The fourth trial began with a horn call that echoed through the Academy like a judgment.
We gathered at the edge of the Whispering Woods—an ancient forest that predated the Academy itself, its trees so tall they blotted out the sun, its depths shrouded in permanent twilight. The remaining candidates, just over two hundred of us, stood in nervous clusters, eyeing the darkness between the trunks.
Headmaster Thalion's voice carried from somewhere above. "The Whispering Woods is a living archive. Within its depths roam beasts that have not been seen elsewhere for centuries. Your task: track and capture a Starlight Stag. The first fifty to return with proof of success advance. All others are eliminated."
A Starlight Stag. I'd read about them in Kaelan's journal—creatures of pure light magic, shy as shadows, faster than wind. They were said to appear only to those pure of heart, which meant half the candidates were already doomed.
"The woods are warded," Thalion continued. "No magic will function beyond the first fifty paces. You will rely on skill, instinct, and each other. The trial ends at sundown."
No magic. My core clenched. Without my skills, I was just a boy with a sword and some seeds.
Vance caught my eye. "Well. This'll be interesting."
Mira was already scanning the tree line, her assassin's instincts cataloging threats. "We stay together. No splitting up."
Dorn hefted his shield. "Together good."
Elara gripped her holy symbol, her face pale but determined. "The wards... they'll block my healing too."
"Then we don't get hurt," Vance said. "Simple."
The horn sounded again. Candidates surged forward, eager, foolish. We waited, letting the chaos unfold ahead of us.
Then, slowly, we walked into the woods.
---
The Whispering Woods lived up to its name.
The moment we crossed the threshold, the world changed. The sounds of the Academy faded, replaced by whispers—soft, sibilant, just at the edge of hearing. They seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, the trees themselves murmuring in a language older than human speech.
I couldn't feel my core. The wards were absolute—my mana was sealed, my Sylvan Circuit reduced to a faint hum I could barely sense. For the first time in months, I was just a boy with a sword.
"Stay close," Mira murmured. "The whispers can confuse. Make you see things that aren't there."
Vance's hand drifted to his sword. "Lovely."
We moved through the twilight, following a path that wasn't a path. The trees loomed above us, their roots breaking through the soil in great ridges. Bioluminescent fungi painted the ground in patches of ghostly light. And always, always, the whispers.
After an hour, we found the first sign of a Starlight Stag—a single glowing hoofprint in a patch of soft earth. It was already fading, the light dimming as we watched.
"Fresh," Mira said. "Maybe an hour old."
"Can you track it?" I asked.
She knelt, studying the print, the surrounding vegetation. "Maybe. If we're lucky. If the whispers don't lead us astray."
We followed. Deeper into the woods, past ancient trees and forgotten clearings. The whispers grew louder, more insistent. Vance started twitching, his hand never leaving his sword. Elara muttered prayers under her breath. Dorn's eyes darted constantly, searching for threats.
And then we found the bodies.
---
Three candidates, sprawled in a clearing. They hadn't been killed by beasts—the wounds were too precise, too deliberate. Knife work. Professional.
Mira went still beside me. "This wasn't the trial."
I knew. The whispers had been hiding it, masking the sounds of struggle, the scent of blood. Someone had used the woods to settle scores.
Or to eliminate witnesses.
"We need to move," Vance said urgently. "If there's someone hunting candidates—"
A figure stepped from between the trees.
He was tall, lean, dressed in the same dark leathers as the collector. A mask covered his face, but his eyes—cold, grey, hungry—were unmistakable.
"Party 147," he said. "You've been difficult to find."
Mira's sword was in her hand. "Who sent you?"
"Does it matter?" He drew twin blades, curved and black. "Your father sends his regards."
He attacked.
Mira met him, steel ringing against steel. They moved too fast to follow, a dance of death in the twilight. Vance tried to help, but a second figure emerged, then a third—more assassins, closing in.
Dorn roared and charged, his shield catching one, his massive fist sending another flying. Elara screamed and threw herself behind me, her healing useless, her terror raw.
I had no magic. No seeds could grow in this warded ground. Just a sword and a desperate will to survive.
The third assassin came for me.
I remembered Mira's lessons. Read the eyes. The weight shifts. The breathing. He was faster, stronger, better trained. But he was also arrogant—expecting an easy kill.
I let him come. Waited until the last moment. Then I moved, not away, but into him, my shoulder driving into his chest as my sword found his side.
He grunted, surprised, and stumbled back. Not dead—my strike was too weak for that—but hurt. Angry.
"You'll pay for that, plant-boy."
He came again, faster this time. I couldn't dodge. Couldn't block. This was it—
A massive form interposed itself. Dorn, his shield raised, his body a wall between me and death. The assassin's blades scraped across the metal, and Dorn's fist crashed into his face.
"Not my party," Dorn growled.
The assassin fell.
I looked up—Mira had downed hers, blood dripping from her blade. Vance stood over another, his sword red. The third was running, disappearing into the trees.
Dorn slumped against a tree, a deep gash in his side. Elara crawled to him, her hands shaking as she pressed against the wound, her healing useless, her tears falling.
"No," she whispered. "No no no—"
I grabbed her shoulders. "Elara. Look at me. He needs you. Not your magic—you. Can you do this?"
She stared at me, her eyes wide, terrified.
Then, slowly, she nodded.
She didn't heal him. She couldn't. But she cleaned the wound, bound it with strips of cloth from her robe, kept pressure on it while the blood slowly stopped. Dorn's breathing steadied.
"We need to move," Mira said. "More will come."
She was right. The assassins had found us. They'd keep finding us until—
Until we found them first.
"Mira." I met her eyes. "Your father. Where is he?"
Her jaw tightened. "The Academy. He's been here all along, watching the trials."
"Then we finish this. Together."
She looked at the others—Vance, bloody but standing; Elara, shaking but holding; Dorn, wounded but alive.
Then at me.
"Together," she agreed.
---