The chill of morning air pricks my skin as I step into the shadow-drenched corridor, the stone floor cool beneath my boots. The training bells haven't yet sounded, but the halls hum with restless energy—today marks the second day of preparation. I clutch the leather strap of my spellbinding satchel tighter, feeling the faint pulsing warmth of Ashveils presence somewhere above the rooftops. Today's training isn't about weapons. It's about trust.
I pass under flickering mage-lights, their glow casting fragmented halos across the ancient stone walls. Every step feels heavier, not from exhaustion, but anticipation—like the air itself is waiting to shift. Around the corner, people begin to gather in the outer courtyard, silent and alert, their breath ghosting in the cool morning air. A strange fog hangs low against the treeline just beyond the garden wall—unnatural, silvery, and shimmering faintly like it's breathing. That must be the Echo Veil.
A line of instructors stands near the gate, cloaked in storm-colored robes. One of them raises a gloved hand and murmurs something under his breath. The fog ripples. A nearby participant jolts as if touched by a whisper only they could hear. I swallow hard.
Fynn spots me and gives a nod, his expression unreadable. Beside him, Caelen stands with arms folded, gaze fixed on the veil ahead. There's something taut in the air between us, stretched thin by the echo of last night. I don't meet his eyes.
A voice rings out—measured, steady. "Today, you will enter the Gauntlet in pairs. There will be no blades, no shields. Only trust."
And just like that, the gates creak open.
The lead instructor—Master Ilithar—steps forward, holding a parchment that unrolls almost to the ground. "You will be called in two by two. Inside the Veil, you will face illusions—some drawn from your own minds, others from the fears and thoughts of your partner. You must rely on intuition, memory, and your partner to get to the other side. Do not run. Do not fight. Trust, or you will be lost within."
The first names are called.
"Samora Hendrix and Ben Halden."
Samora lifts her chin and strides forward, Ben a few steps behind her. Her eyes flick to me for a moment—nervous, but determined. As they pass through the mist, the fog curls around them like fingers, and they vanish with a soft shhh of shifting air.
A few heartbeats later—
"Kadyn Zimmerman and Cecile Vaughn."
Kadyn gives me a crooked grin like this is just another prank to be pulled. Cecile looks less amused. They link arms—whether for trust or show, I can't tell—and step in.
More names. Pairs disappear, swallowed by the living fog. Tension coils tighter around my chest with each one.
Then: "Elena Solace and Fynn Pierce."
My breath catches. Of all the people…
We moved toward the veil in silence, footsteps echoing softly on the stone as the fog beckoned. It curled outward from the trees like tendrils of breath, silver and alive, laced with faint whispers I couldn't quite catch. I clutched the strap of my satchel and felt Ashveil stir faintly in the bond — uneasy.
"You ready?" Fynn asked, his voice low.
I nodded. "As I'll ever be."
We stepped through together.
The world tilted.
A shiver rippled down my spine as the courtyard vanished, replaced by a forest unlike anything in the Starfallen Realms. The trees were tall, black-barked, and ancient, their leaves a dark purple sheen that shimmered like oil when the mist caught them. The fog here wasn't just air. It had weight. Memory. It pressed against our skin like invisible hands.
A glowing sigil pulsed to life above us, hanging midair. Fynn reached out to touch it, but the moment he did—
We were separated.
The veil sliced between us like a wall of glass.
"Fynn?" My voice echoed. No answer.
The fog coiled tighter around me.
I stumbled forward, the path squirming beneath my feet, until I came upon a clearing.
And there it waited.
A serpent — vast and rune-marked, its obsidian scales catching the light like shattered mirrors. Its eyes glowed with red flame. It towered above me, coiled like a question with a deadly answer.
I backed away.
Then Fynn's voice pierced the air — not beside me, but from beyond the veil. "Elena!"
I turned in a panic. I could see him now, standing behind an invisible wall, watching me. He banged on it with his fist, helpless.
The serpent lunged.
I dropped to the ground, rolling as its fangs sank into empty earth. My heart pounded, breath caught somewhere in my throat.
"Elena, don't run!" Fynn shouted. "It's a sentient echo! You have to prove you trust it!"
"Trust the thing trying to eat me?"
"Elena— look at it. Really look."
I froze. The serpent hovered, tongue flicking, waiting.
I slowly met its eyes.
And something… changed.
They weren't predator's eyes. They were mirrors.
I saw myself reflected in them—not as I was, but as I could be. Strong. Ancient. Fire-wreathed. I saw Ashveil behind me, wings spread, not as a beast but a queen's shadow.
I inhaled and dropped my arms, opening my hands to the beast.
The serpent hissed… and bowed its head.
Just like that, it sank into the mist and vanished. The veil between me and Fynn cracked like glass and shattered.
He ran toward me.
"That was insane," he said, voice tight with something like awe. "You didn't just pass that. You commanded it."
I didn't answer. Because the forest shifted again.
The mist turned gold—no longer fog, but liquid memory. It swirled around my feet and surged upward, dragging me into a vision I couldn't escape.
I was in our home.
Willowrift.
But it was burning.
Flames licked the wooden beams, screams echoed from the halls. I stumbled forward—then saw her.
Liira.
My little sister. Trapped behind a wall of fire.
"No!" I screamed, rushing forward—but the floor cracked open into a chasm, and I fell.
And landed in chains.
In that dark cell again. Cold stone. Lantern light. The memory of the night I thought I'd lost her.
But this time… she didn't call for me.
This time… she looked away.
And behind her, Mais stood. Holding her hand.
And smiling.
My breath caught like ice. "No. No, that's not real—"
"Wake up, Elena!" I heard Fynn shouting from somewhere far away.
But the dream didn't break.
Now I saw Fynn too—standing across from me. Watching. Frozen.
But his eyes were filled with something different this time.
Fear.
Not for me. Of me.
"Stop," I whispered.
The mist thickened. My wrists burned with phantom chains. "Stop it!"
"Elena!" Fynn's voice cut through the fog like a blade. I reached out—and his hand met mine.
Real.
Present.
I gasped.
The veil shattered like glass.
And we were back in the courtyard.
The air was sharp and real, filled with murmurs. Someone nearby clapped. Another said, "She survived two echoes."
I start shaking as the terror calls throughout my body.
Fynn reached out and cupped my cheek gently. "Hey. You're back."
I nod, though tears burn behind my eyes.
"What did you see?" he asked quietly, worry filling his eyes as he is searching for my eyes.
"Liira was there…" I say softly, trying to collect myself from the terror that washed over me.
"What? How? Come on lets go back to the North Wing. We will go to my room."
Fynn gently grabs my arm and leads us away from the courtyard, past curious stares and murmured whispers. I keep my eyes on the stone, barely able to breathe.
The halls blur by until we reach the North Wing. It's quieter here, removed from the bustle of training courts and the Veil's lingering presence. Fynn pushes open a heavy oak door with his shoulder.
His room smells like cedar and parchment.
A few mage-lanterns hover near the ceiling, casting a warm amber glow over the stone walls. The space is smaller than I expected, but lived-in. Cozy. One wall is lined with books, half of them stacked sideways or upside down. A weathered jacket hangs from a hook near the door, and above his bed—a wide, unmade mess of wool blankets and soft navy quilts—is a pinned map of the Realms, marked in charcoal with routes and crossings I don't recognize.
His boots are discarded near the hearth, next to an unfinished sketch on the floor of what looks like a phoenix mid-flight. My phoenix.
I glance at him. He pretends not to notice.
"Sit," he says softly, guiding me to the edge of the bed.
The mattress dips under my weight. I clutch my satchel like a lifeline, trying to focus on anything but the way my heartbeat's still out of rhythm.
"I've never seen anything like that," he says after a moment, crouching beside me. "Two echoes. One right after the other."
I nod, but my throat's tight. "It wasn't just fear. It felt real."
"I know."
"I saw Liira… she was with Mais. And you—" I pause, biting back the rising wave in my chest. "You were afraid of me."
He goes still.
"I wasn't," he says carefully. "Not really. That's just the Veil twisting things. You know that, right?"
I shake my head. "It felt like truth."
Fynn rises and paces once, fingers dragging through his hair. Then he turns, eyes dark and earnest.
"Elena, I've never once been afraid of you. Not even with the Wyrdcall. Not when you burned through that obsidian cage in Caltheron. Not even now."
His voice lowers, fierce. "I'm afraid for you. Not of you."
That breaks something in me.
I let the satchel slide from my lap and fold forward, burying my face in my hands. The adrenaline finally drains out all at once, and I'm trembling.
Fynn sits beside me, our shoulders brushing. He doesn't say anything at first, just lets the silence stretch while the storm inside me slows.
Then, quietly: "You saw Liira because you care more about her than anyone. And that thing—Mais, me—it wasn't real. You know it. I know it. That's what the Veil does. It tests what you'll believe when your heart's breaking."
I lift my eyes and look at him.
He's closer than I thought. His gaze searches mine like he's afraid I'll disappear again.
"I'm here," he says. "I'm not leaving."
And for a moment, I let myself believe him.
Tomorrow is the first trial, and I have to be prepared for anything that comes my way.
What could the trial be?
The first training session was combat, and the one today was about trust. What could require those two things? Something that makes you fight beside someone. Or bleed because you didn't.
I walk toward the observatory tower—at least, that's what the map called it. But no one ever goes there. It's tucked past the northern garden, half-swallowed by overgrown firefern bushes and silent as the dead. Maybe I just needed somewhere quiet. Somewhere not coated in sweat, whispered rumors, or expectations.
The stairs spiral up longer than I expect, narrow and winding like they were carved out in haste or secrecy. Dust floats in the shafts of light pouring from thin, high windows. At the top, I expect a locked door. Instead, I find it cracked open, humming with quiet warmth.
I push it fully open—and forget how to breathe.
A glass dome stretches above me, vast and crystalline, etched with old runes that shimmer faintly like fire trapped in ice. The air inside is warmer, tinged with the scent of smoke and honey. Dozens—no, hundreds—of birds flit among the rafters: phoenixes, emberwings, glimmerjays, a few I can't even name. Magic pulses faintly in the walls, like the whole place is alive, watching.
Ashveil is there. Of course she is. Perched on the curved bronze arch at the center, her feathers smoldering gold at the tips.
She sees me and gives a low, echoing trill. Not a warning. A welcome.
This wasn't just some forgotten room.
This was a sanctuary.
And somehow, it had been waiting for me.
Ashveil spreads her wings, the motion slow and regal. Embers drift from her like petals, catching in the filtered sunlight that breaks through the Skyglass dome. I step forward, boots soft against the smooth mosaic floor—golden tiles arranged in swirling patterns that pulse faintly beneath the soles of my feet.
"How did I not know this was here?" I whisper.
Ashveil tilts her head, her eyes glowing like twin suns. She doesn't speak—not in words—but I feel something stir in the back of my mind. A knowing. A memory that isn't mine.
I cross the chamber slowly, each step pulling at a thread I didn't know was inside me. As I near the center, I notice a raised platform beneath Ashveils perch. A Wyrdmark is etched into the stone—familiar now. The same one that appeared when I used Wyrdcall for the first time.
My fingers brush it.
A soft hum echoes through the chamber, and the birds above go silent. For a heartbeat, the entire Aviary holds its breath.
Then, Ashveil speaks. Not aloud. But in my mind.
"You were meant to find it."
I stagger back slightly, my heart thundering. "Ashveil?"
"The Wyrdlords walked these stones before you. The sky remembered. And so did I."
I press a hand to my chest, steadying my breath. The warmth from the mark beneath my fingertips lingers, pulsing with quiet energy. This place—it's not just beautiful. It's old. Important. And somehow, tied to me.
"I didn't mean to find it," I murmur. "I was just looking for somewhere quiet."
Ashveil ruffles her wings. "You sought stillness. The Wyrd heard."
A silence settles between us—not empty, but full. Full of possibility, of questions left to ask, of truths not yet ready to bloom.
I walk to one of the arched windows, the glass clear as water. Below, the Ember Trials campus sprawls like a living tapestry—training rings, spell gardens, war courts, students scurrying like ants, unaware of the chamber in the clouds above them.
"Can I come back here?" I ask quietly, already afraid the answer will be no.
"It is yours," Ashveil says. "As I am."
Something clenches in my chest—soft and aching. For the first time in what feels like days, I feel still.
Not safe. But known.
I'm still standing near the window when a soft cheep draws my attention downward. Nestled in a bowl of silverwoven branches, a baby bird no larger than my palm blinks up at me with eyes the color of twilight.
It's not a phoenix. Not yet, at least.
Feathers still downy and tinged with ash, the hatchling wobbles on tiny claws, fluffing its chest as if trying to look fierce.
"Hello there," I whisper, crouching slowly.
The bird tilts its head. Then, to my absolute shock, I hear a voice—small, high, and clear as a bell—inside my head.
"You're not supposed to be here yet."
I nearly fall backward. "What the—" My eyes dart to Ashveil, still perched and silent on the high beam above. I didn't summon anything. I didn't use Wyrdcall.
I blink at the baby bird. "Did… did you just talk to me?"
The hatchling puffs up again, clearly proud of itself. "I think so. I've never tried before. You're loud. Not like the others."
"Loud?" I echo. "I didn't say anything—"
"Not with your mouth. With your fire." The chick waddles closer to the edge of its nest, peering over. "You sing in the Wyrd even when you're quiet. We all hear you. Especially the new ones."
My breath catches. "But I didn't call you. I didn't even know you were here."
"You didn't call. But we listen anyway."
I glance back at Ashveil, stunned. She remains still, though I feel her presence like a low hum against my ribs.
"How is this possible?" I murmur, more to myself than anything.
The baby bird chirps, cocking its head again. "Because you haven't learned how to not speak yet."
I blink. "That doesn't make sense."
"Exactly," it says brightly, then gives a hiccupping little chirp that sounds almost like a giggle.
I crouch a little closer, careful not to startle it. "You're really young, aren't you?"
The hatchling fluffs up its feathers, proudly. "Three sun-cycles. That's very grown. I've only set one tailfeather on fire so far."
I blink. "That… sounds like a solid record."
"It is. I'm very advanced," the bird declares with a bob of its head, before tumbling sideways in its nest and squeaking indignantly.
I reach out a hand instinctively, but stop short before touching it. "Do you have a name?"
The baby bird pauses, then gives a soft hum deep in its chest. "I haven't been given one yet. They say names come when they're ready. Or when someone brave enough offers one."
I smile despite myself. There's something odd and wondrous about this moment—like I've slipped between two heartbeats of the world.
"How about…" I glance up at the pale sky beyond the dome. "…Lumi?"
The chick chirps, the sound musical and approving. "Lumi. I like that. That sounds like a name with feathers."
I laugh under my breath. "It does, doesn't it?"
Lumi stretches one tiny wing, clearly exhausted by all the social interaction. "You're different, Elena. Not just because of the Wyrdcall. Because you listen. Most people only hear when they're loud."
I feel something shift in my chest at that—an ache and a glow, all at once.
"Will I see you again?" I ask softly.
"You will." Lumi yawns. "I'm too young to bond. But I'll remember your fire."
The chick burrows deeper into the silverwoven nest, nestling into the warmth of the enchanted straw.
"You'll need a voice that doesn't echo. I can be that, if you want."
I blink, caught off guard. "A voice that doesn't echo?"
"One that doesn't come with commands or power. Just truth. That's what we need most when the world gets too loud."
There's a long pause. I feel like I'm standing at the edge of a cliff I didn't know existed—one that drops into something older and deeper than magic.
Then Lumi chirps again, this time sleepily. "But for now… nap."
"Wait, what—"
But the hatchling is already curling into itself, eyes closing as if nothing strange had happened at all.
I stare at it for a long time, the words echoing through my skull: You haven't learned how to not speak yet.
A chill dances across my spine.
Maybe Wyrdcall wasn't something I had to use.
Maybe… it was something I am.