The testing grounds lay beyond the inner academy, carved into a broad circular field of pale stone and reinforced earth. Tiered platforms rose gently around it, not for spectators, but for observers. Instructors stood at measured intervals, spaced so evenly it felt intentional rather than decorative.
Candidates were guided into position without ceremony.
No speeches. No encouragement.
Only rules.
A senior examiner stepped forward, voice carrying without amplification.
"This test measures control," she said. "Not power. Not creativity."
A gesture, and the field shifted.
Targets rose from the ground.
Some were fixed—simple discs of dull crystal, hovering at chest height. Others moved in steady arcs, slow enough to track, fast enough to punish hesitation. At the far edge of the field, shapes flickered in and out of existence, unstable and brief, leaving faint distortions in the air where they vanished.
"Two minutes," the examiner continued. "You may cast as you choose. Points are awarded per target."
A pause.
"Fixed targets: ten points."
"Moving targets: thirty."
"Disappearing targets: fifty. With a five-point bonus if struck cleanly before collapse."
The murmur that followed was restrained, but it was there.
"Passing score is eighty," she said. "Maximum possible score is two hundred and fifty."
Someone exhaled sharply.
"The highest recorded score," the examiner added, tone unchanged, "is two hundred and forty."
Silence settled.
"Begin."
The field came alive.
Mana flared across the ground as candidates acted on instinct. Bursts of light struck fixed targets immediately. Some shattered cleanly. Others cracked, residual mana bleeding where control faltered.
Moving targets drew more attention. Bolts curved. Misses multiplied. A few candidates adjusted quickly. Most did not.
The disappearing targets were avoided.
At first.
Pryan stood still for three heartbeats.
He watched.
Not the targets themselves, but the rhythm. The way the moving discs accelerated at the turn of their arc. The delay between a disappearing target's flicker and collapse. The way some candidates burned too much mana too early.
Then he raised his hand.
He did not rush.
A narrow thread of magic snapped forward, precise and contained. A fixed target shattered without sound. Another followed. Then a third.
Ten. Twenty. Thirty.
He shifted to moving targets next.
He waited until one crossed into a predictable curve, then released. Thirty points. Another followed, struck at the edge of its turn, where movement slowed for a fraction of a second.
Sixty. Ninety.
Around him, the field grew louder. More aggressive. Some candidates chased disappearing targets early and paid for it, their magic striking empty air as the target collapsed a breath too soon.
Pryan did not look at them.
He moved through fixed and moving targets steadily, never casting twice in the same breath, never letting mana pool.
One minute passed.
He was already well beyond the passing mark.
He felt it then—the subtle shift in the field.
Pressure.
Not external. Internal.
The quiet urge to reach.
To push.
He ignored it.
At the edge of his awareness, a disappearing target flickered into being. He marked it. Counted its rhythm once. Twice.
Not yet.
He finished another moving target instead. Clean strike. Controlled release.
One minute thirty seconds.
The field began to thin.
Only a handful of targets remained.
That was when Pryan moved.
He stepped once to the side, adjusting his angle. His magic gathered tighter than before, not stronger—denser. He waited until the target flickered again, its form less stable this time.
Thirty seconds remained.
The target appeared.
Pryan released.
The strike landed just before collapse, threading the narrow window between presence and absence. The target shattered, dispersing without backlash.
Fifty-five points in a single breath.
The signal chime rang.
The field stilled.
Candidates lowered their hands, some breathing hard, some staring at the space where targets had been, replaying missed chances.
Pryan exhaled slowly and let his mana settle.
He did not look for approval.
The scores appeared moments later, projected above the field in clean, ordered rows.
The top of the list drew immediate attention.
Two hundred and five.
A name followed—royal lineage unmistakable. The child stood quietly at the edge of the field, expression calm, posture unshaken. Pryan recognized the name instantly.
So he's here already, Pryan thought.
Below that—
One hundred and ninety-five.
One hundred and ninety.
Then—
One hundred and eighty.
Pryan's name.
Fourth.
A ripple passed through the candidates. Not outrage. Not awe. Recognition.
Seris appeared just below him.
One hundred and sixty-five.
Fifth.
She glanced at the board once, then away, lips pressed together in something like satisfaction.
Further down, Pryan spotted another familiar name. A girl, noble but not high-ranking, known later for quiet influence rather than spectacle. Sixth place.
Too early, Pryan thought. Most of them are still hidden.
He lowered his gaze.
From the observation platform, Kaien Rhoval watched without moving.
He had not followed the scores.
He had followed timing.
And Pryan's restraint had not gone unnoticed.
The examiner stepped forward again.
"Results will be recorded," she said. "This concludes the first test."
No applause followed.
Candidates were dismissed in controlled groups, the field already resetting itself as if nothing had happened.
As Pryan turned to leave, he felt it again.
That layered gaze.
Not judgment.
Assessment.
He adjusted his pace, steady and unhurried, and walked back toward the academy paths beside Seris.
Neither of them spoke.
There was nothing to say yet.
The academy had seen them.
And this was only the beginning.