The first-years woke long before sunrise, gathered on the cold training field as mist curled over the stone. No one spoke. Every breath they took felt like it might be their last moment of stillness before the Rite. Even the air carried a charged heaviness, as if the cliffs themselves expected blood.
Serene tightened her gloves with steady fingers, though her pulse hammered fast beneath her ribs. Lira stood beside her clutching her herb pouch. Taren bounced on his heels to hide his nerves. Alden checked the straps on his spear again and again even though nothing was wrong with it. Rowen stood like carved granite, unreadable, watching the empty ring at the far end of the yard.
They were ready.
Or as ready as they could be.
Then a herald appeared on the terrace stairs with a parchment sealed in deep gold. Two instructors flanked him, both stiff and expressionless—like they'd been told not to show opinion. The entire academy turned toward him, breaths held.
He unrolled the parchment.
"In accordance with the Aurellian Knight Academy Charter," he announced, voice amplified by the stone walls, "the Rite of Challenge invoked by First-Year Serene Valehart of the Sword Division will not commence today."
A ripple of shock went through the field.
He continued, tone heavy with ceremonial weight:
"The Rite is an ancient proceeding. Preparations must be made. Grounds must be sanctified. Witnesses appointed. Records formalized. This academy will not conduct a historical trial in haste."
A pause — long, deliberate.
"The Rite will begin tomorrow, at dawn. Until then, all drills, lessons, and training sessions are suspended."
The silence that followed was absolute.
It felt like the sky itself had stopped breathing.
Some first-years sagged with relief. Others stiffened with dread. Kael muttered a curse. Lira's knees nearly gave out from the sudden release of tension. Taren stared open-mouthed, trying to decide whether he was lucky or doomed. Alden exhaled the smallest breath, as if he'd been holding it all night.
Rowen didn't move at all.
And Serene—
Serene simply lowered her gaze once, the shadow of her lashes hiding the calculation behind her eyes.
Not fear.
Not disappointment.
Adjustment.
They would not fight today.
But they would fight.
Tomorrow.
A single delay did not change what was coming.
The herald bowed stiffly, stepped back, and the courtyard emptied with a mix of confusion, whispers, and pounding hearts.
Serene stood alone for a moment, looking toward the main ring where dawn would judge them.
Tomorrow.
A day for the academy to prepare.
A day for the world to watch.
A day for the first-years to prove they would not bend.
She touched the torn lily ribbon at her wrist.
One more day.
Just enough time to turn fear into resolve.
Then suddenly the academy bells rang out in a sequence no student had heard in years—four long tolls, sharp and metallic, echoing across cliff and courtyard, cutting through breakfast halls and dorm corridors like a blade on marble.
Students froze mid-step.
Fourth-years paused on staircases.
Third-years lifted their heads from training manuals.
Second-years went rigid with dread.
First-years felt their stomachs drop.
A horn followed, low and resonant, rolling through the air like thunder.
Only one horn in the academy sounded like that.
The Summoner's Call.
Someone whispered, "Is it… a war drill?"
Another replied, "No. It can't be. That's the charter horn. It means—"
They didn't finish.
Feet rushed toward the main courtyard, hundreds of them, boots pounding stone.
By the time Serene and the first-years stepped out, the entire academy had gathered—nearly five hundred trainees across four ranks, standing in tense semicircles facing the high terrace.
Commander Eira Caldrin appeared at the top of the steps, cloak heavy and motionless in the cold morning air. Her presence alone tightened the courtyard into silence.
Beside her stood the Registrar, two senior clerks holding scrolls, and three instructors from each division—Sword, Lance, and Spirit.
This was not normal procedure.
This was ceremony.
Eira let the silence linger until even the wind felt afraid to pass behind her.
Then she spoke—her voice carrying cleanly, striking the stone walls and returning with authority.
"By decree of the Aurellian Knight Academy," she began, "all regular drills, lectures, and field practices are suspended."
A wave of whispers rolled through the trainees—confused, tense, electrified.
Eira continued, eyes sweeping the mass of students.
"As of dawn today, the academy enters an official period of Rite Suspension."
Every student stiffened.
Even the second-years who caused the entire disaster looked shaken.
The Registrar unfurled the scroll. His voice trembled slightly—not out of fear, but out of the weight of history pressing on his tongue.
"Hear now the formal announcement," he declared.
"In accordance with the Charter of Aurellian, Section Seven, Clause Eleven, Subsection Two—"
Older students gasped.
Younger ones blinked.
Whispers flared then died instantly.
The Rite clause.
The impossible clause.
The one they thought was myth.
"…a Rite of Challenge has been invoked by a first-year Initiate," the Registrar continued, voice steadier now. "Serene Valehart of the Sword Division."
Hundreds of eyes turned to Serene.
Not with awe, not with scorn—
but with the shock reserved for someone who had just broken open a century of silence.
Serene did not flinch.
Eira stepped forward again.
"She invoked the Rite in full legal form," she said.
"Witnessed by: the second-year cohort, the first-year cohort, present attending instructors, and myself."
Rowen's eyes narrowed slightly.
Lira clutched her sleeve.
Kael's jaw tightened with a strange mixture of pride and fury.
Eira's voice sharpened.
"As required by law, the Rite must be honored."
A ripple of chaos broke out—murmurs, disbelief, outrage, excitement—until Eira raised her hand sharply.
Silence snapped down.
"The participants declared in the Rite," she continued, "are the entirety of the First-Year Initiate class and the entirety of the Second-Year Initiate class."
Gasps.
"You mean all of them?"
"Even Spirit Division?"
"Even Lance?"
"This is madness—"
Eira ignored them.
"The Rite Trial will begin tomorrow," she announced, "at second dawn bell, in the Grand Arena."
The words Grand Arena fell like war drums.
It was not a training field.
Not a courtyard.
Not a classroom.
It was the arena used for historical trials, promotions, and once—long ago—for actual combat rites.
It hadn't been opened in decades.
Taren turned pale. "They're putting us in that place?"
"Yes," Serene murmured.
"They have to."
Lira whispered, "Serene… what if we're not ready?"
"We are," Serene said without blinking. "Because we've already endured worse."
Down below, second-years exchanged looks—some furious, some frightened, some trying to mask fear with bravado. Their captain clenched his fists so tight his knuckles went white.
The Registrar continued the decree:
"By academy mandate—
No student from either participating year is permitted to attend regular drills.
No external interference is allowed.
No training instructors are permitted to intervene in any form.
And no student from the upper years may involve themselves in the Rite."
A collective intake of breath swept through the crowd.
Isolation.
Total isolation.
First and second years alone.
"Furthermore," the Registrar added, "during Rite Suspension, both cohorts will be granted restricted access only to assigned training zones. Meals will be delivered separately. Surveillance will be imposed."
Taren muttered, "We're being quarantined like rabid dogs."
Kael said quietly, "No. Like competitors."
Eira raised her voice for the final line.
"By ancient law," she said, "the Rite Trial shall determine standing for the year.
And the academy will accept the result."
Those final words cracked through the air like a strike of steel.
The second-year captain shouted, unable to stay silent:
"Commander! This is insane—how can you allow—"
Eira's gaze snapped to him.
He went still instantly.
"This was not my decision," she said coldly.
"It was granted by law.
And invoked lawfully."
No one spoke after that.
Not a single voice dared.
Eira let the silence deepen before issuing her final order.
"Participants return to your dorms. Prepare. The Rite begins at dawn tomorrow."
The courtyard held its breath as she turned.
Her cloak swept the steps.
The staff followed.
The scrolls closed.
When the terrace emptied, whispers exploded everywhere.
But among all the voices, Serene heard one thing clearly:
Rowen, speaking low beside her.
"You realize," he said, "you have thrown us into history."
Serene didn't look at him.
She only answered:
"No. I reminded the academy that history was never dead."
And as the clouds rolled darker over Aurenheim's sky, every student felt it:
Tomorrow, the academy would no longer be the same.