The academy's outer gates groaned open with a weighty finality, and beyond them stretched the wildlands—a thick tangle of forest, broken hills, and untamed dangers. Few students were sent out this early in their training, but Eryndor had been chosen. Not as a privilege, but as a test.
Lyanna walked at his side, her bow strapped across her back, her face calm though her hands betrayed a faint tremor. Around them, a group of other students murmured in hushed tones, most hiding their unease with forced bravado.
Their instructor's voice carried above the chatter. "Survive three nights. Bring back proof of your kills. That's the task. Fail, and you're not worthy to stand among the academy's next generation."
The gates clanged shut behind them.
The silence of the wilds was broken not by wind or birds, but by a low, guttural growl. The sound rolled through the trees, raising the hairs along Eryndor's arms. The group stiffened, forming a rough circle.
"Already?" one muttered.
The underbrush snapped, and the first creature stepped into view. It was no ordinary beast. Its body was sinewed and gray, with bone-like protrusions jutting from its spine and arms. Its eyes glowed a sickly yellow, and when it opened its mouth, its jaw stretched far wider than natural. A carrion hound—feral, rabid, drawn to blood.
The first lunged.
Students panicked, scattering back. Eryndor didn't. He pushed forward, wind compressing around his legs as Gale Step propelled him into the creature's path. His fist, wrapped in Lightning Surge, cracked across its jaw, a sharp flash and snap echoing at the impact. The beast snarled but didn't fall—it spun and swiped with jagged claws.
Eryndor ducked low, his instincts from the Eightfold Flow kicking in. He pivoted, bringing his palm up—Crackling Palm—the discharge sending the hound tumbling back into the dirt.
Two more burst from the brush.
Lyanna loosed arrows, each one sparking faintly as they whistled past. One found a shoulder, the other a thigh, slowing their charge but not stopping them.
Eryndor rotated, gathering wind and lightning together. He spun sharply—Tempest Spin unleashed. Energy spiraled outward, catching both beasts and sending them skidding across the field, snapping saplings as they fell.
But there was no time to celebrate. A shadow loomed larger. The ground shook. From deeper in the forest, a massive carrion hound—twice the size of the first—emerged, its maw dripping, its spine bristling with jagged bone.
Eryndor's chest tightened. His muscles screamed from the abilities he'd already used, but retreat was not an option.
The beast roared and charged.
He braced. Don't flinch. Don't hesitate. As the claw came down, he triggered Lightning Reflection, the energy wrapping his body as the impact struck. The force jolted through him, but he redirected it, snapping it back in a burst of crackling light. The monster reeled, stumbling a step.
Eryndor gasped for breath. His limbs felt heavy. But he clenched his fists tighter. "I'm not dying here."
He dashed forward, lightning flickering along his legs, wind at his back. Each movement flowed from the martial foundation drilled into him by his grandfather—every step, every strike intentional. He leapt, twisting mid-air, and slammed his palm down with a roar.
Crackling Palm. Direct hit.
The giant hound's skull slammed into the dirt, electricity snapping across its body. It writhed once, then collapsed.
Silence.
Eryndor landed heavily, staggering but upright. His breath came ragged, his body bruised and battered—but he was alive. Around him, the other students stared in wide-eyed silence.
Lyanna rushed to his side, grabbing his arm. "You're insane," she whispered, her voice trembling. Then softer, with awe: "But you did it."
Eryndor didn't answer. His chest heaved, his gaze fixed on the dark treeline ahead. If this was the academy's test, then the real dangers were only just beginning.