The sun was still rising when Lucan and Thorne stood in the frostbitten training yard. Their steel blades clacked together in a rhythm they both knew by heart now. Lucan was faster than he'd ever been. Nearly three months had passed since he began training, and that much showed. Yet, he still had a ways to go.
"Again," Thorne said.
Lucan grunted, raising his blade. They clashed once more, parrying, feinting, and striking until Lucan finally overcommitted and Thorne knocked the sword from his hand.
Lucan collapsed onto one knee, chest heaving. "That's the tenth time."
"It's the last time," Thorne replied, tossing his blade aside. "We're done."
Lucan blinked up at him. "That's it?"
Thorne crouched beside him, voice lower now. "The next time you hold steel like that, it might be against someone trying to kill you."
Lucan's face twisted in confusion. "The exam? You mean sparring?"
Thorne shook his head slowly. "I mean real blades. Real spells. Real death. You're not just proving your talent, you're surviving. They call it an 'exam,' but it's a culling."
The boy's breath caught. "What? Why are you just telling me that now?"
"Because if I had before, you'd have trained out of fear, not purpose. And fear makes a poor foundation for someone who's supposed to stand taller than the rest."
Lucan looked down at his scraped hands. "People die… and that's normal?"
Thorne's gaze hardened. "Yes. It's expected. The Academy weeds out the unworthy with fire and steel, so only those with strength or the luck of gods will remain."
Lucan said nothing for a long while. The cold bit at his fingers, but he barely noticed. A crow cawed from the roof of the barracks. Somewhere, a forge hammer rang steel. The world moved, indifferent.
Eventually, attendants called him to bathe and prepare.
---
Lucan stood awkwardly in the center of a spacious room draped in sunlight. Two attendants circled him, adjusting cuffs, folding collars, muttering to themselves.
The mirror reflected someone he didn't quite recognize.
The deep red coat fit snugly over a fine linen shirt. His breeches were trimmed with silver thread. The cloak, embroidered with the flower of House Emberlily, lay folded nearby.
Lucan shifted. "It's… a bit much."
"Good," said a voice at the door.
Lord Emberlily entered, dressed plainly in comparison, though his presence outshone all the silk in the room. He studied Lucan for a long moment, then dismissed the tailors with a nod.
"You're no longer just a boy from nowhere," the lord said. "You go now as my chosen ward. Your successes will lift this house and your failures will stain it."
Lucan swallowed hard. "As your ward?"
Lord Emberlily gave a rare smile. "Don't tell me you won't accept it."
Lucan looked at the mirror again. "I don't feel like I belong in this. Belong here."
"You don't yet," the lord replied. "But you will. That's what the Academy is for."
There was a knock and Lyra entered, her riding cloak pinned neatly at the shoulder.
Veyne stood a few paces behind her, silent and still. He hadn't blamed Lucan entirely for their crisis in Brightstead, he understood who had pulled who along. Since then, he has been much more strict and attentive.
"We're ready," Lyra said. "Horses are packed. Escort's formed."
She eyed him with a grin. "Looking sharp, Sir Lucan."
Lucan groaned. "Don't call me that."
---
The sun was high by the time the group gathered at Emberkeep's outer gate. A small escort of soldiers, five in all, waited with horses and gear. The air was crisp and cold, their breath misted in the morning light.
Rorik approached Lucan first, gruff as ever. "Try not to embarrass us too badly."
Jorren clapped him on the back. "And if you do, at least do it loudly. Make it entertaining."
Lucan chuckled nervously.
Lord Emberlily stood at the head of the steps, arms behind his back. "The road to Thornevale is long, but quiet. The borders remain open to Academy-bound parties. Even in these tense times, few dare violate the old honors."
Thorne stood beside him, arms crossed. "But don't be stupid. Bandits don't care about politics. Nor do the Academy's other candidates."
Lyra nodded. "We'll ride west through the Silver Hollow, then cut north along the Dryvein road. Should take a bit under three weeks, maybe two if weather's good."
Lucan stepped away from the group for a moment, taking one last look at Emberkeep's towering stone. He would miss the cold halls, the clang of training blades, the scent of oil and parchment. He would even miss Thorne's gruff commands.
Lyra moved beside him. "Nervous?"
"Terrified," he admitted.
She nudged him gently. "Good. That means you're paying attention."
Then Thorne called out to him.
"Make it back in one piece," he said, stepping down to meet him. "No matter what happens, survive. That's the one test you can't fail."
Then Thorne did something Lucan hadn't expected.
He pulled him into a firm, silent embrace.
It wasn't long, just a moment, but it said more than words ever could. When he stepped back, there was the faintest flicker of pride in his eyes.
"Go," Thorne said, voice rough. "And rise."
With final goodbyes murmured and nerves tight in his chest, Lucan climbed into the carriage beside Lyra and rode for the border, toward a future of magic, blood, and fire.