The sky had darkened to deep indigo by the time Seraphina and the rest of Group Seven were finally dismissed from the trial grounds. The stone courtyard still crackled with lingering magic, its surface scarred from the chaos they had just endured.
Smoke curled from the shattered crates. Blood, both real and conjured, painted the edges of the stone. In the center, the final embers of their challenge flickered quietly—like the breath of something that refused to die.
As Seraphina stepped off the trial platform, her legs nearly buckled. She wasn't sure if it was exhaustion or the adrenaline crashing from her veins. Around her, the others wore the same hollow-eyed look—shaken, but victorious.
They had been the first.
The first group to finish.
And everyone knew it.
Upper years lined the high terraces of the courtyard, some whispering, some watching in eerie silence. She caught more than one curious glance aimed directly at her. The girl who cracked the crate. The girl with glowing hands.
She didn't feel powerful.
She felt like she might throw up.
"We made it," Mira breathed beside her, her dark braid disheveled and stuck to her neck with sweat. "Trial One… and no one died."
Cato let out a shaky laugh behind them. "Low bar, but I'll take it."
They were led out in groups, boots echoing against the glowing walkways that twisted through the open-aired upper halls of Ember Academy. Tall arched bridges, torch-lit spires, and watchful gargoyles loomed above. It was all beautiful, if not for how haunted the place felt.
As they walked, Seraphina caught snippets from passing mentors and second-years:
"Three groups still inside."
"Group Four had a girl lose her hand."
"Group Two? Gone dark."
"The girl in Seven… did you see the rune burst when she touched the crate?"
"Drakestorm's watching her now."
Her stomach twisted.
They finally entered the Great Hall, a cathedral-like chamber pulsing with warmth and clamor. Long rows of oakwood tables stretched beneath chandeliers made of iron and dragonbone. Food had already been laid out: roasted meats, steaming vegetables, dark bread, and pitchers of honeyed cider.
But no one rushed to eat. The tension still clung to them, heavy as smoke.
They were survivors.
And they were waiting for the rest to return.
"Group Seven," a deep voice announced from the dais above.
The headmistress, cloaked in midnight red, stood with three other faculty members at her side. Her voice carried across the hall like a blade sliding from its sheath.
"You are the first to complete the Fracture Trial. You will be awarded points for speed, unity, and recovery of the target. Congratulations."
No one clapped. This wasn't that kind of place.
But the nods of respect from upper years—and the glares of envy from other groups—meant more.
As they took their seats at the first table, Seraphina finally allowed herself a breath.
Dinner passed in a daze. The food was good, but no one really tasted it. Kaelen sat across from her, barely speaking. Lorian hadn't joined them at all. She suspected he preferred his own shadows.
As the hall slowly filled with the return of more recruits—battered, bloodied, limping—Seraphina noticed how many didn't come back.
Some groups were down three. Others had their leaders whispering to staff, pale and shaken. One group returned with a stretcher.
This place, for all its grandeur, was not a school.
It was a gauntlet.
After dinner, they were guided back through torch-lit halls to the recruits' dormitory towers—each group housed in its own spiral wing. Seraphina's room was on the third floor, a narrow stone chamber with arched windows and a view of the stormy cliffs. Her trunk sat at the foot of a neatly made bed, a pitcher of cold water on the table, and a single glowing crystal hanging from a chain above.
She changed slowly, her muscles aching, her fingers raw.
Just as she sank into the bed, a knock came.
Mira peeked in. "You awake?"
Seraphina groaned. "Barely."
Mira crept in and sat on the edge of the bed, legs folded beneath her. "Did you hear? There are five trials total. One a week until the full moon. Each harder than the last."
Seraphina blinked at the ceiling. "Of course there are."
"Next one's supposed to be… solo."
That twisted something inside her. "No leaders?"
"No one." Mira hesitated. "They say the second trial is where most people quit. Or… disappear."
Seraphina didn't respond. She couldn't.
Because she knew—deep in her gut—that this was only the beginning. The forest tomorrow would test her magic. The third might test her strength. But eventually, they would test something worse.
Her blood.
Outside, far above the towers, two dragons passed overhead—wings cutting silently across the starlit sky.
And in the shadows of the academy's highest spire, the headmistress watched them, her expression unreadable.
"They'll rise," she whispered to the dark. "Or burn."