The bells tolled again, not the steady chime of classes but a deep, resonant strike that shook the dormitory walls. Every door swung open at once, lantern flames flaring blue as if announcing judgment.
Students spilled into the corridor, their faces pale with unease. Whispers darted like shadows: "The Bloodline Test… it begins today."
Kieran stretched, yawning theatrically to mask the tension in his shoulders. "Bloodlines, huh? Sounds fancy. Maybe they'll test how many generations back I can recite the names of my pet goldfish."
Lyra smirked, but her eyes stayed sharp. "If you're lucky, Kieran, maybe they'll give you a medal for surviving this long without thinking."
Behind them, Jace walked with his usual swagger, shoulders squared, eyes gleaming like embers. "Bloodline trials? Finally, something with weight. About time this academy separated the worthy from the noise."
"Worthy?" Lyra arched a brow. "You mean arrogant, loud, and hopelessly obsessed with your last name?"
Jace's jaw flexed. "Easy to mock when your family insignia is worth nothing. The Emberlin crest isn't just decoration. It means power. Legacy. The kind this place respects."
Kieran snorted. "Wow. Congratulations on being born."
Amara's soft voice cut through the bickering. "Not everyone measures worth in bloodlines, Jace. Sometimes the strongest bonds are chosen, not inherited."
The remark wasn't sharp, not even meant as a challenge — but Jace's head snapped toward her anyway, irritation flashing in his eyes. "Easy for you to say, Amara. You don't carry expectations like I do. You don't understand what it means to bear a name that actually matters."
Her gaze didn't falter. "Maybe not. But I do understand what it means to stand beside someone others call empty, and still see strength they don't."
Her eyes flicked — just briefly — toward Caelum, who walked in silence at the edge of the group.
Jace noticed. His chest tightened, the irritation sparking hotter. He turned his glare on Caelum, who hadn't said a single word. The boy's calm, unreadable face felt like mockery.
"Of course," Jace muttered under his breath, just loud enough for the others to catch, "the silent one needs a defender."
Lyra's eyes narrowed. Kieran gave a warning glance. But Caelum kept walking, steady and silent, as if Jace's words couldn't reach him.
The path opened into the Great Hall, where banners of silver and crimson draped the walls. At the center stood a towering arch of runes, its core pulsing with a faint, blood-red glow. Older students lined the balconies above, watching with cruel curiosity.
A voice boomed across the hall, cold and commanding:
"Step forward, initiate. The measure of your blood begins now."
The chamber doors slammed shut behind them.
The arch pulsed again, light crawling along its runes like veins. One by one, students were called forward, their names echoing through the chamber. Each stepped into the glow, their family sigils projected above them — some blazing bright, some flickering weak, some not appearing at all.
Every success drew cheers from the balconies. Every failure earned whispers like knives.
Kieran leaned closer to Lyra, muttering, "This feels less like a test and more like a public execution."
"Smile, wave, hope your ancestors weren't idiots," she whispered back.
Jace smirked, arms crossed as he waited. "Watch carefully. This is where I shine."
When his name was called, he stepped forward with deliberate confidence. The arch flared, swallowing him in crimson light. For a moment, silence. Then — a blaze erupted overhead, shaping itself into the Emberlin crest: a phoenix wreathed in flame, wings spread wide.
The balconies roared. Students clapped, shouted, some even bowed mockingly in his direction. Jace basked in it, flame curling unconsciously around his fingers as he returned to the group.
"See?" he said, voice dripping with pride. "That's what legacy looks like."
"More like a peacock," Lyra muttered.
"Don't be jealous," Jace shot back, though his smirk grew sharper when his eyes flicked to Caelum. "Some of us have history. Some of us… don't."
Kieran's jaw clenched. "You don't know that."
"Really?" Jace's tone was casual, but the words cut. "What do we actually know about him? Silent, guarded, nothing to show for himself. Maybe the whispers were right."
Amara's voice broke through, firmer than before. "Enough, Jace."
He turned to her, startled. She rarely raised her tone.
"He doesn't need to prove himself to you," she continued. "None of us do."
Her words were gentle, but they landed like a blade. And again — her eyes shifted, just briefly, toward Caelum.
The silence stretched. Jace's smirk faltered. Beneath it, something tightened — jealousy, sharp and hot, though he buried it behind a scoff.
"Fine. Let's see if the arch agrees with you."
As if summoned by the tension, the voice called again:
"Caelum Duskbane."
The hall fell quieter. The name rippled through the chamber like a cold draft, and whispers rose above the balconies.
"Duskbane? Thought that line was gone."
"Cursed blood."
"Heartless."
All eyes turned to him.
Caelum stepped forward, every motion deliberate, calm. He didn't look at the crowd, didn't look at Jace, didn't even look back at the others. He only walked until the red glow swallowed him whole.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then — the runes trembled. The arch flared, but no crest appeared. Only a shadowed mark spread across the light, jagged, shifting, impossible to define. The crowd gasped. Some recoiled.
Whispers became louder, sharper.
"Unstable."
"Wrong."
"Doesn't belong."
Caelum stepped out, face unreadable, though the shadows still seemed to cling to him.
The silence in their circle was thick. Kieran's hands balled into fists. Lyra glanced between him and Jace, whose lips curled into a smirk that didn't reach his eyes. Amara's expression softened, worried clear — not for the whispers, but for the weight she could feel pressing on him.
The trial was far from over.
And the cracks between them had only begun to widen.
The murmurs didn't fade after Caelum stepped from the arch. If anything, they grew louder, slithering through the hall like snakes.
"Duskbane…? That line should've ended."
"Everyone knows they dabbled in forbidden rites."
"Maybe that's why the arch rejected him."
Some students laughed under their breath. Others shifted uneasily, as though standing too close to him was dangerous.
Caelum's expression didn't change. His hands hung at his sides, his gaze fixed forward. Yet Amara noticed the smallest twitch — a fist tightening before slowly loosening again.
Jace leaned closer to the group, voice pitched low but sharp enough to cut. "See? Even the island thinks he doesn't belong."
Lyra's eyes narrowed. "Funny. I didn't realize you spoke for the island now."
Jace's smirk faltered for only a second, but his pride refused to yield.
Kieran, awkward as ever, tried to laugh it off. "Hey, maybe the arch just doesn't like showing off. Bit shy, like Caelum here."
No one laughed.
Amara finally spoke, quiet but steady. "He's still one of us."
Her words, simple as they were, made Jace's jaw tighten. The way she said it, the way her eyes lingered on Caelum… it was enough to scratch at something raw inside him.
The whispers above continued, filling the hall with venom.
"Cursed blood."
"Danger to the Circle."
"Should've left him behind."
And though Caelum didn't move, Amara swore the shadows clung a little tighter around his frame — as if the island itself was listening.
The chamber stretched into a hall of shifting marble. No flames, no shadows — just a long corridor that felt alive, adjusting with every step. The overseer's voice slithered through the air:
"Show us who you are. Not your power. Not your name. But the weight you carry, and how you bear it."
The Circle exchanged wary glances, then advanced. The trial had begun.
Jace Emberlin stepped forward first. A pedestal rose beneath him, emblazoned with the Emberlin crest. Spectators formed out of smoke — nobles, warriors, elders — all bowing, then waiting. Expectant. Hungry. Jace's flames came easily, curling up his arm, dazzling the illusions. Their applause thundered. He smirked, lifting his chin higher, basking in it. But the pedestal beneath him cracked the more he boasted, warning of a fall he didn't notice.
Lyra was pushed into a court-like setting. The nobles sneered from high seats, listing her family's obscurity. She wasn't expected to impress with power. She was expected to shrink. Instead, she balanced her daggers on her fingertips and spun words sharper than blades, mocking their pomp until the chamber itself hissed in disapproval. Her wit cut the silence, but also cut into prideful ears.
Kieran found himself before a banquet table overflowing with riches, food, and admirers laughing with him. His challenge wasn't cruelty — it was excess. Every joke earned cheers, every boast a toast. Yet the longer he indulged, the hollower the laughter grew. When he finally glanced back, he saw his own chair empty. His name missing from the golden plaques at the table. The warmth vanished, leaving him unsettled.
Amara entered a garden of glass mirrors, each one reflecting her surrounded by people — some crying, some arguing, some breaking. She couldn't fight with fire or blades here. She could only walk, steady and kind, touching a hand here, whispering there. And each reflection calmed under her presence, as if her empathy stitched broken things, even if just for a moment.
Then came Caelum.
No garden, no banquet, no court. Only a barren floor. No crest rose beneath his feet. No illusions appeared to challenge him.
Nothing.
It was as though the chamber itself had nothing to measure.
The silence pressed harder than any trial. Students whispered from the sidelines, "Maybe his bloodline is empty. Maybe it doesn't even exist."
Caelum's jaw tightened. Memories tried to claw in — his mother's quiet plea, "Don't become him, Cael. Please." — but he pushed them down. He did not speak. He did not perform. He simply walked forward, step after step, as though the void itself could not stop him.
When the Circle regrouped at the end of the corridor, each of them bore something — Jace's pride brighter than ever, Lyra's sarcasm sharpened, Kieran's unease masked in forced humor, Amara's calm glow.
And Caelum? He bore only questions.
Yet it was his silence, more than any display, that left the chamber restless.
Marble doors ground shut behind them, sealing the chamber into silence. No overseer explained, no runes flared to confirm success or failure. Only the five of them stood, breath uneven, masks already slipping back into place.
Jace broke first. A smirk tugged at his lips, though it sat too sharp. "Well, that wasn't much of a challenge. Guess some of us are simply… built for legacy." His flame flickered across his knuckles like an exclamation mark.
Lyra crossed her arms, chin tilted. "Oh, congratulations, Emberlin. You performed for smoke and shadows. Must be exhausting, carrying that ego around." The jab was playful on the surface, but her voice carried a tremor, the aftertaste of sneers she couldn't quite shake.
Kieran let out a bark of laughter, forced and too loud. "Honestly, I think I nailed it. Everyone adored me — big feast, best audience. If that's the academy's way of testing me, I should be crowned king already." His grin was broad, yet his eyes darted to the floor as though searching for the chair he'd lost in the vision.
Amara's gaze flicked from one to another, steady but troubled. "None of that felt like winning." Her voice was low, thoughtful, yet when Jace's eyes snapped toward her she quickly added, "Still, we made it through. That's what matters."
"You sound like a healer after a funeral," Jace muttered, heat still curling in his tone.
"I sound like someone who doesn't need to shout to prove she's alive," Amara replied evenly. Her words silenced him for a beat, though his pride smoldered.
Kieran whistled, breaking the quiet. "Well, I'd call that a clean hit. Careful, Amara, you might wound our fiery prince." He grinned, but the joke lacked his usual spark. Even he knew it landed flat.
Caelum stood apart, shoulders stiff but gaze fixed straight ahead. He hadn't spoken once since the illusions. To anyone else, he seemed untouched. But deep inside, his mother's last plea coiled in his chest — "Don't become him. Please." He'd clamped down on it so hard that silence felt like survival.
Jace noticed and scoffed, unable to let it go. "Of course, the statue says nothing. Maybe that's your real trick, Duskbane. Make everyone wonder if you even feel anything."
Lyra stepped in sharply, "Better quiet than loud and empty."
Jace's fire dimmed for a fraction of a second. His jaw clenched, but he forced a chuckle. "Cute. You should save your wit for the next trial. You'll need it more than I will."
The air thinned between them. Masks. Deflections. Pretending.
What none of them realized was that the test had not been about power at all. It had been about trust — whether they would share what they bore, or carry it alone. And though they stood together, every one of them had chosen to stand apart.
The chamber pulsed once, faint and unseen, as if marking their failure.
Stone doors creaked open, releasing them back into the wide hall of the academy. Voices of other circles echoed from adjoining corridors, some triumphant, others hushed in shame. Theirs, however, carried no sound at all.
Jace broke the silence first, his steps quick, voice edged with fire. "I'm done pretending. That test wasn't about magic, it was about blood. And some of us — " his eyes cut directly to Caelum, "— aren't exactly proving they belong."
Kieran's head snapped up, tone sharper than usual. "Oi, hold up. You think you carried us alone? You stumbled just as much as the rest of us."
"I stumbled," Jace spat, "but I stood back up. My family name means something. The Emberlins aren't built to fade. Can you say the same for him?" His finger jabbed toward Caelum, who didn't so much as flinch.
Lyra's sarcasm dripped like venom. "Yes, Jace, we all saw your heroic shadow routine. Truly inspiring. I'll commission a statue: Jace Emberlin, conqueror of smoke."
Jace's nostrils flared. "Mock me all you want, Lyra, but without strength, words are just noise."
Amara stepped forward, her calm voice slicing through before Lyra could snap back. "And without balance, strength is just destruction." Her gaze flicked briefly to Caelum, not out of pity but quiet recognition — she saw his restraint for what it was.
That was enough to ignite Jace further. "Oh, I see now. You'll defend him, won't you? The silent shadow who says nothing, shows nothing. Tell me, Caelum —" his voice rose, pressing against the walls, "— are you even fighting for us? Or are you just dragging us under with your ghost of a name?"
The words hung heavy. Kieran looked away. Lyra's smirk faltered. Even Amara's breath caught.
Caelum finally moved. Not a word of anger. Not a rise of voice. Just a step forward, slow and deliberate. His eyes locked with Jace's — not blazing, not cold, but carrying a depth that refused to bend.
When he spoke, his voice was steady, quiet enough to force them to listen.
"I don't need to prove myself to you."
Jace sneered, fists clenching with firelight dancing between his knuckles. "That silence won't protect you forever."
Caelum didn't blink. "I'm not silent because I'm weak. I'm silent because words aren't what win battles."
The space between them felt like it might ignite.
Amara's hand lifted, the only barrier between their clash. "Enough. The academy's watching. Don't you see? That's the real test. Not the mirrors. Not the bloodlines. This."
But even her words couldn't erase the fracture. The Circle had survived the chamber — yet now, it threatened to break itself.
Before anyone could speak again, the walls around them shuddered. Runes flared, red and sharp, cutting into the stone. A voice surged through the halls, booming and merciless:
"Only one Circle survives unbroken. The rest will scatter."
The ground shook beneath their feet.
Jace's fire dimmed. Kieran's grin vanished. Lyra's sarcasm dropped into silence. Amara's hand trembled.
And Caelum… only tightened his jaw.
The red runes burned brighter, crawling across the walls like veins of fire. The hall twisted under their feet, floorstones shifting apart until gaps yawned between them. Shouts from other Circles echoed through the maze of chambers, but those voices were fading, pulled away, swallowed by the academy's will.
The six of them were being pushed — together.
Amara braced her stance, steadying her breath. "This isn't about the trial anymore. They want to see if we'll tear each other apart before the ground does."
Kieran cursed under his breath as a section of floor cracked near his boots. "Then maybe we should start asking who's actually keeping us alive instead of throwing shade."
His glance darted from Jace's smoldering hands to Caelum's calm posture, and for once, even he couldn't force a grin.
Lyra flicked her fingers, a ribbon of violet energy stabilizing a crumbling edge. "Lovely. We'll die dramatically, at least. Shall we vote who goes first into the pit?"
"Stop it!" Amara snapped, sharper than they'd ever heard. Her voice didn't waver, though her eyes betrayed the strain. "We need trust — just for now. Whatever's between us, bury it. Survive first, argue later."
Jace growled low in his throat but didn't lash back. His gaze lingered on Caelum for a heartbeat too long before he turned away, fire dimming reluctantly.
Caelum, still unmoving, allowed a flicker of thought to pass through his mind: Mother wanted me to be different. Not like him. Never like him. The image of a raised hand, his mother's silent tears, and a boy's vow not to become his father burned behind his eyes. He swallowed it whole, as always.
The floor jerked violently, cutting the thought away.
Kieran lunged forward, catching Amara before she stumbled. Lyra's spell snapped taut to form a temporary bridge. Jace threw fire into the crack to seal it long enough for them to leap across. And Caelum — without a word — anchored the collapse, shadows reinforcing stone until the tremors subsided.
For a brief, fragile moment, they acted as one.
But when the hall stilled, silence pressed heavier than any quake. No one looked at each other. No one said thank you.
The academy's voice echoed once more, softer this time, yet sharper than any blade:
"Circle survives… for now."
The runes faded. The hall stood still again.
But in their hearts, fractures had already spread deeper than stone.