The examination hall was a cathedral of brilliance. Mana crystals floated overhead, casting the chamber in shifting hues of blue and gold. The great orb of assessment—tall as a man and thrumming with power—rested at the center of the dais. One by one, hopeful students approached, pressing their hands to its surface, letting it judge them.
Light blazed with each touch. Flames spiraled for the fire-born. Veins of ice cracked across the orb for the frost-gifted. Numbers rose high on the display columns, eliciting cheers, applause, and nods of approval from watching nobles.
Riven stood among them, sword strapped across his back. His jaw tightened as the line grew shorter.
"Next," the examiner called, voice smooth but impatient.
The boy before him—a blond heir of House Marrow—pressed his palm to the orb. A rush of crimson flame filled it, numbers soaring past 12,000. Applause rippled through the hall. The boy smirked as he stepped down.
Then it was Riven's turn.
He walked forward slowly, feeling dozens of eyes pierce him. Nobles whispered, instructors leaned forward with faint frowns. He had no clan backing him, no pedigree. Just a blade.
He placed his hand on the orb.
Nothing happened.
No glow. No shimmer. The great orb sat cold and still beneath his palm, as if mocking him.
The silence that followed was deafening. Then came the whispers.
"…Is it broken?"
"No. It reacts even to a flicker of mana."
"Empty. The boy has nothing."
Laughter followed, sharp and cruel. One instructor cleared his throat and muttered, "Step aside. You've no business here."
Riven's hand curled tighter against the glass. His reflection stared back at him—pale, hollow, stripped bare. But he did not move.
A memory flashed. His father, sword in hand, voice gravel rough:
"If the world denies you mana, then forge your life on steel. Make the blade your soul. Make it scream for you."
Riven stepped back from the orb, but not from the dais. His voice cut through the hall:
"Trial by combat."
The laughter died instantly.
The examiners blinked, taken aback. "You—what?"
"Academy law," Riven said, jaw set. "If the orb fails me, then let the blade decide. That's the rule."
Gasps rippled through the onlookers. Even the nobles fell into shocked silence. A mana-less nobody daring to invoke tradition?
The chief examiner narrowed his eyes. "Very well. But understand, boy—you will regret this."
A name was called. A challenger stepped forth—taller, confident, his hands already flickering with sparks of lightning.
The duel was set.
Riven adjusted his grip on the hilt of his sword. The orb had given him nothing but shame, but the steel at his back had never failed him.
He drew the blade. Its edge gleamed under the crystal light.
"Mana-less," someone jeered from the crowd.
Riven raised the sword. His crimson eyes burned.
"Then let steel speak."