Archmage Veyron stood before the gathered aspirants, his eyes gleaming with the light of ancient knowledge. As the theater dimmed and an expectant hush fell over the audience, he raised his hands, summoning the light around him to illuminate the crystalline obelisks that towered majestically on the stage.
"Welcome, my diligent students," he began, his voice resonating through the darkness like a melodious chant. "You stand on the precipice of the second trial, a significant stepping stone on your journey to mastering your unique magic."
He gestured toward the iridescent crystals, their surfaces shimmering with reflected hues. "These obelisks are not mere decorations of grandeur, they are conduits of energy, the primordial essence that flows through us all. When you channel your spirit into these crystals, you are not only shaping your magic, you are revealing the very essence of who you are."
Pausing, he allowed the weight of his words to sink in. "The manifestation of your magic will take form, shaped by your intention and understanding. This moment is crucial, for it holds a mirror to your soul. Will your future be bright, filled with potential and purpose, or will it reflect doubts and shadows? The shape that emerges will tell us all where your path may lead."
Veyron stepped closer, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. "Channel your Aether or Aura with sincerity, focus on your desires and fears alike. Embrace the full spectrum of your being. Remember, it's not the brilliance of the shape that matters, but the authenticity of your essence woven into it."
The obelisks, tall columns of clear crystal, were not mere props. Carved with age-worn runes, they were conduits of truth, not power. A touch would amplify a student's signature, laying it bare, revealing their temperament in filament and flare.
With a nod to the audience, he took his place beside the first obelisk. "Let the trial commence. Your future awaits, and the crystals call for your light."
One by one, candidates stepped forward, their hands grazing the surface of the crystals. Each interaction elicited breathtaking displays: obelisks glowed with fiery emblems, adorned with frozen crowns and swirling storm sigils, evoking awe and wonder from the crowd, who watched with rapt attention.
The crowd took pleasure in charm. Tutors made notes, "Good control," "Fine conservation." The obelisks read every nuance, the tilt of intention, the frown of doubt, the thirst for show, and answered plainly.
Aurelia felt the adrenaline braid with the Aether at her temples, it sharpened her. She wanted a sign that said Aurelia Caelistra: Precise, Dangerous, Inevitable. Pride wanted a herald. Pride wanted a dragon, tied to her lineage.
When Aurelia stepped to her assigned obelisk, she wrapped her fingers around the cool crystal and let thought slide into gesture. She breathed slowly and let the ribbon of Aether she had kept folded all morning unfurl into language.
The obelisk drank and answered with a roar for her as a complex sigil unspooled into being before the crowd, a spiraling dragon whose wings were filigrees of living flame and whose coiling neck suggested both nobility and menace. The sigil rose in a slow, sculpted motion; the dragon's eye, carved of Aether-light, turned once, as if to note the hall.
The reaction was immediate. Noble spectators straightened as if their crests had been checked. A rumble of approval moved through the benches. Aurelia lifted her hand and let the dragon fold like a banner; the obelisk's glow dimmed to contentment. That will do, she thought, basking for a slender second in the admitted pleasure of making the obelisk answer with a shape that suited her name.
The next one was Prince Lucien. As he pressed his palm to the obelisk, a golden crown burst forth, shimmering brilliantly in the air. The spectators gasped, their eyes wide with awe as the crown hovered delicately above the obelisk, rays of light casting intricate patterns on the ground.
Lucien stood tall, a proud smile gracing his lips as he savored the moment, the golden crown a perfect reflection of his royal lineage. The murmur of admiration swelled once again, wrapping around him like a warm embrace.
Aurelia watched Lucien's golden crown appear, feeling a mix of admiration and envy. Though it overshadowed her earlier triumph, she applauded, acknowledging the room for both their talents and the growing tension between them.
It was the boy in plain robes' turn. His approach was as unadorned as his attire. He placed his hand on the crystal, closed his eyes for a moment, and then the obelisk responded. Initially, the surface glimmered faintly, a mere whisper of light that barely drew the audience's attention. Soft snickers flitted through the ranks of nobility, mocking his apparent insignificance.
"Looks like he doesn't have any affinity to magic."
"Poor thing. The only magic he'll ever have is in his dreams, while we're out here wielding the real stuff."
"It's almost a shame he doesn't have the talent, it might be fun to see his attempts at magic. Imagine him trying to levitate a feather only to end up blowing it across the room!"
But then...
FWOOM.
Then, unexpectedly, the obelisk erupted into a storm of blinding light, more brilliant than anything witnessed before. Instead of a discernible sigil, an overwhelming pulse of pure luminescence filled the theater, surging outward like a sun unleashed. Silence engulfed the crowd, the instructors leaning in with awakened curiosity, furiously scribbling notes, their faces etched with astonishment.
Aurelia gritted her teeth, her nails digging into her palm. "Impossible..."
The light was loud in her bones. It was not a crafted symbol so much as a force rearranged into a single, towering breath. Tutors whispered, mentors exchanged quick notations on paper. Hands at the platforms moved to summon measurement instruments that were not typically used in ordinary trials.
"Impossible..." she muttered again, her tutors' awe only fueling her turmoil. "They should be looking at me," she thought, a bitter ache forming in the pit of her stomach. "I'm the one who deserves their attention, not some plain boy."
It was merely a brilliant glow, devoid of significance, lifeless, and empty in essence. It was a mere spectacle, stark against the darkness, so why does it astonish everyone? It was ordinary.
The obelisk returned to its dormant state with a reluctant sigh, the afterglow dissipating like water. The plain-robed boy lifted his hand from the column, showing no signs of arrogance or self-satisfaction. He simply blended back into the crowd as if nothing extraordinary had occurred.
The effect did what the Academy loved most: it asked questions. Novelty made the elders tilt their heads. What had been a private test had become a matter of public curiosity. Aurelia felt for a moment the prick of something that matched heat to cold: jealousy, yes, but a thread of unease that tugged at the edge where she kept her certainties.
Professor Marlec, who had a face made of small, impatient ideas, squinted and tsked into his beard. "Did you feel that?" he muttered to a colleague. "No usual vector. Clean, but unexpected in scale."
Headmaster Veyron, who preferred to listen instead of leap, had the look of a man arranging pieces on a board. He made a note, his staff tapping the air like a metronome. Around him, instructors murmured: "Lineage?" "Unrecorded method?" "Alternate schooling?" There was no agreement, only a multiplication of questions.
Aurelia found herself folding her hands into fists she would not show. It was bright, she admitted inwardly, and that admission was a small, naked thing.
It was not the careful voice I made. It shouted.
Pride is quick to claim dominance by spectacle, now she had seen spectacle answered by something quieter, more blunt, and it unsettled her.
When the obelisks' displays were recorded and the scores tabulated, students filtered out into the open air. Groups clustered with the same nervous energy people show after an unexpected performance: debates sprang up like chaff in the wind, were such surges reliable? Controllable? Undesirable? Someone joked that the boy had called down a small sun. Someone else joked back that it was probably a trick of composition.
Veyron spoke to the gathered tutors with a shortness that was a command. "All observations logged. Let the Academy do its job, measure, file, and then decide."
That last line carried the authority of a man who meant the machine to run neither hastily nor cruelly. Measure, file, decide. The Academy loved such measured verbs. They let business happen between curiosity and consequence.
Aurelia stepped back into the stream of people, the dragon sigil still folded like a private fable behind her sternum. The light she had conjured felt like a talisman she might yet need. The boy's brightness echoed in her mind like a question with fangs.
At the edge of the yard, a knot of older students waited and watched as the younger ones came off the field. They traded looks. A tall figure in dark trim, someone whose name people said but did not say loudly, moved through the crowd with a kind of casual authority that people like to call presence. He did not stop, he scanned and then continued.
Important people notice. That is the danger and the prize. But who was he looking at...It had to be me, right...
As the afternoon light slid lower and the Academy put away its obelisks' glow, Archmage Veyron climbed the podium once more and made the announcement that set everyone's next breath: "Now will be the third and final trial. You will prove your application in combat, both in structured and improvisational situations. Come prepared. Temper your art with caution, the arena will show more than technique. It will show temperament."
A murmur ran through the students. The word "duel" carried different meanings for different ears. For some, it was the prospect of glory. For others, it was the first actual test of measured nerves.
Aurelia felt the word like a bell struck in a cavern. She rubbed at the small seam of her wrist where she had tied her ribbon and tasted something like iron.
Temper with caution, she mouthed, and felt the phrase settle into her like a chain placed over an arm.
The plain-robed boy stood at the fringe of the press, watching the announcement without surprise. He cradled his slate like a quiet treaty. When Aurelia caught his eye, he only nodded, an unassuming gesture that read like an acknowledgment: We both have to rise.
There was a steadiness to him that did not scream, it was the sort of gravity that quietly rearranged the room's attention without demand. So tidy, she thought, feeling the old familiar flare of pique as if pride itself had been punctured. So calm. So inconveniently effective. The disquiet it caused her was minor and sharp, like a splinter under a fingertip.
Nearby, a cluster of people compared notes in low, polished tones. "A refined sigil," one murmured, "Technique fits pedigree." Another added with a faint smile, "And that other display, raw, alarming. Is he really a commoner, or a novel method." They spoke as if weighing coins. Aurelia heard the last phrase and, despite herself, felt the tug of something that was neither purely anger nor envy.
Attention is a currency, too. And I do not intend to be bankrupt.
I will resolve this immediately. As a noble Caelistra, I must put him in his place.
Professor Marlec lingered at the rail with the look of a man who had just tasted an interesting problem. He tapped his slate, made a note, and then turned his head briefly in the boy's direction, a small, almost imperceptible sign that the Academy had noticed more than spectacle.
Headmaster Veyron, watching from the platform, allowed his gaze to pass slowly over the students. When it rested on Aurelia, there was no praise, nor rebuke, only the kind of measurement that felt like a book being opened to a blank page.
Measure, file, decide, she heard the echo of his earlier words, and felt the weight of them settle like ink.
She turned away, taking a deep breath. There were things to practice, skills to master, and a duel to prepare for. Pride, she reminded herself, would be measured by the way she held her hands and the sound of her breathing.
Warming her fingers, she allowed the ribbon of light to flow like a thread between her hands. With the quiet concentration of someone who had long learned that the little details mattered, she began to rehearse the motions she would need for the duel.
And if he thinks he can surprise me again, he will learn why names matter.
The thought was sharpened by the taste of the obelisk's afterglow, and somewhere beneath it sat something less sure, the knowledge that novelty sometimes slips through the well-worn seams. Today would test whether that novelty was an advantage or a hidden blade.
The Second Trial Completed.