I barely remembered the walk back to the dorms. My ankle still throbbed where the string had caught me.
Inside, the lamps had burned low, throwing soft gold light over the stone walls. Sylva sat cross-legged on her bed, braiding her hair, while Lorian sprawled on his stomach with a book open upside down in front of him.
"You look like death warmed over," Sylva said, eyes narrowing. "Where did you wander?"
"Nowhere," I muttered, slipping past them to my cot. My cloak still carried the faint, wild scent of wolf fur. I hoped they wouldn't notice.
Lorian rolled onto his back and propped himself up on his elbows, grinning. "Nowhere looks good on you, Firebird. You've got that hunted look—like you've seen a ghost or kissed one."
"Or both," Sylva added dryly.
I managed a smile, but it didn't quite reach. My hands still trembled as I unlaced my boots. "I'm just…distracted "
They exchanged a look, but didn't push. For that, I was grateful.
A bell tolled somewhere deep in the Citadel, long and sonorous. Three strikes. Midnight. And then, as if the walls themselves listened, a voice boomed through the halls, low and resonant:
"Initiates. At dawn, your third trial awaits. Prepare yourselves."
The sound faded, leaving silence in its wake.
Lorian groaned dramatically, throwing his arm over his eyes. "Wonderful. Another chance for them to kill us in creative ways. Can't wait."
Sylva only smirked. "Better than rotting in the Ashfen, isn't it?"
My stomach coiled tight. The third trial. Whatever it was, it would test more than ink and memory this time.
But as I lay down, my thoughts strayed not to the trial, but to the flash of wire in the dark… to the way Eivar had bowed his head to me.
And to the look in Reis's eyes, when he'd called me Flare.
I slumped into the hard mattress hoping my dreams would give a temporary relief for the day.
I dreamed of fire.
The kind that ate everything—walls, air, skin—until even screams turned to cinders. My mother's voice echoed through the inferno, not calling my name but chanting symbols. Every time I reached for her, she dissolved into smoke.
I woke choking on the taste of ash.
The dorm was empty.
"No." My voice cracked as I flung the covers back. The cots were stripped, Sylva's blanket folded, Lorian's trunk open and his ridiculous feathered cap missing. All gone.
The third trial.
The realization hit like ice water. I scrambled into my boots, fingers fumbling on the laces, cursed when they tangled, and tied them wrong anyway. My hair was a snarl, my satchel missing, but none of it mattered. If I was late—if I missed it—
I bolted through the Citadel's stone arteries, skirts tangling around my legs, breath sharp in my throat. The bells had already finished tolling. Sunlight speared the windows. I couldn't even hear the other initiates anymore; the halls were too empty, too silent.
By the time I staggered into the courtyard, they were all assembled. Two neat rows of black-clad initiates, their shadows stretched long in the morning light. The instructors stood before them, solemn and sharp.
Every head turned.
"There she is," one of the instructors murmured. Her hair was white as chalk, her eyes the color of ground glass. She looked at me as though I were a cracked vessel someone had been foolish enough to bring to market. "Miss Ashvale. Late."
The words rippled through the line of initiates like a shiver. Sylva's face flickered with alarm; Lorian pressed his lips tight, as though strangling back a joke.
"I—I can still join," I said quickly, breathless. "It was a mistake. It won't—"
"You will not," the white-haired woman cut me off, her voice like frost snapping beneath a boot. "This is the third trial. Not a child's primer you can fumble through after missing your lesson."
My heart plummeted. "Please—"
Her hand lifted. "The Citadel does not wait. You have marked yourself absent. That mark remains."
Laughter—quiet but cruel—broke from a knot of initiates at the far end. My ears burned hot enough to scald.
And then I felt it—Reis's gaze.
He stood a little apart, not among the instructors but not with the initiates either, an observer in indigo with a wolf at his side. Eivar's eyes burned molten where the sun caught them. Reis's expression, though, was unreadable—no anger, no pity. Just that infuriating calm, as though my humiliation were nothing more than ink drying on parchment.
My voice wavered. "So I've failed, then? Just like that?"
The white-haired instructor tilted her head, her thin smile colder than stone. "No, Miss Ashvale. You have not failed."
For a heartbeat, hope sparked in my chest.
"You have removed yourself. That is worse."
The words landed like a sentence.
"People here are mostly eliminated by dying or failing but you are eliminated because you were care less"
I stood frozen, shame gnawing through me while the courtyard swallowed every heartbeat. Somewhere down the line, Lorian muttered a curse under his breath. Sylva glared daggers at the instructor, but neither dared speak aloud.
"Dismissed, You'll be expected to leave by tomorrow " the woman said at last, turning her back.
The trial began without me.
I spent the rest of the day watching everyone else celebrate, their badges shining in the torchlight while my hands stayed empty. When night finally fell, I couldn't take the noise anymore. I stormed up to the dorms, heart cracking under the quiet that waited there.
Sylva and Lorian were sitting by the window when I walked in. They looked up — startled, guilty.
"You're back," Sylva started softly, "we tried—"
"You tried?" I bit out. "You tried?" My voice broke halfway through. "You could've shaken me, thrown a bucket of water, anything! I overslept, Sylva. That's it. And now I'm done before I even started."
Lorian rubbed the back of his neck, uneasy. "Cress… you weren't just sleeping. We did try. You wouldn't wake up. Reis passed by earlier and told us not to push it. Said the instructors would handle it."
I froze. "Reis told you that?"
He nodded. "He said it like—like he already knew you wouldn't be there."
The wine.
Sylva's expression softened. "He's strict, Cressida. Maybe he thought—"
"No." My throat was tight. "He didn't think. He planned."
Lorian sighed, exasperated. "You're not making sense."
"Don't I?" I said quietly, stepping toward the window. The courtyard below still shimmered with the afterglow of runes from the completed trial, gold threads curling into nothing. "Ever since I touched him that first day, everything's been—off. The visions, the glyphs, the wolf and the wine, I wondered why it tasted different—"
Sylva crossed the room and rested a hand on my shoulder. "We'll talk to the instructors tomorrow. You'll get another chance."
Her kindness only made it worse. "No, I won't," I whispered. "They don't give second chances here."
Lorian frowned. "Then make one."
I looked at him. "What?"
He smiled, a flash of defiance that made him look older. "If the Citadel closes a door, find another one. Or burn the wall down."
That made me laugh, just a little. He always knew how to disarm me.
But when the laughter faded, the ache stayed. The dorm felt smaller suddenly, like it couldn't hold me or the storm inside my chest.
"I just… need some air," I said finally, brushing past them before either could argue.
Outside, the corridors were silent. The moonlight poured through the arches, cold and silver, pooling across the floor. I leaned against a pillar and let the quiet swallow me whole.
That's when I heard it — the soft clink of armor, distant but deliberate.
And a low voice: "Miss Ashvale. You're summoned."
"Summoned?" My heart stuttered. "By who?"
"Master Ivendale."
Reis.
I followed him through the sleeping Citadel, my bare feet whispering over the stone. We descended into older halls, past places that smelled of parchment and burnt wax, down to where the torches burned blue instead of gold.
He stopped before an iron door carved with spirals of glyphs that pulsed faintly when I drew near.
"Enter," the guard said.
Inside, the room was circular, walled in obsidian. A single table stood at the center, etched with runes that shimmered like veins of fire beneath glass. Reis waited there, half-shadowed, a candle flickering beside him.
He didn't look surprised to see me.
"Sit." His voice was calm, but there was something taut underneath it.
I obeyed, every nerve alive.
"You missed the third trial," he said simply.
"I wasn't allowed to participate," I shot back before I could stop myself. "I overslept, and they—"
"They follow the rules," he interrupted. "But so do I."
My pulse quickened. "It was you isn't it, you mixed something in the wine"
He chuckled, his gruff voice echoed through the cave. "I did nothing my dearest"
"then why am I here?" I hated how weak my voice sounded at that moment.
Reis leaned forward, eyes catching the firelight—gray shot through with something almost silver. "Because the Citadel measures strength by obedience. I prefer to measure it by will."
He stood then, and the table's runes flared brighter, responding to his presence. "You want another chance? You'll have it."
My mouth went dry. "What kind of chance?"
His lips curved faintly. "One you'll regret asking for."
He motioned, and the glyphs on the floor shifted, rearranging themselves into a circle that hummed with restrained power. The air turned electric, heavy with the scent of ozone and ink.
"will I get to stay if I pass?"
"This is an old trial," he said, voice lower now. "One the Citadel no longer gives to initiates. It was… discontinued. Too dangerous, so if you do pass, you'll be carved in history"
"And you want me to take it?"
"I want to see if you can survive it."
"Drink this, and step into the circle. The glyph will respond to you—if it recognizes your essence."
"And if it doesn't?"
His eyes held mine. "Then it will burn through you."
For a moment, I thought he was joking. But Reis Ivendale didn't joke.
Eivar stood, hackles lifting slightly—as if even he didn't trust what would happen next.
I stared at the vial, the flame twisting inside it like it knew me. Somewhere deep in my chest, something answered—a faint pulse, a whisper of heat.
My hand didn't shake when I took it.
But when I looked up, Reis wasn't the stern instructor anymore. His gaze softened just enough to betray something—concern, maybe. Or regret.
"Cressida," he said, my name sounding dangerous and careful all at once, "whatever you see in there—remember, it's only a reflection."
I hesitated. "And if I can't tell the difference?"
He almost smiled. "Then I suppose you'll have to learn fast."
I raised the vial to my lips. The liquid burned like molten gold down my throat.
And then the world caught fire.
The fire didn't burn — it opened doors.
When I stepped into the circle, the flames swallowed the sanctum, but they didn't hurt me. Instead, they stretched, pulling me forward into a place I had never seen yet felt strangely like home.
I was standing on a high balcony overlooking a city of spires and gold. Light spilled from crystal towers, reflecting off rivers that shone like molten glass. And below me, the streets were alive with a celebration — music, banners, laughter carried on the wind.
And then I felt his hand.
A tall man, his figure a shadow against the sun, stood beside me. Black hair, sharp shoulders, posture like carved marble. His hand found mine, warm and certain. The way he moved — the way he fit beside me — made my chest ache.
I didn't need to see his face to know him. It was Reis.
The crowd around us parted. Robes swirled, candles flickered, and every gaze turned to us. I was dressed in white embroidered with gold, a train flowing behind me. The man's hand tightened around mine, and I felt the subtle weight of a ring — a promise I had not yet earned, but already held.
"You've come," he murmured.
His voice… it resonated through me, warm and familiar. Safe.
I wanted to say something, anything, but the vision pulled me upward. We were standing on a balcony high above the city, wind whipping through our hair. The sky was a swirl of fire and gold, like it had been painted with the very flames of the Circle itself.
And then the altar appeared before me — black stone, etched with runes and fire that reflected on his eyes. He leaned close, whispering a word I didn't understand, yet it made my soul tremble.
I wanted to reach for him. I wanted to promise myself to him.
And then the wind shifted, carrying the faint echo of another voice — sharp, unfamiliar, commanding, that made the hair on my arms rise.
The balcony, the city, the celebration — all of it began to dissolve into sparks of light, swirling around me like embers caught in a storm. I stumbled back, heart racing, chest tight with longing and confusion.
When the vision finally collapsed, I was back in the circle. My palms burned, but not with pain — with the memory of a hand I thought I knew, a shadow beside me that I believed was mine.
Reis knelt at my side. "The Circle shows what you fear… and what it knows you desire."
I swallowed, breath ragged.
The flames burned again blinding my sight completely.
The Circle released me into a city that wasn't supposed to exist yet. Its streets were narrow and winding, lined with towers of gold and obsidian, banners fluttering in winds I couldn't feel. I looked down at myself — my hands, my face, even my walk were not my own. The Circle had cast me as someone else, a stranger who belonged here. Survival meant becoming them entirely.
I swallowed, heart hammering. The people around me glanced sideways, suspicious of my identity. Some bowed when I spoke the proper titles; others whispered behind my back. Every glance felt like a test.
The city itself was alive. Markets buzzed with merchants hawking glowing crystals and glyph-inked scrolls. Guards patrolled in black armor etched with silver runes. Children ran between their legs, laughing, shouting, ignoring the shadows that lurked just beyond every corner.
I had no time to marvel. The Circle demanded action.
My first task became clear almost immediately — navigate the city without alerting its authorities to my true identity. I was a stranger, a noble-in-disguise, walking streets I didn't know. Every misstep — a wrong word, a delayed bow — drew suspicious eyes.
I slipped into alleys, hiding from patrols, watching their movements and memorizing routes. A man approached, scarf over his mouth, hands outstretched, claiming he knew where the council's secret chambers were. I hesitated, remembering the Circle's warning: trust no one. I shook my head, moving on, ignoring the tug of desperation in my chest.
By midday, I had learned to blend, to mimic gestures, to read the subtle signals of the city's inhabitants. I discovered a small square with a fountain, where merchants haggled over enchanted scrolls. I watched a boy with a scar across his cheek try to swindle a merchant — and for a fleeting moment, I wondered if I would ever survive this world outside the Circle.
As the sun began to tilt toward the horizon, danger arrived.
I was crossing a narrow bridge over a river that shimmered like liquid gold when a group of figures emerged — shadows with knives, hired by unknown powers. My pulse raced.
"Oye lady, you seem new here what's your name pretty woman, oh lads look at her, she's carrying a dagger to, you seem like the fierce type and I love fucking fierce girls" He said reaching out to touch me.
I traced my fingers in the air, seeking the glyphs I had glimpsed in my mother's notes, the ones I had practiced silently.
Fire answered. Not destructive, but protective. A barrier of shimmering ember rose between me and the attackers, forcing them back. Their faces twisted in shock. I ran, heart pounding, feet carrying me over rooftops, along alleys, through marketplaces that blurred past in streaks of gold and silver.
Every encounter honed me. Every narrow escape reminded me that the Circle didn't just test skill — it tested will.
By evening, I realized the city was watching me. Figures hid in shadows, whispers followed me, and yet, I wasn't alone. Small acts of kindness came from unexpected places: a street urchin pointing out a safe path, a merchant letting me hide among crates. Each moment was a puzzle, each interaction a lesson.
And all the while, I felt him.
The shadowed figure from my earlier vision — tall, black hair catching the dying sunlight, presence commanding. He never approached directly, never spoke aloud, but his gaze followed me everywhere. Every time I blinked, he was there — on a balcony, in a crowd, reflected in a fountain. My chest tightened with recognition, longing, and unease.
It had to be Reis, I was married to him in the future, and that thought alone made burns in my chest taking it as hope
I reached for him once, only to grasp empty air. The wind carried a whisper I couldn't place:
Not yet.
Night fell, and the city shifted. Streets glimmered with lantern-light, but the laughter and movement had vanished. I found myself drawn to a central plaza — an altar of black obsidian etched with runes that pulsed faintly, the same as the glyphs my mother had drawn.
The shadowed man was there. Standing with the girl which was unmistakably me but Reis had his back to me.
Then the Circle's magic flared, flames rising around us like walls of living fire. The altar's runes glowed, pulsing against my skin. I whispered the glyphs I had memorized, tracing them in the air, feeling heat bloom in my chest.
The shadow did not move. And in that moment, I believed, with every fiber of my being, that it was Reis. The warmth, the certainty, the way my heart ached to reach him — all pointed to him.
Then the world dissolved.
I awoke on the stone floor of the sanctum, exhausted and trembling. My palms were scorched from tracing the glyphs. The faint ember mark pulsed on my wrist like a heartbeat.
Reis knelt beside me, expression calm but unreadable. "You survived," he said.
"I… I think I did," I whispered, voice shaky. "But he was there. The man in the vision. "
Reis's jaw tightened. He didn't answer. Eivar, his wolf, stepped close and pressed his nose to my wrist, as if sensing the fire still alive within me.
I flexed my fingers, staring at the glowing mark. The vision of the city, the shadowed figure, the altar — all of it burned into my mind.