The third trial was simple.
Survive.
It was called the Gauntlet of Skysteel, and it hadn't been used in nearly a decade—not since a student lost an arm to a rogue construct.
"They've repaired it," the instructors said.
But Calix noticed the way even the instructors flinched when the gates opened.
The arena wasn't just a battleground—it was a machine. Ancient, humming with a cold intelligence. The floor shifted, the walls changed shape, and towers of skysteel twisted in and out of sight like clockwork teeth.
No magic.No illusions.Just steel, speed, and pain.
This was a test of instinct. And Calix was very good at instinct.
The first round began with a pulse of blue light.
Dozens of students sprinted forward, dodging swinging pendulums, spiked walls, flame jets. One fell early. Another got caught in a gravity trap and was yanked straight upward, screaming.
Calix moved like water—low, fast, eyes wide. He didn't try to win. He tried to read the room. Flow through it.
He used the Skyborn harness only twice—to cross a wide gap and to slow a fall. The feather from the last trial was tucked safely into the lining of his coat. It hummed when he gripped it. Not magic exactly, but… responsive.
He made it to the last stage with a bruised shoulder and a burning lung—but standing.
The final phase: a central ring. One-on-one combat.
Randomly drawn pairs.
"Calix Aerinthal," called the announcer, "versus… Thorian Aerinthal."
The arena froze.
Thorian stepped forward slowly, like a predator with a full stomach. He smiled.
Calix's stomach turned—but he didn't back down.
The match began.
Thorian didn't hold back.
His fire came fast and brutal—arcing flames, explosions that sent shards of stone flying. Calix dodged, rolled, used the wind to twist out of reach, never staying still.
But he couldn't win with speed forever.
"You're pathetic," Thorian growled, flame building in both palms. "You wear our name but you don't deserve it. You never have."
"I'm not trying to deserve your name," Calix shouted, ducking a blast. "I'm earning mine."
The feather burned in his pocket.
Something shifted.
Wind curled at his heels—not random, not wild. Pulled by his will.
For a single moment, he felt it.
Control.
Not magic.
Something older.
He dropped low, slid under a blast, and let the wind lift him—just enough to launch into a spinning kick that caught Thorian across the jaw.
The fire prince staggered.
The crowd gasped.
And Calix stood, chest heaving, wind swirling faintly around him like it knew him now.
Before Thorian could recover, the match was called. Not a win. But a draw.
And a statement.
Later that night, Calix returned to the Undercroft.
Mira was waiting. She didn't say anything. Just held out a slip of parchment.
"What is this?" Calix asked.
She didn't smile. "I asked around. That name—Skyborn—it's not just a word."
He unrolled the parchment.
It was a list.
A list of names. All marked deceased.
Every name had the symbol carved into the Old Tower wall. A forgotten pirate sigil.
Except one.
Calix.
Marked: "Status Unknown."
He looked up, heart pounding. "This is a death list."
Mira nodded. "The Skyborn weren't just legends. They were hunted. Wiped out by the five noble houses when they tried to remain free after the Unification War."
Calix couldn't breathe.
"They tried to hide you," Mira said gently. "You weren't adopted by royals out of mercy. They were keeping you close."
"Because I'm dangerous," he whispered.
"Because you're the last of them."