The silence after sunset was different in Thornebrook. It wasn't peaceful. It was... resigned. Like even the wind had decided not to try too hard here.
Caelan sat at the edge of the old firepit in the back yard, knees drawn up, arms resting loosely. Across from him, Garric was chewing on a stalk of dried grass, staring at nothing. Lena stood nearby, pacing slowly, the moonlight catching the edges of her boot knife.
None of them spoke—not yet. They'd just come back from the office, where the orphanage director had finally agreed to enter their names into the Talent Window application for Aetherhold Academy.
Not out of faith.
Out of indifference.
"One slot per category," the director had said with a grunt. "You'll go under 'Talent Stream'—commoner entries. Your performance will reflect on this institution. Try not to embarrass it."
Caelan had nodded. Polite. Empty. But inside, he'd already been calculating what that slot meant.
Now, in the dark, surrounded by frost-bitten weeds and broken wood fences, he finally spoke.
"We get one shot each," he said. "One demonstration. One chance to prove we belong. They don't give commoners second tries."
Garric spit the stalk onto the dirt. "What happens if we impress them?"
Caelan smiled faintly. "They let us in. If we really impress them, they keep a closer eye on us. Use us. Maybe protect us. If we're too perfect, though... they start asking questions."
Lena stopped pacing. "So we walk a line."
"Exactly," Caelan said. "We don't show everything. Just enough to be undeniable."
He looked up at the stars. They looked clearer tonight. Or maybe he was just clearer now that the plan was in motion.
"There are five Talent Windows," he continued. "Combat. Reflex. Elemental Aptitude. Strategy. Medicine."
He turned to Lena. "You're Reflex."
She arched an eyebrow. "Obviously."
"They'll test for precision, speed under pressure, awareness. I've been watching how they score it—where their judges are placed, what they flag. We'll train you to fail the wrong moves and pass the right ones."
She gave a small grin. "You mean act like I'm struggling while I'm winning."
"Exactly," Caelan said. "You'll give them just enough chaos to make your success look real. A blade they think they can sharpen."
He turned to Garric.
"You're Combat. Strength, durability, aura control under load. You're not going to win by being flashy. You'll win by surviving. Not just brute force, either—I've been conditioning your core aura flow for months. You'll show them something they won't expect: restraint."
Garric blinked, surprised. "They want restraint?"
"They fear uncontrolled power from commoners," Caelan said. "They want someone they can place in their ranks, not someone who breaks them. You'll pass because you'll look like you're ready to follow."
Garric was quiet for a long moment. Then he nodded once. "Got it."
Lena leaned against a post. "And you? Which window?"
Caelan hesitated. Then reached into his coat and pulled out a narrow glass vial—pale green, viscous, glowing just slightly under the moon.
"Medicine," he said. "Or as they call it, 'Applied Alchemy and Strategic Remedies.' It's the only window where I can use what I know without having to explain how I know it."
He held the vial between his fingers, letting it catch the light.
"This heals minor muscle damage in ten minutes. No aura catalyst. No enchanted herbs. Just ratio precision, technique, and timing. It looks like a miracle, but it's science—my kind of science."
Lena narrowed her eyes. "And they'll just take your word for it?"
"No," Caelan said. "They'll test it. I'll design the scenario myself—an injured beast, maybe a trial participant with a torn tendon. I'll volunteer to demonstrate. But before I hand it over, I'll require their agreement: no samples taken, no duplication attempts, no retention of the vial. One use. One proof."
Garric looked concerned. "You trust them to keep that deal?"
Caelan's expression hardened. "No. That's why I've built in two failsafes. First, the formula will lose efficacy after twelve hours. And second... it won't work the same way twice unless combined with something they don't have."
He looked at the vial again. "They'll get a miracle. And then they'll chase ghosts trying to recreate it."
Lena gave a low whistle. "Clever bastard."
"I'm not trying to win," Caelan said quietly. "I'm trying to establish value. Enough that they keep us inside. Enough that they want to know what else we can offer."
He looked at both of them, and for a moment, the mask dropped—just slightly. There was something raw in his voice now. Not cold calculation, but memory. Fire.
"We don't get the luxury of being average. If we fail, we stay here. Or worse, we get dragged into someone else's war as fodder. If we pass… we control our own fate."
He met their eyes, one by one.
"So, we pass."
Lena straightened. "What do we do next?"
Caelan stood slowly, brushing dust from his coat.
"Now," he said, "we train like we were never meant to lose."
The wind stirred again. Not soft this time. Sharper. Like something was shifting.
In the broken shadows of Thornebrook, three orphans stood a little taller.
They wouldn't just enter Aetherhold.
They would rewrite what it meant to belong there.