The next morning, the academy was buzzing with excitement.
Originally scheduled for the mixed wing hall, the exam had been moved to the grand hall to accommodate the swelling crowd. This was no ordinary simulation—not anymore. Professor Cally herself had been summoned, her macht far superior to any projection crystal.
Each team would be represented by a head ring—a silver circlet inscribed with runes that transmitted the wearer's commands directly to Professor Cally. With her macht, she would bring the simulation to life in full scale, in near-real time. The partner who did not wear the circlet acted as supporter, sending signals to the circlet bearer, who in turn translated them into direct action.
Riley had been chosen to wear the ring, but Riel refused.
"I'll do it," he said—not as a suggestion, but as fact.
She had never seen him so insistent. There was something in his eyes, cold but immovable, that brooked no argument. So she stepped back, trusting his decision, though her fingers still itched with nerves.
By the time Riley's team was called, the amphitheater-style projection hall was already brimming. Students filled every row, their chatter low and tense, the air thick with the nervous heat of too many bodies crammed together. From above, the faculty sat in their elevated gallery, gazes sharp, quills poised to note every failure. The weight of judgment pressed like a stone on Riley's chest.
Helstam, at the center dais, adjusted his lenses and raised a hand for silence. "Next team. Prepare yourselves."
The first roulette determined their opponents: two third-year seniors. Whispers swept the hall; everyone knew experience tilted the match. The second drew the interference teams—combinations of upperclassmen from the second and third years. Riley's heart thudded harder.
And finally, terrain. At Helstam's command, the roulette spun, crystal facets flashing as landscapes flickered across the vast projection dome. Seaside cliffs. Ruined fortresses. Desert plains. Each image rippled across the air with brutal clarity. Riley held her breath, imagining what each battleground would demand. Heat and exhaustion in the desert. Crumbling defenses in a ruined keep. Treacherous footing along the cliffside.
And then—
The wheel slowed. Stopped.
The Dark Valley bloomed across the hall in a shroud of black. Jagged ridges rose from shadow, cliffs climbing high, ravines twisting endlessly into blind corners. The audience's murmur turned uneasy.
Of all the randomized terrains, it had to be this one.
Riley's throat went dry. She remembered her dream from the night before. She remembered Riel's relentless training. And she remembered the warning that had rooted itself deep in her bones: the dark is not the enemy. Panic is.
Their team assembled on the platform. Sam flexed his fingers, eager for combat. Another commander muttered the beginnings of a protective ward, words clipped and shaky. Uno's lips pressed thin, his focus sharpening like a blade. Riel stood steady at Riley's side, expression unreadable, presence anchoring her like iron in the storm.
From the seats, a sudden cheer cut through the hush.
"Go, Riley!"
Her head jerked up. There, in the audience, she spotted him—Ace. Leaning forward, hand cupped around his mouth, grin wide and unrestrained. His voice carried a warmth no shadow could smother.
For an instant, the knot in her chest loosened. He was here. He believed she could do this. Her lips curved, just barely, before she forced herself to face the valley again.
The moment the circlet touched Riel's brow, the air shifted.
A pulse rippled across the grand hall as Professor Cally's macht awakened, weaving reality around them. One blink—and they were no longer standing on polished marble but knee-deep in mist, surrounded by the jagged cliffs of the infamous Dark Valley.
They would not fight directly—only their generals and armies would—but they saw everything as though truly standing on the battlefield.
The cries of crows pierced the silence. The ground was soft with moss and treacherous sinkholes. The air clung damp and heavy to their skin, every breath misting faintly. Far ahead, enemy banners fluttered through the fog.
Riley inhaled sharply. It felt real. Every detail—the damp chill, the uneven weight of soldiers' packs, the exhaustion in their breaths—was too precise to be illusion. A shiver ran down her spine.
"Formation," Riel ordered, voice cutting through the haze like steel. His tone was calm, but his eyes glowed faintly beneath the circlet's runes. Commands streamed directly into the soldiers' minds, and the unit moved in seamless unison.
Riley kept her focus on the map board before her, pulse racing. She'd been tasked with handling interference teams, and already she caught movement to the east—a band of bandits rushing through a flooded ravine.
"They'll try to circle behind us," she murmured. "But the ground's unstable there."
Riel didn't even look her way. "Collapse it."
Her throat tightened. It was her first call, her first chance to test her instincts in front of everyone. She nodded, signaled Commander Uno's squad—the swiftest, most efficient for ambush and stealth. Moments later, an echoing roar shook the ravine as water surged through a broken dam, sweeping the ambushers away in chaos.
Cheers rose from their allies—relieved, even emboldened. Riley let out a shaky breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Her choice had worked.
But there was no time to savor it. Ahead, their main opponents had rallied. The enemy commander, a tall third-year brimming with charisma, was gathering broken ranks, shouting encouragement. Soldiers who should have scattered instead charged again with renewed fervor.
Riel's lips curved faintly. Not amusement. Calculation.
"Shift line B. Open the center," he ordered.
Riley blinked. "Open—? That'll let them through—"
But before she could finish, the enemy commander took the bait, surging straight into the gap. A triumphant roar filled the valley—only for his troops to be met by collapsing ridges from both sides. The cliffs, weakened by earlier skirmishes, tumbled inward, trapping the core unit like rats in a snare.
Gasps echoed from the audience beyond the simulation. Even Riley's breath caught. She hadn't seen it coming—hadn't realized he'd been planning it from the first movement.
Within minutes, the battlefield shifted from chaos to eerie quiet. Enemy forces broken. Interference teams neutralized. Their own unit battered, but alive. No lives lost. Not one.
The exam ended not with a dramatic final strike but with Helstam's sharp command pulling them back. Professor Cally's projection flickered. The valley dissolved. The hall reappeared, harsh and bright.
They were left on the podium, sweat-slick, heaving, but standing.
Applause thundered, rattling Riley's ribs. Faculty quills scratched furiously across parchment. She stood frozen, disoriented by the sudden absence of shadows.
And then she heard it once more, clear and certain even through the roar:
"You did amazing, Riley!"
Ace.
Professor Helstam lifted his hand, expression unreadable. "Victory," he declared. "Team Desillix."
The silence that followed was deafening. Then whispers, sharp and incredulous, swept the audience. Desillix. Always Desillix.
Riley staggered slightly, pulse still pounding. Her hands trembled from the aftershocks of adrenaline. It was only a simulation, she reminded herself—yet the images of broken cliffs and drowned soldiers clung as though carved in memory.
She blinked hard, forcing down the sting in her eyes. He was still watching, still smiling like he'd never doubted her. That warmth, that light, carried her down the steps as surely as Riel's steadying hand.
The evaluation was still to come. But for now, she carried both presences with her—the shadow at her side, and the light cheering from afar.
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