear in his eyes. For all his nerves, Rehn was clearly in deeper than he’d let on. Elyan decided to press his advantage.

“So how do we survive it?” he asked.

Rehn looked down, his expression bleak. “No one knows. That’s the point of the trial. They want us to struggle, to suffer. To prove our loyalty, our strength.”

“Or to weed out those they deem unworthy,” Elyan muttered, a bitter edge in his voice. “The Conclave has never been shy about culling the weak.”

Rehn nodded, his face pale. “Exactly.”

Elyan straightened, his mind racing with new possibilities. If the Gauntlet was real, then the Conclave was more dangerous than he’d realized. And if he was trapped in this time loop, then he had a rare opportunity to learn its secrets without suffering the consequences of failure.

“Thank you, Rehn,” he said, giving the other student a nod of acknowledgment. “You’ve been… helpful.”

Rehn looked uncertain, shifting his weight. “Are you… are you planning to take the Gauntlet?”

Elyan’s lips twisted into a grim smile. “I’m planning to survive it. And maybe find out what the Conclave is hiding along the way.”

Rehn stared at him for a moment, then gave a reluctant nod. “If anyone could do it… it would probably be you, Lysandris.”

Without another word, Elyan turned and left, his thoughts buzzing with newfound purpose. He knew now that the Gauntlet was real—and that it might hold the key to escaping this endless loop.

Later that evening, Elyan made his way to the Conclave’s library, a vast, echoing hall filled with shelves that stretched from floor to ceiling, laden with tomes bound in cracked leather and scrolls written in languages long dead. The flickering candlelight cast shifting shadows across the walls, giving the place an eerie, timeless atmosphere.

The library was mostly empty at this hour, save for one other student poring over a dusty volume at a nearby table. It was Lira Morys, a quiet, sharp-eyed girl with a reputation for knowing things she shouldn’t. Elyan had rarely spoken to her, but he’d always sensed there was more to her than met the eye.

He approached her table, and she looked up, arching an eyebrow.

“Elyan Lysandris,” she said, her voice cool and unhurried. “What an unexpected surprise. To what do I owe the honor?”

Elyan took a seat across from her, leaning forward. “Lira, I need information. And I’ve heard you’re the person to ask.”

Lira’s lips curved into a faint smile. “Flattery from you, Lysandris? I must admit, I’m intrigued. Go on.”

Elyan didn’t waste time on pleasantries. “The Gauntlet. What do you know about it?”

The smile faded from her face, replaced by a look of surprise that quickly morphed into guarded suspicion. “Why would you want to know about that?”

“Let’s just say I have my reasons,” he replied. “You’ve heard the rumors, haven’t you?”

Lira’s gaze held steady. “Rumors are dangerous things, Elyan. Especially in a place like this.”

Elyan leaned closer, lowering his voice. “I don’t care about danger. I care about surviving. So tell me what you know.”

For a moment, Lira simply studied him, as though weighing whether or not to trust him. Finally, she closed her book and looked him in the eye.

“Fine,” she said, her tone soft but firm. “The Gauntlet is a trial that only a select few are chosen for. It’s not just about magic or skill—it’s about loyalty to the Conclave. They say that those who complete it are bound to the Conclave for life, but in return, they’re granted privileges that ordinary students can only dream of.”

Elyan raised an eyebrow. “And those who fail?”

Lira’s gaze darkened. “They don’t come back.”

He nodded, absorbing this. “And the mark? The red mark on the wrist?”

“It’s a seal,” Lira replied. “A sign that you’ve been chosen. The mark binds you to the Gauntlet. There’s no escaping it, Elyan.”

He looked down at his own wrist, where the faint red mark pulsed like a heartbeat. “So there’s no way out.”

“Not unless you want to disappear,” Lira said quietly. “There’s a reason people don’t speak openly about the Gauntlet. The Conclave doesn’t take kindly to disobedience.”

Elyan’s mind whirled with questions, but he kept his expression calm. “Thank you, Lira. I appreciate your honesty.”

Lira’s lips curved into a faint smile. “Just be careful, Lysandris. The Conclave has eyes and ears everywhere.”

With that, she returned to her book, leaving Elyan to ponder the weight of her words. He had suspected that the Conclave held dark secrets, but the truth was even more insidious than he’d imagined. The Gauntlet wasn’t just a test—it was a trap, binding students to the Conclave’s service, forcing them into a lifetime of obedience and silence.

But Elyan wasn’t afraid. In fact, he felt a thrill of exhilaration. With the loop in his favor, he could defy the Conclave’s expectations, probe deeper than any student had ever dared, and emerge with answers that had eluded even the most skilled mages.

As he left the library, he glanced down at the mark on his wrist, the crimson line a silent reminder of the path he’d chosen. He would face the Gauntlet, and he would uncover the secrets hidden within the Conclave’s walls. And he would do it as many times as it took.

He had all the time in the world, after all.