I have always feared the Trials.
Maybe not the training or the idea of being tested—but this.
The knowing that you can be alive when the sun rises and gone before it sets. That one wrong turn, one mistake, one heartbeat too slow… and you're just a name in a ledger. Another lost contender. Another body never recovered.
Today marks the first official Trial since the last Ember Trials a decade ago.
Ten years since the last unlucky group was thrown into the Unknown.
And now it's our turn.
The grounds outside the Trial Hall are veiled in a breathless silence, like even the wind is holding its breath. Fog slithers in low over the stone paths, curling around our boots as if trying to pull us back. A strange chill clings to the air—unnatural and heavy, tasting faintly of burnt sage and storm-waiting.
Torches line the perimeter, but the flames burn blue instead of gold. Trial fire. Enchanted to reveal truth… or danger. None of us know which.
A massive obsidian arch looms ahead, carved with glowing runes that shift as you look at them, never the same twice. The Veil pulses beyond it—a living wall of silver mist, rippling like breath caught in glass.
We stand in rows, summoned before dawn, our uniforms dark and close to our skin. No armor. No weapons. Just our instincts, our training… and whatever magic we were born with.
Some whisper. Some tremble. Some can't stop glancing at the arch.
Someone in the back is quietly crying.
Another person murmurs a prayer in the Old Tongue.
I clench my jaw and stare straight ahead.
Samora squeezes my hand once before letting go.
Fynn stands somewhere behind me. Kadyn to my left.
I don't look at any of them. I can't. Not yet.
A Raven Guard strides past, face masked, spear glowing faintly at the tip. They pause for a beat too long in front of a trembling first-year before continuing without a word.
A crow circles above, cawing once—loud and sharp—before vanishing into the fog.
The Veil hums. Waiting.
A deep horn bellows across the campus—low and long, shaking the stones beneath our feet. The sound vibrates through my bones like something ancient waking.
The gates of the Trial Hall groan open.
Master Ilithar steps forward, his midnight robes trimmed with starlight thread. His voice rings out from atop the stone stairs:
"Step forward into the Veil of the Unknown.
Trust no path.
Fear no creature.
And above all… adapt."
Then he lifts his hand again, and the Raven Guard move through the crowd with silent precision, parchment slips gripped in gloved hands. One by one, names are called—not alone, but in groups.
"Fynn Pierce, Elena Solace, Kadyn Zimmerman, Samora Hendrix… Team Fourteen."
I barely breathe. My heart pounds in my ears.
We step out from our rows and come together, shoulder to shoulder, standing in the shadow of the arch.
Other names echo out, forming more teams—some with relief in their faces, others with barely concealed dread. A few students are grouped with people they don't know at all.
"No switching," Master Ilithar says, voice like iron. "Your team is your anchor. Your team is your test."
I glance at Samora. Her eyes are hard with focus. Fynn's brows are furrowed like he's already calculating a dozen escape routes. Kadyn doesn't smile for once.
A final team is called. Then silence.
The runes on the obsidian arch flare brighter—like a pulse. The Veil churns beyond it, impossibly thick and alive.
"One by one," Ilithar commands. "Enter."
We step forward. And the mist swallows us whole. The world vanishes in an instant.
Sound dies first, muffled by the thick silver fog curling around our limbs. Then sight—colors bleeding into gray as the Veil closes behind us. I reach out, but even Samora's silhouette disappears, her fingers slipping from mine like smoke.
"Stay close," someone says—Fynn, I think—but the words stretch strangely in the air, echoing wrong.
A rune ignites beneath our boots, searing with violet flame, and suddenly the fog parts like pulled silk.
We're not in the courtyard anymore.
Stone walls rise around us in a jagged pattern, impossibly high and veined with glowing glyphs. A maze, I realize. Shifting, alive. The air carries the scent of moss and char, like a forest burned and regrown overnight.
A low growl rumbles from beyond the first corridor.
Samora, Kadyn, Fynn, and I press into a diamond formation, instinct taking over.
"Which way?" Kadyn mutters.
I don't answer. I can't. Something's pulling at me—something old, electric, writhing in the air like a warning. The Veil is more than illusion. It's aware.
We head left, following not logic, but instinct. The walls hum. Glyphs rearrange themselves behind our backs. A corridor we just passed through seals up with a heavy groan of stone.
The first hour is tense, fog swirling in thick pulses. It hides and reveals at will. Once, we turn back to retrace our steps only to find the passage behind us has disappeared entirely, swallowed by vines that weren't there before.
"This place is cursed," Samora whispers.
She's not wrong.
We run into a shardbeak, a bird-like construct with serrated wings and crystal talons. It drops from a stone archway without warning. We scatter, dodging slicing strikes. Fynn draws its attention while Samora hurls a flash rune that cracks open its core. Kadyn smashes it with a blast of force.
It explodes in shards.
We don't talk. We keep moving.
Eventually, the maze softens, opening into a chamber where the stone is covered in moss and bioluminescent fungi. And there, crouched beside a trickling spring, is a creature.
It looks like a hybrid of wolf and deer, antlers twisted like branches, its fur rippling with starlight. Its eyes fix on me. Not hostile. Watching.
"Elena…" Kadyn warns.
But I step forward.
It speaks—not in words, but music, a clicking, hollow melody that resonates in my ribs like drumbeats. And I understand it.
Wyrdcall stirs in my throat, unbidden.
"You know the path," I whisper.
It answers.
"The maze does not hold the key. The path you seek is beneath the surface. What lives in fear will open the way. What listens will survive."
I stare at it. "I don't understand."
"You will."
It steps aside and taps the mossy wall with one horn. A glyph glows. A new passage opens.
When I turn back, the creature is gone.
"What was that?" Fynn asks, breathless.
"I… think it helped."
"Why?"
"I don't know."
We move through the opened path, and it's clearer now—straighter. The clues left behind by the beast guide us through the thickening mist. We pass more traps—some dodged, some not.
A phantom serpent winds through the stones and nearly swallows Kadyn whole. Fynn electrocutes it with a sigil bomb. Samora nearly steps on a mimic rune. I catch her just in time.
Then we hear it—voices.
Not friendly ones.
We approach a wide clearing—stone circle, cracked and glowing.
A third team is already there, camped in the center, guarding it.
The exit.
They see us.
Tension breaks like glass.
A blast of air slams into us from the left. Kadyn staggers. Samora's blade is out in seconds. Fynn throws a ward up just as a bolt of energy scorches overhead.
"It's the Trials!" one of Team Three's fighters snaps, shoving forward. "Only one group gets through at a time!"
"She didn't earn it," their leader growls, voice cold and cutting. "Power like Wyrdcall? That's meant for warriors. Commanders. Not a trembling girl who doesn't even know what she is."
Another voice echoes from behind them, sharp and cruel:
"Maybe the Trials will fix that mistake."
"She's the reason they're ahead," another snarls, eyes locking on…me, "The Wyrdcalled girl. Bet they've been hiding behind her tricks this whole time."
They attack.
They're fast. Trained. Desperate.
One conjures a barrier wall. Another channels fire into his fists. Samora ducks under a flaming punch and knees him in the gut. Kadyn binds two of them with a chain-spell, but one breaks free with brute strength and throws him against a wall.
I dodge a slash from a tall girl with silver eyes, but the second strike slices across my ribs. Pain blinds me.
I stumble. Bleeding.
The girl raises her blade again—
A sound cuts through everything.
Clicking. Rumbling.
A trollhound lumbers from the mist. The others freeze.
But it looks at me.
Not at us—me.
The same sound. The same speech.
I understand.
My breath catches. Wyrdcall surges. I speak.
"What lives in fear will open the way."
The trollhound growls low.
"Will you help us?" I ask, in the Old Tongue.
"Blood calls. Voice answers. The strong speak with more than blade."
The creature lifts its head, then turns—and lunges at the silver-eyed girl.
She screams and flees.
The others scatter in panic.
But the trollhound stops. Looks back at me.
I whisper, "Thank you. You've done enough."
It nods—then vanishes into the fog.
The other team is broken. One of them lies still, unmoving.
Samora grabs my arm. "You're bleeding bad."
"Help me—just get me through the circle."
We step into the stone ring, all four of us.
A tremor runs through the maze. Light engulfs us.
We're the second team out.
The courtyard roars to life around us. Cold air hits my face. I see the sky again—but it's spinning.
Raven Guards rush forward. I feel hands on my shoulders, voices calling my name.
"Get her to the infirmary!"
Someone says, "Caelen made it out first. Almost an hour ago."
Of course he did.
Then everything goes dark.
The world comes back in pieces.
First, it's sound—the distant crackle of flame, the whisper of wind brushing against glass. Then scent—sharp antiseptic, the faintest wisp of lavender, like someone's cloak brushed past moments ago.
Then pain.
A dull throb at my side, pulsing in rhythm with my heartbeat. It's not unbearable, but it's enough to remind me I'm still alive. Which, after the maze… feels like a surprise.
I blink slowly. My eyes are heavy, and the light above me is soft, filtered through hanging charms that swing from the rafters like slow-moving stars.
Where…?
My voice is caught in my throat as I shift against the pillow. Crisp sheets. Stiff blanket. I'm lying on a cot, tucked against one wall of the infirmary.
And I'm not alone.
There's a figure in the chair beside the bed. Slouched, legs sprawled out, head tilted back—but unmistakably him.
Caelen.
His eyes are closed, but there's no way he's asleep. Not with how tense his jaw looks, even at rest. He's wearing black—of course he is—but this time it's a loose tunic with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing ink on his forearm I've never seen before. A stylized dragon coiled around a blade, the edges smudged like it was done in haste. His shirt's slightly rumpled, hair a little mussed like he's run his hand through it too many times. Like he's been sitting here a while.
And gods, it's unfair.
He looks like a painting someone carved out of smoke and shadows.
Unreal. Sharp-boned and effortless, like everything in the world is beneath him—except maybe this chair, because his hands are clenched on the arms like he might launch out of it at any second.
I try to sit up, and the movement makes a sharp breath whistle from my lips.
His eyes snap open.
"Stop. Don't move too fast," Caelen says immediately, voice low but sharp with command. He's up in an instant, hand out like he's going to steady me, but then he stops himself and just stands there. Watching me.
I blink at him. "How long…?"
"You've been out for a day and a half," he says, stepping back just slightly. "You lost a lot of blood."
A day and a half?
My mouth feels like cotton. "The others?"
"They're fine. Banged up. Samora's got a dislocated shoulder, Kadyn's bruised. Fynn nearly punched a Raven Guard when they tried to separate you. But they're okay."
A strange relief spreads through my chest, loosening something I hadn't realized was clenched.
My eyes drift back to him. "Why are you here?"
His mouth twitches. "What, expecting someone else?"
"I figured they'd send a Healer. Or someone I actually like."
That earns the tiniest curve of a smirk. "You were delirious when they brought you in. Kept muttering weird things in the Old Tongue. They thought you might wake up screaming. I volunteered."
"Of course you did," I mutter, but there's no real heat behind it. I glance at the other beds—empty. "Where are they?"
"They left an hour ago to get food. I stayed."
"You… stayed?"
Caelen shrugs. But there's something flickering behind his eyes, and it's not indifference.
"I didn't want you to wake up alone."
My breath catches.
For a second, neither of us speaks. The silence wraps around us, heavy and a little charged, like the moments before a storm.
He looks away first, studying the little vial of tincture on the side table like it personally offended him.
"You scared the hell out of me," he says, voice rougher now. Lower. "You collapsed. I thought—"
He cuts himself off. Doesn't finish the sentence. Doesn't need to.
"You care," I say before I can stop myself.
He lets out a short breath that might be a laugh. "Don't let it go to your head."
Too late.
Something warm flutters in my stomach—light and ridiculous and entirely unwelcome.
I should hate him. He's arrogant. Infuriating. Always two steps ahead, always looking at me like he knows something I don't.
But right now… he's just Caelen. Standing beside my bed with tired eyes and a tension in his shoulders like he hasn't breathed right since I went down.
"You stayed," I say again, softer this time.
He nods once. Doesn't elaborate.
"You didn't have to."
He looks at me then. Really looks. And the intensity in his gaze knocks the air out of my lungs.
"No. I didn't."
Silence stretches again, but this time it feels different. Not awkward. Not sharp.
Comfortable. Soft.
And for some insane reason, I smile.
"Caelen?"
"Hmm?"
"Thanks. For being here. For… I don't know. Not letting me wake up to just a Raven Guard and a pain potion."
He tilts his head, considering. "You're not the easiest person to sit with. You talk in your sleep."
"I do not."
"Oh, you do." He grins now—actually grins—and it changes everything about his face. "You kept saying, 'not that corridor, the mushrooms are alive.'"
Heat rushes to my cheeks. "Lies."
"Also something about punching Fynn if he used the word 'strategy' again."
"Okay that sounds more like me."
He chuckles softly, then steps back toward the chair and drops into it again, eyes still fixed on mine. The warmth in his expression fades into something quieter, more solemn.
"You should sleep more," he says.
"I just woke up."
"Doesn't matter. Your body's still healing. You need rest."
I raise an eyebrow. "Since when do you care what I need?"
"Since you nearly died, Elena."
Something about the way he says my name makes my pulse skip.
He exhales through his nose, gaze flicking over me like he's memorizing every bruise. Every breath I take.
"Go back to sleep," he murmurs, softer now. "I'll be here."
I sink back into the pillow, reluctantly letting my eyes close. The ache is still there, but it's dulled by something else. Something lighter.
"Fine," I mumble. "But don't call me Elena like that. It's weird."
There's a pause.
Then his voice again, low and velvet-smooth, brushing against the edges of sleep.
"Alright then… Starlight."
My breath catches.
"What—?"
But I'm already drifting.
And just before the dark takes me again, I swear I hear him whisper it one more time.
"Sleep well, Starlight."