For the next few days before the tournament, Elya carried a quiet weight. She still joined Alex and Brinn at the cafeteria, still tossed the occasional comment or wry observation into Brinn's endless chatter, but there was something just out of reach in her eyes, a distance Alex couldn't quite bridge. He suspected it had to do with the letter, though she said nothing. He didn't press—it wasn't his place. He would be there if she ever needed someone, and that was enough.
Evening brought their training sessions, and the rhythm of motion, sweat, and spells became their unspoken routine. Alex noticed the subtle changes in her style—more measured, precise, almost wary, as though she were preparing for something bigger.
Fenrik, meanwhile, remained mostly secluded in the High Tower, buried in texts and scrolls, chasing the threads of history. The old scholar's fascination with dragons had seemed a mere obsession, even madness, until Alex's abilities started hinting that Fenrik might be closer to the truth than anyone else dared to believe. A few times over those days, Alex wandered the winding stone corridors of the Tower. Each visit left him with a growing sense of responsibility—not just to himself, but to the legacy Fenrik believed he carried. Dragons, long dismissed as myth, might not have been gone at all. And Alex could feel that fragile thread of history stirring in his veins, a reminder that whatever awaited him was real.
——————
The tournament grounds, carved into the very heart of the academy's valley were nothing like the training yards the students were used to.
The arena stretched wide, a perfect circle of pale marble that shimmered beneath the morning sun. Encircling the field rose towering stands of glass and stone crafted with enchantments that bent and magnified the view so that even from the highest tier, spectators could see every flicker of spell. The glass shimmered faintly with protective wards ensuring that the magic displayed in the arena would be contained and not touch the audience.
The lower tiers were crowded with students and apprentices, their cheers already echoing like waves before the tournament even began. Above them, the middle galleries seated minor nobles, guildmasters, and visiting scholars. Their attire was as varied as their stations—silks in every color, jeweled chains glittering in the light.
But it was the VIP section that commanded attention. Set high and central, draped in crimson banners embroidered with gold thread. The glass there was special — those on the field could not see inside but the ones within had a perfect view of the entire arena.
From outside, the students could only stare, whispering guesses at who might already be seated within. Nobles? High magisters? The king himself? No one knew for certain. And that uncertainty gave the VIP stand a kind of untouchable weight—like a pair of unseen eyes pressing down on every fighter that would step into the ring.
The noise in the arena slowly died down as Principal Murkin stepped onto the raised platform at the center. His robe shimmered faintly with embroidered silver patterns, catching the sunlight that filtered through the glass dome above. A hush fell over the crowd—students straightened in their seats, nobles leaned forward with interest.
"Students," his voice rang out, clear and commanding, carried by a small spell that magnified it across the vast space. "Today marks the beginning of a tradition that stretches back generations. The Tournament is not merely a test of strength or skill. It is a symbol—of courage, of discipline, of unity."
He lifted a hand, gesturing to the banners swaying above them. "Each of you has trained hard. Each of you carries not only your own hopes, but the pride of your house, your mentors, and this Academy itself. What you display here—whether triumph or defeat—will be remembered."
The students exchanged glances, the tension rising. Competing in the tournament wasn't just about beating your opponent—it was about proving yourself before eyes that could shape your future. Performing well could earn one a recommendation to a great house, an apprenticeship under a powerful magister or even summons to court.
The principal's eyes moved to the nobles' section, where richly dressed figures sat. "To our honored guests—nobles, scholars, and emissaries from beyond our walls—we welcome you. Today you will witness not just contests, but the future of our kingdom being forged in these very sands."
A ripple of approval came from the stands.
"Let this Tournament be fair. Let it be fierce. And above all—" he paused, sweeping his gaze across the eager faces of the students— "let it remind us of who we are, and who we strive to become."
He stepped back, raising his hand high. "With that, I declare the Tournament… begun!"
The crowd erupted into thunderous cheers, the sound rolling through the arena like a wave.
A chime rang out, sharp and deliberate, and the first challenge revealed itself.
From the outer ring of the arena, panels slid open with a grinding of stone. Out of them rose tall, slender stands, each topped with a floating orb of glass. The orbs glowed faintly at first, then began to shift—sliding sideways, darting upward, weaving erratic patterns in the air. Dozens filled the arena until it looked like a storm of restless stars.
The crowd stirred. Everyone knew what the test was: Target precision. A trial designed to separate the careful from the reckless.
A voice boomed across the field. "First event: Target precision! Competitors will strike the moving marks with spell or weapon."
The First Circle students went first. A nervous boy with shaking hands sent out a sputtering flame that barely nicked his orb. The crowd cheered anyway. Another hurled knives—fast but clumsy—striking one orb and missing the rest. Groans rolled across the stands.
One by one, students fired off their shots. Sparks of color flashed and burst, some graceful, some pitiful. The event was lively, but it wasn't until her name was called that the crowd really leaned forward.
"Helen Marrowfield," the announcer's voice boomed.
A murmur spread at once. Even Alex heard it—curiosity prickling in the whispers of students around him.
Helen stepped onto the marble with a confidence that felt heavier than pride. She was tall, her stance balanced, every movement controlled. Sunlight from the dome above caught in her pale hair, making it glint like steel. A long staff rested in her hand, runes faintly glowing down its length.
The command rang out:
"Competitor—begin!"
The orbs darted erratically, but Helen did not move right away. She waited, steady, watching their rhythm. Then, in a single fluid motion, she swung her staff. A sharp crack of energy shot forward, splitting into three beams that curved midair and struck three orbs at once.
The crowd erupted.
She moved again, faster this time. A spiral of light lanced outward, weaving through the chaos of the targets. Each orb it touched shattered in a burst of sparks—red, blue, green, gold—until the arena glowed like festival fireworks.
"Show-off," Brinn muttered under his breath obviously fascinated.
Alex blinked. He'd seen precision before, but this wasn't just accuracy. It was control—calm, ruthless control.
By the time the last orb fell, a hush had spread through the crowd, as though everyone had forgotten to breathe. Then the roar hit, louder than anything the earlier competitors had earned.
Helen lowered her staff and gave a small nod—neither boastful nor modest, but final. As if to say: of course.
Brinn grinned, his eyes shining. "She's going to be a problem, isn't she?"
Elya didn't answer right away. She just kept watching Helen, her lips pressed thin.
High above, the crimson-draped VIP section stirred again, shadows shifting as if someone had leaned forward.
The announcer's voice rang out over the thunder of the crowd:
"An exceptional display from Helen Marrowfield!"
Helen turned and strode off the field, her steps calm, measured, carrying the same quiet weight as when she entered.