The academy did not celebrate talent.
It categorized it.
Rows of stone platforms filled the assessment hall, each engraved with sigils meant to measure output, stability, and endurance. Instructors moved between stations with practiced indifference, recording results without commentary. This was not a place for praise. It was a place for comparison.
I stood among dozens of other candidates, all of us waiting our turn.
Most were tense.
Some stretched their fingers compulsively. Others whispered formulas under their breath, rehearsing techniques they had practiced for months. A few stared at the platforms as if they were enemies.
I watched instead.
When the first candidate stepped forward, the hall quieted. He placed his hand on the sigil and began channeling mana. The air thickened. Sweat beaded on his brow almost immediately.
The sigils glowed—then flickered.
"Stability drop," an examiner called out.
The candidate gritted his teeth and pushed harder.
The platform cracked.
Medics rushed in as he collapsed, mana backlash locking his muscles mid-motion. The examiners marked the result and moved on.
No reaction. No delay.
This was normal.
By the time my name was called, the floor already bore signs of strain. Hairline fractures spread from earlier tests, patched hastily with reinforcing arrays.
I stepped onto the platform.
"Begin when ready," the examiner said.
I placed my hand on the sigil.
Mana flowed.
The response was immediate and clean. No buildup. No turbulence. The sigils brightened smoothly, lines stabilizing as if they had always been meant to hold this level of output.
The examiner frowned slightly and adjusted the parameters.
I compensated without thinking.
Numbers climbed. Stability remained absolute.
Someone behind me exhaled sharply.
"Enough," the examiner said after a moment. "Step down."
I did.
The platform was intact.
The silence that followed was not admiration. It was discomfort.
I returned to my place, indifferent to the looks that followed. The result was expected. Nothing about it required reflection.
Except—
As I waited, I noticed one candidate in particular.
He wasn't the strongest. His output was average, his technique unremarkable. But he endured. Where others faltered or overreached, he adjusted. When the platform resisted, he slowed instead of forcing it.
He passed.
Barely.
When he stepped down, exhausted but standing, our eyes met briefly.
There was no hostility in his expression.
Just fatigue.
That was my first clear look at Elian Voss.