The frosthawks made their final dive.
A black cloud of shrieking wings and razored talons tore across the cliff face. It was no longer a hunt. It was a purge. The beasts, sensing the thinning pool of stragglers and low defenses, grew bold. Wind lashed like a whip as the great wings cut through the air. Snow flurried from the cliff like a curtain being pulled aside to reveal death.
Sid didn't look up.
His thoughts were slowed, heat pounding behind his eyes. His head felt feverish against the stone, and his limbs were sluggish. A familiar edge of nausea curled in his gut from overusing Flicker Form. The spell demanded too much, requiring pin-point prediction, reaction, redirection and most importantly, mana. It required him to process the path of claws before they struck and to counter them at precisely the right moment. It was a miracle he hadn't fallen yet. Only instinct remained.
A shadow passed.
Another screech.
Flicker. A flash of mana surged through his fingers prompting another squeezing pain to shoot through his heart as the magic circle creaked. A translucent sword forms midair, angled not to strike, but to guide.
Talons met steel-ether. The force sent the frosthawk spinning into the stone.
Sid grunted, using the rebound to fling himself sideways toward a crack in the wall. He missed. His hand grazed ice.
Flicker. A shard formed beneath his left rib, redirecting his momentum just enough to grab a final ridge.
Blood smeared the stone. His left palm was cut open. He didn't care.
The final push had begun.
All around him, the remaining test takers gritted their teeth and forced themselves upward. The nobles were long gone. Their paths had torn through the cliff like lances, clearing sections and drawing enemy attention. Now, those left behind carved their own way. Some fell. Some froze in fear.
Sid climbed.
When the final beast screamed and vanished behind the clouds, the last of them pressed on in silence, save for their breaths and the groans of the cliff.
He didn't see the top until his hand crested over it.
It took all his strength to drag his body up and over the final ledge. His fingers gripped dry grass. Snow met skin. The wind no longer roared in his ears as it hummed above him, gentler now.
He collapsed forward, arms shaking, blood streaking his sleeves and pants. His vision blurred. But he was alive.
Voices called. Movement in the snow.
"Another one made it."
"Late but at least he's intact."
Boots approached. Sid's blurry eyes made out a man in a dark coat, silver-threaded with the insignia of the garrison proctors. The man crouched beside him.
"You're still conscious. That's better than most."
Sid only nodded as he gasped for breath. Cold air fills up his lungs.
"You've completed the second stage," the proctor said. "The final leg begins tomorrow. Until then, rest. Your body looks like it's ready to fold."
Sid coughed into his hand, then winced. "Just tired."
"Of course. This way."
He was led to a nearby camp, a cluster of modest tents set up in the lee of a windbreak. As he walked, his tired eyes caught flashes of movement and aura in the distance.
Vaelan Varron sat beside a campfire, her spear laid across her lap, meditating in eerie stillness.
Nearby, Eldan Bearmantle reclined casually on a boulder, his grin wide as if the climb had been a game.
Lysette Coldmere had already vanished into one of the elite pavilions, leaving only the sharp trace of frost behind.
And Tarn Greyreign stood at the center of a gathered clique of lesser nobles, speaking low but confidently, as if the cliff face had been his stage.
They seemed untouched by the horrors below, bragging about his exploits as his cronies fawn over him.
Compared to them, Sid felt like a drowned rat.
Inside the largest tent, a soft light glowed.
A priest stood at the center, robed in pale gold and gray. His features were foreign with his long, sloped eyes, bronze skin, and a crescent-shaped talisman that floated above his palm. He whispered in an eastern tongue, his voice low and melodic.
One by one, the wounded were drawn near him. With each chant, light pooled from his hands like spring water, seeping into torn flesh, knitting muscle and calming nerves.
Sid stared, unable to look away.
Divine casting. Multi-target, wide-area.
So efficient.
He didn't recognize the chant, but something about it made him pause. The way the priest's voice carried, the ease with which the magic spread. There was something there. His martial instincts stirred.
It felt… useful.
Like a path he always saw but never considered. It was still foreign and unfamiliar, but something he might need to look into. His overworked head trying to continue spinning up conjectures, unsure if it's a wild hypothesis or just delusion as his mind finishes the remnants of adrenaline pumping through him.
He was nudged toward the light. The warmth hit him like a blanket dipped in summer. His wounds sealed shut completely, skin smooth and pink over where gashes had been. He flexed his hand in surprise. The pain was gone, and the cuts had vanished.
But the exhaustion in his bones remained. His limbs still ached, his chest still heaved with breath. It was a full recovery of flesh, not of spirit. He recalled the structure of a fifth-level healing spell he had studied in theory.
Something with similar restorative purpose but much more limited in range and intensity. Compared to that, this priest's casting was startlingly efficient. Too efficient.
He bowed faintly to the priest. The man smiled but said nothing.
In the back of the tent, some of the nobles that had arrived late argued with commoners.
"You bumped into me, peasant."
"I didn't—"
"Are you blind? My robe is ruined."
Sid ignored the squabble. He sat near the edge of the tent, closed his eyes, and began tracing sigils with one finger on his leg. The flicker construct had served its purpose, but it was too taxing. If he could layer instinctive movement into the casting rather than reactionary adjustments…
He whispered quietly to himself, trying to hold onto that fleeting idea, the shape of it, the rhythm. It wasn't a concept he could name. Not yet. But he could feel it lingering at the edge of thought. He just needed rest. In the morning, maybe it would still be there.
No one bothered him.
Tomorrow will bring the next test.
But tonight…
He survived.