Chapter 37 – The Last Quiet Before the Exams
The morning air was cold enough to sting Seryn's lungs when he stepped onto the eastern training field. Mist still clung to the ground, curling around the ankles of the students gathering in scattered groups. Three weeks until the end-of-term exams, and the Academy had turned into a forge—everyone heated, sharpened, pushed to their limits.
Seryn stretched his hands, feeling the faint, familiar thrum of mana gathering along his fingertips. It no longer hissed and tore like it used to; the flow had grown smoother, clearer. The ritual reinforcement in his bones and muscles made his stance firmer than a few months ago. He could feel it—every breath sinking deeper, every step heavier and more stable.
Kai waved from across the field, holding a wooden practice blade slung across his shoulder. "You look half-dead already," he shouted. "Did you even sleep?"
"Enough," Seryn answered.
Kai snorted. "That means no."
Rien approached more quietly. His bow hung from his back, and his movements were controlled, precise, as always. He stood beside Seryn without a word, watching the gathering students.
A silent understanding passed between the three of them. There was no room for comfort today—only work.
"Alright," Kai said, cracking his neck. "Warm-up rounds?"
"After mana stabilization," Seryn replied.
"Figures."
Seryn stepped away from them and took his place at the far corner of the field. He raised his left hand, focusing on the mana circulating through the channels under his skin. A thin layer of shimmering light flickered around his forearm—unstable at first, then gradually settling. The beginnings of a mana shield.
Not strong yet. Not enough.
He inhaled and controlled its shape with delicate precision, trimming excess flow, reinforcing weak points. Mana shields were basic spell constructs, but mastering them was far from simple.
He held the shield until his arm trembled, then released it. The light broke apart like dust.
His rituals hummed faintly in his muscles—denser fibers, stronger tendons, reinforced bones. Physical changes that would never fade, only grow. But physical strength alone wasn't enough. Without mana, without control, he wouldn't last a minute in the field exam.
He repeated the spell again.
And again.
By the tenth attempt, his breathing had changed. Patterns stabilized. Lines smoothed.
Progress.
Behind him, Kai and Rien clashed in their own training. Aura burst and pulsed with each strike—a sharp, violent glow around Kai's blade, and a clean, controlled ripple around Rien's quick steps. Aura wasn't something Seryn could wield; its nature was different, tied to body and breath rather than mana.
"Your stance is slipping!" Rien called across the field as Kai overextended.
"Oh, shut up!" Kai yelled back, nearly tripping before catching himself.
Seryn watched them just long enough to understand their pacing. Aura users built rhythm through motion; their bodies were their weapons. And though they couldn't form mana shields the way he could, their barriers—thin pulses of aura hardened by instinct—were strong in their own way.
Instructor Calden walked past a group of mages, correcting hand positions and mana routes with curt gestures. His eyes landed on Seryn for a single moment. Not hostile. Not warm. Simply… measuring.
Seryn could feel it. Those silent evaluations were becoming more frequent.
He returned to his training.
Wind shaping came next—circulating the air around him, forming spirals tight enough to lift dust, then release them without losing control. Lightning practice followed: tiny arcs between his fingers, buzzing like restless insects.
Each part required perfect control.
Each part demanded a different type of focus.
Hours passed. Sweat soaked his collar. Mana surged and settled, surged and settled. His rituals kept his body from collapsing outright, but fatigue gathered under his skin like slow-burning fire.
"Break time," Kai said, walking over with two cups in hand. "You'll cook your brain if you keep going."
"I can go longer."
"You shouldn't," Rien added. "Control exams aren't about power. They're about consistency. Burn yourself too much now, you'll lose stability."
Seryn didn't argue. He took the cup.
They drank water in silence as the sun climbed higher. Somewhere on the opposite side of the grounds, two students were arguing about ranking pressure. Another group practiced spell chains. The tension in the air felt thicker than the humidity.
"Do you feel watched lately?" Kai muttered. "Like… instructors hovering more than usual?"
Rien didn't look away from the field. "Seraphine's been giving orders. She wants progress reports on certain students."
Kai blinked. "Certain students… like?"
Rien's eyes slid toward Seryn.
Kai's mouth fell open. "Wait—you? What did you do?"
"Nothing," Seryn said.
Kai stared at him. "That's what makes it worse!"
Rien continued calmly, "She's testing potential. And danger."
Seryn didn't react on the surface, but a chill crawled slowly down his spine. The gray glow buried deep inside him stirred faintly—as if sensing attention.
He tightened his jaw and forced it still.
No.
Not yet.
He stood. "Back to practice."
Kai groaned. "Of course."
The afternoon was heavier than the morning. Instructors rotated through the fields. Some students struggled with basic spell structure. Others pushed too hard, burning through mana reserves until they collapsed.
Seryn maintained his pace. He worked until his hands shook, until the air around him vibrated with faint heat from repeated spell attempts.
When the sky turned orange, classes finally ended.
Kai lay flat on the grass, panting. "I'm dying."
"You're not," Rien corrected.
"Emotionally," Kai clarified.
Seryn couldn't help a small smirk.
As students left the fields, the Academy returned to its usual rhythms—lanterns lighting one by one, footsteps fading into dorm halls, the lingering scent of burnt mana dispersing with the wind.
Seryn walked alone to the northern tower.
Inside his room, he lit a single candle and spread his notes across the desk. Pages filled with diagrams—mana routes, ritual progression logs, spell corrections. His handwriting grew tighter as the notes went on.
He pressed a hand to his chest.
The gray glow pulsed once. Slow. Heavy. Silent.
A warning.
Or a promise.
He didn't know which.
He whispered t
o himself, "Three weeks. Only three."
Then he dipped his quill in ink and kept writing.
The candle burned long into the night.