Aerin departed before light.
The streets were still dark when he stepped out of his cold room. His bare feet hit cobblestone, and the chill bit into his skin, but he kept walking.
Two hours. That was all it took to get from the slums to Arcanis Sanctum.
The original Aerin had made this walk before—his body remembered the path even if the mind controlling it was different. Turn left at the broken fountain. Cross the empty market square. Follow the main road when the houses started looking nicer.
The sky turned slowly gray, then pink, then gold.
Buildings changed as he walked. Cracked stones became smooth pavement. Wooden shacks became brick houses with glass windows. The smell changed too—rot and waste fading into bread baking, flowers blooming, clean water running through fountains.
Most of all, however, people changed.
A woman in a clean dress pulled her child behind her when she saw him. A merchant setting up his stall moved to block Aerin's path, eyes hard. A city guard watched him pass, hand resting on his sword hilt.
Aerin kept his head down and drew his tattered cloak closer over his shoulders.
"Just a little more."
When the sun finally broke over the eastern hills, he saw it.
Arcanis Sanctum.
Five towers of white stone reached toward the sky, so tall they seemed to pierce the clouds. Blue banners hung from the highest points, each one bearing a silver star. The walls were ancient—covered in symbols that made his eyes hurt if he stared too long.
Around everything lay a moat of perfectly still water that reflected the morning sky like a mirror.
It was something out of a dream.
Or a painting.
Aerin stopped walking for a moment and just stared.
"This is real. I'm really here."
The main gate stood open. A wide stone bridge stretched across the moat. Students were already crossing—hundreds of them, all wearing clothes without holes, carrying grimoires that looked new.
Aerin joined the students.
Nobody said anything to him.
The girl next to him shifted away when their shoulders almost touched. A boy in expensive blue robes wrinkled his nose and moved to the other side of the bridge. A group of friends laughing together went quiet when he passed.
Halfway across, someone shoved him. Hard.
Aerin stumbled, his hands catching the stone railing before he fell in.
"Watch where you're going, beggar."
A boy. Maybe sixteen or seventeen. Red and gold robes that screamed money. Three friends behind him, all wearing the same smirk.
Aerin straightened slowly. Said nothing.
"What's wrong? Mummy not buy you shoes?" One of them laughed. "Or a bath?"
More laughter.
The first boy's eyes dropped to the wrapped bundle under Aerin's arm. "That your grimoire? Wrapped in trash. Did you steal it from someone?"
Aerin's jaw clenched. His hand moved instinctively to clutch the grimoire tighter.
Under his cloak, Sangreal's heartbeat pulsed. Hard. Angry.
Not yet, he thought at it. Not here. Not for this.
The pulse vanished.
The boy in red and gold sneered: "Nothing to say? Figures. Trash knows its place."
He shoved past Aerin again, shoulder hitting hard enough to hurt. His friends followed, still laughing.
Aerin watched them go. Then turned back toward the academy and continued walking.
His face stayed calm. His steps stayed steady.
But his hands under the cloak were shaking.
Breathe. Just breathe. You have dealt with worse.
---
The courtyard beyond the gate could easily hold a thousand.
It was already half full with nervous students. Some practiced spells—small flames hovering over palms, water droplets dancing in the air, earth rising in tiny pillars. Others stood in groups, comparing grimoires, laughing about things Aerin couldn't hear.
One girl created a rose made of ice. It bloomed in her hand, perfect and delicate. Her friends clapped and praised her.
Aerin stayed near the wall, where the shadows were deeper.
His stomach growled. He pressed a hand against it, trying to make the ache go away. Two days without food. Maybe three? Time blurred when you were this hungry.
But he'd survived worse. He could handle this.
"ATTENTION!"
The voice cut through the courtyard like a blade. Every conversation stopped. Every spell winked out.
A man stood on a raised platform near the main building. Tall and thin, wearing dark blue robes with silver trim. His hair was grey, but his face looked too young for grey hair. His eyes swept across the crowd with the expression of someone counting livestock.
"I am Examiner Veld," he said. His voice carried without shouting—magic, probably. "You are here for the admission trials to Arcanis Sanctum. Most of you will fail."
Silence.
"This is expected. Normal. Arcanis does not accept talented students. We accept *exceptional* students. There is a difference."
He paused, allowing the words to set in.
"Your trial is simple. Combat assessment. You will face an opponent of my choosing in the Duel Arena. You will demonstrate your abilities. You will prove to me that you deserve to study here."
A hand shot up in the crowd. A boy with perfect golden hair and too much confidence in his voice. "Sir, what if we don't want to fight?"
Examiner Veld looked at him like he was looking at dirt. "Then you don't want to study here."
The hand went down. Nobody else raised a hand.
"The arena is through those doors." Veld pointed to a massive archway carved into the building's side. "I will call names in groups of ten. When you hear your name, you enter immediately. Hesitation is failure. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Examiner," hundreds of voices replied.
Veld pulled out a sheet of paper and started naming names.
Aerin's name hadn't been in that first group. Or the second.
The crowd shifted as students moved toward the archway. Aerin stayed where he was, listening.
The first fight lasted less than a minute. He heard the clash of magic, a shout, then silence. The student came out smiling. Passed.
The second fight went longer. When that student came out, she was limping but still smiling.
The third student came out on a stretcher.
After that, the audience hushed.
Veld kept calling names. Groups of ten, one after another. The morning dragged on. Some students came out victorious. Others came out bleeding. Some didn't come out at all—there must be another exit somewhere, or they were being healed inside.
The sun rose higher. The courtyard began to empty.
Aerin's legs hurt from standing. His stomach had stopped growling—just a constant dull ache now. He ignored it. Focused on breathing. On staying alert.
Finally, when the sun was near mid-sky, Veld called: "Aerin Arclight."
The courtyard immediately fell silent.
Not just quiet. Silent.
Every conversation stopped. Every head turned.
Someone whispered, "Arclight?"
"That family is dead.including Everyone in it."
"Then who—
Aerin stepped forward. His bare feet made no sound on the stone courtyard. The crowd parted in front of him—not respectfully, but like water flowing around something diseased.
He walked through the space they made, feeling every eye on him like pressure against his skin.
Examiner Veld watched him approach. Something flickered in those too-young eyes. Recognition? Curiosity?
"Aerin Valefor Arclight," Veld said slowly, pronouncing each name like he was testing a blade's edge. "You're the last one today."
Aerin met his gaze. Said nothing.
"Your opponent awaits within the arena. Go."
Aerin walked past him into the archway.
The tunnel beyond was cool and dark. Blue crystals embedded in the walls cast pale light that barely reached the center of the passage. His footsteps echoed—bare feet slapping stone.
Beneath his cape, Sangreal's heart was racing.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
Excited? Aerin asked.
The sword pulsed twice. He took that as yes.
The tunnel ended. Light spilled in.
Aerin stepped into the arena.
It was huge. Circular, maybe two hundred feet across. Stone walls rose on all sides, carved seating built into the upper levels. A few people in dark blue robes sat in the highest seats—examiners, watching.
The floor was packed earth. Dark stains marked the ground in several places. Old blood that had soaked in and never washed out.
In the centre, a boy was standing.
About Aerin's age, maybe older. Muscular from real training, not from hunger and work. He wore expensive clothes—red and gold, the same colors as the boy who'd shoved him on the bridge.
The same boy.
Henrik. That's what he'd called himself.
He was smiling. "So you actually showed up. Thought you'd run away, beggar."
From the highest seats, a voice spoke. An older woman with iron-grey hair. "This is a combat assessment. You may begin when ready."
Henrik didn't wait.
His grimoire flared with red light. Fire erupted from the pages—not shaped yet, just raw flame coiling around his arm like a living snake. The air around him shimmered with heat.
"House Valdris," Henrik said, still smiling. "Remember that name when you're bleeding on the ground."
He thrust his hand forward.
The fire launched from his arm and took shape in mid-air—a wolf made entirely of flame, six feet long, burning so hot the ground beneath it turned black. It hit the earth running, straight at Aerin.
Aerin stood perfectly still.
The wolf closed the gap quickly. Thirty feet. Twenty. Ten.
Close enough that Aerin could feel the heat on his face, smell the burning air.
He stepped aside.
Clean. Simple. One step to the left, timed perfectly.
The fire wolf rushed past him and slammed into the wall behind, exploding in a shower of sparks and dissipating.
Henrik's smile faltered for just a second. "Lucky."
He sent three more wolves. Aerin sidestepped the first. Ducked under the second. Let the third pass so close its heat scorched his already-burned cloak.
Nothing of them touched him.
Henrik's face was red now. "Stop running like a coward and FIGHT!
"I'm not running" Aerin whispered. "I'm just not getting hit."
"THEN USE YOUR GRIMOIRE!"
Aerin slowly reached under his cloak. Pulled out his wrapped grimoire. The dirty cloth fell away.
Flat black leather; no ornamentation, no glow.
Henrik laughed. "That's your grimoire? It looks like something you found in the trash—"
Aerin opened it to the center page.
The symbol was glowing. Faint crimson light pulsing in rhythm with a heartbeat.
He pressed his thumb onto the page.
His scar split open easily. Blood welled up, dark and bright. The symbol flared.
Sangreal appeared.
Not slowly. Not dramatically. It just existed suddenly in his hand, like reality had been waiting to remember it was there.
Black blade. Crimson veins running along the fuller, pulsing with light. Thorned silver crossguard. Black leather grip worn smooth from countless hands.
Thump-thump.
The heartbeat echoed across the arena and was so loud that one could hear it.
Henrik's laugh died in his throat. His face went pale. "What. what the hell is that?"
From the highest seat, the grey-haired examiner stood up sharply. Her hand went to her chest like she'd been struck.
"Impossible," she whispered.
Aerin raised Sangreal and took his stance. The movements came naturally—muscle memory from the original Aerin, mixed with instincts he didn't quite understand.
Henrik stumbled backward half a step. Then his face twisted with anger. "I don't care what fancy sword you pulled out! You're still just trash!"
Fire erupted from his grimoire again. Bigger this time. Not wolves—a wall of flame fifteen feet high, stretching across half the arena, rushing toward Aerin like a wave.
Aerin swung Sangreal.
Cut through the blade of fire.
Not blocked it. Not deflected it. Cut through it like the flames were made of cloth.
The wall split down the middle. Fire peeled away to both sides, leaving a clear path straight to Henrik.
Henrik's eyes went wide. "That's not-you can't-
Aerin walked forward. Not running. Just walking, Sangreal held loosely in one hand. The crimson veins pulsed with each step.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
Henrik threw everything he had. Fire spears. Burning orbs. A whip made of flame that cracked through the air.
Aerin cut through the spears, sidestepped the orbs, cut the whip in half.
He wasn't trying to hurt Henrik. Just dismantle him piece by piece. Show him the gap between them.
Finally Henrik stumbled backward and fell. His grimoire tumbled from his hands, pages scattering in the dirt.
Aerin stood over him, the tip of Sangreal pointed at his throat.
Not touching, just there.
An inch away.
Henrik shook. "Please-I didn't-please don't-
"Enough." The grey-haired examiner's voice cut through the arena. "The match is over. Aerin Arclight wins."
Aerin laid Sangreal down slowly. Stepped back.
He looked up at the examiners. All three were standing now. The grey-haired woman was staring at him with an expression he couldn't read. Fear mixed with something darker. Dread, maybe.
"Aerin Valefor Arclight," she said, her voice strained. "You pass. Report to the Headmaster's office Later."
She plopped down as if her legs had just buckled.
Aerin nodded once. Turned. Walked back toward the tunnel entrance.
Behind him, academy staff raced out to assist Henrik to his feet.
Behind him, the whispering started.
"That sword.
"Did you hear the heartbeat?"
"Arclight. wasn't that the Crimson Emperor's family name?"
"But that weapon was supposed to be destroyed—
"Lost seventy years ago—
"If that really is that sword—"
Aerin stepped into the tunnel. The voices cut off, replaced by the sound of his footsteps echoing in the dark.
He leaned against the cool stone wall. His hands were shaking badly now—adrenaline draining away, leaving him hollow.
Sangreal pulsed once. Gentle. Almost reassuring.
We made it, Aerin thought. We're in.
The heartbeat of the sword was synchronical with his. From ahead, he could hear the courtyard. Life moving on. Students celebrating or crying or making plans. But everything had changed. They'd seen Sangreal. Recognized it. Or suspected what it was. And now the boy in rags, the beggar with a suspicious name, was officially a student at the most prestigious magic academy in the world. Aerin pushed off the wall and walked toward the light. Whatever came next, he'd face it. Because he didn't have any other choice.