The gates of Solaris Academy weren't just gates—they were a statement. Thirty feet of polished white marble etched with the names of every hero who had graduated in the institution's three-century history. The metalwork was platinum, not gold, because platinum didn't tarnish. The message was clear: this was permanence. This was legacy. This was a world Vance Thorne was going to burn to the ground.
He stood at the edge of the gathered crowd, a simple black duffel bag slung over one shoulder, wearing the uniform of an aspiring hero: dark slacks, a white button-down shirt, and a blue jacket with the Solaris crest—a sun rising over a mountain—embroidered over the heart. The clothes felt like a costume. They smelled of new fabric and false hope.
Chloe stood beside him, her silver hair now dyed a mundane brown, her purple eyes hidden behind amber-colored contacts. She'd chosen a more practical outfit—dark trousers and a fitted jacket—but even in disguise, she carried herself with that indefinable air of someone who expected the world to move aside for her. Some habits couldn't be dyed away.
"Remember," Vance murmured, his eyes scanning the sea of excited teenagers and their proud, nervous parents. "You're Kira Vane. Your parents were researchers killed in the Skyfall disaster when you were seven. You were raised by your aunt in the Northern Reaches. You've come to Solaris to honor their memory by protecting others. You're quiet, studious, and still grieving. You don't make eye contact easily."
"I know my cover, Vance," Chloe—no, Kira—snapped, then immediately softened her posture, dropping her shoulders, making herself look smaller. The transformation was unsettling. "Sorry. I'm nervous."
"Good. Nervous is believable." Vance adjusted his own demeanor, letting a hint of uncertainty creep into his expression, a slight slouch enter his posture. Silas Graves was the son of a fallen hero, carrying the weight of expectations but unsure if he could meet them. Not a predator. Just another scared kid.
The crowd around them buzzed with anxious energy. Vance's enhanced senses—a cocktail of stolen abilities including a bat-like echolocation, a snake's heat-sensing, and a psychic's empathy-resistance—threatened to overwhelm him. Every direction screamed with potential:
*To the left, a boy with hair like spun copper was juggling balls of fire without touching them. Pyrokinesis. Mid-A rank. The heat signature was messy, uncontrolled. Wasteful.*
*To the right, a girl with eyes the color of glacier ice was making frost patterns bloom on her friend's jacket. Cryokinesis. Low A rank. Precise but weak.*
*Directly ahead, a pair of twins moved in perfect synchronization, their bio-rhythms so closely matched they might as well have been one person. Some form of tandem ability. Unknown classification.*
So much power. So much... food. His stomach tightened with something that wasn't hunger but felt like its more sophisticated cousin. *Anticipation.*
"Control," the Whisper murmured in his mind. *(Remember why we're here. The feast comes after the reconnaissance.)*
Vance took a slow breath, pulling his awareness back from the tempting smorgasbord. He focused instead on the architecture. Solaris Academy wasn't a single building but a campus spread across what had once been the entire Melbourne city center. White stone buildings with crystalline accents glittered under the dual suns. Floating platforms connected towers at various levels. In the distance, he could see the training grounds—massive arenas that could probably withstand nuclear-level impacts.
And at the center of it all, the main spire—a needle of white stone and glass that speared the sky. The Progenitor Vault was rumored to be deep beneath that spire, protected by layers of security both technological and mystical.
"You're staring," Kira whispered.
"Cataloging," Vance corrected softly. "Security checkpoints at every bridge. Motion sensors in the stonework. Energy dampeners in the air—I can feel them suppressing my electrokinesis by about fifteen percent."
"They're expecting trouble."
"They're expecting *us*," Vance said. "Or people like us. The Association knows there are those who would love to infiltrate this place. They just don't think we'd be stupid enough to walk in the front door."
A sudden hush fell over the crowd. The sea of aspiring heroes parted like water before a ship.
They moved through the crowd without effort, without even seeming to notice the effect they had. Lucian and Serena Aurelian. The golden heirs.
Up close, they were even more... *radiant*. Lucian wore simple white and gold training clothes, but they might as well have been royal robes. He moved with a natural, easy grace, smiling and nodding at people who stared with open awe. His hair really did seem to catch the light in a way that defied physics. His eyes, when they passed over Vance, were warm, friendly, and utterly devoid of recognition.
Serena was different. She wore black training gear, her golden hair cut in a severe, practical bob. Her eyes, the same solar-gold as her brother's, scanned the crowd with analytical precision. When her gaze landed on Vance, it didn't slide off. It stuck. It *dissected*.
For a heartbeat—just a fraction of a second—Vance felt a pressure against his mental shields. Subtle. Professional. A psychic probe so delicate most wouldn't have noticed it.
He let it brush against the surface of his mind, where Silas Graves's constructed memories waited: a childhood in a small coastal town, a father who died stopping a bank robbery, a mother who retreated into grief, a boy determined to be a hero to make up for the loss. Simple. Tragic. Believable.
Serena's eyes narrowed slightly. The pressure increased, just for an instant, testing the edges of the construct. Vance reinforced it, layering in details—the smell of salt air, the sound of his father's laughter, the ache of absence.
Then the pressure vanished. Serena's expression didn't change, but she gave the faintest nod, as if satisfied with what she'd found. Or as if she'd marked something for later investigation.
They passed by without a word, moving toward the main administration building.
Kira let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "She looked right at you."
"She's a living security system," Vance murmured, watching their retreating backs. "Trained to spot anomalies. Silas Graves passed. For now."
"Did she... probe you?"
"Lightly. She's good. Most telepaths broadcast their presence like foghorns. She's a scalpel." Vance filed the information away. Serena Aurelian was a telepath of significant skill. That changed the calculations. He'd need to be more careful with his internal monologues around her.
A loud, cheerful voice broke through his thoughts. "Well, if it isn't the two mystery recruits!"
Vance turned to see the copper-haired pyrokinetic from earlier striding toward them, a wide grin on his face. He moved with the easy confidence of someone who'd never wanted for anything in his life. The boy was handsome in a roguish way, with sharp green eyes and a scattering of freckles across his nose.
"Drake Emberheart," the boy announced, extending a hand. The skin of his palm was slightly roughened, calloused in strange patterns—a fire-wielder's mark. "Heir to the Emberheart Barony, master of the flame, and future top of our class."
Vance took the hand, careful not to react to the slight heat emanating from the other boy's skin. "Silas Graves."
"Kira Vane," Chloe said softly, her eyes downcast. Perfect.
"Graves and Vane!" Drake's grin widened. "Strong names. I like it. You two look like you know your way around a fight. Not like these other nobles' kids who've never gotten their hands dirty." He gestured dismissively at a group of perfectly coiffed teenagers who were comparing the gemstones on their family signet rings.
"We've had some training," Vance said, keeping his tone neutral.
"Good! Because this isn't a finishing school. It's a battlefield prep academy." Drake's eyes gleamed with genuine excitement. "They say only forty percent of entrants make it through the first year. The rest wash out—or worse. But people like us? We'll thrive."
"People like us?" Kira asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Survivors." Drake's expression turned serious for a moment. "I can see it in your eyes. You've lost people. You've had to fight. So have I." He didn't elaborate, but something dark flickered in his green eyes before the cheerful mask snapped back into place. "Anyway! You should meet my partner. Robin! Get over here!"
A girl with blonde hair tied in a complex braid and eyes the color of summer sky floated down from a nearby balcony. Literally floated. She descended as lightly as a feather, her feet not touching the ground until the last moment. Telekinesis. High-level, given the effortless control.
"Drake, you're scaring the new students," she said, her voice melodic but with an underlying steel. "Robin Skyweaver. It's a pleasure."
"Silas," Vance said again, shaking her offered hand. Her grip was firm, her skin cool.
"Kira," Chloe murmured.
Robin studied them with an intelligence that felt almost as sharp as Serena Aurelian's. "You're from the Northern Reaches, yes? I've read about the Skyfall disaster. I'm sorry for your loss."
Kira flinched, just enough to be believable. "Thank you."
"And you're Arin Graves's son," Robin said, turning to Vance. "Your father saved forty-seven people during the Gilded Gang heist. He's a hero."
"He's dead," Vance said flatly, letting just enough bitterness bleed through. Silas Graves would be bitter. "Heroes die. That's the lesson."
An uncomfortable silence fell. Drake broke it with a loud clap of his hands. "Well! Now that we've covered the tragic backstories, let's talk about the important thing: the entrance exam!"
"It's supposed to be a secret," Robin chided.
"Please." Drake waved a dismissive hand. "My father's on the board of governors. I know exactly what they're going to throw at us. It's a three-part test: power demonstration, tactical simulation, and psychological evaluation."
Vance filed the information away. Useful, but expected.
"The power demonstration is straightforward," Drake continued, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "They want to see control, not just raw strength. The tactical sim is a team exercise—they'll group us randomly and throw us into a scenario. And the psych eval..." He made a face. "That's the nasty one. They have empaths and truth-seekers digging around in your head, making sure you're not a secret villain or a psychological time bomb."
Kira's breath hitched, just slightly. Vance kept his expression neutral.
"You seem well-informed," he said.
Drake shrugged. "Knowledge is power. And power is what we're all here for, right?" His green eyes met Vance's, and for a moment, Vance saw something unexpected in their depths—not just noble arrogance, but a hunger. A desire for something more. Drake Emberheart wasn't just here to become a hero. He was here to become *something*.
Interesting.
A chime sounded, crystalline and pure, echoing across the courtyard. The massive marble doors of the main administration building began to swing inward.
"Showtime," Drake said, his grin returning. "Good luck, friends. Try not to embarrass yourselves."
He and Robin moved toward the doors, the crowd flowing after them like a river finding its course.
Kira leaned close to Vance. "He's dangerous."
"Everyone here is dangerous," Vance murmured back. "That's what makes it interesting."
They joined the stream of students flowing into the heart of Solaris Academy.
***
The entrance hall took Vance's breath away, and he wasn't a man easily impressed. The ceiling soared two hundred feet above, a dome of stained glass depicting the First Light event—a human figure, arms outstretched, surrounded by beams of rainbow energy that cascaded down to touch other figures below. The light filtering through the glass painted the white marble floor in shifting colors.
Along the walls, statues of famous heroes stood in niches. Vance recognized some: Solaris, of course, at the center, carved from a single block of gold-veined quartz. The Dawnbringer, who had ended the Martian War. The Stormcaller, who had calmed the Great Typhoon of '55. All of them Aurelian allies. All of them part of the system.
At the far end of the hall, a dais had been erected. Five figures stood upon it, watching the incoming students with varying expressions. Vance recognized three of them from his research:
*Commander Marcus Thorne* (no relation, thankfully)—head of Solaris Academy, a bear of a man with a cybernetic right arm and a reputation for breaking more bones than he healed during training.
*Lyra Mistvale*—the hydrokinetic who had calmed the voice in his head during his counseling session in his fabricated memories.
*Kaelen Swiftwind*—the avian-themed hero with actual feather implants along his hairline.
The other two were new to him: a severe-looking woman with silver hair and eyes that held a permanent squint, and a man so ordinary-looking he was almost invisible until you noticed how nobody looked directly at him.
"Welcome," Commander Thorne's voice boomed through the hall without amplification. It was the voice of a man used to being obeyed. "Welcome to Solaris Academy. You are the eight hundred and seventy-third class to stand in this hall. Look at the statues. Look at the glass. Remember what they represent. Glory. Sacrifice. *Legacy.*"
He paused, his cybernetic eye whirring as it scanned the crowd. "Some of you come from noble families. Some from nothing. It doesn't matter. Here, you are judged by two things: your power, and your character. The first we will test today. The second we will test every day you are here."
The severe silver-haired woman stepped forward. "I am Proctor Selene," she said, her voice crisp and sharp. "You will follow the illuminated paths to your designated testing chambers. No talking. No using abilities outside the testing areas. Any violation will result in immediate disqualification."
Blue lights flared to life along the floor, branching off in multiple directions. Names appeared in holographic text above each path.
"Find your name," Proctor Selene continued. "Follow your path. You have three minutes."
Chaos erupted as students scrambled to find their assignments. Vance spotted "Silas Graves" above a path leading to the right. "Kira Vane" was on a different path, leading left. They were being separated immediately. Smart.
He caught Kira's eye, gave the slightest nod. *Stick to the story. I'll find you after.*
She nodded back, her expression the perfect picture of nervous determination, and disappeared into the crowd.
Vance followed his path, which led down a corridor lined with portraits of famous graduates. The air grew cooler. The sounds of the crowd faded. He was alone.
*(Alone with the prey,)* the Whisper murmured. *(How thoughtful of them.)*
"Not yet," Vance thought back. "We observe first."
The corridor ended at a circular chamber with a single door of polished bronze. As Vance approached, the door slid open without a sound. Inside was a simple white room, twenty feet across, with a mirrored wall on one side and a single chair in the center.
"Take a seat, Mr. Graves," a disembodied voice said—feminine, pleasant, neutral. "The power demonstration will begin shortly."
Vance sat. The chair was comfortable, deliberately so. Psychological manipulation. Make the subject relaxed, off-guard.
The mirrored wall shimmered, becoming transparent. On the other side was an observation room. He could see Proctor Selene, Commander Thorne, and two others he didn't recognize. And standing slightly apart, watching with those golden, analytical eyes, was Serena Aurelian.
Of course. She would be involved in evaluating the "interesting" candidates.
"Silas Graves," Proctor Selene's voice came through speakers in the ceiling. "You have listed your primary ability as electrokinesis with a lightning affinity. Demonstrate."
No instructions. No parameters. A test of both power and judgment.
Vance stood. He closed his eyes, reaching for the part of himself that was Silas Graves—the boy who'd practiced on stormy cliffs, who'd channeled lightning through his body until he could shape it, control it, make it an extension of his will.
When he opened his eyes, blue-white electricity crackled around his hands. Not the wild, jagged bolts of a storm, but controlled tendrils that wove between his fingers like living thread. He focused, and the electricity coalesced into a sphere above his palm, humming with contained energy.
He could have done more. Could have filled the room with lightning, could have demonstrated the dozen other abilities thrumming beneath his skin. But that wasn't the assignment. Control, not spectacle.
He shaped the sphere into a blade, then a shield, then a complex lattice that hung in the air, pulsing gently. Then, with a thought, he let it dissipate into harmless static that made the hair on his arms stand up before fading away.
Silence from the observation room. He couldn't read their expressions through the one-way glass.
Then, Proctor Selene: "Adequate control. B-plus potential. Proceed to the tactical simulation."
A door hissed open on the far side of the room. Vance turned to leave, but as he did, his eyes met the mirrored surface. For just an instant, he thought he saw Serena Aurelian's reflection leaning forward, her golden eyes intent, her lips moving as if speaking to someone he couldn't see.
Then the moment passed, and he was through the door, into the next phase.
***
The tactical simulation chamber was a marvel of technology. A hexagonal room with walls that could project any environment—urban, forest, desert, arctic. Currently, they showed a crumbling cityscape, all broken concrete and twisted rebar. The air even smelled of dust and ozone.
Three other students were already in the room. Vance recognized two from the courtyard: the twins with the synchronized bio-rhythms. The third was a girl with dark skin and hair woven with glowing crystal filaments. A light-bender, if the ambient illumination warping around her was any indication.
"Silas Graves," Vance said by way of greeting.
"Taryn and Kaelen," one of the twins said. They spoke in unison, their voices overlapping perfectly. Creepy.
"Elara," the crystal-haired girl said, her eyes appraising him. "Light manipulation."
Before they could say more, the walls flickered, and a holographic figure appeared in the center of the room—Commander Thorne, scaled down to human size.
"Scenario: Urban rescue," the hologram barked. "A building has collapsed due to unknown causes. There are fifteen civilians trapped inside. Structural integrity is failing. The building will completely collapse in eight minutes. Additional complication: energy signatures indicate unstable ability residue in the debris—possibly from a fight that caused the collapse. The residue interferes with certain powers. Your objective: extract all civilians. Your team is your only resource. Begin."
The hologram vanished. The simulation walls solidified, the illusion of depth and texture becoming perfect. The sound of groaning metal and distant screams filled the air.
The twins moved immediately, flowing toward the collapsed building structure that had appeared at one end of the room. They moved with that eerie synchronization, not needing to communicate.
Elara looked at Vance. "Ideas?"
"Standard triage," Vance said, falling into the role. "You're light manipulation. Can you create structural supports? Beams to shore up weak points?"
"I can harden light into temporary solid forms," Elara said, nodding. "But they only last a few minutes."
"Make them last. The twins have some kind of tandem ability—probably enhanced coordination or shared senses. They'll locate survivors." Vance moved toward the building, his mind already analyzing. This was a test of teamwork, not just individual power. They wanted to see how they worked under pressure, with unknowns.
The "building" was a convincing illusion of shattered concrete and twisted steel. Heat signatures—simulated, but accurate—showed clusters of life forms trapped in various pockets. The twins were already pointing, speaking in that overlapping voice: "Three here. Two deeper. Four in the basement level. Energy residue is strongest there—interfering with our thermal sight."
Vance extended his electrokinesis, not to attack, but to sense. Electricity flowed through conductive materials—rebar, wiring, metal fixtures. He could map the structure by resistance. "The basement is the most unstable. The main support column is cracked. It goes, the whole thing comes down."
"I can brace it," Elara said, raising her hands. Light coalesced, forming a glowing pillar that slid into place beside the cracked column. The groaning of metal lessened slightly.
"Good. Twins, get the easy extractions first. Elara, maintain the brace. I'll go for the basement."
"Alone?" one of the twins asked—or maybe both.
"I'm resistant to electrical interference," Vance said, which was true enough. "The energy residue won't affect me as much."
He didn't wait for argument. He slipped into the rubble, moving with a predator's grace that Silas Graves probably shouldn't possess. He had to consciously slow down, make his movements slightly clumsier, more cautious.
The basement was a nightmare of collapsed flooring and sparking wires. The "energy residue" was a simulated field of chaotic energy that made Vance's stolen powers itch. Four life signs glowed in his enhanced senses—two adults, two children, trapped under a slab of concrete.
He could lift it easily with the telekinesis he'd stolen from a mid-level psychic last year. But that wasn't his registered ability. Instead, he examined the wreckage, looking for leverage points.
"There's rebar here," he called up. "If I can channel electricity through it, I can heat and weaken specific points to shift the slab without bringing the whole ceiling down."
"Risky," Elara's voice came from above. "If you overheat it, it could snap."
"Trust me," Vance said, and meant it.
He placed his hands on the exposed rebar, letting a controlled current flow. He could feel the metal heating, could sense the precise moment when its structural integrity began to change. It was like performing surgery with lightning.
The slab shifted with a grinding roar. Dust filled the air. The four simulated civilians—convincing holograms that cried and whimpered—were revealed, "injured" but alive.
"Got them!" Vance called, helping them toward the exit.
The twins were already there, guiding the survivors out. Elara maintained her light brace, sweat beading on her forehead from the strain.
"Time?" Vance asked.
"Two minutes remaining," the twins said together.
"Two more in the upper level," Elara said, nodding toward a precarious-looking section of flooring. "But the route is blocked. The energy residue is thickest there—my light constructs destabilize if I try to pass through."
Vance assessed. The residue was a swirling field of multicolored energy. It would interfere with most abilities. But his electrokinesis was a fundamental force, less easily disrupted. And he had other tools, if he was careful.
"I'll go," he said.
"Silas, the structure—" Elara began.
"Will hold. Keep bracing."
He moved into the residue field. Immediately, his senses screamed. It was like walking through psychic static. His stolen abilities flickered—the thermal vision cut out, the enhanced hearing became a roar of white noise. Even his electrokinesis sputtered, the control slipping.
He pushed through, reaching the trapped civilians—an older man and a young woman. The debris pinning them was too heavy to move without powers.
Vance glanced back. The others were occupied. No one was watching directly.
He made a decision.
Extending a hand, he focused not on his electrokinesis, but on a lesser, unregistered ability—telekinesis, stolen from a petty thief two years ago. It was weak, barely enough to lift a car. But it didn't show up on energy sensors. And in this interference field, it might go unnoticed.
The debris shuddered, then lifted just enough for the two civilians to scramble free. Vance guided them out, his mind splitting its focus: maintaining the telekinetic lift, suppressing the energy signature, playing the part of Silas Graves using clever application of his registered power.
They reached the exit just as a countdown reached zero.
The simulation faded. The room returned to its blank hexagonal state. Vance was breathing heavily, partly from exertion, partly from the strain of maintaining so many deceptions at once.
The door slid open. Proctor Selene stood there, her expression unreadable. Beside her, Serena Aurelian watched with those golden, all-seeing eyes.
"All civilians extracted," Selene said. "Structural collapse prevented. Time to completion: seven minutes, fifty-eight seconds. A successful operation."
Vance allowed himself a small, relieved smile. Silas Graves would be proud.
But Serena's eyes lingered on him a moment too long. Her head tilted, just slightly, as if listening to a frequency only she could hear.
Then she turned and walked away without a word.
The message was clear: the test was over.
But the evaluation had just begun.