The crackling fire danced in the heart of a wide clearing, casting flickering gold across the tired, mud-streaked faces of the young mages gathered around it. Night had fallen quietly, veiling the forest in a calm hush. The air, still heavy with the scent of scorched earth and singed wood, now carried the softer smells of roasting meat, wild herbs, and dewy grass. For the first time in what felt like days, no one was shouting, casting spells, or dodging death.
The storm had passed.
Now there was only this moment of fragile peace.
Two groups—once divided by birth, status, and suspicion—sat shoulder to shoulder. Nobles and commoners, former rivals, shared a single fire. No more barbed words, no more hostile glances. Just laughter, music, and the shared relief of still being alive.
Alexia sat cross-legged beside Ymir, her cloak pulled tightly around her shoulders, face glowing in the firelight. Her silver-blonde hair was tangled and streaked with soot, but her eyes sparkled. "I can't believe we actually survived that," she murmured, a note of wonder in her voice.
Ymir grinned, using a gentle wind spell to coax the flames a little higher. "I can't believe Florence actually managed to stab someone."
Florence, who was sprawled dramatically on a patch of moss with a handmade crown of leaves on his head, raised a hand in mock outrage. "Hey! You act as if I'm some helpless prince who's never held a blade."
"You're not a prince," Alexia muttered.
"And you've barely held a fork properly," Ymir added.
Florence gasped. "How dare you! I am a man of many talents—stealth, charm, sarcasm. Stabbing is simply a delightful new addition to my growing list."
"You're an idiot," Alexia replied, but her voice was warm. She didn't bother hiding her smile.
A few paces away, Rowan sat on a fallen log, one arm wrapped in tight bandages. His expression, as always, was unreadable, but the tightness in his jaw had eased. Jasmine and Kenneth sat on either side of him, sharing bites of roasted bird and fruit that Florence insisted he had foraged—though most of them were certain he'd "borrowed" them from another group's unattended supplies.
"I still can't believe you let that girl help you," Kenneth said, nudging Rowan with his elbow, smirking.
"I didn't let her," Rowan grumbled. "She just wouldn't stop talking. She's… persistent."
"She also saved your life," Jasmine added flatly, not even looking up from her meal.
Rowan glanced across the fire.
Ymir was kneeling beside a younger mage whose wand had snapped during the battle. With remarkable care, she was helping repair the broken wood, using slow bursts of mana to seal the damage. Her face lit up when the spell worked, her laugh like a sudden song in the quiet.
"She's not bad… for a commoner," Rowan muttered.
Kenneth raised an eyebrow. "Hmm? What was that, Your Highness?"
"Shut up."
Despite his tone, Rowan couldn't deny what he felt. The battlefield had erased lines that no teacher, no academy, and no law ever could. Today, everyone had bled the same. Everyone had stood shoulder to shoulder in danger. And, noble or not, everyone here had earned their place.
"I say we make a feast!" Florence suddenly declared, leaping to his feet like a bard at festival. "Tonight, we dine like kings and queens!"
Alexia arched a skeptical brow. "You mean with our single rabbit and five berries?"
Florence beamed and pulled a fat, golden fruit from under his coat. "Correction! We dine like royal mages! I call this the Heart of the Sun. Tastes like honey and sunshine."
The group laughed. The tension that had gripped them for so long finally gave way to something lighter. Kenneth enchanted large leaves to fold into plates. Jasmine added flavor charms to the meat, weaving the taste of wild thyme and smoked pepper into each bite. Two mages created dancing lights that swirled above them, glimmering like floating fireflies.
Even Rowan quietly cast a small warming charm beneath the logs, radiating a soft, constant heat. When Alexia noticed, he merely shrugged. "Strategic recovery protocol," he muttered.
Stories were shared. Exaggerated retellings of fights, with Florence acting out dramatic reenactments complete with sound effects and over-the-top screams, had everyone in stitches. Kenneth told a tale of a noble slipping on his own spell during a duel, and Jasmine confessed she nearly fainted when her spell fog turned bright pink instead of gray. For a moment, they were just teenagers again, not soldiers. Not survivors.
Ymir eventually wandered over and sat beside Rowan, placing a neatly arranged plate beside him.
"I flavored yours with honeyberry," she said. "It helps with bruises and… royalty's delicate egos."
"I didn't ask for that," Rowan said automatically, though the edge in his voice was dulled.
"You're welcome," Ymir replied, smirking as she sat down beside him.
They watched Florence waving a stick in the air, pretending it was a flaming sword. Sparks flew from his wand as he narrated his "glorious" ambush against an elf that he claimed had been seven feet tall.
Rowan glanced at Ymir. "You fight well," he said finally. "Not just with power. You read the field. You move with instinct."
Ymir tilted her head, surprised. "Thanks. That… means something coming from you. I didn't think I'd work so well with a royal."
"Don't get used to it," he said dryly.
She nudged his arm. "Same to you, Your Highness."
Across the clearing, one of the mages conjured a glowing orb and sent it floating gently overhead, casting a silvery light across the camp like a second moon. Someone began to sing—a soft, slow melody from Polgov, filled with ancient longing. One by one, voices joined in.
Alexia leaned against a tree, humming under her breath. Florence lay with arms behind his head, singing completely off-key. Even Kenneth tapped his boot to the rhythm.
As the song faded into silence and the fire crackled low, Jasmine rose to her feet, lifting a cup forged from hardened mana.
"Let's not forget why we're here," she said, her voice steady, but solemn. "We passed the test not just with spells, but with courage. Not everyone made it through."
The laughter dimmed. The fire, too, seemed to lower—its flames gentler, more reflective.
Ymir stood beside her and raised her own cup. "To those who fell fighting beside us. We carry their dreams with us, all the way to the Academy."
All around the clearing, others rose, holding cups, hands, anything they had.
"To the fallen," Rowan said clearly.
"To the fallen," the rest echoed, voices blending into the quiet of the forest.
The words rose into the trees, into the stars, into the night that wrapped around them like a tired embrace.
Eventually, they sat again, and the chatter resumed—quieter now, more thoughtful. They spoke of where they came from, of families waiting across the mountains, of why they chose magic in the first place. Hope returned, like firelight after smoke.
Ymir's eyes drifted around the fire, studying these fierce, stubborn, hilarious people—each of them scarred, but still standing. She thought of her mother, still asleep in her magical stasis. She would wake her. She would become strong enough to heal everything that time had broken.
Rowan caught her looking. He didn't smile, but his eyes softened.
"We'll get through this," he said.
Ymir nodded. "We already have."
And above them, the floating orb dimmed softly—like a tired star—and the fire whispered its last song into the stillness.
They laughed, dreamed, and healed beneath the watching stars