The first light of dawn spilled across the chamber in delicate golden strands, catching on the sheer fabric of the curtains and throwing fractured patterns across the floor. I blinked slowly, still caught in the haze between sleep and the weight of what today meant.
Training day.
I laid still for a moment, listening. The soft hush of the wind brushing against the balcony doors, the distant rush of the waterfall pouring into the stream below. A sound that had lulled me to sleep now felt like the pulse of something ancient and expectant. I dragged in a steady breath and pushed myself upright.
Memories of last night flickered behind my eyes—Caelens voice, the glint of his smirk, the way he looked at me like he already knew the parts of me I wasn't sure I'd ever let anyone see. My stomach twisted with a fluttering mix of delight and unease. It had been thrilling, intoxicating even, the way he moved in shadows and words like they were weapons. I didn't know if I could trust him—but part of me didn't care. That scared me more than anything.
I stood, the floor cool beneath my feet, sending shivers up my. spine. My fingers ran through tangled hair as I moved toward the bathroom door. The slight shine of gold catches my eye from underneath the door that leads to the hallway just outside. I begin walking towards it making sure I wasn't being watched. Not that I found a camera yet, but just to be sure, I did a brief scan of the room.
I stooped to retrieve it, fingertips grazing the smooth stone, and flipped it over. A deep crimson wax seal stared back at me: a phoenix in full flare, wings curled upward, flame dancing from its beak.
The emblem of the Ember Trials.
I broke the seal carefully and unfolded the parchment.
To Elena Solace,
You are hereby ordered to report to the Trial Grounds at 4:00 PM for your scheduled combat and elemental aptitude assessment. Bring whatever you see fit, knowing that you might end with severe injuries. You will be partnered up, to test your ability to fight. If faced with a, "near death" situation, you are then only allowed to use your powers to defend yourself. Any use of powers except for the situation stated above, will result with a quick death. See you in the Trial Grounds Mrs. Solace.
-The King of Aetherra
I toss the letter away and start towards my closet. A single outfit waits, already laid out like it knew this day was coming.
The top is a sleeveless, jet-black combat crop—tight, high-necked, and cut to expose just enough toned stomach to make it seem dangerous. It clings like a second skin, made of enchanted fabric that shifts with my body, whisper-silent with movement. My shoulders are bare, collarbone sharp under the soft gleam of morning light. Scars kiss the curve of my biceps, unapologetically visible.
The leggings are high-waisted and fitted like armor painted on—matte obsidian with subtle silver inlays that trace the lines of muscle and motion. Side lacing runs halfway up the thighs, revealing flashes of skin that draw the eye whether I want them to or not. The material flexes easily, built for speed, but looks like something made to tempt danger into looking twice.
A slim weapons belt rides low on my hips, blades holstered on either side. I pull on fingerless gloves etched with runic threading and fasten my boots—drakehide, knee-high, laced tight and made for quiet steps with loud purpose.
My hair goes up in a high braid, tight and sharp, a few loose strands falling exactly where I let them.
When I open the door and step into the hallway, conversations pause.
Yeah. Let them stare.
I turn to start walking towards the Grounds as Kadyn reaches my side.
"Damn Solace, You look hot."
"Thanks. Hey do you know where the others are? We have to start heading towards the Training Grounds."
"I think they are already there," he says back.
We make our way down the outer corridors, boots echoing against stone, tension building with each step. The Training Grounds sit on the eastern rise of the stronghold, carved into a high plateau framed by ancient ironwood trees and open sky.
When we step through the final archway, the full view unfolds before us.
The Grounds are vast—a sweeping field of packed earth and obsidian tiles bordered by low stone walls and sigil-etched pillars. Faint glimmers of residual magic float like dust in the air, remnants of past drills and elemental flare. There is only one sparring ring that is hoisted above the ground placed in the center of the grounds.
Training dummies stand to one side—some armored, some enchanted to move, their eyes flickering with artificial life. Across the grounds, scattered targets hover midair, shifting and spinning in slow, unpredictable patterns. There's a section dedicated to elemental testing, where rings of fire flicker in a half-moon formation beside troughs of water, walls of ice, and wind turbines meant to simulate storm resistance.
To the far left, a raised observation deck is manned by instructors and wardens, their gazes sharp and unreadable. Warden Veyra stands among them, arms crossed, already scanning the field.
I spot Fynn, Samora, and a few others off near the center, stretching and adjusting gear. Fynn raises a hand in greeting; Samora just smirks when she sees me, her eyes briefly dropping to my outfit.
We've arrived.
No crowd. No ceremony. Just sharpened eyes and waiting ground.
This isn't for show.
It's where we prove who we are—before the real fire begins.
"Today," the king says trying to get everyone's attention, "you'll be focusing on close-combat training—learning basic fighting stances, defensive maneuvers, and how to stay controlled under pressure. You will be rated during each training session adding up to a total of a hundred, ten for each day. At the end of each training day, you will be given your performance score. If your score does not surpass the 5 point marker, you will be killed along with anyone else who doesn't make it at the end of each week. Let's get started with Tyrell and Sofia—you two are up first!"
Tyrell stepped forward first, tall and broad-shouldered, his movements relaxed but heavy with strength. His jaw was set, eyes focused, but there was a flicker of amusement dancing at the corners—like he already knew this was going to be fun. The muscles in his arms tensed slightly as he rolled his shoulders.
Sofia follows seconds later, quiet but sharp. She's much smaller—lithe and wiry, but not delicate. Her dark hair is braided into a tight coil at the base of her neck, and her eyes sweep the field with fast, calculating precision. She's wearing standard black sparring gear, but somehow she moves like the cloth itself obeys her. She doesn't show off. She doesn't need to. Her stillness is intimidating in its own way—focused, deadly, waiting for the bell.
I lean forward slightly without meaning to. Tyrell might hit harder, but Sofia… she looks like she doesn't miss.
They meet at the center, circling once.
And just like that, the first match begins.
They clash fast—Tyrell charging in with brute strength, fists swinging in heavy arcs that force Sofia to duck and pivot with sharp, dancer-like precision. She stays low, striking fast, aiming for his ribs and knees, trying to wear him down with speed. For a moment, it works. She lands a solid hit to his side, and he grunts, stumbling a step—but only a step. He recovers with a snarl of a grin, grabbing her forearm mid-strike and using his weight to twist her off balance. She rolls out of it, nimble as smoke, but he's already there, pressing hard, forcing her back with a flurry of punishing blows. Her breath comes faster now, movements more reactive than strategic, until one misstep costs her everything—her heel catches on the edge of the sparring ring and Tyrell seizes the opening. He slams her to the ground with a controlled sweep, knocking the wind from her lungs. Before she can scramble up, his boot pins her wrists to the mat above her head, locking her down with ease. She jerks against it, teeth bared, but it's no use. She's trapped—flat on her back, hair splayed out, her narrowed eyes burning with frustration while his stare is calm, almost amused.
"Well done, Tyrell." The King says, clapping slowly. "Next up is…."
He goes on like this for hours as he goes down the list, each one of us getting called up to fight against each other.
It is about another hour before I get called up against, you know it, Caelen. My mouth drops as I look over to find him already making his way up. Fynn looks in my direction with shock as he steps closer to me. He went up a couple rounds ago and fought against a girl named Freya. Of coarse he won, with his all of his fighting training. He has been training for years because of his father.
I take a step, forcing my body to stop panicking and narrow my line of vision to Caelen and Caelen alone. He stands in the middle of the platform staring back at me with a look sending shivers down my back. I reach the platform and started up the stairs when a hand covers my line of vision. I look up to see Caelens hand extended outward as if he is trying to be a gentlemen. And I send him a look that says, "Are you crazy— I don't need help up stairs." I roll my eyes and push his hand aside as I reach the top step and stand in a ready position. He watches me with that infuriating smirk, like he's already won. Arrogant. Beautiful. Dangerous.
Focus, Elena. You're not here to stare at him.
I drop into a ready stance, rolling my shoulders loose, daggers still sheathed at my sides. Caelen tilts his head, waiting, relaxed like this is some kind of game.
So I make the first move.
I lunge, closing the distance with a sharp jab toward his ribs. He sidesteps easily, but not fast enough—my knuckles glance off his side, and I see the flicker of surprise cross his face.
Before he can regroup, I sweep my leg low. He hops back, avoiding the hit by inches. "Quick," he mutters, more to himself than me. "Didn't expect that."
I don't give him time to adjust.
My fingers fly to the hilts at my belt. With a practiced flick, I draw both daggers, steel catching the sunlight. They hum in my grip, alive with purpose.
I slash upward—once, twice—one blade a feint, the other angled to cut across his forearm. Caelen blocks the first, ducks the second. He's fast, but I'm faster, pressing forward with a spin and a downward strike aimed at his shoulder.
I can win this. I just have to keep him on defense.
But Caelen shifts. Just enough. He catches my wrist mid-swing, twisting sharply. I grunt, stumbling, but recover with a quick elbow toward his side. He deflects it easily, stepping in too close for blades.
Too close.
I try to twist away, but he's already there—grabbing my other wrist now, pinning both arms wide. The force isn't cruel—it's controlled, like he's done this a hundred times. I struggle, breath sharp in my throat, trying to use my weight to knock him off balance.
He spins, dragging me with him in a fluid movement that throws me off my feet. A sheering pain shoots through me as I hit the mat hard, daggers flying from my hands and skittering across the stone.
The breath leaves my lungs in a painful rush and before I can reach for the blades, Caelens boot presses down lightly—but firmly—on my wrists, holding me still. His knee drops beside my ribs, pinning me fully. He leans forward, his face inches from mine, eyes dark and unreadable.I push the pain aside and try to focus myself on what was happening in front of me.
I glare up at him, cheeks flushed, heart pounding.
I grit my teeth, every inch of me burning with frustration. I could've had him. I almost did.
Caelen stands and steps back, offering a hand again.
I ignore it.
"Well done, Caelen," the king calls from above. "Next match."
As Caelen walks away, I sit up slowly, eyes drifting to where my daggers lay gleaming under the sunlight. My fingers twitch, aching for another chance.
Next time, I promise myself. Next time, he won't be the one standing.
Another hour goes by and we are dismissed from the Training Grounds. I start walking back towards my room making a mental note to take a shower before doing anything else. I make just inches from my room before Fynn catches up to me.
"What was that back there?" The look of concern flashes through his eyes.
"I don't know," I say, "It's pretty hard for me to rap my head around it."
I turn my head towards him and his gorgeous grey eyes stare right back into mine.
"Oh my god, Elena. Your cut." He lifts my arm up exposing the deep cut starting from my shoulder to just underneath my elbow.
"I'm fine, I've had worse. I'll see you later."
I open my bedroom door then close it as soon as I'm inside.
Caelen must have cut me as he threw me to the floor. The blood trails down my arm as I step into the shower and clean up. The burning in my arm makes me shower quickly, so I can wrap the cut.
Fifteen minutes passed and I was out of the shower and dressed into more comfortable, nice cloths. I exit my room soon after and made way to the dining room for dinner. Everyone was already there, mostly done with there food when I arrived. I spot Samora and the others and wave making way over to them quickly. I sit down in my usual spot piling food onto my plate. The faint smell of pasta and garlic bread makes my mouth immediately water.
Music started to play and my stomach sinks as I realize what time it was. One by one, each and everyone of us receives our score. The big projector shining on the big wide wall behind us. It shows the persons face and their number beside it. Samora receives her number first.
"8, Samora you received 8!" Her face lights up with relief.
Fynn gets his next and then Kadyn leaving me to get mine last.
"5," I say trying to mask my surprise and worry.
Samora reaches over giving me a side hug.
"I'll teach you, don't worry."
I look at her with an expression that relays the words thank you and return my vision back to the screen. Caelens next and his score leaves everyone speechless. He got a ten. How all he did was duck and trow me over to my back pining me. I don't understand.
I turn my head to find him, but he was nowhere to be found. I swing my head back as all for of us exchange glances.
I finish eating later then everyone else leaving me to be the only one in the dining room. By the time I slip back into my room, the full moon is left exposed in the nighttime sky shining a mix of silver and white on the earths ground floor. The air feels heavier now—cooler, like something unseen has shifted. I move to the balcony doors, drawn by instinct more than intention.
The curtains flutter gently as I push them aside and step out.
Below, the orchard stretches in layered shadow and silver, rows of moonlit trees swaying under the weight of summer fruit and secrets. The scent of earth and something sweeter—maybe jasmine—curls up to meet me.
I close my eyes, and breathe slowly letting the cool air engulf me. The soft chirp of birds and hum of insects from the orchard fill my ears with this feeling, I can't quite describe. All I know is that it makes me immediately relaxed. When I do open my eyes, a soft flickering of a light redirect my vision. As I squint my eyes, all sense of calmness leaves my body.
Caelen.
A faint golden glow trails ahead of him, the lantern swinging from his hand as he moves silently across the sloped path, heading away from the main keep. He walks with purpose, not like someone out for air—but like someone who knows where he's going, and why.
He doesn't look back.
I lean forward slightly over the railing, breath caught in my throat, trying to make sense of the pull in my chest. The Training Grounds are in the opposite direction. His room is on the other side of the stronghold. There's no reason—none—that he should be heading toward the orchard.
Unless there is.
The trees swallow him slowly, lantern light bobbing until it's just a flicker.
Then gone.
A knot twists deep in my gut.
Where the hell is he going… and why does it feel like he doesn't want anyone to follow?