The school walls vanished behind him, swallowed by the mist.
Calix followed the scroll's directions north of Solarae, down winding ledges and across forgotten bridges of crystal and root, where gravity warped and magic pulsed through the air like quiet thunder. The map shimmered in his palm, glowing faintly as he walked. At times, it even pulled him, the ink shifting to correct his path, like it wanted him to arrive.
He didn't know what waited ahead.
But he knew this: if he turned back now, he'd never move forward again.
Two hours later, after the mist thinned and the wind picked up, Calix found it.
A wide, flat platform of sky-stone, half-buried in an old cloud formation, floating alone in the void. Ancient runes circled its edges, and rusted iron poles stuck up like broken ship masts. Faint outlines of a battle ring still clung to the surface. It felt... solemn. Haunted.
In the center stood a figure cloaked in gray. No face. No voice. Just a presence.
Calix stepped forward cautiously. "I came for the trial."
The figure raised a hand and pointed toward the center of the stone ring.
The air grew heavy. Wind picked up. Runes ignited along the outer ring—glowing blue, then white, then silver. The figure's voice came not from its mouth but from the sky itself.
"You who carry no power, and yet walk with purpose—step forward."
Calix did.
"To fly, one must fall. To rise, one must break. What are you willing to lose to earn your name?"
Calix swallowed hard. "Everything."
The stone beneath him cracked—and gave way.
He fell.
Spinning, twisting—nothing but air around him. The clouds rushed by. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. The skystone platform vanished above like a closing gate. He was going to die. This was how it ended—
No.
He clenched his fists. Reached inside for something, anything. Not magic. Not might. But instinct. Will. That wild, reckless drive that had kept him going for eight years without anyone's help.
He twisted in the fall, spread his arms, angled his body—moved with the wind instead of fighting it.
And in that moment—something shifted.
The air held him. Slowed him.
Not stopped. But guided. Like unseen currents wrapped around him, catching his descent.
Below him, a second platform appeared from the fog—glowing faintly. It rose to meet him just before he would've hit it full force. He landed hard on one knee, but alive. Shaking, breathing, laughing out of disbelief.
The voice returned.
"You do not command the sky… yet. But it recognizes you."
The mist split.
And in its place stood an object:
A harness made of old leather and enchanted steel. Light-weight. Balanced. It didn't look like much—but carved into the back were the same symbols from the door in the Old Tower.
Skyborn.
Calix reached out and touched it.
Warm.
Alive.
Not a weapon. Not a wand. A pilot's harness—one used for windriders and skyboarders, built for those who flew not with magic, but with skill, instinct, and grit.
A tool made for someone like him.
The trial was over.
But something else had begun.
By the time Calix made it back to Solarae, dawn was just cresting the towers. The streets were quiet, and no one saw him as he slipped through the old servant tunnels into the dorms.
He tucked the harness under his bed, heart still racing.
He'd survived the Trial. Passed it.
And now?
He had a secret.A purpose.A piece of the past that chose him.
They still called him powerless.Still called him orphan.Still looked down on him.
Let them.
Because now he had something they couldn't see yet.
Wings.
And one day soon—he would fly.