The news came at dawn, delivered not by messenger but by bell. It rang once across the sprawling courtyards of Ardent Vale, the sound rippling through marble halls and glass-covered walkways like a call to arms. The students, still half asleep and tangled in their sheets, stirred with murmurs and confusion. Kael was already awake. He had felt the tremor before the sound, the faint quiver of mana that moved like a living current through the Academy whenever something monumental was about to unfold. Seret was sitting cross-legged on the other bed, her eyes narrowing as the second bell rang, deeper and heavier this time.
They dressed fast, curiosity beating out fatigue. The courtyard outside their dormitory was filled with bodies, students in their black and blue uniforms, teachers hovering near the edges, watching. In the center, standing on a platform of white stone etched with glowing script, was Headmaster Auren. His cloak shimmered faintly, interwoven with runic threads that hummed in the morning air. His voice carried like thunder without ever raising in volume.
"Students of Ardent Vale," he began, and even the birds in the distant spires stilled. "Our Academy has been chosen once more to compete in the Blood Trials."
The words dropped like molten iron. Excited whispers erupted immediately. The Blood Trials were not a mere competition. They were the oldest of all inter-kingdom traditions, dating back to before the founding of the mage academies themselves. It was said that the first Trials were fought with blades carved from dragon bone, that the losers' blood was used to forge the sigils that power modern mana circuits. Kael had heard only fragments of the legend in the cult, but to hear it spoken here with such reverence made the air around him feel heavier.
Auren continued. "This is not for glory alone. The Trials determine which academy, and by extension which kingdom, commands the greatest understanding of both magic and battlecraft. They are the crucible from which the world's future generals, tacticians, and high mages are born."
Kael's attention flicked to the students around him. He could feel the mixture of emotions, pride, dread, raw excitement. A few of the noble-born students puffed their chests, already dreaming of prestige. Others paled. The rumor was that the Blood Trials, while technically regulated, often ended in injury, and occasionally, death.
Seret's eyes were cold. "They make children bleed to decide who gets to rule next," she muttered.
Kael glanced at her. "Sounds familiar."
Meran appeared behind them, arms crossed, his usual half-smile gone. "You two might want to take this more seriously. The academy will be selecting its representatives through internal eliminations. Only five will go. The rest will assist as support staff."
"Let me guess," Kael said dryly. "Participation is optional, but declining means career suicide."
"Smart boy," Meran said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Your names are already being whispered. The instructors have taken note of what you did during the elemental examinations. You'll be expected to try out."
Kael sighed, the morning light gleaming faintly across the scars on his forearms. He had no taste for tournaments, but there was something else that drew his attention. The name Blood Trials was not just metaphorical. The old cult texts had spoken of the same phrase, but in a darker context, a ritual meant to siphon vitality from combatants to awaken dormant magical relics. His stomach twisted. What if the two were connected?
He looked around. The crowd was a sea of faces, some familiar, many not. For the first time since arriving at the academy, Kael felt something akin to dread. Not of losing, but of being seen.
After the announcement, chaos followed. Students began crowding the bulletin boards where the tournament details were being posted. A map of the empire's capital hung nearby, freshly updated. The Trials would be hosted within the Arena of Eclipsed Crowns, a colossal structure that could seat fifty thousand spectators, its interior covered in spell-dampening wards and blood-channeling veins of crystal.
Seret leaned closer to read the fine print. "Combat allowed until incapacitation or yield," she read. "Yield must be vocal and witnessed by at least one judge. Lethal force discouraged but not forbidden."
Kael gave a short laugh. "Discouraged. That's comforting."
"Don't worry," Seret said with a sideways grin. "We've already survived worse."
As they walked back toward the dormitory, the air buzzed with tension. Even the older students seemed uneasy. Kael noticed first-years whispering to each other, some already forming cliques, others nervously holding their practice staves as if preparing for a fight that might start any second.
That night, Kael couldn't sleep. The glowstones along the ceiling flickered softly, casting thin ribbons of light across his bed. He sat up and stared at the ceiling. The term Blood Trials repeated in his mind like a curse. He remembered the cult's teachings about the Vein of Echoes, a mythical channel that supposedly ran beneath the Empire, connecting ancient sites of slaughter and battlefields long forgotten. The blood of thousands, spilled across centuries, was said to empower it.
He wondered, not for the first time, if these so-called trials were just another way of feeding something sleeping below.
Seret stirred on the other bed. "Still awake?" she murmured, half-asleep.
"Yeah."
"Thinking about the tournament?"
"Thinking about what it really is."
She hummed softly, a sound somewhere between understanding and exhaustion. "Then we'll find out," she said, turning over. "Together."
Kael didn't respond. His eyes drifted back toward the faint moonlight leaking through the window. Somewhere in the distance, the academy bells tolled again, once, then twice, and the night seemed to exhale.