They led Aric beneath the Hall, down staircases that wound like serpents into the earth. Torches sputtered against damp stone, and Mira's hand gripped his tightly.
At last they reached an arena of black sand. Chains hung from the ceiling, and carved runes glowed faintly in the dark.
"This is where apprentices are broken or crowned," said the silver-haired magister. "Step forward, boy."
Aric obeyed, though his knees trembled.
A gate opened, and from it shambled a creature of bone and ash, hollow-eyed, wielding a rusted spear. Its steps left scorch marks in the sand.
"Face it," the magister commanded. "With nothing but what burns in you."
Aric's breath caught. The fire in his chest stirred, wild and eager. He raised his hands, and heat erupted—but this time, the flames coiled into shape, forming a shield of fire that deflected the spear.
The creature screeched. Aric's second breath unleashed a torrent that reduced it to dust.
When silence fell, Mira whispered, "You did it."
But Aric's hands still shook. The fire had obeyed him—yet he knew it had enjoyed killing.