The first morning in Sanctum Auralis was nothing like the mornings of Rionne.
Here there were no rooster calls, no shepherds guiding flocks, no scent of bread from the baker's oven. Instead, the air carried the cold bite of mountain stone and the echo of boots striking in rhythm. Trumpets blared in the distance, summoning squadrons to drill. The clang of weapons and the roar of command created a pulse that reverberated through the fortress like a living heartbeat.
Elira followed silently as two knights led her down a long corridor. The white stone walls were etched with faint golden sigils that shimmered as if alive. Through tall arches, she glimpsed training fields already brimming with activity. Rows of armored recruits thrust spears in unison. Mages traced glowing lines in the dirt, chanting words that crackled with fire and lightning. Arrows whistled from enchanted bows, striking targets that reformed themselves with every hit.
The scale of it left her breathless. In Rionne, a wooden sword and an old hunting bow were considered tools of war. Here, every movement was precise, every sound a reminder that she stood among those bred for battle.
I don't belong here, she thought, clutching the strap of her simple tunic. But she had no choice.
They stopped at an open arena paved in stone. Dozens of young knights-in-training had gathered, their eyes drawn immediately to her. Some were curious. Others smirked, recognizing an outsider.
A man with a scar across his jaw stepped forward. His armor was battered from years of use, his eyes sharp as a hawk's. "You're the one the commander brought in," he said, voice curt. "Show us what you can do."
Elira's stomach twisted. "What… do you want me to—"
"Magic." He pointed to the center of the ring. "Recreate what you did in the forest."
Her mouth went dry. She had no idea how she had summoned those spells. Her body had simply… moved. Still, she stepped forward, her boots scraping against the stone. The circle of recruits tightened, their whispers pricking her ears.
"She looks nervous."
"Probably just luck in the woods."
"A village girl won't last a week here."
Elira forced a breath. She closed her eyes, recalling the moment when the Fireback Bear had breathed fire, when Rho had lain helpless on the ground. She had raised her arms then without thinking—
"Wind Barrier!" she shouted, thrusting her hands forward.
Air swirled before her, a translucent wall forming—only to shudder violently. It rippled like water, flickered, then collapsed with a hollow snap. The recruits chuckled.
Her cheeks burned. She clenched her fists. "Again."
This time she aimed to strike. She drew her arm back, gathering the air as best she could. "Gale Strike!"
The wind burst forth in a jagged arc, slicing across the arena. But instead of a clean blade, it splintered wildly, striking a wooden training dummy and toppling it onto two startled recruits. Dust billowed.
"Out of control," someone scoffed.
"She's dangerous to us, not the enemy."
Elira's knees trembled. She wanted to scream that she hadn't asked for this, that she didn't even understand what she was doing. But the words died in her throat.
"Enough," the scarred man barked. He tossed her a training sword. The weight nearly pulled her arm down. "Magic without steel is nothing. Show us your grip."
Elira raised the blade, but it was heavier than the axes she had used to chop wood back home. She swung once, twice, but her movements were slow, clumsy. After a dozen strikes her shoulders ached. By twenty, her palms blistered. By thirty, the sword slipped from her grip and clattered to the ground.
Laughter rippled through the ranks.
"She can't even hold it."
"Pathetic."
"Send her back to her sheep."
Elira bent to pick the sword up, but her arms shook. The scarred man gave a dismissive snort. "You're not ready. Not even close." He turned to the others. "Back to drills. Leave her."
The recruits dispersed, their armor clanking, their voices echoing. Elira remained in the center of the arena, the sword heavy in her hands, shame burning hotter than fire.
That night, she sat alone in the small stone room they had assigned her. The walls were bare, the bed little more than straw and cloth. Outside, the sounds of training still echoed faintly, relentless even in darkness.
Elira drew the necklace from beneath her tunic. The dark metal gleamed faintly, twin wings unfurled around the gem of midnight. She traced the engraved letter on the back—E.
Her father's legacy. The elder had said it would guide her, that something within would awaken when the time was right. But now, it was only cold in her palm.
Her throat tightened. She pressed it to her chest, whispering, "Am I truly meant for this? Or did they make a mistake bringing me here?"
No answer came. Only silence, and the restless thrum of her own heartbeat.
High above the courtyard, Sirena stood at a window, cloak brushing the floor. Her black hair glimmered under torchlight, her eyes fixed on the darkened training grounds below.
Her deputy approached. "The girl faltered. She lacks strength, discipline. If she can't improve, she'll break."
Sirena's gaze did not waver. "Then she breaks."
The deputy hesitated. "You mean to keep her?"
"She cast without chant, without catalyst," Sirena replied. "That alone is rare. She has power. What she lacks is control."
"And if she never gains it?"
For a moment, the commander was silent. Then her voice cut the air like the edge of her glaive. "Iron that cannot endure the forge becomes brittle scrap. But iron that survives—becomes steel."
Her eyes narrowed as she turned away, her expression unreadable. "We will see which she is."
In her chamber below, Elira curled her fingers tightly around the necklace. The fortress felt vast, unyielding, and she was only a single fragile spark within it. But she refused to let that spark die.
Even if the weight of the sword crushed her arms, even if the laughter of the others echoed in her ears, even if the barrier failed a hundred times—
She would endure.
For herself.
For Rho.
And for the unknown path her parents had left her to walk.