It was just four days after the Legion Challenge. The grand ballroom of Miravalia's royal palace, the Golden Citadel, glowed with chandeliers lit like captured stars. Velvet banners, bearing the sigils of the kingdom, hung proudly between pillars of white marble. The air buzzed with music and laughter as young mages, fresh from the triumph of the Legion Challenge, celebrated their hard-won victory.
The scent of rosewater and spiced wine lingered in the air. Golden goblets clinked. Boots danced across polished floors. Even the usually solemn guards wore faint smiles at the sight of the future of the kingdom rejoicing in peace.
In the heart of it stood the victors—Princess Evelyn, radiant in a flowing midnight-blue dress, surrounded by her closest companions: Stanley, confident despite his unusual quiet nature; Nicholas and his beloved Jacqueline, hands occasionally brushing as they laughed; and Trevor, ever the noble soul, watching over them all like a silent protector. They were young. They were happy. And, for a moment, they were all just friends.
To keep things lighthearted and safe, a powerful nullification barrier had been placed on the ballroom—no maind abilities could be activated within its reach. For once, the young warriors danced and joked without flames, lightning, or shadows swirling at their fingertips.
But celebration, like all things beautiful, was fragile.
Without warning, a loud shatter rang through the air.
Windows exploded inward as cloaked figures clad in dark leather and blackened armor leapt through the openings like ghosts of war. More than forty of them, each wielding twin curved swords that gleamed with cruel sharpness. Their faces were obscured by bone-white masks carved into snarls. They moved with the precision of trained killers—silent, fast, and deadly.
Screams erupted. Tables overturned. Crystal goblets smashed under boots. The festive music twisted into chaos.
The barrier held—but its intent had become nothing but a curse. Stripped of their supernatural gifts, the new mages were defenseless... Or were they?
"Get down!" Stanley shouted, dragging Evelyn behind a toppled table.
Nicholas tackled Jacqueline to safety. Trevor spun and knocked one of the attackers off balance with a heavy chair, but even as the man collapsed, he rose again moments later, wounds sealing like wax under heat.
"They're regenerating!" Evelyn gasped, parrying a sword swipe with the leg of a broken candelabra.
The battle became a scramble for survival. With magic sealed, they relied on raw instinct—punches, kicks, whatever weapons they could grab from fallen guards or broken furniture.
Stanley's knuckles bled. Trevor had a long gash across his ribs. Nicholas nearly took a blade to the throat before ducking just in time. The enemies never spoke. They only advanced—cold, unrelenting, and seemingly unstoppable.
Then, behind an overturned banquet table near the edge of the ballroom, Stanley and the others stumbled into a cluster of other survivors.
A tall, broad-shouldered youth with close-cropped black hair stepped forward—calm, unflinching. His name was Sam.
Beside him crouched a petite, sharp-eyed girl named Lucy, and behind them, twin brothers—slender, quick, mirror images of each other—armed only with serving knives and courage.
Sam's eyes flicked over them quickly. "I don't know any of you, but right now, we're a unit."
Stanley raised a brow, surprised at the authority in his voice.
"We're blind and unarmed," Sam continued. "But there's order in chaos if you know where to look."
He pointed toward the far balcony. "See those archers? They're pinning us in. First thing we do is take them out."
"I'll handle it," Evelyn volunteered, rising slightly. Blood traced a line down her cheek, but her voice was steady.
"You know how to use a bow?"
"She's the best," Stanley said simply.
Sam didn't hesitate. "Get her a bow—anything."
One of the twins bolted off toward a fallen guard and returned moments later with a shortbow and a quiver of arrows. Evelyn took them with a nod of gratitude and vanished into the shadows of a toppled column.
"Once they're down," Sam continued, "we focus on one enemy at a time. Coordinate. Strike together. Don't waste energy."
He issued positions. Flankers. Distraction pairs. Runners to draw fire. Even Stanley found himself listening intently—rare for someone who disliked taking orders.
Sam turned to him. "Can you anchor the middle line?"
Stanley grinned. "Gladly."
They moved. Not perfectly—but with resolve.
Evelyn loosed arrow after arrow with lethal grace, dropping archers from the balcony like feathers on the wind. One by one, the attackers faltered. Still they rose. Still they healed.
Then Nicolas, fighting beside one of the twins, cried out. "The left arm! Strike the left arm! They stop healing!"
He had driven a silver fork deep into the shoulder joint of one attacker—and for the first time, the foe stayed down.
Sam relayed the message instantly. "You heard him! Target the left arms!"
Everything changed. Coordination replaced panic. Evelyn's arrows flew with purpose. Trevor, using a serving tray like a shield, bashed opponents off balance while Lucy darted in to sever left limbs. Stanley, fists bruised and coat torn, moved like a storm—grabbing weapons, flanking with the twins, striking with clinical precision. But none of them killed. They attacked to stop the attackers.
The battle turned.
By the time the last of the cloaked warriors fell, the room was wrecked—tables splintered, floors stained, curtains torn—but the mages still stood.
Exhausted. Battered. But victorious.
They leaned on each other, breathless.
"That wasn't random," Jacqueline murmured. "It was too organized. Too specific."
Then the doors swung open.
Chancellor Darkshadow stepped into the ruined hall, flanked by elite palace guards. His cloak billowed like smoke. A glint of strange satisfaction sparkled in his dark eyes.
He looked around, nodding once. "You survived. Good."
Nicholas narrowed his eyes. "This was… a test?"
"Your final one," Darkshadow replied, folding his hands behind his back. "You've proven not just your strength—but your ability to adapt, to unite, and to lead under pressure. From this day, you are no longer simply new mages. You are warriors of Miravalia."
The room fell silent.
Then Sam, bruised and bloodied, laughed bitterly. "Next time… you might just try a written exam."
•••
The following morning, the survivors were divided into squads—each one mixed with talents, strengths, and personalities. Evelyn was placed in the same squad as Stanley, Nicholas, Trevor, Sam, Lucy, and the twin brothers.
They were no longer strangers.
They were comrades.
Bound not by titles or noble blood—but by shared scars, and the fire that had forged them in the chaos of war masquerading as celebration.