Wide corridors channelled us toward the gathering hall to the left of the main building entrance like cattle to slaughter. Whispers echoed from students ahead, their voices ghostly reminders of what awaited us all. When we reached the hall itself, smaller than the grandiose main chamber yet no less imposing, my palms grew damp with sweat.

  Senior students clustered at the front, their golden-trimmed uniforms marking them as wolves among sheep. One among them stepped forward, a young woman with deep brown hair cropped short.

  "Aaranoc Leapis." She called through the murmurs. "Get inside."

  A weathered man pushed through our group, his tanned skin speaking of harder years than most here had known. His shoulders squared as he strode toward the door without hesitation. When it closed behind him, the hall fell into uneasy silence broken only by the scratching of quills on parchment.

  Ten minutes passed. Maybe more. His shadow appeared in the far doorway, and he was gone.

  More names were called on a similar time frame. Each applicant vanished into that room to never be seen again. Time crawled yet blurred, my heartbeat quickening with every step forward. My fingers curled and uncurled at my sides, seeking calm where none existed.

  "Alina Eveline."

  She turned to Rowan and me.

  “Wish me luck,” she said, though she didn’t need it.

  Rowan grinned, clapping her on the shoulder. “You don’t need it, but good luck anyway.”

  I nodded, offering what support I could through gesture alone. She disappeared through the door, and the wait resumed its cruel dance.

  Hours crawled by before my name shattered the silence.

  "Einar Emberheart."

  Lightning struck my spine, but I steadied myself quickly. "Yes." The word came out stronger than I felt.

  The crowd parted as I approached the door.

  Rough stone pressed against my boots as I stepped into the chamber. Sunlight filtered through tall windows, casting long shadows across the floors that had witnessed a thousand such trials. Candles flickered in their sconces, filling the air with the scent of melted wax and old parchment. Herbs hung from the rafters above, their bitter tang mixing with the mustiness of the old wood.

  Senior students sprawled across the benches to my left, a group of shades. Most watched with the lazy interest of cats observing mice. Others leaned forward with curiosity in their eyes.

  Three caught my attention immediately, with crimson shades and the same age as mine. A silver-haired elven girl with blue eyes that reminds of the winter stream in the mountains. Beside her sat a black-haired girl whose amethyst gaze promised winter's embrace. Next to them lounged a blonde boy whose stare carried the casual cruelty that only noble blood could breed.

  At the chamber's heart sat a single chair. A narrow table waited beside it, bearing quill, inkpot, parchment, and a wand arranged with ritual precision. Above it all, five professors occupied their raised dais like judges of some damned trial.

  The old woman with green robes spoke first. Her voice was rough, but her presence filled the room with quiet authority. "Mister Emberheart." She glanced at the parchment in her hands before fixing me with her old eyes. "I am Saindor Saintilus. Each of us will present you with a task or a series of questions. Your responses will determine your score. Five points maximum from each professor, based on the quality of your answers. This assessment will also determine your house placement." She leaned forward slightly. "Any questions?"

  I straightened in the chair, clasping my hands to still their trembling. "None, Professor."

  "Good." A curt nod. "We begin with alchemy."

  She gestured to a senior who rose and carried three small vials to my table.

  The vials bore no labels, their contents nearly identical. Three green liquids, smooth and viscous, catch the light like moss on stones. The senior placed them before me without a word or expression, then stepped back to watch.

  "Simple task of identifying the potions.” Saintilus's voice cut through the silence. “Before you are three potions. One heals burns, one cures small scratches, and one alleviates cold symptoms. They share a common base ingredient but function differently, with different consumption processes.” She paused. “You’ll have to identify the burn remedy in two minutes. You may touch, smell, and taste as necessary."

  I leaned forward, studying each vial carefully. Identical at first glance, but brewing often alters texture, consistency, and even scent in subtle ways. I lifted the first vial, uncorked it, and tipped a single drop onto my index finger. The liquid was thin, slipping from my skin almost immediately. I brought the finger to my nose. A sharp, pungent smell hit my nostrils, paired with the unmistakable undertone of blisterwort.

  Setting it down, I moved to the second vial, this time using my middle finger to avoid contamination. This one was thicker, clinging to my skin like honey. The scent was softer, almost floral, but again carried that base note of blisterwort. I frowned. More promising, but the texture felt wrong. Too thin still. Like it had been brewed poorly or left unfinished.

  The third vial required my ring finger. This one was thicker still, almost gooey, with a faint golden sheen that caught the candlelight. I dipped my finger into it, rolling the substance between finger and thumb. The smell was sweeter, unmistakably tea leaves and honey. Combined with the blisterwort base, it made perfect sense. I set the vial aside, confident in my choice.

  "Have you decided?" Saintilus asked.

  "Yes, Professor." I nodded toward the third vial.

  A senior approached, and I handed it to him. He carried it to the professor, who examined it briefly, her expression revealing nothing.

  "Your reasoning?"

  "The scent," I began, meeting her gaze. "Tea leaves and honey combined with blisterwort are commonly used for burns. Both soothe inflammation and reduce pain. They are also the easiest ingredients to find in most regions. The consistency stood out as well. Thicker than the others, which suggests topical application rather than ingestion. The first smelled of wild ginseng, likely for colds. The second lacked proper viscosity for a burn remedy and felt unfinished in its brewing."

  She watched me carefully, grey eyes narrowing as though weighing my words against some internal scale. Finally, she gave a single nod. "Adequate. Professor Selvar, you may proceed."

  The man in the far right corner grinned as he leaned forward, forest green eyes gleaming with mischief. Younger than the others, perhaps thirty winters, with an easy manner that set my teeth on edge. "Let us test those instincts of yours, Mister Emberheart. Will you please step forward?"

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  I stood and crossed the room, boots clicking against stone. Suddenly, three apples rested on his table that were not there before, as if conjured from thin air. They were flawless to be fake. Smooth red skins, faintly glistening as though freshly polished.

  "Simple task for you. Identify the real apple in two minutes. You may observe but not touch."

  This corner was dimmer than the rest, the chandelier's light barely reaching the table. Even the lamp remained unlit. I narrowed my eyes, shifting position to examine the apples from different angles. At first, they were indistinguishable, each casting faint shadows on the wooden surface.

  I moved to the side, watching carefully as the shadows shifted with my movement. That was when I noticed the flicker. The shadows of the two apples on the left wavered, unnatural in the low light. The apple on the right remained steady, its shadow sharp and consistent.

  I stepped back, pointing to the apple on the right. "This one."

  Selvar tilted his head, his grin never faltering. "Oh? And why do you believe that?"

  "Shadow," I replied confidently. "The illusions were crafted well, but their shadows betrayed them. When I changed angles, the shadows of the other two apples wavered as though adjusting to my gaze. The real one remained constant."

  He leaned forward, his grin softening into something more thoughtful. "Anything else you noticed?"

  I hesitated, scanning the apples again, but nothing else stood out. "No, Professor."

  Selvar sighed softly, his hand disappearing beneath his robes. When it emerged, a small dagger gleamed in his palm. The blade was no longer than a kitchen knife, its dark metal handle adorned with a single emerald that caught the dim light. Without warning, he brought it down in a swift arc, slicing through the leftmost apple I had not chosen.

  The blade bit deep into flesh and core, juice running down the table's edge. Real. Solid. My heart lurched in my chest as faint chuckles drifted from the crowd.

  Selvar's smirk widened as he turned the dagger to the middle apple, the second I had rejected. Another clean cut through real fruit, the sweet scent of an apple fills the air. Both apples lay split and bleeding, their juice pooling on the wooden surface.

  "Your observations were... praiseworthy," he said, twirling the dagger between his fingers. "But for someone like me who has mastered only illusion his whole life, I would know how to show you exactly what I need you to see. Shadows are the greatest weakness in illusion, yes. But sometimes the greatest trick is making you believe you have found the truth."

  I simply nodded, tasting defeat on my tongue like copper. The lesson was very clear, the apple I had chosen, the one with the ‘steady’ shadow, had been the illusion all along. He had made me see what he wanted me to see. He played me right to it.

  Selvar tucked the dagger back beneath his robes, leaning back in his chair. "Very well. Return to your seat. Professor Freyheart, he is yours."

  As I sat, Freyheart adjusted her loose black-and-white robes and leaned forward slightly. Brown hair was tied in a loose braid, and warm dark eyes studied me with gentle curiosity. Despite her kind demeanor, her gaze carried the same weight as the others.

  "I will present you with a simple scenario, my dear. You must respond accordingly." Her voice was calm. "You are in some camp, and your only companion suffers a sword wound. A flesh wound to his abdomen. You must treat him alone. There is no stitching kit, no proper bandages, and no potions. What procedure would you follow?"

  Simple, she had said. My chest tightened as I tried to recall anything practical from the villagers or from the tribes' travelling tales. I had never treated sword wounds firsthand. Leitha had told me about treating someone after a skirmish with bandits, using only a heated blade and cloth wraps dipped in warm water. Crude, but it had kept the person alive long enough for them to get a proper patch-up.

  I cleared my throat, my voice steady despite the pressure. "With limited resources, I would burn the wound with the sword or any metal to stop the bleeding. Then use makeshift bandages from our clothes, dipped in warm clean water to cover it and prevent infection. That would buy time until I could get them to someone more skilled."

  Freyheart smiled faintly, her expression more amused than critical. "That would work for a time, yes. Though you might find your patient developing an infection from the burning. Still, it is practical given your limitations." She paused and glanced to her side. "That will be all from me. Professor Bloodrose-"

  Before she could speak any further, the old man at the center raised a hand. His presence immediately silenced the air, his voice carrying calm authority that turned heads. "If I may, Professor Bloodrose?"

  The professor beside him nodded, leaning back in his chair.

  The man turned his gaze to me. Silver-white robes caught the faint light, his long white hair tied back neatly, along with his grey beard. Pointed ears marked him as elven, his wrinkled face giving him an old scholar's bearing.

  "Good morning, young man." His voice was warm yet probing. "I am Syrus D'Athrin, headmaster of this school. I have been listening carefully to your answers. Many have been... interesting. While not all were entirely correct, your confidence is worth noting. However, I would ask you something far more important."

  "Why do you want to learn magic?” He leaned forward slightly, grey eyes piercing. “What does it truly mean to you?"

  The question was simple, yet most difficult to answer. Why? That was a question I had asked myself countless times during the journey. Before everything, the answer had been clear. I wanted to protect them. But now, with no family beside me, no home to return to, and even the magic inside me threatening to devour me whole, the answer was certain. It was not about honor, glory, or ambition. It was about survival and finding myself.

  “Learning magic... is the only option left for me.” I hesitated, lowering my gaze to the table. "There is no option for me to fail in it. And what does it mean to me, you asked?" I paused, my fingers gripping the chair's edge as I lifted my eyes to meet his. "Salvation. Nothing more, nothing less. Salvation."

  The room fell silent for long moments before Bloodrose cleared his throat. He was a tall man with raven-black hair tied back neatly, his sharp features framed by a deep black robe trimmed in crimson.

  "For your final task," he said plainly. "I would like you to perform a basic flame spell using the wand on your table."

  I stared at the wand lying on the table. It was simple and black, its surface smooth and unadorned. I swallowed hard before speaking, my voice low. "I... I have never cast a spell before, Professor."

  Bloodrose raised an eyebrow, his expression unmoved. "You have read about the basics, I assume? From what we know by your application... you must have come across basic spells and wand patterns in your studies at Medarth. Surely you can attempt it, even if you have never cast one before. Pattern. Chant. Stance. At least show any of them."

  "I..." My words faltered. I could feel the weight of everyone's eyes. "I will try," I said finally, my voice firmer than I felt.

  I stood, my legs stiff as I reached for the wand. Its surface was warm to the touch, but as I gripped it, it felt wrong. Slippery, like it was fighting to escape my hold. I clenched it tightly, too tightly, feeling the tension run through my fingers.

  Taking a deep breath, I began the pattern I had seen in the book: start with a long downward stroke, left, back to the centre, then downward again. My movements were deliberate, careful. The wand absorbed a faint flicker of my essence as I traced the motions, and I spoke the incantation clearly.

  "Yolstra."

  Silence passed. But nothing happened.

  The spell had failed. No flicker of flame, not even a spark. Nothing but the quiet rustle of my cloak hides the faint sound of wood cracking.

  Chuckles came from the side audience. I turned slightly and saw the three nobles from before. The silver-haired girl hid her mouth with her hand as she leaned toward her companions, whispering something that made the blonde boy beside her grin.

  "That will be all.” Bloodrose let out a heavy sigh, one weighted with disappointment. “You may leave through the back door."

  I ran my fingers over the wand one last time, and my breath caught. The smooth surface from before was now marred by faint cracks and uneven edges. When had that happened? A wave of loss washed over me, but it was quickly overshadowed by shame.

  With a heavy heart, I gently laid the wand back on the table, not daring to spare it another glance. As I turned away, I could feel the inquisitive eyes of the professors upon me, but I kept my gaze fixed on the exit, desperate to escape their scrutiny.