Athel's heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. He woke with a violent start, the crimson silk walls of the tent spinning around him. His vision was blurred, and a lingering heat still throbbed in the marrow of his bones.
"Honey? Are you okay? Can you hear me?"
A trembling voice pierced through the fog of his mind. Athel felt cool, soft hands cupping his face. As his vision cleared, he saw Octavia. Her emerald eyes were bloodshot and puffy from crying, her hair slightly disheveled.
"Mother... I'm fine," Athel croaked, though his voice sounded like it had been dragged through gravel. He tried to sit up, feeling a strange, new weight in his limbs. Reassuringly, he took her hand, but as he did, he realized something was fundamentally different.
"Thank the Heavens," Octavia sobbed, pulling him into a tight embrace. "I thought... when you screamed... I thought the King had taken you from me."
"I'm not going anywhere, mothe-."
Athel tried to comfort her, stroking her head with his free hand, but his words died in his throat. His eyes were drawn to the air around them. It wasn't empty anymore.
A wave like almost translucent pearly blue light, that sparkly to say the least, it dances around in the thin air. He looked lost in the beauty of it, they danced like underwater fireflies, swirling in lazy patterns.
"What you are seeing right now," a voice emerged from the shadows of the tent's corner, "is what we mages call 'Mana.' It is the foundation of the world, the breath of the gods, and the fuel for Rividia's glory."
Athel snapped his gaze toward the sound. The hooded figure from the examination stepped forward, reaching up to pull back the heavy fabric.
The person beneath was not the old, withered scholar Athel had expected. Instead, he saw a woman who looked to be in her late twenties or early thirties. She had striking, waist-length white hair that seemed to shimmer with its own light, and ruby-red eyes that held sharp. Her features were refined and elegant, though her heavy, oversized robes hid the rest of her form.
"My apologies for the earlier... intensity," she said, her voice no longer distorted by the heavy hood. "The name is Nerissa."
Athel and Octavia sat in stunned silence. The sheer presence of the woman was overwhelming. To a commoner in a border town, someone from the Royal Court was practically a deity.
"I am a Court Mage," Nerissa continued, stepping closer to inspect the blue light dancing around Athel's fingertips. "My orders are to scout the provinces for 'unpolished gems,' individuals with high mana affinity or exceptional martial potential. And you, Athel... you are quite the gem."
"Are you... a High Noble?" Octavia asked, her voice hushed with awe and fear.
Nerissa let out a short, melodic laugh and waved a hand dismissively. "Hardly. I wasn't born with a silver spoon. I'm just a lucky girl who managed to survive the Academy and get dragged into the Royal Court because I was too useful to execute. I'm as common as you are, originally."
Athel leaned forward, his curiosity momentarily outweighing his exhaustion. "The Academy? You mean... commoners can go there?"
"If they have the talent," Nerissa smirked playfully, leaning down so her ruby eyes were level with his. "But don't get ahead of yourself, junior. The Academy doesn't just teach you how to move mana. It teaches you how to survive. I think I've spent enough time here for one day. We'll be seeing each other again soon."
She pulled her hood back over her head, her figure once again becoming an anonymous shadow. "Rest well. You'll need it."
Before they could ask what she meant by 'junior,' she vanished through the tent flap. The silence that followed was brief. A few minutes later, the flap was pushed aside again, but it wasn't Nerissa. A soldier with a hard, scarred face looked inside.
"You. Outside. Now," the soldier grunted.
"Wait, why?" Octavia stood up, her maternal instincts flaring. "He just woke up! He needs more rest."
The soldier didn't argue. He simply fixed Octavia with a cold, piercing glare that made her flinch. "We have another part of the examination to complete. It's protocol."
"It's okay, Mother," Athel said, patting her hand. "I'll be right back. It'll be quick."
"Enjoying your rest, boy?" ask Frederick with a smirk on his face, followed by laughter and chatter from the soldiers besides him. At the exact moment, the soldier that were with Athel immediately kicked Athel's knees, making him kneeled on one leg. "What the he-."
He stepped out into the town square, but the sight that greeted him wasn't the bustling military camp from before. The square was oddly empty. Most of the townspeople had been cleared out, and the carriages were gone.
Standing in the centre of the clearing was Sir Frederick. He stood with his arms crossed over his breastplate, a group of six soldiers flanking him. Nerissa was nowhere to be seen.
"Enjoying your rest, boy?" Frederick asked, his lips curling into a cruel smirk. The soldiers around him chuckled, a low, mocking sound.
Athel opened his mouth to respond, but the soldier behind him didn't give him a chance. A heavy boot slammed into the back of Athel's knee. The joint buckled, and he hit the dirt hard.
"What the—!"
Athel's head snapped back as a leather-clad fist collided with his jaw. The world blurred. He tasted copper as he face-planted into the dry earth. Before he could scramble up, a heavy, iron-shod boot pressed into the centre of his back, pinning him to the ground. He struggled, his fingers clawing at the dirt, but the soldier simply increased the pressure until Athel could barely draw air into his lungs.
Frederick walked forward, his polished boots stopping inches from Athel's face. He knelt, the smell of wine and expensive soap wafting off him.
"You have a lot to learn about the hierarchy of this kingdom, brat," Frederick whispered. He drew a jagged steel dagger from his belt and slammed it into the ground next to Athel's head. The blade grazed Athel's cheek, leaving a thin, stinging line of red.
"Since you've been so disrespectful, I think it's time I had a little private 'evaluation' with your mother," Frederick sneered.
He stood up and, with deliberate, slow movements, walked over Athel's back and head as if he were nothing more than a bridge of meat and bone. He marched toward the tent where Octavia waited, oblivious to the violence outside.
The soldiers broke into raucous laughter.
"There goes another one," one of them joked.
"Should have kept your mouth shut, kid," another spat, looking down at Athel with pity. "Sir Frederick always gets what he wants."