Lumenbound NaNoWriMo '25

Word Count + Post Count Tracker:

Summary: 1369 words
Chapter 1: 3077 words
Chapter 2: 1917 words
Chapter 3: 2547 words
Chapter 4: 2383 words
Chapter 5: 2885 words
Chapter 6: 2588 words
Chapter 7: 2667 words
Chapter 8: 3118 words


Firelight and Friendship: 262 words
Firelight and Friendship (another reply): 321 words
Sweets as a place to meet: 237 words
In Loving Memory: 708 words
Practice Makes Perfect: 362 words
Firelight and Friendship (another reply): 245 words
Gryffindor vs Hufflepuff broomrace (post 1): 174 words
Gryffindor vs Hufflepuff broomrace (post 2): 157 words
Gryffindor vs Hufflepuff broomrace (post 3): 224 words



TOTAL: 25241 words YESSSSSSSSS

THE DAY of the Calling always starts too bright.

Maybe the gods do it on purpose, to make sure the light hits perfectly when they try to ruin your life. The light today wasn't just bright; it was brutal, reflecting off the white marble and the plaza in which I stood, demanding attention.

Today was the day. Every twenty-two year old in the kingdom, just like me, would be at the Calling Grounds today. Three months ago, I had turned twenty-two, and I had been dreading this moment ever since I was old enough to comprehend what this day meant. Today, the Circlet Crown decides who I’m meant to be, locking me into one of the kingdom’s five Callings and whether you were the poorest of poor, or the richest of royals, your fate was decided by the Circlet Crowned. Except the poor, like me, were always placed in the lower classes and the rich in the higher. Today, my future, my status, and my entire purpose would be sealed before the sun set.

My palms are already slick as I climb the scaffolding in Solaran Square, brush between my teeth, white dress smeared with gold paint. The white ceremonial dress, worn by everyone who is born from an artist, is supposed to be a symbol of the blank slate that we're given after this day. Except, I was the exception. I didn't want a blank slate, I liked my life. Maybe I would prefer better clothes, and more money, but I loved living with my family, and being given just enough freedom.

All these thoughts swarmed my head as I grabbed the first brush to paint the finishing touches of the mural. The mural was supposed to honor the gods before tonight’s ceremony: a giant, swirling crown to represent “balance.” We had been working on it for a week, a required contribution from the Artist Guilds.

Personally, I think it looks like the gods’ idea of a practical joke.

I swipe one last streak of gold across the edge of the circle. The gold, mixed with the gleam of the glaring sun, struck my face intensely. “There,” I mutter. “Glorious symbol of my doom.“

“You talking to yourself again?”

I twist around and nearly drop the paint pot, a terracotta vessel heavy with the last of the royal gold paint. Isla, my best friend, is standing below the scaffolding in her white and black Guild uniform, smirking up at me. Her light brown colored hair is twisted into a perfect braid streaked with red paint, her usual accident, and she’s got that maddening look in her bright blue eyes that says I’m better at this than you and we both know it. That wasn't wrong. We all knew that between the two of us, she was the one that deserved to be the Artist. Me? Well, I didn't quite know. I prayed for anything but Worker, they were treated the worst, and had little to no privileges.

“Maybe I like my own company,” I say, my voice slightly muffled. The scaffolding creaks as I move, but it's swallowed up by the early morning rush of the city.

“Maybe you need better company. You’re talking to a painting, Irene.”

I roll my eyes and climb down, to talk to Isla. “Aren’t you supposed to be at the guild this morning? You don't usually get let off early, like ever…” I was glad that I didn't have to be a part of the guild. I was training in dance, not drawing and architecture like Isla.

She shrugs, setting down her palette, which is a mess of blues and yellows. “Finished early. The light was perfect, and I finished the temple’s exterior frieze in record time. Thought I’d watch you panic before our destiny gets decided. It’s like free theater.”

“I’m not panicking,” I lied, trying to project calmness even though I didn't feel it. Why was it so hard?

She tilts her head, laughing. “You’ve repainted the same section three times. That’s usually reserved for the Workers…”

“Art takes dedication.” I defend my obsessive re-touching, but Isla’s comment hits too close to my deepest fear.

The Callings weren't just professions, they were a social ladder built on the colors the Circlet assigned. The Workers (Gray) were the foundation of Solaris, the nameless people who cleaned the streets, maintained the air-gliders, and farmed. They were crucial but were the lowest rung on the social ladder.

My family belonged to the Artists (White), one rank above. My mother, father, and older brother all painted and performed for temples and festivals. I prayed that I would at the very least join them, fulfilling the Keys name. I wasn't amazing at painting but I was talented at dancing and singing.

“Art takes therapy.” Isla’s words cut through my monologue.

I snort, and she grins. The whole square hums with noise, everyone nervous, and running around to get ready for the special occasion. Solaris always feels alive before a Calling, everyone anticipating their fate. Maybe that's why it felt so suffocating.

A golden haired girl, Ella waved to us from below the scaffolding. One year ago, she had been Called to be a Healer. “Good luck Isla and Irene!“she yelled. “Maybe one of you will end up with me!”

I faked a smile and waved her back, “Thanks Ella!”

The Healers (Blue) were the menders who worked with both body and mind. They were respected and privileged among the middle ranks, much better than the Artists. I had seen some of their houses, and damn they were luxurious. Artists were pretty and made things pretty. Healers made things better. Some small part of me wanted to join the Healers, but I knew that likely I would be like the rest of the family, an Artist, and continue with my journey.

I had no aspirations for the rank above the Artists, or Healers like the Scribes (Green). Even if I somehow could worm my way into one of the highest Callings, I would fail the test immediately and be sent to be a Worker. The Scribes were the keepers of knowledge and history, the scholars and diplomats. Their minds were their weapons. But I had barely read five books in all my twenty-two years, so that Calling was so out of reach, and there would be no way to catch up.

And then the Warriors, the highest and strongest of all Callings. Gifted with strength, speed, and strange elemental powers, they bonded mythical beasts and defended Solaris from threats beyond its borders. Rarely anyone else got to see anything beyond the borders. They were almost always nobles or from the upper class. Their ranks filled with sons and daughters of power, Dukes and Duchesses, Princes and Princesses. It was a world utterly separate from our own.

At the head ruled the royal family itself: the King and Queen of Solaris, strong but feared. It was rumored that this year was the year the royal's son Cassian would become a Warrior. He too would be at the Calling.

Then a voice cuts through the noise: “Irene!”

I groan. “Great. Guess who.”

Bodhi, my older brother, strides toward us, sunlight hitting him like it’s auditioning him for sainthood. He was always the most gorgeous in the family. His dark brown skin, brown eyes and black hair. Striking. Not to mention the fact that he towers over me at six feet four. He’s already secured his future, the Calling chose him to be an Artist and now he's an apprentice for the Artist guild. He looks up at the mural and whistles. “Still trying to make the Circlet look less terrifying?”

“It’s not terrifying,I say. “It’s symbolic.”

He grins. “Symbolically terrifying, then. You know Mom’s convinced you’ll be a White. She’s already picked out your studio.”

The pressure was immense. The Keys name was synonymous with White. To be anything else felt like a betrayal. I wasn't sure what to say to that.

Isla suddenly finds the ground fascinating, tracing a line in the dust with her toe. “Hi, Bodhi.”

“Hey, Isla.” He smiles at her and Isla nearly drops her paintbrush, her cheeks flushing.

I cough. Loudly. “Wow, the air’s thick with awkward. Can we not? I'm already stressed.”

Bodhi smirks. “Jealous?”

“Of what? Your fan club? Or your next disaster which is your abstract pieces?”

He gestures to the mural. “Of my talent. I’m clearly much better at painting than you.”

“Please,” I say, “I’m the superior sibling. I finished my mural, and it’s not dripping with the gloom you call 'subtle emotion.'”

He laughs, and before either of us can come up with a better insult, our mother’s voice pierces the air.

“Irene Keys!”

Oh, perfect. Just what I needed.

She’s storming across the plaza, right towards me. People part for her automatically, probably because everyone in Solaris knows my mother, Mirielle Keys, master painter of the temple murals. She was the reason the Artist Calling was so sacred to our family, she was one of the most famous and talented artists.

“You should be home,” she says the second she reaches me, her eyes sweeping over the flecks of gold on my white dress with physical distaste. “Not dripping paint. Your dress is ruined before the evening.”

“It’s a ceremonial piece, Mother. I was finishing the honor to the gods.” I hated how defensive I sounded.

“You are dripping gold onto the marble.” Her voice wasn't a snap, but a low tone that screamed obedience far more effectively than shouting. She quickly and with utter perfection, plucked the brush from my hand. “The mural is beautiful, Irene. But you should be home, preparing. The gods favor those who are ready, and tonight is too important to risk appearing careless. You are a Keys, act like it.” Her touch, though firm on my arm, was gentle, guiding me toward the edge of the square.

I nod my head.

“Bodhi,” my mother said, her gaze softening slightly before becoming professional again. “Be sure to clean up the rest of the supplies carefully. This piece reflects on the entire guild.”

I giggled at Bodhi. Cleanup was the worst part. “That would be you Irene, if there was not something important,” my mother scolded.

I looked down.

“I will, Mother,” Bodhi said immediately, nodding.

“Good. Now, home Isla and Irene. White dresses, clean.”

And that’s how I end up being gently but firmly herded away, from the mural to my fate.

Home smelled like paint and lavender soap. Every inch of wall space covered in my mother and father's work, sunlit saints, angels, and more portraits of the Circlet than I can count. The walls were a constant reminder that the Keys name meant Artist. It’s a lot of pressure when your family literally worships the thing that’s about to rewrite your life.

My white dress waited on my bed. I tug it on, smooth the wrinkles, and stare at myself in the mirror. My reflection looks like someone pretending to be calm, except I am quite literally, the opposite.

Bodhi knocks, before barging in. “You look-”

“Don’t,” I warn.

“-like you’re about to faint,” he says, grinning, leaning against the door frame.

“Thanks, I was going for ‘spiritually unwell.’”

He laughs and tosses me a thin gold pendant shaped like a crescent moon, a symbol of the Circlet itself. “Mom said it’s for luck. It’s an old family charm.”

“Does it work?”

He shrugs, the easy confidence draining away, replaced by a momentary shadow. “Didn’t for Dad. He still ended up an Artist.”

“Hey,“I say softly, walking over to him. “That’s not bad. He was happy, mostly.”

“No,” he says, his smile fading completely. “But it wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted Scribe.”He was right. My father was slowly losing it. He’d lost half his privilege and was convinced that our family would be cursed to stay in the lower classes. He was probably right. Bodhi sighed. “We all know the Circlet doesn't care what we want, Irene.”

The silence that follows isn’t comfortable. It never is when we talk about Dad.

He squeezes my shoulder. “Come on. Time to meet destiny.”

We walk over to the Calling Grounds as fast as possible. It is in the perfect location, in the middle of the kingdom between all the parts of Solaris. As we walk, flags of every Calling color drape from balconies: gray for Workers, white for Artists, blue for Healers, green for Scribes, and a violent crimson for Warriors.

Solaris was huge. From above, the kingdom formed a perfect circle, every district arranged neatly around the River Glass, the clear ribbon of water that cut straight through the center of the city. At its heart was the Sunstone Citadel, the seat of the royals. Gold and white marble, that was where the King and Queen of Solaris ruled and the Prince lived.

The River Glass split the kingdom in two. On one side stood the Twin Academy of War, where the Warriors and Scribes trained for two years. It was half a crimson fortress echoing with sword clashes and war cries and the other a towering library etched with glowing blue runes and so many staircases.

On the other end of the river, like a reflection, stood the Twin Academy of Art, where the Artists and Healers trained. It wasn’t imposing, but it was stunning in its own way. White walls painted with murals shimmered, gardens of every kind of herb you can think of, and open courtyards that smelled like lavender. That was home.

Below the academies, closer to the river’s southern curve, were the Calling Grounds, a marble dome with runes older than the kingdom itself. That’s where the Circlet decided everyone’s fate where we were heading now.

Beneath the Calling Grounds stretched Solan Square, the heart of the city, where vendors shouted over each other and paint-stained hands waved coins in the air. On one side stood the Healer Homes, glass homes, the smelled of lavender. Beside them, the Artist Quarter, home, was full of crooked balconies, bright walls, and color everywhere.

Above the river, nearer the cliffs, glimmered the Air Glider Port, a web of black-winged ships that we used to travel from one end of the kingdom. Beyond that rose the Scribe Houses, tall and quiet, followed by the Warrior Homes, which looked less like houses and more like castles competing for attention.

And far beyond all of it, forming a ring around the entire kingdom, were the Worker Circles which were small gray homes.

As we approach the Calling Grounds, my stomach flips and I stumble on a branch.

Bodhi chuckles, though the sound is thin. “You good?”

I nod.

“Hey, relax. The more you stress, the more the Circlet will feel it.”

“But what if the Circlet decided I’m secretly destined to muck stables,” I exclaim.

“Then I'll see you at the Worker's communal kitchen.”

“Not funny!” I playful punched him.

“Hey,” he says, smirking, “someone’s gotta do it. Just try not to break an ankle on the way to the platform.”

We climb the last hill, and there it is, the Calling Grounds.

It's a huge building with a marble dome, carved with glowing, ancient runes. Inside it is ringed with thousands of candles and banners. The entire state has gathered: families, priests, nobles, even squads of hardened Warrior soldiers. At the very center, suspended ten feet above the marble platform, floats the Circlet itself, a crown of pure gold.

It’s beautiful, and also utterly terrifying.

“Irene!” Isla waves from a few rows ahead. Her dress was a little less pink now.

I walk over, my steps feeling measured and unreal. “You look like you murdered a flamingo,” I tell her, my voice strained.

“Thank you,” she says proudly, grabbing my hand. “I wanted to stand out, you know, so the gods could see me better.”

“You’ll definitely do that.”

She laughs, a nervous chirp, and links her arm through mine, her grip sweaty. “Ready?”

“Not even close. I think I forgot how to breathe twenty minutes ago.”

The trumpets sound, a fanfare that echoes off the marble towers. The crowd goes silent in an instant.

From the temple steps, the royal family descends, the Queen radiant in crimson and gold, the King beside her tall and emotionless, and between them, the prince.

Cassian Solaris.

The air around him didn't just tilt, it shuddered. He was the Crown Prince, and today was likely the day he would become a Warrior. He moved with a grace, built like a weapon, which I guess, was what he was. He was tall enough to block the sun, and he moved with an ease that was captivating.

I couldn't look away. All the rumors about his appearance didn't seem to do him justice. His attractiveness wasn't soft or appealing but it was blunt and dangerous that made you want to look away but still managed to hold your gaze anyway.

His windblown black hair and eyes the shade of gold-flecked onyx sparkled in the sun. He carried himself with a confidence that was a clear, dismissive shield. His eyes, dark and cold, swept over the crowd dismissing everyone as insignificant. He wasn't bothered by the ceremony. Whatever happened, he was still a royal. He would still go on to train as a Warrior, what he wanted.

Fuck you. If only I was able to feel that way. Feel certain that whatever happened I would be okay. I scoffed and looked away before I did something stupid, like stare too long and have the priest mistake my awe for ambition.

“Irene!” Isla calls. I turned to her. “We have to line up,” she adds.

And just like that the nerves were back again. I nodded, getting into the crowd of people sorted by last name, my knees shaking as I moved. Keys. Somewhere in the middle. As I moved, I couldn't help but have a strange feeling.

Yes, I knew this day would change my life, but I really had no clue how much it would.

The King’s voice, amplified by Scribe magic, boomed across the square. “Children of Solaris, tonight you step into your Callings.”

The shaking increases and people gasp.

“May the Circlet see the truth in your hearts,” he says. And the ceremony officially starts.

iykykkk

THE KING'S voice boomed across the marble dome: “May the Circlet see the truth in your hearts.” And the ceremony officially started.

I felt my blood turn to ice. I wasn't ready. I never would be. But I had to go.

The trumpets sounded again, a high, clear fanfare signaling the priest was opening the scroll. The silence returned.

The process was extremely slow. The priest didn't just read a name, he spoke a short prayer, waited for the candidate to walk the long, nerve racking distance to the center, and then paused again as the Circlet slowly descended on their head.

The first name called was a boy from the outer rings, someone already expected to be Grey. He walked, head bowed low, and when the light hit him, the dome was instantly splashed with dull grey. Worker. His life was confirmed, not changed.

The Priest would then proceed to give the person a bracelet that meant their fate was sealed. And they would be bound to that fate forever and always.

That was the scary thing about this choice. After one faced the Calling, they could never go back. They would never do anything else. I shook my head and tried to erase that scary thought from my brain by focusing on the next Callings.

There were so many people; some shocking choices and then a rush of predictable choices, and then a shocking choice. There was a steady stream of Artists (White) and Workers (Gray) who were confirmed to their established order. A girl I knew from the dance guild, who had hoped for something different, walked away in White, her shoulders slumped disappointed.

Another guy who had wanted Healer got Scribe. And a girl who had been a Scribe got Healer.

My eyes kept moving to the figures at the temple steps. The royal family remained still. Prince Cassian stood slightly apart from his parents, unnerved. He barely reacted to the Callings, confirming my belief that this entire ceremony was basically just a formality for him. He was waiting for his own predictable Crimson moment.

An hour crawled by. The candles began to low, and the twilight deepened into true night, making the bursts of color from the Circlet seem even more violent. The Callings moved into the I’s and then J’s. A few ecstatic cheers erupted as unexpected Healers were chosen. Then a ripple of collective awe spread when an unknown girl was granted the rare Scribe Calling.

The Keys name, my last name, was drawing near. My heart was hammering against my ribs. I calculated the names left on the priest’s section of the scroll, desperate to figure out how much time I had left. The ratio of Gray to White seemed overwhelming.

Suddenly, Isla squeezed her hand so tight it hurt.

“Irene Keys!”

The sound ripped through the air. The vast marble dome seemed to inhale, holding its collective breath. It was my time now. But I wasn’t ready. I didn't move. I couldn't. I felt the thousands of eyes turn from the stage, past the boring dresses and suits all of us 22 year olds wore, to me.

“Go, Irene,” Isla whispered fiercely, shoving me forward. “Now!”

My legs felt like lead, yet somehow, I was moving. One foot in front of the other, I walked out of the crowd and onto the platform. The marble was cold and humming with power. I forced herself to look up. Above me, the Circlet Crown floated, gold and blinding, searching, judging every secret hope I possessed.

I closed my eyes, praying one last time for the white, please let me be an Artist, anything but a Worker.

The Priest started the prayer, the one I had heard at least a hundred times today.

"Oh, Child of Solaris, step to the Light,
Leave your past hopes on this ground of white.
Circlet Crown, forged in the heart of the stone,
Sees not your ambition, but the destiny sown.
Be it a Crimson Warrior or the White canvas bright,
Or Gray the foundation, holding the height.
Be it Blue for the Healers, the body to mend,
Or Green for the Scribes, until the world's end.
Let the light pierce the shadow, let the true color shine,
For the calling is fate, and the balance, divine.
Votum Factum. "

Then, the light descended.

It was not blue. It was not white. It was not even the dreaded gray.

The entire dome was instantly plunged into a violent CRIMSON. The color was a physical blow, a roaring fire slamming into my eyes, scorching hot.

Crimson?

The priest’s voice, now boomed with the authority of the gods: “WARRIOR!”

My breathing stopped. What the actual fuck? The word Warrior was absurd, terrifying, impossible. The cold, heavy weight of the Circlet settled on my messy hair, and the sudden rush made me fall to my knees.

The marble dome was silent. This wasn't the applause for an Artist, this was the gasping shock of a massive, unthinkable mistake. A mistake. That’s what it was.

I looked around. No one was screaming, just silent, horrified acceptance. I searched desperately for my family, for Isla.

And then I saw them. My mother and father were all pressed attempting to come forward but blocked by the velvet rope that separated the designated seating from the main platform. Two massive, black-armored Guards had immediately moved to the velvet rope, their hands resting pointedly on the hilts of their swords, creating a cold, impenetrable wall.

My mother was shaking his head wildly, her face white with terror, and devastation. My father was rigid, like he hadn’t accepted what had happened. Being in the upper class was his fate, not mine, and yet I had stolen it.

I turned to look at Bodhi, who had been sitting with his friends. His mouth was dropped open and he got up as fast as could, running to the velvet rope. He was saying something, something I could not understand. And suddenly, he slammed his hand against the velvet rope, shouting something once again that was instantly drowned out by the amplification spell on the priest's voice. A guard didn't even turn his head. He simply extended a massive forearm and shoved Bodhi back into the crowd with such force that my brother stumbled. It was aggressive, brutal, and entirely silent.

I finally turned to Isla. She wasn’t meeting my eyes. She was staring down at her hands. Look at me, I willed to her. What should I do? But nothing. I wasn’t going to get any help from her.

However, I knew one thing. This wasn’t a dream, this was real. And I was alone. This is my fate. But how could it be? An Artist called for a Warrior? That was unheard of! And why was it happening to me of all people. And suddenly I was panicking.

Somehow I managed to walk towards the Warrior Section, towards the King, the royals, the Priest. The highest Calling. My head still swarmed with questions and no one to ask them to. One particular question hung in the air. I was sure I would have to go to the Twin Academy of War to train and pass the tests, but if I didn’t… what would happen. I had heard rumors that those that didn’t pass the test were either killed off or sent to Workers. And not the good kind.

As I approached the Priest, he wrapped the crimson bracelet around my wrist, and it glowed Crimson. While I had so many questions, one thing was certain. My fate was sealed.
________________________________________________________________________________

I stood in silence until it was Isla’s turn to receive the Calling. Isla was the best painter I ever knew and if she wasn’t an Artist, I had no idea what else she could be. But I guess up until today I had thought I was also going to be an Artist and it turned out I was Called to be a fucking Warrior came up. Nonetheless, I prayed she would get Artist, because she at the very least deserved the stability. When the room glowed white I sighed a breath of relief.

We locked eyes but when I smiled and gave her a reassuring thumbs up but she avoided my gaze. What was this? I wanted to run after her. What had happened?

And then the room began to clap. I turned to look at- him again.

Cassian Solis.

He walked to the Circlet, not nervous like everyone else but with such confidence that made me want to punch him in the guts.

Crimson duh. And then the unthinkable happened. He walked and turned to stand beside me. Never in my life had I imagined that I would get to stand beside THE Prince.

My heartbeat increased and my palms became sweaty and suddenly I wasn’t worrying about my fate as a Crimson Warrior, whether I would pass the tests, die or be sent to be a Worker.

All I could think about was him. It was intoxicating. He smelled of expensive leather and smoke. Like a fire? It drew me in but I stood as still as I could.

Another half an hour passed before the Priest declared the Calling over. I needed to find my family and Isla. What was happening with them? And more importantly what was going to happen with me?

But before I could, I felt a rough hand on my shoulder and spun around, whacking my hair in the–

In the Prince’s face? Shit. But also why was the Prince’s hand on my shoulder?

“Irene, right?” he said.

I swallowed, nervous to the core. “Yes, Irene Keys, that’s me…” I trailed off. What did he want?

His eyes, gold-flecked onyx, narrowed slightly as he analyzed me from the top of my head to the fabric that clung to my skin. “Your family are Artists, yet you somehow ended up becoming a Warrior”.

My breath hitched. “Yes, Your Highness,” I said. What was the point of this?

Cassian’s lips curved into the slightest, most unsettling expression with a hint of a dangerous, cold smile. “The gods have a strange sense of humor, Keys,” he stated flatly.

“The Warrior Calling is not a guild for brush-wielders. It is an army. You will train. You will fight. And you will obey. There is no other choice".

He paused, stepping closer again, his scent and his presence consuming the air around me. My heartbeat raced. “If you fail, the price is not a spoiled mural. It is the borders of Solaris, and your failure will be recorded against the Keys name for all time.”

The threat was absolutely chilling. This was going to be my death. I was getting a taste of what I would be facing. No mercy. I was so fucked.

“I understand, Your Highness,” I said, shaking, my whole body throbbing.

With a curt, dismissive nod, he pulled his hand away and stepped back and then he disappeared back into his normal everyday life. I looked around. The room had cleared out mostly and the guards were ushering the last of the people outside. I had to go find my family.

I took a deep breath, steadying myself. I would be okay, right? I tried to stay calm and organize my thoughts, but I kept going back. Back to how my life is now entirely, messed and fucked up because of the stupid Callings.

THE HEAVY steel door of the military entrance slammed shut behind Prince Cassian. He had disappeared back into his stupidly normal, perfect life, leaving me with my so fucked up one. After taking a deep breath, I began to walk outside.

However, the stern-faced woman in the crimson cloak, Commander Vanya, the head of the Warriors, grabbed my arm. Her grip was cold, and hard against my warm shaking hands. “Keys, no loitering. Your transition is immediate.”

I barely registered the pain as she pulled me. I was yanked outside, toward a side passage, and as we reached the archway leading outside of the Calling Grounds, Vanya shoved a Crimson stamped scroll into my hand.

“Read it, Keys. Your new life begins now.” Her eyes, beneath the hood of her cloak, held no curiosity, only authority. It was scary.

The shove sent me out of the tunnel and into the bustling, chaotic night of Solaris Square. After regaining my balance, my trembling hand opened the scroll. It was a thick paper quite unlike the thin, light paper we used for sketching, more similar to the type of paper used for watercoloring. That kind of paper was hard to find and if you did it was expensive to buy.
Slowly my eyes traced the words. The script was stark, black, and cursive. Order of Relocation. Twin Academy of War. Departure: Tomorrow, at dawn (05:00 hours).

Tomorrow. Dawn. I had seven hours. That wasn’t quite nearly enough time to think, pack, and prepare for a completely new life. It was absurd how fast they just wanted me to pick up my old life, throw it in the trash and start a new one.

My soul screamed. My mind, however, was already performing a terrible math: seven hours to say goodbye, to learn what they expected, and to mourn the loss of my entire future. There wasn’t any time built into that schedule for thinking about what would happen if I failed. Prince Cassian’s words still stung in the back of my mind.

Before I could fully process the terror, Bodhi was there. His hand grabbed my shoulder, and the immediate, familiar warmth of his touch was so comforting after the shock.

“Irene! What is that?” he asked.

I could barely manage to force the words out of my mouth, my throat was dry and hoarse. “The Academy. Tomorrow. Dawn.” I managed to say.

He read the scroll over my shoulder and looked back at Commander Vanya who was still there, silently watching.

Bodhi didn't argue or shout, he just wrapped his arms around my shoulders tightly. “We're going home. We'll figure this out there.”

We moved quickly through the square. The chaos of the Calling and all the crowds of people clumped up in corners whispering, allowed us to walk in silence, yet I could still feel the hundreds of sets of eyes of Artists, Workers, and Healers, all staring at me, at my bracelet, at my scroll.

This was so absurd. I had no idea what they were thinking, but it likely was not anything good. After all, I was a walking, breathing anomaly.

We reached the front door of our home, in only thirty minutes. It was comforting to be home, but the scariest part was that it wouldn’t be my home for much longer. Bodhi gave my hand one last squeeze. “Just breathe.”

The moment we crossed into the house, the scent of fresh lavender soap and watercolor paint hit me. It was comforting, something normal, after all this abnormality.

My father, Elias Keys, was pacing the studio, anxious, a small book clutched in his hand. My mother, Mirielle, stood near the drafting table, holding a piece of heavy black fabric. They were waiting, still shocked, although I was sure their reactions would differ by a lot.

And suddenly that was the last straw for me. I couldn’t take it anymore. My knees hit the floor, and all the feelings I had been burying previously exploded. I let out a sound that was muffled by my tears. This was not a part of the plan.

But then again none of this was. I had never thought even for a second I would become a Warrior. I had always known I would be an Artist or maybe a Healer and I had prayed for anything but a Worker. But this? This was destruction. This was a Calling to hell.

Did the world hate me? They wanted to kill me off. Yes, it was a privilege to some. But for those who had never once trained in their life, like me, it was more of a death wish.

The tears kept coming, hot and fast, streaming down my face and onto the scroll. I cried for everything that was going to be taken from me. From my sweet and calm artist life, to the memories I would have made with my family and friends, to the sudden possibility that if I didn’t pass the Warrior Trials I could be dead by next week.

But most of all, I cried for the loss of me. I was forced to be a different person now, whether I wanted to or not. And I sure as hell did not want to.

Bodhi pulled me against his chest, shielding me with his body. My father rushed over, his usual posture lost.

“My daughter! What is it? What did they say?”

Bodhi took the crumpled scroll from my hand, and read the message aloud: “'Departure: Tomorrow, at dawn.'”

My father buried his head in his hands and muttered something that sounded like, “Not nearly enough time”.

My mother stood perfectly still. She didn't move to comfort me, like the rest of my family. Instead, she took one long, shaky breath to calm herself down and then she was back to business.

“Get up, Irene,” she commanded. “A Keys doesn’t fall apart in her own home. If you want to be a warrior, you can’t sit around crying. Don’t cry over what’s gone, get ready for what’s next.”

My mother meant business. And while I really wanted to remain crumpled on the floor, I knew that she was right. There was no way I would even have a chance if I was a crybaby. I had to be strong.

The two halves of my mother were exact opposites: the horrified Artist's Wife, and the fiercely ambitious woman who demanded excellence. And when you combined the two sides together, you got how she expressed her love, not in comfort, but in protection. She would never let me fail.

“We have six hours,”she stated, her tone calm and commanding. “Bodhi, boil water. Elias, fetch the Scribe scrolls on Warrior Academy protocol.”

She marched me to my room, throwing a box onto the bed. “No more white.”

She tossed the stained tunic aside, instead pointing at the box she had thrown on the bed. “My sister's tailor worked as fast as she could once she heard the news. This uniform will fit.”
Inside was a tunic and pants of smooth black leather, softer and lighter than the army kind, perfect for silent, fast movement. Perfect for a Warrior, like me.

“It’s a shame. I wanted you to be an Artist, to have a calm and safe life. You would have made a great one,” my mother said as she shoved the clothes at me. “But since you are a Warrior, I’m going to help you be the best there is. You will not fail.”

She then pulled out a very detailed and gorgeous leather harness made to fit around the waist. “This holds knives and daggers,” she said. “The Warriors expect you to find and make your own weapons, but you won’t show up empty-handed.” The harness felt cold but firm and professional against my skin.

While my mother messed with the gear, my father, Elias, returned, his mind already spinning with Scribe knowledge. And for some reason he was strangely happy.

“Happy, yes! Terrified, also yes!” he repeated my earlier question, his eyes shining with excitement. “This is what you were meant for, Irene. The Circlet saw your true self: fierce and powerful”.

He dragged me into the room and forced me to ignore the ache in my heart and think only about surviving. “This book about the Warrior Trials says the first evaluation includes four trials: Strength, Speed, Accuracy, and Balance.”

“The strength and speed you cannot improve in six hours,“he admitted, his voice dropping low. “But the other two? You have been preparing your whole life.”

He brought out dull throwing knives, weapons we used only for occasional hunting, and set up the back of a discarded canvas stretcher as an improvised target.

“For Accuracy, you’ve aimed and lined up precise strokes for years,” he said, his voice now filled with the authority of an unexpected military tutor. “Picture this. Your target is your large, ugly canvas waiting for a mark. Your hand is steadily holding a paint brush and you need to precisely aim where your next stroke of paint goes. Now the only difference is the target is a human or a dart board and in your hand is a weapon. You are already ready for this”.

He handed me a knife. “Close your eyes. Visualize the knife hitting the exact spot, just as you visualize the perfect drop of gold leaf. Focus on the final point.” The advice was something you would definitely hear in an Artists Guild except it was repurposed for murder. We practiced until the knife thwacked into the wood with consistency, that I felt I could do it in my sleep.

Next, he made me walk the narrow outer ridge of the table, a balancing act I had performed hundreds of times while sketching high ceilings, and practicing ballet.

“For Balance, this is the same discipline as painting on scaffolding or standing on pointe in a ballet recital,” he coached. “You must find your center and trust your muscle memory. Don't look at the ground, look ahead to your destination.”

The advice worked, and I got so much better.

Physical strength was the worst. I sucked at it, as I had little to no strength except for lifting heavy paintings but I focused on endurance and leverage.

And then speed. I had to master Speed to pass the tests, as I had no hope for the Strength one. “Use your dancer’s grace. Waste no movement. Every step must be beautiful and graceful,” My father coached.

We trained until my arms ached and my feet were bruised. Adrenaline coursed through my veins. Bodhi watched, silent, occasionally fetching me water and applying cool compresses.

The three of them had given me the greatest gift possible and helped me make myself the best possible version, until I was finally as ready as I could be for my fate.

______________________________________________________________________________

The time flew by, the frantic physical training replacing my emotional panic with exhaustion. Eventually at one in the morning my mother finally insisted I rest still fully dressed in the custom-made black leather uniform.

But I couldn't leave without speaking to her. The look of betrayal and fear in Isla’s eyes when she avoided me at the Calling was something I needed to repair, a friendship I could not afford to lose. Isla was my best friend, and she would always be.

I slipped out of the window of the second story of my home. The cold air of the city cooled my skin covered in sweat as I quickly raced to Isla's house two blocks away.

As I approached her house, I gave the familiar three-tap knock on her window. It slid open, revealing Isla, her face streaked with tears and full of exhaustion.

“Irene! What are you doing? You have to leave! They said you were reporting soon!” Her voice sounded terrified.

I climbed inside. The familiar walls were comfortingly covered with sketches, yarn, and small wooden carvings, all of her Artist creations from the Guild.

“I had to see you, Isla,” I said, the words rushing out. “Why wouldn’t you look at me? Why did you avoid me?”

The argument started right away.

“Why didn’t I look at you?!” she hissed, keeping her voice low so her parents wouldn’t wake. “Irene, you were Called to be a Warrior. You had Warrior guards shoving Bodhi around into the dirt! You were standing next to him, the Prince! When the Circlet Called you to be a Warrior it was like you became untouchable.”

She clutched the fabric of her white nightgown. “The Warriors, they’re not just a Calling. They’re death and command. They belong to another world. And suddenly, you were one of them. I was scared of what they’d do if I tried to talk to a Warrior, or what the Circlet had already done to you. I thought maybe you wouldn’t even know me anymore.”

That truth hit hard. Isla hadn’t been avoiding me out of shame, but because she was scared. And suddenly in that moment, I realized the Warrior Calling didn’t change me, it changed how others saw me. It gave me power, something I could use for good. A small smile crossed my face.

She looked up, her eyes red, from crying. “I was a coward. I’m sorry. I love you.”

“I love you too,” I said quietly, stepping closer. “I’m still just Irene. I think.”

Isla reached under her pillow and pulled out a small object wrapped in cloth. She handed it to me.

“I finished this tonight. Some part of me knew you would come,” she whispered, unwrapping it.

It was a dagger, not a Warrior sword, but a beautiful small blade, that was perfectly built for me. The steel was so polished that it looked perfect. The hilt that was carved from dark red-black wood had thin strips of gold that shimmered like fire. It was absolutely stunning.

“It’s called Lumen,” Isla said. “For stealth. It’s light, and I specifically made it for you.”

Her eyes dropped to the leather harness on my hip. “Don’t let them take that away from you.”
I took the dagger. I would keep it, no matter what. It would remind me of Isla, of home, of who I was before all this. It slid perfectly into one of the sheaths on my harness. It would be the only weapon I truly trusted.

“I’ll come back, Isla,” I said fiercely. “I promise.”

“You better,” she sniffled, pulling me into a tight hug. “I’ll be watching you tomorrow. And I'll be cheering you on the whole way.”

When our final goodbye was over, I climbed back out the window and ran home, holding the dagger close.

I lay down on my bed, the Warrior uniform complete with Isla’s dagger. I reached for it. It was cold and it felt good against my cheeks.

I closed my eyes, forcing my panic down. I had to get some sleep.

The last thing I heard, before my body allowed the relief of sleep, was Prince Cassian’s voice once again replaying in my head: “If you fail, the price is not a spoiled mural. It is the border of Solaris.”

I was a Warrior now, and I would be ready. I hoped.

Reducio

author's note: this came out as 17 percent AI so I think that's ok, probably the parts talking about artist terms, because i did use some AI to help me figure out how to make it sound like I knew what turpentine and scaffolding were
I tried to put everything in my own words tho, but that should be it.
oh and it also highlighted my description of the dagger, idk why

AT EXACTLY 4:30 in the morning, the noise of my alarm clock woke me up. I had had three long and uneasy hours of sleep and now my body felt heavy and full of nerves. It took a long time for me to get up, as it was so early in the morning.

Eventually, I got up. There was no time to think about what would happen next, I had to keep moving. At least I already had my black leather uniform on, so I was one step closer to my fate.

I quickly put the gear on, putting the complicated leather harness around my waist and fastening it up tight until it was snug and firm. Slowly, I slid Isla’s Shadow Runner dagger into one of the sheaths. The metal was smooth and cold, which was soothing against my skin as I attempted to wake up at this early hour. This dagger would act as my memory of Isla. I remembered the promise I made to her. I needed to keep my promise.

For one last time, I checked my small backpack. An extra uniform, a tiny set of toiletries, and, buried deep beneath it all, my Artist's notebook and a pencil. I knew I really shouldn't bring my sketchbook, after all, I was supposed to start a new life, where I was a Warrior, not an Artist. However I needed to have a little piece of my old life, and that need was stronger than anything else.

My family was already in the studio waiting for me in silence. The smell of coffee and light lavender perfume filled the air. Nobody was crying, we had all gone through the tears and now we were at the stage of acceptance. This was it.

Then my mother Mirielle approached. Her face was composed, somehow, unlike me. She ran her hands over the leather of my tunic, and adjusted the collar just so. And then she hugged me.

I wrapped my arms around her tightly. No matter how serious my mother was, she always cared. When she finally let go, she said, “The fit is perfect, it is built for you. Remember your father’s lessons, Irene. Discipline. Precision. Focus. You are now a Warrior, you must act like one.”

I nodded my head.

“We will receive word if you fail and you are allowed to send and receive mail every week.” she added.

She kissed me once on the forehead and then immediately stepped back.

“You will do great.” she whispered. Tears welled in my eyes but I wiped them away. Keep it together. I couldn’t be crying already. The journey hadn’t even begun yet.

My father, Elias, took my mothers place, his face strained. He grabbed both my hands, and whispered to me. “Be safe, my girl. And promise me you will remember this: No matter how hard they push you, stay strong. You are a Warrior, but with an Artists mind.” He squeezed my hands hard. “Use it to your advantage. And remember what we talked about yesterday.”

He reached into his pocket and placed something cold and small into my palm. It was a smooth, grey river stone, the kind we used to skip on the River Glass. “For good luck”.

Bodhi was last. He pulled me into a hard, desperate hug. “Don’t you dare die,” he muttered fiercely into my shoulder. "If they send you to Gray, I’ll sneak you out of the Worker rings. I promise. I’ll keep your studio intact, Irene. I’ll cover your canvases. Just come back. Please.”

“I will,” I whispered into the fabric of his tunic. It wouldn’t be the last. "I promise."

The moment stretched too long and yet it was infinitely too short.

Suddenly, a low, deep rumble shook the house. It wasn’t the sound of a vehicle arriving, but of something heavy moving through the air above. The floorboards vibrated and suddenly my teeth were chattering. Nervousness.

We all froze. The time was 2 minutes before 05:00. It was time.

_____________________________________________________________________________

I turned back to my parents for the final time.

“Go,” my father said, his voice cracking. “Go, Irene. Go.”

I walked to the front door, Bodhi right behind me. As I walked outside, I paused, struck by the sudden realization. The street before dawn was silent and the yellow streetlamps cast shadows in the darkness.

But the street was not empty.

Dozens of people, Artists, in their night gowns and pajamas, Isla included, stood silently beneath the lamps of our neighborhood. They weren’t making a scene, they weren’t even shouting. They were simply watching. Every window facing our house was open, and I could see the silhouettes of more faces in the distance.

It was a silent goodbye, and it was all directed towards me. The sight filled me with a crushing mixture of shame and fierce, and sudden pride. I was not just Irene Keys anymore, I was the one and the only Artist turned Warrior.

I caught Isla’s eye and I waved at her.

Then, from above, I heard a piercing, and loud sound, so loud that it rattled the glass in the windows. A heavy, crimson air-glider lowered slowly and landed onto the empty street directly in front of our house. It was terrifying. I had never seen an air-glider up this close and I sure as hell had never ridden one. And it had come for me.

The ramp hissed open, revealing darkness. No Commander Vanya. No armed guards standing menacingly. Just the empty, metallic transport, waiting. Waiting for me.

“Irene!” Isla's voice tore through the quiet. She had run from her own house and was standing at the edge of the nearest lamppost.

I sprinted toward her. She grabbed my trembling hands and clasped them. Her skin was icy cold. “You promised! You have to come back!”

“I will,” I promised, clasping her hands tightly, the same hands that had made my dagger. “I have your dagger. I will use it to remember.”

I kissed her quickly and then turned away. I couldn't look back at her, or at my parents standing frozen in the doorway, or even at the silent crowd of my neighborhood. I had to go.

I walked the few steps toward the waiting ramp and entered. The air inside smelled of oil, and cold steel, a stark contrast from the scent of my home. It had been five seconds and yet I still missed the scent of home.

The ramp slammed shut and I jumped. The engine roared and the last I saw of our city was the hundreds of people waving goodbye.

______________________________________________________________________________

I sat alone, forcing myself to be calm and reached for my journal.

I pulled back the small curtain on the window of the air-glider. The sun had risen across the city, and the view was absolutely beautiful. The lower rings of Solaris, where the Workers lived were now far away, it was crazy how fast we had moved. As I peered out the window I could spot the golden, Royal Citadel. It was so gorgeous.

Beside it, the River Glass, the huge, crystal-clear river that cut through the city, reflected the light like liquid sapphire gleaming in the sun. Even freaking more gorgeous.

My hand flew across the page. I drew the sight I saw from above. From the perfection of the dome of the Citadel standing in the sun, and the River Glass and its clear and pure water. I felt a need to capture this beauty, something I had never seen before, and I promised myself that when I got back, I would show it to my family and friends.

The air grew colder, thinner as we flew further, higher into the air and farther away from my home.

It was just a few more hours of this silent ride and the beautiful view before we finally landed. When the ramp dropped, the sheer scale of the Twin Academy of War hit me. It was a sprawling complex of black granite and crimson metal. It was huge. It was like a fortress, a castle, the ones we all saw in children’s story books.

I disembarked from the air-glider feeling tiny and grabbed my bags, my small pack on my back and the rest of my mandated gear in a duffel bag in my hands.

As I walked towards the Academy, I noticed the stairs. The steep, wide flight of granite stairs leading up to the main barracks. They were a struggle. There had to be about a thousand steps, and with the bags it felt like millions. An endless staircase. Each step was desperate, my breath came in painful gasps, as I reached higher and higher up. I was already failing the strength and endurance test before the first trial even began.

A bright voice cut through the silence. “Oh, goodness, you look like you're about to pass out! Let me grab that for you!”

A girl stopped beside me. She was so full of energy that it made me smile. Her dark curly hair was pulled into a high ponytail, and her dark skin glowed, despite how gloomy the stairs were. She was not super tall but she was much taller than me, and she was one hundred percent built like a Warrior. Her eyes were wide, bright and very amused with my struggles.

She snatched the bag in my hand before I could object. It was the one containing the heavy gear, the one I had been struggling with the most, and she hoisted it onto her own shoulder as if it weighed nothing. I scoffed, though I felt secretly relieved. The bag had been weighing me down.

"Come on, we are already late, and that's never good for us newbies!" She bounded up the steps ahead of me, then slowed down, realizing that I was struggling.

I shook my head, letting out a sigh. "Who-who are you?"

She laughed. “I’m Tiana! Tiana Vaan. My Calling was almost shocking. It was for my family, just not for me. Except I always knew I was going to be a Warrior. My family are Scribes, all about the ancient scrolls and quiet desks and that kind of nonsense. Guess the Circlet saw my complete inability to sit still for more than three seconds and decided ‘Warrior!’ Can’t blame it!” She winked.

Tiana stopped at the bottom of the stairs, looking me over with a grin that was less judgmental and more fascinated.

“And you,” she continued, her voice dropping, “you’re the Artist Warrior right? Huh, I thought you would be a little taller.”

The nickname stung, but Tiana didn’t say it like it was a curse or in a mean way; she honestly sounded delighted.

“Yeah I’m Irene Keys,” I managed, adjusting the pack in my shoulders.

“Well, Irene Keys, Barracks 304 awaits!” Tiana announced, pivoting and heading down a corridor.

We reached our assigned room. Two narrow cots, two empty steel lockers and one small, high window that offered a view of the training grounds.

Tiana immediately claimed the cot nearest the window with a cheerful bounce. “Okay, so this is exciting! We get to be roomies! I’m terrible at folding, but great at lifting. We should totally optimize our strengths!”

I stared at the space, dull and grey, the opposite of my home. “Optimize our strengths,” I repeated dully.

“Exactly!” Tiana was already tearing into her own bags, pulling out perfectly folded uniforms. “Look, I know this is terrifying. My older sister told me the first week is designed to make you cry. But we just have to be better at surviving than everyone else. That’s the Warrior way, right?”

She noticed me fumbling with the complex buckles on my custom harness. “Oh, honey, don’t worry about those. They’re all show.” Tiana came over, her fingers nimble. “You need to be able to rip your gear off in the dark. Let me show you.”

In moments, she had modified the harness for instant removal, something I hadn’t even thought to ask my father about.

I watched her. “You’re really good at this. Did you train for this?”

Tiana laughed. “Well yes, a little bit, it’s mandatory to learn certain things where I live. But the first test is Balance, and I’m going to fall flat on my face. My balance is non-existent. My best chance is making friends with people who don’t crash into walls. You look like you float when you walk.”

Her honesty made my laugh. “I used to be a dancer,” I confessed.

Tiana clapped her hands. “Perfect! See? I’m amazing at lifting, and you’re amazing at not falling! We’re a team!”

She pulled out a foil-wrapped protein bar. “Want one? They taste bland, but they’re good for you.”

I hesitantly took one, realizing I forgot to pack food. Thank god for Tiana.

Tiana was all questions, all enthusiasm, forcing me to speak, to focus on the future rather than the lost past. Finally, when I was comfortable and fed we confided each other in our fears and shared knowledge. I confided my fear, not just of the trials, but of Prince Cassian and his threats. I hated him.

“Cassian Solis? Oh, he’s gorgeous, but dangerous. He is a walking and talking weapon,” Tiana said with a dramatic shudder. “Don’t worry about him for now. He only concerns himself with the best of the best. Those who have been training to be Warriors all their life. Our problem is Vanya, and the fact that they are waiting for us to prove the Circlet made a mistake. We have to get past tomorrow.”

Tiana admitted the most terrifying trial for her was Balance. “It’s the first trial, Irene. We have to get past tomorrow.”

As the last of the light dimmed in our window, we fell into silence.

“Just remember,” I whispered across the dark room, “it’s muscle memory. You got this.”

I clutched Bodhi’s river stone and Isla’s dagger under my pillow and closed my eyes, forcing my mind to clear, and to think of something, anything happy.

Tiana finally whispered one last thought into the dark. “Good night, Irene. Sweet dreams.”

I smiled faintly and fell into a deep, anxious sleep. Tomorrow, the Trial of Balance awaited.

THE SIRENS sounded at exactly 6 o clock for wake up time, instantly wrenching me from the very little sleep that this new environment had granted me. I missed my home, my bed. It was so uncomfortable in this tiny barrack. Not that this place was supposed to bring any comfort. The noise itself was designed to strip away any sense of it.

Tiana was already sitting upright on her cot, rubbing her eyes when I finally pulled myself up. Her body was trembling slightly, but her face was set in a look of hard, determined focus. We spent the next hour silently checking our harnesses and whispering final, frantic encouragement to each other. I was a little less nervous than I would be if this was any other trial. After all, I was more prepared than almost anyone else.

“Balance first,” Tiana muttered, her voice thin, as she adjusted her boots. “Seven to pass the trial. Three out of four trials I must pass” She swallowed hard and then took a deep, shaky breath. “Visualize the finish line. Visualize the finish line.”

I gave her a small smile and a thumbs up.

After we were finally ready, we headed down to the mess hall, the eating room. It was packed. About a hundred of us Warrior trainees were all dressed in identical dark uniforms. The air was thick with fear. At least the food was better than what we had had as our makeshift dinner yesterday.

We claimed a small table near the wall, both of us grateful for a table. We immediately grabbed food, greek yogurt with tons of fruit, and it actually looked appetizing.

As we ate, a group approached our table. A young woman with braided hair a slid into the seat directly across from us. She was followed by two men, a quiet, intensely pale boy, and another boy who was the complete opposite, charming, cheerful, and radiating confidence.

The woman didn't ask to join. She simply sat. “You're the Artist,” she stated, her voice quiet.
“Irene Keys,” I replied, nodding. “And this is Tiana Vaan.”

“I know,” the woman nodded. “I'm Seraphina. Born from a Warrior family. You guys look like you need some help,” She glanced dismissively at Jax, who sat down next to her.

“And I’m Jax,” the charming boy chimed in, extending his hand across the table to Tiana. He had perfectly cropped hair and ridiculously blue eyes. “High Guard family, known for my charm and my habit of ignoring the small print.”

Tiana laughed, the first genuine, laugh sound I’d heard all morning. She shook his hand. “Tiana Vaan. Scribe family. I specialize in fine print, but I was never made for the Scribes. I could never even sit still for 3 seconds.”

The quiet boy looked up from whatever he was reading. “My name is Alistair. Also Scribe lineage. I can calculate the trajectory for a two-pound projectile, but I get scared at literally anything.” As he said that, he looked genuinely terrified. “I predict my score on Balance will be no higher than a 7.2, and only if I manage to avoid fainting.”

Seraphina cut straight to the core, ignoring the banter. “The trials are clear: minimum 7.0 on each trial, pass three out of four. Jax has the physical skill. Alistair has the logic. Irene has the finesse. Tiana has the speed. Together we are the perfect team.”

Tiana bristled instantly. “And what about you?”

Seraphina smiled. “Well of course, my mother is one of the teachers at the academy. I have the legacy, and the experience,” she said, smirking.

I looked around at the group of us five, formed out of the desperate need to survive the trials. “I’m in,” I exclaimed. If I was going to survive, I sure as hell was going to do it with friends.

“If she’s in then so am I!” Tiana exclaimed, bubbling with excitement.

“Good, because that wasn’t a choice,” Seraphina added, and then smiled.

We all laughed. We spent the remainder of the meal gathering all the information we would. Jax was worried about Accuracy. Tiana was worried about Balance. I was worried about Strength and Speed. Alistair was simply terrified of falling, period. And obviously, Seraphina was worried about nothing. I was a tad bit jealous of her. She could cruise through and she would be perfectly fine.

But before I could continue lingering on my thoughts, the bell sounded, signaling the end of the meal. We were led out into the Central Training Yard. The training area was built around a massive, shimmering lake and the morning sun reflected off of it.

Running its length were five narrow, metal beams, suspended thirty feet over the water. They were fucking scary, and no match for whatever table I had practiced on. The water below was a murky green, and just beneath the surface, moving with slow, prehistoric grace, were shadows?

“Are those... are those real?” Tiana whispered, her voice barely audible.

A booming, amplified voice answered her. “They are Zenith-bred crocodilians, recruits. Hungry. They are quite adept at catching anything that fails the Trial of Balance.”

The voice belonged to Commander Vanya, standing on a dais with a tablet that glowed crimson. As I looked around, I noticed the hundreds of trainees standing around the lake. My gaze traced the edge of the lake until it landed on Prince Cassian. This time he wasn’t alone.

Alistair followed my gaze and whispered, “The girl with the pretty blonde hair and the blue eyes, that’s Kaelin. She’s a perfectionist. She and Cassian are said to be dating, so stay away from her. Beside her is Darian, the confident Duke. He and Jax used to be best friends until Darian betrayed him. We still don’t know what happened.”

I nodded my head. Stay away from them all basically was what he was saying. “Thanks,” I whispered.

“The Trial of Balance is the first test. You must walk the length of the beam. Fall, and that trial is scored a zero. To pass the trial, you must score a minimum of seven point zero (7.0) on each trial,” Commander Vanya continued.

Seraphina called us all over and squeezed our shoulders like a proud mother. “Don’t die,” she commanded, and then she left us all to go our separate ways, as we were all in different groups.

Tiana was in the first group with Jax, Seraphina in the second with Alistair and I was in the fourth. With Cassian. Shit.

My heart hammered against my ribs. As we moved to different place Tiana shot me one last desperate, pleading look, whispered, “Wish me luck, Irene.”

“Good luck Tiana,” I said. I gave her a small smile and prayed she would do well.

I headed over to my group but I watched as she headed onto the beam. She started well, but the moment she looked down and saw the water, she stiffened. She was fighting the fall. She slipped twice, flailing her arms wildly, letting out sharp, panicked gasps as she caught herself. She stumbled badly at the three-quarter mark, her heel scraping the edge of the metal but regained her footing.

She was soaking in sweat, shaking uncontrollably, but she hadn't fallen. She was alive.

Vanya announced Tiana's score. "Vaan, Tiana. Time: 01:58. Score: Seven point nine."

A wave of intense relief washed over me. A 7.9! She had passed!

Alistair was next. Watching him was terrifying. However, he managed to calculate every step precisely. I saw him mouth equations, closing his eyes just long enough to rid of the panic. When he finally made it across he was awarded a 7.2. He passed. Thank god.

I didn’t have enough time to see either Seraphina or Jax’s trials, but I had enough confidence that they would pass.

It was another hour before my turn came and I erased all thoughts from my brain except for my father’s voice: Find your center, trust the muscle memory of the artist, not the fear of the soldier.

I stepped onto the beam. I did not look at the water. I looked only at the endpoint, twenty feet away, and allowed my body to remember its years of training.

I sank my weight, finding the invisible point of equilibrium. It was dancing. It was perfect equilibrium.

I moved with a slow, continuous rhythm and when the beam dipped slightly at the halfway mark, my hips performed the mini correction of a professional dancer before my brain even registered the danger.

When my boots finally touched the solid platform on the other side, the entire run had taken only fifty-two seconds. I hadn't wobbled, hadn't paused, hadn't deviated.

A heavy, breathless silence fell over the training yard. I had done it. I had shocked everyone. Maybe I was more cut out to be a Warrior then anyone though.

Vanya announced my score. “Keys, Irene. Time: 00:52. Score: Ten point zero (10.0).”

A perfect score. The first of the day. I stepped off the platform, feeling the adrenaline course through my veins, but before I could run over to my friends and celebrate someone stopped me.

“An excellent performance, Keys.”

Prince Cassian Solis had moved his own section on the beam where he had gone a few minutes earlier. He was walking directly toward me, his pace slow and deliberate. Shit.

“For someone who paints murals,” he continued, stopping close enough that the scent of sharp leather and spice hit me, “your feet are remarkably disciplined. Did the Circlet enhance your talent, or did it install one where none existed?”

I met his gaze, refusing to flinch. He was an egotistical jerk. That was all. “Balance is necessary for all work, you highness,” I spat, my voice steady. “Whether one holds a dagger or a brush.”
His mouth curled into the slightest, chilling smile. What was I doing? I needed to run, get out of here before he caused havoc. “A poetic response. But poetry is useless here. This is the Twin Academy of War, where weakness is drowned. A painter called Warrior is a weakness. And those must be eliminated.”

“Then I suppose I proved my usefulness, Prince,” I countered. “I took your kingdom’s trials seriously. Perhaps you shouldn't have been so surprised.”

Cassian's eyes narrowed, a flash of genuine annoyance. Hah, I had broken his facade.
“Competence is only notable when it comes from an unlikely source,” he murmured, his voice dropping. “That run,” he paused, finally looking at me directly in the eyes, “was flawless. Now tell me, truly, Keys. Did you imagine the beam was a piece of scaffolding, or did you imagine the crocodilians were waiting for the Artist Guild?”

This was a deliberate strike at my pride and I was so done with it. Him and his fat ego were going down.

“I imagined it was the only piece of ground left in Solaris,” I corrected him, holding his gaze.
Cassian’s expression shifted instantly and was replaced with a look of jealousy that flashed dangerously in his eyes. He glared at the score that was shimmering behind me, the perfect ten.

“The best score before yours was 9.4, achieved by me,” he growled, the possessiveness thick in his voice. He stepped closer, crowding my space, so close that I could feel the heat radiating off of his skin. “A 9.4 is nearly flawless, executed with Warrior discipline. And you, a painter, with your ridiculously, elegant footwork, delivered a ten. You are a weakness Keys, and you outperformed the most rigorous training schedules in the district.”

He met my eyes once again, the intense mixture of frustration and challenge in his gaze. “Refusal is noted,” he bit out. “But here, failure for perfection is devastating. You have the lead now. Let's see if your Accuracy tomorrow is as perfect as your Balance.”

He leaned in again, speaking in a low whisper meant only for me, and his presence, that close to my body, was intoxicating. “Don't disappoint me, Irene. I hate being proven wrong. Especially not by a painter.”

He didn't wait for a reply, before spinning around and heading back to his group. “My name is Irene!” I shouted.

“And I’m training to be a dancer not a painter.” I added, “Or at least I was-” I trailed off. A single tear fell down my face.

Why was I crying? I had proven myself! I was the best out of us! I had passed my trials!

But the lingering weight of my old life, and Cassian’s clear furiousness was not helping.
I slowly walked over to the rest of my new friends who were all surrounding Tiana sitting on a bench, staring at me with wide, disbelieving eyes.

“You got a ten!” Tiana gasped, clutching the towel. “And you talked to him! He basically admitted he's mad that the best recruit is you! He's jealous!”

Had the entire training field heard our conversation? I looked around and sure enough everyone was staring at me. Great.

“Yeah, everyone heard that,” Jax added, cackling. “That was some good roasting”. I gave him my middle finger and he smiled.

“He's territorial,” I corrected, my voice flat, trying to ignore the lingering scent of Cassian's uniform. “And I'm currently standing on his territory with a better score than him. Forget him. We all passed. Congratulations!”

We cheered.

“I barely passed,” Tiana said, as we headed inside, after the Trial. Twenty three recruits had not passed and fourteen had died and were eaten by the alligators. Their parents would get letters tomorrow saying they failed, and they would never be seen again. Tiana let out a shaky, relieved laugh that quickly turned into a sob.

“Hey! You’re safe!” I patted her on the back.

“For now.” Seraphina replied, shaking her head.

“Hey!” I scolded her.

“What? I’m just stating the truth!” Seraphina shrugged.

“According to my calculations, that seems to be making Tiana feel worse and you should not say that.” Alistair replied.

“Great! Thank you so much for your insight!” I muttered.

“According to my calculations, I should not say according to my calculations?” Alistair questioned.

“According to my calculations, you’re right!” Jax exclaimed. And then we all burst out laughing. He hooked his arm through Alistair’s. “Time to teach you some social skills, buddy.” And he dragged them a different way.

“And I am off to rest, and I suggest you two do the same,” Seraphina reprimanded. And then she was gone too.

I turned to Tiana. “Hey, we'll manage it,” I assured her, pulling her arm to urge her toward the barracks.

She smiled softly.

We reached Barrack 304, immediately shed our clothes and collapsed onto our cots, drained.
“He wants to break you,” Tiana observed, her voice muffled by her pillow. “That's what that was. He saw you were perfect at the thing he thought you'd be weakest at, and now he wants to prove the Circlet made a mistake.”

“Then I won't give him the chance,” I said, pulling out my Artist's journal, running my thumb over the pencil strokes of the River Glass. “My father said my vision is my advantage. I just gotta work on the other parts.”

I took a spare sheet of paper and a pencil. “Let's strategize for the Accuracy Trial tomorrow. What did the Scribes teach you about angles and trajectory?”

Tiana sat up, forcing herself into a tactical mindset. “Logic. Physics. I can calculate trajectory perfectly, but it’s difficult to translate it.”

We strategized until we were too exhausted to talk anymore. We had our dinner and tidied our lockers.

Finally at 9 o clock, I lay down on my cot, pulling the rough military blanket up to my chin. The river stone from Bodhi was tucked securely in my palm.

The final image in my mind was the fierce, cold copper of Prince Cassian’s eyes. He had challenged me. He had promised that he would be watching me, if I made any mistake. And the jealousy. However, I knew I had to shift my worry from him to the Accuracy Trial, but really, the Strength Trial would be my weakness.

I closed my eyes, forcing my mind to see the clean thump of a blade hitting it’s target, repeating the mantra: I am not a liability. I will not be broken.

A sudden, fierce wave of homesickness crashed over me. I wasn't just missing my family; I missed the scent of my home, every little piece I had taken for granted, I missed now. Here, everything was hard, and unforgiving.

I squeezed the river stone until my knuckles were white, burying my face in the rough pillow to stifle the sound as a few hot, stinging tears finally escaped. They were a release of the pressure, what I’d kept in all day: the beam, the 10.0, the upcoming trials and of course Prince Cassian.

No. I would not cry myself to sleep.

I wiped my tears. I clutched Isla’s Shadow Runner dagger tucked beneath my pillow. Reality check. No more crying. I took a deep breath. In and out. In and out. I needed to sleep.

Slowly, I slipped into the land of dreams, but not before one final thought: Tomorrow, the Trial of Accuracy awaited.

The second day arrived with the same old siren at 06:00. Yesterday’s adrenaline had burned down into dread that clung to the air in our Barrack.

I had barely slept. I kept on seeing Prince Cassian’s copper eyes in my dreams. He had marked me, and now I had to meet whatever impossible standard I’d set and he’d forced upon me.

Tiana, surprisingly, was calm. Her near-failure on Balance had forced her Scribe mind into hyper-efficiency. “Last night, Alistair and I worked the math. The targets today are randomized in velocity and angle. It's not about strength. It's about calculating the trajectory faster than the target moves.”

We met the rest of the gang in the mess hall. Thankfully, the atmosphere was slightly less tense than yesterday as the immediate shock had passed.

“Balance was my nightmare,” Alistair admitted, his hands still trembling slightly. “Accuracy is all about angles and lead time. I may not move well, but I can see the geometry perfectly. I’m projecting a 8.4.”

“I need an eight-point-something to pad my cushion,” Seraphina stated, sharp and practical as ever. “My main issue is overcompensation. I fire too quickly, sacrificing accuracy for speed. Keys, tell me again how to see the 'line.'”

“You don't throw at the target, you draw a line through it,” I repeated. It was like a mantra for all of us. “The line starts in your head, moves through your grip, and ends ten feet beyond the target.”

Jax grinned, tossing an apple into the air and then taking a bite out of it. “My problem is distraction. I hit the first ten targets, and then my vision starts to get wobbly and I start missing. But I'm trusting the Artist. Finesse, right?”

“And focus,” I reminded him.

“You need the focus more than the finesse.” Tiana muttered.

Jax kicked her under the table. Just then a loud bang sounded. This was it. It was time. I scarfed down the last of my muffin and we headed out to the next trial.
____________________________________________________________
The Trial of Accuracy was held in a different wing of the Central Training Yard: a massive, closed hangar. There was no water, no height, but the air vibrated with power.

On the floor were ten firing stations. In front of each station was a tunnel leading into a vast, complex maze of reinforced steel. Along the maze, dozens of small, metallic dummies, each roughly the size of a human’s head, were mounted on rails. These targets moved at unpredictable speeds, shifting velocity and angle constantly.

Commander Vanya stood on a viewing platform, her amplified voice echoing in the hangar. “Recruits, this is the Trial of Accuracy. You will be armed with thirty steel darts. You have ninety seconds. You must hit the critical zone, the red part, of as many moving targets as possible. Scoring is weighted for speed and distance. A score of seven point zero (7.0) is the minimum to pass this trial.”

The trial wasn't about holding a steady hand, it was about calculating coordinates in real time.

I immediately spotted the Crimson Elite gathered on the observation platform with Cassian. He was there, flanked by Kaelin and Darian. Cassian wasn't just observing, he was actively tracking the speed of the targets with his eyes. He looked ready, and utterly confident.

Alistair was called first from our pact. He looked like he was walking to his own execution. He took his position, drew his first dart, and closed his eyes for a tense three seconds.

When he opened them, the clock started. Alistair didn't move quickly. He moved with a rhythm, he would sight a target, run a micro-calculation, and only then throw. It all happened pretty quickly but nowhere near as quickly as some of the others. He might have been slow, but he did not miss. His physics and math was saving him.

When the time ran out, he had thrown only nineteen darts, but all of them had hit. Vanya announced: “Alistair, Scribe Lineage. Score: eight point zero (8.0).”

Alistair looked relieved, not triumphant. He had passed once again, adding good cushion to his score.

Seraphina was next. She was focused, exactly as she had been on the beam. She threw quickly, but her desire for speed forced small errors into her throw. She hit many, but many were non-critical. Seraphina finished with a frustrated sigh: “Score: Eight point three (8.3).” A respectable score, but not the cushion she’d wanted.

Jax followed. He was a blur of movement, throwing the darts with casual, reckless speed. He moved like he was showing off, using flash and raw talent. He threw all thirty darts in under sixty seconds, but his focus quickly decayed. “Score: Eight point eight (8. .” He passed easily.

Then came Tiana. She stepped up to the station, her face utterly transformed by concentration. She wasn't throwing for power, she was throwing for the line, the one that we had all talked about. She moved with a precision, each dart leaving her hand exactly when her internal calculations aligned with the target's future position. She wasn't just aiming, she was predicting. She missed only three shots.

Vanya’s voice shouted in the silence: “Vaan, Tiana. Score: Nine point zero (9.0).”

Tiana let out a whoop of relief. She had excelled! Her Scribe logic had delivered an almost flawless score, providing enough cushion to make up for her Balance Trial.

Finally, it was my turn.

I took my position, drawing on the visualization. I saw the line. I saw the movement. My hands were steady, my grip perfect.

I started quickly, but unlike Jax, my speed was measured. The first fifteen darts were nearly perfect and one hundred percent accurate. I achieved critical hits on 14 out of 15. The problem was the pace of the randomized targets.

In the final ten seconds, I had five darts left, and I threw them in a rush, desperate to use them up. Two missed completely.
I knew it was a pass, but it wasn't a ten.

Vanya announced the score: “Keys, Irene. Score: Eight point two (8.2).”

I had passed easily, adding an excellent score to my 10.0, but the result stung. I had traded the 10.0 for an 8.2. I was good, but not perfect.

I stepped away, taking deep, calming breaths, just in time to see Prince Cassian take his station.

He didn't bother with a warm-up. He simply stood, a dark pillar of controlled intensity. He glanced at me once, a razor-sharp look that acknowledged my score, and dismissed it.

When the clock started, Cassian was a whirlwind of controlled, brutal efficiency. He threw not with elegance, but violently and precisely. His technique was designed purely for speed and devastation. He didn't hesitate. Where I paused to confirm, Cassian relied on instinct. He threw thirty darts in fifty-five seconds, a time that dwarfed Jax's reckless pace.

His darts blurred in the air, impacting the targets with loud, flat thuds. The targets simply couldn't move fast enough to escape him.
When the timer hit zero, Cassian was breathing steadily, his copper eyes fixed on the scores.

Vanya announced the result: “Solis, Cassian. Score: Nine point eight (9..”

The whole Training Grounds stopped. It was the highest score of the day, proving his superiority in the dynamic environment of accuracy. He had won the round.

He turned and walked directly toward me, not with the lazy arrogance of yesterday, but with the focused, hard satisfaction. He stopped just inches from my face, his scent of spice and leather flooding my senses.

“An 8.2, Keys,” he murmured, his voice low, in a sneer. “A respectable score. Solid. Boring. You hesitated. That extra microsecond you took admiring the line? That's what separates the artist from the warrior.”

His victory was infuriating, but the way he looked at me, scrutinizing my expression for a the tiniest of cracks in my composure, sent a sharp jolt through me, something far beyond rivalry.

“My overall score remains the best,” I countered, keeping my voice level, though my hands were clenched.

“Only because you got lucky with the simple test yesterday,” he dismissed, leaning closer until I could feel the heat radiating off him. “I know your weakness now, Keys. You are good at stillness, but you are afraid of the speed of the fight. And I promise you, the remaining two trials are built for speed and aggression, Irene” He let the word Irene hang between us. That was the first time he had actually addressed me by my name.

He straightened, a slight, predatory smile curving his lips. “Enjoy your lead, Artist. I intend to erase it tomorrow.”

He spun on his heel and strode back to his cohort, leaving me utterly humiliated, yet burning with an intense resolve. I wasn't just fighting for my life anymore, I was fighting to wipe that smug look off his face.

I needed a moment to regain my composure before joining my group, so I took the long way around the perimeter, passing the observation deck where Cassian and the Crimson Elite were gathered. I walked slowly, pretending to stretch, catching snippets of their conversation.

“I don't understand it,” Kaelin said, her voice sharp with annoyance. She reached out, her fingers just brushing Cassian's shoulder something, he immediately ignored. “It’s an 8.2, Solis. A respectable pass. She's predictable now. Why are you focusing on her? You've spent more time analyzing the Keys recruit than preparing for Strength.”

Cassian turned, running a hand roughly through his dark hair, in frustration. “Because I can't get the ten-point-zero out of my head,” he snapped, his voice, a controlled whisper. “She shouldn't have achieved it. It’s distracting. Every time I calculate my own score, I run hers through my head. It’s a waste of energy and I can't seem to stop.”

Darian leaned back, a smirk playing on his lips. “It sounds less like a strategic analysis and more like an obsession, Cassian. You're wasting time on an Artist because she bothers you personally.”

“It's not personal,” Cassian argued, though the defensiveness in his tone betrayed him. “She is wrong for this environment, and yet she thrives. I need to know why she moves the way she does, why she doesn't break, and why I keep wasting my time thinking about her.”
Kaelin looked furious. “You are letting a distraction take root, Solis. That is a weakness.”

Cassian met his friend's gaze. “Then I will turn the weakness into strength. I will prove that my focus is powerful enough to crush her flawless average. I will not lose to an Artist.”

I sped up my pace, my skin prickling. He wasn't just competing with me, he was consumed by me, like a puzzle he was determined to solve. That was disturbing.

As I finally rounded the corner toward my own group, I had to walk right past Cassian’s table. Kaelin was standing, blocking the direct path.

Kaelin’s dark eyes locked onto mine. There was no anger. “Don't let Tiana Vaan's score distract you, Keys,” she murmured. “A Scribe's high score in Accuracy is expected. Your average is fragile.”

I kept walking, forcing myself not to acknowledge what she had said.

“And try not to dance through the Trial of Strength,” Kaelin added, her expression stone-hard, when I didn’t respond. “You might find yourself crushed.”

I paused, just long enough to meet her stare. “I'll try to use force, Kaelin,” I said, my voice steady. “But I promise to use elegance when I pass you.”

I continued walking, but Darian, who was leaning against the railing, stayed put. He offered a slight nod.

“Ignore Kaelin,” Darian said quietly, his voice neutral but not unkind. “And Cassian. They hate anything that breaks the mold. That 10.0 you got? That wasn't luck. Just try not to break yourself trying to prove them wrong on Strength, Artist.”

He didn't wait for a reply, just pushed off the railing and followed Kaelin, leaving me with a surprisingly strange mix of emotions.
_______________________________________________________________________________

I joined Tiana and the others, trying to appear unaffected. Tiana, however, was radiating joy.

“Irene! I got a nine point zero! It worked! The visualization, the math, it worked!” she whispered excitedly.

“Yes, it did,” I said, forcing a genuine smile for her. “We all passed. We are all safe for now.”

Alistair nodded, looking at Tiana with respect. “Tiana's result confirms the Scribe method works. We must maintain focus.”

“I scored an 8.8, which is great, but I lost to the Prince,” Jax grumbled, shaking his head. “He’s a machine.”

Seraphina looked at my 8.2 and then at Cassian's platform. “He's right about the hesitation, Keys. You can’t stop to think here. It's kill or be killed. You need to channel the aggression.”

“He just gave us the strategy for the next two days,” I said, looking over at Cassian, who was now engaged in a serious discussion with Kaelin. “Speed and aggression. Fine. We adapt.”

“Aggression is exactly what you need for the Trial of Strength,” Seraphina cut in, her eyes narrowed in thought. “That trial is designed to test us in combat, Irene. You have to face another recruit in the ring. Your overall score is high, but this is your greatest weakness.”

Alistair thought for a moment. “My calculations show that winning relies on maintaining a center of gravity while hitting you opponent. You need to work on absorbing and delivering impact. We need to focus on low stances, core defense, and utilizing your momentum for sweeps and throws.”

“We can teach you the basic defensive and offensive tactics,” Jax offered, rolling his shoulders easily. “It's about controlling the space. You just decide that you're faster than them. and then pure force.”

“We have time,” Tiana announced, checking the updated schedule posted on the wall. “The Commander's orders just came through: There's been a delay. Apparently, there was a minor security breach, they're blaming 'disruptive elements' but everyone knows it's the rebels near the perimeter. The Trial of Strength is postponed by one full day. That gives us forty-eight hours, not twenty-four.”

“Rebels?” I questioned.

“Oh yeah, there has been tons of attacks from them, something about wanting to stop the Circlet from choosing our professions. But all of them have been easily shut down by our army.” Tiana explained.

“Huh,” I replied. I had never thought about a life without the Circlet, but I imagined many things would change.

“You guys are getting distracted! This is a good thing, we can use every minute of that delay. Tiana, Alistair, you analyze Warrior combat stances. And me and, Jax will drill Irene on impact and defense. We won't be caught hesitating or lacking force again.”

Later, lying alone in my cot, the Circlet humming softly, I thought about Cassian’s look. He was mad that I existed, but he couldn't stop looking at the weakness that I was. I felt the hot sting of tears trying to surface again. I was ashamed of the 8.2, ashamed I couldn’t do better, ashamed I was now branded weak. But I would not be that way no longer.

I was done being the delicate artist. If he wanted aggression, I would give him aggression.

It was my time to prove my worth, and my time to prove that motherfucker wrong.

THE MANDATORY rest day, a bizarre gift because of the rebels, was anything but a rest. The barracks felt like an oven, not from heat, but from the amount of nervous energy of the rest of us one hundred recruits facing elimination. The casual mention of ‘disruptive elements’, the Academy’s nickname, which had turned into a joke, for the growing rebels had stripped away any academic competition. This wasn't a school, it was a forge for weapons, and any recruit who couldn't handle the hammer would be thrown away.

We claimed a secluded, dusty corner of the hangar, near a wall of stacked supply crates that offered a flimsy shield from the patrolling instructors. Tiana and Alistair, sat hunched over discussing and translating Warrior aggression into numbers. They calculated leverage points against common moves, sweeps, hip throws, and body checks. Seraphina, the cold professional, worked to refine my defensive posture. But the relentless pressure and physical abuse came from my primary drill partner: Jax.

He was a natural Heir Lineage athlete, powerful and impossibly fast. He moved with the grace of someone who had never known physical weakness, something deeply frustrating to a dancer like me.

“You're fighting gravity, Artist,” Jax grunted, effortlessly dodging my clumsy attempt at a low kick. He wore the regular sparring armor, but even so, the impacts of his blocks sent painful vibrations through my limbs. “You move like you're trying to float. You dance around the strike instead of channeling the impact through your bones, down into the ground. You need to anchor yourself. Root your feet! You can’t use that beautiful momentum of yours if you don't commit to the collision.”

He demonstrated a proper defensive stance, knees bent, core tight, his center of gravity unmoving, immovable. “When you strike, you don't use your arm, you use your whole body. You transfer the momentum, spinning into the throw. Imagine you're drawing a perfect, heavy circle on the ground, and your opponent is standing on that line. You don't ask for the space; you take the line. You own the space.”

I tried again, teeth gritted, ignoring the burning ache in my thighs. I forced myself to channel the energy into my core. I drove forward, aiming for his shoulder. The strike was stiff, ugly, and lacked the smooth arc of my dance training, but it hit with a good amount of strength and force that surprised both of us.

“Better!” he called out, his eyes gleaming. “Where did you get that low stance from? It's almost... Darian's style.”

I froze, pushing a sweaty lock of hair back. “Darian? The other guy in Cassian’s pact?”

Jax’s easy grin vanished, replaced by a tight, strained expression. He immediately looked down, fiddling unnecessarily with a buckle on his armor. The confident Heir had evaporated, leaving behind a boy caught between deep loyalty and a painful memory. “Yeah. Him. He's got good leverage. Fast. Just... fast.” He wouldn't meet my eyes for a full, tense minute, focused instead on a tiny scuff mark on the hangar floor.

I watched him. Jax’s crush on the quiet, surprisingly neutral Darian was immediate and clear and I giggled. It was a secret poorly disguised.

“We were close, years ago,” Jax murmured, the words barely audible over the clang of metal on metal from other training sessions. He sighed. “We met in the lower training halls. Before the trials, before the lines were drawn so clearly between the Heirs and the Warriors. We were just two kids who liked running drills. We used to sneak out of curfew to practice disarms down by the old riverbank. We were a team.” He seemed sad, almost nostalgic, like he was remembering the good old days.

“But the moment Cassian started putting together his Elite pact and I wasn’t good enough, the moment he won his first major victory and claimed Darian as his lead Warrior, Darian cut ties. He still said hi but the relationship between us was different.” Jax clenched his fist, the padded glove squeaking in protest. “It was the most efficient, painful severance I’ve ever seen. That’s the Warrior way, I guess. No sentiment. No looking back.”

“But even now, I know Darian,” Jax continued, his voice regaining some conviction, a flicker of hope igniting. “He’s not like Kaelin, with all her sharp, desperate ambition. Kaelin is driven by power and fear. Darian is driven by honor and duty. He's an honorable Warrior. He doesn't thrive on cruelty or chaos. He respects strength where he sees it, even if it’s from an Artist. He's a good person.”

“He was surprisingly fair to me yesterday,” I mused, trying to keep my tone casual. “He said my ten point zero wasn't luck and he tried to warn me about Strength.”

Jax looked up quickly, his face flashing with surprise, followed by a soft, genuine smile. “See? Darian's like that. He sees things honestly. He knows the difference between luck and skill. He’s better than them, Irene. Honestly, all of them are better than you think. Except Kaelin.” He trailed off.

I nodded slowly, absorbing the insight. “So he’s like stuck? Well he needs someone to get him out!” I said softly, looking away toward the viewing deck where the Elite often sat, calculating.
Jax’s cheeks colored slightly, and he immediately cleared his throat, pushing the moment away. “Enough analysis. We have thirty-six hours left and we need to work, or else we won’t even be alive. Seraphina, you’re up. Hit her like a runaway freight car, and Irene, you need to stay upright.”

For the next four hours, the training was relentless. Seraphina was ruthless, treating me like a training dummy.

“You’re anticipating the strike,” she lectured, after knocking me flat for the fifth time, the impact vibrating through the stone floor. “The Warrior doesn't block, they redirect. You have to move with the force, not against it. Your Artist's body is flexible, Irene. Use that to roll, to pivot, to absorb! Anything but lay there on the floor!”

Tiana and Alistair offered Scribe support as well. “Irene,” Alistair called out, reading from his slate. “Against a vertical shoulder charge, the kinetic energy calculation suggests a successful deflection can be achieved with a minimal lateral step of fifteen centimeters to the left, because seventy percent of the force goes into the ground. You have to commit to that tiny pivot.”

I focused on Alistair's data, ignoring the pain that had become a constant, dull throb. Math. It wasn't about strength, it was about the perfect angle. I forced my dancer's muscle memory, used to precision and elegance to accept the necessary angles of combat.

I lay in my cot that night, every muscle screaming a protest against the violence I’d forced upon them. I felt like a piece of beautiful, fragile glass that had been hammered and hammered and hammered into the shape of a shield. I felt like a failure. And maybe I was.

The pressure of the 10.0 was immense. It was a perfect score that now felt like a curse, a promise I couldn't keep. It meant I wasn't allowed to be average. It meant everything lower than that would be a failure in the future, the 8.2 hesitation, and the inevitable low score on Strength. I needed a 7.0 to pass but after what had happened in my training, I wasn’t sure I could achieve that.

My failure in Accuracy had come down to me doubting myself, the split second I spent admiring the line instead of committing to the throw.

Irene, the Dancer, was afraid of collision.

The rebel rumors added to my fear. The Academy needed its new soldiers faster and tougher than ever. Failures wouldn't just be eliminated, they could be liabilities. I had to pass. For my family, for my pact, and to wipe the smug certainty off Cassian’s face.

I turned my head on the thin pillow, focusing on the silhouette of the vents above. Defend your center. Use their aggression against them. A solid base cannot be toppled. I let the mantra become the only thought in my mind, and I attempted to drown out the fear until I was too exhausted to think any longer.
_____________________________________________________________________________
The fourth day arrived, and it was the day of the Trial of Strength. The air in the Central Training Yard was scared and frightened. The rebel attack had raised the bar for everyone.
The Trial was held in the central fighting pit, a wide circle of stone surrounded by a caged viewing areas. The metallic clang of impacts echoed as the first pairs began their matches.
Commander Vanya stood above the pit. “Recruits, this is the Trial of Strength. You will be matched against a peer. The objective is to defeat your opponent by knockdown, submission, or incapacitation within a three-minute period. Intentional injury will be penalized, but victory demands force. Minimum score is 7.0.”

The first two hours were a blur of violence, but I focused only on the matches of people I knew.
Jax was put against a large, slow Warrior recruit named Ace who relied purely on brute force. The gong sounded, and the Warrior charged, roaring. Jax didn't meet the force. Instead, he danced, circling the Warrior with agility. He became a blur of controlled motion. When he finally threw a wild, heavy punch, Jax pivoted perfectly, utilizing the exact counter-leverage Tiana had calculated. He executed a precise ankle sweep, tripping the heavier opponent. The Warrior crashed down, landing with a painful thud that shook the arena. Jax stood over him, breathing hard but victorious.

Commander Vanya announced the score: “9.1.” A great score.

Thirty minutes later, Tiana was matched against a smaller, aggressive recruit named Illiya. Tiana, tall and slender, looked utterly out of place in the pit. But she had been watching, analyzing, and calculating. As her opponent darted in, Tiana didn't strike or block, she waited.
She allowed Illiya to commit to a complex grapple, and then, at the precise moment, she executed a rapid, almost invisible series of movements. It wasn't muscle, it was pressure. She used Illiya’s own wrist and elbow joint and bent it causing the recruit to cry out and immediately disengage, grasping their injured arm. The win was fast, technical, and clean, and was a pure victory of intellect over instinct. Tiana gave a small, clinical nod to her opponent at the end.

Commander Vanya announced her score as 8.5.

My heart hammered against my bruised ribs. Jax had won on agility, Tiana on calculation. Now it was my turn, and I didn't have either of those skills. I had only my fear, and a desperate hope for a clean defense.

Then Vanya’s voice cut the air, making my blood run cold and silencing the stands.

“Recruit Keys, Irene against Recruit Kaelin.”

Kaelin stepped into the pit. She moved with purpose, ready to fight. Her dark eyes, usually cold and analytical, were burning with fury. I was terrifyingly aware that she didn't look like she wanted to win a trial, she looked like she wanted to settle a grudge and eliminate a rival for her Prince’s attention. Every part of me. Artist, recruit, human wanted to turn and run. I fought the instinct, forcing myself to step onto the cold stone.

I saw my friends, my pact in the stands, Tiana and Alistair’s faces were white with fear, and Jax was screaming instructions that the distance and the roar of the crowd swallowed. I took the lowest stance I could manage, anchoring my feet, trying to project the strength and courage I didn't feel.

The gong sounded. The three minutes began.

Kaelin didn't bother with a strategy. She launched herself across the pit with terrifying, focused speed. I barely managed to raise my padded forearms in time to block the first blow, a heavy, bone-jarring impact to my ribs. It wasn't just strength, it was pure, channeled hatred, aimed with the precision of a trained Warrior. The impact was so severe, I felt a flash of white-hot pain and my lungs struggled trying to refill.

Defend your center! Alistair’s geometry!

I used Jax’s defensive posture, dropping my weight even lower, making myself a smaller, harder target. Kaelin’s blows rained down left, right, body check. I was too slow to counter. I felt panic rising, demanding I retreat, demanding I dance away from the danger.

Kaelin landed a kick to my thigh, sending a jolt of pain and numbness up my leg. I staggered backwards, and she pounced on me immediately. She followed with a knee to my midsection, and she forced all the remaining air out of my lungs as I gasped attempting to regain air. My vision greyed, and I stumbled backward, clutching my side. She followed.

“You are a distraction and a weakness, Artist!” she hissed. “The Prince is wasting his focus on your impossible score! This is where you end! You are nothing but a weakness!”

She wasn't trying to win on points, she was trying to ensure I wouldn't compete again. She slammed me against the cold stone wall, the impact vibrating through my teeth. Time seemed to stretch. I could hear Seraphina screaming now, her voice raw. Kaelin wound up for a final, crippling blow.

I knew I couldn't block it. My body was frozen, in pain and shock. I squeezed my eyes shut, not in surrender, but bracing for the impact that would end this trial and maybe my life at the Academy and forever.

But the blow never landed.

A knife zoomed down and split us apart and I gasped a sigh of relief before crumpling to the floor.

A commanding voice ripped through the entire arena, a voice that held the authority of royalty and the fury of a Warrior, a very mad Warrior.

“Kaelin! Disengage! That is sufficient force. Withdraw now.”

It was Cassian. He had intervened.

He had been watching from the highest deck, his face unreadable, but his intervention was immediate and total. Kaelin froze, her momentum instantly arrested, her muscles quivering with rage and frustrated loyalty. The interruption visibly shattered her focus. She looked up at the viewing area, her eyes wide with shock and confusion, the hatred in them momentarily diverted. The crowd hushed, stunned by the display of conflict within the Crimson Elite.

In that split second, the one Kaelin lost to Cassian's command, I saw my opening, a desperate, clumsy, last-ditch chance. I used the last sliver of my Artist's momentum, converting Kaelin’s own halted aggression into a force. I dropped even lower, hooked her nearest ankle with my foot, executing a desperate, clumsy move Jax had drilled into me: the low trip, designed to topple an anchored opponent.

She went down with a surprised, heavy crash, the sound echoing in the silence of the pit.
I had knocked her down. The brief, triumphant relief was instantaneous and overwhelming. But the cost was too high. The pain in my ribs, the lack of air I had, and the terror of all of Kaelin's hits and that fact that I was just about to die, combined into a wave of dizziness. The world tilted and spun uncontrollably. I tried to stand, tried to raise a triumphant fist and claim the victory I had just bought with my last ounce of energy, but my legs failed. My muscles had surrendered.

I collapsed onto the cold stone floor, the impact sending another shockwave through my body. I saw the frantic blur of medics rushing into the pit, and Cassian’s face, flash into something dark, protective, and focused in his copper eyes before the world faded to an endless black.
A sharp, metallic voice, Commander Vanya’s final judgment, cut through the fading darkness, the final word a crushing certainty that echoed in the silence of my mind.

“Recruit Keys, Irene. Score: Six point three (6.3). Failed.”

I had failed and then I collapsed on the ground.

THE FIRST thing I registered when I awoke was a hospital smell. It was like a mixture of metal and strong soap. It was really strong. So strong, that it felt like it was cleaning out my lungs, which hurt every time I took a breath anyway.

The smell was nothing like the smell of the fighting pit, sweat and the dust which was the last thing I really remembered. Other than the fact that I had failed. When I finally opened my eyes, all I could see was a ceiling of plastic. Perfect, stupid white plastic. It was the kind of ceiling that told you you were in a very expensive place, a very scary place. The Academy infirmary.

I tried to move a little bit, to roll my shoulders, anything, but a really sharp jolt of pain, when I moved, reminded me of Kaelin. It was like she was standing right there, still, aiming that punch at me and my body still remembered the impact of her heavy knee to my side.

I had to stop breathing for a second because it hurt so much. A little machine next to the bed, a monitor, started beeping faster and louder, like it was mad at me for moving. Why? I didn’t know. But then it went back to a soft, steady rhythm, like nothing was wrong at all, which was utterly stupid because everything felt wrong and terrible inside of me.

I slowly touched the crimson bracelet on my wrist. It was cold, like ice, even though my skin was sweating and I was so so hot. It was a reminder. A reminder of my failure. I was a failure. And there was no way I could make up for this loss in my next trial. Not when I was like this.
I didn’t just lose the match against Kaelin, I had completely lost control of my body and my plan. And my mind kept playing the worst part over and over, that cold, loud voice of Commander Vanya: “Six point three (6.3). Failed.”

A tear finally broke free. It wasn’t the pain that made me start crying. The pain I was used too. The pain was dull, despite how big it was. It was the number that hurt. The failure that hurt. The 10.0 in Balance had been this amazing, perfect moment, like a beautiful dream I had accidentally walked into. But the 6.3, the failure, this felt like the real truth about me.

I was just Irene, the dancer. The 10.0 wasn’t me. That was me pretending to be strong like a Warrior, and my body had totally blown my cover. It failed the test, and now I was going to be sent home.

The infirmary was quiet. Like a tomb, separated from the noisy barracks by really thick walls. A lonely, isolated bubble where they dealt with failures, like me and got them ready to be thrown out of the Academy. I felt completely hopeless.

A hand, suddenly warm and strong, covered my own, and I jumped. It hurt my ribs again, and I gasped.

“Don't move, Irene,” Tiana’s voice was right there. It was so soft, not her usual sharp, smart voice, but gentle. She was sitting by the bed, leaning in and watching the annoying little monitor. Her whole face looked tired and stressed, like she hadn’t slept. “You have three fractured ribs. They’re sealed up with the gel, but you need to be perfectly still for the nanites to do their work. They’re working hard right now.”

“Tiana, I… I messed up everything,” I managed to whisper, and it felt like my voice was breaking glass inside my chest.

“I know. Shhh. Just breathe slowly. We're here.”

The door to the room opened, and Jax burst in first, full of energy, followed by Alistair and Seraphina. Jax looked wrecked, his hair was messy, and his hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his training pants. He looked like he wanted to punch something but couldn't find a target. “They won't tell us how long she’s stuck here. Did they patch her up? Is she breathing okay?”

“Jax, calm down,” Seraphina commanded, but even her face was tight and serious. Seraphina never loses her cool, but she looked down at me, and her tough Warrior face actually cracked a little. “Kaelin is a psychopath. She went too far. Commander Vanya penalized her for the excessive force, which is unheard of. But Irene, you got the knockdown. That was incredible. Nobody saw that coming. Not even Kaelin.”

“It wasn't enough,” I choked out, and the bitterness was so strong it tasted like acid in my mouth. “It was 6.3. It’s below the minimum score for the trial. I failed. I’m done.” The thought of facing my family after failing hurt worse than my ribs.

Alistair stepped forward. “You have the Trial of Speed left. If you pass that with a 7.0 you will be safe.” He stopped, swallowing hard. “But the final trial is tomorrow morning.”

The final trial. The words were heavy, a physical blow to my gut that somehow bypassed the nanites. The ultimate test. I remembered the schedule from the bulletin board the Trial of Speed.

“Speed…” Jax repeated, running a hand through his copper hair. He was pacing by the door now. “It’s usually some complex maze or puzzle but after the Kaelin incident and the rebel attacks, everything has changed. They might make it single combat again, or a maze where you have to move fast. I think it might be an obstacle course.”

The thought of moving, of fighting, of even standing up tomorrow was completely unbearable, impossible. My body felt like a thousand tiny shards of glass, held together only by some sticky tape m, that could fall apart any second.

“I can't,” I whispered, turning my face away so they couldn't see how scared I was. The exhaustion was overwhelming. “I just can’t do it. I won't move fast enough. My ribs will break open. I’ll be slow. I’ll bring you all down with me, and you all have great scores.” I didn't want to be the reason my pact failed.

Tiana stopped looking at the monitor and leaned closer, stroking my hand gently with her thumb. “Listen to me, Irene. This is important. Kaelin targeted you because you are an outlier. She fears you. You were faster than she expected you to be. You got the knockdown. That 6.3 wasn't a failure, it was just bad physics because she hit you with too much force, and you were hurt. But listen to the data.”

Alistair cleared his throat and pointed a precise finger at his slate. “Your score jumped dramatically after the knockdown. It saw the perfect moment. It recorded the efficiency of that last pivot, the one where you finally committed to the throw, as a 9.9 in Kinetic Adaptation. It just needs you to hold out until it can calculate a full, high-scoring win.” He paused, his face serious. "You may be bruised, but you are not broken. If you can move, you must compete. That score is in you.”

Seraphina spoke last. “If you quit now, Kaelin wins. Not just the match, but the war. She eliminates the distraction without taking the risk of being eliminated herself. She proves that fear and brute force beat talent and intelligence. Do you let her win?”

The challenge, the cold logic of Seraphina's words, hit me harder than Kaelin’s knee ever did. Do you let her win? The thought of Kaelin’s furious face being satisfied, of her arrogant victory that was enough to make me mad, and make my spine stiffen through the pain.

“No,” I said, the word barely a breath, but it felt strong in the quiet room. “No. I won't.”
I looked at my friends, my accidental pact, the Scribe, the Heir, the Rogue Warrior. We were such a weird group, but we were family, the only family I had here. “I'll be there. I’ll take the trial. But I’ll need enough nanites to keep me upright and focused for three hours. And Tiana, you need to calculate the minimum movement I can use.”

Tiana smiled, a genuine, warm relief washing over her face that made her look ten years younger. “That, my Artist, we can definitely arrange. We will calculate every step.” Jax let out a long, shaky sigh and stopped pacing, giving me a huge grin.

I grinned as well, finally letting myself relax, letting the pressure release. It seemed everyone was nervous. “How did you guys do in Strength?” I asked, mostly to Seraphina and Alistair because I had collapsed before I had gotten to see them compete in the Trial.

“9.5,” Seraphina replied quickly. My jaw dropped. Other than my 10.0 that was the next closest which was crazy. NINE POINT FIVE. In strength? That was insane.

“Holy shit Seraphina! That's amazing!!” I exclaimed, “Dang it, I'm so sad I missed that... Did you wipe the shit out of whoever you fought?”

“Oh hell yeah she did! She knocked him out in under a minute!!” Alistair exclaimed.

We all turned to look at him. “Since when does Alistair swear?” Tiana asked.

“What?” he exclaimed, “Jax taught me.”

We burst out laughing. Except I paid the price for that. The laughs turned into coughs and the fun turned into sheer pain. I winced.

“Hey, hey, take it easy, Irene!” Tiana said, running over to me. “No laughing you guys!” Tiana scolded.

“Yes ma'am!” Jax replied. I just smiled. My pact, my friends, they were so goofy. They were my new family. And for that reason, not just because of Kaelin, for them too, I had to bear the pain. I had to survive this trial, I had to pass. Because I didn't want to lose them. I had already lost my old life, I wasn't going to lose this new one I had built as well.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

The medics released me just before midnight. They pumped me full of pain suppressors and acceleration patches all over my chest. It made walking only a tad bit of an unpleasant experience instead of an agonizing one, which was a huge improvement. I stumbled back to the dark barracks.

I slipped into my cot, trying to be silent so I wouldn't wake anyone up, and I pulled the thin blanket over my body.

I tried to sleep. I really tried. I closed my eyes and focused on the spinning of the fans above me, the annoying noise, trying to let it drown out the noise in my head. But it didn't work. Every time I breathed a little too deep, pain flared up in my side. And every time I drifted toward sleep, I saw Kaelin’s face, and heard the Commander’s voice: 6.3. Failed.

The thought of the Trial of Speed tomorrow was impossible. How could I run? How could I be as fast and efficient as the Academy wanted when I was held together like puzzle pieces with glue? I couldn't face it, but I couldn't quit, either. I was trapped.

After what felt like an hour of sitting in silence, I realized I couldn’t stay there. I needed air. I needed to move, even just a little, or I would break right here. And I could not have that.
I carefully slipped out of the cot, wincing as my feet touched the cold floor. Moving slowly, I grabbed a thin cloak to cover my medical patches, and silently eased the barracks door open.
The Academy grounds at night were different. The moon caused everything to be bathed in a silver glow making the huge stone buildings look different. The air was cool which was a relief after the stuffy barracks.

I walked toward an area I knew, a small stone balcony near the main hall. It overlooked the training field, and the end of the River Glass and was high up, quiet, offering a sense of distance from the others, something I desperately needed.

I reached the stone railing, and relief washed over me. I leaned my hands on the railing and gazed out in the distance. It felt safe.

But the moment was instantly broken.

I saw him.

He was already there, leaning against the railing at the far end of the balcony, completely still. He didn’t make a sound. Dressed in the same plain, midnight-blue training gear blending into the shadows standing there was Cassian.

My heart hammered against my bruised ribs. I froze, not daring to move, or speak.

He didn't startle or jump. He just slowly turned his head, and in the silver light spilling onto the railing, I saw his copper eyes, intense, and instantly focused entirely on me.

“Irene Keys,” he said, his voice low and resonant. “You should be resting.”

“So should you, Prince,” I whispered back, trying to find a posture that felt less like a terrified mouse. “What are you doing out here?”

He took a slow step toward me, and the air immediately thickened, as if it was intimidated by him.

“I came to see if you were still functional,” he said, and this time, the words were not flat, but held a dangerous sense of curiosity.

“I failed. You have your answer,” I retorted, trying to sound defiant even though I was shaking inside. “My score was 6.3. I’m below standard. You can relax now. Kaelin achieved her goal of seeing me fail the trial.”

He looked down at me, as if assessing me from head to toe, taking in my pale face and the cloak I held tight against my side. He didn't scoff. Instead, he stopped, leaning back against the railing.

“Kaelin's goal was not to see you fail, her goal was to ensure you never stand again,” he corrected, his voice dropping further, barely above a whisper, like he was sharing a huge secret.
“My goal was to ensure you understood the cost of a 10.0 score. An Artist with that kind of potential creates enemies, Irene. Especially inside the Elite.”

“And you saved me,” I challenged. “You stopped her. You actually stopped her before she delivered the final blow, even when she was fighting for you. Why?”

He was silent for a long moment, staring out at the dark training field. The silence was thick with whatever difficult thoughts he was having.

“I did not save you,” he finally said, looking at the distant, empty field. “I enforced the rules. Excessive force is inefficient. It is unnecessary and leaves messy politics for the Academy to deal with. Kaelin has become… jealous.”

“That's a total lie,” I insisted, forcing myself to stand straighter. “You let her bruise me, break my ribs, and push me to the very brink of consciousness. But you stopped her when she was going for the kill shot. You interfered in a critical trial just to keep me in the game, Prince Cassian.”

His eyes finally dropped back to mine, and for the first time, the coldness was gone. They were guarded, almost troubled. There was a flicker of something raw and intensely focused in their depths.

“Perhaps I needed you to understand that survival in this system is not about achieving perfect, artistic perfection. It’s about adaptation,” he conceded, the subtle shift in his tone making my heart pound. “That knockdown... the way you used her paused momentum? That was efficiency. That was an acceptable response. The Circlet registered a 9.9 in Kinetic Adaptation in that last sequence. The data shows you just ran out of breath before you could secure a clean victory.”

He paused again, then looked pointedly at my injured side.

“Tomorrow is Speed,” he said, his voice barely a breath, demanding my attention. “It is the final test where the lack of pure physical speed is unforgiving. It measures not just muscle, but the swiftness of adaptation. The only place where a quick, decisive mind can overcome a slow body. You are currently at a 7.84 average. Fail tomorrow, and you will be eliminated from the Academy permanently.”

“But I’m injured,” I whispered, the fear finally bubbling out. “I can barely move. I will be too slow.”

He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a low, powerful murmur that felt like a secret between us and the night.

“Then do not run, Artist” he commanded. “You can't be faster than them, but you can be smarter than them. Use your mind and your precision to conserve energy and move with flawless, calculated efficiency, turning the Trial of Speed into a Trial of Kinetic Geometry”

“And what do you care about my elimination?” I asked, completely confused by his motives. “Why would the Heir to the throne care if one Artist is sent home?”

He finally looked directly into my eyes, and for the first time, I saw not the arrogant mask, but a young man carrying an impossible, enormous burden. A burden of expectation and control.
“I care about integrity,” he said. “A 10.0, a perfect score, should not be erased by a 6.3 failure. Fix your data, Irene. Win the trial. Don't let your potential become a mess. Survive, and stay out of Kaelin's way.”

He straightened up, but didn't wait for a reply or offer any soft encouragement, only that strange command. I must survive. I didn't understand why. Why did he care so much?

However he did reach out a hand. He didn't touch my face, but his thumb inside of his glove came up and wiped away a smear of dirt, or maybe it was dried blood, just below my eye. The contact was brief, cold, and electrifying. It left a burning trail where his skin hadn't quite met mine. It felt possessive, like he was marking his property.

“Go back inside. Rest. And remember that the line of least resistance is often the path to victory.”

He turned and walked toward the far end of the balcony, disappearing back into his barracks without a sound. I stood there, my ribs aching, heart pounding, until I finally realized that the mysterious Prince Cassian had given me a direct order. The spot where his thumb had brushed my skin still tingled, and was somehow more distracting than the throbbing ache in my ribs. I had to survive. I had to fix the data. He was watching me.

I closed my eyes, focusing on the only certainty I had left. Tomorrow, in the Trial of Speed, I would either rise or fall forever. And I had the Prince of Solis telling me, in his own scary way, that I had to win.

Reducio

this one came ut as 26 percent AI which i pray is fine but I seriously don't want to edit my own writing just because AI detectors think its not mine