"What do you mean by that?" Elara asks, but Fig just shrugs.
Elara side eye him. The little fur ball likes to be vague.
The candidates were led through the vast stone corridors of the War Academy, feet echoing against ancient flagstone, breaths still uneven from the previous day's Trials.
The building itself loomed around them like something out of myth—towering ceilings adorned with faded frescoes, columns worn smooth by time, and chandeliers that held both iron and enchantment. Banners fluttered slightly in a breeze that no one could feel, adorned with the family crests of the warriors that stated this Academy. The hallways curved like a labyrinth built for titans.
Elara kept her gaze upward, eyes wide with wonder. "It's like walking through history."
"More like walking through a glorified museum," Fig muttered from her shoulder. "I've seen better castles. Ones with moving towers and singing walls. This one doesn't even hum."
"You're impossible," she whispered back, but couldn't suppress a grin.
They rounded a final corridor and were ushered through a pair of enormous carved oak doors that swung inward with a low groan. Beyond them lay the mess hall—and it was alive.
Rows of long tables filled the high-ceilinged room. Glowing orbs floated above, casting warm golden light over the polished stone. The scent of baked bread, roasted meat, and herbs clung to the air. Torches lined the walls between stained-glass windows, and the hearth at the far end of the hall blazed merrily.
But it wasn't the architecture or the food that stunned Elara.
It was the warriors.
They lined either side of the room, veterans and upperclass students alike, armored and battle-scarred. As the new recruits entered, applause thundered through the hall. Some clapped slowly, with wry grins. Others roared like they were welcoming comrades home from war.
Elara blinked, her throat tightening unexpectedly. The warmth wasn't just in the torches. It was in the acknowledgment—as if… she belonged.
"Oh, look," Fig said dryly. "A standing ovation. Must be for me."
Lyssandra walked ahead, chin high, acknowledging the applause like it was a rightful tribute. Teryn gave a sheepish wave, cheeks slightly flushed.
At the far end, standing on a raised dais beneath a tapestry of the Academy's crest—the coiled serpent and blade—stood the Headmaster.
He was a tall, dark-skinned man with silver-streaked hair bound in tight braids, eyes like molten steel. His robes bore the emblems of all five disciplines, and power clung to him like gravity.
He raised a single hand, and silence followed as if the room itself obeyed.
"Welcome," he said, his voice deep, resonant. "You have survived the Trials. You have faced fear, flame, storm, and self. And you have earned your place."
The candidates stood straighter. Even the most exhausted among them lifted their heads.
"I am Headmaster Calren Verain," he continued. "This Academy has trained warriors for three centuries. Some have become heroes. Others, legends. Most of you will become neither."
Quiet tension spread through the students.
"That is not cruelty. It is truth. You are not here to be comforted. You are here to be forged into a warrior- able to not only fight and protect himself against any form of evil, but also to protect others."
He turned slightly and gestured to the figures now emerging from behind the columns.
"Your instructors. The hands that will shape you."
First to step forward was a woman in emerald robes, with moss-colored eyes and curling auburn hair. Small vials clinked at her belt, and her presence was fragrant with the scent of lavender and crushed mint.
"Professor Selene. Herbal Botany and Restoration. If you faint in my class, I will use you as compost."
A few chuckles. Selene smiled wickedly.
Next came Marshall Var, the man they have already met but that did not take away for the sight of him again. A brawny, scarred man with arms like tree trunks and a perpetual scowl.
"Marshall Var. Combat Training. I will break every bone you don't learn to protect."
A wiry man wearing a cloak was stitched with patches and survival charms, and he smelled faintly of campfire and pine, stepped forward.
"Instructor Clarence. Survival. I teach you how not to die when left in the wilds. Those who fail... will be found. Eventually."
A tall, glowing woman floated next. Hair like starlight and robes woven from threads that shimmered with living energy.
"Mage Lumia. Magic Control. If you don't listen, you will explode. Some of you still might."
Finally, a lean but well built man, sun-worn and dark stepped forward. His cloak was a sleek black leather, his eyes gleaming with sharp intellect and quiet cunning.
"Commander Darius. War Strategy. I do not teach winning. I teach not losing."
Fig leaned in and muttered, "Oh, good. The stalker is back."
A shiver ran down Elara's spine.
Headmaster Verain nodded once more. "These are the ones you will learn from. Or you will leave."
He turned, and a hovering scroll unraveled beside him, glowing with enchantment.
"The results of the Trials."
A hush fell.
"Top candidate: Elara Ashvine."
Elara froze. Her breath caught. She wasn't sure she heard that right.
Applause broke out again, more focused this time. Teryn clapped with genuine enthusiasm. Lyssandra... did not. She stared daggers at Elara from across the room.
"Second: Lyssandra Velhart."
The fire-born girl lifted her chin, trying to mask the fury in her eyes. Her jaw tightened. Her nostrils flared.
"Third: Roger of the Bearmark"
"Forth: Lillian Grey"
"Fifth: Teryn of the Stagmark."
He gave a humble bow, grinning slightly.
Elara felt movement beside her. Lyssandra's eyes raked over her like she was measuring every flaw. Then came the look—the one Elara would remember later. A sideways glance full of fire, of insult, of warning.
But Elara didn't return it. She looked past her. She turned to Teryn and gently squeezed his arm.
"You did great," she said.
He gave her a grateful smile. The touch steadied both of them.
There were thirty-one students in total that made it through the trails.
Headmaster Verain continued, "Rankings will evolve. Favor is not fixed. And mistakes, here, can kill you."
His gaze swept over them all.
"Learn. Fight. Survive. Or step aside for someone who will."
With that, he stepped down. The instructors followed, disappearing into the shadows between the columns.
The hall slowly erupted into sound again—cheers, chatter, and movement as food was finally served. Platters floated down the tables, summoned by silent kitchen staff. Elara, still stunned, took a seat beside Teryn. Her stomach growled loudly.
"First place," he said, nudging her. "You don't look thrilled."
"I just wanted to pass," she said. "I didn't expect... that."
"Well, get used to it."
Across the table, Lyssandra sat with her arms folded. Her plate untouched. Her eyes never left Elara.
"She's going to duel you in your sleep," Fig whispered into Elara's ear.
"Let her try," Elara whispered back.
But the truth was, her heart was still pounding. Not from fear. Not from excitement.
From a sense that something had shifted.