Two weeks crawled by.

  Waiting felt different now.

  Not the careful, silent waiting of my first years at Dawnspire—where every word had to be measured, every gesture deliberate, the mask held tight so nothing slipped. This was a waiting I didn’t have to hide. One I could share, and speak about, and almost laugh at with people who understood.

  The difference between holding your breath alone and breathing beside someone.

  Every morning we gathered at our table in the training yard—a weathered slab of oak carved with old initials and hearts, stained by decades of spilled cider and sun. We’d claimed it two years ago after Kaelen’s enchantment disaster, and it had been ours ever since, in the quiet way territory becomes home.

  We sat there again, shoulders touching now and then, nerves simmering beneath familiar chatter.

  Other candidates already had their letters. The lesser academies sent couriers within days. But Aurelián Spire operated on its own timeline—one that ignored the anxieties of twelve-year-olds who felt nearly grown.

  “Maybe they lost our files,” Kaelen muttered again, knee jittering beneath the table.

  “They didn’t lose our files,” Mira replied, patient but not indulgent.

  “Or maybe they’re reconsidering,” Kaelen continued. “That proctor wasn’t impressed when I—”

  “Kaelen.” Ralen’s tone was gentle, steady as stone. “They’ll come when they come.”

  I traced lines in the condensation on my cup, saying nothing. My system had been silent since the trials—no quests, no updates. Just the same endless waiting.

  Then, on the fifteenth morning, the air changed.

  The training yard sharpened, as if the world inhaled. Dew-soaked grass glittered under early sun. Starvine sweetened the wind. Beneath it all, a hum—faint, anticipatory—ran along my skin.

  Candidates murmured. Practice swords clattered in distant rings.

  Then a flash of golden light cracked the stillness.

  Four scrolls appeared on our table.

  One moment: empty wood. The next: sunburst-sealed letters cooling in the air.

  The yard went silent.

  For a heartbeat, none of us moved.

  Then Kaelen lunged and snatched his scroll. “Ha! Told you they couldn’t ignore me.”

  Ralen broke his seal with steady hands, tension easing from his jaw.

  Mira took hers with quiet reverence, as if afraid her touch might bend the parchment.

  I lifted mine last.

  Ethan Daniels. Not Lucien. Not Alaris.

  Relief hit so suddenly I felt dizzy. Even Aurelián’s wards accepted the mask my parents built five years ago. Even here, the lie held.

  I unrolled the parchment.

  To Ethan Daniels,

  You are accepted as a candidate of Aurelián Spire Academy.

  Arrive at the gates by sunrise on the third day of the Solstice Moon. Late arrivals forfeit candidacy.

  Bring only what you can carry. Provisions will be provided. The first week consists of trials and evaluations. Those deemed worthy will be inducted as Initiates.

  May the Aurelián sun guide your path.

  — Highmaster Serath Valthorne

  "Third day of the Solstice Moon," Mira read quietly.

  Kaelen frowned. "How long until Solstice? Longwane's half-gone already."

  "Twelve days left," Ralen said. "Maybe thirteen."

  "Fourteen," Mira corrected. "First-Breath Year—453 days instead of 452. The extra day

  lands in Longwane this cycle—forty-three days instead of forty-two. Plus three into Solstice itself."

  She paused, calculating. "We'll need to leave in two weeks to make the gates in time."

  Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

  Kaelen groaned. "Two weeks to prepare for the rest of our lives. No pressure."

  "Magic runs hot during Solstice," Ralen added, his tone more serious.

  "Everything runs hot then," Mira said quietly.

  I snorted despite the knot in my chest. Two months. Enough time to prepare. Enough time to worry.

  We left for Aurelián two weeks later.

  Three days of rolling hills and coastal roads, packs biting into our shoulders. Dried meat. Hard cheese. Stale bread that grew harder with every meal. Nights under open sky, rotating watches, Kaelen humming tunelessly until Ralen threw a twig at him.

  By the third morning, I ached everywhere—but anticipation kept me upright.

  Mana hummed in the earth. The sea whispered beyond the horizon. My spark stirred beneath my ribs, warm and restless. I pushed it down.

  At the crest of the final hill, Ralen stopped short.

  “Look.”

  Aurelián Spire rose from the cliffs like a drawn blade—sharp and impossible to ignore. Ivory and silver towers caught the dawn and flung it back in ripples of light that danced across the sea. Wind off the water hit the gates and hummed—deep, resonant, like the world breathing. The gates themselves loomed like cliffs, carved from stone that glowed softly under the rising sun.

  The Spire didn’t just rise.

  It sang.

  The impact of it stole my breath.

  “Gods,” Kaelen whispered.

  Candidates converged from every direction, scrolls in hand. We moved as one through the crowd, our bond a quiet anchor.

  Kaelen elbowed me, nodding toward a cluster of youths in embroidered cloaks. “Highborns. Think they own the place.”

  “Let them,” Mira murmured. “Pride makes you sloppy.”

  Ralen kept his gaze ahead. “Trials first. Egos later.”

  The registrar’s table was organized chaos. Names were called and inscribed in glowing script on a floating roster.

  “Ralen Veyr.”

  A flare of the quill. His name joined the list.

  “Mira Valen.”

  Another flare. Another name.

  “Kaelen Thorne.”

  The registrar narrowed his eyes. “Your trial record describes ‘reckless improvisation.’ Aurelián values discipline, not theatrics. Consider this your only warning.”

  Kaelen gulped. “Understood.”

  Then—

  “Ethan Daniels.”

  The quill inscribed my false name in radiant gold. My lungs loosened.

  “Confirmed.”

  Relief swept through me—

  Until a voice like poisoned honey cut across the crowd.

  “Well, well. Aurelián’s standards are slipping.”

  A boy in immaculate black-and-silver robes stood three steps away. Pale hair gleamed. His eyes were cold, cutting—the kind of look that sized you up and found you wanting. His crest—the serpent-wrapped broken crown—made my stomach drop.

  Kaelen muttered, “Great. A Draemir.”

  Tharion Draemir locked onto me with surgical precision. “Tell me, Ethan Daniels—does your family even have a name? Or did you crawl from some backwater to stain the Spire?”

  The crowd quieted.

  A pressure slid into my thoughts—thin, cold, almost polite. Shadeweave.

  Father’s warning surfaced: The moment you feel it, push. They rely on you not noticing.

  I steadied my breath. The pressure wavered.

  “A crest can shine,” I said evenly, “but people shout the loudest when they fear being forgotten.”

  The pressure dissolved like smoke.

  Laughter rippled through the crowd—Kaelen’s bark loudest.

  “Damn right,” Kaelen crowed. “Takes more than embroidery to impress Aurelián.”

  Ralen’s voice rumbled. “Empty threats.”

  Mira’s wisp pulsed bright silver. “Shadeweave’s strongest when unnoticed. He’s been noticed.”

  Tharion’s composure cracked. Shadows coiled at his feet—

  A hand gripped his shoulder.

  A tall boy wearing the Draemir crest stepped between us, presence sharp and controlled. “Not here.”

  Tharion inhaled sharply, shadows receding. But before he stepped away, he leaned in—just close enough for me to hear.

  “You think you’re clever, pretender? My mother died trying to reclaim what we were owed. Aurelián will break you. I’ll make sure of it.”

  Shivers crawled down my spine—not fear, but recognition of something dangerous and wounded in equal measure.

  My system chimed again:

  [Observation +1]

  [Mental Resistance +1]

  “I’ll see you in the trials,” I said.

  Tharion held my gaze for three long beats, jaw tight, before his follower pulled him back. His entourage drifted after him like obedient shadows.

  Kaelen slung an arm over my shoulders. “You made a Draemir flinch. I’m putting that on your gravestone.”

  Ralen frowned after Tharion. “He has something to prove. Makes him reckless.”

  Mira’s voice was soft but certain. “He won’t forget today.”

  I forced a smile, but inside, memories churned—Father’s voice, the burning of the old manor, our erased records, the quiet promise that House Alaris refused to die.

  Tharion didn’t know who I was. Couldn’t know.

  But some grudges root deeper than names.

  My spark pulsed—warm, golden, impossible.

  I buried it deeper.

  The system whispered:

  [System Alert: Rivalry Detected — Threat Level: Moderate]

  Aurelián’s gates towered before us—ivory and silver, carved with promise and danger.

  My pack closed in around me.

  We walked forward together.