Dawn did not rise so much as it bled into the sky.
Aurenheim's cliffs, usually proud and pale, were drowned in a cold, colorless light that felt neither morning nor night. Even the wind seemed muted, as if the world itself refused to speak before the Rite. Mist clung to the academy's edges, not drifting—coiling, waiting, thick as breath held too long.
Inside the first-year dormitory, silence felt alive.
Lira sat stiffly at the foot of her bunk, fingers trembling around a ribbon she had tied and untied ten times. The herb pouch at her hip thudded lightly every time she breathed. She kept glancing toward the hallway, flinching at the faintest sound.
Taren paced from wall to wall, his footsteps uneven. His hands shook whenever he stopped, so he avoided stopping entirely. "I swear my heart is going to jump out," he muttered once—then continued pacing.
Alden was the opposite—motionless. He sat at the corner table, spear laid across his knees, forehead resting on his clasped hands. His breath was controlled, but too controlled. Forced. The kind of discipline that came from someone desperately keeping fear behind a locked door.
Kael stood at the window, back straight, arms folded, as if challenging the horizon to rise faster. His reflection showed faint shadows under his eyes. Anger, fear, pride—everything warred beneath his skin.
Rowen had barely moved since he woke. He sat on his bunk sharpening his blade with slow, rhythmic strokes. Not out of nerves. Not out of habit. Out of ritual. Each scratch of stone against metal felt like a heartbeat in the heavy silence. He didn't speak because words were unnecessary. His presence was enough.
And Serene—
Serene had been awake long before the others stirred.
She sat cross-legged on her bed, sword across her lap, her fingers gently running along the worn metal of the hilt. The torn lily ribbon around her wrist looked fragile, but the knot was firm, tied with the unmistakable certainty of someone who intended to face whatever came next without flinching.
Her eyes were calm. Focused. More awake than the dawn itself.
She felt fear—of course she did.
But fear was familiar.
Fear was something you learned to lace neatly under resolve, the way diplomats laced truth under courtesy.
Outside, a soft toll echoed through the stones.
Once.
Not a training bell.
Not a morning summons.
The single strike of acknowledgment.
Alden lifted his head.
Lira gasped.
Taren froze in place, finally still.
Kael straightened, jaw flexing.
Rowen stood in one fluid motion and slipped his blade into its sheath.
Serene rose last.
She slid her sword into place with a quiet click, smoothed her uniform, and stepped toward the door. She didn't look back to check if the others were following. She didn't need to—they always did.
They walked through the corridor where the torches felt colder, where the walls seemed narrower. Every step echoed too loudly. A few upper-years cracked open doors, eyes wide with morbid curiosity or silent respect. No one spoke to them. No one dared.
At the stairwell, Lira whispered, "Serene… if we lose—"
"We won't," Serene answered softly.
"But if we—"
"We won't."
The firmness wasn't harsh.
It steadied them all.
Kael actually smirked, tension easing from his shoulders.
Taren shook out his hands and muttered, "Right. Right. We won't."
Alden's breath finally evened.
Rowen's gaze lingered on Serene for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
He didn't smile.
He didn't speak.
But something in him shifted—subtle, almost imperceptible.
Recognition.
Respect.
Or perhaps the beginning of a rivalry sharpened by admiration.
Together, they stepped into the courtyard.
And the world erupted into silent awe.
Nearly five hundred students stood gathered.
Third-years lined the balcony railings like statues.
Fourth-years stood behind instructors with arms crossed, eyes narrowed, evaluating the dawn of history.
Healers stood at the ready, their kits open, their gloves already on.
Blacksmith apprentices held extra weapons, shifting nervously.
Whispers rippled through the upper lines like wind in dry grass.
"That's the first-year who invoked it…"
"Is that really Serene Valehart?"
"They're actually going through with this."
"Madness…"
"Courage…"
"Desperation…"
The first-years stepped forward.
Every eye landed on Serene first.
Not because she demanded attention.
Not because she was dramatic.
But because she walked like someone who had already accepted every consequence.
Her expression soft.
Her steps steady.
Her fear hidden beneath precision.
The second-years stood across the courtyard, assembled in a tight formation. Gone was the arrogance of days past. Gone were the smirks and taunts. Their captain stood in front—face tense, pride wounded, dignity coiled like a cornered animal. Their eyes darted between Serene and the arena, calculating.
They expected a pawn.
They had found a declaration.
Commander Eira Caldrin stood at the base of the arena steps, cloak unmoving despite the morning wind. Her jaw was set, her eyes cold and sharp as a drawn blade. Even the fourth-years straightened under her gaze.
She waited until the courtyard fell silent—until even breath seemed a disturbance—before she spoke.
"First and Second-Year Initiates."
Her voice cut through the air with impossible clarity.
"Today, you stand at the threshold of a Rite not invoked for over a century. You will enter the Grand Arena as challengers and as respondents. Your conduct within will decide your standing for the remainder of the year."
A murmur rippled outward, quickly silenced by a single lift of her hand.
"You will be witnessed," she continued, "by myself, by the Registrar, by the Chroniclers, by the instructors of this academy, and by the history of Aurellian."
The word history pressed heavily over the crowd.
Alden's breath hitched.
Lira clutched Serene's sleeve.
Taren wiped his palms on his uniform.
Kael's eyes glinted like tempered steel.
Rowen's gaze shifted only slightly—toward Serene, as if quietly acknowledging that she, too, had chosen to stand in history's shadow.
Commander Eira turned to the second-years.
"You accepted the Rite as law demands. You will uphold that acceptance."
The second-year captain swallowed, but nodded stiffly.
Then Eira turned to Serene.
"And you—Initiate Serene Valehart—have invoked the Rite with complete formal accuracy. You understand the weight of your actions?"
Serene's voice was quiet but unwavering.
"I do."
"You understand what your victory—or failure—will mean?"
"I do."
"You understand," Eira said, voice dipping lower, "that the Rite does not reward courage… only truth?"
Serene met her gaze, steady as stone.
"Yes."
Eira stepped aside.
"Enter the arena."
The second-years marched first, boots thudding with disciplined anger. Their fear turned into determination—they would not be humiliated again. They filed through the wide stone arch like soldiers entering a battlefield.
The first-years stood watch, tension coiled tight.
Taren whispered, "Serene… if you weren't here, I swear I'd have run."
Kael said, "If she weren't here, none of us would be here."
Lira said nothing—she simply squeezed Serene's sleeve once.
Rowen murmured, "No turning back."
Serene answered softly, "Then we won't."
They walked.
Five first-years and Serene, moving as one—not perfect, not trained, but united by something deeper than drills.
When they reached the archway, Serene felt the shift in air—the cold breath of the arena, vast and waiting. She stepped inside. The sand beneath her boots felt foreign, too soft, too honest.
This was where truths were revealed.
This was where the Rite would carve its verdict into stone.
Kael entered next.
Alden.
Lira.
Taren.
Rowen last, his gaze scanning the space like a predator entering unfamiliar terrain.
The moment Rowen's foot crossed the threshold, the arena gates groaned shut with a deep, echoing boom that seemed to vibrate through their ribs.
The outside world vanished behind iron bars.
There were no crowds screaming.
No cheering.
No instructors calling drills.
Only the cold breath of history and the weight of what they had chosen.
The second-year captain raised his spear in silent readiness.
Serene placed her hand lightly against her sword. Not gripping it—only acknowledging it.
Rowen reached the center, standing beside her without needing invitation.
Kael cracked his knuckles.
Alden steadied his breath.
Lira checked her pouch.
Taren shifted his stance nervously.
For a brief moment, the arena was utterly still.
Then Serene exhaled, softly, almost peacefully, and lifted her chin.
"We stand," she whispered.
Rowen repeated it under his breath.
Alden murmured it like a promise.
Lira whispered it like hope.
Taren said it like a prayer.
Kael said it like a threat.
The torches flickered.
The world held its breath.
And the Rite of Challenge…
began.