The Obelisk, still ensnared in a lattice of verdant tendrils, groaned once before yielding to the will of the vines. For several tense minutes, the Academy's staff and battle-magi worked in concert to subdue it—dispelling stray currents of magic, slicing through the thick coils, and guiding the colossal monument safely to the ground. When it finally settled with a resonant thud, the Grand Arena felt purged—cleansed and reborn, as though the chaos had merely prepared it for what was to come.
A heavy, expectant hush descended, charged with the echo of spent magic and the lingering scent of sap and ozone. The audience's murmurs merged into a low, reverent hum—a collective heartbeat of anticipation that thrummed through the air.
Before them stretched a sea of faces—nobles, magi, and scholars—all turned toward the vast circular platform at the arena's heart. There, etched into the polished stone, the summoning circle pulsed with cerulean light. Its runes glowed like veins of living energy, flowing and reforming in a rhythm that seemed almost alive. This was the crucible of power, the sacred stage where the empire's prodigies were measured—where potential was either proven or extinguished.
Anna stood near the back of the assembled students, her breath shallow as the magnitude of the moment pressed upon her. The arena's immensity, once a symbol of grandeur, now loomed like a monument to her own frailty. The crowd's collective gaze—curious, hungry, judging—felt like a thousand invisible chains tightening around her ribs. Every whisper became an accusation, every flicker of movement a reminder of her isolation. Even after what she had done, doubt clung to her like a second skin. The air itself seemed to vibrate with the power she lacked—or believed she lacked.
Or so she thought.
Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird, each frantic beat clashing with the calm precision of the rituals unfolding before her. One by one, the students stepped into the luminous circle, their faces lit by its shifting glow. Each channeled their will, their essence, their very soul into the web of runes that awaited them. The air responded with a crackle of expectancy—then came the surge, brief and blinding, as the unseen bent to mortal command.
A spectral wolf materialized for one of the older students, its translucent fur shimmering with inner fire and eyes like twin embers. A prodigy of wind followed, her magic coalescing into a swirling column of air that hissed and sparked with static. Another student summoned a sentient vine, its emerald tendrils unfurling from the stone as though the earth itself obeyed their whisper. Each triumph drew applause that rippled through the crowd—warm, affirming, effortless.
To Anna, the sound was both beautiful and cruel. Every cheer felt like a chisel striking stone, carving the distance between herself and those who wielded their gifts with such effortless grace. The light from the summoning circle painted her pale face in shifting hues of blue and gold, and for a fleeting moment, she wondered if it was merely reflecting her—or if it was judging her, too.
From the center of the arena, the herald's voice rang out, crisp and resonant, echoing across the marble stands. "Arlen Vexford, of House Vexford—step forth!"
The crowd hushed as another hopeful strode into the summoning circle, their nerves hidden behind a façade of confidence. One name after another followed in rhythmic procession, the air thick with a mixture of ozone, incense, and expectation. Each success drew fresh murmurs of admiration, each failure a polite but pointed silence.
Anna remained near the back, half-shadowed beneath the grand arches of the observation tier. Her pulse still hadn't steadied since the chaos of the Obelisk. The murmur of voices seemed distant, muffled beneath the steady, rhythmic thrum of her own heartbeat—until a low voice beside her cut through the noise.
"Kaelen," he said quietly, turning just enough for her to see his face. His dark hair still clung damply to his forehead, dust from the earlier calamity smudged along his jaw. "Kaelen Stagwood."
She blinked, caught off guard by the earnestness in his tone.
"I—" He hesitated, then lowered his voice further. "I wanted to thank you. You saved my life… and probably half this arena."
Anna's lips parted, but no words came. She wasn't used to gratitude—it felt foreign, almost heavy. She merely inclined her head, unsure if she could trust her voice not to tremble.
Kaelen gave a faint, crooked smile. "You don't have to say anything. Just… know that I owe you more than I can repay."
The herald's next call rose above them, sharp and commanding: "Kaelen Stagwood—step forward for assessment!"
He exhaled softly, the ghost of a grin still tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Guess that's my cue." Then, with a final glance—half gratitude, half something unspoken—he turned and began to walk toward the glowing circle.
Anna watched him go, the thunder of applause from earlier replaced now by a tense, curious hush. For the first time since the day began, she wasn't thinking of her sisters, or the audience, or her father's cold eyes. She was thinking of the strange hum still echoing faintly through the stones beneath her feet—and of the feeling that today's chaos had only just begun.
Kaelen's turn had been particularly striking for Anna—perhaps more than she cared to admit. When his name echoed through the arena, the low murmur of the crowd dimmed into expectant silence. He stepped onto the summoning circle with that same quiet composure she had noticed before—grounded, deliberate, utterly unshaken by the thousand eyes fixed upon him. There was a gravity to his presence, as if the earth itself steadied beneath his feet.
He drew a slow breath, then began to chant. The words were old—heavy with cadence and command—and they vibrated through the stone like distant thunder. The sigils beneath him flared to life, one by one, until the entire circle blazed with molten light. The marble trembled as shards of crystal erupted upward, suspended in midair, spinning and folding into one another with mechanical precision.
The crowd gasped as the fragments fused, shaping themselves into a towering form of gleaming silver-white metal. The Mithril Golem took shape in a storm of radiant dust and grinding sound, its body carved from light and ore, its runes pulsing with an inner, rhythmic glow. When it moved, the very air seemed to hum in time with its steps.
And then—it knelt. A being of living metal, bending low before its summoner. The gesture carried an almost human reverence, a silent declaration of allegiance that sent ripples of awe through the audience.
Even the Proctors—stoic arbiters of magic—exchanged uneasy glances. The summoning of a Mithril Golem was no minor feat; it demanded perfect harmony between will, element, and sigil, something that few masters of earth could boast of.
Anna found herself staring, her earlier shame momentarily forgotten. There was a resonance in the moment, a kind of kinship—not of power, but of connection. Kaelen's command over the earth wasn't domination; it was understanding. He listened to the stone, and the stone obeyed.
As he stepped down from the circle, his gaze found Anna's for the briefest instant—steady, wordless, knowing.
The light from the circle dimmed, but the echo of Kaelen's magic lingered in the air like a low, resonant chord. And somewhere deep within her, Anna felt it again—that subtle pulse beneath her feet.
Gradually, a hush settled over the arena. The awe, the panic, the memory of the Obelisk and Kaelen's Golem—all of it—dissolved into a profound, almost sacred stillness. Only the occasional, hesitant murmur dared to ripple through the gathered crowd.
Then the Proctor's voice rang out, amplified by unseen enchantments, sharp and commanding: "Princess Anna of Astoria."
The words hung in the air like a gauntlet thrown. Every eye turned toward her; every whispered speculation stilled in that single heartbeat. The hush was no longer casual—it was tense, expectant, edged with a morbid fascination. The arena itself seemed to lean in, as though the stones and runes beneath her could feel her approach.
Her legs felt impossibly heavy, each step toward the glowing summoning circle a battle against an unseen current that tugged at her resolve. The distance stretched endlessly, as if the arena itself had expanded to mirror the weight of generations pressing down upon her.
The runes beneath her feet pulsed with cerulean light, intricate and flawless, their glow almost sentient in its mockery. They seemed to whisper of knowledge she had not yet grasped, of mastery she could not yet claim. With every pulse, Anna felt the weight of expectation, the legacy of her sisters' brilliance, and the sharp sting of her own self-doubt. And yet, beneath it all, a faint resonance hummed—a quiet, insistent thrum that only she could hear, threading through her very bones, reminding her that the moment she feared might also be the moment she was meant to awaken.
Reaching the center, Anna forced herself to stand tall, projecting a calm she did not feel. She closed her eyes, shutting out the sea of faces, the Emperor's unwavering gaze, and the whispers that still echoed like shadows in her mind. She sought that quiet space within herself—the sanctuary where the subtle hum thrummed, the place where she could touch something larger than the suffocating weight of expectation.
She began the incantation, her voice at first a fragile tremor, barely threading its way through the arena's charged silence. But as she focused, pouring every ounce of her intent into the ancient words, her tone steadied, gathering strength and clarity. She did not seek to dominate, to bend magic to her will. Her approach was different: a gentle invitation, a harmonic resonance. She was not conquering; she was connecting—threading her essence into the ambient magic of the Academy, weaving herself into its ancient currents.
Slowly, the air around her shifted. It was not the violent display of power common to most summoning rituals—no burst of light, no thunderous roar. Instead, a soft, ethereal glow unfurled from the circle's heart, delicate and pulsing, expanding outward in a steady rhythm. The hum within her deepened, blossoming into a melodic resonance that synchronized perfectly with the runes beneath her feet. It was a sound that seemed to rise from the very core of the earth, vibrating through stone and bone alike.
The assembled crowd leaned forward, senses alert, murmurs fading into a tense, expectant silence. The "powerless princess" was no longer an idle curiosity—every eye fixed on her, wondering what would emerge.
"Hear me," she murmured, her voice barely rising above the beat of her own heart. "By the ancient pacts, by the threads that bind all existence, I call to thee."
She pictured the unseen currents of energy—the ley lines crisscrossing the world, the hidden architecture of magic that pulsed just beyond mortal perception. She imagined herself as a conduit, a channel, letting the energy flow through her and into the circle, guiding it with careful intention, coaxing it to awaken. Desperately, she willed the currents to find a home, to answer, to resonate.
The resistance persisted, a weight that pressed against her very being, a subtle but relentless force that seemed to push back against her intent. It was as if the weave of magic itself sensed her doubt, her hesitation, and chose to deny her passage. Panic clawed at her chest, cold and sharp, threatening to shatter her concentration. The whispers returned, insidious and familiar, amplified by the arena's oppressive silence: You are not worthy. You will fail. You are a disappointment.
Anna squeezed her eyes shut, forcing herself to drown out the voices, to anchor herself in something steadier than fear. She pushed past the ingrained belief of inadequacy, past the weight of years of failed attempts. She remembered the countless hours in the library, the endless poring over brittle pages, memorizing arcane gestures and ancient words, clumsy and awkward at first, yet slowly becoming part of her. She remembered the frustration, the tears, the sting of repeated failures—and beneath it all, a stubborn ember of hope that refused to die.
She shifted her focus. Not on dominating the energy, not on forcing the arcane to bend, but on listening. She attuned herself to the subtle vibrations threading the air, the faint hum of the ley lines beneath the arena, the soft whisper of other realms brushing at the edges of her perception. A passage from a forgotten tome surfaced in her mind: sometimes, the greatest power lay not in mastery, but in resonance—finding a kindred spirit within the vast, untamed tapestry of magic.
Slowly, deliberately, as if coaxed forth by patient hands, six shapes began to emerge around the edge of the summoning circle. They were unlike the beasts of prey, the roaring elementals, or the ethereal spirits the other students had conjured. These forms were subtle, intricate, and astonishingly precise. Crystalline structures, impossibly geometric, solidified from the soft glow. Latticed with sharp, elegant angles and smooth, reflective planes, they pulsed gently from within, a soft luminescence that radiated from their cores, casting delicate patterns of light across the summoning circle.
They were alive, yet not in a way that demanded fear or awe—alive in harmony with the magic itself, with the rhythm of the ley lines, with Anna. And as she opened her eyes, the constructs shimmered, resonating in quiet unison with her heartbeat, a silent acknowledgment of a power that was uniquely hers.
From the soft, pulsing glow, the air seemed to shimmer and ripple, as though reality itself were bending. The crystalline forms split apart, fracturing with a quiet, crystalline chime, and from each emerged a Dryad. Six in total, each stepping gracefully into the space around the summoning circle, their presence radiating the essence of ancient groves.
Their skin was veined with silver sap that glimmered faintly in the cerulean light; their hair cascaded in living strands of vines and blossoms, drifting and curling as if stirred by a breeze no one else could feel. Eyes of glowing emerald fire met Anna's, each one alive with sentience, awareness, and an almost reverent curiosity. They moved as one, a perfect, harmonious circle around her, their steps silent yet precise.