When the illusions shattered, the cavern went utterly quiet.
The five of them collapsed to the stone where the world had recompiled itself: Kael Ardyn, Darius Veylan, Rynna Solde, Jorek Vance, and Serran Vey. For a long, thin minute, no one spoke. Their chests rose and fell like bellows. The shard in Kael's hand hummed low and steady — a sound only he could feel — and the phantom weight of their fears had finally lifted.
Then Rynna laughed, small and incredulous, and it broke the spell.
"We're alive," she breathed, wiping a streak of phantom blood from her cheek, now only a smear of dust. "Gods above… we actually did it."
Jorek gave a wet, surprised chuckle. "If anyone tells me I'm soft again, I'll shove this hammer where the sun don't shine." He tried to grumble and failed; his grin was too wide.
Darius pushed himself up on one elbow, grimacing. He still wore the look of a boy who'd been forced to swallow pride for food. "Don't get sentimental," he said, voice rough. "We pass this and I go back to the Veylan guardhouse as a trainee, not a coward." He glanced at Kael with that brittle edge he always wore, but there was something softer under the bite — a gratitude he did not want anyone to see. "You didn't make it harder for us," Darius added, begrudging.
Kael gave the smallest of nods. The shard's hum warmed his palm. He felt exhausted, every muscle aching, and yet inside him the slate had been wiped clean; weight that had sat on his chest for years felt fractionally lighter. He kept his voice small. "We did it together."
Serran, who rarely spoke, simply breathed out and touched the base of his staff as if checking it was still real. "The illusions … they didn't just show fears," she said quietly. "They stripped what you hide from others and left what you actually are." Her eyes flicked to each of them, then to Kael's hand. "You anchored us. I felt it."
The five traded small smiles, barbs, and an awkward, honest camaraderie — bruised, wary, new. They shared water, scavenged scraps of food from their pouches, and for a moment it felt like a small truce with the world. It was a fragile thing, but it was theirs.
⸻
The celebration lasted only as long as breath allowed. The trials did not give time for comfort.
The runes along the cavern floor, long dimmed, flared like a waking thing. A thin pattern of pale light crawled out across the stone and touched the skin of each candidate — not a branded mark, but something older: a sigil folded of runes and silence. It settled on wrists, collars, the throat like a fingerprint left by passing judgment.
Kael felt it on his forearm where, weeks before, the Blood Pool had carved its black sigil into his skin and vanished. The mark there pulsed in reply — quiet, different. The shard thrummed, answering with a tone that made the back of Kael's teeth ache. Whatever the trial had given him, it had recognized him back.
Rynna looked at her wrist and laughed, a shaken, incredulous sound. "They mark us," she said. "Like a map you can't erase."
Jorek rubbed his jaw. "If those marks mean anything, I don't care what they are. I don't want to be inside another illusion for a long while." He tightened his grip on his axe as if it anchored him to the real world.
Darius met Kael's eyes across the small circle. His jaw worked. "You and your stupid shard," he muttered. No warmth in the words, but no cruelty either. "Maybe—maybe you're not a curse." He sat up straighter, the pretense of command slipping back into place. "Be ready. This doesn't mean we're safe."
⸻
Outside the cavern, news traveled fast.
The courtyard smelled of smoke and iron as the other recruits watched the Gate spit the five survivors out. Whispers climbed the walls like ivy: "They faced the Mirror… they passed." Some faces showed envy, some relief, some raw fear. Parents who watched from the galleries crossed themselves. Guildsmen exchanged sharp looks; a few of the older instructors frowned, lips pressed thin.
From a carved balcony high above, a motionless figure watched with a stillness that claimed the light. The man leaned on a handrail, silver robes falling in exact, careful folds. He had been watching since Kael's group first stepped through the Gate, but now his gaze was different — narrower, more intent. The mark on Kael's forearm had pulsed in the cavern; the man's fingers tightened imperceptibly.
He did not approach.
Not yet.
Below him, a senior examiner — a woman whose hair was streaked with white like frost on stone — consulted a sheaf of parchment and frowned. "The marks… unusual configuration," she murmured to her apprentice. "Five marks aligned with the old sigils, yes — but the second youth's mark differs. Have you seen a Silence-mark before?" Her eyes were thoughtful, edged with caution.
"No," the apprentice answered. "Not in records. Not recently."
"Keep an eye on him," the examiner said, and her tone left little room for debate.
The academy was a place that kept lists. It catalogued those who rose and those who broke. Passing a trial did not mean freedom; it meant entry into another sort of ledger — one with quieter, darker columns.
⸻
That night the five found a small alcove and sat with their backs against the same wall that had tested them. Injuries stung — burns, cuts, phantom aches. They cleaned wounds as best they could, shared what small luxuries they had, and told each other the parts of themselves they could stand to say.
Darius, when he finally let his guard drop, talked of a father who could not forgive failure. Rynna admitted she'd fought to be seen as more than a quick shot. Jorek cursed his fear of being small in the face of giants. Serran recited, like a litany, why order mattered to her. And Kael — when asked — said only this: "I don't want to be someone who hurts others because I'm afraid."
They did not solve themselves that night. They were children and survivors and still fearful of the world outside the Gate. But something had changed: the trial had revealed not only what broke them, but also where they could begin to build.
Above them, the silver-robed man turned his face away and walked into shadow. He carried questions now — and a quiet certainty that would not let him sleep easily. The academy had produced another generation of tested soldiers; the Gate had spit them out. But one name lingered in the air like a chord that wouldn't break: Kael Ardyn.
And some doors, once opened, do not simply close.