The bells tolled at dawn, not bright, not celebratory — but heavy, solemn, like iron struck deep underground.
The courtyard was no longer courtyard. It had been remade in the night. Chalk lines spread wide across the stones, forming circles within circles. Each line glowed faintly, not with the steady pulse of mana, but with something harsher, rawer, as if light itself had been bent into chains.
At the far end stood the priests. Their white robes gleamed in pale sunlight, their faces shadowed by hoods. Candles burned on tall iron stands despite the morning hour. The old priest with lashes white as frost lifted his hands.
"Children of noble blood," he intoned softly, though his voice carried like thunder. "Today the gods demand proof. The beasts bent. The chains cracked. The mirrors lied. But the gods are not deceived. They shine upon all, and all shall be revealed."
His pale eyes swept the gathered heirs. "One by one, you will stand in the circle. The light shall fall. What is pure will endure. What is false will falter. What is chosen shall shine."
The nobles murmured, their voices sharp with fear and hunger. Instructors stood stiff, their jaws tight, their hands bound by silence.
The first team stepped into the circle. The runes flared. Light poured down from nowhere, harsh and white, burning without flame.
The heirs screamed. One fell, writhing, clutching his chest. Another gasped, her eyes wide, her hair shining faintly as if kissed by flame. The third endured, shaking but upright.
The priests hummed low, their whispers filling the courtyard. "Unworthy. Faint. Endures."
The team stumbled out, pale, shaken. The nobles' whispers rose.
One by one, more teams entered. Some endured. Some faltered. A few shone faintly, their families' names whispered with awe. But none broke through, none rose beyond mortal measure.
And then the old priest's pale eyes lifted. "Team Two."
Rowan's jaw clenched. His pride burned hot, his fists trembling faintly. He stepped forward, his eyes fixed ahead, his heart hammering. They will not see me falter again.
Mikel walked calm, steady as stone. His breath was slow, but his eyes flicked across the circle, measuring every rune, every glow.
Celina's cursed wrist throbbed beneath her sleeve. Her emerald eyes were sharp, but fear licked at her veins with the flame. She stepped forward, her beauty too sharp to look away from, her silence cutting.
And Ernest… Ernest walked calm, merciless, his black eyes steady. He gave nothing. He bent nothing. Yet everything bent to him.
They stepped into the circle.
The runes flared.
Light fell. Not sunlight, not mana — something harsher, deeper, as though the heavens themselves had been split. It poured down, blinding, searing.
Rowan staggered. His pride screamed, his body shaking. His knees bent, his fists clenched. I will not fall. I will not bend. Sweat poured down his face. His pride held him upright, but barely.
Mikel stood steady, his body trembling faintly, but his breath even. His calm was anchor. His steadiness bore the weight. His eyes narrowed, but he did not move.
Celina gasped, her cursed wrist burning green fire. It flared, spreading up her arm, licking her throat. She trembled, beauty and curse colliding beneath the gods' gaze. Her emerald eyes filled with fury — at them, at herself, at the curse that betrayed her. The light pushed harder, searing her flame.
And Ernest stood still.
The light pressed, but he did not bow. The radiance sought to strip him bare, to sear his silence into shout. But his black eyes stared upward, calm, merciless.
The priests hummed louder. Their voices rose.
"Burn.""Bind.""Reveal."
The light flared hotter, brighter. Rowan screamed, his pride tearing his throat. Mikel staggered, his anchor straining. Celina's curse erupted, green flame bursting from her veins, wrapping her in fire.
And Ernest spoke.
"Bend."
The word slid out, low, merciless.
The light wavered.
The priests froze, their chants faltering. The radiance trembled, no longer steady.
"Fall," Ernest said.
The light cracked. Like glass, it shattered — not with sound, but with silence. The courtyard dimmed. The runes died.
Rowan gasped, collapsing to one knee. Mikel exhaled, steadying again. Celina's flame flickered, then froze, her curse subdued beneath his word.
Ernest stood still. Calm. Merciless.
Gasps erupted. Nobles screamed.
"He bent it!""The light!""The gods' light!"
The instructors stood pale, their eyes wide. Halvern's spectacles flashed, his jaw tight. Serren's staff trembled faintly against stone. Elenor's lips curved thin, unreadable.
The priests were silent. Their white robes gleamed, but their faces were shadowed. The old one with lashes white as frost stared at Ernest, his pale eyes gleaming. His smile curved thin, but there was no triumph in it. Only hunger. Only fear.
That night, Ernest wrote in his notebook.
Trial of Light. They summoned gods' gaze. They meant to break me. I spoke. The light bent.
Rowan endured, pride screaming. Mikel steady, anchor strained. Celina burned, curse flared, but flame bowed.
Priests silent. Their hunger deeper. Their fear sharper. Nobles whisper prophet, heretic, vessel. It matters not.
He closed the book, stood at the window.
The courtyard lay silver. Across the green, Celina's candle burned steady. Rowan's lamp flickered faint. Mikel's light constant.
His reflection stared back — pale, calm, merciless.
"The forest bent. The nobles bowed. The beast knelt. The chain obeyed. The mirrors cracked. The heirs knelt. The priests hungered. And now light itself bent."
His lips curved, thin, sharp.
"I am the Voice that commands — even in silence."