I think I'm nervous right now.
Convocation of Candidates has begun here in the Administration Chamber. This isn't exactly what I expected. I thought the walls would be lined with bulletin boards covered with announcements, calendars, memos, and bold red reminders. But it's nothing like that. The room is circular, the walls are gothic, and the seats are arranged in rows that slope downward toward the front. It's divided into four sections according to the city where Candidates come from, with steps in between, and I'm seated shoulder to shoulder in the third section.
The ceiling is ridiculously high, with dozens of candles floating above us, and I can't help but worry one might melt through and fall on my head.
At the front stands a huge statue of a phoenix and a warrior, and just below them, the Academia Emissary is speaking about responsibility, about trials, about earning your place. I keep wondering how her voice carries so loudly when there's no mic or speaker in sight.
"You are not scholars yet. You are candidates—equal in title, though not in preparation. You were chosen for potential, not privilege. Some of you stand here by blood, others by merit, a few by chance. But none of you will pass by accident."
All of us, two hundred fifty candidates from the five cities of Vikur, Thorneby, Nasgara, Baylun, and Draxuriopolis, are gathered in this chamber, waiting to be tested. It may sound like a lot, but in a hall this large, the number barely fills the seats, and after the trials, that number will drop sharply. The scholarship isn't guaranteed; it must be earned. We're not all protected by connections or luck, and the Emissary made that clear. Some of us will move forward, and some won't even make it past today.
I want to pee.
"Before you lies the path of three trials. They will not test your cleverness alone. They will measure your discipline, your instinct, your will. Some of you will falter. A few may withdraw. That is expected. But those who endure, those who adapt—those will earn the right to choose their Division and wear the crest of the Imperial Academia."
I try to focus, but my eyes keep drifting, taking in every corner of this place. There are banners hung along the curved walls. The blue one has the Asclepius symbol. Gold with a symbol of a quill crossing over an open book, surrounded by a circlet of stars. Crimson with a crossed sword and shield over a flame symbol. The last one, a deep violet, has a symbol of a tower encircled by arcane runes, with a crescent moon behind it.
They must be the flag of each division. Cool.
The seats are filled with murmurs, shifting legs, the occasional cough, but most of us are quiet now. Listening. Watching. Trying to understand what we've just stepped into.
"So remember this: you were not called here to watch. You were called to become."
Ahead in the row, someone from Baylun sits straight-backed, their uniform pressed. Next to them, a girl from Nasgara twirls a ring on her finger, her gaze fixed on the Emissary. I wonder if they're nervous. I am. Not the shaky kind, but the one that sits low in your stomach like a cold stone. There's no handbook, no one telling us what happens after this speech. Just trials.
While the Emissary continues her speech, four people begin moving along the aisles, collecting our parchments. They look young, maybe students here already. Two girls, two boys. One of the guys is thin and wears glasses and seems very focused, reading each name like he's double-checking something important. The other guy has a tired posture, like he's done this before.
The girls are more approachable. One stops at my row. She leans forward a little, offering a small smile. "Which division did you check on your form?" she asks.
"Ah, mine is Military," I say.
"Really? I thought you'd go for Healing," she says quietly.
"I do not know about that," I admit. "Not even basic herbs."
She seems thoughtful for a second, then nods. "I see. By the way, I'm the one who collects for the Military Division," she says.
I give her my parchment. "Here."
She checks it for a second, then slips on her folder. "Alright then. Good Luck," she says, moving on to other candidates.
"Let your first step be steady. Let your name—when written in our books—deserve the ink it's sealed with."
The parchments are gathered into four boxes at the front, each painted in one of the division colors. I watch mine disappear into the crimson box. Around it are the blue, gold, and violet ones. I still don't know what the violet banner stands for. It hasn't been mentioned.
Then all at once, the tall wooden doors open, one on each side of the hall. Our heads turn in sync. The speaker declares.
"Now, your trial begins beyond those doors."
The doors to our left—blue, gold, and violet- lead to the campuses of each division. The trials will be held there, within the grounds. The Emissary gestures toward the lone crimson entrance on the right side, saying that it is the Trial Ground. That is where the path begins for those who have selected the Military.
So that's it. But I don't see light coming there.
The trumpet blares a moment later—loud and unexpected—and I rise with the others. Everyone's starting to move, some in groups, some alone. I haven't heard a word from Semira since we stepped off the carriage. I think she's mad. We got separated when we entered the Capitol. She didn't have to go through all this. As a noble, she probably already moved into her dormitory with everything prepared.
I take a few steps down the sloped aisle when I feel a sudden tug on my sleeve. I turn. It's her. Her brows are furrowed, lips pressed tight like she's been debating whether to stop me at all. There's a mix of upset and something else, embarrassment, maybe?
"I—" I start, but she cuts in.
"If you're going to apologize, don't just say sorry," she says, trying to keep her tone steady. "Tell me the truth."
I blink. "Semira—"
"I know you're hiding something from me," she says it like a confession, not an accusation. She's not angry, just disappointed. And that makes it harder. "I've known for weeks. I didn't push because I thought maybe you'd tell me when you're ready. I wanted to trust that."
The truth—it's there, right at the edge of my throat. It's not too late. But if I tell her, her heart might not handle it, and it might change everything between us. There's a line between honesty and safety, and I've been balancing on it ever since I came to the Baron estate.
"I will," I exhale. "After the trial."
It's not a delay out of fear. It's just that I need to survive today first. One thing at a time.
She looks like she wants to say more, but instead, she just grabs my wrist tighter. Like she's trying to hold onto me, even if just for a few seconds longer. The movement around us starts to thin, candidates filtering through their doors while ours remains open.
"You chose the Military?" Her words are quick. "I heard from the students inside the campus, the trials in that division is different last selection. Do you know how dangerous it is? That's the one thing you picked?"
Honestly, I know. It's Military after all. But it is just a trial and nothing dangerous.
I smile a little, not to dismiss her, just to reassure. "Because I want to be strong," I say, because that's the root of it. Not glory. Not ambition. Just strength.
I want strength because I know it will keep me safe. I am nothing to the three hounds of Thalric if I try to fight them. And the only thing I'm confused about is Malric—he spared me instead of dragging me straight to Rook and Jerren. What connection did he have with Morris before? He almost sounded thankful for what I did to Thalric in the ring.
"Go on, you must secure the slot." Her hand loosens and she turns away, walking toward the back door.
I walk toward the crimson door with the other candidates. I line up with them. The candidates behind me have separated. The line moves.
"Next," says the blonde woman by the door. Black uniform, sleeveless, fitted, crimson. Phoenix crest on her chest. Sure, she is a cadet. "Your name?" she asks without looking at me.
"Ella Sanford," I reply, and she checks the parchments in her hand one by one, perhaps to see if mine is among them. There's a brief pause as she flips through the stack. I wonder what happens if someone's name isn't listed. Do they get turned away?
The woman looks at me. I can't deny she's beautiful—but intimidating, especially looking at me from head to toe and back.
What's wrong? Is she judging me?
"Write your name in the logbook. Then you can proceed to the other side," she instructs. Her voice leaves no room for hesitation. I step forward and do what she says.
Maybe.
I immediately write my name and its number eighty-five on the list. It seems that more people out of two hundred fifty people checked this division. I glance at the names above mine. Some are scribbled. Others were written with a confident hand. We all chose this path for different reasons.
After I put my name in, I proceed to the door, and the other candidates walk ahead of me down the dark path, that I don't know where it is leading. The light from the hall fades behind us. The air grows colder, or maybe that's just nerves catching up to me.
"What do you think the trials would be?" a woman behind me asks, catching up my pace instead to keep in her line.
"I don't know yet," I answer simply, though my voice trails off as the path opens to something unexpected.
We step out of the narrow corridor and into light, then blinding after so much dark. A stone bridge stretches ahead, arched and suspended over a cliff so deep the bottom is swallowed by mist. The air is cooler here, touched by wind through the carved pillars lining either side of the bridge. There's a roof above us, supported by high stone arches. It feels like a corridor built for giants or gods, too tall, too wide, too beautiful to be just a passage for candidates.
Wow. It's heaven. I slow down, unable to help it.
Below us, there's nothing but fog. No ground. No river. Just white that moves gently, like it's breathing.
"Probably a sword fight," the brunette guy behind us says, stepping beside me now. His voice cuts through my thoughts, bringing me back. "I mean," he continues, shrugging, "that's what they did in the last trial group, right? Duels, sparring, and technique grading. But I heard someone lost a hand in the last trial. Accident."
"That's reassuring," I say, hoping he's just joking.
"I doubt it's just swords. I heard the instructors change the trial every selection," the woman says.
"Change how?" I ask, glancing at her and noticing her hazel eyes, which change color due to the lightning angle.
"Depends on what they're looking for. Maybe teamwork, maybe endurance. Maybe just who doesn't panic first," she shrugs.
I glance ahead. The bridge is long, but the far end is almost visible now.
"Nice hair, huh," the woman says suddenly, stepping a little closer beside me. "It's kind of unfair, actually. We're walking into trials and you look like you just stepped out of some academy portrait."
"Oh—uh, thanks." I glance at her outfit. Practical, fitted trousers, boots, and a jacket rolled at the sleeves. Not a dress, and not trying to be someone she's not. "You look great too. I like your clothes. You actually look like someone who's ready to survive whatever they throw at us."
She grins. "Lee," she says, offering a hand as we walk. "From Nasgara."
"Ella. Thorneby." I shake her hand.
The guy nods, adjusting the strap of the bag slung across his shoulder. "Zoren. Baylun."
"Baylun," Lee repeats. "That's the city with the market that never closes, right?"
"Also the city that lost half its candidates in the last trial," Zoren replies dryly.
Lee lets out a low whistle. "Well, glad you're here to improve the odds."
We laugh. The bridge is ending now. The carved gate at the cliff's edge looms ahead, flanked by two phoenix statues with wings outstretched, then we pass beneath of it.
For a moment, I expect more stone, maybe a courtyard or a training hall. But instead, we step into trees.
Every few steps, a crimson flag is staked into the ground or tied to a branch. They're our only markers, pointing us along a winding dirt path that bends and narrows, disappearing between trunks.
No instructors. No signs of staff. Just flags.
Zoren exhales next to me, a soft whistle between his teeth. "Well. This isn't exactly what I pictured."
"What were you expecting?" Lee asks, brushing a low-hanging branch aside. "An arena with a cheering crowd?"
"I was hoping for a map at least," he mutters. "Or instructor. Something."
I glance up at the crimson banner ahead, the cloth torn slightly at the edge. "It feels like the trial started the moment we stepped through that gate," I say.
We keep walking. The dirt path curves again, and still, the flags lead us forward. No crossroads. No choices yet—just the same trail every candidate is forced to follow.
"Have either of you trained before?" I ask.
Zoren shakes his head. "Not really. I've handled a sword a few times. Mostly with friends, pretending we were knights. Never thought I'd actually need it."
Lee smirks. "I sparred back home. My brothers trained with the city guard, so I joined in sometimes. They thought it was cute until I disarmed one of them."
"Remind me not to challenge you," Zoren says.
"True," I say.
Lee grins. "You'll be fine. You have that quiet, stab-you-later kind of energy."
Up ahead, the line of crimson flags suddenly ends. No more tied branches. No more stakes in the ground. The last one flutters beside a thick patch of undergrowth, where the trail seems to vanish into a wall of shrubs and tall grass. One by one, the candidates ahead of us slip through it and disappear.
We glance at each other without needing to say anything, then push forward. The bushes part easily, and we step through, and suddenly, everything opens.
The canopy breaks, the trees fall away behind us, and we're standing at the edge of something wide and breathtaking.
The sky greeted us.
The wind here carries salt and sunlight. It's the kind of view that should be framed in a painting, not waiting at the end of a forest path. But it's not the sea that everyone's staring at.
Ahead of us, the other candidates are gathered in uneven lines, talking among themselves, peering below. Some have gone quiet, their faces tight with nerves. A few are whispering to each other, pointing downward.
Lee steps up between Zoren and me, stunned. "Guys.." Her eyes on the cliff. "Looks like the trial will begin here," she says.