When she woke, she was in a stone hall, warm and dry. Fire crackled in the hearth.
Across from her, Lyssandra sat wrapped in bandages, glaring at the fire as if it had personally insulted her.
Teryn leaned against a column, sipping water from a clay mug. His tunic was torn at the shoulder, a healing cut visible beneath the fabric.
"You survived," he said simply.
"So did you," Elara rasped. Her throat felt like sand.
"Barely," he admitted. "You looked dead."
"She looked fabulous," said Fig, suddenly appearing beside Elara's pillow. "Don't ruin the narrative."
Teryn chuckled quietly. Even Lyssandra cracked a bitter smile, though it faded quickly.
The warmth of the hall was a stark contrast to the storm-ravaged trial grounds outside. Elara's eyelids fluttered, exhaustion weighing heavy on her limbs. Her fingers curled around the edge of the bed, grounding herself in the heat and solidity of survival.
"Honestly," Fig said, stretching his wings and settling into a dramatic pose on her shoulder, "where did all those parkour moves come from, hmm? Since when do we swing from pendulums and flip over spiked wheels like we've been training with circus elves?"
Elara gave a tired grunt.
"I'm just saying," Fig continued, "you didn't pull that off in your last life. Either the pitchfork farmer you trained with this time around knew secret assassin techniques, or the Dark Forest gifted you with a surplus of dramatic flair."
"Maybe both," she murmured.
"Don't get me wrong, I loved the flair. Very stylish. But, really—was there a day of you just dodging falling trees and stabbing shadows in the woods that I missed?"
She rolled her eyes, but a smile tugged at her lips.
From the shadowed archway, a tall figure watched silently.
The instructor's cloak was midnight black, embroidered with the silver emblem of the War Academy—a serpent coiled around a blade. He stood half in the gloom, the firelight catching the edge of his sharp jaw, glinting off eyes that didn't miss a single movement.
He wasn't just observing. He was studying her.
Elara felt a subtle twinge in her chest—a flicker, like static under her skin. Her pulse shifted. Her breath hitched.
Mate bond?
No. It couldn't be.
Her eyes flicked to the corners of the room, searching instinctively for Kayden. For the shape she once knew. For a silhouette that would explain the sensation.
Nothing.
Just the instructorchecking up on them.
She frowned and looked away, pretending the chill in her spine came from the fever still leaving her skin clammy.
Fig, still perched unseen on Elara's shoulder, glanced up at the figure and muttered, "Great. Now we've got mysterious, brooding types interested. Just what we needed."
The instructor turned without another word, his cloak sweeping behind him like a tide of ink as he vanished down the corridor.
Behind him, the flickering firelight cast dancing shadows over Elara's resting form—shadows that seemed to pulse with something ancient and unreadable.
Teryn shifted beside her bed, tone light but steady. "You did good. No one's ever completed all three Trials back-to-back and stayed conscious this long."
"I'm not sure that's something I should brag about," Elara said, her voice dry.
"You'll live to regret it. Which is the goal, I think."
Lyssandra snorted softly from across the room. "Not bad... for a forest girl."
Elara raised an eyebrow. "Not bad... for a firecracker."
A silence stretched between them. Then Lyssandra, bandaged but smirking faintly, gave her a slow nod.
For now, it wasn't war.
It was survival.
And something told Elara that surviving the Trials had only been the beginning.
First Day at the Academy
The morning air was crisp and biting as the candidates assembled in the sprawling courtyard of the War Academy. Flags snapped in the wind, their colors bold against the pale stone towers that stretched like sentinels into the cloud-streaked sky.
Elara adjusted the straps of her worn leather pack, her eyes scanning the sea of new faces—some already bristling with confidence, others like her, nerves barely contained beneath practiced calm.
A commanding voice rang out over the murmurs.
"Candidates! Attention!"
Marshall Var stepped forward—tall, broad-shouldered, his armor gleaming dully beneath the morning light. His grizzled beard and hard eyes spoke of decades spent on the battlefield, and the weight of command rested visibly on his shoulders.
"Welcome to the War Academy," he began, voice like thunder rolling over stone. "You are here because you have potential—because the future of the realm depends on those who fight not just with steel, but with honor, strategy, and heart."
He paced slowly before them, gaze sharp and steady.
"This will be your home, your crucible. The days ahead will test every skill you possess—and many you do not yet know. Learn quickly. Fight harder."
Elara felt a flicker of fire ignite inside her chest.
"First order of business: room assignments." A gruff sergeant stepped forward, calling names. "Elara Ashvine. Room 17B."
Elara exchanged a quick glance with Fig, who appeared only to her, invisible and grinning from atop her shoulder.
"Class schedules and maps will be distributed inside," the sergeant continued. "Once you're settled, a tour will be led by one of our top warrior students—Sergeant Kael Rendar."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
Kael Rendar was a legend among recruits—master of blade and tactics, rumored to have bested twice his number in sparring matches. His presence promised both opportunity and challenge.
The courtyard buzzed as candidates dispersed toward the massive barracks. Inside, Elara found her room—a simple chamber with two narrow beds, a small desk, and a window overlooking the training grounds.
Her roommate, a lean girl with fiery red hair and a constellation of freckles, smiled warmly.
"I'm Mira," she said. "Looks like we're stuck together."
Elara smiled back, feeling the faintest thread of connection.
After stowing her pack, Elara joined the others in the main hall to collect her schedule—a dense scroll detailing lessons in combat, strategy, magic control, herbal botany and survival.
Soon enough, the moment arrived: Sergeant Kael Rendar stood at the head of a column, broad and confident, his dark eyes gleaming with sharp intelligence.
"Follow me if you want to see what you're really getting into," he said, voice low but compelling.
Elara fell in step beside him, the weight of possibility pressing around her like armor.
Fig snorts on her shoulder, shaking his head as he mutters "If all these poor people only knew."
Elara frowns.