The academy had no ordinary dormitories. Instead of shared halls, each of the five was given a chamber, doors marked with faint runes that pulsed in time with their steps.
"Separate rooms? Tch. They really don't trust us not to kill each other in our sleep," Lyra muttered, tossing her braid back as she leaned against her doorframe.
Kieran grinned. "Or maybe they're afraid you'd hog the blankets."
That earned him a half-smile from Amara, though Caelum didn't react. He stood a little apart, hand brushing the cold rune on his door as though testing its pulse. For a second, his gaze softened — quick, almost unnoticeable — before he shut it down again.
Jace scoffed, straightening his shoulders. "It's because they know we're not ordinary. My family's quarters in Emberlin estate had the same enchantments. Protection meant for heirs. Makes sense they'd prepare the same for me."
Lyra rolled her eyes. "Sure, because this is all about you."
That got a laugh from Kieran, though the tension under it wasn't missed.
It was Amara, as always, who shifted the mood. "Maybe it's not about any of us individually," she said softly, resting her palm against her rune-marked door. "Maybe it's about testing what happens when we're apart."
Her words lingered longer than anyone admitted.
Behind his silence, Caelum caught the faintest memory — the warmth of a hand that once guided him through halls much quieter than these. A mother's touch. He exhaled sharply and pushed the thought away, locking it down where no one could see.
But someone did notice.
"You always look like you're trying too hard not to think," Kieran said suddenly, voice too casual to be harmless. "What's hiding in there, Cael?"
The air stiffened, and even Jace's smirk faltered for a second.
Caelum didn't answer. He only opened his door and stepped inside, leaving the others with a silence that weighed more than words.
The runes glowed faintly as each door closed… in rhythm.
The next dawn arrived without warning. No bell, no knock, only the sudden flare of light that burst across their chamber ceilings, searing like a second sun.
A voice followed — calm, faceless, everywhere.
"The first measure begins. Assemble."
Their doors swung open at once.
Kieran stumbled out rubbing his eyes. "What measure? Please tell me it's breakfast."
Lyra snorted. "You wish."
The five gathered in a hall that hadn't been there yesterday — a circular chamber made of shifting glass. No walls, no exits, only mirrored surfaces stretching into infinity. Their reflections wavered, blurred, sometimes doubling, sometimes vanishing altogether.
"Creepy," Kieran muttered, though he grinned all the same.
Jace stepped forward first, chin lifted high. "This is a trial of perception. I've read of chambers like this in my family's archives. Illusions designed to strip away weakness." He looked at the rest with the air of someone already above the test. "Stay sharp. Some of you might struggle."
Lyra crossed her arms. "Some of us?"
Before Jace could answer, the mirrors rippled. The faceless voice returned:
"The measure is empathy. Step where the heart leads, not the eye."
The floor beneath them split into five glowing paths, each stretching toward a mirrored portal.
Caelum narrowed his gaze at his own path. The glow pulsed faintly, too much like a heartbeat.
"Empathy?" Kieran scratched his head. "Can't we just… fake it?"
Amara's quiet voice cut through. "I don't think this is about pretending." She touched the start of her path, watching the rune-light pulse under her fingertips. "It feels alive. Like it's listening."
Jace gave a short laugh. "Then it should have no trouble with me." Without waiting, he strode onto his path, his reflection multiplying around him — each version taller, sharper, more radiant than the last.
Kieran whistled low. "Well, he's not lacking confidence."
Lyra smirked. "Confidence or ego?"
Caelum said nothing. He only pressed forward, steps measured, eyes on the shifting light. But for a brief moment — just as he passed the first mirror — his reflection flickered. He saw not himself, but a shadowy outline of a woman's face, blurred yet familiar.
He stopped dead, breath caught.
And the chamber pulsed, as if it had heard the stumble in his heart.
The chamber brightened until their paths dissolved into mirrors. One by one, each was pulled into a separate reflection, their companions vanishing like smoke.
Lyra's voice echoed faintly before she disappeared. "Great. Separated again. Love this place already."
Then silence.
Caelum found himself standing in a mirrored corridor, the glow from the floor pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat. Each reflection showed him slightly different — one taller, one thinner, one wearing an expression he had never allowed to surface: grief.
His chest tightened. The woman's face flickered again in the glass, clearer this time. Not quite there, not quite gone. He reached out before pulling his hand back sharply. He couldn't afford to lose focus. Not here. Not now.
Elsewhere, Jace strode confidently through his own reflection, but the chamber betrayed him. Instead of showing his victories, it replayed every comparison to his elder brother — stronger, wiser, better. Each reflection towered over him, smirking with the face of the brother he hated to admire. His fists clenched. "I'm not lesser. I'm not." The mirror only grew taller.
Amara's corridor was different. She walked through fields of light and shadow, hearing not her own voice but the unspoken worries of her friends. Kieran's laughter masking insecurity. Lyra's sarcasm hides fear of rejection. Caelum's silence, heavy and raw. She pressed her hand to her chest, overwhelmed but resolute. If I can hear them… maybe I can hold them together.
Kieran, for his part, whistled nervously in his reflection corridor. Each mirror showed him making a joke, smiling, easing tension — yet in the background, nobody laughed. They simply left. One by one, the reflections turned their backs, until he stood alone in silence. "Hey… wait. Don't go." His grin faltered.
Lyra's test cut sharper. Every reflection showed her with words dripping from her mouth — mockery, wit, banter — but instead of friends, the people in her mirrors looked wounded, turning cold. She bit her lip hard. "That's not… that's not what I meant." The mirrors didn't care.
At the center of it all, the faceless voice returned: "The invisible heart guides. The cracks within you determine if you remain five… or fade alone."
The chamber trembled. Each of their paths began to collapse inward, pulling them back toward a single circle.
But as they stumbled into view of one another again, one thing was clear — none of them looked the same.
The test wasn't finished.
The circle sealed shut. The mirrors folded inward like shards of glass, reforming into a single smooth wall. The chamber's light dimmed until only their figures remained — five silhouettes standing, breathing harder than before, each avoiding the others' eyes.
No one spoke first.
Kieran opened his mouth, then shut it again. The grin he usually wore never came. Lyra fiddled with her braid, muttering something too low to catch. Jace stood stiff, jaw tight, as though refusing to admit he had seen anything at all. Amara's gaze swept over them, soft but steady, reading more than anyone wanted revealed.
Caelum lingered last. He didn't need to say a word; the weight in his eyes was enough.
Then, the faceless voice broke the silence.
"What was shown is not punishment. It is a reminder. To wield strength without knowing your own fractures is to build a tower on sand. Remember — trust is not in steel or spell, but in what you refuse to hide."
The floor pulsed once, and the chamber released them.
Light bled away. The mirrors vanished. A door appeared, leading them back into the academy's stone hall.
None of them moved at first.
Finally, Jace scoffed, masking unease with arrogance. "So that's it? Smoke, glass, and riddles? If this is their test, then it's nothing I can't handle." He strode forward without waiting.
Lyra rolled her eyes but followed. "Keep telling yourself that, Emberlin."
Kieran hesitated, then hurried after them, forcing a laugh that sounded thinner than usual. "At least nobody died, right? That's a win in my book!"
Amara lingered, her eyes drawn toward Caelum. She almost said something, but the heaviness in his expression held her tongue. Instead, she walked beside him quietly.
As they stepped through the threshold, the door dissolved behind them — gone, as though it had never existed.
But the weight of what they'd seen clung like mist.
Each carried a private wound now stirred open. Each wondered if the others had glimpsed theirs.
And overhead, unseen eyes recorded it all.
From a balcony high above, robed figures whispered. "The cracks are there. The invisible heart beats weakly still."
Another voice answered, low and certain. "Then we shall see who survives the next trial."
The chamber door sealed behind them, dissolving into stone as though it had never existed. The academy swallowed them again — cold walls, colder silence.
They walked back through the dormitory wing, their steps muted against rune-lit floors. None dared to speak of what they had seen, but the silence itself screamed louder than words.
Somewhere down the hall, students clustered in twos and threes, their whispers quick and sharp as knives. Not all words reached, but some did — slipping through the air like poisoned darts.
"Heartless..."
"Empty eyes..."
"Why keep someone like that in their circle?"
Caelum's stride never faltered, but Kieran's fists clenched. Lyra muttered something under her breath. Amara lowered her gaze, catching the heaviness in the stillness beside her.
The academy had tested their empathy. But the cruelest judgment came not from illusions — It came from the halls themselves.
And those whispers were only the beginning.