The sun had barely crossed a third of the sky when the School of the Archangels did the unthinkable: keep silent.
For the first time since the trials began, the corridors rumbled not with the roar of combat, but with the distant echo of rest. The aspirants, exhausted but expectant, withdrew to the floating dormitories assigned for the recess, dragging sweaty bodies and minds inflamed by tension. No one spoke loudly. No one wanted to be the first to break that state of suspension where victory nor defeat yet existed. Only possibility.
At dawn the following day, a crystal bell rang three times, and the sky split with the announcement:
"The results have been released."
A crowd pressed before the energy panels that descended from above, projecting in vertical lines the names of those who had crossed the threshold. There was no ceremony nor trumpets; only numbers. And those numbers changed everything.
First place: Aelius Bekkart.
Silence. Then, murmurs. Then, a wave of astonishment impossible to contain.
The young man who had brought down an entire island with the weight of his mind topped the list with impeccable coolness.
Aelius narrowed his eyes and let out a brief sigh. He didn't look proud, nor surprised, nor even interested. For him, that number was just another formality, a procedure that wouldn't change what truly mattered: the next battle.
Second place: Aurora Celestis.
The weaver of light and shadow, whose cosmic power still danced in the collective memory of the stadium.
Her name shone with the elegance of a newly discovered constellation.
Third place: Kael DarkZone.
The elemental hybrid. The outcast who molded fire, ice, and thunder like a god drunk on alchemy.
Mouths opened. Prejudices closed.
Kael blinked several times, incredulous.
"Me? Third?" he stammered, almost laughing at the absurdity. "This must be wrong, someone miscalculated the numbers."
Fifth place: Kyran Soldick.
And then, a name unknown to most emerged like a stab of silence amid the murmur.
Kyran Soldick.
Few remembered him. His number, 7232, had pushed him toward the end of the day, when the public was already dispersing, when eyes were tired and voices beginning to fade. Neither Ian, nor Kael, nor Aelius, nor Makia had seen him in action. When they left the arena, Kyran's story had barely begun.
But now his name was there, burning in fifth place, above thousands who believed themselves invincible.
There was no spectacle around his figure. He had no followers. No rivals.
Only that name, and a contained aura like a storm not yet called.
Kyran observed the panel with the calm of a wolf hidden among trees. With hair white as sacred ash and silver eyes that shone with an impossible serenity, he seemed not to belong entirely to this world. His face was young, but there was something in his presence that spoke of ancient time, as if he walked with the echoes of a past no one else remembered.
And yet, he did remember Ian.
He didn't know from where. Nor when.
But seeing him there, before the panel, fists clenched and frustration written on his face, something vibrated within him.
An image. A place. A sensation.
He had seen him before.
Not as one remembers an enemy…
But as one remembers a shadow that walks alongside in dreams.
A reflection that hasn't yet spoken its name.
Eighth place: Sofia Ritz.
102nd place: Eldar Fenrisson.
105th place: Tezca Aztlan.
587th place: Makia Bekkart.
1,243rd place: Ian Bekkart.
Ian found his name late. Too late. His eyes scanned the list with poorly disguised anxiety, chewing the bitter taste of waiting.
And when he found it, rage rose in him like a boiling tide.
"One thousand two hundred… forty-three?" he whispered through gritted teeth, jaw tense, fists clenched.
His sister was at 587. Kael at 3. And Aelius… damn Aelius was at 1.
The fire in his chest wasn't envy. It was something more primitive. It was frustration. It was wounded pride.
He had struck a judge. He had shattered the air with his speed. He had broken the rules with a smile.
And still…?
Makia watched him sidelong. The anger on Ian's face struck her deeply, as if it were her own. She wanted to approach, console him, but part of her hesitated: was it only sisterly concern… or something more she didn't dare admit? She tried to quiet it with tenderness.
"Ian…" she said with a soft voice. "It's not the number that matters. It's just a number, it means nothing."
He didn't respond, but his tense shoulders seemed to relax just for an instant.
Kael tried to break the ice.
"Look at it this way… at least you didn't place after two thousand."
Ian glared at him, but Kael raised his hands in a sign of peace, containing a smile.
Aelius, for his part, simply crossed his arms.
"It's a number. Nothing more. The real exam hasn't started yet."
His calm tone only increased Ian's fury, though in silence.
Makia paused for an instant at eighth place, frowning with a mixture of surprise and admiration at something she hadn't noticed yet:
"Wow… Sofia placed eighth!" she exclaimed, almost incredulous. "That's impressive."
"It was to be expected," Aelius said, with his usual calm. "She has a lot of talent, not to mention all her training—it was obvious she would stand out."
Ian grumbled, crossing his arms:
"Yeah… but she should train for herself, not to prove anything to anyone. Especially to people who don't deserve her attention."
Makia nodded, understanding the point, while everyone caught their breath after the tension of reviewing the results.
In the distance, Sofia allowed herself a slight smile. Her eyes brightened seeing she had reached eighth place, but also noting that Kael, Makia, Ian, and Aelius had successfully passed. A warm sensation ran through her chest.
However, she didn't approach. There was something she needed to prove first: that she could trust in her strength, in her worth… alone. For a moment, she breathed deeply and decided to maintain her distance, silently enjoying her achievement and the success of those who mattered to her.
Around Ian, the world seemed to quiet. But not completely.
A gaze was piercing through him from the distance.
Aurora.
Her eyes, warm as nebulas, watched him from an elevated point among the crowd. There was something in Ian—something impossible to name—that had forced her to turn her head. It wasn't beauty, nor power… it was a vibration. A premonition. As if that young man, with contained fury and tense posture, were a loose fragment of a story not yet told.
Aurora didn't know him. But her gaze didn't lie: something about him seemed inevitable to her.
Who are you? she thought, without taking her eyes off him.
Ian, absorbed in his frustration and wounded pride, didn't notice that someone was watching him with such intensity.
And right at that same instant, not far from her, Kyran Soldick was also watching him.
And he did recognize him.
Not as one recognizes a face, but as one senses an echo.
As if Ian were not a person, but a symbol suspended in time.
A crossroads not yet revealed.