Kael rolled his shoulders as he stepped into the candidate's waiting hall. Sunlight filtered through the stained glass windows, casting colored flames across the marble floor. Around him, initiates from all corners of Solmire whispered nervously, fidgeting with their uniforms or eyeing the towering Guild Representatives standing along the far wall.
"Kael!" a familiar voice called out.
He turned just in time to catch a blur of motion — a stocky, red-haired boy barreling toward him.
"Still walking like the world's gonna end," the boy grinned. "Relax. You're not gonna explode out there."
Kael raised a brow. "Tarin, if you keep tackling people like that, you'll explode your own chances."
Tarin chuckled and bumped fists with him. "C'mon, I'm already Flicker 3rd Flame. Guilds eat that up."
Kael smirked. "And yet, you still trip during breathing drills."
"Breathing's overrated," Tarin scoffed, then leaned in, voice low. "But you? You're a walking mystery. You barely spar with anyone. You vanish half the week. Then show up and ace essence control like it's your first language."
Kael didn't respond immediately. He looked out the wide archway leading to the open arena beyond. From this distance, it looked like a ring of stone surrounded by thunder — the shouts of the crowd rising like storm winds.
"You really think they'll pick me?" he asked quietly.
Tarin blinked, startled by the rare trace of uncertainty in his friend's voice. "Kael… I've seen you catch on to sword forms in hours that take me weeks. Your body remembers moves you've never been taught. You don't just train — you resonate. If they don't pick you, the system's broken."
Kael offered a ghost of a smile.
A bell chimed three times. The crowd outside roared.
"First round," Tarin said. "Grouped duels. Hope I get someone short and tired."
Kael didn't answer. His gaze had drifted toward one of the Guild Representatives — a tall woman cloaked in grey, her eyes glowing faintly with what he could only guess was Essence Sight. She was watching him. Not just in passing, but as if she knew something.
Strange…
The gate leading to the arena rumbled open.
Names were called. Kael's was not among them.
Tarin clapped his shoulder. "Catch you after. Don't wander off and discover the secrets of the universe or anything."
Kael chuckled. "No promises."
⸻
He didn't wander far.
Just past the northern training wing stood a quiet grove. The Initiate Garden — a rare patch of calm where trainees often came to meditate or recover after rough spars.
Kael stepped into its shade and knelt in the grass.
He inhaled.
The technique Arlan had once taught him — slow, focused breathing. But Kael had adapted it. Changed it. Felt it, as though the world itself shifted with each breath.
His body moved into position. A form. But not one anyone had taught him. His limbs knew the motions, his core understood the rhythm — but the movements weren't refined. Not yet. Like a song still learning its melody.
Each stance flowed into the next. His fingers traced patterns in the air, leaving faint trails of Essence.
Not fire. Not wind. Something else.
He didn't name it. He couldn't.
Not yet.
The final motion ended in stillness — palm forward, feet grounded, breath low and steady.
Then he heard it. A crunch of boots.
Kael opened his eyes.
The grey-cloaked woman from before stood at the edge of the garden. Watching him.
"I've seen that form before," she said quietly.
Kael blinked. "You have?"
"Not in over a century. And never performed by someone who shouldn't know it."
Kael stood, cautious. "Who are you?"
She tilted her head. "Someone who remembers when flames used to sing. When they weren't just tools, but echoes of will."
Before he could respond, a second chime rang through the air.
"Next group," the woman said, stepping back. "Time to show them what kind of fire you carry, Kael Fael."
He narrowed his eyes. "How do you know my name?"
But she was already gone.
Only the wind answered.
⸻
Back at the arena, Kael entered to scattered murmurs.
"That's him."
"Fael's younger brother."
"The one the instructors keep quiet about."
His opponent was taller, bulkier — a Flicker 4th Flame initiate from the northern academies, covered in rune-branded gauntlets and a confident sneer.
Kael just nodded politely.
"Ready," he said, slipping into his own stance — the same form he'd just practiced, only now adapted. Grounded.
When the bell rang, the opponent surged forward.
Kael didn't move.
He watched.
Breathed.
And when the punch came, he stepped aside — a half-pivot, graceful — and drove his palm into the opponent's chest.
No flames. No flash.
But the other boy flew back ten feet and hit the ground with a thunderous crash.
Silence.
Then thunder.
The crowd roared.
Above them, Guild Representatives exchanged murmurs. A few nodded. One wrote something down.
Kael exhaled.
This is just the start.