Darkness clung to her like smoke.
Elira floated in it, weightless, as though her body had been left behind in the Arena's ruin. The roar of the crowd had long since faded, leaving only the soft echo of her heartbeat—no, not hers. The ember's.
Burn…
She flinched, but the voice was weak now, distant, as though even it had been scarred by what she unleashed. The silver flame curled faintly in her chest, not devouring, not demanding, only… waiting.
Then, light seeped in.
She blinked, the world slowly taking shape around her. White ceilings. The sharp scent of herbs and ash. Linen sheets rough against her skin. A faint warmth pressed against her ribs where a healer's charm pulsed faintly.
She was alive.
"Elira?"
The voice was rough, relieved, desperate. She turned her head—slowly, for every muscle still screamed—and found Marcell slouched against the wall beside her bed. His arm was bound in fresh cloth, his hair a mess of soot, but his grin bloomed the instant their eyes met.
"By the Sovereigns, you scared me. I thought you'd burned yourself to nothing."
Her throat ached. "Did… we win?"
Marcell laughed, though it cracked halfway through. "We survived. That's the same thing."
The curtain to her bedside shifted. Serenya stepped in, her crimson hair bound in a tight braid, her eyes still carrying the sharp edge of the battlefield. She crossed her arms, staring at Elira for a long, unreadable moment.
"You should be dead," she said flatly. "But you aren't. Somehow."
Elira managed a wry smile. "Sorry to disappoint."
Serenya's lips twitched—not quite a smile, but not anger either. She turned away before either of them could name it.
Vaelith followed her in silence, his presence a shadow more than a figure. His amber eyes flickered once over Elira, cold and assessing, then shifted toward the window where the sun was bleeding into dusk. He said nothing, but the tension in his shoulders spoke louder than words.
"What happened after?" Elira asked.
Marcell scratched the back of his neck. "The bell saved us. The instructor called it—the Trial was done. Anyone still standing advanced. The rest…" His grin faded. "Ash."
Elira's chest tightened. Faces flashed in her mind—rivals, enemies, children like her who had fought with fire burning in their veins. Gone now. Burned away.
"And the golden-haired boy?" she whispered.
Serenya's gaze snapped back to her, sharp. "Alive. Scarred. And furious."
Marcell snorted. "He'll live. He's too stubborn not to. But Elira… you hurt him. Really hurt him. You saw his face. He won't forget."
Elira closed her eyes, the memory of those golden eyes blazing with obsession haunting her.
Footsteps interrupted them. The curtain was pulled aside, and a figure in black entered.
The instructor.
His cloak trailed against the floor, his eyes as cold and sharp as the flames he had overseen. He studied Elira as though she were not a girl in a bed, but a riddle he had been chasing his whole life.
"You manifested it," he said without preamble. "Not the hunger. The shield."
Elira's pulse quickened. She remembered the silver flame wrapping her like wings, blocking the golden strike. It hadn't been rage—it had been protection.
"I… don't know how," she whispered.
"You will," he replied. "Or it will kill you."
The weight of his words settled heavy in the room.
Behind him, another presence stirred. Nobles in fine robes stood at the threshold, their expressions a mixture of awe and fear. Their whispers filled the air like snakes.
"Silver flame… a Sovereign-born…""She cannot be allowed to live unchecked…""She must be bound to the Throne, controlled—"
"Or destroyed," one said sharply.
Marcell shot to his feet, fire crackling faintly along his hands. "Say that again."
Serenya's blade hand twitched, her crimson eyes narrowing dangerously.
Vaelith said nothing, but his shadow thickened, crawling across the floor like smoke.
The nobles recoiled, muttering, but the instructor raised a hand. Silence followed instantly.
"She advances," he said. His tone brooked no argument. "As do the rest of you. The Trial is over. The next stage begins."
Elira swallowed. "The next stage?"
The instructor's eyes gleamed faintly. "Heaven's School."
The words rang heavy in the air.
Even Serenya stiffened at them. Marcell blinked, his grin faltering. Vaelith's expression finally cracked, his lips parting as if in disbelief.
Elira's heart skipped. She had heard the name whispered before—a place of legends, where flame-bearers were honed into weapons or rulers, where the Sovereigns' legacy was shaped into living fire.
Few ever entered it. Fewer still returned unchanged.
"The Trials were only the gate," the instructor continued. "You four… and the golden one… have been chosen to ascend. Heaven's School will decide if you are worthy of the flames you wield. Or if you will be consumed by them."
The curtain fell shut behind him, leaving silence in his wake.
Marcell let out a low whistle. "Heaven's School. I thought it was just a story."
Serenya's eyes burned with a different fire now. "It's no story. It's the crucible. Stronger than any Trial. Deadlier."
Vaelith finally spoke, his voice quiet but edged with steel. "And in its halls, enemies are forged. Remember that."
Elira lay back against the pillow, her chest heavy with both dread and wonder. Heaven's School.
The ember in her chest pulsed faintly, like a drumbeat.
Ascend.
That night, sleep did not come easily. When it did, it brought dreams of silver fire stretching into endless skies, of wings unfurling only to burn away, of a voice—soft, sorrowful, familiar—whispering her name from the heart of the flame.
"Elira…"
She reached for it, desperate, but her hand closed on ash.
And when she woke, the dawn of a new path awaited.