The prayer hall was silent except for the soft, collective breathing of two hundred first-years and the faint, ethereal hum of the glowing seeds in their palms. Sunlight fractured through stained-glass saints, painting the white marble floor in shifting reds, blues, and golds. Eliylra Nystovia stood motionless at the center dais—eyes serene yet watchful—while Elowen Voss paced slowly along the edge of the formation, arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin line.
The trial had begun.
A freckled boy near the front extended shaky fingers. His mana trickled out—thin, flickering green. The seed sprouted a tiny bud… then wilted black in six seconds flat.
"Damn it!" he groaned, kicking the floor. "I barely even started!"
His friend beside him laughed bitterly. "Six seconds? I got four. These things hate us."
