The arena pulsed with rising tension.
The sun had barely crowned the frost-kissed spires of Riftkeep when the instructors summoned all initiates to the central yard. The sky above shimmered in soft rose and steel-grey hues, while the obsidian tiles beneath their feet drank in the cold.
The youngest stood apart from the others, a dozen in number. At seven turns old, most were barely strong enough to hold a blade. But Riftkeep did not coddle its chosen, and today's test was not one of memorized runes or whispered histories. Today, they would fight.
Not for sport. Not even for survival.
But to be seen.
"They come too close to the old blood now," Instructor Veilos had muttered the night before, not knowing Sylara had heard him from behind the iron stairwell. "We must draw the line between potential and threat."
The test, as announced that morning, was simple: one-on-one combat, in an open ring. All initiates must spar. Some pairings were mismatched by design. Some matches were tests of power. Others, of control. No weapons were barred. No runes were forbidden. Only death was.
That part wasn't spoken aloud. But everyone knew. They could hurt—just not kill. If they could help it.
Sylara stood in the line with others, Nyx pacing at the edge of her thoughts like a stormcloud waiting to break. She wore the same ash-grey training robes as the others, but none looked like her. Her dark hair glinted in the dawn. Her amethyst eyes burned cold.
"Why do they make us do this?" whispered Kiva beside her. "We're not soldiers. Not yet."
"To see who breaks," Sylara replied. Her voice was quiet. Steady. "And who breaks others."
The pairings were announced by rune-call, each name echoing like a gavel strike.
Kiva was matched with a quiet boy from the southern ridges. They bowed. They fought. Kiva won, barely.
Others followed—blades clashing, runes flaring, limbs bruised and bent.
Then it came.
"Sylara Thorne," boomed the instructor, voice lined with interest.
Her opponent was Kaleir , a tall, narrow-eyed boy from the upper dorms. He was older by a turn and favored by combat tutors for his precision. He stepped into the ring with a grin—not cruel, but expectant. Like a fox offered a hobbled hare.
Sylara stepped in, silent.
"Begin."
Kaleir struck first—fast. A flash of the Shyren rune flickered across his wrist, and fire leapt toward her chest. Sylara twisted low, pressing a palm to the floor mid-dodge.
"Kel'tar "
The shield rune flared beneath her hand, rippling a faint barrier of force just as the fire splashed across it like paint against glass. She rolled forward, tracing Marn at her heel to silence her steps.
Kaleir smirked. "You're faster than they say."
She didn't answer.
He slashed again, this time with a blade—not flame. Steel met air. Air met silence. Sylara vanished from his line of sight—only to reappear behind him with a sharp gust.
A rune glowed at her palm.
"Veran "
The embermark ignited on Kaleir's back before he could pivot. He tried to whirl, but the rune had done its work—her presence would haunt him now, even if he turned.
He lashed out in panic. The fire rune again—too fast.
It grazed her side.
Pain flared. Her robes caught , she staggered
Sylara twisted, pivoting on the heel of her boot as Kaleir's blade hissed through the air, missing her by a breath. Dust and sand burst upward as he crashed forward, and in that instant, she moved—not with brute force, but with precision, a spark of instinct igniting into action.
The rune flared on her palm—Kel'tar, the Shield. It shimmered like rippled glass, intercepting the counterattack he had hoped would catch her off guard. Kaleir's eyes widened a second too late.
Then came her strike.
It was not elegant. It was not rehearsed.
It was survival.
Her fist drove into his stomach, rune-etched knuckles glowing faintly as the air left his lungs in a shocked gasp. He dropped to his knees, coughing, blade clattering beside him.
The courtyard fell still.
Instructors lining the stone-ringed arena shared looks—some curious, some wary. Elian watched from the balcony above, his expression unreadable, but his eyes stayed on Sylara.
She didn't speak. Her breaths were shallow, controlled, her gaze still locked on Kaleir, who now sat hunched over his knees, defeated. Not dead.
Not this time.
The instructor clapped once. "The lesson: predict, do not react. Adapt, or fall. Sylara earns the point."
Kaleir spat into the dirt but didn't argue. He wouldn't make that mistake again.
---
Later, when the others had dispersed—grumbling or awed or shaken—Sylara sat at the edge of the training ring, fingers brushing over the old rune carved into the stone wall. Nyx's presence lingered behind her thoughts, low and watchful.
"You didn't want to hurt him. But you would have, if you had to."
Her reply came in silence, but Nyx understood.
She hadn't wanted to see fear in Kaleir's eyes. Not like that. But part of her had expected it. Worse—part of her had been waiting for it.
That quiet, dark ember inside her that the others tiptoed around.
The one that had dreamed of a crown on fire.
"Is that what they see?" she murmured aloud. "Something dangerous?"
Nyx did not answer immediately. Then, slowly: "They see what they fear. You showed them truth, and it burned."
---
She returned to her room after dusk. The East Tower's corridors glowed in soft amber, warmed by the runes inscribed along the ceiling. Her window showed only clouds now—thick, bruised with violet stormlight.
Thunder rumbled like a beast rolling in its sleep.
On her desk, a sealed note waited. She opened it with wary fingers.
Training Advancement Assessment – Pending Personal Evaluation. Combat Clearance: Granted. Rune Aptitude: Elevated. Recommendation: Observe.
At the bottom, Elian's personal mark—a flame drawn in a single stroke, broken only at its core.
Below it, a second sigil. A mirrored glyph.
Riftguard.
Sylara's fingers trembled slightly as she traced the mark.
So they were watching after all.
And next time, there would be no lessons.
Only choices.
Only fire.
---