Chapter 7: The Crystal Relay
I wake to the hush of my own breathing. Midnight has long since fled, and the sky beyond my window is already pale with dawn's first whisper. My heart is drumming in my ears—equal parts exhilaration and dread. Today is the Crystal Relay, and I've only just realized: I've slept too late.
I fling the covers aside. My chemise and robe pool at my feet. I stand on the cool stone floor, braid loose and coil‐knotted from last night's tumble. My gaze flicks to the nightstand where the stylus rests in its case, humming faintly with repaired runic filaments. I don't pause; I'll test its resolve on the course itself.
The relay uniform waits on the bench: a one‐piece suit of deep teal lycra, breathable and sleek, designed for speed and resonance. Over my heart, the Academy crest gleams in argent runic thread. Silver filigree twists down the sleeves into fingertip conductors. Along each side panel, translucent mesh panels trace the line of my ribs—an intricate lattice of sun‐ward runes that guard against magical fatigue. The legs end in built‐in gaiters that tuck into warded boots—light enough to feel like barefoot on grass, yet sturdy as dragonhide. A belt of polished chrome holds my stylus sheath, ink vials, and a single crystal prism for the final synchronization.
I slip into the suit in one fluid motion, wincing as the cloth hugs my cut hand. The healing bandage is hidden beneath the mesh panel, but I can still feel its warmth. I zip the front closed, the runic filaments clicking into alignment, and tug the hood low. Gloves slip on next, their runic lines pressing into every fingertip. In the mirror, my reflection stares back—a warrior of wards, braided hair sprouting silver runes at the nape.
No time for hesitation. I dart from my dorm, the corridor's lantern glow undimmed by my rush. My slippers click then hush as I don ward‐boots. Past the common room, down the stairs, out the front arches into the courtyard, wards pulsing around me like a living heartbeat.
I break into a run, the wind catching my cloak for a brief half‐second before I discard it at the fountain's edge. The Crystal Coliseum's spires loom ahead, runed arches cutting into the morning sky. Already students gather, clusters of color beneath the ivory gates. The air thrums with anticipation, but all I feel is an electric tremor in my veins.
I cross the threshold into the arena grounds—marble mosaics underfoot, ward‐glyphs crisscrossing overhead—and spot them both, half‐way down the eastern corridor. Caelen Aranthir stands in gleaming armor of etched steel, cape swirling like ink on water. Beside him, Rowan Graves shifts nervously on the balls of his feet, braid of his own nest‐ward loosely undone, satchel slung behind him.
They don't expect me. Their gazes lift as I stride between them, boots ringing against marble. Surprise flickers in Caelen's eyes; Rowan's jaw drops.
"Feyri," Caelen breathes, disarmed. "You made it."
I stop ten paces out, catching my breath in a steady exhale. Sweat beads at my temple. "I wouldn't miss this," I reply, voice calm despite my racing pulse. "You two ready?"
Rowan straightens, sitting up taller than usual. "More than ever," he says, voice bright with relief. "Feyri, I'm—"
"Save it," I cut in, though the corners of my mouth twitch. "Let's start with apologies."
Caelen bows his head, expression solemn. "I underestimated the toll yesterday's session took on you. I'm sorry, Feyri. You led us, and I let my reserve keep me from offering practical aid sooner."
Rowan steps forward, hands open. "And I—" he pauses, cheeks coloring beneath the uniform's silver braid "—I'm sorry I flattered instead of focused. I let—personal feelings slip into strategy. I… I value you too much to waste time with compliments during the trials."
I examine their faces—Caelen's steel‐bright eyes shadowed by regret, Rowan's earnest gaze shining with contrition—and something in me softens. They needed me as much as I needed them. I nod once. "Apology accepted. No more talk. The relay begins now."
They share a glance, then fall into formation behind me: Caelen on my left, Rowan on my right. We stand at the starting corral, an arched runic gate shimmering with readiness. Ahead, the course unfolds over a kilometer of enclosed arena: shifting terrain, warded gates, elemental conduits, and condensed magical duress zones.
A horn blares—a single, resonant note that makes the very air vibrate. I touch the base of my stylus, feeling its hum. The gates flare open.
Phase One: Core Harmony Ward
We surge forward. The ground beneath us ripples with runic lines. I draw a deep breath, feeling the pulse of my heartbeat settle into the runes, and whisper the activation rune for Core Harmony. Arcane light blooms at my fingertips, coalescing into a ring of pale blue around my wrist—my emotional resonance made visible.
Caelen mirrors the movement: his palm ignites with molten filigree, capturing elemental threads. Rowan's nested spiral wards coil around his forearm. As we close the gap between the start and the first checkpoint, I sense our magical frequencies begin to intertwine.
The terrain shifts—a corridor of marble pillars lined with drifting motes of fire. We must not only run but cast on the move. I articulate a step‐chanted invocation, mapping emotional notes of trust and focus into the ring at my wrist so that it resonates with each heartbeat. Caelen bends elemental lattice into swirling gust wards overhead, guiding our path. Rowan releases micro‐ward pulses to contain bleed, weaving them into the gaps between Caelen's gusts and my emotional hum.
Sweat drips between my shoulders. My boots grip the polished floor. We clear the first ward‐gate—a lattice of white‐runed bars—and the corridor collapses into the next segment: a zigzag of obsidian pillars with luminous runes at each apex.
"Left, three—right, two," Caelen calls, voice steady. I echo the directive in runic code. Rowan tightens his spirals, ensuring no bleed from my Core Harmony warps the elemental dust trailing behind.
I feel the ring at my wrist pulse faster. Two‐thirds of the course behind us now. My lungs burn. Emotions threaten to fragment into frustration—but I harness them. I channel each pang of heat into determination. The ring steadies, glowing steady aquamarine.
We round the final turn in this phase—a long corridor of ward‐arches that quiver like lightning rods. I ascend into step‐chants of synchronization, layering emotional cadences onto the ward‐mesh beneath our feet. The arches respond, flaring then dimming in wave after wave. Caelen's swirl wards thicken as Rowan's containment spirals coil tighter, feeding the arcs into the Core Harmony ring.
We break the phase‐one banner gate in unison—three figures crossing the threshold in a burst of color. Horn blasts signify our passage. I lower my hand, breathing hard, Core Harmony still humming in my blood.
Phase Two: Momentum & Might
This section tests our endurance and ward resilience. The gates open onto an arena of shifting elemental duress: jets of frost, spurts of flame, arcs of lightning, and sputters of arcane dust. We must tread carefully and cast shields on the fly.
A wall of frost erupts ahead, jagged spires poised like tulips of ice. Without pausing, I extend my palm and trace a quick Frost‐Bind Ward onto the nearest spire, my emotional resonance infusing the ward with warmth that slows the ice's growth. Caelen's elemental lattice sparks in tandem—steam rises, dissolving the spire into mist. Rowan's containment spirals hum, drawing stray frost shards into halo cages.
We sprint past. The air sizzles as flame jets jet across the floor in timed intervals. I hiss, dropping to one knee, fingers carving a quick Flame‐Absorb Sigil in the stone. The glyph glows ember‐bright, absorbing the jet's heat and channeling it into the ground. Caelen crouches beside me, binding the released heat into his lattice, then hurls it skyward in a plume that arcs across the arena. Rowan stands ready, adaptable spirals contracting and expanding like a breathing coil, his containment wards catching stray embers.
"Keep moving!" I shout, hopping to my feet. My uniform clings, sweat pearling at the runic seams. The path narrows to a corridor of spiked arcane pylons, each crackling with violet lightning. I spring forward, loop-casting a static‐ward at my boots to ward off jolts; Caelen unleashes a gust‐lattice at the pylons, diverting their arcs upward; Rowan's ripple wards shimmer, shunting excess volts into the earthen floor.
We clear the elemental gauntlet in a swirl of runic light. My heart throbs in my chest. My uniform's runic filigree glows hot; I taste the tang of ozone. But we push on—phase two's final test: a field of arcane stalactites that crash from the ceiling in random bursts.
"Trust your instincts," I call, vaulting between pillars. I trace a sequence of shield wards overhead, each ward bursting just before a stalactite falls, fragmenting it mid‐air. Caelen flows beside me, his wards merging with mine in a tapestry of light and color. Rowan's containment spirals coil and catch, preventing shards from splintering into the ground.
We slam through the exit gate—phase two complete. The horn blasts twice, a triumphant chord. I'm gasping for air, chest heaving, emotional resonance pulsing at fever pitch. Caelen, a breath behind me, nods fiercely. Rowan, sweat trickling down his brow, pumps a fist in triumph.
Phase Three: Synchronized Enchantment
This is it—the final crucible of collaboration. The exit from phase two dumps us into a circular chamber ringed with glowing pillars. At its center floats a crystalline prism, suspended in mid‐air by ancient runes. The judges call for our timing: we have three minutes to weave our wards into the prism, aligning its facets to reflect our combined resonance.
I take position at the north pillar. Caelen at the southeast; Rowan at southwest. The judges' authority chords echo once. Then… go.
I extend my palm and project emotional attunement wards onto my pillar. The runes flare pale gold. My intention: clarity, trust, perseverance. Each ward loops into the next like a wave.
Caelen barks a low incantation, forging elemental bindings that coil around his pillar. His intention: strength, protection, adaptability. The ward‐mesh glows sanguine red.
Rowan chants quietly, shaping nested spirals of containment around his. His intention: precision, flexibility, harmony with our emotional current. His ward glows deep indigo.
The three streams begin to converge in the prism's radiance. I see my Core Harmony loops swirl inside the crystal, meshing with Caelen's elemental lattice and Rowan's containment spirals. Together they form a living weave—constantly shifting yet stable.
My breath catches as I pour every ounce of conviction into the wards: every miscast shard from yesterday, every apology half‐spoken, every pulse of fierce friendship. The prism vibrates, facets catching the three colors in cascading arcs.
Suddenly, a hush falls over the chamber. Judges' faces go still. I glance at Rowan and Caelen—both their expressions sharpen as if they sense something wrong.
Rowan's eyes flick toward a dark shape at the chamber's edge—a silhouette unmoving behind the last pillar. Even from here, I recognize that posture: too tall, too angular, a figure no student should cut. My blood hammers.
Caelen stiffens. "Protect the weave," he orders.
I spin back to the prism, palm pressing onto its surface through the runic energy. "We finish," I say, voice steady though my heart jolts. "Now."
Rowan's hand touches mine on the prism—his warmth a quiet anchor. We continue weaving, fingers pressing runes into the crystal face. Prism flares bright—white, then fractals of color—then steadies into an even, thrum of living light.
The judges erupt in thunderous applause. A ribbon of raw magical energy arcs around the prism, casting colored light across the arena floor. We've done it—our weave holds.
I catch Rowan's eye. His gaze betrays both exhilaration and alarm over the figure looming in the chamber's shadow. Caelen scans the fringe, wards at the ready.
The head judge steps forward, raising a hand to silence the crowd. "By the power of the Crystal Relay," he proclaims, "this team demonstrates unparalleled unity and mastery of enchantment. Caelen Aranthir, Feyri Virelle, Rowan Graves—you are the champions!"
The crowd roars. Tribune banners wave. Student faces break into cheers as we rise, linking arms at the prism's base. My chest swells with relief and triumph—but beneath it all, that dark shape lingers.
Rowan nudges me, voice low: "Do you see it?"
I glance back. The black silhouette stands beneath the final pillar, invisible to the crowd's eyes yet glaring at us through glowing runes.
My heart thuds, the thrill of victory and dread colliding. I step forward, raising my stylus to the figure—instinct to ward, to protect—but the judges' chorus and the academy banners blur behind me.
Caelen's hand clamps my shoulder. "We deal with it together," he says, voice fierce and true. Rowan nods, stepping beside us.
We stand united in the afterglow of triumph, poised to face not only the Relay's glory but the shadow in the wards beyond.
And as the arena's light fades, I know: our victory isn't the end. It's only the beginning.