The heat came first.
Before the glyphs lit. Before the roar. Before the air clawed at his lungs.
Leon stood in the ring, the chalk around him half-burned already, the scent of ash thick in the back of his throat. His sword felt heavier—not from sleep deprivation. This was different. The air shimmered. Light warped. The world twisted just enough to feel wrong.
Four mages stood beyond the ring. Hoods drawn low, their hands raised in perfect unison. Spell-binders. Bronze-badged. Academy issue.
They weren't here to instruct.
They were here to measure what didn't break.
One spoke. Just one word:
"Begin."
Flame shot up along the circle's edge—blinding, high, a living wall of fire that blocked the outside world in a single breath.
And then he wasn't alone.
It stood opposite him.
Not a person. Not even truly a creature.
A flame elemental. Bound magic. Half-shaped into something like a man, body flickering like molten glass strung with ash-veins. It wasn't alive. It was violence given form.
It moved first.
No hesitation. Three strides and it was there, the ground breaking beneath each step.
Leon dodged the first swing. Felt the heat graze his cheek. Pivoted, slashed low—aiming for the ankle joint.
Steel met embered flesh—
Sparked.
Too shallow.
It turned. An elbow like a furnace blade cut toward his ribs.
He threw himself back. Dust kicked up beneath his boots. A parry would crack his sword. No good. Stay light. Keep moving.
It came again.
Leon rolled. Pushed off. Aimed high this time—shoulder joint. Rough edge.
His blade struck. Bit.
The creature vented flame upward, no scream—just pressure.
He hit the ground hard.
Didn't stop.
Changed stance mid-move, slipped under a counter-blow, dragged his blade across its thigh.
It stumbled.
Opening.
He drove his sword upward, both hands tight, sliding the edge under its rib-like plate where the light pulsed brightest.
The hit landed.
And the creature screamed—louder this time. Enough to crack the edge of the warded circle. Four pillars of fire roared up.
But it didn't fall.
It exploded.
Leon had a split second. Turned—
The shockwave hit him square.
He flew. Landed hard. Rolled in ash. Pain tore through his ribs.
No breath.
No sword.
The elemental came again—fast, claws white-hot.
No time.
He saw metal in the dirt—a snapped spearhead, half-buried.
Grabbed it.
Shoved it forward with everything left.
The creature slammed into it.
And stopped.
The runes lit.
It convulsed—veins of light flickering in panic. Then cracked.
Shattered.
Ash.
Silence.
The flames dimmed.
Smoke curled at the edge of the ring.
Leon lay on his back, gasping.
Boots approached.
Fena appeared, arms folded. "Rib's broken. At least one. But you're breathing."
He coughed. Ash stuck to his teeth.
Sat up. Didn't scream when his ribs pulled tight.
A mage stepped forward, handed him something—flat, black iron. A flame crest burned into the surface.
"Trial complete," the mage said. No tone. No praise.
Leon closed his fist around it.
And stood.
Barely—but he stood.
—
That night, he didn't go back to his bunk.
He sat by the water trough behind the shed. Shirt off. Gauze strapped around his ribs. Coin in hand.
He stared at it.
Fingers blistered. Knuckles split.
Everything hurt.
But his head was clear.
Calla found him.
"You're an idiot," she said, flat.
"Yeah."
"No wards. No dampeners."
"No time."
"You had time for a rusted spearhead."
Leon looked up. "Worked, didn't it?"
She scowled. Sat next to him.
"You're up again next week. Bone Chamber. It's worse."
He didn't reply.
She paused. "That move—adjusting your angle before the burst. You didn't learn that here."
He nodded once.
"Where?"
Nothing.
She watched him. Then stood. "Rest, Leon. Even ghosts need sleep."
—
Back inside, Elena was waiting.
She didn't say anything.
Just passed him a flask. Sat beside him on the lower bunk.
"You passed," she said.
He drank.
She reached into her coat, unwrapped a small bundle.
A charm. Silver wire. Fire opal glinting in the light.
"I had it since I was a kid," she said.
Leon turned it in his fingers.
"It's too good for me."
"Then prove it isn't."
He looked at her.
And smiled.
The barracks were dim. A few lanterns still burned low at the far end, throwing thin gold shafts across scattered bunks and sleeping bodies. Leon sat on his cot, turning the fire opal charm slowly between his fingers.
He should've been asleep.
Each breath made his ribs throb, but his mind wouldn't settle. The heat still clung to his skin, and the elemental's last scream echoed somewhere deep in his bones.
Across the room, Oskar mumbled in his sleep. Rix shifted, muttered. Even Fena's breathing hitched once, then leveled out again.
Only Elena stayed awake.
She didn't speak at first—just leaned against the edge of his bunk, eyes fixed on the narrow window. Moonlight caught the edge of her hair. Her silence felt full.
"Did you see it?" Leon asked, voice low.
She nodded. "Wanted to run in." A pause. "Didn't."
"I'm glad."
She turned slightly, jaw tight. "That wasn't training, Leon. That thing could've ended you. No blade. No wards—"
"I didn't go in to die," he said. Quiet. Sure. "But I had to fight like I could."
She sat beside him without a word, her shoulder brushing his. Her hand stayed near—not touching, but close enough to feel.
"You don't need to prove anything," she said. "Not to them."
He didn't reply right away.
Just stared at his palm—fingers cracked, charm faintly glowing.
"I'm not proving it to them."
Elena turned toward him.
"I'm proving it to the boy who died in the street with a broken sword and no name worth remembering."
She didn't speak.
Just leaned her head gently against his shoulder.
They didn't say anything else.
But the silence between them—
It wasn't empty.
It was understood.
It was earned.
The moon had dipped lower, casting its pale glow across the worn beams above. Somewhere outside, a bell tolled twice—slow, deep.
Two hours left till dawn.
Leon didn't move.
Elena slept against him now, breathing soft, her fingers curled near his side. He hadn't expected her to stay. He hadn't expected any of this—comfort, stillness, the strange weight of peace. Not after what the Flame Trial burned out of him.
But here it was.
And he didn't know what to do with it.
He sat quiet, body aching, every breath still laced with smoke, every thought tracing the edge where death had passed him by. He saw it clearly—the moment instinct pulled him forward and everything else fell away.
No luck.
No spell.
Just motion that refused to stop.
His fingers tightened around the fire opal charm. It pulsed faintly—less magic now, more memory. He didn't believe in keepsakes. But Elena had. And now it was his.
He exhaled slowly.
Then placed it in the small wooden box near the foot of his bed—the same box that held his father's unopened letter.
One day.
But not tonight.
He stood carefully, moving slow so she wouldn't stir. Pain lit up through his ribs as he reached for a clean tunic, pulled it over his shoulders, and stepped out into the cold.
The courtyard was still.
No fires. No voices.
But the ring from the trial was still burned into the dirt—edges blackened, metal rods scorched from the blast.
Leon stood at its edge.
Not afraid.
Not proud.
Just present.
Then he stepped in.
He moved without sound—repeating the fight in slow form, retracing the dodges, the stances, the moments that mattered. Each step a lesson. Each cut a reminder.
No audience. No flame.
Just him.
Because that trial hadn't ended anything.
It had only begun.