The bells did not ring.
In the high peaks of the Vyomtara range, bells were reserved for the gravity of warnings or the joy of weddings; here, the mountains spoke for themselves. A low, tectonic vibration passed through the thunder-stone beneath the students' feet as the massive gates of Vajraśila sealed behind them—slow, absolute, final. The sound was not loud, yet it pressed into the chest like a physical weight, the grinding of ancient hinges signaling the end of one path. Behind them lay the warmth of childhood; ahead lay the cold precision of the forge.
Mist did not merely drift through the inner courtyard; it clung. It tasted of crushed minerals and ice-melt, washing the academy in a silver haze that revealed its architecture layer by layer, like a secret told in whispers. Terraced platforms descended like steps carved from a single massif by a giant's hand. Bridges of dark vajra-stone spanned open air, their undersides etched with narrow channels guiding the mountain's frequent rains into silent, subterranean reservoirs. There were no silk banners, no gold-leafed ornaments, no statues of kings.
Vajraśila was not built to impress the wandering eye; it was built to hollow the spirit until only unadorned truth remained.
The triplets stood together in a sea of nearly five hundred candidates. To their left, a cluster of capital nobles lingered in embroidered surcoats, their faces masks of brittle, inherited confidence. To their right, commoner children—chosen from the far reaches of the kingdom for their local brilliance—huddled close, breath hitching in the thin, oxygen-starved air of the peaks.
Aditya rolled his shoulders, his wooden practice spear left behind at the estate, his hands feeling strangely light—and dangerous. Energy coiled tight beneath his skin, a restless storm searching for a sky. Sasi observed the capital boys with half-lidded eyes, mapping their movements, noting how they stood too close together, lacking the defensive spacing their father had drilled into them. Aryan simply closed his eyes, feeling the stone beneath his feet—not as a floor, but as a living pulse, ancient and rhythmic, listening to the heartbeat of every child present.
Then the wings came.
Slate-feathered birds descended from the fog—crow-like, sharp-beaked, unnervingly calm. Faint silver markings traced their wings, thin bands etched with academy sigils fastened to their legs. They did not chirp or flutter with the chaos of nature; they landed with the synchronized weight of soldiers taking position. One lifted into the air, hovering with a stillness that defied the mountain winds.
"Candidates," the bird spoke.
The voice was neither male nor female—a resonant frequency that vibrated in the students' very teeth.
"Take your seats."
As one, the courtyard floor shifted. Stone benches rose smoothly from the ground in perfect concentric circles, arranging themselves with the logic of a spider's web. There was no scramble for a "best" place or front row; the stone rose where each child stood, forcing them into a formation of absolute order. The triplets moved instinctively—stepping forward together, then separating as seats formed between them. Not isolation, but preparation for individual judgment.
Glyphs ignited faintly along the ground—circles and sigils of assessment older than the current Maharaja's line.
"Vajraśila Royal Academy recognizes the blood and the breath," the bird continued, its gaze sweeping the rows. "Nobles and commoners stand as equal stone before the hammer here."
A subtle ripple of unease passed through the noble ranks. They were used to being His Grace. Here, they were simply Applicants.
"Commoner candidates—unawakened—will undertake the Written Examination only. Their path is the mind, a preparation for the rites to come. Noble candidates—already awakened through sanctioned ritual—will complete the Written Assessment today. Constellation and elemental verification will occur tomorrow."
Stone tablets rose from the desks—smooth obsidian surfaces humming with a faint violet light.
"Failure here does not end a future," the voice said evenly, echoing from the thunder-stone walls. "It redirects it. Many are called. Few are carved."
"Begin."
The silence that followed was total—not forced, but absolute, a vacuum where even breathing felt intrusive. The triplets lowered their eyes as questions formed upon the tablets—not tests of rote memory or the names of dead kings, but trials of inclination and judgment.
If a bridge must collapse to save a village, who decides when the last person has crossed?
Is a secret kept for peace a lie—or a shield?
Which is heavier: the sword that kills, or the law that commands the strike?
Aditya attacked the questions with fierce, predatory instinct. He did not overthink morality; he answered as if parrying a strike in the courtyard, his stylus moving with the speed of a lunging spear. Sasi paused often, his mind weaving through consequence and outcome, searching for the most economical truth—the path that preserved the most with the least cost.
Aryan wrote the least. He stared at the question about the bridge for a long time, gaze unflinching. While others filled paragraphs on leadership and sacrifice, his answer was four words:
The river decides first.
By evening, the mist had turned to freezing drizzle, the stone courtyards becoming mirrors of dark glass. The birds took flight, silver-banded legs glinting in twilight, and the tablets sank back into the earth. The students were led away, divided by the academy's law of equity.
Commoners were guided to wide, communal halls—warm, sturdy, freely provided by the Crown, a quiet assurance that no brilliance would be lost to cold or coin. The nobles were shown to residence towers—tall, lonely pillars carved into the mountain itself. Their rooms were private, sparse, cold—a reminder that those born to rule were expected to endure in silence.
The triplets' room was a cell of discipline. Three narrow beds. One high window framing distant stars. Walls that smelled of rain and old prayers.
Aditya lay back, the adrenaline of the exam fading into a hollow ache. "It's… too quiet," he whispered. "The mountains at home sound different. More life. More wind."
Sasi stood by the window, watching lanterns ignite across the courtyards below, flickering like trapped stars. "Mother would have lit them earlier," he murmured. "She always said a dark house invites dark thoughts. I wonder if she's looking at the same sky."
Aryan unpacked his small bundle with the same rhythmic precision he used for the damaru. Only when everything was in place did he turn to his brothers.
"They're reading our letters already," he said, his voice a calm anchor in the dark. "They aren't in the dark—because we are here."
That thought was the room's only warmth.
That night, back at House Vyomtara, the estate felt hollowed out, too large for those who remained. Elaria paused outside the music hall, her hand trembling on the handle, unable to enter the room where flutes and drums still echoed in memory.
Sarvani sat in the inner hall with folded hands, eyes closed, listening to a silence heavier than any mountain. And Varesh stood on the highest balcony of the Duke's tower, his gaze fixed north—toward the distant, glowing spires of Vajraśila.
The testing had begun.For the children.For the parents.For the future of the line.
And within those thunder-stone walls, three eight-year-olds lay awake—no longer heirs, no longer little storms, but seeds planted in hard, unforgiving soil.
Tomorrow, the Star-Stone would record their resonance—and time would decide the rest.