The orchestra began to tune, the faint hum of strings and notes threading over the soft clatter of plates and low conversations. I wasn't really hearing any of it — I was too busy tracking him.
Reis.
He stood near the far end of the hall, illuminated by the warm glow of the candles and the chandelier. He was speaking to a fellow scribe, But his eyes kept drifting back to the table I was leaning.
My pulse thrummed. I pretended to be adjusting the fall of my skirts, stealing glances over the rim of my glass.
When his eyes caught mine — just for a breath — I felt the heat rise in my cheeks. He didn't look away. If anything, he seemed to be weighing something… then gave the faintest nod to the scribe he was talking to.
Oh. He's coming over.
My heart leapt into my throat.
The music began in earnest, the first elegant tune of the melody filling the hall. A perfect opening for a dance. I set my glass down, just in case. My fingers smoothed over the edge of my bodice — not to fuss, just… to make sure.
The crowd parted for him without thought, as though the room itself acknowledged his right to move where he pleased.
Yes, this was it. This was exactly how I'd imagined it. I could already picture his hand extended toward me, the precise bow, the murmured invitation.
He stopped right in front of me.
"I was hoping I could have a dance with you, my lady—"
My lips curved in the beginnings of a smile—
"—Sylva."
The name landed like a crack in glass.
My smile froze, the words tangling in my throat as he turned — just slightly — to the girl at my side.
"Oh—me?" Sylva's eyes widened, darting between us.
"Of course." His smile softened as he offered his hand, and Sylva, after a breathless pause, placed hers in it.
The two of them moved onto the floor, the music swelling around them. Sylva's laugh rang light and unguarded, and Reis — ever the composed scribe — let a faint grin escape as he guided her into the first turn.
My chest tightened, I shouldn't feel like this for a person I just met a day prior.
Beside me, Lorian leaned in with a smirk. "That was… brutal. You alright, firebird?"
I didn't trust my voice enough to answer.
By the time the musicians played their final flourish, my feet ached and my cheeks hurt from smiling at people whose names I'd already forgotten. The ballroom doors were thrown open to reveal a dining hall so extravagant it could have fed my entire village for a year — tables roasted with roasted chicken, platters of steaming bread, bowls of fruit glistening under the chandelier light.
I found my place between Lorian and Sylva. Reis sat three seats away, speaking politely with a senior scribe, not once glancing in my direction.
"So," Lorian said as he leaned back in his chair, balancing his goblet with irritating ease, "what's the first thing you're going to do when you're a fully-fledged scribe, Firebird? Burn down an enemy stronghold? Scare politicians into behaving? Warm an entire city in winter?"
"I haven't decided yet," I said, stabbing a piece of roasted carrot perhaps a little too forcefully.
"You should at least pick something dramatic," he continued, undeterred. "Otherwise, what's the point of having a name like that?"
Sylva glanced between us, brows arched. "Firebird? That's new."
I rolled my eyes. "It's not sticking."
"Oh, it's sticking," Lorian said smoothly, and the way he said it made my skin prickle — not in annoyance, though I told myself otherwise.
Before I could craft a proper retort, a sharp clatter cut through the room. One of the new initiates — a lanky boy from the north — had tried to pour wine and managed to knock over three plates in the process. The splatter of gravy painted his shirt in what could have been a rather convincing map of the continent.
Lorian lifted his goblet in mock salute. "A toast to the first casualty of the evening."
That earned him a glare from our poor gravy-soaked comrade, but the tension eased into laughter around the table. Even I cracked a smile, though my thoughts kept drifting to Reis — and to why he hadn't asked me to dance.
The last of the plum tarts were cleared away, the music softened, and the clinking of goblets dwindled to a hush. At the head of the grand table, Archscribe Veyth rose to his feet. His robe was embroidered with silver script, caught the candlelight like threads of captured starlight.
"New initiates," he began, "you have endured your first trial with courage and skill. But this was merely the beginning."
I sat a little straighter, pulse quickening. The memory of my own success — and the humiliation of others' failure — was still fresh, but his tone promised something far worse.
"Tomorrow," Veyth continued, "you will face the Trial of the Mind — a measure not of your hands or your speed, but of your wit, memory, and resilience. The scribe's craft is more than ink and parchment. You will be tested on recall, translation, interpretation, and… the will to withstand distraction."
Around me, whispers rippled down the long table. Lorian leaned close enough for his shoulder to brush mine. "Distraction? Sounds like I might be of some use to you there, Firebird."
I ignored him, though my lips twitched.
Veyth's gaze swept the room, landing on each of us like a seal of challenge. "Rest well tonight. If you falter tomorrow, no amount of charm or blade will save you."
A final murmur of conversation rose as he sat again, and the feast slowly dissolved into movement — chairs scraping, robes swishing, the sound of boots on marble as people filtered back toward their quarters. My stomach was full, but my mind was already turning, rehearsing for a test I could not yet see.
The three of us made our way back to the dormitory, the corridor lanterns casting amber halos across the stone walls. The grand hall's music still echoed faintly in my ears, but the further we walked, the more it faded, replaced by the steady tap of boots and the occasional yawn from Lorian.
By the time we reached our shared chamber, the air was cooler, quieter — just the gentle creak of the door as Sylva pushed it open.
"Finally," she sighed, kicking off her shoes and flopping onto her bed with a graceless thump. "If I had to smile at one more noble who thought I was their personal messenger, I'd have set something on fire."
Lorian smirked and dropped into the chair by the window. "And here I thought you were the polite one."
I unpinned my hair, letting the curls fall over my shoulders, the ache of the evening slowly melting away. "We should rest. Tomorrow won't be easy."
"Easy?" Lorian leaned back, hands behind his head. "I grew up with seven siblings fighting for the last loaf of bread at dinner. I think I can handle a few questions on history."
The corner of my mouth lifted. "Seven siblings?"
He nodded. "Big family. Loud. Chaotic. My mother could silence a room with one look, but my father…" His grin softened into something fonder. "He used to tell me stories every night — about star voyagers, forgotten kings, ancient oaths. Said he wanted me to remember that the world was bigger than our street."
For a moment, the air felt warmer, as though the flicker of the bedside candles reached just a little farther.
Sylva turned onto her side, eyes half-closed but listening. "That's sweet. My family didn't tell stories. We… wrote them down. Catalogued them. My mother could recite genealogies like a priest."
Lorian chuckled. "And now you're here, about to catalogue your own legend."
I stayed quiet, letting their words drift over me. The thought of my own family tugged somewhere deep, but I wasn't ready to pull at that thread yet. Instead, I climbed into bed, the weight of the blankets grounding me, and let their soft bickering fade into the night.
Sleep refused to come.
I tossed, turned, and stared at the dark ceiling until the weight of stillness became unbearable. The others slept peacefully — Sylva curled up like a cat, Lorian sprawled with one arm thrown over his face.
Pulling on my cloak, I slipped from the dormitory. The corridors were empty, the world muted beneath the pale wash of moonlight.
I wandered into the courtyard, breathing in the cool air, when a soft crunch of grass behind me made me pause.
A wolf emerged from the shadows.
It was large — taller than my shoulder — with fur so pale it seemed to shimmer faintly under the moon. Its eyes were a deep green unlike Rei's wolf's golden one, calm but unblinking.
It came closer, step by step, not threatening but curious. I stayed still, my breath clouding in the air between us.
"You're… not his," I whispered before I could stop myself.
The wolf tilted its head slightly, then sat down, watching me like I was the one under scrutiny. For a moment, we simply stared at each other. Something about its presence felt… grounding.
"You're beautiful," I whispered.
Its ears flicked. It padded closer, each movement fluid, deliberate. I reached out slowly, palm up, letting it decide. The wolf sniffed my fingers, then leaned forward until its cold nose touched the back of my hand.
"She likes you," a voice said behind me.
I spun, nearly tripping over my own feet. A young man stood in the moonlight, smiling in a way that was both warm and a little sheepish. He had dark blond hair, tousled like he'd been sleeping, and a thin silver chain glinted at his throat.
"I—uh—sorry," I stammered.
"Don't be." He stepped closer, resting a hand lightly on the wolf's back. "Her name's Lyra. She doesn't let just anyone near her."
I glanced at him, then back at Lyra. "You're… a scribe?"
He nodded. "Second year. My name's Kael."
There was a softness in his voice, like he never felt the need to raise it to be heard. He wasn't like Reis—no sharp edges, no calculated stillness. He had the sort of presence that drew you in without demanding it.
"I haven't been getting a proper sleep since I got here, is there any place here to just sit down and unwind?" I asked rubbing my palms together.
He rolled his eyes, but he gestured toward the far archway.
"Come on. I'll show you the only place in this whole fortress where the moonlight doesn't feel like it's spying on you."
I should have gone back. Instead, curiosity tugged harder. I followed him.
We passed the training yards—empty now except for a few practice dummies swaying in the breeze—and walked down a narrow side path choked with weeds. At the end stood a high stone wall, smothered in ivy.
"This used to be an ornamental garden," Kael said, brushing a branch aside for me. "No one comes here anymore."
The air was cooler here, and quieter still. My gaze wandered over the tangle of vines until something caught—a faint curl of lines beneath the leaves, glimmering under the moonlight.
I stepped closer. "What's this?"
Kael's tone changed—just slightly. "Old mark. Been there forever."
But when I reached out and brushed the ivy aside, the shapes resolved into something intricate—lines and curves that spiraled inward like a living flame. My breath caught.
The moment my fingers touched the stone, a faint warmth ran up my arm. The glyph flared, just enough to paint my skin in silver light.
I knew this shape. I'd seen it before—burning in the air during the vision when Reis's wolf touched me.
I turned toward Kael, heart hammering. "I've seen this."
He was watching me now—not smiling, not teasing. His gaze was steady, like he was weighing something.
"You've seen it before?"
"Yes," I whispered. "I think it's connected to my mother."
Something flickered in his eyes—a shadow, quickly gone. His voice was light when he finally spoke, but there was an undercurrent beneath it.
"Then I'd be careful who you tell. Some things are better left sleeping."
The breeze rustled the ivy, and for a moment, the glyph's glow faded back into stone. Kael's wolf let out a low, quiet huff, like it knew something I didn't.
And just like that, I realized—I might not be ready for the answers I was chasing.