The hall is a tomb of anticipation, its vaulted ceilings swallowing even the faintest breath. Shadows cling to the corners like wraiths, their elongated fingers stretching across the flagstones as torchlight gutters in iron sconces. Each flame hisses as if whispering secrets to the next, casting a mosaic of gold and obsidian over the assembled crowd. The air tastes of incense and dread—smoke curling from braziers filled with crushed moonflower and ashwine root, herbs meant to sharpen magic but now only sharpening my nausea. My fingers dig into the wooden bench beneath me, splinters catching on the calluses earned from years of furtively practicing spells that never sparked.

I will not present with magic.

The mantra beats in time with my pulse, a drum of shame echoing through the hollows of my bones. At seventeen, this ceremony is a funeral for the future I once dared imagine. No surge of starlight at my command, no crackle of storms in my veins. No legacy. The other initiates whisper behind silk gloves, their sidelong glances sharper than blades. Headmaster's daughter. The girl with hollow veins. I know the words they don't speak. Failure.

Magicians' Aides, they call us—those who fail to manifest. We are the silent ones, the shadows trailing behind true power. Scribes. Errand-runners. Living parchment for others' glory. And I, Tia Vale, will be the most pitiful of them all: my father's personal scribe, etching his brilliance into history while my own name fades to dust. The thought claws at my throat. I'd sooner throw myself from the Ivory Spire than spend eternity chronicling his achievements like some starved ghost.

A flicker of movement in my periphery. The temple again. Not memory, not dream—something deeper. A place carved into the marrow of me. Dark stone pillars spearing a bruised sky, their surfaces etched with runes that bleed silver. Thunder growls in the distance, but it's the silence between the pillars that terrifies—a vacuum that pulls at my soul, whispering promises in a language older than blood. I've walked those shattered halls every night since I turned seventeen, bare feet slipping on moss-slick stone, drawn toward... something. A presence that watches from the ruins. A hunger that matches my own.

"Tia."

The voice yanks me back, rough and warm as sunbaked leather. Atlas. He's crouched before me, his storm-gray eyes bright beneath a fringe of wild curls. Lightning flickers in his pupils—literal sparks, remnants of the power that coursed through him last week during his own ceremony. The scent of ozone clings to him, sharp and alive, and I hate how my traitorous heart quickens at his nearness. He's all edges and angles, his jawline a blade honed by laughter and recklessness, but his hands are gentle as they frame my face.

"You're shaking," he murmurs, thumbs brushing my cheekbones.

I jerk away, hating the pity in his touch. "Don't."

He doesn't retreat. Atlas never retreats. "Look at me." When I don't, he catches my chin, forcing my gaze to his. "You're more than this ceremony. More than him."

Him. My father, Headmaster Corwin Vale, who watches from the dais like a king surveying a battlefield. Even now, his solace eyes slice through the crowd, missing nothing. His posture is a weapon—spine straight, hands clasped behind his back, silver-streaked hair swept into a ruthless knot. The living embodiment of the Vale family creed: Power is purity. A creed I've defiled by mere existence.

Celine slips onto the bench beside me, her honey-gold magic rippling in the air like a sigh. She smells of elderberries and sunlight, her auburn braids threaded with lilac ribbons that flutter despite the stagnant air. Her gift—a healing touch so rare, the High Healers wept when she manifested—pulses in time with her heartbeat, a soft hum that calms the nerves I've shredded to ribbons. To be expected of her of course. Her siblings shared the same type of magic, and they all worked in government level fields. Medicine, research, hospitals. 

"Breathe, Tia," she says, pressing her palm to my racing heart. Warmth blooms beneath her fingers, dulling the ache. "You don't know what the judges will see."

"I do." My voice cracks. "I've always known Celine, I don't want anyone to laugh at me."

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Atlas's jaw tightens. "If anyone dares laugh, I'll turn them to cinders."

A hollow laugh escapes me. "You'd incinerate half the court."

"Worth it." He grins, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

Celine's magic falters. "They're calling the next initiate."

The crowd stirs as Lirael Morn steps forward, her emerald robes pooling like poison on the stones. She's all venom and viper smiles, her family's crest—a serpent devouring its tail—glinting on her choker. When she lifts her hands, shadows coil around her wrists, alive and ravenous. The judges lean forward in unison, their skeletal fingers twitching.

Of course. Lirael's magic is as brutal as her tongue, a gift of shadow-wielding that's already earned her a place among the Night Court's assassins. The darkness obeys her whisper, morphing into a dozen serpents that hiss and strike at the air. The crowd erupts in applause, but I see the truth beneath the spectacle—the way her hands tremble, the sheen of sweat on her brow. Power always demands a price.

"Pathetic," Atlas mutters. "She's showing off for the Dusk Legion recruiters."

Celine frowns. "She'll get herself killed playing with poisons."

"Or marry into the Asterin family and make everyone else's lives hell."

Their banter fades as my father's voice cleaves the din. "Tia."

No warmth. No encouragement. Just my name, a command hurled like a dagger.

Atlas grips my wrist. "Don't let them see you bleed."

Celine squeezes my hand. "You are enough."

I rise on unsteady legs, my ivory gown suddenly too heavy, too stiff. The fabric is Vale tradition—spun from moonmoth silk, embroidered with starlight sigils—but it feels like a shroud. The crowd parts, a sea of sneers and apologetic half-smiles. Hollow girl. I keep my chin high, shoulders back, the way my father drilled into me during countless hours of etiquette lessons. "A Vale does not cower,"  he'd say, his cane striking the marble floor like a gavel. "Even in ruin, we are regal."

The judges' chamber looms ahead, its obsidian doors etched with the phases of the moon. My father waits beside them, a statue of disapproval. Up close, I see the cracks in his armor—the faint tremor in his left hand, the new streaks of silver in his hair. He's aged decades in the past year, though he'd sooner die than admit weakness.

"You will be silent unless spoken to," he says, not meeting my eyes. "The judges' word is final."

"What if they're wrong?" I don't mean for it to, but the question slips out, sharp and desperate.

His gaze snaps to mine, colder than the glaciers beyond the northern wastes. "They are never wrong."

He turns back to face the doors. I had always admired my father's ability to compartmentalize in the public eye. At home, between the two of us with no guards or other magicians around. He was actually quite playful and relaxed. It was almost like he is two different people compared to his somber public perception. I think most of our subjects knew that, but never pushed the matter. 

The doors open.

The judges chamber is a mausoleum of memory, its walls lined with portraits of sorcerers who sacrificed their flesh to the magic that now sustains their shriveled forms. Seven judges sit in a semi circle at the end of the room. The entire room humming with ethereal power. High Judge Lirien floats more than sits, her tattered robes swirling around her like mist. Her eyes are twin voids, galaxies spinning in their depths, and when she speaks, her voice is the rasp of parchment burning.

"Tia Vale." My full name, spoken as a dirge. "Step into the circle."

The floor thrums beneath me, ancient runes flaring to life as I obey. A magical swirl of light begins to circle me, like a predator circling its prey. It seeps into my mouth, my bones, searching, probing—Nothing. It feels like a vacuum sucking the air out of my lungs when it finally retreats. 

The runes darken beneath me. Judge Lirien tilts her head, her neck creaking like a rusted hinge. "No elemental affinity. No healing spark. No shadow."

Another judge, his face a web of scars, leans forward. "And yet... there is something."

My breath hitches. Something.

Lirien's claw-like hand twitches. "A... residue. Faint, but undeniable."

The third judge, a woman with hair like cobwebs and lips stitched shut, peels open her mouth. The threads snap, blood welling as she croaks, "She has been touched by the Old Ones. I can tell she is intelligent."

A fourth judge, dark as night. He whispers, "She will make a wonderful scribe and help to all."

Lirien nods at him, and turns her white glowing gaze to me. Giving me a once over, and then gazing back to my father. "It looks like she will not be your undoing, But the Spire may yet claim her."

Then—laughter. Rasping, wheezing laughter from the judges. I am in shock, I have never heard of the judges using humor in any cases. I glance back at my father. He has gone pale from their remarks and is uncomfortably shifting from one foot to the other. His brooding stare unwavering, he waves his hand signaling me to the judges attention. As I turn around, Judge Lirien is inches from my face.

"A child of two magicians, mortal." She says with venom on her lips, "Marked by gods. How... quaint."

The scarred judge sneers. "The old magicians are dead. Their marks are but scars."

Lirien waves a skeletal hand. "Your verdict stands. Tia Vale is mortal."

The dark one speaks again, "We thank you for you sacrifice. You will make a wonderful scribe and assistant to our cause."

The words are a death sentence. The words settle over me like a funeral shroud.